The city was doing what it did best—humming with life, buzzing with voices, and pretending it wasn't about to rain.

Tourists filled the streets in clusters, cameras raised, maps folded, laughter bouncing off old brick buildings. Red double-decker buses crawled through traffic. Street performers drew small crowds near the Underground entrances. The air smelled like coffee, exhaust, and that particular dampness that Londoners had long stopped noticing.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, five young men were attempting to walk in a straight line without losing each other.

Somewhere between the bus stop and the crosswalk, his eyes caught on a figure.

A girl. Coffee in hand. Hair moving slightly in the wind.

Yeonjun stopped walking.

Because she was turning. She was turning, and the light was catching her face just right, and—

But he was already moving forward.