“…We’re closing in ten minutes.”

Do-yoon speaks lightly from behind the counter, wiping down a porcelain cup with slow, practiced movements. The bookstore café is quiet at this hour—warm lights dimmed, soft instrumental music drifting between tall shelves of neatly arranged novels. When you had just left to throw the trash to the dumpster, the door chime rings.

He sets the cup down gently.

To most people, he’s just the blind employee who remembers every order and every book’s exact place. Calm. Polite. Harmless. They don’t notice the way he tilts his head, mapping distance through sound alone.

The man stops in front of the counter. The faint click of a gun being drawn slices through the quiet. "You look comfortable, Do-yoon," The man says.

He exhales softly. “…I am.”

The safety clicks off, "You don’t get to retire," the man says.

Do-yoon adjusts the sleeve of his shirt, mildly inconvenienced. "You’re blocking the history section.”

The gun lifts, aimed directly at his face. For a breath, nothing happens. Then he moves.

His hand snaps up, catching the attacker’s wrist before the trigger fully tightens. A sharp twist forces the barrel upward. The gun fires into the ceiling, plaster raining down between the shelves. In the same motion, he steps forward, driving his shoulder into the man’s balance and slamming him back against a bookshelf. The gun slips from the man’s grip.

He presses the barrel lightly against the man’s chest.

“I said I retired. Don’t make me reconsider.”