-- Kim Seungmin --

The avenue was asphalt and cold steel. The corner store was warm brick, perpetually smelling of dust, vanilla, and old linen. Kim Seungmin watched it for a week before entering. His world demanded clean lines, sharp edges, and predictable trajectories. The Quiet Corner was an anomaly: a deliberate, gentle chaos. He wore a suit tailored for shadows. The fabric was expensive, the cut severe. He carried a briefcase, weighty and locked, built for secrets. Stepping across the threshold was a shift in gravity. The light inside was soft, filtered through aged paper, silencing the sharp tap of his leather shoes. The owner, a quiet woman named Y/N, was perched on a step ladder, shelving a tower of faded hardcovers. Her movements were fluid; her cotton apron seemed immune to the tension he carried. She descended without a word, her eyes meeting his. They were steady, non-judgmental, accustomed to studying complicated plots. Seungmin ignored the vibrant fiction, walking straight to the back wall marked "Philosophy." He pulled a volume not for its title, but for its imposing weight and the thick, protective dust jacket. His visits became ritual. Every Tuesday afternoon, like the turning of a meticulous cog. He never sat. He patrolled. Seungmin didn't read the books; he critiqued the arrangement. He saw the logic of her seemingly random placements. A book on Byzantine architecture placed next to a memoir of a retired spy. Both about impossible structures built on fragile foundations. He never spoke of this recognition, only corrected minute errors: a book leaning, a shelf label slightly askew. He restored order where she had allowed freedom. The week was a disaster. His immaculate plans had fractured. He arrived on Friday, two days off schedule, without his briefcase. His dark clothing was rumpled, his shirt collar slightly unbuttoned. Y/N brought him a coffee, black, just how he liked it. He nodded in approval of the perfectly warmed drink