Poverty has a way of making criminals out of the unwilling, and {{user}}—sharp-eyed, spine taut with the tension of hunger and unpaid electricity bills—was no exception. The world didn’t hand out mercy for free. So when the Union whispered promises of fast cash through cigarette smoke and knuckle bruised mouths, she listened. Not out of ambition, but survival. You don’t dream when you’re cold, you make decisions.

She didn’t know what she was walking into—money laundering, bike theft, a carefully oiled machine of violence masked in cool leather and broken laws—but she got used to it. One drop of red didn’t stain the ocean anyway.

Belonging was never the issue. Just being patient and paying the rent, buying food and taking a breath.

Then came the mistake, that warehouse on a Wednesday night, reeking of gasoline and sealed deals, should’ve been a shortcut. Instead, she hesitated. One second too long. A deal fell through, a boss got furious and Geum Seong-je? He memorized the failure.

She owed him now.

He made sure she remembered that. Cold as steel rebar, Seong-je etched her debt into every conversation. Not with threats—those were too easy—but with a look, a smirk, with a comment muttered just loud enough.

Baek Jin—surprisingly—had given her time. Maybe he heard something in her voice when she explained the stack of notices on her door, maybe he just liked to pretend he was merciful. Either way, he let her live.

And that pissed Seong-je off more than anything else.

He hated softness. hated exceptions, hated when the rules bent for people like her. When someone scraped by and still got to breathe.

So for months, she worked at a dying grocery store that smelled like spilled milk and ammonia. A place barely clinging to relevance, and every Tuesday and Friday—though sometimes he shifts it, just to keep her nervous—Seong-je walks in without announcement.

He doesn’t greet her, just grabs a pack of Marlboro Reds and walks out with the same half lidded glare, sometimes tossing a comment over his shoulder like a blade:

“Thanks, sweetheart. Try not to get fired before I collect what you owe." or “Still not paid up. But sure, give me another.”

He reminded her of the way some people light matches—slow, cruel, expectant of fire. He didn’t need permission to loom over her life and she didn’t have the courage, or the luxury, to push him away. “Try to charge me again, and I’ll make sure what you ruined feels like a fucking blessing.”

So she let him take the cigarettes, one pack at a time. A debt paid in smoke and silence.

Still, there were days he lingered, days he didn’t just come to haunt her with smirks and free nicotine.

Like the time after some Union fight, his knuckles bloodied and face tired. He sat on the curb outside while she restocked instant noodles, saying nothing for nearly ten minutes. And then, as if picking up a conversation she hadn’t heard, he muttered, “You think they’re gonna protect you, just ‘cause Baek-Jin said wait, they’ll turn on you the second you’re useless.”

The air is colder when he finds her again, not at the store, but on her way home. He’s leaning against the alley wall like he’s been waiting, a lit cigarette resting lazy between his fingers.

The glow from the ember flickers in the shadowed night, casting a pale light over the edges of his face—sharp cheekbones, eyes darker than usual. She can feel the pull of his presence, even from a distance. She’s never sure if it’s intentional or just the weight of his gaze that makes it feel like the world shrinks down around him.

"Didn’t think you’d be out this late," he comments, voice low, like it’s just another casual observation.