CHAPTER 1

The Bitter Aftertaste

The Glow Ad Agency is filled with the smell of burnt coffee and ambition. Lee Shi-woo is staring at his monitors, his fingers flying across the keys as he puts the finishing touches on the "Global Tech" rebranding campaign. It’s a million-dollar project, the kind that creates legends.

Shi-woo is known for two things: his impeccable design eye and his "silent fuse." When things go wrong, he doesn't explode; he turns into a ghost, his face a stony mask of repressed fury that scares the interns more than any shouting match could.

A soft, manicured hand rests on his shoulder. It’s Han Sora. She’s beautiful, sharp, and currently, she’s "crying"—or at least, she’s mastered the art of looking like she is.

"Shi-woo-ya... the Director is going to fire me," she whispers, leaning in so close he can smell her expensive perfume. She slides a thin, grease-stained file onto his desk. "He gave me the Midnight Table account. It’s a tiny restaurant in an alley named ELIXERIA but the owner is Kang Min-ho."

Shi-woo freezes. Everyone in the industry knows that name. Five years ago, Kang Min-ho was the "Golden Chef" of Seoul, a three-Michelin-star prodigy. Then, his boyfriend, who was also his business manager

embezzled his funds and ran off with a rival restaurateur. Min-ho vanished, reappearing only to open a five-seat diner where he reportedly throws out anyone who asks for a menu.

"He’s rejected every contract," Sora sobs. "If I don't get him to sign this partnership for the 'Hidden Masters' campaign, I’m done. But you... you’re so hardworking. You never give up. If you took the Tech project and gave me this... no, I shouldn't ask."

Shi-woo looks at the "Global Tech" file—his pride and joy. Then he looks at Sora’s trembling lip. His misplaced sense of chivalry, fueled by a crush he’s nurtured for years, overrides his logic.

"I’ll do it," he says, his jaw tightening. "I’ll get the signature. You take the Tech project. Just... don't cry."

Sora’s "tears" vanish instantly into a dazzling smile. "You’re the best, Shi-woo! I knew I could count on you!"

The next evening, Shi-woo finds himself in a dark, narrow alley in the Jongno district. A small wooden sign reads: Elixeria.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of searing beef and ginger. There are only five stools at a heavy wooden counter. Behind it stands Kang Min-ho. He wears a simple white apron over a white t-shirt, his hair swept back, his eyes cold and focused on the blade in his hand. He is slicing tuna with a precision that feels lethal.

"We’re full," Min-ho says without looking up. His voice is a low, raspy baritone that sounds like it hasn't laughed in years.

"I'm not here to eat. I'm Lee Shi-woo from Glow Ad," Shi-woo says, stepping up to the counter. He places the contract down, but he does it gently, sensing the volatile energy in the room. "We want to feature your restaurant in our...."

"No." Min-ho’s knife clicks against the cutting board. He finally looks up. His eyes are hollow, guarded by a wall of cynicism that took years to build. To him, love is a lie and "partnerships" are just betrayals waiting to happen. "I don't do ads. I don't do 'features.' I make food for people who are hungry, not for people who want to take pictures of it."

"This isn't just an ad, it’s a tribute to your—"

"I said no," Min-ho interrupts, his gaze narrowing. "Get out before I lose my temper. I don't like the way you smell."

"The way I smell?" Shi-woo’s pulse begins to throb in his neck. His anger issue starts as a prickle under his skin. "I’m wearing professional cologne."

"You smell like a corporate slave who’s trying too hard," Min-ho says, turning back to his stove. "It ruins the aroma of my dashi."

Shi-woo’s face turns a dark shade of red, but he refuses to give in. He knows if he leaves now, Sora loses her job. He pulls out a stool at the very end of the counter, the furthest corner from the heat, and sits down. He opens his laptop, the blue light clashing with the warm amber glow of the restaurant.

Min-ho pauses, a ladelful of soup mid-air. "What are you doing?"

"I have twenty-nine days left on my deadline," Shi-woo says, his voice flat and vibrating with suppressed rage. He doesn't look at the Chief; he stares at his screen. "I’ll sit here every night until you sign. I won't speak. I won't order. I’ll just be here."

Min-ho stares at the back of the younger man’s head. He sees the tension in Shi-woo's shoulders—a familiar, stubborn rigidity. He scoffs, a bitter sound.

"Fine. Sit until your legs rot. Just don't get in my way."

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