#jeong jaeui

[byuno-o]

CHAPTER 1: LOS ANGELES TO YEONGDONG-DO

"How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?"

Brown eyes filled with disdain glanced at a man in his late fifties, sitting upright with one leg resting over the other while one hand held a thick copy of a novel based on Dr. Seuss' illustrations from The Secret Art of Dr. Seuss. The fingers of his other hand touched his tongue before landing on the page, presumably containing the lines he was about to read, before it was turned by those fingers.

"That's true for you, Wookyung-ah, isn't it?" he added, his lips curved in a questioning smile.

Cha Wookyung rolled his eyes at the bothersome man who was not only his relative but also the sole person his father had assigned to look after him. "You know, I wouldn't mind seeing you run three kilometers. Your health took a nosedive the moment we landed," he remarked, emphasizing the word 'run' with a warning smile on his tired, sleep-deprived face. Despite the frustration, the tired nephew had spent the entire long flight tending to his uncle, who had caught the flu a day before the departure date.

"You know," his uncle said, pointing a finger at him, "I've always told your mother that she gave birth to another Wooyeong." The subtle wrinkles on his face deepened at the mention of his older brother, as a familiar face that resembled his own flashed through his mind. Shaking his head, he continued, "You're just like your overbearing father."

"And how should I be, then? Like you?" Cha Wookyung yawned. "Just close your eyes and get some sleep. We've got a long way to go, right Warner?" He tapped the leather of the driver's seat, prompting the stern-faced man with black hair to nod in agreement. His uncle groaned like a child at the confirmation before resuming his reading, this time murmuring the words to himself.

The man had the stance of a gentlemanly hero from the movies of the fifties—and he was also dressed as such. His linen blazer, which coincidentally matched his light-coloured pants, partnered together with his slick, thick line of moustache—cleanly shaved, to give him an aura of authority and poise. Yet, the brown-eyed man who had resorted to sighs at the preposterous way of his uncle's reading habit, which caused him to lose his sleep throughout the journey, could sense the nervousness trying to hide itself from the world. The glitz and the glam could not hide the fact that his uncle was, indeed, a child in the body of an aged man.

Although the instances of that child coming out of that body were rare, since he preferred to keep a frown on his face to ensure he never had to land in any situation which would cause his fears to become evident, there were moments when the facade cracked.

The uncle's meticulous mannerisms, the almost ritualistic way he turned the pages of the book, and his constant need for order and control were all indicative of a deeper, unspoken anxiety. This was a man who had lived his entire life trying to maintain a semblance of dignity and strength, yet behind closed doors, or in the quiet moments of solitude, the façade would crumble, revealing a vulnerability that he worked so hard to conceal.

Like the rest of the men of the Cha household, his uncle was bound by the invisible chains of tradition and expectation.

But that day was one of those rare occasions when Cha Wookyung wished his upright uncle would loosen up a bit and provide him with humorous anecdotes about the person they were on their way to meet and share a bit of history about their long-forgotten property. He sighed, shaking his head as he stared out of the car window.

The mud-ridden road bumped and jostled the vehicle as it made its way through the verdant tea gardens. The blues of the night before had faded into the early morning, although the sun had yet to rise and shine over the tea leaves, which still held onto the dewdrops from the night air. His stretched arm managed to touch the ambitious branches growing outside the fences, causing the delicate dewdrops to fall to their deaths.

There was a sudden jolt that shook the car as it dipped into a small pit of muddy water dug by the incessant rainfall the night before, causing his arm to move like a rubber band. A yelp of pain escaped his lips as he retreated back into the car. He turned to see his uncle rubbing the back of his head.

"Warner!" His heavy voice seemed comical, with his eyes practically popping out of his round, thick-framed glasses. "Drive carefully! At this rate, I'll end up with a broken skull and five teeth!"

Cha Wookyung started counting the times they had encountered such potholes, noting that almost three kilometres still remained to be covered.

"Uncle," he tried to stifle a chuckle, noticing the old man's glasses resting lopsided on his nose, "what can Warner do when there are potholes covering every inch of this road? Matter of fact why did Grandpa never bother to rebuild this road?" he added, attempting to sound serious, though he was partly serious.

His uncle adjusted his glasses and let out a deep sigh. "Your grandfather is a man of principles and habits. He believed in maintaining the authenticity of the estate, which included the road. He always said it was a reminder of our humble beginnings and the hard work that went into building the estate. Besides, he rarely leaves the estate grounds, so he saw no need to improve the road."

Wookyung shook his head. "Times have changed, Uncle. This road is a hazard. We're not living in the past anymore."

His uncle nodded slowly, looking out the window. "Perhaps you're right. But change comes slowly to places like this, unlike us who live fast-paced lives. The estate is more than just land and buildings. It's a symbol of our family's history, our struggles, and our achievements. Sometimes, it's hard to let go of the old ways."

Yet Cha Wookyung never felt any attachment towards the glory of that tea estate.

He added, "also, I hope your Korean hasn't caught rust. You must make your grandfather happy."

"I do know Korean."

"Do you, Wookyung? Do you?"

"I do know how to speak Korean, my dear Uncle. I've been brought up in a Korean household by a strict Korean mother." he retorted in fluent Korean, making his uncle chuckle.

The car hit another bump, causing both men to lurch forward. Warner muttered an apology from the driver's seat, trying his best to navigate the treacherous road. The nephew glanced at his uncle, who had settled back into his seat, the initial shock of the bumps giving way to a contemplative silence.

The brown-eyed man said with a yawn, 'I'll just close my eyes.' The slow sun and the endless rows of tea bushes seemed to make him feel dizzy, so he shut his eyes and soon began to snore. His uncle, noticing the snores, gently covered him with a small blanket before returning to his book.

At twenty-seven, Cha Wookyung—the sole heir of Cha Wooyeong, the owner of one of the largest publishing companies in the United States—felt more like a jaded old man than someone in the prime of his life. Despite growing up with every luxury and zero pressure, the weight of unspoken expectations and unfulfilled responsibilities left him with a burden of thoughts he could never share with anyone, not even his own family.

His life had been relatively enjoyable, marked by routine pleasures. However, he came to realize that fun has a shelf life. The daily grind of office work, gym sessions, social outings, and club nights eventually began to feel meaningless. It was as if the world around him continued to advance while he struggled to keep pace, despite having resources and opportunities that many people fought hard to obtain. The privileges and advantages that were handed to him on a silver platter seemed to only highlight his growing dissatisfaction and sense of disconnection.

In time, Wookyung's inability to adapt and his careless handling of his family's legacy led to a public image tarnished by the media. News outlets branded him as the quintessential rich kid, indifferent to the struggles and hardships of those less fortunate and living like a recluse on his parents' wealth. His perceived lack of purpose and contribution to society further fuelled the narrative of a privileged individual who squandered the opportunities and legacy bestowed upon him.

In Cha Wookyung's defence, by the time he came to understand the struggles of others, he had already lost the desire to live in a society where his image and the assumptions people made about him overshadowed his true thoughts and feelings. The weight of these expectations had drained him, leaving him feeling isolated and misunderstood.

His father, a strict man with an uncanny ability to foresee the future, had noticed the gradual but profound changes reverberating through the empty halls and rooms of the Cha mansion. The once vibrant home had become a place of silent echoes and unspoken tensions. After much deliberation and careful, secretive planning, he decided to send his only son to South Korea. He harboured a fervent hope that this journey would transform his son, reigniting a passion and hunger that mirrored his own.

"Changes come when we least expect it," Cha Wookyung remembered his grandfather's words. He was twelve when the oldest man of the family left United States and returned to his ancestral land. When his father broke the news, the golden-haired man could only think of those words. Since his grandfather's departure, he did not keep much contact with him, partly because he hated phone calls and texts, and partly because Cha Wooshik was a man with a spontaneous personality.

The old man lived like every day was an oyster for him—full of surprises, until he no longer could. One day he would jump off some cliff trying to learn sky diving, and the other day he would end up with an Italian chef, learning how to make ravioli the authentic way. He was very different from his oldest son, who not only detested travelling, but also preferred learning about the world through books and newspapers.

And Cha Wookyung was very much like his father.

As the car ascended a steep road, a sudden jolt roused him from his sleep. His drowsy eyes caught sight of a small gate made of painted, imitation bamboo. A man dressed in winter clothes and a beanie ran toward them from a large house enclosed by walls and the gate. The man promptly opened the gate, allowing the car to glide into the driveway, coming to a stop near a garden that bordered the pebbled path leading to the wooden building.

Despite his family's considerable land and influence in South Korea, Cha Wookyung had never set foot in the country. He was born and raised in Los Angeles, in a wealthy neighbourhood, where he learned little about his family's heritage. It seemed as though his family preferred to leave the past behind, and whenever he questioned about his heritage, he would get half-baked answers, and gradually he gave up on connecting with his other side.

As he stepped out of the car, the man, who appeared older than his uncle, greeted them with a warm smile. The sun had finally risen, casting its rays over the lush greenery surrounding the wooden house. The house showcased traditional Korean architecture, featuring a wooden gable roof clad with dark-gray tiles typical of Hanok design. A deck on both the ground floor and the upper floor, right below the roof, offered cool spaces to relax during the hot summers. Smaller windows in the observatory framed picturesque views of the distant mountains, enhancing the serene and timeless beauty of the home.

"Welcome, Mr. Cha Woogyeon. The master has gone for a walk in the village. He will return by 11," the man said, his voice polite and respectful. "Would you like to rest for a while, or would you prefer to have breakfast?"

"I will sleep. The potholes sure broke some of my bones, I guess." He chuckled taking off his linen coat, "anyway, how are you doing. Mr. Boo? What about your family?"

The man broke into a boyish grin at the mention of his family. In his sharp voice, he said, "I'm doing well. My eldest son welcomed a baby girl two months ago. My younger son graduated a year ago and has been preparing for the bar exam since then. My youngest daughter just started her freshman year at Hanguk University. My wife is living with her—you know how she is."

Wookyung nodded, recalling the memory of the old man's wife tearfully attending their eldest son's college entrance ceremony. Wookyung had visited his father for some paperwork and ended up driving the man's family to Seoul on their eldest son's first day of college.

"Do visit us," as he spoke, he assisted Warner with unloading their luggage from the car, "my wife will be happy to see you and young master." Cha Woogyeon—the younger son of Cha Wooshik—acknowledged the man's words with a nod. His attention was soon drawn to his nephew, who was wandering through the garden, taking in every detail with an inquisitive gaze. The garden was a beautiful blend of traditional Korean landscaping, with carefully arranged stones, meticulously pruned bonsai trees, and a small koi pond that reflected the morning sunlight.

"Wookyung-ah!" His uncle's voice broke through his thoughts, calling him back to the present.

"Yeah!" he responded, his voice echoing slightly in the open space.

"Go freshen up! Your grandfather has gone out for his morning walk. He'll be back soon."

"Alright!" Wookyung replied, a hint of eagerness in his tone.

Mr. Boo picked up Wookyung's luggage, "young master, let me show you your room," he gestured for the golden-haired man to follow. They walked together through the house, entering through a sliding wooden door framed with delicate bamboo panels stitched together by jute thread. The interior was a harmonious blend of tradition and modernity. The floors were polished wood, and the walls were adorned with calligraphy scrolls and Korean lanterns that cast a soft, warm glow.

"Young master, I am Boo Minseok," the man broke the silence, "I've been working for your family for almost thirty years. I live in the village down south. If you ever visit the village, do grace us with your presence. My wife and family will be very happy to see you."

"Do they know me?" he asked, intrigued by the man's contagious aura, "I've never been here."

Mr. Boo shook his head, the wrinkles around his eyes contracted as a long grin canvased his lips, "we've seen you in photos. Master loves to talk about you. He also told me that you had graduated from Harvard. My youngest daughter is in Hanguk. Her name is Sujin. She is very pretty, and docile."

Cha Wookyung could only give a polite smile.

As they moved further inside, Wookyung noticed the intricate lattice work on the doors and windows, typical of Hanok architecture. The corridors were lined with beautiful, traditional Korean paintings depicting serene landscapes and historical scenes. The gentle sound of a nearby indoor water fountain added to the tranquil atmosphere.

They passed through a spacious living area, where a low wooden table surrounded by floor cushions sat in the centre, inviting guests to sit and relax. The room opened up to a courtyard garden visible through large windows, where bamboo plants swayed gently in the breeze.

Finally, they reached his room. The man slid the door open, revealing a serene space with wooden panels covering the floor. A futon was neatly folded in the corner, ready to be laid out for sleeping. A large window offered a stunning view of the garden and the mountains beyond, framing the scene like a living painting. A small, lacquered table held a ceramic tea set, and traditional Korean artworks adorned the walls.

"Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Cha. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," the man said, placing the young master's luggage gently on the floor before bowing and exiting the room.

Wookyung took a moment to appreciate the tranquil scene, feeling a sense of connection to his heritage that he had never experienced before. He then began to freshen up, his mind filled with anticipation and curiosity about the day's events and the family he was slowly reconnecting with.

If there was one thing he was sure of, it was the fact that his grandfather's words would manifest for many times in Yeongdong-do Tea estate.

[ruhani-raat]

DREAMS OF THE DAMNED (Zhenya X Taekjoo)

Russian crime lord Yevgeny Bogdanov is plagued by haunting dream invasions that erode his grip on reality. As his empire teeters, he uncovers a deadly conspiracy within his own ranks and enslaves Kwon Taekjoo, a dreamwalker in order to free himself. Their bond deepens into an unexpected romance-complicated by Taekjoo's secret mission to free a cunning, ancient entity trapped in the dreamscape. Loyalties blur as dreams twist into nightmares, and power, love, and fate collide in surreal chaos. Join Yevgeny and Taekjoo as they navigate through the webs of crime, power, betrayal and love to taste freedom at the expense of something bigger. (WELL, THIS STORY IS MY PRODUCT--LIKE, FRAGMENTS OF MY IMAGINATION. READERS' DISCRETION IS ADVISED. INACCURACIES MAY FIND YOU ABOUT RUSSIAN, KOREAN AND GERMAN CULTURES SO, FEEL FREE TO EDUCATE ME.) THE MAIN CHARACTERS ARE ACCREDITED TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS. I AM JUST A FANFIC WRITER OBSSESSED WITH THEM. MANXMAN GOTHIC FICTION MAGICAL REALISM CRIME, VIOLENCE, 18+ STUFF YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

CHAPTER 1: THE DANCE OF NIGHTMARISH FUTURE

"Zhenya..."

The whisper slithered through the dark, curling in his ears like cigarette smoke. But it wasn't smoke—oh no. It was alive. A mass of shadow swam between the illuminated buildings of Moscow's skyline, gliding like serpents with wings, weaving through the air with an elegance too smooth to be natural. Each movement birthed a pulse of mirth—high-pitched, gleeful, then suddenly guttural. The laughter echoed in warped octaves, as if five voices argued for dominance from the same throat.

The man turned, twelve years old again. No suit. No penthouse. No power. Just a boy in his father's oversized coat, his knees scraped, and his soul trembling.

The city behind him cracked like porcelain. Skyscrapers splintered as though made of glass and ash. Light bled from their cores, swallowed into the widening mouth of a black void. Streetlights winked out. Cars dissolved into puddles of liquid time. The sky—once a brilliant cobalt—became a yawning abyss.

And in the midst of it, the shadow mass descended.

"No matter how much you try..."

The voice broke reality. It was nowhere and everywhere, carried by wind that didn't blow. The black tendrils coiled around him, slick and cold, caressing his skin like regret. He tried to move. His feet didn't obey. The air thickened into syrup.

Then it gripped him.

The shadows twisted around his neck with monstrous intimacy. The laughter pierced the silence again—needle-sharp, unrelenting. Each chuckle stabbed into his brain, laced with words. Words that cut deeper than bone.

"You will never be enough."

The voice warped, growing low and coarse. Familiar. His father's.

The boy's knees buckled. Tears rimmed his eyes, hot and shameful. He gasped, fingers clawing at the invisible coils crushing his throat. His legs kicked in air that felt like oil.

The boy choked out a scream—then the shadow released him.

He dropped, wheezing, to his knees. The blackness retreated with the laughter, now hollow and distant, echoing like the last words of a dying god.

Then—

Moscow shimmered in the early summer heat. Golden domes glinted in the morning sun, flanked by brutalist towers and old cathedrals locked in an eternal standoff. The streets bustled with caffeine and capitalism. It was about to be another Wednesday. The city, radiant and restless, marched on.

But within the penthouse atop Bolshaya Dmitrovka, time stood still.

Yevgeny Bogdanov sat bolt upright, pale as unspun silk, sweat glistening on his bare chest. The silk sheets clung to his body like bandages torn from a battlefield.

His breath came in shallow bursts. The remnants of the dream clung to his senses: a phantom weight on his neck, a child's weeping, a city that no longer stood.

He rubbed his temples, but the echo remained.

You will never be enough.

The sentence dug in like a shard of glass. He exhaled through gritted teeth and reached for the bedside control.

No lights.

Right. He had turned them off. The only source of light was the sunrays peeking through the flimsy curtains. Another foolish attempt to "retrain" himself. Darkness was supposed to soothe, not summon demons. But for the man with storm in his mind, darkness now bore teeth. The silence in the room wasn't real silence. It hummed, alive with something unseen. Always something watching. Never quite dreamt. Never quite real.

He slipped out from beneath the duvet, his feet kissing the cold marble floor. The chill grounded him. Momentarily.

And then—

The door slid open with a soft hiss, as if the universe had chosen the worst possible moment to interrupt.

Caesar Sergeyev entered with a smile only the well-rested and well-armed could carry. Six-foot-something of polished arrogance, wrapped in a designer suit the colour of storm clouds. Blond hair slicked back. Sharp jaw. Grey eyes like twin daggers resting in ice.

He moved like a man who'd never run from anything—because he hadn't.

"Morning," The man said with the tone of someone too cheerful to be trusted that morning. He cocked his head slightly, arms folded, assessing his boss with an unreadable smirk. "No sleep?"

Yevgeny offered him a sideways glare that said more than words ever could.

"What? Not even the pills worked?" Caesar's eyes widened theatrically, mock horror lighting up his face. "Mate, we've got the best doctor in Moscow—"

"Just go," The annoyed man interrupted, massaging his temple. "I need a moment."

But fate didn't care for moments.

A knock—gentle, hesitant. Like the tap of a bird's beak against glass.

Caesar waited, eyebrow raised, as if he wondered it was right to let the person in.

"Voyti vnutr," Yevgeny muttered.

The door creaked open.

A woman entered, her figure round and compact, wrapped in starched white. Her maid's uniform was spotless, but her hands trembled as if she carried a ghost in her apron. Her wrinkles were not from age, but from the stress the Bogdanovs inflicted upon her with their volatile personalities.

She spoke barely above a whisper. "Molodoy khozyain... Breakfast... is ready."

Her eyes flitted between the two men. Especially Caesar. She remembered yesterday. Everyone did. The master chef had been threatened with mutilation over a rare steak. Caesar had managed to talk him down, barely, citing that it was just like how Yevgeny liked.

The annoyed man looked at her as though seeing a statue crack. His face hardened.

"Speak loudly, you insolent—!"

"She's just doing her job," Caesar said lightly, swatting the air, a warning to the maid to leave quickly. "I'll be down in a minute," he added in Russian.

The woman nodded and practically fled.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Caesar turned.

"You had the dream again," he said, no longer grinning.

Yevgeny didn't reply. But the look in his eyes said everything.

He was still in it.

Still in that black city.

Still choking. He could still feel that mass of nothing but tar black gripping itself around his throat ever so slowly, while its sadistic laughter hit his ears like drums on Monday mornings.

­­__

Fifteen minutes after a breakfast that sat far too heavy in his gut, the sound of flesh being torn from bone echoed through the south wing of the Bogdanov estate.

A fist met skin — not with the crisp crack of a clean hit, but the sickening thud of something breaking. It was the sound of cartilage folding, bone yielding. Then came the sound that followed it — wet, guttural, pathetic — the sound of a grown man screaming not from fear, but from the dawning realisation that no amount of screaming would save him.

The dungeon was cold, cruel in its design. The walls were stone, dark with age and sin, and the light — weak and jaundiced — flickered from a single bulb that hung from the ceiling by exposed wire. It barely illuminated the horror within. But it was enough. Enough to see the blood.

Enough to see the man.

He hung inverted, suspended by rusted chains looped cruelly around his ankles. His body swayed slightly, twitching with every sob, every cough. His face was no longer a face. It was a canvas of violence — swollen, distorted, a mask of purple, black and red. Where once had been a nose, there was now pulp. His mouth hung open as if permanently in mid-scream, stained with blood and saliva.

He whimpered something — words lost in the bubbling in his throat. It might have been a denial. Or a prayer. Or both. Or neither. It didn't matter anymore.

Yevgeny didn't speak. He just struck again.

The man's head snapped sideways with a meaty crack. Blood sprayed from his lips in a slow, almost beautiful arc — like wine flung in ceremony. Then came the cough — rattling, wet, choking. And then the sobs. Childlike. Desperate.

"S—sir, trust me... I am no—"

Another punch silenced him, shattering the sentence into a garbled yelp. This time Yevgeny didn't look away when the man's teeth cut into his own cheek. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth in thick strands. The man convulsed, twitching in his chains.

"You had all the time in the world to spit the truth yesterday," a voice said calmly from the gloom.

Caesar stood to one side, untouched by the shadows that clung to every inch of the chamber. The blond man, elegant as ever, appeared utterly at ease — hands clasped behind his back, tailored suit untouched, his pale eyes locked on the scene before him with the cool interest of a man watching a play he'd seen many times before.

"And now, you get what you deserve," he said, voice low, every syllable a threat in velvet.

Caesar didn't smile. He rarely did when blood was being spilled. Not out of pity. But because he savouring it. Deep down, under all the polish, he was as brutal as Yevgeny — perhaps even worse. He simply wore his cruelty better.

Yevgeny's chest heaved as he stepped closer, his knuckles split and glistening with red. His face was unreadable, save for the thin smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. Not joy. Not satisfaction. Something more primal. A hollow kind of pleasure that didn't come from dominance, but from necessity — like scratching at a phantom itch only he could feel.

He leaned in, voice a low, menacing whisper.

"And now, I want you to live on until my anger cools down. So hang tight, yeah?"

The man whimpered, shaking his head violently, eyes wide with animal terror. His body trembled, swinging slightly in his bonds. But Yevgeny didn't see him anymore. He was somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

The next punch came without warning. Followed by another. And another.

He was no longer hitting a man. He was hitting the voice.

You will never be enough.

He was hitting his father. He was hitting the dream. He was trying to bleed the nightmares out through someone else's skin.

The blows became frantic. Mechanical. Driven by rhythm more than rage. Like a man trying to drum out a tune only he could hear — one composed of screams, of broken bones and splintered pride.

And still, the laughter lingered in his head. Twisting. Mocking.

Only when his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps did he finally stop. Blood dripped from his fingers, staining the silk handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. The room spun slightly. Pain lanced behind his right eye, sharp and sudden. A migraine. Or something worse. Something old. Something incurable.

The man — the betrayer — no longer moved. He hung limp, half-dead, a ruined effigy of deceit and failure. His soul, if it hadn't already fled, was hiding deep in some corner of his mind, praying for unconsciousness.

Yevgeny stared at him for a moment longer, his own heart still racing, before turning away.

"Handle it," he rasped to Caesar. His voice was hoarse, hollow. "Find the others."

Caesar gave a small, obedient nod, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on Yevgeny's back as the crime lord stalked out of the dungeon, his breath still ragged, steps unsteady.

There was something in the way he moved — not just fatigue, not just fury. A tilt in his posture. A weight in his stride. Like a man walking beneath something far heavier than his reputation.

Caesar's gaze lingered just a moment too long.

And in that silence, where only the flicker of the light and the drip of blood could be heard, a faint echo whispered from the shadows beyond:

You will never be enough.

__

Somewhere in Moscow, a dark-skinned man scrubbed at a stubborn coffee stain on table six with far more resentment than the situation really deserved, muttering apologies in heavily accented Russian that dripped with genuine guilt.

The man in the bespoke navy trousers sat stiffly, legs awkwardly splayed to avoid the rapidly spreading cappuccino blot that would definitely leave a mark. Across from him, his equally fashionable date glared down at her once-lovely red summer dress, now an unfortunate canvas of dairy and bitterness.

"Real sorry," Taekjoo mumbled, his rag doing less wiping and more artistic smearing. "Very... aesthetic now, yes?"

The woman shot him a look like he'd spat on Tolstoy's grave.

It had been a normal morning. Painfully normal, in fact — until the moment it wasn't. The Talk of The Town, mid-tier café with aspirations of class it couldn't quite reach, bustled with the usual clinks of dishes, bursts of laughter, and the faint background music that tried far too hard to be Parisian-chic. The scent of cinnamon pastries and burnt espresso lingered in the air, thick as the judgement Taekjoo now felt pressing in from every direction.

He'd been doing what he always did — juggling tables, reciting the specials with his signature flair, and trying (failing) to flirt his way through the shift. Three tables deep into his charm offensive, and he was already regretting waking up.

"Baryshnya," he said with the suavity of a man who definitely practised in the mirror, "we've got all the good stuff. But for beautiful ladies like you, I'd recommend the beef stroganoff — hearty, rich — followed by our syrniki, sweet and elegant. Kvass on the side. You'll leave looking even more divine, if that's possible."

The two pastel-dressed women blinked at him like he'd just offered them a plate of broken glass. One of them sniffed.

Taekjoo cringed internally.

Strike one.

It always came down to this: no matter how much effort he put in, how many smiles he faked into reality, he never quite blended in. The Russian waitstaff could flirt and flatter without being dismissed. Him? He was too much. Too bright. Too foreign. Too... Korean.

Or, as Maya liked to say: "Tone it down, Taekjoo. This isn't LA."

To which he'd always retort, "Well guess what? In two or three months, I will be back in America, and you'll be begging for my autograph when I'm famous."

Maya would just roll her eyes and say, "You'll be late to your own fame."

But none of that mattered in the seconds that followed.

His eyes flicked upward — and froze.

The tray. The stumble. The arc of brown liquid flying like war paint through the air.

Maya.

She was walking toward table six, balancing her tray like it was a sacred artefact. Her petite frame moving like a new born snake in water. Her hand — barely trembling. But he saw it. He saw it.

The crash. The stain. The shrieks. The shame.

He saw it. Clear as day.

"No, no, no—"

He lunged to intercept — only to catch her elbow at the exact wrong angle.

And it all happened in slow motion, to Taekjoo's regret. The tray pitched. Coffee launched. Cups shattered like glass grenades. Hot liquid splattered across linen, flesh, and reputation. A woman shrieked. A man cursed. Maya gasped. And Taekjoo...

He stood frozen, staring at his own hands like they'd just betrayed him.

"Shit—Maya—I saw—"

But she was already bowing, apologising, doing damage control like a soldier under fire.

Mr. Volyenka—the Manager, burst from the back like an enraged bull, bald head glistening, cheeks red with fury. His bellow targeted Taekjoo with sniper precision. Everyone turned to look. Every. Single. Customer.

"Oh, man," Taekjoo muttered, eyes wide with dread. "Not again."

____

Outside, the sun was too bright. The kind of aggressive summer light that made your soul squint.

Taekjoo sat on the curb behind the café, a half-unwrapped sandwich on his lap and his pride slowly evaporating in the heat. The bread was slightly damp, and the lettuce had given up long ago. He chewed mechanically, not tasting a thing.

Traffic hummed beyond the alley, uncaring. Somewhere nearby, a dog wandered past without so much as a glance. Even the strays had more dignity today.

He leaned back against the warm brick, staring at the pavement as if it might suddenly open up and swallow him whole. Honestly, that wouldn't be so bad. He'd just been chewed out — the silver lining was that he'd only screwed up once today, which was better than most days. The downside? He had no idea if Mr. Volyenka was planning to keep him around much longer.

It was always like this.

He'd see something. He'd try to stop it. It would happen anyway.

Like fate was a rubber band. No matter how far he stretched it, it always snapped back — often harder than before. Sometimes he wondered if he was just cursed. Or perhaps the universe had the world's worst sense of humour.

The sandwich slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete with a soft, tragic plop. He watched it land. Didn't even flinch. Then, faintly — like breath on glass, or a thought too deep to be his own — a voice spoke:

"It's not the future you're seeing," it whispered, curling around his mind. "It's the dream choosing its ending."

He blinked. The words rang strange and sharp, like a bell tolling from a place he couldn't name.

Not the future. The dream choosing.

"What does that even mean?" he muttered to the dog, who didn't reply.

He sighed and rubbed his face, smearing a streak of mayo across his cheek.

Fantastic.

"Great. I'm hearing voices, ruining lives, and I smell like sour milk and regret. Can't wait to tell my therapist."

"Oh wait, can't even afford a therapist in this economy. Guess I'll just chill with Maya."

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his apron and dignity. Back inside, Maya was probably explaining things. The manager would yell. Again. He was the kind of person who would hold a grudge against a child. Taekjoo cracked his fingers, ready to profusely apologise again, hoping to keep this job for another two or three months.

Still, he squared his shoulders and stepped back toward the door. Maybe fate was laughing. But that didn't mean he had to give it the satisfaction of crying.

Not yet, anyway. 

[faithful91]

𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 & 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧! 𝐈 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.. 𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖 🤍

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