JIAH POV
Weekends are supposed to be illegal for responsibilities.
That's the rule. Universal. Written somewhere important.
So when my phone rings and I see Mom on the screen, my soul actually leaves my body for a second.
I answer anyway. Because I like being alive.
"Jiah," she says, already tired. That doctor-tired tone that means she's been running on coffee and human willpower. "I forgot a file. It's in the second drawer. Can you bring it?"
Silence.
Then me, into my pillow: "Why."
"Please," she adds quickly. "I'll owe you."
I groan so loud my ceiling probably hears it. "You already owe me, woman."
She laughs, distracted. "in Half an hour".
Of course .
The call ends. I lie there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me. Then I roll out of bed, hair doing whatever it wants, bones cracking like I'm eighty.
I pull the file from the drawer—thick, heavy, important-looking. Doctor handwriting all over it. I shove it into my bag, throw on jeans, a hoodie, sneakers. Bare minimum effort. Weekend uniform.
The bus ride is quiet. Too quiet. I watch the city slide by through smudged glass, my reflection staring back at me with sleepy eyes and zero motivation. Seoul looks different on weekends—slower, softer, like it's pretending it doesn't work itself to death Monday to Friday.
The hospital comes into view and immediately ruins that illusion.
Big. Clean. Shiny. Expensive.
Best hospital in Seoul, my mom likes to remind me. Like I don't already know. Like the building doesn't scream it.
I get off the bus and walk toward the entrance, automatic doors sliding open with that soft whoosh that always smells like sanitizer and money. The lobby is busy but controlled—nurses moving fast, families whispering, machines beeping somewhere far away.
I head straight to my mom's office.
It's huge. Glass walls. Neat desk. Awards on the wall like trophies. And empty.
Figures.
I drop my bag on the chair and call her.
"Mom," I say, spinning slowly in her chair because I deserve joy. "Your office is giving ghost vibes."
"Oh—right," she says. I hear footsteps, voices. "I'm not there. Come to the VIP section."
I tilt my head back dramatically. "You couldn't have said that earlier?"
She laughs again. "Just follow the signs."
The call ends.
I stand there for a second, then sigh and grab my bag. Walking through the hospital feels like entering another world the deeper you go. Regular rooms turn into quieter halls. Quieter halls turn into carpeted floors. Carpeted floors turn into soft lighting and private doors.
VIP section.
Everything smells richer here. The walls are warmer. The silence is heavier.
I adjust the strap of my bag and keep walking, sneakers sounding way too loud against the floor.
Why do I feel like something's about to happen?
I don't know.
But my gut tightens anyway as I head deeper into the VIP wing.
I turn the corner and immediately slow down.
Because there she is.
My mom—standing near the VIP lobby desk, posture straight, expression calm in that scary competent way she gets when she's working. She's not alone.
Of course she's not.
There are two men and a woman with her, and they don't look like regular people. They look… expensive. Like their clothes cost more than my entire semester's allowance. Clean lines. Perfect hair. The kind of faces that don't look tired even inside a hospital.
They're all talking quietly. Serious. Focused. Adult things.
I hover for half a second, suddenly very aware of my hoodie and messy hair and sneakers that squeak a little when I step wrong.
Then I lift my phone and call her anyway.
She turns when it rings, eyes flicking over, and when she sees me—her face softens instantly.
"Jiah," she says, waving me over.
Great. Now everyone sees me.
I walk up, clutching the file like it's a shield.
Up close, they're worse. The woman is beautiful in that effortless way, skin glowing, eyes sharp. One of the men has that quiet authority thing going on—doesn't smile, doesn't need to. The other one looks polite but unreadable.
My mom turns to them. "This is my daughter. Seo Jiah."
My spine straightens automatically.
I bow. Deep. Polite. Perfect. Muscle memory.
"Hello," I say, voice calm even though my brain is screaming why are rich adults looking at me.
They nod back. The woman smiles slightly. The men acknowledge me like I'm… acceptable. Not impressive. Not invisible. Just there.
I hand the file to my mom.
She takes it, flipping it open briefly. "Thank you.
"You owe me," I say under my breath, then immediately regret it because one of the men glances at me like he heard.
I plaster on a smile.
My mom doesn't notice—or pretends not to. She turns back to them, already shifting back into doctor mode.
I take the opportunity.
"I'm going," I say quickly. "Mission completed."
She nods. "Okay. Be careful on the way home."
That's it.
No dramatic goodbye. No extra instructions. Just… done.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and step back.
As I walk away, I feel their eyes linger for a second. Not in a creepy way. Just curious. Like they're filing me away as a detail. Doctor's daughter. Teenage. Unimportant.
Good.
I head toward the elevators, the carpet swallowing my footsteps. The hallway feels longer now. Quieter. Like the building itself is judging me for showing up on a weekend.
The elevator doors are taking forever.
I press the button again even though it won't make it faster. My reflection stares back at me in the shiny metal—hoodie, loose hair, bag slung over one shoulder.
Weekend ruined.
I could've been in bed. I could've been doing nothing. I could've been living my best lazy life.
Instead I'm here, delivering files to VIPs and bowing to beautiful strangers like this is normal.
The elevator finally dings.
Relief hits first. Actual relief. Like freedom is one metal door away.
The doors slide open.
I freeze.
Because there's a boy inside.
Not a boy boy. A problem.
He's leaning against the glass wall of the elevator, hood up, one shoulder pressed back like he owns the space. One leg bent, sneaker flat against the glass. Hands in his pockets. Lazy. Unbothered. Like elevators exist for him specifically.
He looks up.
Judgmental. Slow. One eyebrow lifts just a little.
And wow.
That's unfair.
Sharp face. Tall. Broad shoulders hidden under a hoodie that probably costs more than my phone. His eyes flick over me—hoodie, bag, messy hair—like he's assessing a situation he didn't ask for.
The air shifts. Tightens.
My brain blanks for half a second. Fully empty. Like someone pulled the plug.
We just stare at each other.
The elevator is quiet. Too quiet. I can hear my own heartbeat, loud and embarrassing.
Then he moves.
Pushes off the glass smoothly, straightens, and walks toward the door. Calm. Confident. No rush. He passes so close I catch the faint scent of clean soap and something colder underneath.
He doesn't acknowledge me.
Just steps out like I'm furniture.
I turn slightly, watching his back as he walks down the VIP hallway, hands still in his pockets, hood still up, posture relaxed like the world bends out of his way.
The doors start to close.
I step into the elevator on instinct, still staring at the narrowing gap.
The doors shut completely.
Silence.
I exhale, hard.
"What the hell," I mutter to no one.
The elevator starts moving.
And the only thought left in my head—loud, clear, unavoidable—
Who the hell is he??