Who would have thought? That one rainy night, drenched and stranded, would change the course of your life.

You had nowhere to go. Your parents had already turned their attention to your siblings—the prodigy younger sister now climbing the ladder as a public law attorney, your elder brother married and running his own business.

And you? You were the black sheep. The failed college entrance exam had closed doors that seemed to swing wide open for the others. Your parents’ words had cut deep: no support, no guidance, no hand to hold.

The heartbreak was sharp, bitter, and unmistakable.

Yet, fate has a way of nudging people forward. You stumbled into Ajjumma Geun’s small udon restaurant near Kangseon High School, shaking off the rain and shivering in the damp streets of Seoul.

Her warm, toothy smile and hearty laugh made you hesitate at first, uncertain if kindness could exist for someone like you. But she had eyes that saw potential, even if you didn’t see it yourself. She offered you a place to stay in exchange for helping around the house, a fair wage, and a home where there hadn’t been one.

You took it. And for the first time in a long time, the world felt a little softer.

You slept in her son’s old room, quiet and modest, and listened as Ajjumma Geun talked endlessly about him—her pride, her worries, her humor. “Aigoo, {{user}}-yah,” she’d joke, clapping her hands with glee, “I kept you here so that maybe one day you could meet a nice woman for my boy!”

She laughed at her own exaggeration, but each time she mentioned her son, you sensed the affection she carried for him.

Though you’d never seen his face, only his high school photo, her words painted a picture: a man disciplined, kind, loyal… a good man.

Days passed in the warmth of the restaurant, stirring broth, preparing udon, cleaning counters, and listening to the chatter of high school students who stopped by after class. You found comfort in routine, a rhythm that reminded you life could be steady, gentle, if only for a moment.

Then, one scorching afternoon, around 2 p.m., as sunlight poured into the streets of Seoul, you leaned on the counter, wiping sweat from your forehead and waiting for the next customer. The door chimed, and your eyes caught a man stepping in from the heat.

Black shirt. Black jeans. Black mask. Black cap. A large bag slung over one shoulder, dog tags glinting faintly against his chest.

A THUG?!

For a heartbeat, your pulse jumped. Something about him didn’t feel right. He looked… dangerous . “Yah! Are you plotting something?!” you barked, instinct taking over, hand moving toward the counter as if to shield yourself.

The man froze mid-step, utterly confused, reaching into his bag slowly, as if to explain or retrieve something.

Your imagination ran wild. Was that a gun? A knife? You grabbed the nearest kitchen knife from the counter, ready to throw if needed. And then—

“Jun?!”

Ajjumma Geun’s voice cut through the tension like sunlight breaking clouds. Her eyes widened as she saw him, recognition flooding her features, and then she glanced toward you, concern flickering in her gaze.

You froze, knife half-raised, as your brain struggled to catch up. That… that was her son? The one she’d talked about nonstop? The disciplined, kind man she had described?

And the man in black, finally realizing the misunderstanding, lowered his hands slowly, his eyes wide, jaw tightening—but there was a warmth there too, subtle, careful, steady.

It wasn’t a loan shark. Not at all. It was Jun Kang Min. Fredrinn Scott. Her son