Some are born to love. Others, to burn.
Han Nari no longer did either.
Seoul, 6:47 a.m.
The gray winter light clung to the windows like a dead lip.
In the apartment, the air was warm, heavy, saturated with the smell of burnt coffee and cheap detergent.
Han Nari opened her eyes, fully aware of what awaited her.
She wasn't living.
She breathed out of habit, moved out of habit, smiled out of politeness.
Every morning, the same hour, the same cup, the same coffee machine.
The same too-silent apartment.
The same gray light filtering through the window and falling onto her face like a sentence.
Her boyfriend prepared breakfast with an almost sickly gentleness.
Always the same phrases, the same attentions, the same plans he built for two.
— We could go see your parents this weekend…
— I was thinking we could repaint the bedroom…
— Do you want a second coffee, my love?
She nodded, she smiled.
But her heart no longer answered.
She had no heart anymore—only an empty space, perfectly smooth, where nothing reflected.
He loved her.
She knew that.
She had loved him too, maybe.
Before.
When she was still capable of burning.
Today, her affection was nothing more than a mechanical gesture: a caress without warmth, a smile without intention, a tenderness without flame.
A lukewarm love.
A love that comforts, but does not consume.
In front of the mirror, her reflection exhausted her.
Her black, straight, immaculate hair framed a face painted in charcoal black, contrasting with her pale skin, revealing only the redness of her lips.
She slipped on her black leather jacket, the one she wore like armor.
Everything seemed so controlled… so restrained… so dead.
She left for work.
8:57 a.m., she arrived on the 17th floor of the advertising agency, always the last one, always silent.
She crossed the open space without lifting her eyes, black leather jacket, straight black hair, not a word, not a glance, a shadow sliding between the white desks while the laughter stopped abruptly at her passage, then resumed, lower, more mocking, more cruel.
— Look, the ice queen is back.
— Did she sleep in a freezer again or what?
— Look at her, she looks like she'd bite us if we talk to her.
She didn't answer.
Never.
She would set down her bag, turn on her computer, sit all the way in the back, where the neon light was the coldest, where no one ever came to sit beside her, and she would disappear into her files, her Excel sheets, into the white noise of the air conditioning that froze her bones.
And Mr. Kang walked past her desk ten times.
Always him.
Never the others.
He dropped thick folders onto her keyboard, always heavier, always more urgent, with that predatory smile that never reached his eyes.
— Nari, that's for today.
— Yes, Mr. Kang.
— And the Kim & Co. report too. Finish it before 6 p.m.
— Yes, Mr. Kang.
— You know I rely on you, right? You're the only one here who truly works.
And he lingered one second too long, his gaze sliding down to her mouth, her throat, the first button of her shirt, and she felt nausea rising, fear crawling under her skin like a cold spider, because she knew what happened when he closed his office door after 7 p.m., when he called her with a voice too soft, when he said "just five minutes to review this with me," and his hand grazed her thigh under the desk, his breath smelling of coffee and power, his voice dropping an octave to murmur "you know I can make your life easier here… or much harder."
At night, she came home, took off her shoes, set down her bag, and the day restarted like a scratched record.
Today, when she came home, the door slammed behind her, releasing a wave of familiar smells: warm rice, soap, fresh laundry.
She didn't even have time to take off her coat.
He was already there.
On her.
Against her.
Around her.
His hands on her waist, his lips on her neck, his breath too warm against her skin.
He kissed her like a man who had been waiting for weeks—when they had seen each other that very morning.
She hit the wall.
Her back pressed against the cold surface.
The contrast with his burning body made her shiver for a second… only a second.
She let him do it.
Not out of desire.
Out of reflex.
Because it was easier than stopping him.
Because refusing would require thinking, and she no longer had the strength.
His words of love slid against her neck, warm, soft, sincere.
But they reached her blurred.
As if they passed through glass.
As if she heard someone speaking underwater.
She closed her eyes.
Not to savor.
To detach.
To disappear for a few seconds.
To welcome that familiar disconnection that had protected her for months.
Her body reacted despite her.
Automatic.
Obedient.
Cold.
But her heart…
Her heart remained silent, still, absent.
The more he kissed her, the more she felt the void grow.
The more he whispered that he loved her, the more she understood that she didn't burn anymore.
That he was no longer enough.
That he would never be enough again.
When everything grew quiet, he held her against him, still breathless, still in love, still blind.
She, she remained calm.
Her eyes open.
Fixed on the window.
Seoul glowed outside, lit windows, trembling neon lights, a rough, vibrant nightlife.
Yet behind the glass, everything felt silent.
She no longer knew what she was waiting for.
Maybe a sign.
Maybe someone.
Or maybe just… a violent enough shock to wake her up.
She wasn't afraid of living.
She was afraid of waking up at fifty one day and realizing she had never truly existed.
And in that shared silence, she understood.
Love wasn't enough.
What she wanted wasn't tenderness, nor happiness.
It was someone who would consume her until nothing of her remained.
And she knew, deep in her gut, that she would say yes.
That she would open herself.
That she would burn.
And that she would finally love every second of her death.
And somewhere, in the shadows of this city that never sleeps, someone was already waiting for her.