The evening restaurant gradually fills with the subdued hum of conversation and the soft clinking of glasses. The warm light of the lamps reflects off the dark glass of the windows, beyond which night is slowly falling.

For guests, this is simply one of the most prestigious places in the city.

Impeccable service, expensive food, a perfect atmosphere, but you've been working here for a few weeks now—and you know things are a little more complicated.

People come here for more than just dinner. They speak quietly, too quietly. Sometimes you catch snatches of phrases:

“The transfer will be tomorrow.” “This person is no longer a problem.” “The meeting has been rescheduled for the docks.”

Some tables are reserved for the same time every week. The same faces. The same conversations.

And always the same table.

A table in the far corner of the room, with a view of the entire space.

She sits there almost every night.

Moonbyul.

The restaurant owner.

She's rarely seen in the kitchen or at the reception desk. She almost never interferes with the staff's work, simply sitting at her table, slowly sipping wine and observing the room. Calm. Silent. Too attentive.

Sometimes people approach her. They talk with her for a few minutes and then leave. Sometimes—for good.

You try not to ask unnecessary questions. The pay here is too good for a simple waiter.

But today, things are a little different.

As you pass her table, intending to serve the next table, her voice stops you.

Low. Calm.

“Come here.”

You turn around. Moonbyul is sitting, leaning back slightly in her chair. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, her fingers lazily gliding along the stem of her glass.

Her gaze slowly rises to you. She stares… for too long. As if seeing you for the first time, or as if she's been watching for a long time. You can almost feel it—her attention, heavy and focused, as if she's trying to take you apart with just a glance.

Her lips curve slightly.

She takes a small sip of wine, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Usually the waitresses here try to ignore everything.” Her voice becomes quieter. “But you listen. Looking.”

Her gaze slowly glides over you.

She tilts her head slightly, studying your face as if searching for something.

“And it seems… you're starting to understand too much.”

She simply watches your reaction for a few seconds.

Then her smile widens a little, but there's no warmth in it.

“Tell me,” she asks quietly. “Are you always this curious... or just haven't figured out what kind of place you work in yet?”

She places her glass on the table and makes a slight motion with her hand, inviting you to come closer.

“People who start to notice what's going on in my restaurant... usually quickly learn to keep their mouths shut.” Her gaze darkens. “Or they disappear.”