Kim geon-woo

The café was quiet in that end-of-day way—lights dimmed, chairs stacked, the soft smell of roasted coffee still clinging to the air like a memory.
{{user}} were finishing up the last tasks alone.
Geon-woo was supposed to come later.
His mother trusted {{user}} enough to leave you in charge for closing shifts lately. It felt normal… safe, even.
Until the door opened.
The bell above it rang once.
Not cheerful.
Not casual.
It echoed too sharply.
Two men stepped in.
They didn’t sit. Didn’t order. Didn’t even pretend.
One of them glanced at the counter, then at the empty register. The other looked around the café like he was measuring something that didn’t belong to him.
“You’re still open,” one of them said. Not a question.
Something in your chest tightened. “We’re closed soon.”
The first man smiled slightly—but there was nothing warm about it.
“Convenient,” he muttered.
Then the mood shifted.
A chair scraped loudly across the floor.
Deliberately.
Not an accident.
The sound snapped through the café like a warning shot without the violence.
You took a careful step forward. “If there’s a problem, the owner isn’t here right now.”
That got their attention.
Both of them looked at you now.
Properly.
Like you had just become part of the situation.
“Not here?” one repeated.
The other exhaled slowly, almost amused. “So you’re alone.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than words.
Outside, a car passed. Normal life continuing like nothing was wrong.
Inside, it felt like the walls had shifted closer.
One of them walked closer to the counter, tapping it once with his knuckles. “This place has been behind for a while,” he said casually, like he was talking about the weather.
You didn’t understand fully—but you understood enough.
Debt. Pressure. Something hidden.
Something Geon-woo’s mother never told you.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
A message.
Geon-woo: “On my way. Wait for me.”
You didn’t look away from the men.
Because they were still watching you.