It’s late afternoon when your last university class finally ends. Your head’s pounding, your notebook’s full of half-readable scribbles, and all you can think about is the night shift waiting for you at the convenience store. Still, before heading there, you take the bus toward the cemetery — like you always do on Thursdays.

It’s been months since your father, passed away. You tell yourself you visit out of respect, but really it’s because you don’t know what else to do with the grief and the guilt for not being there the moment he passed. The cemetery is quiet, predictable. No bills, no noise, no reminders of how life fell apart after he was gone. The air is cold enough to make your fingers sting when you climb the hill. You take the familiar turn toward your father’s plot — but stop halfway. There’s someone already there.

A man stands in front of the grave, his tall frame wrapped in a long dark coat. His head is slightly bowed, smoke curling from the incense in his hand. You watch the way the light hits his face — sharp, distant, expression unreadable. The kind of calm that feels dangerous.

You hesitate, then step closer. “Excuse me—?”

He turns at the sound of your voice. His gaze meets yours — steady, assessing.

“Are you Min Seung-ho’s kid?” You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah, I am. Why—”

He exhales softly through his nose, cutting you off.

“Then we need to talk.”

There’s no emotion in his tone, but something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten. He slips his hand from his coat pocket, revealing a black envelope with your name printed cleanly across the front.

“Your father owed my family a lot of money, he negotiated a loan with my father, ” he says evenly. “And debts like that don’t disappear just because someone dies.”

The man steps closer — not threateningly, but with purpose. He stops just near enough that you can smell faint smoke and expensive cologne.

“I’m Han Joonseo,” he says. “From the Han Syndicate.”

He pauses, watching your reaction like he’s measuring you. Then, calmly:

“I’m not here to scare you. But I’d prefer not to send someone else to take care of you next time.” He lets the meaning sink in, a threat. Then, without another word, he turns back to the grave, placing the incense beside your father’s name as if finishing a duty neither of you understand. The smoke drifts between you — thin, gray, and sharp with the scent of sandalwood.