Her Gain
Rain whispered against the windows as Kwon Ha Min sat quietly in the backseat of a sleek black cab, her gaze steady on her laptop’s glowing screen. She wore loose black cargo pants, an oversized grey hoodie layered under a weathered denim jacket, and a dark baseball cap rested beside her on the seat. Her clothes gave her a tomboyish edge, blending her into the city’s stormy backdrop.
But her face told a different story.
Soft features, almost ethereal in the low light, framed a porcelain complexion untouched by the day's wear. Her heart-shaped face carried a calm intensity, with wide, almond-shaped eyes that gleamed like twilight, framed by thick lashes. A delicate nose and naturally tinted lips completed the portrait—subtle and elegant, yet sharp in a way that made people think twice before looking twice.
Strands of her wavy chestnut hair fell over her shoulders, braided loosely at the sides and pinned with tiny silver clips that shimmered like raindrops.
Despite the simplicity of her outfit, she moved with quiet purpose—someone who had learned to stay unnoticed without ever truly disappearing.
Outside, Seoul blurred past like a storm-swept painting—wet roads, shimmering lights, and umbrellas moving like shadowy figures.
The silence broke with a sudden crackle from the radio.
“This morning, Baek Sung Min, younger brother of Baek Group’s CEO Baek Kyung Hyun, was pronounced dead after three years in a coma. Reports suggest—”
The cab driver let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. “Such a tragedy… He was so young. That family’s been through enough already.”
Ha Min didn’t look up. “Can you replay that?”
“Of course,” the driver replied, tapping a button to rewind.
As the report played again, a faint, ironic smile tugged at Ha Min’s lips.
“Not tragic at all,” she murmured.
“Sorry? Did you say something?” the driver asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.
Her face turned serene again. “Just talking to myself,” she replied calmly.
The cab slowed to a stop in front of a humble building—Mother’s Lap Nursing Home. The rain had dwindled to a mist, and the sky glowed gently with the colors of dusk.
She stepped out, closed her umbrella with a sharp flick, and walked swiftly inside. The nurse at the reception desk gave her a familiar nod. Without speaking, Ha Min made her way straight to Room 307.
Her pace slowed near the door. Her hand hovered over the handle, a tightness blooming in her chest—an old fear, a long-buried memory.
Then, she pushed it open.
Inside, a group of doctors surrounded a hospital bed, their expressions serious. A spike of panic surged through her. Had she come too late?
One doctor looked up, a hint of relief in his voice. “You made it.”
“I’ll wait outside,” she said quickly, already stepping back. “Please carry on.”
But another doctor gently held her back. “There’s no need. She’s been asking for you since she woke up.”
Ha Min froze in place.
