The alarm buzzed at 5:45 AM.
It wasn't the sound that woke him—he was already half-awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of the small apartment he shared with his family. It was the guilt. The weight of bills on the dining table. The sound of his sister coughing quietly from the next room as she got ready for her early shift.
Another day. Another shift. Another string of hours that belonged to someone else.
Kang Minjae had stopped counting how many part-time jobs he juggled. Barista. Delivery boy. Library assistant. On weekends, he even helped out at an old bookshop near Gangnam that paid in both cash and sympathy.
At 20, most of his classmates dreamt of internships at flashy conglomerates or overseas studies.
He dreamt of a working water heater and maybe a week without needing to skip meals.
His phone buzzed. A message from his sister, Kang Mirae.
📲💬
Don't forget your umbrella. It's going to rain again.
💬
He smiled faintly, thumbed out a reply, and sat up. Muscles ached in places he didn't know he had.
He glanced at the calendar on the wall—marked with rent due dates, his class schedule, and job shifts. A single red mark caught his attention.
"Mock Interview – Career Center: 2 PM."
He sighed. The university always held these events for scholarship students, pushing them to secure internships. But the truth was, no matter how polished his resume was, no one wanted someone with his background anymore.
His father had once been a prominent businessman in Seoul's elite circles. Their family used to live in a two-story house in Seongbuk-dong. Until that day came.
The day everything collapsed.
He never asked for the details. He just remembered the headlines. The whispers. The shame on his father's face.
Now, they lived in a 2-room apartment near Dongdaemun, pretending the past never happened.
But the past had a way of leaving residue. Especially on names.
⸻
It rained just before noon.
Seoul looked beautiful when it rained—if you weren't getting soaked on your way to your third job. Minjae stood outside the café near campus, holding two hot americanos and a plastic bag of warm bread. He waited under the awning, watching people blur by beneath umbrellas.
A small, folded note was stuck between the coffee cups.
He frowned. He hadn't noticed it before.
It was neatly written. Handwritten. On expensive ivory paper with faint golden floral borders. The kind you don't find in student stores.
You forgot your gloves today.
Please take care of your hands. They matter to me.
—From Someone Who's Watching
His breath caught.
He looked around. Nothing but strangers.
Was this some sort of prank? A weird marketing stunt?
He turned the note over. No logo. No sender.
And the handwriting—too elegant for someone casually passing by.
He folded the note and tucked it into his pocket.
Just then, his phone buzzed again.
📲💬
"Why don't you believe me?"
—From Unknown
💬
A cold chill spread down his spine.
There was no contact saved. No history.
The message arrived exactly thirty seconds after he'd read the note.
He quickly replied.
📲💬
Who is this? How do you know me?
💬
No response.
He waited. Five minutes. Ten.
Nothing.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and told himself it was a coincidence. That it had to be.
⸻
By the time Minjae made it to campus for his mock interview, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. His shoes were soaked. The cuffs of his pants, too. But he still walked with his usual calm, soft smile pasted on like armor.
The interview panel was unimpressed.
Not because of him—but because of his name.
"Kang Minjae, you say? Your father was…"
The man didn't finish the sentence.
Minjae simply nodded.
"Yes. But I'm not him."
They pretended to smile.
"Of course not."
He left fifteen minutes later with a brochure about 'resilience workshops' and a generic promise: "We'll get back to you soon."
He didn't need a response. He already knew.
⸻
That night, Minjae's sister, Kang Mirae, came home late from work. She dropped a takeout bag on the table and ruffled his hair.
"You didn't eat properly again," she scolded, her voice soft but tired. "I know you skipped lunch."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he helped her unpack the meal and listened to her complain about one of her coworkers at the publishing firm.
"You have to stop worrying about me so much, noona," he said, finally. "I'm not a kid."
She looked at him, serious now. Her fingers reached out and brushed the side of his hand—the one with a small paper cut from earlier that morning.
"I'll stop the day you stop hurting yourself trying to survive."
He wanted to say something, but his phone buzzed again.
📲💬
Did your sister like the food?
Don't worry. I made sure it was delivered fresh.
—From Unknown
💬
His blood froze.
He stared at the message, then slowly turned toward the takeout bag.
The logo on it wasn't from any local place they usually ordered from.
It was a high-end restaurant near Cheongdam—far above anything they could afford.
Mirae noticed the tension in his face. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. Just… weird spam again."
He didn't tell her. He couldn't.
He excused himself to his room and sat on the edge of his bed.
His hands were shaking.
He opened his phone and quickly typed a response.
📲💬
Who are you? How do you know where I live?
💬
This time, the reply came instantly.
📲💬
You'll understand soon. Just be safe, Minjae.
💬
He stared at the screen for a long time.
No name. No face. Just messages.
⸻
At 2:00 AM, Minjae jolted awake.
His phone had buzzed again. One last message for the day.
📲💬
I don't like seeing you tired.
Rest well, my moonlight.
💬
He didn't reply.
Instead, he locked his phone, placed it face-down on the table, and stared at the ceiling.
💭
Who the hell are you?
💭
⸻
[End of Chapter 1]
⸻