MY GOOD LUCK

Sometimes, silence isn’t peace — it’s the echo of everything you couldn’t say.

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The rooftop of Morning Beans Co. shimmered under the late afternoon sun, Seoul stretching endlessly below.

But Seo-Joon Han didn’t see any of it.

At twenty-seven, he was the youngest CEO in Han Group — a name that opened doors and silenced rooms.

Today, he was supposed to finalize the acquisition of Morning Beans Co., just another small company to absorb and rebrand.

He had even pressed the elevator button for the fifth floor, where the board awaited.

But when the mirrored doors slid open, he didn’t step out.

Instead, he pressed the button for the top floor.

The rooftop.

Maybe it was the date.

The anniversary.

He had forgotten to visit the grave last year — or maybe he had chosen to.

He couldn’t remember anymore.

All he knew was that ten years ago, he had walked away from his mother’s car in anger.

Minutes later, the crash happened.

And his father’s new family made sure he learned how to “move on.”

He had moved on — into silence, success, and an emptiness that looked a lot like victory.

The thought had been there for months, creeping into his mind during long meetings and empty dinners.

He used to dismiss it.

Today, he didn’t.

He stepped onto the rooftop, the wind cold against his face, and for the first time in years… he felt something close to peace.

No one will notice, he thought. Just noise. Then silence.

---

Seo-Joon stood at the very edge, polished shoes pressed against the cold concrete.

Every achievement, every social smile felt meaningless.

He took a trembling step forward. The wind brushed past his face like a cold, indifferent whisper.

A sudden creak froze him mid-step.

The rooftop door swung open with a metallic clang, sunlight stabbing his eyes.

Ha-Neul Park stepped onto the roof. Dark hair falling loosely, arms marked with faint bruises from the struggles life had thrown her way.

She was only a week into her new job — her tenth in a long line of failed attempts.

Even now, the sting of reprimand lingered: five days docked for accidentally spilling coffee on her boss.

Yet her gaze was calm, defiant, unbroken by years of misfortune.

“Don’t come closer,” Seo-Joon said, irritation masking a flicker of doubt. “You can’t convince me.”

Her lips curved into a faint, teasing smile.

“Convince you? Who said I’m here to stop you?”

His heart thudded. Chaos and clarity wrapped in one person — fragile yet unyielding.

Something about her unsettled him, a strange recognition he couldn’t name.

“I… I came to jump too,” she added lightly. “Might as well keep each other company on the way down.”

Her hand reached for his — firm, warm, insistent.

Shock tangled with something unfamiliar in his chest: fear, yes, but also a dizzying thrill of connection.

“You look too scared to do it alone,” she teased. “Let’s make it unforgettable.”

For a heartbeat, time froze.

Seoul below blurred into streaks of gray and gold.

Memories of loss, failure, and despair swirled inside him — but the chaos outside and the warmth of her hand made everything else vanish.

Then, without warning, she leaped.

She pulled him with her.

The wind tore past their ears, hearts pounding in unison, the city spinning like a living diorama gone mad.

Fear, thrill, and something dangerously alive coiled within him.

And for a fleeting, impossible moment, Seo-Joon felt… free.

Then darkness swallowed them both.