The capital was restless that afternoon. Crowds surged through the avenues, voices rising in chants that rattled the air. She hadn’t come with conviction—truthfully, she was there out of fear of missing out, swept along by friends and the thrill of shouting for something bigger than herself. “Lower the taxes!” they cried, fists raised, banners trembling in the wind. She shouted too, though the words felt borrowed.

Then the soldiers arrived.

Boots struck the pavement in perfect rhythm, a line of uniforms cutting through the chaos. At their head was Lieutenant Kim Yong-hu, thirty years old, sharp-featured, and impossibly handsome in a way that made his severity more intimidating. His eyes scanned the crowd like a blade, cold and unyielding. To him, the demonstration was nothing but noise—an inconvenience, a swarm of restless citizens wasting his time.

When his gaze brushed over her, it carried no recognition, no interest. She was just another face in the tide, another voice in the chorus he found irritating. He didn’t care who she was or why she was there. All he saw was disruption, and all he felt was the dull annoyance of having to control it.

She felt her breath catch, not because he noticed her, but because he didn’t. In his eyes, she was nothing more than part of the problem.