I've received plenty of threats in my life.
Some came through cold, concise text messages. Some were delivered directly by someone brave enough to look me in the eye while saying them. Others didn't need words at all—a corpse left outside the door was enough to deliver a clear and final message.
For years, I never gave them much thought. Threats were part of life in the world I inhabited. Like breathing. Like a heartbeat. Something that existed but didn't need constant attention.
But that morning was different.
Because for the first time in the history of the threats I'd received, a message wasn't directed at me. It was aimed at someone who didn't even know she was standing in the middle of a game far bigger and darker than anything she had ever imagined.
I stared at Seo-yeon's photo in my hand. She was walking out of the hospital with a bag over her shoulder, the afternoon sun illuminating her tired-looking face. She didn't know someone was following her at dangerously close range. She didn't know a camera with a zoom lens was ready to capture the moment. She didn't know her name had now become a tool being used to pressure the person who loved her.
I clenched the photo until its edges nearly folded, until her face blurred beneath my fingers, which were balled into fists with anger I'd never felt before.
My phone rang. Do-hyun. I answered without waiting.
“I'm at home.”
“There’s something you need to see. Come to the office.”
I didn't ask. From his tone, I knew this wasn't something that could be explained over the phone.
Do-hyun was standing in front of the large screen when I arrived. Photos were scattered across it like a story told in the most horrifying visual language imaginable. I recognized one immediately. Then two. Three.
Seo-yeon leaving the hospital. Seo-yeon getting into her car. Seo-yeon walking around her apartment complex. Seo-yeon, Seo-yeon, Seo-yeon.
There were also photos of the hospital from different angles. Close-ups of her apartment. Photos of the car she often used, with its license plate clearly visible.
I stared at it all and felt something cold and measured begin to crawl up the back of my neck.
“When did this start?” I asked, my voice flat and controlled.
“Three days ago.”
“Three days?” I turned toward him. “Why are you only telling me now?”
“We only just confirmed that everything was connected and not a series of random coincidences.”
I walked closer to the screen, studying every photo at the expense of my composure. “Who are they?”
“We don't know for sure yet.”
I turned to look Do-hyun straight in the eye. “You don't know? Do-hyun, I don't want to hear words like that again. ‘We don't know’ is what people say when they can't do their jobs.”
“We're looking.”
“Stop using the word ‘are,’” I said, my voice rising—not too loudly, but enough to make the room feel smaller. “I need answers. Not promises. Not estimates. Answers.”
Do-hyun raised his hands in surrender. “We'll get them.”
I looked at Seo-yeon's photo again. “Don't touch anyone.”
“Hyung?”
“If they want me to react in a panic, don't give them what they want. They want me worried. They want me angry. They want me to make a mistake.”
I let out a hollow little laugh. “I'm panicking. But I won't let them see it.”
For the next several hours, I tried to piece together a puzzle whose pieces didn't fit. The more information came in—and all of it arrived slowly, in small, unsatisfying fragments—the less sense the bigger picture made.
There had been no direct attack on Black Hawk. No murder intended to make a statement. No clear demand for money or negotiable request. They wanted only one thing, something that sounded simple but carried immeasurable weight.
I had to distance myself from Black Hawk.
That meant there was something—or someone—they were afraid of. Someone who thought that if they forced me out of the organization, their problems would disappear. Or perhaps someone who wanted me separated from the institution that gave me power, because that power was what kept them from touching me.
A conversation with my boss resurfaced in my mind: *If you really love her, don't drag her into this world.*
I rubbed my face with my palm, trying to drive away an exhaustion that was more than physical. It was emotional, too. Too many secrets. Too many truths hidden behind beautiful words. And all of it, every connection in this complex network, led back to one woman standing on the dividing line between two worlds.
I picked up my phone. Seo-yeon's name appeared easily in my contacts—I didn't even need to type it. My mind always remembered her name. I nearly pressed call. My finger hovered over the screen.
Then I reminded myself of the decision I'd made. Keep my distance. Give both of us a chance to stay outside this game, at least for a while. I locked the screen.
Five seconds later, my phone rang.
Seo-yeon.
I stared at her name on the screen as though it were a question I couldn't answer honestly. At last, I accepted the call.
“Hello,” I said, and I could hear the tension in my own voice.
“Why didn't you answer before?”
“I'm working.”
“This early? It's only eight.”
She fell silent. I could imagine her expression—concern hidden behind a question that was trying to sound casual. “Are you okay?”
I looked at the photo on the desk. “I'm fine.”
“You're lying.”
I smiled faintly, even though she couldn't see it. “You know me too well.”
“Or you're too easy to read.”
I pictured her face—her observant eyes, her lips slightly curved in an expression of genuine concern. “Are you busy today?” she asked.
I was silent for a few seconds longer than I should have been. “Yes.”
“So we can't meet?”
I closed my eyes. “I don't think so.”
Silence. Long. Heavy. “Why?”
“I have some things to take care of.”
She said “okay” in a different tone—deeper, heavier, filled with everything left unsaid. I heard the disappointment in that simple word. I heard the questions she didn't ask. I heard the doubt that might have just planted a seed in her mind.
“Seo-yeon, I may be very busy for the next few days.”
“How long?”
“I don't know.”
She didn't force me to explain. She wasn't angry. She didn't press me aggressively for more answers. She simply accepted it, in a way that made guilt bite even deeper. “Take care of yourself,” I said.
“You too,” she replied, and the call ended.
I stared at my phone. It hurt more than a conversation that short should have. I'd left many people behind in my life. I'd disappointed people. I'd even made people cry. But nothing had ever made my chest feel as tight as hearing that woman try to hide her disappointment behind a patience that felt more dangerous than anger.
Three days passed in a routine designed to keep me away from her.
I didn't see her. I didn't contact her. I didn't even read her messages—I knew she was sending them because the notifications kept appearing, but I didn't have the courage to open them and read what she'd written.
I buried myself in work. Meeting after meeting. Report after report. Short trips to places that didn't matter, for problems that weren't urgent. I tried to convince myself that keeping my distance was the best way to protect her. That if I wasn't near her, the people watching her would have no reason to hurt her.
It turned out that logic was wrong.
The opposite was true. The farther I withdrew, the more I realized how much space she had already taken up in my life. When I ate, especially at lunch, which we usually spent together, the space across from me felt empty. When I saw coffee, especially coffee still warm in a cup, I remembered the way she held it—with both hands, like someone searching for warmth. When I crossed the Han River on the way somewhere, I couldn't help remembering our conversation there, about the little house she dreamed of, about the simple life she wanted far from the city's destruction.
Even when it rained—and the rain in Seoul that night fell so hard it seemed as if the sky were crying—I remembered the umbrella we shared, the narrow distance between us without actually touching, a presence that felt closer than physical contact.
I hated the fact that someone could become so important, so integral, in such a short time. I hated myself for being unable to stay strong. But what I hated most was denying my need to see her simply because I was afraid.
On the fourth night of the separation I'd chosen for myself, I finally couldn't take it anymore.
I grabbed my car keys and left the office without telling anyone. Do-hyun looked at me with an expression that said he knew exactly where I was going and why, but he was wise enough not to ask.
I stopped across from the hospital at 9:18 p.m. Lights were still on in most of the rooms—life never truly stopped moving at night in a place dedicated to healing. I waited, staring at the main entrance as though I were waiting for a miracle.
A few minutes later, Seo-yeon came out.
She was alone. A bag over her shoulder. A body that looked tired after a long day. And my heart immediately began beating faster just from seeing her.
I almost opened the car door. I almost got out and ran to her. I almost let emotion sweep away logic.
Then a man approached her.
I tensed immediately. He was wearing a dark coat that was too formal for that late hour. He walked straight toward Seo-yeon in a way that made it clear this wasn't a chance encounter. They spoke. Seo-yeon looked uncomfortable—her shoulders slightly raised, her body edging backward, her face open but wary.
Something inside me exploded.
I opened the car door and got out. I walked toward them quickly enough to look interested, but not so slowly that I wasted time. The man saw me first. Our eyes met, and in that instant I could tell he either recognized who I was or at least realized there was something wrong with my presence.
He left immediately.
Seo-yeon turned, and her face completely changed when she saw me. “Tae-jun?”
I stopped in front of her. “Who was he?”
She shook her head quickly. “I don't know.”
“What did he say?”
“He only asked if I was Han Seo-yeon. When I asked who he was, he left. Right before you came.”
I stared at the road where the man had disappeared, my thoughts racing at an unhealthy speed. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes were studying my face. “What about you? Tae-jun, what's going on? You disappeared for three days, and now you're suddenly here.”
I had no reasonable answer. In the end, I said the most honest thing I could. “I missed you.”
She froze. So did I. We both stood in silence before a simple statement that was explosive in its implications.
Seo-yeon lowered her head, and I could see the corners of her lips lift in a small smile. “I missed you too.”
Something inside me collapsed—all the defensive walls I'd built over the years, all the coping mechanisms that had kept me going in this cynical world. None of it seemed to matter when she stood in front of me with that smile.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
“For keeping my distance.”
She shook her head. “I know you had a reason.”
I wanted to say that reason wasn't a good one. That I'd tried to protect her in a way that only made her feel abandoned. But what came out was, “I don't want to put you in danger.”
She was silent for a long time. “I've been in danger since I met you?”
I looked at her. “Don't joke about this.”
“I'm serious,” she said, her tone changing, becoming deeper and more probing. “Tae-jun, something's happening, isn't it?”
I couldn't lie to her—not because I didn't know how to play the game of lies (I knew that game too well), but because I didn't want to lie to her. She stepped a little closer, narrowing the distance between us.
“If something's wrong, tell me,” she said, her voice soft but utterly serious.
I looked into her worried eyes. “I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm afraid.”
She looked shocked to hear the words leave my mouth. “Afraid of what?”
I studied her face intently—every line, every color, every expression she made. “Afraid you'll leave.”
She fell silent in a way that made it seem as though she were processing something deeply important. Then, slowly, she reached for my hand. Her hand was warm. Simple. Yet it made the entire world, spinning at a terrifying speed, suddenly stop.
“I'm here,” she said simply, and there was a promise in her tone that made me want to believe everything would be all right.
I held her hand, and for a while we simply stood there. Two people connected by something that couldn't be fully defined in words. Unaware that someone was watching us from a distance—someone with a phone in hand, a plan already prepared, and the patience to wait for the right moment to carry out a decision made long before we first stood together at the hospital on that rainy night.
That night, I drove her home.
Before she got out of the car, she looked at me in a way that made me feel as though she could see through everything I was trying to hide. “Tomorrow?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” I promised.
“Don't disappear again.”
“I won't.”
She smiled before getting out of the car. I waited until she entered her apartment, until the lights inside came on, until I could see her shadow moving behind the window. Only then did I start the car.
But before I reached the main road, my phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number: *We already warned you.*
I didn't reply. I deleted it.
A second message came almost immediately: *You think we don't know she's your weakness?*
I deleted that one too.
The third: *Ask your boss why he hid his daughter.*
I slammed on the brakes. My blood ran cold. They knew. They didn't just know about Seo-yeon—they knew about her connection to my boss. That meant this threat wasn't only about me or Black Hawk. It was about something far more complex and dangerous.
I called my boss immediately.
He answered on the first ring, as if he'd been waiting for this call. “Yes.”
“I know about Seo-yeon,” I said without a polite introduction.
Silence.
“She’s your daughter. I know now.”
Still no answer.
“I also know you hid her. My question is—why?”
At last, he answered in an extremely calm voice. “Because I wanted her to live.”
“If that's the case, why is she still being targeted? Why is her name being used to threaten me?”
“Because someone found out she exists,” he said, and something in his tone felt like defeat.
“Who?”
“We don't know for sure yet.”
I gave a short, frustrated laugh. “I need answers, not uncertainty.”
“Tae-jun, I just told you what I know. Believe me, I'm digging deeper.”
“Then tell me what you've found.”
Silence again. Then his voice turned much darker. “Don't do anything out of emotion.”
I let out a small laugh that sounded insane. “It's too late. It was too late from the beginning.”
“If you keep staying close to her, they won't just use her to attack Black Hawk or pressure you,” he said, his voice quiet but utterly certain. “They'll use you to destroy her. They'll turn you into a weapon against the person you love most.”
The call ended before I could answer.
I stared at the phone in my hand, processing the implications of his words. They didn't want to kill Seo-yeon. They wanted to make me choose. And if I chose wrong—if I chose to stay with her through all of this—then the person I loved would become the victim of that choice.
The next morning, I arrived at the hospital earlier than usual.
I brought two cups of coffee—one for me, one for Seo-yeon—and waited outside the doctors' lounge with a patience I'd never practiced before.
When she arrived, Seo-yeon's eyes immediately went to the coffee in my hand. “You brought me one?”
I nodded.
She took it with a smile that made everything complicated about the night before feel a little more bearable. “Thank you.”
I smiled. But she saw something in my face that worried her. “You look different.”
“How?”
“Like you're thinking about something very serious.”
I nodded. I almost told her everything. About her father. About Black Hawk. About the threats that kept coming. About my long, dark past. About all the things I didn't want to bring into her bright life.
But when I looked into her eyes—eyes full of trust, concern, and love—I chose not to say anything yet.
“Someday,” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“I'll tell you everything. Every secret. Every truth I've ever hidden. Everything about me that should make you run far away from me.”
She looked at me in a way that made me want to believe she would never run. “Promise?”
I nodded. “I promise.”
She smiled and moved closer. The distance between us narrowed, and I could feel her warmth before she actually touched me.
But at the end of the hall, a man stood with a phone in his hand. He took a photo. Then a message came to his phone. He read it, nodded, and walked away.
The message contained only a few words:
Don't touch them yet. Let them grow closer. We need time to position all the pieces. When the right moment comes, destroy everything so perfectly that nothing can be repaired.
While I was still standing there, completely unaware that someone was counting down the time. Not toward our success, but toward our destruction. Not because we'd done anything wrong, but because someone wanted us to destroy each other from within.