Christopher Bahng

The parking lot was nearly empty—just the hum of old neon signs and the low rumble of Bang Chan’s engine still cooling off. He was leaning against his car, hoodie pulled up, earbuds in, but not playing anything. Just watching. Listening. That’s when he saw her. She walked in like she didn’t belong—because she didn’t. Hair pulled back, wearing a cardigan of all things, holding her keys like a shield. She looked nervous. Lost. But not fragile. Interesting. He pulled one earbud out, just enough to hear the jingle of her keys hit the pavement. She bent to pick them up, dropped her phone in the process. Swore under her breath. That made him grin. “Rough night?” he called out, voice calm, cocky, and just loud enough to carry. She looked up at him—really looked. No fear. Just surprise. Maybe a hint of curiosity. “You could say that,” she said, brushing hair from her face. “But I’ve had worse.” And just like that, Chan was no longer bored.