ACT II — Spring to Early Summer

Chapter 21: Extraction Line

Dawn has barely pressed a pale stripe against the café windows when I step behind the bar, sleeves already dusted with the dark-red chaff of the new Ethiopian "Dawn-Bloom" roast. Joon-woo stands at the grinder, fingertips glinting with steel filings from the rebuilt burr carrier. A single nod is all he needs to tell me the machine is ready; the rest he leaves to the ritual.

I open Ledger_v2.xlsx—green cells waiting like dew on rice-sprout leaves—and inhale the beans' first breath: candied citrus above roasted cedar.

Four beats in, four beats out, Ha-eun hums, the same thrum she used during extraction drills. Numbers are wings, not weights.

"Let's give them lift," I whisper, and tare the scale.

18 g in, 36 g out, 27 seconds. The shot lands with a coppery glare; tongue tightens at the edge. I type pH 4.4 – lemon peel into the acid-base column, then—almost without thinking—shade the cell pastel yellow. Ledger boxes don't scowl anymore; they glow.

Joon-woo tastes, raps a knuckle on the drip-tray: "High note," he murmurs—his longest sentence this week—and hands me a strip of masking tape labeled Try burr minus 20 µm.

I tighten the gap; the grinder balks, coughing fines. Stream dribbles, stalls at 34 seconds. I feel the old spike of failure prickle my spine.

Two taps to the sternum. Inhale—lift—exhale.

I reopen the gap, wipe the portafilter, start again.

This time the pour draws smooth as wind over river ice: 29 seconds and a crema thick enough to hold a pin. Aromas bloom—orange marmalade sliding into warm cacao.

Joon-woo's eyes brighten. He peels fresh tape, scrawls in block letters: KEEPER, then sets the strip across the group head like a tiny victory banner.

I enter the data, watch the margin-cell turn mint-green: bean cost ¥190, milk ¥45, cup price ¥450—profit 17 percent. Seventeen had once been a reason to dunk myself in shame; now it is simply lift.

Min-ji bursts through the service door, hair stuffed into a beanie patterned with tiny foam swans. "Yo, stat queen! The fans need graphs." She pokes at my laptop, breath smelling of strawberry Pocky.

I slide the screen toward her. "Make them sing, then."

Five minutes later the spreadsheet is a neon carousel on her phone: EXTRACTION LINE = LIFT LINE, arrows looping like carnival rides. Hearts, flames, and crane emojis explode below the post as she hits upload.

Kang sweeps past with a stack of vendor contracts. She stops just long enough to sip the keeper shot. "Costs sheet by eight tonight," she declares, eyes sparking approval, then strides on without waiting for an answer. I tick a new row in Ledger v2 labeled Signature – approved.

The grinder clicks silent; morning rush has not yet started. Quiet settles, pierced only by the kettle's hum. In that hush my phone vibrates—unknown number. I brace, half expecting auditors.

A warm, precise voice: "Ms Lee? Choi Eun-seok, attorney. Madam Kang suggests we talk. Insurer deposition is next Tuesday. Could you email a chronological ledger of finances before our prep call tomorrow at fourteen-hundred?"

My gaze slides to the bright spreadsheet. "I have exactly that," I say, surprised by the steadiness of my own tone. "I'll send tonight."

"Excellent." A pause. "Numbers are your allies, not minefields—remember that."

When the call ends I create a fresh tab—Legal Export—and let the columns unfurl like calm, symmetrical wings.

The sun fingers its way through the skylight, catching the brass hook Joon-woo installed yesterday. I print the extraction sheet, trim the edges, and hang it under the Countdown Wheel at the Day-9 spoke. Mint-green boxes shimmer beneath concentric rings of orange, violet, audit-red.

Min-ji bounces in with chalk, draws a tiny espresso cup on the spoke, steam forming the shape of a crane in flight. "Lift Line debut," she announces, stepping back. "Hashtag pending."

I rest my palm beneath the wheel and give it a slow, deliberate spin. Papers rustle, brass squeaks, circle turns—time moves because I move it.

Breath in four. Out four. Ha-eun's voice is gentle, satisfied. Extraction complete.

Outside, grinders whir to life for the lunch crowd. Inside, the ledger waits—quiet, balanced, ready to argue for me in any courtroom or cupping lab. Numbers, finally, are on my side.

And I intend to let them fly.

Chapter 22: Juniper Evening

Juniper smoke threads upward in the lilac dusk, drawing loose spirals above the café's narrow balcony. Joon-woo crouches beside a squat clay brazier, coaxing the twig fire until a low blue flame cradles the pot of broth. The hiss of sap meeting embers smells like pine needles after rain. From the riverwalk below, the lantern circles they strung last week shimmer on the water—amber halos sliding across the current.

Seo-yeon settles on the woven mat opposite him, legs tucked beneath her skirt, arms wrapped around her knees. The day's residue—spreadsheet glare, phone notifications, the dull ache of waiting for exam results—slips a little farther from her shoulders with each breath of juniper-scented air.

Pine, iron, thawing moss, Ha-eun murmurs inside her mind, a gentle hum that brushes the words against the back of Seo-yeon's tongue. Let them season the moment.

A crooked grin tilts across Seo-yeon's face. "You know this smells exactly like the mountain trails above Gangneung?" she says aloud.

Joon-woo's dark eyes lift. In answer, he unhooks the lid. A plume of steam bursts free—gamey venison, crushed juniper berries, a bead of cedar sap he'd let dissolve for resin sweetness. He passes her a shallow cedar bowl and a spoon whose handle curls like a tiny crane's neck.

"I carved those while you were at the exam," he admits, voice rough from sawdust and shy confession. "Figured the soup would taste better from its own nest."

Her fingers trace the sanded grain. Concentric rings ripple down the spoon's bowl—echoes of the Study Wheel, the Lantern Wheel, every circle she has drawn to keep panic at bay. "They're perfect," she says, and means both spoon and maker.

Metallic lantern light trembles across his cheeks as they eat. The broth's heat loosens the fatigue in Seo-yeon's jaw; juniper pricks her nose, then descends into warmth low in her chest. Ha-eun withdraws, leaving only a faint heartbeat-deep echo of the cram-jam rap, as though the guardian is politely stepping out of earshot.

"So." Joon-woo spoons a morsel of meat into her bowl. "How did it really feel? The exam."

She considers, tasting salt and honesty. "Like running across a bridge in fog. I couldn't see the far side, but every step sounded right." She tilts her head toward the river. "Then I remembered the crane shadow and just…lifted."

He nods—as if lift were a language both of them speak. "That's why I added the juniper. It helps game float above its own weight."

A quiet settles, thicker than soup. Steam curls between them, making slow, translucent knots. Seo-yeon breathes through her nose—four counts in, four counts out—and realises she no longer measures because she must, but because it centres the sweetness on her tongue.

She sets the bowl aside. Fingers still warmed by cedar, she reaches across the mat and brushes a fleck of sawdust from his sleeve. He catches her wrist, gentle, calloused thumb resting where her pulse thrums. Their faces tilt; the river's hush grows inside the space between them.

Steam wreathes their cheeks. Sleek lantern light paints a crescent across Joon-woo's lower lip. Seo-yeon inhales juniper, cedar, something metal-bright like hope. Her eyes flutter closed as the distance shrinks to the length of half a breath—

BEEP-BRRRRP! An electronic squawk ricochets up the stairwell.

They jump apart in unison, half-laughter, half-gasp. Below, Min-ji's joyous shout rattles the windowpanes. "Attorney docs just dropped! Fax machine resurrection!"

Seo-yeon presses a hand over her hammering heart; the other still holds Joon-woo's spoon. He shakes his head, a rueful smile carving dimples she hasn't seen before. Somewhere in the dark, Min-ji's pager squeals again, an insistence so archaic it borders on charming.

"Tomorrow," Joon-woo says, voice steadying. He flips open a small cloth pouch and produces the twin spoon. This one bears a single carved ring at the neck—her lift symbol. "For you."

She accepts, tucking it into the pocket of her cardigan beside the tamper ring, the crane-etched mug token—weightless charms accumulating into armour. "We'll face the paperwork after we paint booths," she promises.

From inside, Madam Kang's muffled call drifts through: "Lights out before midnight, and remember margins, people!"

They snort in unison. Joon-woo rises, douses the brazier, then offers a work-roughened hand to steady her up. On impulse, she presses her lips to his knuckles—quick, sure, a placeholder for the kiss interrupted. Heat floods her ears, but she does not apologise.

He stares, wonder widening his eyes, then releases her hand softly, like setting down porcelain. Footsteps carry him down the spiral stairs; hammer toes tap a farewell rhythm against iron.

Left alone, Seo-yeon leans on the balcony rail. The juniper embers fade to glowing pearls. Steam from the abandoned pot swirls into a shape that, for a single heartbeat, stretches a slender neck and wings—a crane rising, framed by moonlight. She smiles, unafraid of symbols now.

Soon, but not rushed, Ha-eun whispers, the guardian's voice as thin as mist yet solid as cedar beneath her palm.

Seo-yeon pockets the spoon, presses her lift-gesture against her chest, and watches lantern circles spin lazily on the black water. Tomorrow there will be paint buckets, lawyer documents, cost sheets. Tonight, she lets the river carry the unfinished kiss downstream, trusting it will find a shore when the tide is right.

Chapter 23: Statutes & SteamC

The brass mail slot snapped shut behind the courier's heel, its echo slicing the early-morning hush of the café like a paper guillotine. Lee Seo-yeon stooped to retrieve the thick cream envelope left on the mat. HanRiver Mutual – FINAL VERIFICATION DEMAND glared across the front in block serif.

Her fingers went icy. A hiss from the espresso machine rose at her back—Joon-woo was testing the boiler for the breakfast rush—and the humid puff of steam brushed her nape, as if urging her to breathe.

Four counts in, four out, Ha-eun murmured, the words riding the curl of vapor. Steam is only water finding room to move.

Seo-yeon nodded once, tucked the envelope beneath her arm, and climbed the narrow stair to the attic office.

Attorney Choi Eun-seok arrived at ten sharp, rain still stippling the shoulders of his charcoal suit. He surveyed the attic's mix of cushions, spreadsheets, and coffee paraphernalia with the mild curiosity of a museum curator, then shook Seo-yeon's hand in a grip both gentle and unyielding.

"Three things today," he said, sliding a legal pad between two mugs. "Identity chain, financial chronology, and medical documentation."

Straight to the point—sterile, but mercifully clear. Seo-yeon opened Ledger_v2.xlsx on her laptop, the green cells of yesterday's extraction data giving way to a new tab labelled Legal Export. Columns waited like orderly soldiers: Date ⎮ Event ⎮ Source Doc ⎮ Verification Pathway.

Choi laid the insurer's letter beside the keyboard. "They'll want original ID, a certified family register, and explanation for any time gaps—especially the six weeks your employer filed as unreachable."

Mapo Bridge. The ledger. The hospital ward with curtains that smelled of bleach and wilted lilies.

She felt her pulse stumble, but the steam wand downstairs shrieked again, a steady serpent-note that threaded up through the floorboards. Ha-eun caught it, turned it into rhythm.

Hiss—two—three—four. Hold—two—release—four.

Seo-yeon inhaled on the count, steadied, and began to speak.

She told the whole arc: the nights spent scribbling columns of failures, the frozen guardrail over the Han, the stranger's voice she later learned was her own survival. She admitted to burning the suicide ledger, to falsifying a sick-leave note as "family travel," to living beneath borrowed names until her ankle healed and her circle charts replaced tally marks.

Choi wrote little, but his eyes tracked every syllable. When she finished, he lifted his pen.

"We'll need the hospital discharge summary. And a witness letter—someone who can attest you're the same individual who presented for care."

"Kang Min-seo," she said at once. "She drove me home from the ward."

"Good. Request her statement tonight." He checked the letter again. "They've given eight days. I'd like the packet ready by five days out—call it Day-3 on your wheel."

Wheel. The word soothed her; it implied motion rather than verdict.

"Break," Choi announced. "Legal caffeine, please."

They descended to the bar where Joon-woo had lined two cortado glasses on the zinc. He fired the Lift-Jet's spark valve; blue flame kissed the pitcher bottom. Milk hissed, thickened, released ribbons of sweet-grass aroma.

Ha-eun rode the sound like a drummer brushes a snare. One—two—pulse—four, she crooned. Under the counter, Seo-yeon's knee stopped jiggling.

Joon-woo slid a glass toward the lawyer, then met Seo-yeon's gaze. No words, only the quiet certainty of cedar-brown eyes that said I'm here—keep breathing.

Steam dissipated, leaving the room warm and oddly clean—pressure released, not stored.

Back upstairs, Choi summarized:

Hospital summary (request fax; he would draft release). Personal statement—"factual, reflective, but avoid self-blame." Witness letter from Kang. Updated bank-statement index (already half-built in Ledger_v2).*

"Deadline?" Seo-yeon asked, fingers poised above the keyboard.

"Day-3, noon. Earlier buys me leverage."

She entered the date beside each task. The cells glowed mint-green when complete; a color she'd once reserved for profit margins now marked self-preservation.

The attic door banged open. Min-ji burst in, triumphantly waving glossy latte-art transfer sheets. "Look! Printed new stencil designs for the market—you guys will—"

She stopped. The sheets weren't swans or lanterns but dense blocks of twelve-point text.

"…Article 5, Section 73?" Choi read, eyebrow arched.

Min-ji blanched. "I… I sent the print job from downstairs. Must've grabbed your statute file by mistake."

Silence hung, then cracked; Seo-yeon's laugh spilled first, rough and bright. Choi's lips twitched. Even the stoic attorney wasn't immune to the absurdity of contract law edible atop cappuccino foam.

"New marketing angle," Min-ji chirped, recovering. "Jurist-Javas!"

The tension diffused like steam across cool glass.

Choi sealed the envelope of collected forms. "I'll file a preliminary response tomorrow. Keep documenting expenses; transparency is armor."

They descended once more. At the Countdown Wheel hanging by its brass hook, Day-8 winked blank and waiting. Seo-yeon smoothed the insurer's letter across the spoke that also hosted Mr Oh's audit reminder, red text against cream paper—a constellation of obligations.

She pressed a round, gold push-pin through the top edge. The document turned the wheel fractionally, enough that the Day-8 tile swung into precise alignment beneath it—a circle accepting another weight, yet still poised to spin.

Two taps over her heart; a gentle upward sweep of her palm—the lift gesture. Steam whistled downstairs, syncopated approval. And in the hiss she heard Ha-eun's voice, soft as vapor: Numbers can guard, not cage.

Seo-yeon inhaled juniper-tinged air leftover from last night and faced the stairs, ready to turn task lists into motion.

Chapter 24: Brush-Tipped Wings

A feather-thin drizzle drifted over the alley, hardly more than river mist, when Seo-yeon pried the first tin of sage paint open with a satisfying pop. Day-7 glimmered in silver ink on the Countdown Wheel taped to the workshop door behind her; every ring on the dial seemed to hum with the same spring-tin scent now blooming from the can.

Joon-woo crouched beside the cedar booths, sleeves rolled, shoulders dusted with sawdust the colour of sun-bleached wheat. "Boards are thirsty," he said, patting a panel as if greeting an old friend. A smile curled beneath the brim of his cap when Seo-yeon swirled her brush and laid the first stroke—cool green sliding along honey grain like morning fog across rice paddies.

From the café doorway, Madam Kang marched in balancing two lacquered bento boxes. "Inspector arrives tomorrow at eight. Paint must be dry, and no drips on the pavers." Her sharp gaze softened a fraction. "Eat before you faint." Then she vanished in a rustle of spreadsheets.

They worked in tandem: Seo-yeon traced the inward curves, Joon-woo the outer frames, rhythm steady as a two-person heartbeat. When her brush flicked an unplanned arc across his wrist, he retaliated with a laughing dot upon her nose. A smudge of river-blue on cedar resembled a soft wing.

"Did you know," Joon-woo murmured, dipping again, "on temple roofs in Gyeongju they carve cranes at the eaves—brush-tip tails." He nudged one booth wall, tracing the air as if carving. "Foxes were said to gnaw the wooden tails at night, jealous of anything that could fly."

Seo-yeon pictured sly silhouettes under moonlight. "Cranes and foxes again," she said, thinking of lantern circles and paper cranes and the verse folded somewhere inside her journal—though she had yet to find one linking those threads.

At noon the drizzle ceased, leaving cedar planks drinking paint like thirsty soil. Seo-yeon wiped her hands, crossed to the worktable, and opened her Wheel Journal to tick off Attorney Choi's evidence tasks. Fresh ink glistened along the inside margin—delicate, deliberate calligraphy she had not written:

When the crane bows thrice, the fox forgets her tails and walks the wind as breath.

She glanced at Joon-woo—still bent over a booth, oblivious—then at the alley entrance. Empty. Yet the ink shimmered wet, scent of pine soot drifting up. Ha-eun? No answering whisper: only a playful hush, like a child hiding behind wallpaper.

A chill—the curious kind—skated her spine. She snapped a photo, tucked the journal under her arm, and resolved to search the line later. For now, paint waited.

Min-ji barreled into the alley mid-afternoon, phone gimbal spinning. "Reel time, artists! Give me those aesthetic angles." She pirouetted around wet planks until Joon-woo barked "Watch the rails!"—but with a grin that made the warning gentle. Her lens caught Seo-yeon flipping her journal closed; a quick flash of fresh ink blurred across the frame.

"Accidental BTS gold," Min-ji crowed, oblivious. "Carry on." She departed, already editing in her head.

Through the late light they layered colour: sage base, river-blue trim, then fine cross-hatching where boards met, strokes overlapping like covert feathers. Lanterns strung overhead blinked on one by one, halos of amber pooling over new paint. The booths looked ready to lift and glide downstream.

During a break Seo-yeon phoned Attorney Choi. Steam from Joon-woo's portable burner curled beside her cheek while she spoke. "Discharge summary received," the lawyer confirmed. "Kang's witness letter drafted. Keep all originals dry." She promised a screenshot of Ledger v2 soon. Call finished, she exhaled, letting the heat hiss sync with lift breathing—four counts, steady.

By sunset only final edges remained. Birds quieted; one early cicada rasped a lone note. Seo-yeon balanced on a small stool to brush the booth crest. Joon-woo steadied her ankle with paint-stained fingers. When she hopped down, the closeness lingered—smell of cedar resin, warmth of shared laughter. Their gazes held a second too long, brushes dangling forgotten; palms nearly met before self-consciousness flickered between them like the lanterns.

"Looks like overlapping wings," he said softly, gesturing at the finished pattern.

"Brush-tipped wings," she echoed, recalling his temple tale. "Ready for flight."

They packed rollers, rinsed tins, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder while the booths dried beneath glowing circles. Seo-yeon's phone chimed: a direct message from Min-ji. "Check this ghost take!" A link loaded a slowed-down clip: Min-ji's camera wandering over the worktable, journal in view. In the paused frame a brush hovered above the page, tip moving silently—no hand, no body attached—leaving the final tail of the cryptic verse.

A shiver, half wonder, half thrill.

Find the fox, Ha-eun whispered at last, voice light as night wind skimming river skin.

Seo-yeon closed her eyes around the phrase, felt more exhilarated than afraid. She imagined lanterns forming circles in the water, cranes bowing, foxes forgetting, and a breath-spirit dancing somewhere between paint and ink.

Tomorrow the inspector would judge colour and sturdiness; the lawyer would want more documents; the countdown rings would tighten. But tonight cedar wings were drying, ink was breathing, and mysteries unfurled at their own patient pace.

She slipped Joon-woo's spare brush into her pocket beside the cedar spoon, turned toward the glowing booths, and smiled into the gathering dark—ready for the next clue on the wind.

Chapter 25: Milk & Marrow

The back door of Mirae Café let in a blade of late-spring sunlight—and with it, Madam Kang, clutching a paper sack that bled the scent of raw marrow and juniper.

"Kitchen. Now," she commanded, nudging the door shut with a hip. "Inspector at dawn. Clarity everywhere—broth, espresso, books."

In the steel soup pot Kang set on the back burner, bones clacked like loose gears. Cloudy swirls bloomed the instant water met fat, turning from glassy to gray. Seo-yeon watched a thin foam gather, a sighing bloom eerily like the blond gush that spoiled an under-extracted shot.

Skim, settle, lift, Ha-eun breathed inside her ear—syllables timed with the wet churn. Seo-yeon drew the skimmer across the surface; scum slid away, revealing a still-murky broth beneath. One pass was never enough.

"You'll do this every hour," Kang said, tapping the spoon bowl so the refuse plopped into a stainless tray. "Clear broth tells eaters you respect their stomach. Clear espresso tells customers you respect their tongues. Clear ledgers—" her dark eyes flicked to the laptop open at a corner prep table "—tell courts and auditors you respect the truth."

She pressed the timer on her phone. "Fifty-nine minutes to next skim. Go make the cup match the pot."

At the bar, Joon-woo waited beside the rebuilt grinder, hair dusted with cedar from sanding booth edges. He slid a demitasse across. The crema looked sturdy, but a faint silt clung to the rim—too many fines.

Seo-yeon weighed the spent puck, then logged

Dose 18 g — Yield 36 g — 27 s — Turbidity 42 NTU

in Ledger-v2.xlsx, mint-green cells glowing when she hit Enter. Not punishment, just data.

"We try coarser," she said. Joon-woo adjusted the collar one click. The burrs groaned like tightening string on a haegeum.

Second shot: over-thick, flavor flat. She marked the row red yet felt no sting. Data again.

Steam burst from the soup pot at the back; Ha-eun turned it into breath music—

Shim-mm pur-rge li-ift—

each hiss a measure. Seo-yeon's shoulders loosened.

Kang re-appeared, wiping marrow grease on her apron. She lifted the cup of murky espresso and the ladle of cloudy broth side by side.

"Both ugly," she declared, then grinned. "Good. Now watch."

She set flame higher under the pot; white scum surged, Kang skimmed, broth cleared half a shade. "Heat makes impurities rise. Pressure does the same in coffee. If you refuse to scoop the foam, you drink bone grease. If you refuse to purge the group-head, you swallow grit."

She snapped the skimmer against the sink. "Tomorrow that inspector will taste clarity. So will the lawyer, the auditor, and whoever else rattles our door."

She tapped the laptop. "Clean cup, clean books, clear mind. Night shift is yours."

Time folded into a rhythm: grinder hum, tamp, pull—skim, ladle, skim—repeat. With each cycle the broth thinned to transparent amber; with each adjustment the espresso stream turned from muddy river to sleek tiger stripes. Ha-eun kept tempo, whispering counts with the kettle sigh.

By the third hour the numbers lined up:

Dose 18 g — Yield 34.2 g — 28 s — Turbidity 7 NTU

A jewel in porcelain. Joon-woo tasted, eyes narrowing, then softened. "Honey. Cocoa. Nothing interrupts."

A bell dinged: Min-ji sliding across the floor on socks, phone on gimbal. "Hold that spoon!" she squealed, filming the broth—now a lantern of gold—mirroring the milk jug's polished flank. She overlaid text in real time: #MilkAndMarrow. Hearts flooded the screen.

The café phone buzzed against tins of tea. Attorney Choi's voice crackled through speaker:

"I need the expense log attached to your ledger—transparent categories, Miss Lee. Midnight."

Seo-yeon glanced at the stockpot. Still another skim ahead. She smiled anyway. "Plenty of boiling left," she answered. "I'll keep the surface clear."

Near eleven, Kang tasted a final ladleful, lips pursed in sommelier concentration. She dipped a tasting spoon bearing a novelty rubber stamp, then pressed the stamp onto a clipboard: PASS.

"Inspector will lick the bowl clean," she declared. She laid the spoon—still warm—beside Seo-yeon's laptop. "Same for your books. Remember the broth."

Alone, Seo-yeon pinned a fresh card on Day-6 of the Countdown Wheel: Inspector 06:00 – CLEAR. Broth steam drifted upward, curling into a shape that resembled a slender fox tail before vanishing in the ceiling vent. Gooseflesh prickled her forearms.

Clarity reveals tails, Ha-eun murmured.

Seo-yeon breathed the juniper-tinged air, closed the ledger, and opened the expense sheet. Outside, lanterns trembled like liquid stars, and somewhere beneath their glow a bone-deep calm settled.

Tomorrow, everything would have to be transparent—but tonight, milk and marrow had already taught her how.

Chapter 26: Town-Hall Tango

The community-hall smelled of buttered red-bean cookies and new projector plastic when Seo-yeon slipped through the foyer doors. Lantern-shaped pastries lined a long table like glowing coins; their honeyed crusts shimmered under fluorescent light. Min-ji darted ahead, phone mounted on a tiny gimbal. A pop-up poll already scrolled across her screen— "Should the Heritage Market run after sunset? 🌕 / 🌑"— hearts and thumbs ballooning in real time.

Seo-yeon paused beside the projector cart, letting the low whirr match the rhythm of her breath. Four in, four out, Ha-eun murmured, the guardian's voice weaving with the fan. Beyond the doors, murmuring residents filled rows of metal chairs, their chatter as restless as sparrows before rain.

Madam Kang strode onto the dais in a teal blazer bright enough to command hush.

"Neighbors," she boomed, "we have built decks, hoisted shutters, and brewed cups that warmed a winter. Tonight, we ask your blessing to let that warmth spill into the streets—every weekend until the first frost."

Applause scattered like pebbles on water. Kang turned, eyes sparkling, and beckoned.

"Numbers, please."

Seo-yeon rose. The butter-cookie scent clung to her jacket's lingering juniper smoke; it grounded her like cedar roots. Two quick taps to her sternum— lift— and she faced the crowd.

The first slide bloomed: a colour wheel twelve wedges wide. Petal-pink revenue arcs curled outward; sage cost stems rooted inward; a translucent amber ring traced contingency funds.

"We learned from broth," she began, voice steadier than she felt, "that clarity comes from patient skimming. These petals are the clear surface after doubts are lifted." A ripple of chuckles.

She walked them clockwise: stall fees, sponsorships, lantern rentals, roof-panel contingency. Heads nodded; a few pens scribbled. Even Mr Oh at the second row kept still— for now.

Slide three appeared: rainy-day buffer. Mr Oh pounced.

"Your weather model assumes five clear Saturdays out of seven!" He brandished a stapled packet of past-year ledgers like a gavel. "What is your plan when monsoon season eats your petals, Ms Lee?"

The room tightened. Heartbeat stuttered. Ha-eun whispered, Skim—settle—lift. Seo-yeon pressed thumb and forefinger together, imagined froth sliding off a broth's surface.

"We skim the storm first," she answered, clicking to an overlay. The wheel shrank; a charcoal shadow covered two petals. "If rain cancels, stall fees roll over. Buffer fund—" she highlighted the amber ring— "covers fixed lantern costs. Net impact, forty-seven-thousand won per cancelled night. That is one-point-eight per-cent of annual revenue."

Behind her, Min-ji projected her live poll. 82 % green thumbs. Murmurs shifted— approval breezing through folding chairs.

Mr Oh frowned. "Insurance premiums will climb when you light compressed-gas burners after dark."

Fire sparked in her veins, but Joon-woo's calm voice floated from the aisle.

"I can fabricate modular roofs with flame-retardant cedar panels," he said, raising a sample plank. "Costs drop twelve per-cent compared to rentals." He caught Seo-yeon's eye— a silent nod of trust.

She overlaid a shrinking sage slice; the wheel re-balanced, brighter than before. Applause began, hesitant then rolling.

The clerk called for hands. Lantern cookies crinkled as arms lifted: rows of petals unfolding. Twenty-four for, seven against. Motion passed.

Relief unfurled in Seo-yeon's ribs— until her phone buzzed. Attorney Choi: Deposition prep moved to Thurs 09:00. Need final expense sheet tonight.

Outside, dusk pooled violet over the river. Kang clasped Seo-yeon's shoulder.

"You skimmed the doubts clean, kid."

"But the broth's still on the stove," Seo-yeon murmured, raising the glowing screen where Day-4 on her Countdown Wheel pulsed red. She drew one last breath of butter pastry and cedar sawdust, and stepped into the night, numbers swirling clear and alive

Chapter 27: Ghost Festival

The river still held a night-cold hush when Seo-yeon stepped onto the deck at half past five. Dawn bled lavender across the water; cedar booths stood in neat formation, their fresh sage-and-blue paint gleaming under work lights like armor waiting for review. Inspector Nam paced toward her, clipboard tucked beneath a starched elbow, nose already wrinkling at the mingled scents of wax, juniper, and espresso oil.

Joon-woo eased the Lift-Jet burner to life. A ribbon of blue flame hissed beneath the group head, and the first test shot swelled into the demitasse—striped tiger crema, no cloud, no sludge. Seo-yeon set the cup on Nam's silver tray with a breath that tasted of nerves and cold metal. The inspector sniffed, sipped, then stamped the green tag so hard the deck boards quivered.

"Certified. Excellent clarity," Nam announced. Relief gusted through the crew, scattering condensation like confetti. Kang's laugh cracked the morning wide open; Min-ji whooped, spinning with her camera held high. Seo-yeon only closed her eyes and let Ha-eun hum a four-count inside her ribs. One hurdle down, a larger one—tomorrow's deposition—loomed close behind, but the air smelled of victory, and that would have to be enough for now.

By twilight the riverfront had traded inspection steel for festival silk. Three hundred paper lanterns—stitched in concentric rings since the paint day—hung from cables like suspended suns, their unlit bellies pale and expectant. Kang, finally convinced to rest, left the crew with bentos and a wink: "Dress rehearsal. No injuries, no scandals."

Min-ji wheeled in a battered projection screen, declaring she needed "ghost-aesthetic B-roll." She flicked the lamp on and a playful fox-mask silhouette leapt across the nearest lantern sail. Laughter rippled around the circle, echoing off water dark as inkstone.

Joon-woo moved among the cables, tightening turnbuckles, his shoulders brushing lanterns that bobbed like curious birds. Paint still rimmed his fingernails; a cedar scent followed him in warm pulses. Seo-yeon walked the outer ring, checking knots, rehearsing deposit-fact lists beneath her breath—hospital record, ledger timeline, full truth in silver breaths.

Lanterns first, Ha-eun whispered inside her head, voice bright as struck flint. Then ledgers.

Seo-yeon nodded, struck a long match, and touched flame to the central wick. One orb blazed amber, then another, until light curved outward in widening haloes. The river caught each glow and doubled it, a wheel of molten coins spinning on liquid glass.

Festive anticipation thickened into hush. Wind that had teased hems and hair a moment ago stilled, as though the river inhaled and forgot to breathe out. Wicks fluttered blue for a heartbeat, then burned steady but colder, stranger—ghost-lit.

Into that stillness, a voice emerged—not inside Seo-yeon's mind, not through her lips, but in the air itself, breathed by no visible throat.

When spirits seek the ferry,

Count your truth in silver breaths.

Hide a debt, and the river keeps it.

Every head turned. Lantern silk rustled like startled wings. Seo-yeon's pulse hammered, yet the panic that once would have flooded her stayed leashed. She stepped forward, palms open. "It's an old legend," she said, her own voice steady but soft. "Cheon yeo gu sin—the souls who drowned trading upriver. They cross only when the living speak their hidden accounts aloud."

Mr Oh, lingering near the rear, shifted uneasily; the blue-white glow etched the worry lines beside his mouth. Min-ji, eyes wide, lowered the projector beam until the fox-mask shadow bowed beside Seo-yeon like a silent jester.

Seo-yeon inhaled—skim, settle, lift—and shared the tale as Ha-eun fed it to her: merchants clasping books to their chests as skiffs overturned, ledgers bleeding ink into water, cranes circling overhead unwilling to land. She told of ferrymen who asked no fare but the weight of unspoken truths, of lanterns turned blue when a lie drifted past.

When the story ended, the hush held a breath longer, then the lanterns warmed back to amber. Someone clapped—tentative at first, then rolling into relieved applause. Min-ji swallowed a delighted squeal, camera whirring. Mr Oh slipped away unnoticed.

Cables pinged softly as people drifted home. Joon-woo remained, coiling spare line. Seo-yeon crossed the circle; twin lantern shadows stretched behind her like wings.

"Cable feels lighter tonight," he murmured.

"So do I," she answered, surprise filling the words. She could still taste fear's salt at the back of her tongue, but it no longer ruled the center.

They stood inside overlapping rings of light. Joon-woo's hands were cold from metal; Seo-yeon wrapped her fingers around his knuckles, guiding them to her pulse. A question shimmered between them—simple, bright, inevitable. She rose on toes just as he bent his head. The kiss was soft, cedar-sweet, tasting faintly of black tea and the relief of work complete.

Around them, lanterns swayed, casting crane-wing silhouettes that folded one over another until the two bodies seemed feathered in shadow.

The phone in Seo-yeon's pocket buzzed, a tiny, persistent staccato that broke the spell but not the warmth. She read the message beneath the lantern glow:

Attorney Choi: See you at 09 : 00 sharp—full honesty, no ledger ash.

She exhaled through a wry smile. "Truth toll," she said, lifting the screen so Joon-woo could see.

He squeezed her hand. "You'll pay it and cross."

Above their reflected figures, crane wings overlapped once more—waiting, perhaps, to lift them both across whatever water lay ahead.

Chapter 28: Exam Eve

The attic smelled of cardboard dust and cooling espresso when Seo-yeon dragged her suitcase onto the tatami mats. The fabric tray sprang open like a hungry jaw, waiting to swallow her week of fears. She knelt beside it and laid out three neat piles on the floorboards—first the slate-grey LEGAL folders, then a fan of pastel FINANCE wheels, and finally a wobbling tower of FOLKLORE print-outs still flecked with paint from yesterday's lantern rehearsal.

Her pen scratched another line on the checklist. Two pages—front and back—already bristled with square boxes. The longer the list grew, the tighter her ribs felt, until even Ha-eun's voice slipped between heartbeats, soft and coaxing:

Light wings fly further; trim the pin-feathers.

Seo-yeon exhaled through pursed lips. Paper fluttered, but nothing drifted away.

A phone buzz stuttered across the floorboards. Attorney Choi's name glowed on-screen, accompanied by a freshly minted PDF: Deposition Outline—Five Exhibits Only. She opened it and scanned the lean bullet list. Five exhibits. Not fifty. With a decisive swish she struck a diagonal line through half the items on her own sheet, then another, until white space re-emerged like breathing room.

Her shoulders unknotted. Light wings, she thought, letting the pen fall.

The hatch creaked open and Min-ji popped her head through, phone flashlight haloing her grin. "Sticker delivery! We're colour-coding your brain." She hopped down the ladder, lavender hoodie flashing ghost-lantern emojis, and produced a sheet of neon labels. One bright magenta ⚖️ stamped across the spine of the legal folder; a candy-green 💸 for the finance wheels; and, after a conspiratorial wink, a fire-orange 🦊 for the folklore file. The attic filled with quick laughter—sharp, necessary, like the first hiss of a kettle.

"Live-stream slot's booked," Min-ji added, thumbs flying. "Library at seventeen-hundred tomorrow. Hashtag 'Fox Hunt'. Remember to look scholarly." She spun upward again, leaving a comet trail of citrus perfume.

The room stilled, but not for long. Screwdriver clicks tapped from the window frame. Joon-woo—face half in lamplight—tightened a loose hinge with deliberate slowness. Seo-yeon opened her mouth to thank him; he only nodded, eyes sliding to the suitcase. When she glanced away to fold a blouse, something brushed canvas. A footstep later the hinge was fixed, the ladder rattled, and he was gone.

She zipped the side pocket and heard a metallic clink. Curious, she reached inside and drew out the hand-carved tamper—walnut handle, brass base engraved with a looping crane mid-lift. Warm from his palm. The single word "lift" was not etched, yet rang louder than metal. Heat bloomed at her cheeks; Ha-eun chuckled somewhere near her ear.

Lift in every pull, the guardian whispered, fragrance of river fog and juniper threading her syllables.

Seo-yeon placed the tamper atop the ⚖️ folder—anchor and wing all at once—then closed the suitcase half way. Downstairs, pots clattered and the nutty scent of clarified bone-broth curled up the stairwell. Kang's voice followed it, brisk as always: "Soup is ready, and so is the night bus!"

Seo-yeon descended to find the café dark save for the range hood glow. Madam Kang ladled translucent amber into a narrow steel thermos. "For the ride," she said, screwing on the cap with maternal finality. Two inter-city bus tickets waited on the counter, edges aligned like soldiers. "Drink, sleep, arrive honest."

The words settled deeper than any espresso. Seo-yeon slipped the thermos beside the suitcase handle and bowed a grateful bow. Behind Kang, Ha-eun traced lazy spirals in steam, humming like a kettle settling into rhythm.

Back in the attic, the clock nudged toward twenty-three. Only one ritual remained.

The Countdown Wheel, pinned to the west wall, caught the reading lamp's glow—ten wedges, three inner rings. With a felt-tip she flicked the marker from Day-4 to Day-3. Beneath it she wrote in tidy Hangul: "Cross the river with truth." The ink bled slightly into the paper grain, like a promise soaking skin.

Suitcase zipped at last, she killed the lamp. Moonlight silvered the tamper's brass rim, the stickers, the bone-broth thermos waiting like a small lantern of its own. Seo-yeon pressed two fingers to her sternum—tap, tap—then mimed a gentle upward sweep. Breath in, breath out. Light wings.

She climbed into bed clothed in jumper and resolve. Outside, somewhere on the deck, a single cable pinged as Joon-woo tightened the last lantern clamp. The note echoed through cedar beams, joined by Ha-eun's fading lullaby:

Feathers packed, river clear,

Truth will lift—no need to steer.

Seo-yeon's eyes closed on a smile. Tomorrow the bus, the city, the questions. Tonight, suitcase and heart were both just light enough to fly.

Chapter 29: Barista Trial — Theory

The KTX glided south like a silver brushstroke across dawn. Inside the café car, Lee Seo-yeon sat opposite Min-ji, thermos fog curling between them. A stack of neon flashcards flickered in Min-ji's hands.

"Fifty-eight grams of espresso yields what TDS at a one-to-two ratio, go!" Min-ji whispered.

Seo-yeon closed her eyes. In the darkness a pastel wheel blossomed—ten petals, each a brewing variable. She touched the turquoise petal marked Extraction, imagined it spinning toward the centre, and spoke. "Nine-point four percent."

Min-ji thumped the table, latte foam sloshing. "Circle math hype!" She swiped to the next card.

The rhythmic thunk–thunk of wheels against track melded with Ha-eun's low hum. Hear the train, four beats. One, two, skim, lift. Seo-yeon inhaled on the first click, exhaled on the fourth, and every number settled like silt to river-bed.

Fluorescent panels buzzed overhead, bleaching the waiting area a nervous white. Examinees murmured over clipboards. Seo-yeon's phone vibrated—Joon-woo:

Tamper up, numbers spin. Lift in every pull. 🛠️

Below it, Madam Kang had forwarded a cost-wheel snapshot. Cost petals > stem, the caption read.

Seo-yeon smiled, tapped twice over her sternum—a gesture so natural now the nerves obeyed it like a metronome—then slipped the crane-engraved tamper deeper into her tote. Min-ji filmed a quick twenty-second "pre-boss fight" reel, then shooed the camera away when the proctor appeared.

Rows of laminate desks stretched beneath a ticking wall clock. Proctor Baek, spine straight as a tamp, distributed scantrons and graphite pencils.

"You have three hours. Calculators are prohibited. Begin."

Section One: Brew-ratio algebra. Fractions crawled across the page—18 g, 36 g, 1:2, 22 seconds. Seo-yeon printed them in a circle on scratch paper, shading quadrants like segments of a citrus wheel. Each slice locked into its neighbor. Breathe in, mark "C." Breathe out, shade "A."

Pencils scratched like distant rain. The clock kept its hard rhythm. Tick, two, three, four—skim. Ha-eun's whisper aligned with the second hand, and the numbers obeyed.

Section Two: Water chemistry. For parts-per-million equations she drew ripples around each ion, converting rows of digits into concentric waves. Her heart never spiked above a calm mid-tempo.

Halfway through, a page turned and the air shifted. Section Three—Written Ethics.

Case 11B

A café discovers a potential milk-borne contaminant that has not yet caused illness. Insurance protocol advises silence until lab confirmation. Discuss appropriate disclosure steps.

A brass-cold memory flashed: the insurance investigator's furrowed brow, the faint smell of burnt ledger. For a split second the wheel shuddered. Ha-eun's voice arrived like steam over winter hands.

Truth lifts.

Seo-yeon exhaled. She wrote:

"Clarity precedes safety. As broth is skimmed and espresso purged, so must risk be declared. Immediate public notice, temporary shutdown, insurer involvement—numbers should protect, never conceal."

Ink flowed steady; the wheel resumed its spin.

Fifty-nine seconds remained. One last calculation—Total Dissolved Solids to four significant figures. She whispered the mantra, "skim, settle, lift," converted milligrams to micrograms, darkened bubble D. Pens down.

Ms Baek collected scantrons, eyes catching the rainbow rings on Seo-yeon's scrap sheet. The stern line of her mouth softened. "Ingenious visual aid," she murmured before moving on.

Warm lobby air smelled of drip-coffee and floor polish. Min-ji panned her phone, catching Seo-yeon hoisting the crane tamper like an Olympic torch.

"Score guess?" Min-ji prompted.

"The wheel turns in two days," Seo-yeon said, cheeks flushed but calm. She brushed a speck of graphite from her sleeve and felt lighter than the suitcase at her side.

Elevator doors slid open with a soft bell. As they stepped inside, Seo-yeon's phone buzzed—Attorney Choi:

Investigator requests supplemental bank proofs by tomorrow 10 AM. Urgent.

A red wedge appeared in her mind's countdown wheel, slicing into the neat symmetry. She tightened her grip on the tamper, pulse steady.

Behind glass, the floor numbers descended. In the mirrored walls, she saw herself bracketed by Min-ji's grin and the reflected crane, wings open, circling. Another challenge, another petal.

Lift, Ha-eun breathed, softer than the elevator's hum.

The doors parted to Seoul's afternoon glare—and Day-2 spun forward.

Chapter 30: Barista Trial – Practical

An acrid pre-dawn hush hung over the Seoul Certification Center's service corridor, broken only by the cough of boilers waking behind the walls. Lee Seo-yeon drew a slow inhale through the paper mask that smelled faintly of sanitizer and cedar oil—ghost residue of Joon-woo's workshop that always seemed to follow her now. She placed her tamper on the stainless bench, handle up, the crane engraving catching the fluorescent glow like a promise.

Around her, other candidates fussed at scales and portafilters, the brittle clatter of nerves disguised as mise-en-place. Seo-yeon wiped steam-wand condensation with practiced ease, then forced her shoulders down. Skim, settle, lift, Ha-eun whispered, turning the wand's low hiss into a metronome for breath. Outside the observation glass Min-ji offered a pantomimed thumbs-up—silent, for once—before tapping her tablet to start an online countdown for the "Circle Math Hype" crowd.

08 : 00 PRACTICAL EXAM—FIFTEEN MINUTES

Mr Keller's clipped announcement ricocheted through the hall. Timers blinked to life. Seo-yeon slid into motion: 18 grams in the basket, firm tamp; lift line syrup pre-weighed; cups lined like obedient soldiers. The first espresso streamed tiger-striped and even. Controlled momentum, she noted, mind mapping each metric onto a colour-wheel she'd sketched on scrap paper: pressure petals, yield stems, a contingency ring.

At six minutes the milk pitcher met the wand—and immediately betrayed her. The vortex was lazy; micro-foam collected in bloated clouds instead of glossy paint. Seo-yeon poured anyway, hoping muscle memory might salvage a swan, but the neck stubbed, belly white-out blurred. Mr Keller's eyebrow rose. Her pulse pounded at her temple.

Attorney Choi's earlier warning flickered through memory: Stick to the narrative wheel. And, almost on cue, her pocket buzzed—another email receipt from Kang, no doubt confirming the insurer had their bank proofs. The outside world clawed at her focus.

Two-tap. Fingertips drummed her apron twice, grounding her to the tamper's familiar heft. Ha-eun's voice flowed like cool streamwater: Glide—dip—lift. Seo-yeon dumped the milk, reset the wand five degrees lower, let the hiss sculpt finer bubbles. She breathed in time with the whirl, felt foam thicken to velvet. The pour began again—pitcher lip gliding, dipping, lifting at the precise heartbeat—and this time a swan unfurled, wings sharp, neck proud, tail curling into a perfect question mark.

Eight minutes left. She flushed group-head, purged wand, plated cups. A stray drip threatened the tray's edge; she whisked it away, echoing Kang's broth mantra—skim, settle, lift—then extracted her signature espresso over the syrup. Aroma of dark honey and citrus filled the cubicle, steadying her.

TIME: 14 : 58

She stepped back, palms open. The buzzer barked; silence dropped like a curtain. Mr Keller prowled the station, thermometer and refractometer in hand. He sipped, swirled, scribbled. "Excellent recovery of art," he murmured—a granite statue briefly animated—and moved on.

Only then did Seo-yeon notice how hard she was trembling, not from fear but from the ferocious effort of restraint. Through the glass she caught Joon-woo's calm smile; he tapped the tamper dangling from his lanyard, a private salute. Min-ji bounced beside him, thumbs flying over her phone.

In the locker alcove she peeled off her gloves and let out a breath that tasted of sweet-grass foam. Min-ji barreled in, screen already thrust forward. "Packet delivered nine-fifty-two!" she whispered. "Kang got the blue security tick." The bank-proof dragon had been slain while she battled milk and pressure.

Outside, humid summer air pressed against the exit doors. Thunder rolled somewhere toward the Han, promising evening rain. Seo-yeon opened her portable notebook and moved the countdown pin from Day-1 to the final spoke: RESULTS TURN TOMORROW. She wrote beneath it—just large enough to see through tomorrow's panic—Wing beats require lift, not luck.

Lightning flashed far off, illuminating the skyline and the red wedge she'd drawn for the audit still waiting. The storm of numbers wasn't finished—but for one suspended heartbeat, she allowed herself to feel light, a swan skimming forward instead of sinking.

"Come on," Min-ji called, umbrella already snapping open. "Gallery wants your victory Reel!"

Seo-yeon tucked the crane-engraved tamper into her bag, let the doors hiss apart, and stepped into the charged air, ready for whatever the next turning of the wheel would reveal.

Chapter 31: 92 Points

The inbox icon pin-wheeled, then stilled.

Nothing.

Lee Seo-yeon let the mouse hover above Refresh one more time. The café was between rushes; only the soft whirr of the grinder cooling fan and the occasional tap of Min-ji's laptop keys disturbed the mid-morning hush. Her stomach vibrated like an unpurged steam wand.

Patience, little wing, Ha-eun murmured—no louder than the breath that fogged the espresso machine's glass gauge. A circle closes when it's ready.

Seo-yeon exhaled, rolled her shoulders, clicked again.

Still nothing.

A door banged open. "CHECK YOUR PHONE!" Min-ji's voice ricocheted across the beansacks. She sprinted in, apron tails flapping, brandishing her own screen as if it were a holy relic. "Subject line. Right. Here. But we open it under the lanterns—ceremony, baby!"

Before Seo-yeon could argue, Min-ji had hooked an arm through hers and towed her outside.

The winter sun was gentle, teasing flecks of gold from the newly painted cedar booths. Icicles of coloured glass—last night's experimental dimmers—hung from the overhead cables. Beyond them, the river slid grey and steady.

"Ready?" Min-ji asked, thumb poised. Her grin was a fuse.

Seo-yeon nodded, heart kicking.

The e-mail unfurled:

"SCA FOUNDATION CERTIFICATION RESULT — 92 / 100 — PASS"

Sound drained from the world, then rushed back in a surge of blood and lantern chimes. Knees soft, Seo-yeon clapped both hands over her mouth. Min-ji shrieked—an inhuman, triumphant squeal—and the two of them exploded into motion.

They stomped and spun between the booths, clumsy and perfect, boots thudding on the timber planks. Lantern cables shivered; someone—Joon-woo—killed the main lights and flashed the dimmers in time with their steps so amber, jade, and cotton-candy pink strobed across the deck like festival confetti.

Seo-yeon laughed until her ribs hurt, until salt blurred the world. The number 92 pulsed behind her eyes—a polished coin, a full moon, a bright green wedge sliding precisely into the countdown wheel.

When the music of their breath finally slowed, she found Joon-woo standing a respectful distance away, a shy half-smile lifting the corner of his mouth. He'd come down the ladder without her noticing. Between his fingers gleamed a tiny enamel pin: a milk-white swan, wing feathers edged in gold, body curled into the shape of a rising spiral.

"For the wings you saved," he said, voice barely above the river. He leaned forward, pinning it to the strap of her apron, right beside the place her heart had been pounding. His thumb brushed the fabric—no more than a heartbeat, yet enough for warmth to flood the point of contact.

"Thank you," she managed. The word felt microscopic beside the feeling.

Above them, Ha-eun hummed a satisfied ribbon of sound. Circle closed; new one opening.

Madam Kang burst through the kitchen door, hoisting a tray of sweating bottles. "Sparkling yuzu water—best I could do before noon!" She distributed them like medals, then raised her own. "To the barista who wrestled numbers and milk and lived to pour the prettiest bird in the province. Geonbae!"

Bubbles prickled Seo-yeon's nose; citrus brightened the icy air. Laughter rolled down the deck.

But Kang's eyes, ever eagle-sharp, glinted over the rim of her bottle. "Bonus envelopes tonight," she announced, "and ledger-proof rehearsal tomorrow at nine. Celebration is fuel, not anchor."

Min-ji saluted with exaggerated solemnity. Joon-woo merely nodded—he understood gears and deadlines like second nature.

A double ping sliced the air. Two messages winked onto Seo-yeon's lock-screen.

CHOI EUN-SEOK: *Outstanding score! Investigator booked follow-up, 48 h. Will brief you tonight.

Mr Oh: "I trust your numbers are as precise as your foam."*

Joy teetered, threatened to tilt into the familiar trough of dread. Instinctively, she touched the new swan pin, feel­ing the cool enamel anchor her thoughts.

Joy is data too, Ha-eun reminded her, voice like a warm hand on the back of her neck. Record it before the next entry.

Seo-yeon inhaled slowly, the river's mineral chill threading her lungs, and turned toward the attic stairs.

Upstairs, the Countdown Wheel waited, pinned to the cedar wall—red "Results?" card still accusing the centre. She peeled it off, replaced it with a square of bright green, the ink still drying:

"92 — PASS"

Beneath the number she wrote, in tidy circles, Joy is data too—record it.

The wheel spun gently in the draft, cedar and citrus and distant espresso drifting together. Outside, she could hear Min-ji teaching Kang the ridiculous stomp-step; Joon-woo's laugh, low and surprised, carried through the open window.

Seo-yeon let the sounds settle in her chest. The circle of preparation had closed; a larger, more complex ring—audits, investigators, fox-spirit riddles—was already turning. But for this breath, she allowed herself to stand at the bright green centre.

She tapped the swan pin once—tap, tap, lift—and went downstairs to dance one more loop beneath the lanterns before the storm's next beat arrived.

Chapter 32: Metro Echoes

The first chill of morning clings to the rural platform as the local train sighs open. Seo-yeon steps across the gap, messenger bag knocking her hip, bone-broth thermos warm against one thigh. I'm here, softly, Ha-eun murmurs—no louder than steam slipping from a teakettle—then retreats into a hush that feels spacious rather than empty.

Inside, the carriage smells of heater dust and day-old newspapers. Certification badge tucked in her apron pocket presses like a secret coin against her chest. She touches it once, then the train lurches forward, gathering commuter silence around her. The seats blur past in muted browns and greens. Light unease, but breathable.

Concrete funnels her into the transfer maw, fluorescent lamps strobing above hundreds of shoulders. Brakes screech, doors yawn, the crowd folds her inward. Phone buzzes—Min-ji's neon thumbs-up GIF, plus a map with a bold detour arrow.

Min-ji: 🚇💨 Bridge line faster! You got this!

Faster, yes, but it means crossing the river. Seo-yeon hesitates; the human tide pushes her onto the next escalator before doubt can crystallise.

The carriage noses from tunnel to sky. Raw daylight floods the windows, and the Han River unfurls beneath like a long sheet of tarnished foil. In the near distance, Mapo Bridge claws at the horizon—steel ribs, orange safety phones, all of it exactly as on the night she tried to vanish.

Sodium lamps flicker across her mind's eye. Hospital antiseptic. The scorched-paper stench of the burning ledger. Her fingers go icy; the thermos strap bites her shoulder. A single heartbeat, jagged. Another. The metal howl of wheels fuses with memory until she can't tell train from ambulance.

She plants her thumb and middle finger against her sternum—tap-tap—more a promise than a plea. Air in through the nose, four counts; hold two; lift out through parted lips. Again. Pillars of the bridge scroll past the window like beads on a rosary: circle, circle, circle. The fear has corners; the circles sand them smooth.

Sight clears. The ledger smoke is only morning mist snagging girders.

Across the aisle a stack of plywood crates shifts, revealing Joon-woo—grease-stained canvas apron, hair tousled, surprise widening his eyes. Cedar resin ghosts from the crates, sharp and grounding. He doesn't speak, only tips his head, a question. Seo-yeon offers a small smile: I'm okay. He nods back, plants boot to floor—an anchor dropped in rolling water.

Ha-eun's warmth brushes the inside of Seo-yeon's right wrist: wordless applause, then quiet again.

Marble foyer, glass partitions, the hush of serious money. Together they cross to the teller, crates trundling on Joon-woo's dolly. Seo-yeon slides her ID and retrieval code under the pane.

"Embossed originals, please—quarterly," she says, voice steady.

Golden stamps thunk documents one by one. The teller's eyes catch the enamel swan pin on her apron lapel.

"Beautiful. Congratulations, Barista-nim."

A quick bow—joy flickers, measured but real. She tucks the documents into the LAW folder, neon sticker blazing, and breathes the smell of ink and archival paper: crisp and honest.

Ha-eun lets out a single pleased hum that vibrates the air like struck crystal. Then silence returns.

11:35 – Jongno to Yeouido, Rain Rising

Clouds sag low; fine drops prickle asphalt as they exit. Joon-woo pops a compact umbrella. She edges beneath its dome, cedar and rain uniting in a scent like fresh-turned earth.

Phone buzz. Attorney Choi: Docs in hand by 11:40 sharp. Investigator pacing.

Five-minute buffer lost, she mutters.

They sprint. Street vendors yank tarps over tteokbokki carts; puddles shotgun underfoot. Bank folder clutched to chest, thermos thumping rhythm against ribs. Breath counts fall into four-beat cadence—glide, step, lift, step.

The lobby of HanRiver Mutual looms beige and intimidating. Seo-yeon slaps her ID at the sensor; light turns green. Elevator doors yawn like theatre curtains. She whirls inside with Joon-woo on her heels; stainless walls mirror their rain-slick forms.

Numbers ascend: 1 2 3…

Stained-glass panel above reflects a faint crane silhouette—wings spread, cut from refracted midday sun. Seo-yeon clutches the folder, feels the swan pin cool against her heart, the thermos warmth at her flank, the cedar note drifting from Joon-woo's jacket.

You're ready, Ha-eun whispers, the first words since the bridge. Then hush again.

Floor 14 blinks. Doors begin to part. She exhales, steps forward—

—and the chapter holds its breath with her.

Chapter 33: Phantom Account

The frosted glass door of the insurer's conference suite sighed shut behind Seo-yeon, leaving her alone in a marble-floored lobby that smelled of toner and stale citrus polish. A single soft ping announced the opposite door opening. From its slice of brightness stepped Investigator Yang—umbrella folded beneath one arm, silver dossier tucked tight beneath the other.

He didn't look at her, yet the angle of his shoulders said aware.

When he stopped at a nearby table to thumb his phone, the dossier's label tilted just enough for her to read a line of block type:

PHANTOM ACCOUNT – 2018

Prickles raced over her scalp. 2018—the darkest year, ledger ink and river wind.

Ha-eun breathed in her ear, a faint reed-flute note: Shadow walks on the wrong ledger.

Seo-yeon slipped into the people-current that flowed toward Seoul Station, eyes forward, heart sprinting.

The concourse roared with after-lunch commuters. Min-ji's bubble popped onto the lock-screen:

🚇 Bridge line faster! Go left after donut stand 👉

Left meant Line 6, the viaduct that skimmed the Han and offered an unwanted postcard of Mapo Bridge. Seo-yeon grimaced, typed Later, then shouldered deeper into the crowd.

A reflection in a kiosk's chrome panel showed Yang three bodies behind, reading a paper he hadn't bought. She thumbed out a single word to Joon-woo, already somewhere in the station with his crates of demo gear: tail.

Twin escalators funnelled travellers into a vaulted pit. Clattering steps drowned thought. Half-way down, cedar warmth brushed past—Joon-woo on the upward track, torque wrench jutting like a steel baton. He lifted a handkerchief the colour of kiln-baked clay, let it flutter free. Commuters bent to grab it; the flow staggered.

Seo-yeon used the knot of confusion to slip off at the mid-landing, ducking behind a pillar. She peered through its plexi guard. Yang paused near the base, phone lifted. The camera gleamed; the lens pointed at the luggage tag on her backpack hanging over a stranger's shoulder for a single second before he melted back into motion.

Cat-and-mouse confirmed.

She drew two knuckles to her sternum—tap-tap—then opened her palm upward.

Lift.

Breath flowed. Strategy replaced panic.

A refrigerated hum cloaked her hushed call.

"Document. Do not engage," Attorney Choi ordered. "Send me anything you get."

Through the glass wall she watched Yang at a vending bank, feeding coins. When he bent, she angled her phone, shutter muted. Click. The dossier cover froze in pixels before a canned coffee thunked into Yang's hand.

Rain stitched silver threads across the open tracks. Seo-yeon's phone pinged again—Min-ji, triumphant:

🎥 CCTV catch! Same trench-coat guy bought an Americano 12:10 ☕👻

Her skin chilled. Yang had visited the café before tailing her.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as the departure chime sang. She stepped toward the early express, but Yang's silhouette etched itself at the far security gate, scanning for her.

"Board," Joon-woo said, breath fogging in the rain. He wheeled a crate to an attendant, feigning panic. "Sir, lost luggage report—urgent!"

Yang turned at the commotion. The attendant's tablet forced him into bureaucratic quicksand.

Seo-yeon slipped onto Car 4; doors hissed closed at 16:10. Through wet glass she watched Yang jog down the platform, halt at the locked gate, and vanish behind her own smeared reflection.

Ha-eun's hum returned—warm, approving.

Spreadsheets, audit slides, and bone-broth thermoses littered the long table. On the monitor, Attorney Choi magnified the photograph of the dossier.

"Branch code ties to Saejin Savings," he said, voice tinny over speaker. "They were raided last year for employee-created ghost accounts."

Seo-yeon traced the screen's faint branch number, circles blossoming in her mind like petals on the colour wheel.

"That means someone opened it under my name to funnel—"

"—Premium reimbursements, most likely," Choi finished. "We find the paper trail, we decapitate their fraud claim."

Kang shoved audit rehearsal aside. "First-light train, we hit Saejin archives."

Across the tabletop map, Ha-eun's finger—cool as river mist—sketched a curve from the café to the bank district, then tapped an empty circle.

Fox follows shadow to hollow bank.

Seo-yeon picked up a red marker, ringed tomorrow's date, and drew a bull's-eye over Saejin's address.

"Then we hunt," she murmured, swan pin catching the ceiling light. The wheel of looming deadlines glowed on the wall behind her, but for the first time the center felt still.

Chapter 34: Breadcrumb Talismans

A pale-peach dawn spread over the rice paddies when the KTX shuddered into motion.

Seo-yeon slid into her window seat, backpack balanced on her knees, papers rustling like restless birds. As she unzipped the main pocket to hunt for a pen, something aromatic and velvety brushed her fingers.

A flat muslin sachet—cedar shavings stitched into a tiny circle with crimson thread—rested atop her folders. A scrap of graph paper was tucked beneath the stitches: For calm lungs. Breathe in the forest.

Heat fluttered behind her eyes. Ha-eun hummed just above her shoulder, a low alto chord. Wing beats steady. Then—silence, leaving Seo-yeon to inhale the wood-sweet scent on her own.

The bank's archive door slammed shut behind them, locking out the lobby's piped jazz. Rows of beige metal cabinets glowed under jaundiced bulbs. Madam Kang marched to the counter and dropped a stamped subpoena with a slap that echoed down the aisles.

"Microfilm for customer ledger 2018-05, teller ID SG14. Now," she barked.

The bleary clerk adjusted her badge. "Archive access requires manager sign-off—"

"That is the sign-off," Attorney Choi cut in, sliding his card across the laminate. "Financial Disclosure Act, section twelve. Clock's running."

Seo-yeon handed over her ID, pulse quickening. She rested her palm on the cedar sachet in her coat to slow it. The clerk finally surrendered two grey cartridges. Kang seized them; Choi steered the team toward the dusty reader booths.

The machine's bulb flicked alive, bathing their faces in aquatic green. Numbers scrolled like seaweed until the correct frame snapped into focus.

There it was: account 401-553-9, her forged signature slanting neatly across the line. Under Initiating Teller glowed a name she had never seen. Choi's glasses flashed.

"Got you," he whispered.

Seo-yeon's throat constricted, a memory of hospital disinfectant rising. Her fingertips searched for a pen and instead touched smooth wood—a second breadcrumb.

A thumb-sized walnut, hand-carved into a perfect circle, lay in the side pocket. Her thumb traced its spiral grain; heartbeats slowed, landing on the cedar rhythm Ha-eun had gifted earlier.

Grounded, she snapped photographs of each damning frame while Choi scribbled chain-of-custody notes.

A heavy tread rattled the floor plates. The branch supervisor, suit jacket flapping, shoved inside.

"Private materials! Hand those reels over."

Kang planted herself in the doorway. "We have lawful custody. Interfere and I call the regulator."

The man's gaze darted to the microfilm reader. Seo-yeon felt him calculating the distance. She needed the film now. The reader's side screws were proprietary—torx heads. She patted her backpack and felt yet another shape: a jeweller's screwdriver, no bigger than a pencil stub.

Of course he'd anticipate this. Warm gratitude for Joon-woo pulsed through her chest.

With nimble turns she freed the cartridge, slipped the roll into an evidence sleeve, and sealed it just as the supervisor reached the desk. Choi flashed a phone camera; Kang flashed her teeth. They left the man staring at empty spools and a blinking green cursor.

An alarm began to pulse somewhere behind them.

"Lift and pedal," Ha-eun breathed.

Rain stitched silver diagonals across the windshield as Kang barked an address. Cedar, walnut, and wet asphalt mingled in Seo-yeon's senses—an oddly comforting brew. She clutched both talismans, feeling the edges of panic dissolve.

Choi thumbed through preview shots. "Forged signature, foreign teller ID, mismatched stamp. This branch manager is our next stop."

"And the reel?" Kang asked.

"Locked in my briefcase until we copy it twice." He glanced at Seo-yeon. "Quick thinking with that screwdriver."

She smiled, tiny but real. "I can't take credit. Someone packed my parachute."

Back in the café's rear office, Min-ji projected the photos onto a bedsheet tacked to the brick wall. Audit slides lay forgotten on the table. As Seo-yeon opened her laptop, a folded paper crane fluttered from the sleeve. Its wings bore block letters: ACCOUNT FOR THIS.

She laughed—sharp and bright. Min-ji whooped in solidarity; Kang wiped damp eyes she pretended were weary.

They scanned the microfilm to a cloud drive, double-encrypted. Choi pointed to the teller ID.

"Belongs to Branch Manager Shin Ji-hoon. We interview him tomorrow morning before the audit rehearsal."

In the front room, cedar booths smelled of drying varnish. Seo-yeon pinned the walnut circle beside her enamel swan badge, the pair gleaming like twin moons over her heart. She moved through the revised ROI slides—petaled graphs spinning across the projector cloth. Words flowed—not brittle recitation but confident narrative.

Kang nodded. "That'll work in any hostile room."

A notification blinked on her phone.

INVESTIGATOR YANG

Please transmit online-bank credentials and MFA tokens within 24 hours to avoid formal subpoena.

Seo-yeon rolled the walnut between forefinger and thumb. The cedar sachet pulsed faint aroma through her coat.

She typed:

Counsel reviewing. You will receive a response in accordance with statute.

Send.

Across the room, Joon-woo appeared, wrist wrapped in cable ties from the lantern rig, eyes soft. "Found all the bread crumbs?"

"Every one," she answered, voice steadier than the storm outside.

He lifted a final token—a slender steel washer stamped with her circle-wheel diagram—and pressed it into her palm. "For whatever screws come loose next."

She returned to the Countdown Wheel, slid the walnut onto the central pin so it turned with each day's card, then circled tomorrow's square in green:

"Branch Manager – 06:45. Follow the fox."

Ha-eun's whisper drifted like cedar smoke: Another wing beats steady.

Outside, thunder rolled—promising the next chase had already begun.

Chapter 35: Declaration of the Bean

The murmuring hush of the City Arts Hall lobby reminded Seo-yeon of a kettle just before it whistled—pressure gathering beneath polished calm. Graduates in charcoal jackets milled beneath a banner that read SCA Regional Certification Ceremony, pinning bronze badges to their lapels. Seo-yeon's own badge felt impossibly heavy until her fingers brushed the walnut talisman Joon-woo had carved. The spiral grain was warm, almost pulsing.

Wing beats steady, Ha-eun hummed from somewhere inside the hush of her rib cage. Seo-yeon inhaled the cedar-and-coffee perfume rising from the sachet buried in her pocket and stepped toward the double doors.

At 09:45 the curtains parted on a low dais washed in amber spots. Rows of roasting trainers and industry journalists lifted their phones as the valedictorians filed onstage. When her name echoed through the hall, Seo-yeon crossed to the lectern, walnut gripped tight.

"Clarity," she began, voice trembling only on the first syllable, "is what links broth to espresso—and numbers to trust."

She spoke of skimming impurities, of purge water and transparent ledgers, of circles that could cradle debt or bloom into wheels of community profit. Every time a bulb popped, she felt Ha-eun's palm-warmth settle between her shoulder blades, steadying her breath.

A photographer crouched dead-centre, shutters fluttering like sparrows. Flash after flash painted her vision white, but she held the smile until the final applause folded around her like steam.

In the green room Min-ji bounced through a maze of garment bags, waving her phone. "We're viral, unnie!"

Seo-yeon blinked. "We scheduled the post for tonight."

"About that…" Min-ji flipped the screen around. Café Yunseul's Instagram grid now blazed with a fresh image—Seo-yeon onstage, walnut talisman and swan pin glittering beneath the caption "92-point clarity." Heart emojis multiplied in real time; a blue thumbs-up from a user named @coffee_gyeong—Investigator Yang's burner—floated to the top.

Blood rushed to Seo-yeon's ears. "Min-ji—"

"I hit 'publish' instead of 'draft.'" The younger woman's grin wilted. "But look—we're at eight-hundred likes in seven minutes!"

Before panic could clamp her throat, the phone buzzed again. Joon-woo's message slid across the screen:

Drafting press caption. 60 sec. Breathe, lift.

She exhaled, counting four. Yes. Shape the story before the foxes do.

They huddled by the catering table. Joon-woo arrived still wearing his tool belt, thumbs flying over Min-ji's phone.

"Try this." He read aloud, voice low and steady:

"From ledger fears to 92-point cheers—meet our new Head of Coffee Science, Lee Seo-yeon. She'll be at Yunseul tonight to toast clarity in every cup."

Kang, joining via speakerphone, barked approval even while demanding receipts for tomorrow's audit slides. Attorney Choi's terse text followed seconds later: "Public spotlight = subpoena magnet. Statements must match deposition transcript."

Seo-yeon nodded. "Then we control the script." She pressed post.

Back at the café deck by 11:20, Min-ji propped her phone on a latte pitcher and whispered, "Three, two…"

The red light blinked on. Lanterns overhead dozed in noon sunlight; roaster smoke curled like stage fog.

"Seong-an-hamnida!" Min-ji sang. "We're here with Head of Coffee Science Seo-yeon—92-points, baby!"

Seo-yeon lifted a colour-wheel coaster. "Numbers can be petals," she told two hundred live viewers, then sketched with her fingertip how profits would irrigate the heritage market. Comments scrolled: queen of clarity, teach my accountant, and—again—Yang's burner account dropping a single fox emoji.

Her pulse quickened; she met the camera straight on. "Transparency is non-negotiable. We welcome every audit." Ha-eun's glow of pride soothed the spike.

By 13:00 the conference table was a battlefield of laptops and spent espresso cups. Kang pasted the viral photo into slide one of tomorrow's ledger deck. "Lead with credibility," she muttered. "Then drown them in numbers they can swallow."

Joon-woo wheeled in a small drum roaster. "Visuals help," he said, unveiling silver pouches stamped Declaration Roast—Clarity in Bean Form. "Gift for the auditors. And, well… for you."

He placed one pouch beside her laptop. The beans' caramel aroma braided with walnut and cedar, wrapping her in a sensory fortress.

Seo-yeon tucked a single bean into the pocket next to the walnut, feeling their rounded edges kiss. Circles within circles.

An email chimed. Subject line: Digital Credentials Request – 12 hr Extension. From: Investigator Yang.

She read the single-sentence body aloud: "We look forward to your continued cooperation. The spotlight suits you."

Lantern glass tinkled as a breeze prowled the deck. Ha-eun's whisper slid through it—Fox waits by the lighted stage.

Seo-yeon clicked Reply.

Counsel reviewing. Expect answer tomorrow.

She hit send, then slid the declaration bean between index and thumb, feeling its smooth promise of ordinariness.

"Lights just got hotter," she told the room, voice steady. "So we brew cleaner, shine brighter."

The team nodded. Tomorrow, auditors; soon after, a fox with too many questions. But for one breath, roasted sugar and walnut oil filled the air, and the wheel of clarity turned in her chest—smooth, unstoppable.

Chapter 36: Algorithmic Resurrection

Ping. Ping-ping-ping.

The café's river-facing deck, still slick with dawn dew, chimed like a pinball machine as every phone on the prep table lit at once.

"Why are we trending at seven A.M.?" Min-ji blinked at her screen. The headline beneath a spinning hashtag barbled into focus:

LEMON-WIRE: 'Local barista certified after reported death in 2018?'

Beside it floated a thumbnail of Seo-yeon's graduation photo from the day before—bronze badge gleaming, walnut talisman tucked against her collar.

For a heartbeat the world shrank to the white margins of that picture. The swirling applause, the smell of roasted "Declaration" beans—gone. Only a blunt memory: sodium streetlight over Han River railings, the taste of iron at the back of her throat.

Ha-eun's warmth pressed against her ribs. Algorithms churn on unfinished stories; write the next page yourself.

Seo-yeon inhaled, counted four, exhaled through the lift of her shoulders. "All right," she said, voice low but steady. "We have an audit in two hours. That is the next page."

The town-hall steps seethed with umbrellas and lenses by eight o'clock. Reporters barked her name; one thrust a tablet showing her own blurred hospital intake form. Madam Kang planted herself up-front, a five-foot shield in a charcoal suit.

"No comment until after the financial review," Kang announced, her tone a velvet-lined blade. She eased Seo-yeon toward the side entrance, ignoring shouted queries about forged death certificates.

Inside the narrow corridor, fluorescent lights hummed. Seo-yeon's hands trembled until Joon-woo slipped beside her and pressed a cool disk of brass into her palm. Fashioned like the hub of her colour wheel, it clipped to the back of her phone, weighty and solid.

"Grip it when the feed gets ugly," he murmured. Anger simmered behind his calm eyes. "I'm posting a timeline thread—straight facts."

Min-ji, cheeks pink with guilt, flipped her laptop around. A real-time dashboard pulsed: 62 percent supportive sentiment, climbing. "If we go live after the audit, we can ride the tail of the hashtag and steer it. I already bought #SheLives merch URLs … please don't kill me."

Seo-yeon almost laughed. "Not today."

Nine o'clock. Audit room.

Hardback chairs and harder faces: Mr Oh in his monochrome tie, two external accountants, and a municipal observer. The projector glowed awake, blooming Kang's first slide—bronze badge, swan pin, walnut circle, and the new "Declaration" bean orbiting a pie of color-coded ledgers.

"Transparency is taste," Seo-yeon began, voice anchored by the brass grip against her skin. "We believe numbers, like espresso, reveal their truth when brewed in the open."

She moved through cash-flow petals, contingency stems, profit pollen. When questions nipped, she answered with steady pressure—skim, settle, lift.

At 09:40 an email ping cracked the rhythm. Auditor Kang-ho clicked it open; a PDF unfurled on-screen: UNSTABLE FINANCIER — POLICE REPORT 12 FEB 2018. Investigator Yang's name tagged the forward.

A hush thicker than crema filled the room.

Kang stepped forward, microfilm canister in hand. "Context," she said crisply, projecting the forged teller ID, the phantom-account record, the chain-of-custody signatures. "Our books are clean; the dirt lies elsewhere."

The auditors whispered, compared pages, nodded.

Ten-oh-five.

Conditional approval: ledgers clear pending insurance outcome. Relief curled through Seo-yeon's spine like steam through milk. Applause inside, roaring chants outside—"She Lives! She Lives!"

Min-ji already had the livestream rolling when Seo-yeon stepped to the portable mic beneath the portico. Raindrops dusted her hair; flashes stitched the sky with white thread.

"Yes," she said, meeting every lens. "Three years ago I nearly ended my story. Today I write another chapter—through coffee, through transparent numbers, through community." Behind her, Kang raised the microfilm tube like a lit torch. Donation counters on the stream spun upward—vendor micro-loan fund growing by the second.

Ha-eun purred with pride. The brass hub in Seo-yeon's grip felt warmer, as if absorbing the surge of voices.

Back at the café, congratulatory yuzu bubbles fizzed over spreadsheets while Kang wedged the certification photo and #SheLives graph onto slide one. Joon-woo unveiled velvet pouches of the new roast. The beans carried notes of cedar smoke and honeyed walnut—declaration in aroma.

"They'll sit on every inspector's table," he said. "Truth you can taste."

A chorus of notification pings cut across the cheer.

Private message: From Yang, 16:28

Algorithms love sequels.

Tonight, midnight.

Upload every credential or the next headline writes itself.

Seo-yeon stared at the screen. Storm clouds bruised the evening sky beyond the window, lantern wires shuddering in the wind.

She closed her fingers around the brass wheel. "Then we'll give him the ending he doesn't expect."

Ha-eun's whisper brushed her ear like a moth's wing: Wheels turn, foxes stumble.

Outside, the first festival lantern blinked alive—a single amber eye against the dark—as the chapter rolled toward midnight.

Chapter 37: Two-Tap Thunder

The storm arrives as a single tremor in the rafters, a warning roll that rattles coffee cups left to dry on the café sink.

Lee Seo-yeon hears it from the storage room, where she is hunched over a folding table, rescanning every ledger PDF before the secure upload. Fluorescent tubes hum above her, harsh and steady—until lightning cleaves the sky like a shutter blade.

The bulbs blink out. The router on the wire shelf chirps once, twice, and dies.

A slab of darkness drops over her.

She tastes metal on her tongue—the taste of hospital rails, of nights she no longer names. Her pulse spikes, too hard, too fast.

Somewhere outside, rain begins to pummel the tin awning, a thousand drummers with no tempo. In the sudden silence of electronics, her heart is the only percussion. Not now. Not here.

A phone vibrates on the crate beside her. Thunder flashes; the screen wakes long enough to show a message from an unknown number:

3 hours, 42 minutes.

Seo-yeon's breath snags. The glow vanishes, leaving after-images of green hospital monitors skittering behind her eyelids. Yang's countdown has started—and the café, her firewall of light and signal, is blind.

She drags her fingertips to the center of her chest, finds the spot beneath the walnut talisman and taps twice. Tap-tap. In… two, three, four. Out—she never reaches four; power flickers back, then fails again, and the dark presses closer, thick as river water.

The double tap quivers, threatening to fracture into the frantic third that used to summon orderlies with a crash cart. Hold the line.

A second pulse—feather light—touches the back of her neck, as though someone brushes away stray hair. Ha-eun. Her guardian's voice is only breath:

"Signal now."

Seo-yeon's trembling fingers find the walkie clipped to her belt—Joon-woo insisted every team member carry one after the station chase. Thumb twice on the transmit button: tap, tap. No words, just the code they agreed on last night—help, now, before three.

Rain flat-lines across the lantern scaffolding. Joon-woo is elbow-deep in a transformer box when the walkie strapped to a beam vibrates. Two crisp taps vibrate through the plastic. His stomach drops. Tools scatter; he is already sliding down the ladder, boots skidding on wet cedar.

Emergency lights pool dull red over burlap coffee sacks. Min-ji knees open the generator cabinet, chanting the startup checklist through chattering teeth. The pull-cord snarls, then yields—diesel coughs to life. One by one, routers along the soffit blink—red, orange, steady green—tiny paper lanterns reborn in wire.

The storage door bursts open. Joon-woo stands drenched, phone raised.

"Hotspot's live," he says, breath fogging. He sets the handset beside the laptop; the screen lurches awake, grabbing his signal.

Seo-yeon hasn't moved from the table. But her shoulders drop one notch; air finally reaches the bottom of her lungs.

A new vibration: walkie again, this time Min-ji's voice crackling through static.

"Sentiment graph nosediving but still fifty-five percent positive. You've got this!"

Civilian encouragement, but it steadies the signal inside her chest. She meets Joon-woo's eyes—storm-lit charcoal—nods once.

He kneels, attaching a braided cable to route the phone's data into the dead modem. "Programmed the radios to read the two-tap as Morse C," he says under his breath. "Thought it might stand for circle." A shy, rain-flecked smile.

Somehow, the word makes her laugh; the sound is shaky, but it is a laugh.

Attorney Choi's voice crackles through VoIP: "Use the VPN vault I sent—hash the session log, send nothing root."

"Yes, Counsel." Her voice holds. The two-tap still hums in her pulse, but it is a metronome now, not an alarm.

She tunnels into the vault, queues the read-only ledger dataset. Outside, lightning dwindles to a nervous strobe on the horizon.

A final growl of thunder rolls over the river and dissipates. Power from the grid surges back; overhead fluorescents startle to life. Generator falls silent.

Phone buzzes again:

Yang: Two hours, fifty. Storm won't hide you.

Seo-yeon exhales, clicks the screen dark. "He doesn't know storms can be shared," she murmurs.

Ha-eun's answer is a warm swirl at her wrist, fading like steam.

She walks to the whiteboard by the bar—rainwater dripping off Joon-woo's jacket has left comet trails across the tile. With a blue marker she writes at the very top:

NO SOLO STORMS

Underneath, she draws a small circle, the size of the walnut that presses reassuringly in her pocket, and another for the brass wheel grip still fixed to her phone. Two taps with the marker point—· ·—beneath the circles. Everyone in the room nods.

"We route credentials only when everyone is on comms and the VPN light is green," she announces. "If Yang cuts the power again, we start the walkie cascade." Her voice is clear, almost serene.

Min-ji salutes, greasy with diesel and victory. Joon-woo squeezes Seo-yeon's shoulder—three gentle pulses: reassurance, not alarm.

Overhead, the routers' green LEDs blink in concentric rings, like a constellation finally finding its pattern.

Midnight is still four hours away, but the thunder has already rolled through them, and the rhythm it leaves behind is steady enough to carry into whatever storm Yang throws next.

Two taps. One team. Zero retreat.