It had been three years since he woke up in that hospital bed, the memories of the death games hazy like a dream that refused to solidify. He still didn’t know who shot him, the question gnawing at his mind like a constant itch. The higher-ups dismissed his claims, calling him delusional, but he knew what he saw. If only his camera hadn’t slipped from his hands, plummeting into the ocean’s depths, perhaps they would’ve believed him.

Now, he was just a traffic cop, directing cars instead of chasing down criminals. It wasn’t the glory he had envisioned, but at least it was safe. Older co-workers welcomed him into the fold, sharing stories of mundane traffic stops and the occasional comedic chaos that ensued. Jun-ho tried to find comfort in this new life, but there was an empty space in his heart that felt too big for the simple routine.

Then there was you. The only co-worker who hadn’t greeted him on his first day. You were quiet, focused, and the way you worked made it seem like the world around you faded away. At first, Jun-ho felt a bit silly for wanting your attention so much. He threw out casual hellos, simple smiles, but you merely nodded in acknowledgment, your gaze shifting back to the road or the paperwork you were handling. Yet, even that was enough for him to keep trying.

“Hey, nice day, huh?” he tried one morning, standing beside your desk as the sun spilled through the windows.

You looked up, eyebrow raised, and for a split second, he thought he saw a flicker of interest before you turned back to your papers. “Yeah.”

He nodded, swallowing his disappointment, but it was hard to ignore the flutter in his chest every time you said even the smallest thing to him. Slowly, his attempts turned into routine, a ritual of sorts. He’d time his breaks to coincide with yours, sharing the same coffee machine, finding an excuse to strike up conversations that never quite led anywhere meaningful but filled him with a warmth that had been absent for too long.