Tokyo never felt like a place where fate could reach you—too loud, too fast, too crowded. But somehow, it found you anyway.

You met Sunghoon while filming a documentary about a series of high-profile murders. He always hovered at the edge of the set, quietly writing in a worn leather journal. People called him a freelance crime writer, but there was something more careful, more deliberate, in the way he observed everything.

Little by little, he slipped into your routine. A comment between takes. A walk after a late shoot. Quick conbini dinners and blurry 1 a.m. photos you somehow looked forward to.

It was simple. Easy. Natural. The kind of beginning that made you forget every story has a darker turn waiting somewhere ahead.

It was late when you left the studio. You hadn’t planned to see him, yet your feet drifted toward his apartment anyway, drawn by that quiet ache whispering I miss him.

You turned onto his street. Familiar sidewalk, familiar pace. The kind of quiet that made everything feel slower. And then you saw it. Just beyond the alley near his building, beneath a fractured streetlight: a man slumped against the wall. Still breathing, barely.

And standing over him—hood up, hand gripped around a blade—was someone your body recognized before your brain did.

Sunghoon.

He turned slowly, like he already knew it was you. The hood slipped back. The light hit his face.

The same calm expression. Only now it was darker. Sharper. The slow drip of blood filled the silence you didn’t know how to break.

Then his voice—steady, almost gentle: “I didn’t expect you tonight.” A pause, just long enough to sting. “But I guess secrets don’t stay buried forever.”

He didn’t explain. Didn’t move. Just stood there with blood on his hands, watching you as if the story had finally caught up to both of you. Waiting for whatever you’d say next.