By Ji-eun
Today, the café woke up peacefully.
Morning sun streaming through the old windows.
Honey bread coming out of the oven.
The radio playing "You're My Sunshine" in a slow jazz version.
Min-jae arrived with his backpack and a pot of homemade yogurt.
Suah ordered a strong coffee and said she was going for a run in the park afterward.
Hae-jun came in with a smile and asked if I had seen the new episode of his drama.
For a moment, I thought everything was returning to normal.
Until the mailman arrived.
—
He left a stack of envelopes on the counter.
All with the same official letterhead.
Fine lettering.
Gold seal.
And in the corner:
"Jinyang Development Co."
Never heard of it.
But when I opened the first one…
My heart sank.
"Notice of Termination of Unregistered Use of Land – Article 12-B"
"The property located at Haneul-dong, 47-B, has been classified as an irregular occupation since 1983…"
The year my grandmother opened the café.
The second envelope:
"Immediate Purchase Proposal – Value: 80 million pounds"
"Demolition scheduled: April of next year."
The third:
"Warning: Any unauthorized renovation or expansion will be penalized with a daily fine of 500,000 pounds."
"Is this serious?" Hae-jun asks, looking over my shoulder.
"Yes," I say, my voice low. "Someone wants to tear down the café."
—
I stand still.
With the letters in my hand.
Looking at the counter I polish every day.
At the cracked cup my grandmother used.
At the corner chair where the dokkaebi always sits.
And for the first time since I became a hunter…
I'm afraid of something that can't be defeated with tea.
—
The rest of the day passes slowly.
I serve customers.
I serve coffee.
I smile. But each movement seems heavier.
A student asks me if I'm okay.
"Just tired," I say. She leaves an extra note on the table.
With a drawing of a heart.
I almost cry.
—
At dusk, he appears.
Dok-hee.
As always, he enters quietly.
He sits in the corner.
He orders the same:
"Black coffee. No sugar."
I don't look at him while I prepare it.
But I feel his eyes on me.
"You're different," he says when I hand him the cup.
"I'm busy," I reply.
"It's not that." He touches the rim of the cup.
"You're hiding something. Something that hurts you… but it's not spiritual."
I raise my eyes.
— "Can you see?"
— "I can see when someone loses their light."
He takes a sip.
"And you… are fading."
I remain silent.
Then, I show him the cards.
He reads them slowly.
Without reacting.
But his fingers grip the cup tightly.
"Jinyang Development," he murmurs.
"I know that name."
"You know it?"
"It's a facade."
He raises his golden eyes.
"Evil spirits aren't the only ones who want to bring down portals, Ji-eun. Some people do too."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean they know.
That this place isn't normal.
And they want to destroy it before more come."
"But how? They're just builders…"
"They're just humans," he corrects.
"But humans can be the worst monsters.
Because they attack with laws.
With money.
With indifference."
I remain silent.
"What do I do?" I ask, my voice almost a whisper.
"I have no money. I don't have a lawyer. I only have this coffee."
He looks at me for a long time.
And then, he does something unexpected.
He puts the cup on the table.
He takes an old coin from his pocket—larger than the others, with a fire symbol engraved on it.
He leaves it beside the cup.
"Use this."
"What is it?"
"Luck."
He smiles slightly.
"And maybe… a beginning."
And he leaves.
Without looking back.
I'm alone in the café.
I turn on the basement light.
I open my grandmother's diary.
I look for something—anything—about land, records, legal protections.
Nothing.
But in the end, a new note, one that wasn't there before:
"Portals aren't just protected by magic.
They're protected by memory.
By roots.
By those who refuse to forget."
—
I write in my notebook:
"Today, I discovered that the enemy doesn't have black eyes. He has a suit.
He has paperwork.
And he wants to erase everything that matters."
"But I still serve coffee.
And as long as I serve…
the portal remains open."
—
At night, I look at the coin on the counter.
It shines softly.
And for the first time…
I wonder:
Does he care?
Really?
—
On the roof of the building across the street, a figure observes.
It's not the King.
It's someone else.
In a gray suit.
Cell phone in hand.
Recording the coffee.
He sends a message:
"Target confirmed. Suspicious activity. Proceed with expedited expropriation process."
—
The café remains open.
The oven is still hot.
And the war…
has barely begun.