CHAPTER 3

The Ghost of a Stool

The following day, 6:00 PM arrived at The Elixeria with a heavy, unnatural silence.

Usually, Chief Kang Min-ho relished the quiet it was his armor against a world that had betrayed him. But tonight, the rhythmic thump-thump of his knife against the wooden board felt out of sync.

He found his gaze drifting. It wasn't intentional, but every time he reached for the sea salt or adjusted the flame on the range, his eyes flickered toward the corner stool. It was empty. The dark wood of the counter sat bare, no longer illuminated by the cool blue glow of a laptop or the tense, vibrating presence of the "suit" who refused to give up.

"He’s not coming," Min-ho muttered to himself, throwing a handful of aromatics into a smoking pan. The sizzle was aggressive, but it couldn't drown out the sound he had heard the night before—that dull, sickening thud from the alleyway after the door had slammed. He remembered the look in Shi-woo’s eyes before he bolted: a mixture of shattered pride and a raw, dangerous heat.

An hour passed. Two. The restaurant had a few regulars a weary salaryman and a young couple but Min-ho’s focus was shot. He over-seasoned a broth. He almost burnt a reduction.

"Chief, you're off tonight," Ji-hoon, the part-time server, whispered as he dropped off a stack of clean plates.

"Is it because of the aggressive guy? Honestly, the corner feels weird without him. It’s like the air is too still."

"Don't be ridiculous," Min-ho snapped, though his heart gave a strange, uneasy twitch. "He finally realized he was wasting his time. He’s probably back at his office being a 'hero' for that woman."

But as Min-ho closed the shop that night, he found himself walking to the end of the alley. In the dim glow of the streetlamp, he saw it: dark, dried copper spatters on the grey brick wall.

The next evening, Min-ho convinced himself the saga was over. He prepped his station with an icy resolve. He wouldn't look at the door. He wouldn't care.

Chime.

The bell rang at exactly 6:00 PM.

Min-ho didn't look up immediately. He watched the steam rise from a pot of dashi, his pulse thrumming in his ears. Footsteps slow, heavy, and slightly uneven approached the counter. The corner stool creaked under the weight of a body.

Min-ho finally lifted his head. Lee Shi-woo was there. He looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. His skin was sallow, and his dark hair was uncharacteristically messy, falling over his eyes as if to hide them. He didn't open his laptop with his usual efficiency. Instead, he moved with a painful stiffness.

Then, Min-ho saw it. Shi-woo’s right hand was wrapped in thick, clumsy layers of white gauze. Even through the heavy wrapping, Min-ho could see the faint yellow staining of antiseptic and the swelling that made the hand look twice its size.

Shi-woo reached for his laptop with his left hand, his fingers trembling as he tried to hit the power button. He was struggling, his jaw locked in a grimace of pure, unadulterated stubbornness.

Min-ho felt a wave of irritation, but beneath it, a sharp, piercing needle of pity. "You’re an idiot," he said, his voice dropping the usual bite, replaced by a low, rough edge.

Shi-woo flinched but didn't look up. "I have twenty-seven days left," he rasped. His voice was dry, like sandpaper. "I told you. I don't break promises."

"You broke your hand instead," Min-ho countered, stepping closer until he was standing directly across from the injured man. "Is she worth that? Pitting your flesh against a brick wall because I told you the truth?"

Shi-woo finally looked up. His eyes weren't angry this time they were exhausted. "It wasn't for her. It was for me. I needed to feel something louder than your voice."

The honesty of the statement hit Min-ho like a physical blow. He reached under the counter and pulled out a clean, chilled towel and a glass of honey-lemon water he had prepared for his own throat. He set them down in front of Shi-woo.

"Drink," Min-ho commanded. "And put the towel on your forehead. You look like you're about to pass out on my counter, and I don't have the energy to drag your carcass out of here."

Shi-woo stared at the glass, then at Min-ho. For the first time, the "Monster Chief" didn't look like a monster. He looked like someone who recognized the scent of a fresh wound.

"I'm not leaving," Shi-woo whispered, taking a shaky sip.

"I know," Min-ho sighed, turning back to his stove. "Just... try not to bleed on the wood. It’s expensive."

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