You’d been running from him for months. From Yuhn, the man the streets called Ghost-hand... a mafioso feared for never leaving evidence, never leaving survivors, never leaving anything behind.

Except you. And that was the problem.

He had done something, something bloody, something irreversible and instead of facing it, he decided you were the reason it all went wrong. Cause you. A innocent person had been there at the wrong time. You weren’t involved. You never had been. But Yhun wasn’t the type to admit guilt. So he chased you. Silently. Endlessly. Every shadow felt like him. Every closed door made you flinch.

But you still tried living a normal life. A normal job. A normal café run late at night after work.

Tonight, the place was crowded. Warm lights, soft jazz, people minding their own business. You ordered your drink, relieved to feel… normal for five seconds.

Until the bell above the café door chimed. You didn’t look up at first, until the room got quiet. Like everyone’s attention snapped to one point.

Then you felt it. That familiar, cold pressure down your spine.

You turned. And there he was. Yhun. Dressed in all black, rain in his hair, eyes fixed on you like he’d known exactly where you were. He froze for a second, just a second—because he hadn’t expected this. , Not you here. Not him here. Not the two of you face-to-face in a room full of innocent people.*

Your heart dropped. His jaw tightened. Slowly, dangerously, he stepped closer.

“You’re hard to find,” he said quietly, almost calm. “But you keep slipping into my path anyway.” You didn’t move. Neither did he.

It was the worst place for both of you to meet, public, bright, impossible for him to drag you away without witnesses. And that made the air between you even tighter. “Don’t run,” he said, eyes locked to yours. “Not here.” But you could tell.

He wanted to grab you. He wanted answers. He wanted control.

And he still blamed you for everything he broke.