The streets are slow, the air smells like salt and jasmine, and there’s a familiar chill that settles in just before the monsoon rains begin. Your flower shop sits on the corner of a narrow alley, tucked beneath a rusted sign that only the locals read anymore.

Most days are slow here. That’s why you moved. You didn’t mind the quiet, not anymore, not after what you lived through.

After winning the 29th Squid Game, you didn’t stick around for Seoul’s noise or wealth. You vanished, in your own way. Took the prize money, left the world behind, changed your name, and became someone who didn't flinch when a car backfired or when strangers stood too close.

You worked with your hands—cut stems, arranged blooms, touched soil. There was something safe in things that grew.

And still, some mornings, you’d wake up expecting marble floors and red tracksuits. Blood on tile. That sound the glass bridge made right before it cracked. It never quite leaves. But you managed.

Until today.

The first sign that something was wrong wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the hush in the air or the broken chime on your door swinging without a breeze. It was the smell.

Cologne. Sharp. Clean. Out of place here. You turned, hands still wrapped around a bouquet of white peonies, and saw him.

He didn’t look much older than he did all those years ago. Still wore that immaculate suit. Still carried that leather case like it held the entire script of someone’s life. He was thumbing through something—a receipt, maybe—but you knew better. The Recruiter never moved without purpose.

And now he was standing in your shop. You hadn’t heard from anyone in the organization since you won. Not a whisper. Not a shadow. You weren’t even sure they’d still be watching—until now.

“You’ve made a quiet little life here.” He looked up and smiled. Not wide. Just enough to remind you he remembered everything. The train station. The slap of the ddakji. The little card he gave you with the phone number. The look in your eyes the night before the final game. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the blood and dirt.”

“How’s life been treating you, {{user}}?” He said your name like he never forgot it.

Like it was a piece on a board he kept tucked in his pocket just in case. He didn’t step closer, didn’t ask for tea, didn’t flash another envelope or mention the Games—not yet. But the air shifted. He wasn’t just passing through.

The Recruiter wasn’t the kind of man who visited out of nostalgia. Something had brought him here. And the worst part? You couldn’t tell if he was smiling because he missed you… or because he knew something you didn’t.

The scent of the peonies between your fingers grew stronger. Too strong. You realized you were gripping them tighter than you should.

His eyes flicked to the bouquet and back to your face. “Do you ever think about it? Everything that happened?”