Song Minah, a quiet white-collar worker, blended into the background at one of Seoul's top accounting firms. Every day, she arrived early, stayed late, and worked harder than anyone else—but not for recognition. It was survival. She did everything asked of her, from fetching coffee to printing documents, like a living post-it note with no voice to object.
People whispered behind her back. Some laughed. Some pitied her. But none understood her.
Born with selective mutism after a childhood trauma no one bothered to investigate, Minah navigated life in silence. Her colleagues took advantage, but it was her boss who was the cruelest.
He didn't believe she was truly mute. Often, he'd call her into his office behind closed doors—pressuring her, threatening her, even forcing her to participate in shady company dealings she didn't understand. His suspicion turned to cruelty. And there was no one she could tell.
That night, the staff gathered at a popular bar in downtown Seoul. Minah came as expected, wearing a modest skirt and blouse, keeping her head down like always. She didn't drink much—but someone else made that decision for her.
She began to feel warm. Too warm. Her body was flushed and her vision blurred. Something wasn't right. Excusing herself, she stumbled toward the restroom, trying to steady her breath.
The door creaked shut behind her—and then, she wasn't alone.
Her boss followed her in, locking the door behind him. His tone was mocking. His presence overwhelming. And then he started humiliating her—words slurred, hands grabbing. She tried to push him away, but her strength was slipping with every second.
Suddenly—crash. The door burst open, flying off its hinges.
Minah's boss hit the tiled floor with a thud, knocked out cold.
A man stood in the doorway. Tall. Dressed in black. Shadows cloaked his face, but his aura was unmistakable—dangerous, powerful.
Without a word, he stepped forward and lifted Minah gently into his arms. She was too dazed to resist. The last thing she saw before blacking out was the cold, unreadable gaze of the man who held her like something precious.
The man who had just torn her world apart to save her.
___
Minah's eyes fluttered open. The ceiling above her wasn't familiar—white, minimal, elegant. Not a hospital. Not her shared apartment.
Where… was she?
She sat up abruptly, only to be met by a sudden wave of dizziness. A blanket slipped off her shoulders.
"You're awake," a gentle voice said.
Startled, she turned her head and saw a young man standing by the door, holding a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a tray with a bowl in the other. He had a kind face, dark hair slightly tousled, and a cautiously friendly smile.
"I'm Hyun Soo," he said, walking toward her slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. "I was told to give you this."
He set the tray down in front of her and nudged it gently closer—a bowl of piping hot instant noodles. The smell was rich and savory, curling through the air like a warm hug. But Minah didn't move.
She stared at the tray, then at him. Her hands gripped her skirt tightly, and she instinctively shifted away, spine pressing against the headboard. Her breath hitched.
Hyun Soo blinked. "Ah… does it not suit your taste? I thought everyone loved this brand." He gave a sheepish chuckle. "Even my boss said it's his favorite hangover cure."
Minah said nothing. She couldn't. But her eyes betrayed her fear—wide, distant, tremoring. Not from the room's temperature, but from the echoes of what had happened hours earlier.
The shame. The humiliation. The hands she didn't want.
She flinched when another voice joined them.
A deeper voice. Calm. Low. Commanding.
"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."
Minah froze.
The voice came from the far end of the room, where the curtains cast long shadows across the floor. A tall figure stood with his back to her, hands in his trouser pockets. The faint outline of his sharp suit and broad shoulders gave away nothing—except that he didn't belong to any ordinary world.
"One of your colleagues spiked your drink," he continued, voice smooth like velvet but with a quiet edge. "The noodle helps with hangover symptoms."
Minah's breath caught. She didn't dare ask who he was. Even if she had the words, they wouldn't come.
He didn't turn around. Didn't need to.
"Don't ask anything yet," he added, as if reading her thoughts. "The noodle's going to get soggy soon."
A pause.
Then, softer—just a whisper of warmth in his otherwise cold tone:
"You're safe now, Minah."
Her eyes widened.He knew her name.