Chapter 1 - The Market Raises Me Now
The file on her was thin. No photos. Only dates.
Luly Reyes, female, orphaned age two.
IQ 241.
Education accelerated under Seaside Initiative.
She was five when she finished high school. Seven when she finished again, this time with perfect marks in every global subject. By nine she held a degree in Animal Science. By twelve, a Doctorate in Veterinary Medicine. Her teachers said she never smiled at graduation photos; the state handlers said that was because she already knew they didn’t matter.
While other children were learning to tie their shoes, she was learning combat and infiltration. By eight she could hack into secure systems faster than most military units. That same year she wrote an algorithm—REYES—designed to track the emotional pulse of the stock market in real time. Two years later she was the youngest billionaire in recorded history.
She was raised in Seaside, a coastal compound disguised as a research facility. To her, it was just walls, guards, and screens.
One handler once asked her, “Do you ever miss having a family?”
She didn’t look up from the computer. “I have one,” she said. “The market raises me now.”
When she turned thirteen, the government assigned someone new to her.
Park Jin was eighteen, fresh-faced and already tired, carrying a thin briefcase and a government-issued smile. He stepped into the glass lab where she was coding and cleared his throat.
“Miss Reyes?”
She kept typing. “Who are you?”
“Park Jin. Your new assistant.”
“Assistant?” she repeated, finally turning in her chair. “You mean babysitter.”
He hesitated. “If that’s what you prefer to call me.”
“I don’t,” she said, and turned back to her screen. “I prefer silence.”
That set the tone for the first six months.
He drove her to meetings she never spoke at, made calls she didn’t answer, and carried files she could access from memory. He watched her manipulate markets like chess pieces, and the more he saw, the more he realized she didn’t just understand systems she was one.
One night, after another twelve-hour shift, he asked quietly, “Why animal science?”
She didn’t look up from her tablet. “Because humans are predictable. Animals aren’t.”
“That’s… ironic,” Jin said. “Most people think it’s the other way around.”
“That’s because most people don’t study humans,” she replied. “They watch them.”
He leaned against the doorway, studying her. “You talk like you’re not one of them.”
“I was raised to be useful,” she said simply. “Not human.”
Jin’s silence that night stretched long enough to reach her.
By fourteen she had tripled her fortune in North America. By fifteen, she and Jin were flying to Europe in a private jet she bought through a shell company.
From the window, the clouds looked like land she could already claim.
Jin sat across from her, reviewing documents. “We’re meeting the Berlin board at nine tomorrow. You’re sure you want to go through with this?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll underestimate you.”
“They always do.”
He sighed, setting the file down. “Luly, they’re grown men with decades in finance. You’re fifteen.”
She met his eyes for the first time that flight. “Then it’ll hurt more when they lose.”
Jin couldn’t help but smile. “You enjoy that?”
“No,” she said softly, turning back to the glass. “But it’s the only language they listen to.”
The cabin fell quiet except for the hum of the engines. After a long pause, Jin spoke again.
“You know,” he said, “you call me a babysitter, but I’m starting to think I’m the one being supervised.”
She smirked faintly, the ghost of something almost like affection. “Good. Then do your job.”
He laughed under his breath. “What’s my job again?”
“To keep me alive,” she said. “Until I don’t need you anymore.”
He watched her then the girl who owned half of what she saw from thirty thousand feet and realized with a strange mix of awe and fear that she probably meant it.
Berlin in winter was a blur of glass and steel. The cold bit like clean metal, cutting through breath and words alike. In the heart of Potsdamer Platz, a boardroom waited twelve men in tailored suits, each with portfolios heavier than their confidence.
Luly Reyes, fifteen, stood at the head of the table. Her black hair fell loose over a white turtleneck dress, her expression unreadable as a soft snowfall pressed against the windows. Park Jin stood just behind her shoulder, a silent presence in a charcoal coat, hands clasped in quiet readiness.
The chairman cleared his throat. “Miss Reyes,” he said, his tone patient, indulgent. “Your proposal seems… ambitious. You’re suggesting a full buyout of a logistics chain operating across four countries.”
Luly didn’t move. “Correct.”
Another man chuckled. “That chain has been bleeding funds for years. You’d be inheriting debt.”
“Debts are just misplaced opportunities,” she replied evenly.
Laughter rippled around the room. Jin’s eyes flickered toward her she didn’t flinch.
The chairman leaned forward, amused. “You’re confident for someone so young.”
“Confidence is what you call it when you can’t measure comprehension,” Luly said.
The laughter stopped.
She reached into her folder and placed a tablet on the table, turning it so the display faced them. “You’re looking at quarterly losses,” she continued. “What you’re not seeing are government grants that will activate when environmental compliance hits thirty percent efficiency. That’s next quarter. Your company hasn’t applied for them because your predictive model is five years outdated.”
One of the men frowned. “And yours isn’t?”
“My algorithm updates itself every four minutes.”
The room went silent.
Luly tapped the screen, and their own market figures began to shift, reorganizing under her REYES system live graphs breathing like veins. “You’re going to go from red to green by Q3. I’m offering a full acquisition now, before you realize that. Call it mercy.”
The chairman’s jaw tightened. “You think you can threaten us?”
“I don’t threaten,” she said, voice calm. “I calculate.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The quiet was only broken by the faint ticking of a clock. Then one of the older board members, silver-haired and slow to anger, leaned forward. “You’re not guessing, are you?”
Luly’s gaze was steady. “Guessing is for gamblers. I don’t gamble. I design outcomes.”
Jin felt something cold move through him awe, maybe, or the strange recognition that she wasn’t bluffing.
The chairman finally exhaled. “If this data is accurate—”
“It is.”
“Then you’ll have your deal.”
Luly extended her hand without smiling. “Good choice.”
They left the building under a pale afternoon sky, their breath fogging in the winter air. Jin walked beside her, quiet for a long time before finally speaking.
“You knew exactly how far to push them.”
“I knew what they feared,” she said simply. “Losing to a child.”
He looked at her profile, the faint steam rising from her breath. “You enjoy proving them wrong?”
She shook her head. “I enjoy being right.”
Jin smiled faintly. “You’re terrifying.”
She glanced at him, her tone flat but her eyes sharp with humor. “Then I’m doing something right.”
He laughed softly, hands in his pockets. “I still can’t believe you’re fifteen.”
“Don’t,” she said. “It makes people underestimate me.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence, boots clicking against the icy pavement. When they reached the car, Jin held the door open for her.
“Berlin’s done,” he said. “Where to next?”
She slid into the seat, adjusting her gloves. “London. Then Zurich. By the time I’m sixteen, I want us holding stock in every major bank that touches water routes.”
Jin blinked. “Water routes?”
Her voice was soft but precise. “The flow of goods is the flow of money. Oceans obey no borders.”
He nodded slowly, almost reverently. “You talk like you’re building an empire.”
“I am,” she said, fastening her seatbelt. “But it’s not for control.”
He looked at her, curious. “Then for what?”
She turned to the window, watching snow drift against the car glass.
“For the freedom to never belong to anyone again.”
By eighteen, the world called her untouchable.
The headlines had long stopped keeping up. LULY REYES: THE PRODIGY BILLIONAIRE. THE GIRL WHO READ MARKETS LIKE MUSIC. THE FUTURE OF GLOBAL INTELLIGENCE. They didn’t know the half of it.
Her company REYES had expanded into sectors most economists couldn’t even name without stuttering predictive analytics, quantum encryption, silent trading, covert logistics. What no one outside a handful of government offices knew was that Luly Reyes didn’t just predict movement; she caused it.
Washington kept a black file on her. No name on the cover. No photo. Only a single codename: Blue Siren.
She was their invisible currency. The girl who could enter any system, unmake it, and leave not even a fingerprint.
At eighteen she had more passports than birthdays. Sometimes she was a Spanish consultant for an energy firm in Morocco. Other times a data analyst in Seoul. And sometimes when the United States needed to know what their rivals whispered behind encrypted walls she became a ghost that spoke fluent silence.
Her assignments were clean, quick, and impossible to trace. Infiltration wasn’t violence for her; it was art.
One night in D.C., inside a quiet penthouse with only the hum of monitors for company, Jin stood in the doorway watching her work. Her face was lit by six screens, eyes focused, unblinking.
“Who is it this time?” he asked softly.
“Politician,” she murmured. “South America. Funding illegal trade under a clean label.”
He stepped closer. “And we’re helping the U.S. why, exactly?”
“Because they pay me in silence.”
Jin frowned. “You mean immunity.”
Luly looked up, her gaze unreadable. “Same thing.”
He walked around her desk, studying the tangled lines of code cascading across her monitors. “You ever think about what you’re doing to them?”
“Every time,” she said. “Then I remember what they’d do to me if I wasn’t better.”
The cursor blinked once. Twice. Then the final line of code executed access granted. The politician’s encrypted server opened like a confession.
She closed the window, wiped the trace, and leaned back. “Done.”
Jin exhaled, half in relief, half in disbelief. “No wonder they call you a ghost.”
“They don’t call me anything,” she replied, reaching for her coffee. “People who know me don’t say my name out loud.”
By morning, she had transferred five million dollars to a private foundation under an alias. She never kept all the money. Some went to animal shelters. Some to underfunded research labs. Some to the shadows, where it was safer not to ask.
Jin watched her from across the kitchen table as sunlight spilled across the marble. “You could stop, you know,” he said. “You’ve already won.”
Luly stirred her tea slowly. “Winning isn’t the same as being safe.”
He leaned back, studying her face the calm, the precision, the faint trace of fatigue. “You’re eighteen,” he said quietly. “You live like you’ve been running for forty years.”
She looked at him then, her voice soft but sharp. “Maybe I have.”
Jin’s next words caught in his throat. There were moments he forgot she wasn’t just a genius or a billionaire she was the government’s most elegant weapon.
And weapons didn’t rest.
The sea was calm that morning, pale blue stretching endless under a quiet sky. From the small white house that sat on the cliffs of Seaside, California, the ocean could be heard breathing through the windows—slow, rhythmic, alive.
Luly sat on the couch with her laptop open and half a cup of cold tea beside her. The screens around the living room were filled with silent numbers, shifting graphs, and encrypted feeds. She had done everything she could think of that day—checked REYES’s analytics, reviewed a couple of contracts, finished reading a new book on marine biology—and still, the silence felt too wide.
Across the room, Jin was sorting through files at the dining table. He had grown into the role of strategist, more composed now, but his patience with sitting still hadn’t improved. “Luly,” he said without looking up, “we’ve drained the North American markets dry. Europe’s stable but oversaturated. Asia’s next.”
She tilted her head slightly, eyes still on the screen. “You’re thinking Seoul?”
He nodded. “Korea’s economy is in an aggressive growth phase. We could expand our tech holdings there before the next wave of regulations.”
She leaned back, closing her laptop with a quiet click. “Go then.”
Jin glanced up. “You’re coming too, right?”
Luly shrugged, stretching her arms lazily. “Eventually. Find a place first. I don’t want to share a house again. You like noise. I don’t.”
He smirked. “You just don’t like people.”
“Exactly.”
“Fine,” Jin said, slipping his files into his briefcase. “I’ll go check it out. You’ll follow once I find something decent.”
Luly waved a hand in quiet dismissal, already scrolling through her phone. “Don’t forget to send me the investment profiles.”
“Got it,” he said, grabbing his coat. “Try not to hack a country while I’m gone.”
She looked up with a faint, amused smile. “No promises.”
When the jet left later that afternoon, the house felt even emptier than before. The hum of the ocean was steady, but too predictable. She wandered into her office, turned on her monitors, then turned them off again. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like coding or infiltrating or building anything.
Her phone buzzed with a notification.
Learn Korean and meet people from around the world!
She blinked at the ad. The irony of it almost made her laugh.
She tapped it anyway.
The app was a language exchange platform, bright pastel colors and smiling avatars. She set up a profile in under a minute:
Name: Luly
Age: 18
Country: USA
Languages: English, Spanish
Learning: Korean
She uploaded two pictures—one casual by the beach, another from a conference in London, both deceptively simple but striking enough to catch attention.
Within hours, her inbox flooded.
hi beautiful where r u from?
you study korean? i can teach u privately ^^
can i call you right now?
She scrolled through them without reaction, deleting half, blocking more. Some were polite, others bold, too many were strange. Every conversation that started promising ended the same way—someone asking to meet, to video call, to “get closer.” She’d block them instantly.
The handlers at Seaside used to call her cold. They were wrong. She wasn’t cold. She was careful.
By the third night, she had stopped counting how many conversations she’d opened. Maybe fifty. Maybe more. She typed in small bursts between bites of dinner, amused at how predictable most people were.
Then one profile caught her eye.
Username: hss97
Message: hey. i’m not great at english but i’ll try. i can help with korean if you help me with pronunciation? i sound like a robot.
It wasn’t charming. It wasn’t even grammatically correct. But it was human.
She replied, almost out of boredom. Sure. What do you want to start with?
He answered instantly. Maybe small talk? like “how was your day.”
That made her smile faintly. Alright. How was your day?
busy. practice. tired. but this is fun already.
She tilted her head. Practice?
singing. i’m a trainee. not famous yet lol
She paused for a moment before replying. Then you’ll have to teach me how to pronounce your name if I’m going to correct your pronunciation.
haesoo. jeon haesoo.
She didn’t think much of it. Another name, another profile, another short conversation.
Two weeks later, his messages became the only ones she bothered to answer.
Luly sat by the window that afternoon, the sea barely whispering against the cliffs below. Jin was gone. The silence stretched across the house like an uninvited guest. She scrolled through the app again, the blue light from her phone reflecting against her eyes.
Her inbox was full of the usual nonsense. Compliments disguised as lessons, lessons disguised as invitations. She blocked them all.
Then there was him.
hss97: you awake?
Luly: yeah.
hss97: its late there right?
Luly: I don’t really sleep much.
hss97: same. practice ends around 1am.
Luly: What do you practice?
hss97: singing. dancing. breathing. everything.
Luly: Sounds exhausting.
hss97: its worse when you love it.
She smirked. He wasn’t trying too hard. That was new.
They talked about food, language, things that didn’t matter. She corrected his English when he asked, and he tried to teach her how to pronounce words that never stayed on her tongue long enough to sound natural.
Sometimes his messages came slow, between rehearsals or lessons. Sometimes he disappeared for hours, then came back with tired apologies and jokes about training schedules.
hss97: you sound like someone who works a lot
Luly: I do
hss97: what do you do
Luly: A bit of everything
hss97: like what
Luly: Wouldn’t believe me if I told you
hss97: try me
Luly: I build systems. Fix things. Make money.
hss97: so a genius
Luly: or a problem
hss97: you can be both
His words made her pause longer than she wanted to admit.
He told her once that he wanted to debut soon, that his group was still small but their company had hope. She told him that she liked the ocean more than people. He said he’d never seen the Pacific. She said it didn’t matter; it looked the same as any other body trying to hide its depth.
For two weeks they talked, quietly and constantly, until one morning her inbox was empty. His profile was gone. No explanation. No goodbye.
She stared at the last message for a long time.
hss97: i’ll text when i can. dont forget to practice “안녕” okay?
She didn’t reply.
When Jin called later that night from Seoul, she answered on speaker.
“You found a place?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “A big one near Gangnam. You’ll like it.”
“I told you, I want my own place.”
“I know. But you should come see it. The city’s alive in a way you’d actually like.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“You sound bored.”
“I am.”
She ended the call, turned off her phone, and stared out at the dark ocean. The silence of Seaside had always been a comfort. But for the first time, it felt too still.
The house was half-empty when she began packing for Seoul. Her suitcase lay open on the bed, black silk folded with mechanical precision, chargers and documents lined in neat rows. Jin had sent her updates about the new properties he’d toured, voice messages filled with traffic noise and the hum of Seoul evenings. She replied with brief instructions and approvals, nothing personal, nothing beyond the plan.
But between her work calls and packing, her phone kept lighting up.
hss97: you’re awake again?
Luly: barely. trying to get things done.
hss97: you work too much
Luly: you practice too much.
hss97: touché
She smiled faintly at the screen, thumb hovering before she typed again.
Luly: Are you performing soon?
hss97: yeah, small company event. nothing big.
Luly: You’ll be big someday.
hss97: you sound sure.
Luly: I usually am.
She stopped there. Her mind was already calculating travel times, investment routes, how many days until the next board review in Seoul. She didn’t tell him she was flying there. It wasn’t part of the plan. Meeting people from the app in real life wasn’t something she did. It wasn’t safe.
Still, he kept messaging. Sometimes short lines. Sometimes longer.
hss97: today’s practice was brutal. my throat feels like sand.
Luly: drink honey water.
hss97: you sound like my mom lol
Luly: She must be smart then.
His replies made her pause in ways she didn’t expect. The messages felt like rhythm. Not exciting, not dramatic—just steady.
But then the rhythm started to falter.
One evening, as she zipped her final suitcase shut, she noticed it took him longer to respond. She checked her phone once. Twice. Nothing.
She sent one last message anyway.
Luly: Busy again?
No reply.
Hours passed. Then days. His icon stayed gray, his profile still there but silent.
The next morning, she sat on the plane by the window, watching the California coastline disappear under the clouds. She opened the app once more, scrolling through their conversation, that long string of short sentences and small laughter.
She hovered over his name, debating whether to send one more message. Then she closed the app instead.
The attendant’s voice came through the intercom, soft and polite. “Miss Reyes, please fasten your seatbelt. We’ll be departing shortly.”
She fastened it without looking up, the faint reflection of the ocean caught in the window beside her.
For someone she had never met, his silence felt strangely heavy.
The jet door opened to a cool Seoul night, the wind brushing past her face like the city itself had come to inspect her arrival. The air smelled of rain and asphalt, a clean hum that buzzed beneath the sound of distant traffic. Luly stepped down the metal stairs in a long beige coat, sunglasses still on though the sun was gone. Her boots clicked against the tarmac, each step sharp and unhurried.
At the end of the path stood Jin, leaning against a black car, phone in one hand and coffee in the other. When he saw her, he straightened and smirked.
“The eagle has landed,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag.
Jin raised an eyebrow. “Let’s go then, eagle. I got you a house instead of that penthouse you wanted to avoid. Something small, quiet. Better privacy.”
“Good,” she said, sliding into the back seat. “I don’t want to talk to neighbors.”
Jin got in after her, started the car, and pulled onto the road. Seoul at night stretched in colors—neon bleeding over glass, the Han River flashing beneath bridges like veins of silver. She watched it all through the window without expression, the city alive in ways California never was.
“Your schedule’s clear for the first week,” Jin said as they drove. “You can settle in. I’ve got a few meetings set up with the companies we talked about. Mostly tech, some real estate groups. I’ll send you the profiles in the morning.”
“Fine.”
“You sound thrilled.”
“I sound awake,” she murmured.
When they reached the house, it wasn’t what she expected. Hidden at the end of a quiet street, it was small and modern, built in pale stone and glass. A single bedroom, one office, a kitchen barely large enough for two. The lights glowed warm through the rain.
She stepped inside and looked around. The space was simple, efficient, almost surgical in its neatness. One side of the room opened into a small garden. There was no art on the walls, no decorations, no distractions. Just silence the kind she liked.
Jin set her bags down by the door. “Told you it was small.”
“It’s perfect.”
He smiled a little. “I’ll send someone to stock the kitchen in the morning.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, walking toward the window. “I’ll order everything myself. I want to know who’s walking in and out.”
“Still paranoid.”
“Still alive.”
He laughed quietly. “Fair.”
She turned to face him, her reflection faint against the glass. “You should rest, Jin. You look tired.”
“You just got off a sixteen-hour flight and you’re telling me to rest.”
“I sleep when I’m bored,” she said, pulling off her coat. “And I’m not bored yet.”
Jin grabbed his keys, half smiling. “I’ll leave you to your new fortress, then. Try not to hack the city before sunrise.”
“No promises.”
When he left, the silence settled again. She walked through each room slowly, memorizing the space the placement of outlets, the thickness of the walls, the line of sight from the windows. Every detail mattered.
Finally, she sat on the edge of her bed and looked at her phone. The app icon still sat there, untouched since the flight. For a moment she considered opening it. Seeing if his profile had changed. If he had come back.
She didn’t.
Instead, she set the phone down beside her, leaned back, and let the sound of distant rain fill the empty house.
The next morning, sunlight poured through the tall windows of her small Seoul house, pale and cool against the polished floors. Luly stood in the bathroom mirror, tying the thin black choker around her neck as the steam faded from her shower. Her reflection looked calm, deliberate every movement precise, every touch exact.
She kept her makeup minimal: natural brows, a thin line of eyeliner, a faint blush warming her cheeks, and muted rosy lips. Her long wavy black hair fell loose around her shoulders, a soft middle part framing her face in gentle contrast to the fitted sleeveless black mini dress she slipped into. She tugged on her thigh-high socks, laced up her chunky black shoes, and studied herself once more in the mirror. Nothing flashy. Just composed.
Outside, her Mercedes waited, glimmering faintly under the Seoul sun. She climbed in, started the engine, and the quiet purr filled the stillness of the street.
The grocery store wasn’t far fifteen minutes through wide clean roads, trees lining the sidewalks, glass buildings reflecting the sky like liquid steel. When she parked, people turned their heads before she even stepped out.
She was used to it. Beauty had always been her camouflage and her weapon.
As she walked toward the entrance, her stride calm and steady, she felt their eyes follow her the store clerk stacking oranges, the couple holding hands near the cart return, the two university students who whispered under their breath in Korean thinking she wouldn’t understand.
Her expression didn’t change. She didn’t mind the attention, didn’t seek it either. But she knew what they saw.
A foreign girl, young and poised, her black dress cutting through daylight like shadow. Her skin soft against the morning light. But what caught them most were her eyes large, deep brown, almost unreal in how steady they were. People always said she looked like a doll. They never realized how little she felt like one.
Inside, she moved through the aisles in silence, her cart rolling quietly behind her. She picked only what she needed fruit, rice, bottled water, a few spices, milk. She scanned every label, every price, out of habit rather than necessity.
When she reached the counter, the cashier stammered in English, cheeks slightly pink. “Uh, paper or plastic?”
Luly gave him a small polite smile. “Paper is fine.”
Her voice was low, soft, but certain. It lingered in the air a second longer than she meant it to.
She carried the bags herself, stepped back into the sunlight, and set them neatly in the trunk. Seoul had the same kind of noise as the ocean—endless, layered, alive but none of its peace.
She closed the trunk, straightened, and looked up at the skyline. Somewhere in that web of buildings was Jin, probably shaking hands with the board of some company she was about to buy. Somewhere else she didn’t know where exactly was Haesoo.
And she didn’t know why she kept thinking of him.
At home, the stillness felt heavier after the noise of the city. Luly set the grocery bags on the counter, tied her hair into a loose half bun, and began cooking without thinking. Her movements were quiet and methodical, the kind that came from discipline, not habit.
She washed the rice until the water ran clear, set it to steam, and moved on to the chicken. The sound of sizzling filled the kitchen, sharp and steady. Soy sauce, ginger, garlic, and a bit of sesame oil—the air turned warm and fragrant. She tossed in vegetables, let the colors mix, then lowered the heat.
When everything was done, she plated it neatly: a mound of white rice beside a bright stir fry glistening in the light. She added a generous spoonful of hot sauce, the red bright against the white porcelain, and carried the plate to the small living room.
She sat cross-legged on the couch, turned on the TV, and scrolled through options until she found an old movie she’d already seen. She didn’t care about the plot; she just wanted sound.
Between bites, she watched the screen absently, the faint glow reflecting in her eyes. The food was simple but good. She liked the heat, the way the spice made her feel grounded in her own body for a moment.
When the credits started rolling, she set the empty plate aside and leaned back against the couch, quiet again. The night outside her window was deep blue, lights from distant apartments flickering like soft pulses of life she could see but not feel.
Her phone rested on the coffee table, face down. She didn’t touch it. It had been silent all day.
In a cramped dorm tucked behind a convenience store in Gangnam, the evening air was thick with noise and laughter. Seven boys lived there, their shoes piled by the door, their jackets hanging from hooks that looked ready to snap. The place smelled faintly of ramen, fabric softener, and effort.
Haesoo pushed the door open with his shoulder, hair damp from the drizzle outside, his gray office shirt slightly wrinkled. He dropped his bag on the floor beside the bunk beds and sank into the nearest chair with a groan.
Dongmin looked up from the floor, where he was trying to fix a broken practice shoe with tape. “How was work, maknae?”
Haesoo ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Bad. They had me running numbers, making copies, delivering coffee, everything. I didn’t sit for six hours.”
Minjae, sitting at the small table by the window, didn’t even look up from his notebook. “Told you to get a job at a convenience store, not an office. At least there you can sit behind the counter.”
“I needed something that pays more,” Haesoo muttered.
Dongmin laughed. “Pays more but drains your soul. You looked like you died twice on the way in.”
Jisung, who was sprawled across the top bunk, peeked down. “You work like a corporate slave by day and sing like one of us by night. Are you secretly eighty?”
“Feels like it,” Haesoo said, rubbing his neck.
Eunwoo leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “At least you get free coffee.”
“Yeah,” Haesoo said, “after I buy it myself.”
The room erupted in laughter. Minjae finally looked up, smiling. “That’s how they get you, kid. Welcome to adulthood.”
Haesoo leaned back in the chair, eyes half closed. “I’d rather debut already. At least then I’d be tired doing something that matters.”
Taeyul tossed a pillow at him from across the room. “You will. For now, enjoy the suffering—it builds character.”
Haesoo caught the pillow and threw it back with a faint smile. “Then I must be the most character-built person alive.”
Joon, lying with headphones in, pulled one out and said dryly, “Stop talking about work. You make me feel guilty for napping.”
“Then don’t nap,” Minjae said.
“Then don’t talk,” Joon shot back, closing his eyes again.
Haesoo laughed quietly. The sound of them filled the small space, warm and imperfect. For a moment, the exhaustion from his day faded. The dorm was crowded and noisy, but it was theirs.
Dongmin tore open a bag of chips with his teeth and spoke through the crunch. “Then just ask your parents for more spending money like I do. Easy fix.”
Haesoo shot him a look from his bunk. “They already give me what they can. I can’t ask for more.”
Dongmin shrugged, still chewing. “It’s not that deep, man. Parents love helping their kids.”
“Mine already help,” Haesoo said, voice low but firm. “They work enough as it is. I’m not adding to that.”
The room quieted for a second. Even Dongmin, half joking, noticed the tone and looked away.
Minjae nodded slowly from the other side of the room. “He’s right. Not everyone’s got family that can just send more.”
Haesoo leaned his head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
Jisung flipped a page in his lyric notebook and muttered, “You say that like it’s supposed to make us feel better.”
Haesoo smiled faintly. “Didn’t mean to make anyone feel bad. I just… want to handle my own stuff.”
Eunwoo, drying his hair with a towel, gave him a small approving nod. “Respect. Still, next time I’m buying dinner. Don’t argue.”
Haesoo didn’t. He just smiled a little, that quiet kind of gratitude that doesn’t need words.
The dorm returned to its rhythm chips crinkling, the TV murmuring in the background, the hum of the city beyond the window. But somewhere beneath it all, the thought lingered.
He wanted to do something that would make everything easier for them, for himself, for the people waiting back home.
He pulled out his phone, the screen lighting his face in the dim room. No new messages. The app sat silent.
He locked it again and exhaled. “One day,” he said softly to himself.
Minjae glanced up. “One day what?”
Haesoo smiled. “One day, I’ll be the one sending money home instead of asking for it.”
Dongmin threw him another chip. “Then hurry up and debut, hero.”
Haesoo caught it, laughed, and leaned back, the noise of the room soft around him like a heartbeat.
The streets of Gangnam were quieter past midnight. Neon signs still buzzed, but the crowds had thinned to the occasional taxi, the echo of laughter from bars, the rustle of wind through narrow alleys. Haesoo walked with his hands in his pockets, hood up, sneakers scraping the pavement in slow rhythm. The air was cold and sharp, and for once, he was grateful for it—it gave him something to feel that wasn’t exhaustion.
He passed the convenience store where he bought dinner almost every night. The clerk gave him a small nod of recognition through the glass. He nodded back and kept walking. The thought of instant noodles made his stomach twist, but it was all he could afford most days one packet stretched into a meal, sometimes two if he skipped breakfast.
He thought about Dongmin’s joke from earlier, about asking his parents for money. They’d never made him feel like a burden, but he knew better than to ask. His dad’s back problems, his mom’s long shifts, the sound of their sighs through cheap phone calls when they told him not to worry. They believed in him, believed this idol dream would eventually mean something. He wanted to believe it too.
The office job wasn’t supposed to happen. It started as a favor through one of the managers, a short-term assistant gig to help with expenses. But one week turned to two, then a month, then two more. Every time he thought about quitting, the reality of his wallet stopped him. He hated it the gray walls, the fake smiles, the small humiliations of fetching coffee and cleaning up desks for people who barely remembered his name. But he needed the money. He needed to stay afloat until debut day.
He looked up at the night sky. Seoul was too bright for stars. Only the moon hung there, pale and indifferent.
His thoughts went to the app again, to the girl he’d been messaging Luly. He hadn’t meant to stop replying, but work and training had eaten everything. The exhaustion made conversation feel like luxury. And part of him wondered if she even noticed. Someone like her probably had a hundred others to talk to. He wasn’t special. Just another face behind a screen.
He stopped at the crosswalk, watching the signal light change from red to green. The city moved like a machine always awake, always hungry. He was just one of its smaller gears, turning quietly, trying not to break.
In his head, he made quiet promises.
That he’d debut.
That he’d move his parents out of Busan.
That he’d eat something better than cheap ramen one day.
That all of this the cold nights, the tight stomach, the endless rehearsals would be worth it.
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and started walking again, whispering to himself without realizing, “Just hold on, Haesoo. Just a little longer.”
By December, the cold had crept deep into the bones of the city, and even deeper into Haesoo’s chest. The dorm heater rattled through the nights, barely keeping up with the frost that clung to the windows. On the surface, he laughed with the members, trained, cracked jokes, kept the energy up. But when the lights went off and the others drifted to sleep, he stared at the ceiling for hours.
The truth was, he was tired—tired in ways that sleep couldn’t fix. The long shifts at the office drained him, and the late-night practices left his body aching in places he didn’t have time to heal. Debuting felt like a word that belonged to someone else now, distant and shiny, a dream that had started to fade the closer he got to it.
Some days, on his walk to work, he’d pass a group of old classmates outside a gaming café, laughing, shoulders pressed together in the soft glow of neon. He’d watch them from across the street, just for a second, before lowering his head and walking faster. They looked free in a way he hadn’t felt in years. He’d given up that kind of freedom a long time ago—swapped it for this, for a life of discipline, of pretending he was fine.
Sometimes he asked himself if it was worth it. If the hunger, the sleeplessness, the ache in his knees, the constant pressure to be more, to be enough, would ever lead somewhere that didn’t hurt.
When he called his parents, their voices were always warm, proud, careful. His mother always asked, “Are you eating, my son?” and he always lied. “Yeah, I’m fine, omma. Don’t worry.”
His father would ask, “When do we see you on stage?” and he’d answer, “Soon.” Always soon.
He wanted to tell them that the company had delayed things again. That the new group lineup wasn’t confirmed. That the producer said they still weren’t ready. But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bear to hear disappointment settle into their silence.
After the calls, he’d sit by the window with a cup of instant coffee, staring out at the city lights bleeding across the snow. His reflection in the glass didn’t look like someone on the verge of debut. It looked like someone disappearing slowly, quietly.
He thought about Luly sometimes—not often, but enough for her to drift through his thoughts when everything else felt heavy. The way her messages always came clean and direct. The calm that bled through her words. He wondered what she was doing, if she ever opened the app again, if she ever thought about the boy who never replied.
But then he’d turn off his phone, pull his blanket tighter, and close his eyes. Morning would come, and he’d have to be fine again. The members needed him to be fine. The company needed him to be fine.
So he breathed. Swallowed the lump in his throat. And whispered the same words he did every night before sleep finally took him.
“One more day, Haesoo. Just one more.”
The fluorescent lights in the office hummed faintly as Haesoo set the coffee machine to brew. The air smelled of toner and polished floors, the same as every morning. He’d been up since five, rehearsed before dawn, and arrived here half awake. His shoulders ached beneath his dress shirt, but he didn’t have the energy to care.
He poured three cups, arranged them neatly on a tray, and straightened his tie when the secretary appeared at the doorway. “Investor’s here,” she said. “Mr. Park Jin and his associate.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
When they entered, the room seemed to shift without anyone saying a word. Jin walked in first, sharp in a dark gray suit, confidence moving with him like a shadow. Behind him came the girl Luly.
For a second, Haesoo forgot how to breathe.
She didn’t look real in the way people did. The oversized black leather jacket, sheer white lace top, short black bottoms, and tall knee-high boots made her look like she had stepped out of somewhere colder, somewhere richer. Her long black hair fell in waves down her back, and her skin was the kind that caught light and made it linger. The faint pink of her lips stood out against the neutral tone of her face. She carried a small black handbag with a red heart charm, the kind of detail that made you look twice without knowing why.
Haesoo stood there, tray in hand, heart beating too loud for the silence around her. He felt something strike deep and disorienting. Recognition.
He offered the cups. “Coffee for both of you?”
Jin took one without looking up. “Thanks. She doesn’t drink coffee,” he said with an easy smile. “She’s got her earbuds in. She can’t hear you. She’s just here to accompany me.”
Luly didn’t look at Haesoo, didn’t seem to notice him at all. Her eyes were on the window, calm and detached, lost somewhere else entirely.
Jin and the CEO moved to the conference table. Haesoo stepped back, hands steady only because he’d trained them to be. He refilled the cups as they spoke, pretending not to listen, pretending his chest wasn’t caving in from the inside.
The CEO gestured toward her. “And this is?”
Jin leaned back slightly. “Luly Reyes. Prodigy child. Creator of REYES.”
The CEO blinked, impressed. “The Reyes algorithm? The one used by the American markets?”
“Yes,” Jin said simply. “That one.”
Haesoo’s fingers went cold around the coffee pot. Luly Reyes.
His mind replayed her name in pieces typed on his phone, her messages on his screen, her small jokes, her quiet calm. The girl who had texted him late at night, teaching him English, laughing about pronunciation. The one he’d thought was just another language partner, maybe a little too composed, a little too mysterious.
He looked at her again, standing there in silence beside Jin, earbuds in, completely untouchable. She looked nothing like the girl in his memory. And yet, every tiny detail the way her hair fell, the exact softness of her expression when she wasn’t paying attention was her.
His pulse climbed up the back of his neck. He wanted to say her name, to ask if she remembered. But his throat wouldn’t move.
He watched her instead, the way she crossed one leg over the other, tapping her finger against her handbag in quiet rhythm, like she was listening to music no one else could hear.
Luly, he thought, eyes locked on her profile. It’s you. You’re really here.
The realization hit him like a delayed punch sharp, breathtaking, and completely impossible.
She hadn’t even looked at him once.
And that hurt more than he was ready for.
The meeting room buzzed softly with the low hum of the air conditioner. Papers sat untouched, steam curled from cups of coffee that no one drank. Luly sat beside Jin in quiet stillness, her long wavy black hair spilling over her shoulders, earbuds tucked in her ears. She looked detached from the entire scene calm, self-contained, and unreadable.
The CEO’s eyes darted between Jin and the girl beside him. “And Miss Reyes will she be investing as well?”
Jin smiled politely, voice even. “No, just me this time. We usually don’t invest in the same company.”
The CEO nodded, curious. “Oh? You work separately?”
“Together,” Jin corrected, tone smooth. “We already dominated North America and Europe. Now we’re moving into the Asian market. We divide and conquer.”
The CEO chuckled, impressed. “Divide and conquer effective strategy.”
“She focuses on predictive systems and global tech,” Jin continued, “and I handle infrastructure and physical development. It keeps things balanced.”
Haesoo stood near the sideboard, pouring refills, pretending to focus on the coffee. His heart, however, refused to behave.
Her name—Luly Reyes—had hit him like a punch. Luly. The girl from the app.
He lifted his eyes slightly, watching her from the corner of his vision. The oversized black leather jacket softened by the white lace top beneath, the knee-high boots, the faint wave of her hair as she shifted in her chair. But it wasn’t her clothes or posture that hit him hardest. It was the scent strawberries and cotton candy. Sweet, delicate, and instantly familiar.
That scent had drifted through his imagination for months, from late-night messages written half-asleep on his phone. The girl who always wanted to practice Korean phrases.
He remembered her typed words:
“Teach me how to say this one slowly. I keep messing up the sound.”
And his reply:
“You’re saying it fine, Luly. Better than you think. Now your turn how’s my English?”
“Better than my Korean,” she’d sent back with a little heart.
Now she sat ten feet away, real, alive, and silent.
When the meeting ended, Jin rose to shake hands with the CEO. Luly stood, slipped her handbag over her shoulder, and moved toward the door without taking out her earbuds. She didn’t glance at Haesoo didn’t need to. Her presence was enough to rearrange everything in the room.
As she passed him, the air changed. That same scent brushed over him—strawberries and cotton candy, soft and lingering, just as he remembered it.
He froze. His chest tightened.
It’s her, he thought. The girl I stayed up teaching Korean, the one who made Seoul feel less lonely even before I knew her name.
The door closed behind her, and the sweetness of her perfume hung faintly in the room.
Haesoo stood motionless, coffee pot trembling slightly in his hands.
Luly Reyes. The girl from the messages. The prodigy everyone talks about.
He had taught her words, but she had been the one who lingered in every silence since.
When the office finally emptied, Haesoo stayed behind to finish cleaning the counter and shut down the lights. The hum of the computers faded one by one until the room was silent. Through the glass windows, the Seoul skyline stretched like a pulse steady, cold, and glittering.
He sat down at one of the desks, pulled out his phone, and hesitated before typing her name.
Luly Reyes.
The screen filled with results almost instantly. Her face appeared again, just as he remembered those same doll-like eyes, the calm expression that looked both human and distant.
He scrolled through articles and public records. None of it looked real.
Founder of REYES Systems. Youngest self-made billionaire in predictive analytics. International investor.
There were company documents, old photos from tech conferences, and formal summaries written in clinical language. Each one described her like she was a theory, not a person.
He opened one document that detailed her early background. Graduated college at nine. Doctorate at twelve. Developed a predictive market system at eight. He stopped reading halfway through, his stomach tightening.
He remembered her messages casual, warm, the small mistakes in her Korean that made her sound almost shy. She’d ask, “Is this right? The word for ‘tomorrow’?” and he’d type it out slowly for her, recording a voice note to help with pronunciation. Then she’d send one back, laughing at how she always got the intonation wrong.
None of it fit the woman in those reports.
He leaned back, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes. “So that’s who you are,” he whispered to himself. “Luly Reyes.”
His throat felt dry.
He remembered the last message she’d sent before disappearing. ‘Practice every day,’ she had written. ‘Next time I’ll understand you better.’
He had thought she was just another girl learning Korean for fun, not someone whose name sat inside files filled with numbers and wealth he couldn’t even imagine.
He turned off the phone, set it face-down on the desk, and sat there in the dark office, the silence loud around him.
Part of him wanted to message her again to say something, anything but another part knew better. People like her didn’t look back.
He ran a hand through his hair and let out a quiet, tired breath. “Guess you were always out of reach,” he murmured.
Outside, Seoul kept glowing, unaware of him or her or how small he suddenly felt beneath it all.
