Among them walked a woman in black.

Black coat. Black jeans. Black suitcase trailing behind her like a shadow she couldn't shake. Her steps were unhurried, measured—the kind of ease that came from years spent navigating foreign streets alone.

Seoul smelled like diesel and cold air. It smelled like memory.

A driver in a crisp black suit stood near the curb, holding a sign with a single letter: F. When he spotted her, he lowered it and bowed at the waist.

The city moved past the tinted windows. Neon signs flickered in the gray afternoon light. Everything looked the same. Everything felt different.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Sana—older sister, fashion queen, ever the drama queen.

A second message arrived. A photo.

Sana, radiant in a white silk blouse, posed beside a tall man in a perfectly tailored black suit. His arm rested around her waist with casual possession. Dark hair. Sharp jawline. Cold, unreadable eyes that Floviee knew better than her own reflection.

Jeon Jungkook.

The smile vanished from her face.

The car hummed past another intersection. Seoul kept moving, indifferent. But inside the backseat, years of buried memories cracked open like old wounds.

Floviee slowly locked the phone and set it face-down on her lap. She looked out the window, her voice barely above a whisper.