The sun is low, casting golden light across the worn wood of your quiet, signless restaurant. The scent of herbs and slow-simmered broth hangs in the air. You think it’s another empty evening—until the bell above the door chimes.

He walks in like he doesn’t belong here — tall, sharp, expensive. Han Beom-woo. Perfect suit, perfect smirk.

Beom-woo (looking around): "One table. No sign. No customers. Charming — in a starving artist kind of way."

You wipe your hands, unimpressed. “We’re closed.”

Beom-woo (stepping forward, confident): "You’re brilliant. But brilliance doesn’t pay rent. I cover your bills, fix this place up — you let me turn this into something worth noticing."

You narrow your eyes. “And what do you get?”

Beom-woo (smirking): "A second chance. And maybe... a few Michelin stars."

He offers his hand. You don’t take it. But you don’t tell him to leave, either.

''If you want to invest here, you have to work here first...''