Left alone, Caesar’s face went almost blank—so flat it erased the sweetness from a moment ago.
He shut the open door and slid back into the driver’s seat.
A message pinged on the car’s Bluetooth-connected display. The sender was his younger cousin, Gaia O’n.
Kay, the person you mentioned—this one, right?
I looked into him since you were curious, but why are we suddenly digging into the O’n Church?
Not long ago you said we should leave the O’ns alone because it’s safer for self-protection.
The kinswoman with a goddess’s name used “the O’ns” instead of “the family,” as if O’n were its own species.
Did you change your mind now, or did you see something?
You’ve got the best eyes among us. Speak as the family head. We should be sharing intel among our own kind.
Gaia prodded him several more times, impatient. Caesar didn’t answer right away. He only stared, unfocused, at the screen, lost in thought.
When minutes passed without a reply, Gaia sent another nudge:
What future did you see?
Seeing the question, Caesar let out a long sigh.
What future, indeed.
He closed his one remaining eye—and a hopeless scene skimmed across his inner vision.
So this is how the seed I left behind comes back to me.
Chaos flickered by. In the silent-movie reel of his foresight, someone’s mouth worked soundlessly: Jeheon Han, gravely injured and in pain.
“Tera, it’s tangled again. I think I messed up. If I’d known, I shouldn’t have bulldozed in… but when he looked excited seeing me—how was I supposed to hold back…”
Gone was the composed adult from earlier; he sounded dazed, almost unhinged. He muttered like a madman for a while, nerves fraying.
After a long, disordered stretch, he breathed:
“Is this life blown too?”
His foot rose onto the SUV’s accelerator.
If I hit the outer wall at full speed, I could die.
Either the front end would crumple and kill him, or the battery would blow and the car would burn.
He flexed his toes on the pedal, thinking hard, then set his foot back.
“Just a little longer… Hold out a little longer.”
At least there’s one thing I really like… so hold a little longer.
If it still fails, then I die and rewind. Simple.
Let’s gather a bit more information first.
With that, Caesar reached for the display.
Time to answer Gaia—late, but not too late.
I was so drained I shoved the thermal bag into the fridge and let the day die.
The fatigue bled straight into tomorrow.
I wanted to call in sick—my brain felt scooped out—but I couldn’t. If I skipped, McQueen would have to cover for me.
I still haven’t even refunded him—the transfer limit on my payroll account is capped, and I’ve had no time to visit the bank…
Clutching my scattered mind, I dragged myself to work. The one mercy: daytime wasn’t too rough.
One person came to swap a dress they’d bought Friday night and worn to a club—said it was ruined and wanted a new one. Another brought in a perfectly fine piece and demanded a refund claiming it was defective…
The first tried to walk off with a new dress and got handed to the police, so not my problem. The second got a refund—easier to refund and ask the brand to exchange for a new item than refuse and risk a lawsuit.
From the look of it, she wanted the money for something she had her eye on.
I steered the small talk with “your perfume smells incredible” and teased out the goal.
A hardcore perfume lover. She was eyeing the new launch—so that was probably it.
Seems she wanted the refund to fund that.
Then there’s only one move: walk her to the perfume counter.
In return for recommending something great, I told her I could help her buy at the employee price today… Her eyes went wide.
End result: the “refund” customer dropped close to $500 (about ₩700,000) at the perfume counter.
She left beaming, the manager praised me—so I could have called it a smooth day, except…
I glanced down at the time: 5:45 p.m.
Normally I’d think, looks like I’ll actually get out on time.
…but I’d had a bad dream.
And whenever the dream’s bad, I’ve never once gone home without a hitch.
Trouble’s coming at clock-out.
I braced and kept working.
Right on cue, just before eight, a customer wandered in—drunk, high, who knows.
Watching him lurch like a zombie, I swallowed.
Fuck. If we can’t communicate, I can’t win. I make my living with my tongue; they didn’t hire me for brawling like Security.
But I couldn’t leave him loose among other customers. If guests started a fight, it’d be a mess.
This is exactly what I’m paid to handle, so—talk him down first.
I slid up to the vacant-eyed man and spoke softly:
“Sir, for everyone’s comfort, may I help you move to another area? We have a lounge where customers can—”
Before I finished, he lunged and clamped a fist on my lapel with a sharp rip of sound. Then he stared, pupils hazy, like his mind had checked out.
Aggression. Ecstasy or cocaine. Fuck—I was hoping it was alcohol.
Instinct kicked in: I crossed my forearms in an X over my face. This face is exactly what my salary walks on.
If I take a shot and crack my nose, I’m done.
Lead with a handsome face and the nightmares behave. Humans judge looks more than they admit.
Without this face, I wouldn’t be paid what I make now.
Seeing my guard go up, McQueen—watching from a distance—shouted, “Security!”
He’s going to catch strays and make enemies and still he steps in—saint of a guy…
Eyes stinging, I thought: you’re doing so much for me…
I’m doing so much, too… Is this month cursed? Why so many noisy incidents…
Even so, I ran my three-inch blade of a tongue to buy time.
“Sir, please calm down. If you’re dissatisfied with service, after you speak with our manager we can provide—”
He didn’t let me finish. The drugged man grinned slackly and muttered:
“I know you.”
“…”
“I’ve watched you go work out every day. You’re very thorough about your self-care.”
Bloodshot eyes bulged, fixed on me. He bared open hostility and yanked my collar harder.
More than the pressure at my throat, his eyes suffocated me.
“Must be nice. Some of us grew up without parents and turned out like this.”
“…”
“And some of us, born to the right parents, land a nice job even with one eye. Huh? What’s it like living easy?”
Ah. Contempt. And thick, choking inferiority underneath.
The line “picked the wrong target, didn’t you?” crawled right up my throat.
“Fucking Asians. Bunch of pampered sissies raised by clingy parents—you can see it written on your faces. I hate it.”
In that stunned beat, Security arrived.
“Off him!”
Two muscular guards—had to be 250 pounds (about 110 kg) each—charged and body-slammed him to the floor.
“Call the cops!”
“Move and we’ll light you up with a Taser!”
He’d swaggered in front of someone his height and build—an East Asian like me. Faced with two big Europeans pinning him, he threw up his hands immediately.
Oh, so you play nice with your own? Trash.
Meanwhile McQueen grabbed me and pulled me back.
“Han!”
“…Mac.”
“You okay?”
Times like this are exactly when I should smile bright and say I’m fine. That’s how you don’t burden people. But today my body felt like wet laundry.
In a thin voice I muttered, “Why’s my luck so bad lately? Third violent incident this month.”
“Tell me about it. You’re not hurt, right?”
“I’m not.”
He didn’t bristle at my sighing. He checked me over, then asked, plain and even:
“Want to take time off? It’s been noisy lately—could double it as a counseling day…”
“Tomorrow’s my day off. That’s enough.”
“Isn’t one day too short?”
“It’s not like I didn’t know the job gets rough.”
“Han…”
To change the air, I made a point of glancing at my smartwatch.
“Time to clock out.”
McQueen immediately played along.
“Head home. I’ll handle the wrap-up.”
“Will you?”
“Just file the report to the manager in the morning. Go. Rest.”
“Thanks.”
He’s got a sixth sense for people; he was matching me, I’m sure.
I didn’t refuse the kindness. I changed out of my uniform and went home.
Even pretending otherwise, the stress had my focus shredded. Parking in the garage, I scraped my baby’s rear bumper and felt even worse.
With the look of a man who’d lived too long, I trudged to the door.
Inside, sensor lights washed the place in a dim glow.
Why is this house so barren. Sparse furniture, barely any stuff.
Just last year I was thrilled to buy a nice place young, and today it looked pitiful.
“…Should I get an aquarium or something.”
Staring at the emptiness brought back that guy’s words. I “looked like someone raised in a proper home,” was it?
Would someone like that feel lonely staring at this bleak scene?
I gazed at the hollow rooms for a few more minutes, then shook myself.
Only then did I realize I hadn’t eaten dinner.
…I should eat something.
It was too late to order in—places would be closed—and I didn’t have the energy to cook.
Gnaw a raw carrot? …If I do, I’ll crash with low blood sugar by morning.
Thinking that, I swung open the fridge.
Front and center sat the thermal bag.
Right. The thing Caesar gave me.
Well, that’s convenient. I unpacked it—and a breath slipped out.
“…Huh.”
Individual portions, each in a translucent silicone container, perfect for heating one serving. Each lid had a sticky note with the cook date, ingredients, and heating instructions.
In a word, care.
“….”
I stared at it for a long time, then picked up the pasta labeled “Spaghetti al Limone.”
It was meant to be eaten cold, without reheating.
I grabbed a fork, twirled a heap, and the lemon’s tang stung my nose as it rose.
…Delicious.
It hit like it had been tuned to my palate; every shred of lemon zest made my eyes smart.
I didn’t even sit down. I stood in the kitchen and finished the whole plate.