The city pressed close around Lumina's glass towers, its neon veins alive with Friday night promise. Seoul at this hour was a living thing—traffic coiling through intersections, street vendors packing up beneath blinking streetlights, taxis and night buses shouldering their way down the avenues. Joon-ho stepped into it, briefcase in one hand, phone in the other, his mind still humming with legalese and the slow-burn adrenaline of looming conflict.
As he left the brightness of Lumina's lobby behind, his thumb flicked through messages—Harin's name glowing at the top of his favorites. He called her, holding the phone to his ear as he cut through the crowd toward the main road.
It took a moment for her to pick up. When she did, the noise in the background was a mess of overlapping voices, clinking glasses, and the unmistakable clatter of someone shuffling paper.
