Fly me to the moon

Episode 1

Red light, Green light.

"Seeing you at the diner... that was chance. But seeing you again now? That's fate. And I swear—no matter what it takes—I'll protect that spark in your eyes. I won't let it fade. I'll be by your side, even if the world falls apart around us. You don't have to understand yet... just know this: you're mine. And I'm never letting you go."

■▲⬤

𝕋ℍ𝔼 clatter of plates and silverware echoed through the crowded diner, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations and the occasional bark of a coffee machine steaming in protest. It was louder than usual today—chaotic, even. The booths were packed with regulars swapping stories about their dull nine-to-fives, arguing over sports, or gossiping about someone who hadn't even left the building yet. Laughter came from one corner, while a toddler in another screamed into a crumpled napkin.

Hana weaved between tables like a thread in a loom, her notepad clutched in one hand, a tray balanced in the other. Her sneakers squeaked against the tile floor as she moved quickly, yet carefully, past a group of teenagers who hadn't even looked at the menu yet but were already calling her over.

It was just her and three other waitresses today. And for some reason, it felt like the entire city had chosen this diner for dinner. Hana kept her smile stretched thin but steady—tight around the edges, a practiced expression she had mastered over the past few months. People didn't want tired. They wanted cheerful. Helpful. Polite.

"Ma'am, I asked for no onions," a man at table five muttered without looking up from his phone.

"I'm so sorry—I'll fix that right away," Hana replied, bowing slightly and swallowing the lump rising in her throat. She turned to walk away, only for someone to call her name from across the room. Again.

She pivoted quickly, too quickly—and the tray in her hand tilted. The coffee pot slid, teetering on the edge. She gasped, lunged to catch it, and somehow managed to stop it mid-fall, but a splash of the dark liquid still sloshed out, just shy of a suited man's arm.

The man snapped his head toward her with a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing.

"I-I'm so sorry, sir," she stammered, clutching the tray tighter. Her smile wavered for a moment, faltering under the heat of his glare. She bowed again. "Let me get you a fresh cup."

He said nothing, just huffed and turned back to his plate. She could feel the burn of embarrassment rising in her cheeks as she made her way to the counter, her heartbeat hammering in her chest. Her hands were shaking slightly now, but she couldn't stop. Not yet.

Keep moving. Keep smiling. Don't break.

As she refilled the coffee, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the steel machine—hair frizzed from the heat, cheeks flushed, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

But she turned back around, tray in hand, and pushed forward. Because that's what she always did.

Endure.

Hana rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand, careful not to smudge the faint line of eyeliner she'd applied that morning—what felt like days ago. Her fingers were raw from washing dishes between tables, and her apron had long since surrendered to stains, but she wiped her palms against it anyway, willing herself to look composed. Presentable. Pleasant.

She took in a breath, pulled a smile across her lips like a mask of her own, and approached the lone figure seated in the corner booth.

He was unlike the others—quiet, still, composed in a way that almost felt unnatural in the storm of chatter and clinking cutlery around him. He wore all black, a simple hoodie pulled slightly up around his neck, and a sleek mask covered the lower half of his face. Only his eyes were visible—dark, focused, and piercing as they moved slowly across the menu in front of him.

She stopped just beside his table and gently cleared her throat. "Hello, are you ready to order?"

His eyes snapped up to hers. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

The moment stretched.

And then, before he could stop himself, he spoke—softly, almost like the word had escaped on instinct.

"Beautiful."

Hana blinked. "I—what?"

His eyes widened a little, clearly surprised by his own slip, but he didn't look away. Instead, he let out a low breath, something between a chuckle and a sigh. "I meant the... the coffee smells beautiful," he lied, voice smooth now, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. "But you—" he paused, eyes scanning her face as if trying to memorize every line, "—you're... brighter than this place."

She tilted her head slightly, thrown off but not uncomfortable. Compliments weren't exactly rare in this job, but something about the way he said it felt different. Not lecherous. Not cheesy. Just... unexpected.

"Well," she said, voice softening a little, "I'll let the coffee know you admire it." A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips despite the exhaustion dragging at her bones.

He seemed to freeze at that smile—his eyes lingering, almost in awe. As if the simple curve of her mouth had stunned him into stillness.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked gently, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Coffee," he said quickly, as though remembering where he was. "Just coffee. Black."

She nodded, already turning, but she caught a murmur under his breath as she stepped away:

"She hasn't changed."

She glanced back, uncertain if she'd heard him right. But he was already looking back down at his menu, still and unreadable.

Hana shook off the chill that danced up her spine and headed toward the counter to pour the coffee. The man was strange—yes—but in a quiet, unsettling sort of way. Like he knew her, but she couldn't place his face.

But she was used to being tired. She was used to people. And maybe—just maybe—he was just another face in the crowd.

She didn't know yet that he remembered her down to the sound of her laugh from school hallways years ago. That her kindness had carved a place in his memory no time or trauma could touch. That behind that mask, his heart was racing like it had been waiting years for this very moment.

She didn't know he had already decided.

Hana returned a few minutes later, a fresh cup of coffee balanced on her tray. Despite the ache in her arms and the weight in her legs, she wore that same soft smile—the one she gave to every customer, no matter how cruel or careless they were.

But this one... this man was different. Still strange. Still quiet. But not unkind.

She placed the coffee gently in front of him, the ceramic clinking softly against the tabletop. "Here you go," she said with practiced warmth.

From beneath the black mask, he smiled—she couldn't see it, but somehow, she felt it. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, but sincere in a way that made her glance at him a second longer than she intended.

"You're welcome," she replied, dipping her head in a polite little bow before turning to move on to the next table.

But then, something made her look back.

Just as she took a step away, her eyes caught the subtle movement of his hand lifting—his fingers hooking around the edge of the mask. He pulled it down, slowly, just enough to reveal the lower half of his face: a sharp jawline, a mouth curled into the barest smile. His dark hair fell over his eyes like a curtain, shielding them from view, though she could sense the weight of his gaze following her even as she turned back to her work.

He lifted the coffee to his lips, taking a slow sip, but his eyes never left her—not really.

Through the curtain of his hair, he watched her.

Watched the way her shoulders tensed every time a customer raised their voice. Watched her hands shake ever so slightly as she wiped a table, then straightened with a deep breath to smile again. She was tired. Stretched thin. Doing her best in a world that asked too much and gave too little.

But to him, she was still beautiful.

Even more so than the girl he remembered from before—the girl with quiet laughter and kind eyes. Because now, he saw the edge beneath the softness. The weight behind the weariness. The fracture lines in her soul she tried to hide from the world.

And he knew—beneath all that exhaustion, behind all that gentle resilience—there was something else.

A killer.

It was buried, dormant, locked away by circumstance. But it was there.
And soon... it would have to surface.

A few minutes passed—long enough for her to refill two drinks, deliver a burger to table twelve, and break up a mild argument about who ordered first—before Hana made her way back toward the man in the black mask's table.

Only... he was gone.

The seat was empty, his menu pushed to the side, but on the table lay a small pile of change—enough for the coffee—and a folded note placed neatly beside it. Hana frowned slightly, reaching for the slip of paper with a hesitant hand.

She unfolded it slowly.

Everything will be okay, Hana.
– Joon-Seok.

She stared at the name. Joon-Seok.
The penmanship was clean, almost delicate—strange for someone with eyes so sharp, so unreadable. Her fingers hovered over the note for a second longer before she quietly folded it and slipped both the money and the paper into the deep pocket of her apron.

A soft vibration buzzed against her thigh. She pulled out her phone, thumb swiping the screen to reveal a notification.

[New Message – Seoul General Hospital]

Reminder: Treatment payment for your mother's care is past due. Total due has increased...

Hana exhaled through her nose, her chest tightening as she locked the screen and tucked the phone away. The words were starting to blur together, all of them just variations of the same stress. Another cost. Another delay. Another weight on her shoulders.

But she didn't cry. She didn't even let her smile fade.

She just grabbed the nearest rag and tray and started wiping down the next table, her movements automatic, methodical. She'd trained herself well: no emotions during the shift. No breakdowns until after midnight.

Unaware, behind her, outside the fogged glass of the diner window, someone watched.

Leaning against the brick wall, half-shadowed beneath the dim flicker of a streetlamp, he stood motionless—his mask still on. The lower half of his face hidden. His eyes fixed on her like she was the only light in a city drowned in darkness.

Joon-Seok.

He didn't move when she walked past the window. Didn't blink as she laughed softly with a customer or wiped her brow. She didn't see him. Not yet.

But he saw her.

And then, as a group of men passed behind him, their loud voices carrying over the street, he turned and slipped into the alley—disappearing into the shadows as silently as he'd come.

He had work to do.

And soon...
She'd be a part of it.

■▲⬤

By: SilverMist707

I hope you like the story.