The scent of rain still clung to Y/N’s jacket as she slid the hanok door shut behind her, muting the city’s evening murmur. Inside, the air was thick with the earthy comfort of doenjang jjigae and the quieter, more persistent scent of medicine. Her grandfather lay on his yo, eyes closed, breath a shallow rhythm beneath the thin blanket. Her grandmother looked up from darning socks near the low table, the worry lines around her eyes deepening as she took in Y/N’s damp hair and the lingering tension in her posture.

"Long day, child?" Halmeoni asked, her voice a soft rasp. "The Jeon delivery went alright?" The unspoken question – Did you see him again? – hung in the warm air.

"It was fine," Y/N replied, her voice carefully even. She knelt at the low table, the steam from the stew warming her chilled face. "Delivered. Paid." She omitted the crisp note left untouched on her counter, the unsettling intensity, the crumpled leaflet burning a hole in her pocket. She served two bowls, the rich broth swirling, then hesitated before filling a third for herself.

Silence stretched, filled only by the soft clink of spoons and her grandfather’s faint breathing. Y/N ate mechanically, the flavours muted. The image of Jungkook kneeling in the rain, the stark contrast of the Sejong Building address, the sheer, impossible specificity of the job requirements – they churned inside her. The shop ledger, tucked under the counter, whispered of dwindling numbers. The medicine bottles on the shelf gleamed like tiny, expensive tombstones.

She set her spoon down with a soft clink. Both grandparents looked at her, Halmeoni pausing her darning, Halabeoji’s eyelids fluttering open to reveal cloudy, tired eyes.

"Halmeoni, Halabeoji," she began, her tone respectful but devoid of its usual flat certainty. She kept her gaze fixed on the grain of the wooden table. "Something... came up today. An opportunity." She unzipped her jacket pocket, the sound loud in the quiet room, and pulled out the crumpled leaflet. Smoothing it carefully on the table, she slid it towards her grandmother. "A translation job. Urgent. Very specific languages." She didn't list them; the bold print screamed its demands. "The pay... it would be significant. It’s tomorrow. Nearby."

Halmeoni picked up the leaflet, her gnarled fingers tracing the bold text. Her lips moved silently as she read the languages, her brow furrowing slightly. She glanced at her husband. He struggled to push himself up slightly on one elbow, his breath catching. Y/N moved instinctively to adjust his pillow, her hand brushing his frail shoulder. He gave a minute nod of thanks, his eyes fixed on his wife.

"Fourteen languages," Halmeoni murmured, not looking up. It wasn't a question. She knew. "And these... you have them all. Like breathing." She finally looked at Y/N, her gaze sharp, assessing. "Significant pay. What does that mean?"

"Enough," Y/N stated simply. The word held volumes. Enough for the better medicines Halabeoji needed but they hesitated to buy. Enough to ease the constant, silent worry in Halmeoni’s eyes. Enough to maybe, just maybe, lift the crushing weight of uncertainty. "Enough to help. Properly."

The silence returned, heavier now. Halabeoji closed his eyes, a faint sigh escaping him. He knew the shop’s reality better than anyone. The days when customers trickled in for passport photos or to collect old negatives, not the bustling trade of his healthier years. The ledger Y/N meticulously kept told a story of slow decline.

Halmeoni placed the leaflet back on the table, smoothing its creases with a tenderness reserved for precious things. "This shop," she said, her voice low but firm, "it is your Halabeoji’s life’s work. His heart, sitting on that dusty counter." She looked at her husband. His eyes were open again, fixed on the ceiling, but Y/N saw the sheen of moisture gathering. "But his heart," Halmeoni continued, her voice thickening slightly, "it needs medicine more than it needs customers right now. His body needs rest, not the worry of ledgers he can barely see."

Y/N’s throat tightened. "I could still manage the shop," she offered, the words feeling hollow even as she spoke them. "Mornings. Evenings. The job... it might not be long hours." But she knew the posting screamed intensity. Urgent. Confidential. Immediate Start.

Halabeoji coughed, a dry, rattling sound. He turned his head slowly, his gaze finally meeting Y/N’s. There was no reproach, only a profound weariness and a deep, aching sadness. "Y/N-ah," he whispered, his voice a fragile thread. He reached out a trembling hand, not towards her, but towards the small, frayed ledger that always sat near his yo. He nudged it slightly in her direction. A silent surrender. A father’s heartbreak that his dream had become a burden. "Use it," he rasped. "Use it... for the numbers. For when... you cannot be here." He closed his eyes again, the effort draining him.

Halmeoni reached over and covered his trembling hand with hers. She looked back at Y/N, her own eyes bright with unshed tears, but her jaw was set. "You apply," she stated, her voice regaining its practical strength. "You go tomorrow. You show them what fourteen tongues sound like in one clever head." She managed a small, watery smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "This shop... it will wait. It’s stone and wood and memories. Your Halabeoji... he needs more than memories right now. He needs his granddaughter secure. Go."

The permission, wrapped in love and sacrifice and the scent of stew and medicine, settled over Y/N. It wasn't excitement that flickered within her, but a cold, sharp sense of duty shifting, refocusing. The shop ledger felt heavier than stone. The crumpled leaflet felt like a lifeline thrown from a treacherous shore. She nodded, once, unable to speak past the tightness in her chest.

"Thank you," she managed, the words rough. She picked up her bowl again, the stew now lukewarm. The silence returned, no longer charged with tension, but filled with the quiet, monumental weight of a changed path. Outside, the first stars pricked through the Seoul haze, indifferent to the small dramas unfolding beneath the worn roof of the hanok. Tomorrow, Suite 3B. The key shaped like her mind. The door she had to open. For them.

| 𝐖 |

The Sejong Building gleamed under the midday sun, a monument of steel and tinted glass that felt leagues away from the worn wood and chemical scent of her grandfather's shop. Y/N smoothed the lapels of her single, borrowed blazer – charcoal grey, slightly too big at the shoulders – and adjusted the strap of her worn leather satchel containing her meticulously formatted resume. Taking a steadying breath that did little to calm the tremor in her fingers, she pushed through the revolving doors.

The lobby was a shock of cool, conditioned air and polished marble. A vast, minimalist space echoed with the discreet clicks of heels and the low murmur of hushed conversations. A reception desk, long and curved like a frozen wave, dominated the far wall, manned by three impeccably groomed individuals. Y/N felt instantly conspicuous, her sensible flats silent on the gleaming floor, her presence jarring against the sleek corporate anonymity.

She approached the central receptionist, a young woman with a flawless bun and a smile calibrated to polite neutrality. "Good morning," Y/N said, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet. "I'm here for an interview? For the Multilingual Translator position. Choi Y/N."

The receptionist's smile didn't waver. "One moment, please." Her fingers flew over a sleek keyboard, eyes scanning a large monitor hidden just below the desk's lip. The screen's glow reflected faintly in her glasses. A slight frown touched her brow. She picked up a phone handset, turning slightly away and murmuring too low for Y/N to catch. "...Choi Y/N... translator application... yes, listed... but the timing..." A pause. "Understood."

Replacing the handset, the receptionist turned back, her professional mask firmly back in place, though her eyes held a flicker of something – curiosity? Assessment? "Ms. Choi. Please proceed to the third floor." She gestured towards a bank of elevators to the left. "Take the elevator to level three. Mr. Jeon's office is at the end of the corridor. Last door on the right."

Jeon.