For a programmer, two weeks is an eternity. In fourteen days, you can build a world, script an entire ecosystem, or watch a complex architecture crumble under the weight of a single misplaced semicolon. But for me, the last two weeks weren't measured in code. They were measured in the distance between my workstation and hers.
Fourteen days.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours.
Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes since I had last sat close enough to Danoh to hear the rhythm of her breathing.
The System Architecture project was a monster. As the lead for Sub-Unit B, the weight of the core engine rested entirely on my shoulders. While Sunho's unit handled the "face" of the project— the sleek interfaces and user-friendly buttons—I was buried in the dark, wrestling with the logic, the security protocols, and the raw data.
I lived in the windowless basement lab. My diet consisted of lukewarm convenience store coffee and the lingering bitterness of exhaustion. Every time I reached for my phone to message her, a new error log would scream for attention, or Jeonghan would drop another stack of documentation on my desk with a weary, "Sorry, Hanbin-ah, but the encryption is leaking again."
I was a prisoner of my own excellence.
"You look like a ghost," Jeonghan remarked, tossing a bag of chips onto my desk. It was 2:00 AM on the tenth night. "A very handsome, very sleep-deprived ghost."
I didn't look up from the screen. My eyes were bloodshot, tracing lines of C++ that felt like they were etched into my retinas. "It's almost done."
"The project is done, Hanbin. But you? You're fading," Jeonghan sighed, sitting on the edge of the desk. "You haven't been to the lounge once this week. You haven't even seen Danoh. You know Sunho has been 'mentoring' her Sub-Unit every single evening, right?"
My fingers froze over the keyboard. The cursor blinked—a steady, rhythmic pulse that felt like a mocking heartbeat.
"He's the TA," I said, my voice sounding like gravel. "It's his job."
"He's doing more than his job," Jeonghan countered, his voice dropping. "I saw them at that restaurant the other night. The one Danoh's family owns. They looked... comfortable. Sunho was making her brother laugh. He fits in there, man."
The plastic casing of my mouse groaned under the sudden pressure of my grip. I felt a surge of cold, sharp adrenaline—the kind that usually comes before a fight. I thought of Sunho's ironed shirts and his perfect smiles. I thought of him sitting at the table where I had once shared soup with her.
He was rewriting my variables. He was occupying the space I had left empty because I was too busy building the foundation she was standing on.
"I have work to do," I said, my voice flat.
Jeonghan looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head. "You're a genius at logic, Hanbin, but you're failing the human element. You can't protect someone if you aren't there."
On the fourteenth day, we finally pushed the final build to the server. The project was complete.
The lab erupted in tired cheers. Students began packing their bags, talking about sleep and celebrations. I stood up, my joints popping painfully. My first instinct—the only instinct that mattered—was to find her.
I walked toward the Sub-Unit A tables. They were empty. The whiteboards were wiped clean.
"They finished an hour ago," Jisoo said, appearing at my elbow. She reached out to touch my arm, her eyes lingering on my face. "Sunho-sunbae took Danoh and Jiyoon out for a celebratory meal. He's so thoughtful, isn't he? We should go too, Hanbin. Just the two of us."
I pulled my arm away without a word. I didn't even look at her.
I headed for the exit, my heart hammering against my ribs. The two weeks of isolation felt like a heavy shroud I was desperate to tear off. I needed to see her. I needed to know if she still looked at the door expecting me, or if she had grown used to the "constant" that was Shin Sunho.
I walked across the campus, the night air biting at my skin. I didn't go to my dorm. I didn't go to the library. I found myself walking toward the neighborhood I had memorized—the street with the glowing neon 'D'.
I stood across the street, hidden in the shadow of a closed stationery shop.
The restaurant was bright. Through the window, I could see the interior. Sunho was there. He was sitting with his back to the window, leaning in as he spoke to Uncle Dohyun. Doyoon was standing nearby, gesturing wildly—likely retelling his "tragic" love stories.
And then I saw her.
Danoh was bringing a tray to the table. She looked tired, but there was a softness in her expression. She laughed at something Sunho said, a small, genuine tilt of her head.
I stood in the darkness, my hands clenched into fists in my pockets. For two weeks, I had worked myself to the bone to ensure the "Core Engine" was perfect. I had stayed in the basement so she could shine in the light. I had kept the monster, Kai, under my thumb so he wouldn't even dare to look in her direction.
I had been the shield she didn't see.
But Sunho was the warmth she felt.
I watched as Sunho reached out and adjusted a napkin on the table, his hand brushing near hers. He looked at home. He looked like he belonged in the light of her family's kitchen.
I looked at my own hands. They were scarred, rough, and stained with the ink of a dozen sleepless nights. I was the shadow. I was the one who fought in the alleys and coded in the dark.
A sudden, overwhelming sense of displacement washed over me. I had been so focused on the logic of the project that I had forgotten the most basic rule of systems: if you don't maintain a connection, the link times out.
I turned away from the window. I couldn't go in there. I couldn't walk into that warmth looking like a ghost of the boy she used to know.
As I walked back toward the campus, the silence of the night felt deafening. The project was a success. We would likely get the highest grade in the class. But as I looked up at the cold, distant stars, I realized I had never felt more like a failure.
Two weeks. I had let two weeks become a gap I didn't know how to bridge.
I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over her name. My heart ached with a thousand things I wanted to say—I missed you. I'm sorry. I was working for you.
Instead, I typed:
Me:The core engine is stable. Good job on the interface, Danoh.
I hit send and shoved the phone back into my pocket. I was the Shadow. And tonight, the Shadow was very, very alone.