#misguided

You sit behind your folding table—one leg shorter than the others—trying to make the wobble look like atmosphere. There’s a bowl of rice on your right, tarot decks stacked on your left. A notebook with CLIENT NOTES on the front that’s ninety percent doodles and unpaid invoices. Your incense burner coughs out smoke in lazy little bursts.

You’re supposed to be closed. The doorbell rings anyway. A long press that says whoever is outside thinks that the world should open its legs for them. 

You don’t move at first. You just stare at the bowl of rice and consider becoming a different person—one with a proper job and morals.

The doorbell rings again.

“Alright,” you mutter, dragging yourself up. “Keep your fucking hair on.”

You pad down the short hall, stepping over a parcel you haven’t opened because it might be a bill in disguise, and yank the door open.

He’s standing there like he’s been dropped off by a private school.

Tall. Clean. Denim jacket too crisp for winter. Hair soft and floppy and annoyingly nice. His face is unfair—pretty in a way that says he never had to survive on adrenaline and paracetamol. He smells of money, too—clean laundry and subtle cologne.

And he’s holding an envelope—a thick one. You don’t even pretend you’re above it. Hunger’s not shameful, it’s just inconvenient.

He clears his throat. “Hi. Sorry—um—”

You cut him off. “If you’re here to convert me to some new religion or sell me broadband, I’m going to bite you.”

His eyes widen, startled. He blinks, buffering. “No—no. I’m not. I’m here for—” He glances down at the business card he’s holding, not trusting his own memory. “For the—sh-shaman.”

You lean on the doorframe. “That’s me.”

His eyes widen a fraction, then he schools his expression. “Oh.”

“What?” you say, already irritated. “Expected incense and chanting? Expected an old woman with a crystal ball and a warning about your bloodline?”

“I didn’t—” He flushes, quick. “No. I just—hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, deadpan. “You gonna stand on my doorstep all day or are you coming in?”

He hesitates, then steps forward, clutching the envelope so hard it creases at the corners. His gaze flicks past you, taking in the hallway—shoe rack overflowing, recycling piled in the corner, a dead plant you keep on the windowsill—and his polite face cracks for half a second into surprise.

You catch it. “What?” you snap.

“Nothing,” he says too fast. “Sorry.”

“Shoes off,” you tell him, pointing.

He pauses. “Oh—right.” 

He takes his trainers off and lines them up neatly, toe to heel, like he’s at his mum’s house. You hate him a bit more for it. Not because it’s wrong—because it’s him.

You turn and walk him toward the back room. He follows with careful steps, shoulders slightly tense, as if he expects a spirit to jump him in the hallway. You don’t look back, you don’t need to—you can feel the rich-boy caution rolling off him, the kind that says he’s never been in a place where people don’t perform politeness.

You pull the curtain aside and gesture him in.

He stops just inside and takes the room in properly—folding table, rice bowl, fairy lights, the curtain hiding the washing machine, incense smoke crawling up the wall, a tiny space heater in the corner because the radiator is as useless as your degree.

“This is—” he starts again.

“My studio,” you say. “Sit down before you start narrating your shock out loud.”

He lowers himself onto the cushion opposite the table, posture straight. He tucks in his knees slightly, trying to take up less space. The envelope is placed on his lap, fingers still clutched tightly around it. You clock the tension. When he shifts, you also clock the expensive watch peeking out from his sleeve. 

Your stomach turns in the familiar way it does around money—the sharp awareness that you live in two different worlds and his one has softer landings.

You drop into your chair and kick the table leg lightly with your foot until the wobble stops. Professional. “Name,” you say.

He swallows. “Choi Soobin.”

“Course it is,” you mumble, because you’ve never met a Soobin who wasn’t tragic. Your eyes flick over his face. “You look like you’ve come back from a fancy year abroad and realised life didn’t magically sort itself out just because you saw mountains.”

His brows lift, offended on instinct. “I—how do you—”

You hold up a hand. “Don’t. If you start asking me how do you know questions, I’m going to charge you extra.”

His mouth twitches. He hesitates, then clears his throat.

“It’s a consultation,” you add, tapping the table. “Talk.”

He nudges the envelope onto the table, sliding it toward you with both hands, offering tribute. “I was told you could help me with a—r-ritual. Or a talisman. Something love-related.”

“Love-related,” you repeat. “God, you lot talk like you’re booking a dentist appointment.”

He frowns. “You’re rude.”

“And you’re paying me,” you fire back, leaning in. “So either you’ve got a humiliation kink or you’re desperate.”

His cheeks go red. “I’m not—”

“Desperate,” you say, nodding. “Got it. Who’s upset you?”

His jaw tightens. There it is, the crack under all the politeness. “It’s not like that.”

You gesture at the rice bowl. “Mate, you walked into a stranger’s flat with a fat envelope asking for a love ritual. It’s exactly like that.”

He glances at the bowl, frowns, then looks back up. “Are you going to use that?”

“Depends on how annoying you are,” you say.

He sits up straighter. “I’m not annoying.”

You snort. “You’re already annoying and you’ve said about twelve words. Continue.”

He inhales, visibly trying to keep his voice steady. “There’s a girl,” he begins, and you can hear him hating himself for matching the script of every sad man you’ve ever scammed. “I’ve liked her for years. We started talking properly a few months ago. Like—every day. It felt—r-real. And then she met someone else.”

You don’t let your face change. You’ve seen heartbreak in every flavour—snotty, dramatic, smug, pathetic. Soobin’s is the worst kind: quiet, polite, trying not to spill in public.

“Right,” you say. “And you want me to do what? Rip her away from the other guy with my magical rice?”

His mouth twitches again; he wants to laugh, but he’s not sure if laughter is allowed in a shaman’s studio. “I just want a—a chance.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you tell him immediately, allergic to sincerity.

His eyes sharpen, hurt flashing. “Excuse me?”

“It’s embarrassing,” you repeat. “That you’ve waited years and now you’re here paying for destiny because you still can’t say what you want to her face.”

His throat works, gaze dropping to his hands. “I did ask her out.”

“Did you?” you say, unimpressed. “Or did you send a polite little message and hope the universe did the rest?”

He goes still, jaw clenching. “I asked her.”

“And?”

“And she said yes,” he says, voice flat. “Then she—she left.”

You pause. “She left?”

He nods once, tight. “During the date.”

“Fuck me,” you mutter, genuine for the first time. “That’s brutal.”

He flinches at your vocabulary. You clock it and grin. “Oh, you’re one of those.”

“One of what?” he snaps, finally showing teeth.

“One of those posh boys who think swearing is a personality flaw,” you say, delighted. “I could have so much fun ruining you.”

His ears go bright red. “I’m not posh.”

You lift a brow and look pointedly at his jacket, his watch, the envelope, the whole vibe. “Yeah, sure.”

He exhales, frustrated. “Can you help me or not?”

There we go—the spine and pulse under all that good-boy packaging. You reach for the bowl of rice with a sigh, all the enthusiasm of charity work. “Fine. Hold still.”

He falters. “What are you doing?”

“Diagnosis,” you say. “Shut up.”

You scoop a handful of rice and throw it at his chest. The grains bounce off his denim and stick to the fabric, a few landing in his hair. He jerks, eyes wide, hands frozen mid-air—unsure whether touching the rice will get him cursed. His whole body screams I have never been in a situation like this in my life.

“Is this—uhm—normal?”

“No,” you say. “But neither is paying a stranger to fix your love life, so let’s not start demanding normal now.”

He goes still again, breathing shallow. “Okay.”

You lean forward, squinting at his shoulder, pretending to look at some spectral shit. You stand up and circle him once—slow enough to make him uncomfortable—then click your tongue in disappointment. “Yeah,” you say. “Now it makes sense.”

His eyes widen. “What does?”

You drop your voice. “There’s a virgin ghost attached to your back.”

Silence.

Soobin’s mouth parts. He keeps checking over his shoulder, checking you, then checking over his shoulder again—determined to spot the ghost without fully turning around. “A—w-what?” he whispers.

“A virgin ghost,” you repeat, nodding with full confidence. “She’s clinging on. Blocking your love energy. That’s why you’re getting dumped mid-date.”

His throat bobs. “How—how do you know that?”

You smile. “Because you’re giving off tragic, untouched, emotionally constipated energy.”

His face goes scarlet. “That’s not—”

And because my mate at the bar basically spoon-fed me your entire sob story, you think, but you don’t say it, because you’re not stupid. You’re a scammer. There’s a difference.

Instead you tilt your head, all calm confidence. “I’m a shaman,” you say. “This is what I do best.”

He stares at you, genuinely horrified, then looks down at the rice on his clothes, waiting for it to do something supernatural.

“So,” you continue, grabbing your notebook and scribbling absolute nonsense—circles, lines, something that looks ancient if you don’t stare too hard—“tell me about her.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “I’m not telling you her name.”

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll call her Soobin’s Problem.”

He looks ready to argue, then thinks better of it. He’s in your flat, you’ve got rice within arm’s reach, and your patience is clearly optional. He swallows it down. “She’s—important.”

“Obviously,” you say. “She’s got you sat here with rice in your hair.”

He reaches up, finally plucks a grain out of his fringe, and glares at it with personal offence.

You tap your pen. “Who’s she with?”

His whole body goes tight. “Someone.”

“Someone?” you repeat, bored on purpose.

He exhales. “Choi Yeonjun.”

You let the name land, not because you’re impressed—because you enjoy watching him suffer.

Soobin’s eyes flicker. “You know him?”

“Everyone knows him,” you say. “Campus bicycle.”

Soobin looks taken aback. “That’s—”

“Accurate,” you cut in. “Now. You want her back? You want him gone? You want me to meddle?”

He leans forward, voice low and serious. “I want you to fix it.”

“Fix it,” you echo, and you open the envelope at last.

It’s full of crisp, thick notes. The kind of money that doesn’t come from part-time jobs and overdrafts. The kind of money that makes your chest squeeze in a way you hate. You could pay rent with this, you could buy groceries without doing maths in the aisle, you could stop pretending you’re fine for a month.

You keep your face neutral anyway. You’re not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you react.

He watches you, waiting for you to say it’s not enough. You don’t. 

You just slide the cash into your drawer and close it with a click. “So,” you say, folding your hands. “You want a talisman.”

Soobin nods fast. “Yes.”

You reach into a little box beside you and pull out a pendant on a string—cheap metal you bought from AliExpress, washed in salt water, dressed up as destiny—and drop it into his palm.

He stares at it with the seriousness of a man holding a relic. “I need to wear this?”

“All the time,” you say.

“In the shower?”

“Yes.”

“While I sleep?”

“Yes.”

He hesitates. “What if it falls off?”

You meet his eyes. “Then the ghost gets stronger.”

He goes pale. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing—because you’re a professional and also because you’ve got a reputation to maintain as the local love shaman, not the local menace.

Soobin closes his fingers around the pendant, gripping it as if it might save his life. “How long does it take?”

You shrug. “Depends how clingy she is.”

“The ghost?”

“Yeah,” you say, deadpan. “Not the girl—the girl left. The ghost stayed.”

He flinches. “That’s not even funny.”

“It is a bit funny,” you reply. “Not to you, obviously—to me.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. “You’re awful.”

“And you’re paying me,” you remind him, leaning back. “So maybe ask yourself what that says about your decision-making.”

He exhales, frustrated, then nods once, accepting his fate. He stands, still clutching the pendant. He looks as though he’s walked into a cult and decided to commit anyway because heartbreak is worse.

At the door, he pauses. He glances back, voice quieter. “This is real, right?”

You smile, bright and sweet, and lie straight through your teeth. “Of course it’s real.”

Soobin nods, believing you—then leaves with rice in his hair and hope in his pocket. You watch him go, and turn to open your drawer again, just to look at the cash. It reminds you that morality is for people with savings.

“Easy money,” you mutter.

If only you had known how badly this was going to come back and bite you in the ass.

A week after you hand Soobin the damp pendant and take his cash, you learn something important about Choi Soobin as a person.

He does not know how to leave shit alone.

You already knew he was polite. You already knew he had the spine of a wet napkin when feelings got involved. What you didn’t clock fast enough is that he treats spiritual work the way people treat their Amazon orders—track it, refresh it, poke it, panic when it doesn’t arrive within twenty-four hours.

Your phone becomes his second talisman. It starts with messages that pretend they’re quick.

fucking moron: hi sorry fucking moron: quick one fucking moron: if i walk under a ladder will something bad happen

You ignore it for ten minutes, then answer anyway—since you’re weak and also trying to keep your scam believable.

you: no. fuck off.

Three dots appear instantly.

fucking moron: okay sorry fucking moron: i walked under one by accident fucking moron: it should be fine right

You put your phone face-down and press your forehead to the table—the folding one with the dodgy leg that wobbles any time you show emotion, as if it’s embarrassed to be seen with you.

Mangy watches you from the cushion, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking once. He’s been fed and watered, yet he still treats you like a disappointment.

Then the calls start.

Your phone rings at 12:17am while you’re standing over the sink eating noodles straight out of the pot. fucking moron flashes up. Your whole body goes rigid because you know the next ten minutes are about to be stolen.

You answer without greeting. “What?”

“Oh,” he says, startled, as if he expected you to answer with a smile and a prayer. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to call this late.”

“You called,” you reply. “This isn’t a sneeze. It didn’t happen by accident.”

He pauses, then rushes on. “The pendant. It’s—warm.”

You shut your eyes. “It’s on your chest.”

“It’s warmer than normal,” he insists. “I noticed it and I thought—what if it’s a sign?”

“Your sign is that you’re anxious and have too much free time,” you tell him. 

“I can’t sleep,” he admits. “I keep thinking about her.” The words come out like he’s ashamed of them.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Right. So you’re ringing me to tell me you’re heartbroken?”

“No,” he says quickly. “I’m ringing because the talisman—”

“Yeah,” you cut in, “and the talisman is warm because your body is warm and your feelings are boiling your brain. This is Year Seven science and Year One emotional incompetence. Were you bullied in school or did you just outsource your brain to Switzerland?”

He clears his throat. “I wasn’t bullied.”

“You should’ve been,” you mutter.

“You’re very rude,” he says.

“And you’re very persistent,” you reply. “We all have flaws.”

Silence.

Then, very careful, “So it means nothing.”

It cannot mean nothing—not to him, not to your rent, not to your pride.

You drop your voice into your professional tone, the one that sounds calm even when you’re exhausted. “It means something,” you say. “Warmth means movement. Movement means the ghost is reacting.”

“So it’s working?”

“It’s working,” you confirm. “Now hang up and stop treating me as your spiritual 111.”

“Okay,” he whispers. “Sorry. Thank you.”

He hangs up.

You stare at your pot of noodles and whisper, “I hate my life.”

Mangy blinks slowly and yawns.

By day three, he starts sending photos.

Not of the girl—of course not—because that would be logical and useful. Choi Soobin does not do logical and useful. 

Instead, he sends photos of the pendant. Pendant in his palm. Pendant on his desk. Pendant next to an iced americano.

fucking moron: is it the right colour fucking moron: does it look normal fucking moron: sorry fucking moron: i know you said don’t check fucking moron: i’m not checking i’m just asking

You don’t even answer anymore, you just throw your phone onto your bed and let it bounce.

That night, you dream he’s standing in your hallway holding the pendant out, saying sorry on loop, and you’re trying to scream but your voice won’t work. 

When you wake up, your jaw aches from clenching.

By Thursday, he escalates.

Three visits in one day.

You’ve been up all night working on an assignment you hate. Your laptop’s open. Your essay cursor blinks at you. Your eyes feel gritty. Your brain feels empty. Your hoodie is inside out and you don’t have the energy to care.

At 9am on the dot, your doorbell starts ringing. You stare at the door for a full five seconds, hoping it’s a hallucination.

It’s not, because it rings again. You drag yourself up, shuffle down the hall barefoot, and yank the door open. Soobin stands there holding two iced coffees.

He’s dressed clean again. Hair neat, face calm. He looks like he slept. You feel personally attacked.

“Morning,” he says, too bright.

“I don’t morning,” you reply.

He lifts the tray. “I brought coffee.”

You look down at the label. Iced americano. You look back up. “Do you hate yourself or is this a cry for help?”

He frowns. “It wakes me up.”

“So does fear,” you snap. “Shoes off.”

He steps inside—lines up his trainers neatly, of course—follows you into the back room. He sets the coffees down with care, then looks at you with a hopeful expression that makes you want to swear at the universe.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you point at the sweating cups. “This is unsolicited suffering.”

“I thought you might want caffeine,” he offers.

“I want silence,” you tell him.

His hand jerks back. “Sorry.”

“You apologise like it’s your hobby,” you say. “You know what, stop—apologise when you actually do something wrong, not every time you exist.”

His mouth parts. He looks genuinely confused, then nods once, taking notes mentally like you’re teaching him something sacred.

“Sit,” you say. “Report your ghost symptoms.”

You both get comfortable, your face switching to serious—after all, you’re a professional.

“Warm,” he says quickly. “The talisman was warm around seven.”

“Good,” you say, nodding like you’ve read omens in the steam of his iced americano. 

Relief hits him again.

Then you wave at the door. “Now take your drinks and fuck off.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“Yes,” you say. “Go away. Go attend your lectures. Go haunt someone else. Go stop making my life your side quest.”

He nods, clutching his cup, and leaves.

You watch him go and mutter, “I’m going to die.”

Mangy jumps onto the table, sniffs the other iced americano he left behind, recoils, then stares at you with judgement. 

Even your cat has standards.

The second visit happens in the afternoon.

You’re mid-paragraph—fighting your essay into submission—when your phone lights up with his name and the doorbell rings immediately after, as if he’s timed it for maximum damage. You open the door and he’s there again, damp from drizzle, eyes wide in the exact brand of panic that should be illegal in daylight.

“I stepped on a crack,” he says.

You blink once. “Okay?”

“So—” he swallows. “So what do I do?”

You stare at him harder. “You came here—for a crack?”

“It wasn’t just a crack,” he says, offended. “It was a long one.”

You lean on the doorframe. “Soobin. Be serious.”

“I am being serious,” he insists, voice tight. “You said signs matter. I stepped on it and then I thought—what if that’s her? What if that’s the ghost telling me I’m—” he makes a small helpless gesture, “—done?”

You rub your face with both hands. “You’re going to put me in an early grave.”

His shoulders rise, then drop. “Is it bad?”

You make your voice calm. Professional. The tone of someone who charges for emotional labour. “Yes.”

He goes paler.

“Not doomed bad,” you add, because you’re not trying to actually kill him. “Just—you’ve disrupted the energy line.”

“The energy line,” he repeats.

“You stepped on a crack,” you say. “You basically stepped on her throat.”

His eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “She’s pissed.”

He panics immediately. “I didn’t mean to—I-I didn’t see it. It was raining and people were walking and—”

“Stop,” you cut in. “She doesn’t care about your excuses.”

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “So what do I do?”

You sigh. “Go back to the crack.”

His face does something ugly. “Go back?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You go back,” you continue, “you step over it—not on it—three times. Don’t touch it. Don’t breathe on it. Don’t do your little sorry face at the pavement.”

“I don’t have a sorry face.”

You stare at him until he gives up. 

“Okay,” he mutters. “Three times.”

“And after that,” you say, pointing at him, “you stop showing up here.”

His throat works. “I just—I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You already did,” you reply. “Now fix it and leave me alone.”

He nods like you’ve saved his life. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Go,” you snap. “Before I curse you myself.”

He looks offended and tired, but he leaves anyway.

The third visit is the worst. It happens at 11pm.

You’re in bed with a mask on, hair wrapped and duvet pulled up. Mangy is pressed against your thigh, purring as he gets comfortable. The doorbell rings. You don’t move, willing for the noise to be a hallucination. It rings again—and again.

You throw the duvet off, stomp down the hall, and rip the door open. Soobin stands there with his coat on, eyes wide with guilt.

You stare at him. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I had a dream.”

Your eyelid twitches. “Of course you did.”

“It felt important,” he insists.

“You’re in my building at eleven in the night,” you reply. “Everything feels important when you’re being a lunatic.”

He steps inside without asking. Takes his shoes off and lines them neatly again—it makes your eyelid twitch harder.

You drag him into the studio in your pyjamas and face mask, then point at the cushion. “Sit. Talk. Make it quick before my skin dries and cracks off my face.”

He sits and explains the dream with mortifying sincerity. Corridors. The girl. A faceless man. Panic. He uses his hands too, drawing shapes in the air. You listen with your chin in your hand—face mask tightening and patience evaporating. 

When he finishes, you stare at him for a beat, then you start laughing—a full, exhausted laughter that makes your face mask crack at the corner.

Soobin looks wounded. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m laughing at the situation,” you manage. “Not at you.” You are absolutely laughing at him. You straighten up and slip back into your shaman voice—calm, grounded and certain. “It’s instruction,” you say. “It means you’re ready for the next step.”

Hope hits him immediately. “What step?”

You tap the table once. “Go home. Sleep. Forty-eight hours of silence. No temperature reports and no dreams in my inbox. Then come back and we’ll talk.”

He nods fast. “Okay.”

“And if you text me at four in the morning about some next level bullshit,” you add, “I’m charging you extra and telling the ghost you’ve been cheating on her with an iced americano.”

His eyes widen. “You can do that?”

“I’m self-employed,” you say. “Spiritually burdened—underpaid. I can do whatever I want.”

He leaves. You lock the door and go back to bed. You get under the duvet and stare at the cracks in the ceiling.

At 03:58am, your phone buzzes. 

fucking moron: sorry. quick one. there’s a full moon tonight. is that a bad sign?

You stare at the message until your eyes sting. Then you type back with the fury of a woman whose lies have evolved into a full-time job.

you: no. go to sleep. stop texting me. 

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

fucking moron: okay. sorry. thank you.

You throw the phone onto the pillow and whisper into the dark, “I regret everything.”

Mangy purrs, smug, and presses his head against your ribs. You lie there realising you didn’t scam a normal man—you scammed a man who will destroy you with manners.

By Saturday, you decide that you’re going to get rid of Choi Soobin.

Not permanently—you’re not a murderer. You’re tired, broke, spiritually fraudulent, but not homicidal. You just need him off your fucking doorstep long enough to finish your assignment, wash your hair, and remember what silence sounds like without his pendant updates creeping into it.

He’s sat opposite you again, upright, buttoned up, clean as always. Same neat hair, same expensive watch, same careful posture. He’s holding the pendant under his collar with two fingers, still treating it with reverence. He’s learnt nothing—which is impressive, in a depressing way.

You stare at him over the rim of your mug and let your face go blank—no warmth, no comfort, no empathy. He doesn’t pay you enough for that.

“So,” he says, quiet and controlled. “I did what you said—I didn’t come and I didn’t text.”

“You did text,” you correct.

His ears go red immediately. “I didn’t spam text.”

“Still text,” you reply, then you wave your hand. “Whatever. You didn’t show up—that’s something.”

He nods once, relieved you’re not about to lecture him. “It still feels warm sometimes.”

You lean back in your chair and squint at him, starting your performance. Then you stand. Soobin’s eyes track you with nervous focus. He sits up straighter—which is ridiculous, since he’s already sat up straight. His hands flatten on his thighs. 

You circle him once, slow and deliberate. You stare at his shoulder, his collarbone, the space behind him, the air.

Soobin swallows hard. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” you say. “I’m reading.”

“I’m not talking,” he says automatically, then stops himself, and adds, quieter, “Sorry.”

You click your tongue.

His face tightens. “What?”

You click your tongue again, louder and meaner. Soobin’s gaze flicks to Mangy on the windowsill, as if your cat might translate. Mangy doesn’t even look at him—-he’s too busy ignoring the entire human race.

You stop in front of Soobin and stare down at him until he starts squirming. His knee shifts, his hands flex, his whole body tries to stay polite while his brain panics.

“Yeah,” you say at last. “Now it makes sense.”

Soobin goes very still. “What makes sense?”

You lean in slightly, voice dropping, serious enough to frighten him. “The ghost has gotten stronger.”

He blinks. “The—g-ghost?”

“The virgin ghost,” you say, enunciating slowly. “She’s resisting the talisman.”

His hands lift, hover near his collar, then drop again. He doesn’t know where to put them. He looks genuinely scared and it makes you want to kick yourself—except you’re also annoyed, since he’s the one who walked into your life and decided you’re his spiritual saviour.

“What does that mean,” he asks, voice tight. “Is it—bad? Is she—she angry?

“She’s territorial,” you say. “She doesn’t want you to move on. She likes the attention.”

Soobin’s throat works. “So the pendant isn’t enough?”

“It’s doing work,” you say, firm, selling it. “We just need to escalate.”

His eyes widen. “What do I have to do?”

Here we go—the part where you commit your greatest masterpiece of bullshit. You walk back to your pillow, sit down, and open your notebook as if it contains ancient knowledge instead of doodles. You pick up your pen and tap it twice on the page, letting the silence build.

Soobin leans forward without meaning to. His hands grip his knees. “Please,” he says, and it comes out raw enough to make you feel a twinge of something inconvenient in your chest. “Tell me what to do.”

You hold his gaze and nod slowly, grave as hell. “You need a stronger ritual.”

He nods immediately, desperate. “Okay.”

You keep your face straight. You can’t laugh—not yet. “Eleven days straight.”

He nods again. “Okay.”

“At 11:11pm,” you continue, voice steady, “you eat eleven grapes under a table.”

You watch his brain try to process that sentence.  His eyes flicker. His mouth parts and he looks at you as if you’ve just asked him to commit a crime. “Under a table?” he repeats.

“Under a table,” you confirm.

He frowns, confused and horrified at once. “Why?”

You lean forward, lowering your voice. “Tables are thresholds.”

He stares at you. “Tables are—thresholds?”

“Between worlds,” you add, tapping the notebook once for emphasis.

Soobin swallows. “Right.”

“You cannot use your own table,” you say. “If it’s your table, she follows you under it.”

Soobin’s eyes widen. “She can follow me under it?”

“Yes,” you say, calm, as if you’re discussing the weather. “It can be a friend’s table. Café table. Common room. Anywhere—just not yours.”

He nods slowly, trying to keep up. “Okay.”

“You can’t use the same table twice,” you add.

His head jerks. “Why not?”

“Pattern,” you say. “She learns the pattern.”

He looks pained. “So I have to find eleven different tables.”

“You’re a student,” you reply. “Your entire life is tables.”

He flinches, then nods like that’s fair. “Okay.”

“The grapes must be green,” you continue. “Same size. Same shape. No random grapes or close enough—no lumpy ones either.”

His brows pull together. “How am I meant to—”

“You’re rich,” you cut in. “Go buy posh grapes.”

His ears go red. “I’m not—”

“One grape per minute,” you say. “In complete silence,” you add, pointing at him. “No phone. No talking. No music. No praying out loud. No whispering. No chewing with enthusiasm.”

He looks terrified. “Why silence?”

“Sound attracts her,” you say. “Silence starves her,” you continue, and you can hear how much he wants this to be true. “She feeds on attention. She feeds on desperation. She feeds on you checking and panicking.”

Soobin nods faster now, fully locked in. “Okay. I can do silence.”

“You can’t even do silence for ten minutes,” you mutter.

His eyes snap up. “I can.”

“We’ll see,” you reply, and you flip the page in your notebook with a flourish, as if you’re consulting a sacred text. You keep your tone very serious while you deliver the final nail, the one that will keep him away for at least a week out of sheer stress. “And Soobin,” you say, voice low, “whatever you do, don’t let the grapes fall on the floor.”

He freezes completely. His eyes widen slowly, dread creeping in. “Why?”

You lean in closer, enough to make him hold his breath. You whisper, “She eats what falls.”

Soobin goes so pale he looks unwell. He sits there for a second, silent, then his voice comes out small. “She—e-eats it?

You nod once.

He stares at the table as if the floor beneath it is suddenly dangerous. His hands curl around his knees. “So I have to—eat grapes under a table. Eleven days. Eleven-eleven. Silence. Different table. Green grapes. Same size. One per minute. No dropping.”

“Look at you,” you say. “You can follow instructions.”

He looks up at you with raw misery. “This is humiliating.”

You tilt your head. “Humiliation is temporary. Losing the love of your life is longer.”

Soobin’s jaw tightens. His eyes flicker, stubbornness sparking under the fear. “Fine,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” you reply, satisfied, and you push yourself up from your chair. “Now take your pendant, stop texting me, and go plan your table tour.”

He stands too, still pale, still holding the string under his collar as if it’s the only thing keeping his life together. “Do I start tonight?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. “Tonight.”

He nods once, then hesitates at your door, coat half on, keys in hand—the look of a man about to walk out and willingly crawl under a table with fruit. He glances back, voice quieter. “This will work?”

You smile, bright and sweet, and lie straight through your teeth. “Of course it will.”

Soobin nods, believing you, and leaves.

You lock the door behind him, lean your forehead against it, and let out the ugliest laugh you’ve ever made in your life. “Fucking idiot.”

Mangy chooses that moment to jump onto your table, sniff the rice bowl, then sit down on your notebook as if he’s heard the whole plan and approves.

You stare at him. “I’m going to hell.”

Mangy blinks slowly.

Eleven days of peace. No full-moon calls. No cloud photos. No is my talisman warm bullshit. Priceless.

And then—annoyingly—your brain flashes his face again. The way he looked at you like you were the last door left unlocked. Shit. Why does his desperation feel so... raw? 

You shove the thought away. Not your problem.

Choi Soobin tells himself this is a test.

A trade with the universe—the love of his life in exchange for his pride. He has smiled through worse. He has survived a date where she ran away to another man and still managed to say, “It’s alright,” with a straight face, then gone and drank until sunrise.

So yes. Grapes under a table. Humiliation is nothing new.

He repeats that to himself while he walks into a café he’s never been to before. It’s on a side street far enough from campus that nobody should clock him; close enough to your studio that he can sprint to you if something goes wrong and the ghost eats his fruit. He hates that he can picture you saying it, deadpan, and eyes narrowed.

The café is warm and smells of burnt coffee and syrup. Two students sit in the corner with laptops open, whispering about deadlines. A couple by the window argue about something quietly—faces close, voices soft, the kind of intimacy that makes Soobin’s throat tighten for reasons he’s not willing to admit. The barista wipes down the counter with bored efficiency, eyes half-lidded, hair clipped back.

Soobin steps up, adjusting the strap of his bag. It’s heavy since the grapes are inside. He can feel them knocking gently against each other with every shift of his shoulder—neat, little green stones he paid far too much attention to in the supermarket.

The barista looks up. “You alright?”

Soobin forces a polite smile. “Yeah. Hi. Can I get a—”

He stops himself from saying hot chocolate. He doesn’t drink hot chocolate. He doesn’t do that. That’s you, not Soobin. He ends up ordering something out of character regardless, because he can hear your voice in his head making fun of him for his choices in beverages. “A tea, please,” he says. “English breakfast.”

The barista nods. “Sit in or take away?”

“Ta—” His tongue sticks for a second. “Sit in. Please.”

“Cash or card?”

He taps his card, machine beeping, receipt spitting out. He takes the tea with both hands as if he’s carrying something fragile.

He chooses the corner table on instinct. It’s small and round, with two chairs. One of the chairs wobbles slightly and Soobin finds himself irrationally irritated by it. Even furniture has more freedom than him tonight.

He sets the tea down, sits and tries to act normal. He checks the time. Eight minutes left.

His stomach flips. His chest feels tight. His throat tastes faintly metallic, the way it does when he’s nervous and pretending he’s not. He pulls his phone out again—then remembers you said no phone during the ritual, no sound, no whispers, no music, no praying out loud. So he turns it face-down on the table and stares at the wood grain as if it’s going to offer guidance.

He tells himself he’s in control, he can do this and nobody will notice.

A group of three walks in, cold air follows them. They talk over each other. One of them laughs too hard. The café seems smaller all of a sudden.

Soobin adjusts his posture, shoulders tense. He wraps his fingers around his tea cup just to have something to hold. The tea is too hot. He doesn’t care—heat feels better than the empty churn in his body.

He watches the barista glance toward the CLOSING SOON sign, then back at the group, then at the clock. It’s late. People linger anyway, dragging out their last warm minutes.

He reaches into his bag and touches the grape container through the fabric—plastic, smooth, cold. He imagines the grapes inside, uniform and green, all as identical as he could make them. He spent ten minutes in the supermarket staring at fruit, comparing sizes, turning them gently—feeling like an idiot while a woman next to him picked up a bag of clementines and walked away without a second thought.

He wonders what his dad would say if he saw him now. He wonders what she would say. He already knows what you’d say.

You’d swear. You’d laugh. You’d call him a fucking moron and then tell him to do it properly—no skipping, no excuses, no whining.

His chest tightens with gratitude at the thought of you, which is inconvenient. You are not supposed to be part of this. You are the person he paid. You are the person who threw rice at him. You are not supposed to take up space in his head.

He checks the time. 11:09pm. He stands up.

His chair scrapes against the floor, loud in his ears. The barista glances over, eyes flicking to him, then away. Soobin keeps his face. The group of three has moved toward the counter, debating pastries. The couple by the window is still whispering. The two students are typing, headphones in, faces blank. The barista is stacking cups.

Soobin slides off his chair, bends down slowly, and ducks under the table.

His long legs are immediately a problem. His knees knock against the underside of the table. His back hunches. The floor is cold and the air down here smells faintly of dust and old crumbs.

He hates everything.

He lays a napkin on the floor first. Not for the café’s sake—for his own. If a grape falls and rolls away, he needs a surface he can control. He needs to believe he can stop the ghost from eating what falls.

He places the grapes on the napkin in neat lines. His fingers shake slightly and he forces them still. 

He adjusts his position again, his knees ache already. He tries to sit back on his heels and his back complains, his shoulders complain, his dignity screams.

He checks the time again. 11:10pm. He doesn’t have long. He shuts his eyes for a second and breathes through his nose.

He thinks of Switzerland. The snow and mountains. Professors who smiled at him. The air sharp and clean. The routine of it, the safety of it. He thinks of her voice over the phone, soft in his ear, familiar and dangerous in a way he didn’t understand until it was too late.

He thinks of the cinema date he rehearsed for years. Warm golden lights. Popcorn between them. Her smile when she laughed at something on screen. The way his chest swelled with relief every time she leaned closer.

He thinks of her eyes drifting elsewhere. He thinks of her saying, “Then I met someone else.”

His stomach turns and his chest feels twisted. He hates the way his body remembers that moment as if it happened an hour ago.

He opens his eyes.

The underside of the table is right there, the chair legs, his own shoes near the edge of the napkin.

He checks the time again. 11:11pm. It’s time. He picks up the first grape. He hears her voice in his head again, crisp and gentle and ruinous, “I met someone else.”

He shoves the grape into his mouth. It’s cold, sweet and crunches slightly. Juice hits his tongue. He chews carefully, silently, as if the ghost is hovering above him with a clipboard.

He swallows.

He sits perfectly still, waiting for the minute to pass. A chair scrapes somewhere above him. The café floor vibrates faintly. His heart starts hammering. Someone walks past his table. Soobin’s whole body goes rigid. He keeps his gaze fixed on the napkin, he keeps his hands still and doesn’t breathe loudly. He doesn’t move—doesn’t exist.

The footsteps move on.

He picks up the second grape at 11:12. His fingers tremble. He forces them steady. He eats it, chewing in silence.

His back aches, his neck is already stiff, his jaw hurts from clenching. He cannot believe that this is his life.

At 11:13, the third grape. At 11:14, the fourth. At 11:15, the fifth.

Time becomes a series of grapes and fear.

His thoughts keep trying to escape, drifting back to her, to Yeonjun, to the humiliation of sitting across from her while she smiled politely and held his hand and then left him in the street with an apology he didn’t deserve.

He drags his focus back. He counts minutes and grapes. He keeps his mouth shut and his hands steady.

At the sixth grape, something absurd bubbles up in him—a laugh. A sharp, disbelieving sound he has to swallow down so hard it makes his eyes water. He almost laughs at himself.

Choi Soobin. Golden boy. Professor’s favourite. Son of a man who gives cars instead of praises. 

On his knees under a café table. Eating grapes. In silence. For a ghost.

If anyone he knows could see him right now, he would never recover. He’d have to transfer universities. Change his name. Fake his death. Move to Scotland and become a sheep farmer. He’d have to live among animals that don’t talk.

At the eighth grape, his stomach growls quietly. He panics all over again. You said sound attracts the ghost and silence starves her. His stomach is making noise—his body is betraying him. He presses his lips together and holds his breath, hoping the ghost doesn’t hear hunger.

At the ninth grape, his jaw starts to ache.

At the tenth, his fingers are stiff and cold.

He picks up the last grape at 11:21pm, chews slowly, swallows, then sits perfectly still under the table with nothing left on the napkin except a few tiny wet marks where the grapes rested.

He has done it.

He expects—something. A shift, a sign, a feeling, a weight lifting off his chest. The ghost retreating or destiny cracking open.

Nothing happens.

The café continues above him. Cups clink. Someone laughs. The barista calls out an order. Life goes on with zero respect for his suffering.

Soobin remains on his knees for another full minute anyway, staring at the napkin, waiting for the universe to acknowledge him. Then he hears your voice in his head again. Humiliation is temporary. Losing the love of your life is longer.

He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks, please. Please let this work. Please let him stop feeling like this.

He crawls out from under the table slowly—dust on his knees, pain in his back, shame clinging to him in layers.

He stands, brushes his hands on his jeans, adjusts his coat, and forces his face into calm.

The barista glances over. “You alright, mate?”

Soobin nods once. “Yeah.”

His voice comes out steady and he hates himself for being able to sound normal. He gulps down his tea, now cold, and walks out into the night with the pendant tucked under his shirt. He takes three steps down the pavement before he pulls his phone out and opens your chat.

His thumb hovers, but he doesn’t type.

He puts the phone back in his pocket and keeps walking—jaw tight, eyes burning, determined to finish eleven days of this even if it kills him.

He is not letting a ghost beat him. He is not letting Yeonjun beat him. He is not letting his own pride beat him either.

He walks to his car with dust on his knees, a plan in his head and one ugly thought circling again and again, refusing to leave.

Tomorrow, he has to find another table.

It’s been a week since you last saw Choi Soobin. Thank fuck.

Your doorbell hasn’t been violated. Your phone hasn’t lit up with pendant photos and moon anxiety. Your studio hasn’t had to host a rich boy breathing politely while you invent a virgin ghost on the spot. The quiet should feel like peace—it mostly feels like you’re in the eye of something that’s about to swing back round and hit you.

Mangy is loafed on the windowsill, back turned, tail flicking in slow judgement. He’s been fed and still acting offended. Your cat has never worked a day in his life and yet he carries himself with the confidence of a CEO.

Your phone buzzes.

plug

You grin before you even open it. You nicknamed Kang Taehyun that years ago when you were both stuck in the countryside and he started connecting people for favours—who had cigarettes, who had vodka, who had a spare charger, who had a cousin that could get you a cheap fake ID. 

He’s been a plug since he had acne and a mouth that didn’t know when to shut.

plug: you’re going to hell plug: meet me. fcf. now.

Your stomach does a tiny relieved drop because you know you’re about to leave your flat and be around someone who understands you without having to explain your whole life story first.

you: where

plug: mike’s. i’m outside yours in five.

You look at Mangy. Mangy looks at the street. Nobody cares that you’re being summoned.

You grab your coat, shove your feet into trainers, and step out into the cold. The air bites your face, sharp and damp. You pull your hood up and lock the door, then stand there, waiting.

Taehyun appears at the end of the street with his hoodie up and his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the weather. He’s got that city version of himself now—faster walk, harder edges, eyes that have seen too many drunk breakdowns—but his mouth is the same you’ve known since you were kids—blunt, quick, always ready to be a cunt.

He stops in front of you and looks you up and down. “You look like shit,” he says.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply. “You look underpaid.”

He snorts. “I am underpaid. I also have morals, which is why I’m here to tell you that you’re evil.”

“Shut the fuck up, Plug,” you say, stepping past him. “You’re the one who dropped that unyielding moron in my lap and went rich, pathetic, prime as if you were seasoning him.”

Taehyun catches up, walking beside you. “I did not say prime.”

“You did,” you reply. “You called him fresh in the same message you asked me for your cut.”

He flinches with fake offence. “It’s not a cut. It’s commission.”

“It’s a cut,” you insist. “You siphon clients out of your bar and send them to me when they’re emotionally bleeding. That’s not a friendship. That’s an MLM.”

Taehyun points at you without looking. “Don’t start with me. I heard your voice note. I heard the whole eleven thing.”

You grin. “It was a strong story.”

“That is not a story,” he says. “That’s psychological terrorism.”

You glance at him. “And you’re acting brand new for a man who has lied straight out of his ass for less than a tenner.”

Taehyun’s mouth twists. “That’s different.”

“Explain.”

He exhales, annoyed. “When I lie, it’s for survival.”

“And when I lie, it’s what?” you shoot back. “Performance art?”

He doesn’t answer for a second, and you feel it—the little guilt line he’s trying to pretend isn’t there. Taehyun’s conscience only turns up when he’s sober and the bar’s quiet. Once he’s had a drink, it clocks out again.

“You’ve got a conscience now?” you say, dragging it out.

He groans. “Don’t.”

“So grapes under tables is where your moral compass draws the line?” you continue. “Not the virgin ghost. Not the pendant. Not the fact you sent a heartbreak case to a scammer. The grapes?”

Taehyun’s jaw tightens. “It’s not the grapes. It’s the table.”

You stare. “The table?”

He spreads his hands. “He’s on his knees under public furniture. That’s where it tips into this man might actually collapse.”

“He won’t collapse,” you say. “He’s too polite to collapse.”

Taehyun’s lips twitch. “That’s the saddest sentence I’ve heard all week.”

You both walk in silence for a few beats, the city noise soft around you—cars passing, someone shouting into a phone, the wet hush of pavement. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar. You’ve known each other too long for awkward.

You and Taehyun grew up in the same nowhere. Same hills, same muddy fields, same bus that came late, same kind of boredom that makes you either rot or plot. You left for uni and dragged your baggage into the city with you. He got a job behind a bar and realised how easy it is to become everyone’s confessional. You realised how easy it is to sell hope when you’re hungry and good at reading faces.

Fridays are FCF. Fried Chicken Friday. Grease, booze, and bitching. Your version of therapy—cheaper and somehow still effective.

Taehyun nudges your shoulder. “Anyway. Enough spiritual crimes. We’re getting wasted.”

“You’re paying,” you say, immediately.

He laughs. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” you say. “You’re the one with a job.”

“You’re the one who just scammed a rich boy,” he fires back.

You stop walking and turn to him. “Do not make me buy shots using Soobin’s money.”

Taehyun’s grin goes feral. “You already did worse. You bought incense with his money.”

“That was business expenses.”

“So are shots,” he says. “Emotional labour.”

You roll your eyes and keep walking. Mike’s is a grim little pub off the high street that survives entirely on students and poor decisions. It has sticky tables, a battered jukebox, and booths that feel permanently damp. It also has cheap shots, which is the only spiritual protection you need.

When you push the door open, warm stale air hits you. The lighting is bad. The music is worse. Someone’s already laughing too loud at the bar. 

Perfect.

Taehyun heads straight for your usual booth in the corner, the one with the cracked vinyl seat and the table scarred with initials. You slide in opposite him, shrugging your coat off, letting the noise of the pub settle around you.

A server walks past. Taehyun lifts two fingers. “One portion of niblets and chips. Two shots of whatever’s cheapest and will ruin our night.”

You glance at him. “You’re going to die.”

Taehyun leans back, grinning. “We’re already dying. Might as well do it drunk.”

The shots arrive first. Two little glasses of clear liquid that smell of petrol and poor decisions. Taehyun drags one closer and nudges the other toward you with his knuckle—eyes bright in that feral way he gets when he’s about to enjoy your crimes in real time.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers,” you echo, clinking glasses.

You both knock them back.

It burns all the way down. It hits your chest and makes your brain loosen its grip on the week. Your eyes water. Taehyun’s face twists, then he slaps the table once, satisfied. The niblets and chips land next—hot plate, greasy smell, sauce in a little plastic pot. You both dig in immediately, since neither of you has ever pretended to be classy and this pub would eat you alive if you tried.

Taehyun chews, points at you with a chip. “Right. Script. From the start. Don’t skip—I want the full fucking thing.”

You wipe your fingers on a napkin. “Why are you so obsessed?”

“Because it’s insane,” he says. “You traumatised a man with fruit and I need to witness the full extent of your villain era.”

You snort. “He deserved it.”

“He did not deserve it,” Taehyun replies immediately, then ruins his own point with a grin. “Actually—no, wait. He kind of did. He kept turning up at your flat, didn’t he?”

“Every day,” you say. “Every hour. He was treating my studio like it was A&E. Sorry, quick one, is warmth good—Sorry, quick one, is the moon a bad sign—Sorry, quick one, can the ghost follow me into Tesco.’”

Taehyun chokes on a laugh. “Not Tesco.”

“I swear on my life,” you say, stabbing a niblet with your fork. “He didn’t say Tesco out loud but his face implied it. His face implied he’d apologise to a self-checkout machine.”

Taehyun slams his palm on the table, wheezing. “That’s so him.”

“Exactly,” you say. “So I needed him gone. I needed to stop hearing quick one before I snapped and started chewing my own arm off.”

Taehyun points at you. “So you invented the grapes.”

“Masterpiece,” you correct.

Taehyun’s grin widens. “Go on.”

You lean forward, lowering your voice as if anyone in this pub gives a shit. “I told him the ghost got stronger.”

Taehyun stares, delighted. “You did not.”

“I did,” you say. “He went pale. The man looked like he was about to faint politely.”

Taehyun laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes. “Stop. Stop. That’s exactly the image.”

“And then,” you continue, fully warmed up now, “I hit him with the whole eleven thing under a table.”

Taehyun makes a noise that is half laugh, half despair. “You’re going to hell.”

“I’m already in hell,” you say, then gesture at yourself. “Broke uni student. Debts bigger than me. Bad skin. Cat hates me. Landlord thinks mould is a vibe.”

Taehyun, in the same boat, laughs harder. “That’s fair.”

“I literally scam for a living,” you add, voice warm with alcohol and truth. “Tell me how hell can get any worse.”

Taehyun wipes at his mouth, still laughing. “I don’t know, man. You’ve sort of maxed it out.”

By the fourth shot, the line between sobriety and client confidentiality starts blurring. By the fifth, it’s fully gone. The two of you start bitching about clients, since that’s what you do when you’re drunk and bitter and pretending the city didn’t chew you up.

Taehyun starts first. “This one girl came last week and cried at my bar because her ex unfollowed her.”

You groan. “Don’t.”

“She kept asking me if I think it means he still loves her,” Taehyun says, voice rising. “I was stood there polishing a glass, thinking, babe, it means he’s tired of your shit.”

You snort. “I had a girl ask me if she should burn cinnamon under her bed to make her crush text her back.”

Taehyun stares. “Under her bed?”

“Under her bed,” you repeat. “I told her yes—I told her to do it at 3:33am and to whisper his name into the smoke. She paid me thirty quid.”

Taehyun’s mouth drops open. “You’re evil.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“This one bloke came in convinced he was cursed,” Taehyun adds. “Turns out he was just a cunt.”

“That’s most men,” you reply, picking at the chips. “If your life is falling apart, check your personality first.”

Taehyun lifts his glass again. “Cheers to being mentally ill and employed.”

“Barely employed,” you correct, clinking.

You laugh. You talk over each other, voices getting louder and jokes meaner. The pub noise wraps around you like insulation. For a few minutes, it’s easy. It feels like being fifteen again, both of you sat on a wall outside the corner shop, swearing at the sky and plotting your escape. 

Same mouths. Same filth. Just bigger problems now.

Taehyun brings it back to Soobin, of course. “The virgin ghost story is diabolical though,” he says. “Poor guy probably shitting himself.”

“Good,” you say. “He should be scared. He was too calm for a man whose entire life was on fire.”

Taehyun laughs again. “He’s so polite. He probably apologised to the table before crawling under it.”

You mimic Soobin’s voice, soft and careful. “Sorry, excuse me, just going to—“

Taehyun is crying laughing now. “You’re going to get jumped one day.”

“By who?” you ask, smug. “The ghost?”

You reach for another shot, laughing, and take a mouthful—

—and then you hear it.

A scrape. A thud. Something knocks against the booth opposite yours, hard enough to rattle the table. The laughter in your throat dies halfway out. Your eyes flick up. The booth opposite shifts, the table leg taps something underneath. There’s the unmistakable sound of someone banging their head on wood.

Your stomach drops, cold and sober.

Taehyun is still laughing, wiping sauce off his fingers, about to say something nasty.

Something moves beneath the opposite table. A head appears. Messy hair. Eyes wide, furious and locked straight on you.

Choi Soobin.

He rises up from under the table as if the floor spat him out—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, face flushed, expression murderous in a way you didn’t even know he was capable of. His shirt is rumpled. His whole vibe screams I have been suffering and now I’ve found the cunt responsible.

You choke. The alcohol goes down the wrong way. You cough so hard your body jerks forward and the shot you just swallowed comes straight back out onto the table—and onto Taehyun’s face.

Taehyun splutters. “What the fuck—”

You keep coughing, eyes watering, throat burning, staring past him. Soobin stands there fully upright now, staring at you with pure intent.

Taehyun grabs a napkin, dabs his face, disgusted. “You’re fucking vile,” he snaps, wiping his cheek. “What is wrong with you?”

You don’t answer—you can’t. Your whole body has gone rigid. Taehyun’s eyes follow your stare. He turns his head.

He clocks Soobin.

The napkin slips out of his hand and drops onto the table.

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a/n: hiiiii my loves! so excited to share this one with you. i have so so so much to yap about and that's why i always put my a/n at the end so you can skip it if you want. okay writing misguided had me laughing, crying, screaming at my screen, pacing around the living room, and the whole jazz. part one was probably the hardest and after re-writing it five times, i threw my hands in the air and called it a day. thankfully the other parts were sm easier to write!! i will say, this is one of of my fav oc's (i love all of them). she's highly inspired by my good friend @matchastwb -- not the swearing part! i won't spoil it but both oc and mei are such soft mochis. i was also inspired by the kdrama head over heels, but just the shaman part because i didn't get past episode one of the kdrama lmao it was a bit too cringe for me but my sister loved it!! i listened to a lot of ABBA and Queen while writing misguided, do check out the playlist if you'd like!! pls let me know your thoughts on oc, taehyun and soobin!! much much love <33

target: you know the drill!! next part dropping at either 400 notes or 17/02!!

review your experience, thoughts, or unhinged feelings here