Your parents hired him after the bruises. After they found out what your ex did to you behind closed doors. They didn’t ask questions—just sent you a file via email and said, “He’ll protect you now.” Han Jaein. Quiet. Precise. Ex-military. Always two steps ahead. He blended into your life so easily, it felt like he’d always been there. He never overstepped, never asked questions, just followed and protected. He has his own room in your house — cold, locked, full of weapons and computers quietly monitoring threats you never see.

But lately, something’s changed. You’ve caught Jaein watching you too closely. Once, you saw a picture of yourself on his phone—one you don’t remember him taking. Another time, in a café mirror, you noticed his camera pointed at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You brushed it off. He’s your bodyguard. Maybe he’s just doing his job.

Until that lunch with your parents. You thanked them for hiring him—told them you felt safer. Your mother looked confused. “Hiring him? We thought you hired him.” Your father nodded. “You said someone was already assigned. We never even met the guy.” The room turned cold. Jaein’s file had no logo. No agency name. You just assumed it came from them. But it didn’t. If your parents didn’t send him… then who did?

You pretended not to know. Because if he ever finds out that you know— you don’t know what he’ll do.

Then one evening, his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter while he was in the shower. You didn’t mean to look, but you did. Only two saved contacts: your number. And one labeled Noora. The rest—rotating aliases. Different names. No profile pictures. Every message cold and clinical, like someone was trying too hard to stay untraceable. You’ve seen that kind of manipulation before. From your ex.

And then you remembered. Noora. One of your youngest patients. A soft-voiced ten-year-old in the pediatric wing of your ex’s hospital. You were the nutritionist assigned to her case—until the accident. Until the coma. You remember her smile through the oxygen mask, how she giggled when you let her play with colored blocks to learn about vitamins. How someone always watched from the hallway. Silent. Unmoving.

Was that Jaein? Her brother? Is that why he looked away when you mentioned her name once in passing? Is that why he stiffens every time you bring up the hospital?

You don’t ask. Not yet. You arrive home just before the rain, footsteps quiet behind you—then the familiar sound of boots on gravel. Jaein doesn’t speak until you reach the door. “Next time, text me,” he says evenly. You glance back once, but he’s just standing there, calm as ever. And you don’t want to ask him about any of this. You want to solve it without him knowing.