#haneulstart

there were things he liked to practice alone, things he didn’t want anyone to see just because of so many stigmas haunting whoever would dare getting more in touch with the dark and corrupting nature of magic, something he was very keen to by cruel nature ━things not requiring him to speak, on the contrary. the trick was silence, a shut mouth and fingers twirling as magic would get channeled from thought to catalyst directly, with his eyes observing the juts of magic hitting the makeshift targets ━mutating them, levitating them, knocking them over and strangling them into powerful grips until they crumpled. it was a simple routine, but it’d keep the skill trained, especially with how easily people seemed to get attacked so randomly ( humans and magi alike, a waste of research material at hands of fundamentalists, he’d grimace ).

three sharp raps on his door pauses his pruning work effectively. perhaps he has spoken too soon? 

“come in, please,” he calls out, just as the pressure cooker keens in a final whistle, loudly insisting to be taken off the stove. “you’re just in time,” he smiles, “i’ve been meaning to try this barley tea recipe on an unwilling scapegoat.” 

            early mornings always felt like a special kind of reward. there’s no crowd – no n o i s e. no people lounging on the sofas, loudly chatting over each other and the music while sipping on their lattes. the café’s empty, filled only with the quiet hum of the radio and the whirring of the machines as they warm up. and there, in front of the counter, soft vermillion scarf still slung over her shoulders and a mop in one hand – is the woman of the hour, right in the middle of a spectacular rendition of ailee’s i will show you. the crowd’s going absolutely WILD – they’re cheering as loudly as possible, they’re screaming her name, they’re –

            the silver bell hung over the door chimes. the door opens. someone walks in.

            it all happens in rapid succession – in her attempt to act normal, the femme trips over her mop, nearly knocks down her cup of hazelnut latte, and SOMEHOW manages to get part of the scarf tangled up in her hair. when she finally straightens herself up, her cheeks match the scarf ( that now lies forgotten on the closest armchair ) and the look on her face is nothing short of comical.

            “ uh – hi, sorry, we’re not quite – we’re not open yet. we will be soon – in a bit – in a couple of minutes, really, ten at most. you’re welcome to sit – well, anywhere you’d like. OH! – and the pastries are warm, if you’d like something to nibble on while waiting. yeah. ”

            she rambles when she’s embarrassed – in case you couldn’t already tell.

   ♡━━ THERE WAS NO greater peace in the world than her pen gliding across the pages of her most beloved notebook, that is her matchmaking journal, as she recorded her observations for the day. it was uncommon to be so methodically thorough, empirical knowledge was hardly necessary for magi matchmaking when divination and other methods existed (requiring much less analytical effort on her part). nevertheless, hara had always preferred a hands on approach with most things, matchmaking being no exception. nothing felt more satisfying than to physically hold her life’s work and passion in her hands.