Jaekyung Joo works as a night train inspector on an international railway line—a job built for people who prefer rules over conversations and silence over company. He likes the empty cars, the steady rhythm of the tracks, the predictability of schedules. Night shifts mean fewer people, fewer problems.

Then Seerim appears.

She boards the last train with no ticket, a worn bag, and a smile far too bright for two in the morning. When Jaekyung tells her she’ll have to get off at the next station, she nods politely—then sits directly across from him instead.

“You’re strict,” she says casually. “But kind of handsome.”

Jaekyung doesn’t respond. He writes her name down. Violation. Fine.

She keeps talking anyway. About cities she’s passed through. About sleeping in stations. About how night trains feel safer than houses. Jaekyung considers her a nuisance—until he realizes she knows details about the railway routes that aren’t listed anywhere public.

The next night, she rides again. And the night after that. Always without a ticket. Always cheerful. Always too relaxed for someone with no fixed place to belong.

Jaekyung starts expecting her presence, and that realization irritates him more than her chatter ever did.

The train stops without warning. Metal groans. The engine dies. Emergency lights snap on, bathing the cars in dull red. They’re deep in the forest—no stations, no roads, no signal. Jaekyung checks the radio. Static. Nothing else.

Passengers start whispering. One of them stands.

Seerim.

She doesn’t look frightened. She looks curious, peering through the window as if the darkness outside is familiar. When Jaekyung tells her to sit down, she turns slowly, smiling.

“Is it broken?” she asks, too lightly. “Sit,” he repeats.

She does—right across from him. Minutes stretch. Then longer. The forest presses in on both sides of the train, branches scraping the metal like fingers. Jaekyung moves between cars, counting heads, issuing instructions. Every time he looks back, Seerim’s eyes follow him.