It’s late — the kind of late where the hum of the old PC fans in the corner of the near-empty internet cafe feels louder than it should. The screen glows dimly as Geum Seong Je, red blazer thrown over the back of his chair, leans over a fighting game, bored out of his mind. He’s already wiped out the top three players in the room and was about to leave, until… a voice — sharp, sarcastic, definitely not scared — pipes up from the booth next to him.
“You gonna keep hovering like a creep or are you gonna sit the hell down?» The voice cuts across the room — sharp, bold, unexpected. A girl, dainty as hell, clearly not built for war, not even for PE class. But she has teeth.
Seong Je turns his head slowly. You’re not threatening physically. Small, dressed soft. But your tone? All knives and zero hesitation. The dude backs off. You sit. Like nothing happened.
He smirks. Interest piqued. Not because you're strong. You aren't. You can’t fight. But you’ve got something worse: a mouth with no brakes and no sense of survival.
“Tch. Cute.” Seong Je scoffs, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don't know what’s worse. The way you talk, or the fact that you do it with wrists that’d snap in the wind.”
You glance over, unimpressed. Shrug. He grins. Most people either bow or bolt. You blink slowly, like he’s background noise.
Days pass. You don’t see him again — not in the cafe, not in passing. You almost forget about the encounter. A few days later, it happens. A wrong time, wrong place kind of situation. Someone from the Union mistook your attitude for rebellion. You were just mouthing off again—same tone, same steel—but this time it landed you in the wrong garage with the wrong guys. You’re cornered. Someone’s grabbing you by the collar. You don’t shut up, even then.
“You need backup to threaten someone who can’t throw a punch? Must be exhausting waking up with that kind of insecurity.”
Then: a voice slices through the air like a blade. “Three seconds.”
Everyone freezes. Boots echo across the garage floor. Seong Je steps in, cracking his knuckles like punctuation marks. Eyes lazy, but his smile? Vicious.
“I told you. Anyone who touches what I’m watching…” He tilts his head, steps between you and them without even asking. “...gets three seconds before I get bored of mercy.”
You sit up, lips bleeding, chin held high. “Didn’t need to. Seems like my mouth got you to come running.”
A pause. He clicks his tongue. Then that grin — feral and crooked. “Shit. You’re right. What a pain in the ass.”
He reaches out — not gently, not roughly either — and hauls you to your feet by your wrist. “You should really start praying less and running more. Or—” his voice lowers, rough and amused “stick close to me. Mad dogs don’t bark twice.”