#Strategy and Soul Bookstore

[fightforthesoulofthecities]

Honor the work of Strategy Center Founder Professor Cynthia Hamilton at the Festival of Books

[pretend-i-don-t-exist]

hm more heavenly demon!sy thoughts,,, i am invested

the system had an error bc sj's body and soul are still very much together bc he hasn't even experienced a single qi deviation yet, so it tries to find a good substitute to throw sy's soul in

when it can't find any, it decides to make a body that sy is most familiar with (it should be a human, but the system was impressed by sy's very passionate rants about lbh's heavenly demon abilities) so boom. heavenly demon sy

he wakes up in the endless abyss. the system has to hibernate bc the body has taken too much of its power so: here is sy, with an almost invincible body, alone in the endless abyss. oh, and he doesn't know about his heritage. all he knows is that he's in the abyss of pidw

ofc sy immediately geeks out over the demonic beasts and all the plants!!! look he could never visualize what a wyrm-mule looks like or how a porcupine-quail could possibly work, and now he gets to see them! irl!!

well not irl exactly, but if this isn't a very weird dream and he's really transmigrated into some background npc, then it's all well and good. his knowledge of the endless abyss should be enough to keep him safe

he does get very weird urges tho like wdym he's suddenly not squeamish with blood?? why is tearing off his arm now a good strategy to get out of the jaw of a black moon python rhinoceros??? sure his body weirdly could regenerate (tested and proven when he keeps tripping over roots that just keep popping up in his way somehow) but he should be a bit more against that, right?

he also gets the urge to bare his teeth when aggressive beasts crowd around him. his teeth are suspiciously pointy when he feels them, and somehow, the beasts are... intimidated? just like that? when he snarls at them. things also bend to his will for some reason? he was irritated with a swamp (he does not want to wade through that), and then the next time he looks back at it, it's gone???

the demons he came across are very polite, too. completely unlike his expectations. sy thinks he's lucky to meet civilized demons with human-like mannerisms, and does not notice that they're batshit terrified of this one heavenly demon conspiciously leaking out so much demonic qi that it's a miracle he hasn't passed out (which is even more scary bc that is a heck ton of qi)

then because sy is sy, he wifebeams the terrified demons. he talks so animatedly with them, asking questions about their customs without judgment! his smile is so pretty and charming! even in his dirty clothing and unkempt hair, he still looks like a beauty!

then sy takes a bath when he arrives at the demons' village and takes offer to wash up, notices his reflection, and promptly freaks out

is he tlj??? no, tlj does not look like this in pidw's official art, but demons can shapeshift, right? has he messed up the plot??? what date is it even?? is lbh even born yet?? is he lbh's grandfather?????

the demons are rightfully frightened but also worried when sy accidentally destroys a wall of the bath in his haste to get out and get some answers. luckily, this is the demon realm, or his tendency to wear only inner robes will be heavily scrutinized!

sy then plans to get into the human realm (he knows of a few ways) to change the plot! he can't possibly leave lbh to suffer like in pidw if he has the ability to change it...

except lbh is not even born yet.

he does meet tlj, and woooo the demon is so chill and has an entire library full of the worst novels sy has ever read in his entire life (still better than pidw). tlj seems like a sweetheart, how could he possibly wage a war against the human realm that led to his imprisonment? smth is fishy here!

(behind him, tlj kills an entire horde of demons for daring to plan to capture sy. sy is now his little brother. sy does not have the choice of refusing)

and so they travel to the human realm together. tlj immediately fucks off to the nearest bookstore, and sy would have loved to follow him except he has Seen the Plot. then he's suddenly trying to pass off as a wandering cultivator that forgot most of the human customs (very suspicious) bc he's spent most of the time researching plants and animals (ok, his infodumps make that believable) in front of cang qiong cultivators

and then cang qiong offers him to become a teacher in the beast taming peak bc why not (they heard of rumors of a kind wandering cultivator with incredibly accurate portrayals and info about demonic beasts, and also sy is acting Very Sus so they kinda want to keep an eye on him)

(tlj is laughing at him so hard he dislocates a shoulder)

look i just want sy to have the time of his life exploring the endless abyss without the system or the plot breathing down his neck and then i want to throw him into the most stressful situations of his life (coexisting with the disciple versions of the peak lords, and also not getting himself killed for being a heavenly demon, and also tlj's steadily increasing panic on how to court a cold human cultivator who could bodyslam him and throw him over her shoulder and walk off to the sunset)

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞

Pairing: manager!jisung x intern!afab!reader, enemies to lovers, law firm, the slow burn

synopsis: in mind and law. You tackle the new momentum of your job, something you've mentally and physically prepared for. But emotionally? It's not what you had in mind

warnings: suggestive, angst, law, lots of law, jisung is sarcastic, tension, mention of Changbin, plot, one Korean word (translations), time skips

a/n: 16k+ words, fellas. if you dare to have extra eyes for errors no you motherfucking dont. I loved this a lot.

You were born on the wrong side of the skyline. A place where ambition was considered arrogance, and dreams were just things people couldn’t afford. Your father was a mechanic—soft-spoken, hands always coated in grease, and eyes full of pride when you read under the streetlamp because the power went out again. Your mother, a former literature teacher turned night shift waitress, fed you stories instead of lullabies. They taught you that intellect was armor. That silence wasn’t submission, but strategy. That being underestimated was a weapon.

You weren’t the loudest girl in school—but you were dangerous on paper. Top of every class. Knew how to smile at teachers just enough to get what you needed, but never too much to owe them anything. You worked part-time at a bookstore just to read for free. When other kids were partying, you were drafting essays for scholarship competitions at 2AM with shaking hands and coffee-stained sleeves. You didn’t get into university by luck. You got in because you bled for it.

It was Riversley Law University, one of the most prestigious and soul-crushing programs in the country. Everyone whispered about the competition. The gatekeeping. The legacy students who’d never even touched a student loan form. You applied anyway. With one glowing recommendation from a retired judge, you’d once tutored on legal tech for free. With an application essay so raw it made the admissions board cry. With test scores so perfect they thought they were fake until you walked into the interview and quoted obscure 14th-century civil codes like they were bedtime stories.

You got in. Full ride. No one knew how. They thought you were connected. Rich. Sponsored.

You let them think what they wanted.

The top firms came recruiting like vultures during your final year. But Daejin & Grey? They didn’t do job fairs. They didn’t post openings. They hand-picked. And one day, a letter arrived. Real envelope. Black wax seal. No email. No call.

“You’re invited to an exclusive selection round. No details will be repeated. Bring your brain, your backbone, and black ink.”

Turns out, you were one of six students in the entire nation selected to compete for one internship spot. The selection process was insane—contracts in languages you barely knew, impossible moral dilemmas, interrogation-style interviews. People dropped out. Cried. Snapped. You didn’t. You passed. And you became the girl no one saw coming. The intern with fire in her veins and no family name behind her just you. Alone. Hungry. Unshakable.

Jisung was born into brilliance… and burden.

His mother was a top criminal defense lawyer known as “The Viper” in the courtroom—sharp heels, sharper tongue. His father, an occult historian and philosopher who lectured on forbidden languages and secret societies. He grew up in a glass penthouse where success was oxygen and weakness were punishable by silence. Jisung was 17 when Daejin & Grey found him. He had just won an underground student legal warfare competition (an invite-only thing where prodigies go to destroy each other’s arguments in mock trials that felt more like mind combat). He didn’t even enter; someone forged his application. He just showed up… and obliterated future politicians, heirs, and scholars. A week later, a man in an obsidian coat approached his mother during one of her high-profile court cases. Whispered something in her ear. She signed a contract on the back of a napkin. Jisung was summoned. They didn’t interview him. They tested him. Gave him an unsolvable case and watched him create a loophole in 24 hours.

They mentored him in secret. Fed him real cases under the table. Made him sign a blood clause at 19. By 24, he was the youngest partner in the firm’s history. He was the youngest to ever win a national law debate. A certified genius with a smirk that could convince CEOs to sign away their souls and maybe they did. People admired him. Feared him. Worshipped him. But they didn’t know him.

Because Jisung? Jisung was never taught love. He was taught leverage.

Daejin & Grey Law Firm wasn’t founded. It was forged out of war, silence, and unspeakable deals.

The firm traces back over 80 years, born during the post-war reconstruction era. Two men, Ha Daejin—a radical, silver-tongued lawyer who defended war criminals—and Theodore Grey, a disgraced British solicitor exiled for running a covert empire of offshore finance and blackmail, met in Seoul under unusual circumstances. Both were brilliant, both had nothing left to lose, and both were addicted to power. Together, they built Daejin & Grey as more than a firm. It became a sanctuary for those too cunning for politics, too dangerous for the courts, too ambitious for morality. It handles clients that other firms fear from criminal syndicates, foreign diplomats, to weaponized corporations. It's not just law, it’s chess. And they always win.

Rumor has it: The firm has a vault with contracts that could collapse governments. There's a floor you can only access if your name is etched in obsidian. No one leaves Daejin & Grey. You’re either promoted… or erased.

---

You stood in the towering glass lobby of Daejin & Grey, your heels echoing on the polished marble like tiny declarations of war. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Her access badge was silver. Everyone else’s was black. You felt the heat of judgment from passing associates, the subtle way people scanned your thrifted yet sharply styled outfit. You knew you didn’t look like money. But your mind? That was priceless.

An older woman with tightly coiled hair and stilettos sharp enough to stab came striding toward you.

“Intern. Y/N. You’re late,” she said. You weren’t.

“Follow. No questions.”

You moved through what felt like a museum of silence and danger—glass-walled rooms, people whispering in three languages, floors that required fingerprint scans. And then the library.

My God, the library.

Blackwood shelves. Ancient tomes. One door labeled RESTRICTED: Contractual Souls Only.

You swallowed. This wasn’t law school anymore. This was the underworld in heels.

Han Jisung entered from the rooftop.

The chopper dropped him five minutes behind schedule, and he hated being late—especially today, when a new batch of interns were supposed to arrive. He hated interns. Eager. Sweaty. Trying to impress him with quotes from Nietzsche.

He adjusted his ring, black obsidian with a serpent curling up his middle finger and rolled his neck before descending. His assistant, Jinhee, tried to brief him. He waved her off.

“Did they assign me one of the interns?”

“Not officially, but the chairman requested one observe your methods—”

“No.”

“But sir—”

“I said no.”

He walked into his office. 47th floor. The air smelled like power and espresso. His desk was cluttered with folders, red-stamped files, and one curious black envelope marked:

“Observe her. She doesn’t belong—but she might change everything.”

He frowned. Tossed it aside. He didn’t believe in fate.

---

Jisung and Y/N walked the same hall that morning. Opposite directions. Didn’t notice each other—yet. Y/N was being led through the Hall of Legal Legends, where portraits of past partners hung like silent judges. She paused in front of one particularly cold-looking man.

“That’s Ha Daejin,” the tour guide said. “He once freed a serial killer because he didn’t believe in prison. Said the law should be feared, not followed.” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a villain.” The guide smirked. “You’ll hear more of that.”

Meanwhile, Jisung turned a corner, passed a group of interns. Didn’t look at them—except for a second. One girl. Silver badge. Holding a leather-bound notebook like it was a weapon. Unfazed by the architecture. Sharp eyes. He paused for half a second. Blinked. Then walked on.

She felt it. That glance. That storm. They didn’t know each other yet.

---

The conference room at Daejin & Grey was less a meeting space and more a statement. A massive oval table of obsidian-black glass stretched across the room like the eye of some mythic beast. The lighting was deliberately dim—soft golden strips along the ceiling—making everyone’s expressions unreadable, dangerous. It smelled of polished leather, old money, and cold ambition. Interns filed in one by one silent, shoulders squared, eyes darting. You were among them, notebook pressed to your side, trying not to flinch at the weight of legacy pressing on you. All of you were being watched. Every step, every breath, being measured.

You took a seat at the far end, instinctively positioning yourself with your back to the wall. Never the center. Always the observer. The doors opened again and this time, the room actually paused.

In came Mr. Grey.

No one knows his first name. Not really. Just Grey. He walked with a cane not because he needed to, but because he liked the sound of it on marble. A silver three-piece suit, perfectly tailored, skin pale like stone, and a face so unreadable it could’ve been carved.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Sharks in training,” he said, his voice laced with silk and venom. “Welcome to Daejin & Grey.”

“You are not here to learn. You’re here to prove you can survive. We will not teach you to be great. We will simply see if you already are. If you are not—” he gestured lazily toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, “—there is the door, and down there is your future. Bleak. Insignificant.”

Someone gulped. You did not. “From now on,” Grey continued, “you do not breathe without purpose. You do not blink without calculation. And if you ever speak in this room without reason…”

He smiled. Sharp and slow. “I will end your career before it begins.” He stepped back. “Now, allow me to introduce one of our youngest and most... unorthodox partners.”

The doors slammed open again.

Han Jisung strode in with the kind of lazy confidence that screamed I own this room. No tie. Shirt collar undone just enough. A black ring catching the dim light. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just walked out of a midnight negotiation and won. He didn’t look at anyone. He just leaned against the edge of the table, one hand in his pocket.

“Interns,” he said. His voice was casual, disinterested. “Congrats on making it this far. I assume most of you will disappoint me.” Some people chuckled nervously.

He scanned the room—quick sweep. And then, their eyes met.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t fate. It was challenge. His gaze said, Don’t try me.

Yours said, I already am.

Something shifted. Jisung turned back to Grey. “Can I go?”

Grey raised an amused brow. “You just got here.” Jisung shrugged, pushing off the table. “I’ve seen enough.” But he paused by the door. Tilted his head. Glanced over his shoulder not at the group. Just at her.

One second.

Two.

Then he left.

And you? You smelled the war before it began.

After Jisung made his dramatic exit, Mr. Grey waved a gloved hand, summoning the woman standing beside the projection screen. That was Ms. Park, the Head of Public Relations a woman whose smile was sharper than her Louboutins.

She took the lead. “Here at Daejin & Grey,” she began, “we operate on six principles. Discipline. Foresight. Loyalty. Discretion. Precision. And finally—ruthlessness.”

A nervous laugh rippled across the room. She didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”

The next forty-five minutes were a blur of corporate philosophies and non-negotiable ethics. Every new intern had to memorize the internal PR structure, the crisis protocols, and the company’s “zero tolerance” policy for emotional decisions. Everything had a script. Even your heartbeat.

You took notes like your life depended on it. Because it did. But the more the PowerPoint clicked forward, the more you felt the weight of your blouse clinging to her skin not from nerves, but from expectation. From the knowing glance Grey had shot her earlier. He knew.

The interns were finally dismissed for a break, filing out toward the executive café like a herd of wolves pretending to be sheep. The space was insane, sleek glass, gold accents, and meals plated like art. Even the salad looked like it had a stock portfolio.

You picked at a caprese toast, more out of habit than hunger.

Jisung wasn’t there. Of course not. He probably had his meals flown in, signed with blood, and served with jazz. You sipped your drink, but your mind wandered. Back to that look. The unreadable glance between you and Jisung. Like a challenge had been accepted without a single word exchanged.

Just as you were returning your tray, a shadow passed over you.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

That voice. Smooth as obsidian. You turned. Mr. Grey. He didn’t beckon. He just turned, and you followed. You stepped into a smaller conference lounge less intimidating, more personal. Warm-toned wood, a velvet chaise. Only the elite got invited here, you were sure of it.

Grey didn’t sit. He stood by the window, cane in hand, observing the city skyline.

“Well?” he said without turning. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated. “I… I think I’m scared. But I’m also excited.”

He glanced at you now. Just slightly. “Good. Fear without eagerness is cowardice. Eagerness without fear is arrogance. We don’t need either.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ll try not to let you down.” Grey turned to face you fully now. His expression softened—barely—but it was there. A flicker. Almost paternal. “I know where you came from,” he said.

You froze. He continued, “Not everyone here was raised on champagne and legacy. Some of us crawled into this place with blood on our hands and fire in our eyes. You belong here, Y/N. But you’ll need armor.”

“I’ll build it,” you whispered, voice steady.

Grey nodded, satisfied. But then he tilted his head, curious. “You looked at Han Jisung today.” A pause. You raised a brow, unashamed. “He looked first.” That earned the ghost of a chuckle.

“You want to know about him?” Grey asked.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Grey tapped his cane twice on the floor. “Han Jisung is a prodigy. Recruited after flipping the legal department of a rival firm upside down as a client. Took the bar just to prove he could. Now he leads special projects and high-risk negotiations. Untouchable. Brilliant. Reckless.”

You absorbed the information like wine. Grey’s tone turned sharp again. “He does not play well with others. And he doesn’t train interns.”

You met his gaze. “Noted.” Grey smirked. “Good girl.”

---

The door clicked shut behind you.

Your apartment was quiet. Small, but personal. Walls filled with original sketches, abstract prints, pinned timelines, articles with handwritten notes in the margins. A vision board sat in the corner with the word “Grey-level” in capital gold foil across the top. You kicked off your heels and unpinned your hair, letting the curls fall as you moved like clockwork—smooth, efficient, methodical. Laptop open. Lights dimmed. Jazz humming low in the background.

Search: Han Jisung | Daejin & Grey

The results? Not much. Of course not. Grey’s people erased footprints before they were even made. But you was raised to dig deeper than the surface. And you did.

You found mentions of his name in trade journals, coded phrases like “unexpected turnaround,” “miracle negotiation,” and “the golden ghost.” Not a single photo. But a whisper here, a quote there.

Then, an old university blog.

“The Boy Who Sued a Corporation and Won.”

You clicked. A grainy screenshot showed a boy with a snapback on backwards, standing outside a courthouse. Young. Angry. Smirking like he knew too much for someone his age.

Summary:

Age 19. Filed a class action suit against a powerful music label for contract exploitation. Represented himself in preliminary hearings. Won the case and took a settlement. Disappeared from public eye for three years. Resurfaced… at Daejin & Grey.

You sat back, the gears in your mind turning. “So he’s that type,” you murmured.

Anger-driven. Genius-fed. Doesn't like to lose. Hides behind sarcasm because it's safer than vulnerability. You bookmarked the article. Then looked out the window at the glowing city. A little smile curved on your lips.

“This’ll be fun.”

And with that, you shut your laptop and poured yourself a glass of red a silent toast to a storm you knew was coming.

---

The routine had set in fast.

Early mornings. Sharp tailoring. Neutral tones and cool metal accents. You walked the marble floors like you’d owned them in another life, heels tapping like a metronome against the low murmurs of ambition. Daejin & Grey was a world built on precision and aesthetics—every glass panel, every steel fixture, every whisper of silk or leather had its place. You adapted like water in a crystal decanter.

You learned fast, spoke clearly, and listened sharper. You made yourself invaluable to your department, your reports were always early, always clean, always with that extra insight that made supervisors raise their brows and take notes. You didn’t speak unnecessarily in meetings, but when you did, the room always turned.

But Jisung?

Ghosted in and out. Rarely at your floor. Always with his tie loose, mouth set in a line of amusement or disapproval, never in between.

You caught glimpses. Like shadows in polished windows. And every single time your eyes met; it was electric. Subtle, but raw. Sometimes it was across the coffee machine, him leaning against the wall with a smirk as you stirred your drink without sugar. Sometimes in passing through the 8th floor where the high-stakes clients had rooms like hotel lobbies and meetings that reeked of old money and moral grey zones. And sometimes, just a glance across the conference table, where he sat sideways, his leg crossed, chewing the tip of a pen like he knew you were looking.

And she always was.

The blinds were half-drawn, letting in only slanted light that painted the dark wood floor in broken stripes. Mr. Grey sat behind his massive obsidian desk, signature cup of jet-black coffee steaming near his right hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed a tablet. His navy tie was undone, a telltale sign he’d been in meetings since dawn. Jisung stood by the window, posture casual, arms crossed, dressed in a soft black turtleneck and slacks that looked far too expensive for how uninterested he seemed. His hair was slightly tousled—he’d run his hand through it a few too many times. Typical.

“I told you, Grey. I don’t like babysitting,” he said, eyes fixed on the skyline. “There’s enough on my plate. Lee’s merger alone is—”

“This isn’t babysitting.” Grey didn’t even look up. “It’s exposure. Real-world pressure. She needs to be in the field, and you…” He finally glanced up, eyes sharp. “You need to get out of that damn ivory tower you’ve built around yourself.”

Jisung scoffed. “Nice motivational speech. You should sell it with the company’s scented candle line.”

“I’m serious, Han.” Grey slid a file folder across the desk. “Y/N. She’s sharp. Observant. A little quiet. Good instincts, but not molded yet. Reminds me of someone else I hired years ago.”

“Oh, please don’t say—”

“You,” Grey cut him off dryly.

Jisung rolled his eyes and walked over, taking the file with reluctance. He cracked it open, the name Y/N typed neatly on the top corner. There was a small square photo paperclipped to the first page. His eyes flicked over it briefly. She looked poised. Quietly powerful. The kind of face that looked like it’d seen a lot, but wouldn’t tell you unless you earned it.

He didn’t say anything.

“You’ll meet her at the conference,” Grey added, sipping his coffee. “I told her she’d be perfect for this. Don’t make me a liar.”

Jisung closed the folder with a snap and ran a hand through his hair. “What time?”

“Eleven. Don’t be late.”

“I’m always late.”

“I’ll dock your paycheck.”

“Charming,” he muttered, tucking the folder under his arm. “She better be worth the hassle.”

“She is,” Grey said, finality in his tone. “And maybe… just maybe, she’s the type to make you think again, Jisung.” Han Jisung didn’t answer. He just walked out, file in hand, wondering why the hell this girl was already starting to live in the back of his mind.

It was a Thursday.

You remembered because you wore the wide-legged gray slacks you saved for “power move” days. A quarterly strategy conference was underway, where junior analysts, interns, and mid-level associates were gathered to observe the department leads speak on major upcoming cases. Mr. Grey sat at the head of the room, calm, in control, sleek in that navy suit with no tie.

Then came the part no one expected: live assignments.

“Some of you will be handling case shadows,” Grey said, clasping his hands. “And some of you will be leading minor client packages. Let’s make things interesting.”

Papers were passed.

Your folder landed with a soft thunk. You opened it. A name. A file. A logo. A red tab labeled

Priority Confidential.

Below it:

Supervisor – Han Jisung

Your blood stilled. Just as you looked up, you saw him lean on the doorframe at the back of the room, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, silver watch catching the light. He tilted his head slightly as your eyes met, mouth tugging in that slow, you ready for this? smirk.

“Y/N,” Mr. Grey called from the head of the table. “You’ll be reporting directly to Jisung. He’ll catch you up on the brief by end of day. Congratulations.” You swallowed, spine straight. “Understood, sir.” Jisung gave you a two-finger salute. The room kept moving.

But you? You were already calculating. Preparing. Bracing for impact. Because something told you this assignment was going to be everything you wanted… and everything you weren’t ready for.

You stood outside the glass wall of Jisung’s office, heels clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. Your reflection blinked back at you, sharp, composed, lips pressed into a line so thin it could cut glass. The folder in your hand had bite marks on the corner where you’d chewed it while overthinking. Not that you’d ever admit it.

You exhaled once. Twice. Then knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice was casual, distracted. You entered.

Jisung was leaning back in his chair, black sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen lazily twirling between his fingers. His office smelled like cedar and fresh ink, the lighting warm but sterile like someone had tried to make it welcoming but gave up halfway through. Like him, maybe.

His eyes flicked up briefly. Then back down to the paper on his desk. “Y/N, right?”

“Yes.” You shut the door softly behind her. “You’re my supervisor on the K-Tech acquisition case.”

“Mmh,” Jisung hummed, still reading. “That’s what Grey says.” You didn’t sit until he gestured vaguely toward the chair in front of him barely looking up. His posture was everything you’d expect from someone with way too much power and too little patience: cocky, distant, infuriatingly relaxed.

You hated it.

“I’ve already gone through the case summary,” you said, placing the folder neatly on his desk. “I’ve highlighted the inconsistencies in the subsidiary’s financials. There’s—”

“—a shell company in Taipei laundering R&D funds,” he finished without missing a beat, still not looking at you. “Yeah. Noted that three weeks ago.”

You paused. Tilted your head. “Then why is it still unresolved?” That made him look up.

Slowly. Like a cat flicking its tail, unbothered but aware. His gaze was sharp, dark, and laced with something unreadable. Maybe amusement. Maybe boredom. Maybe both.

“Grey told me to loop you in,” he said, leaning back, fingers steepled. “Not give you the steering wheel.”

“I’m not here to steer,” you shot back, tone cool. “I’m here to work. But if you’d rather I sit in the corner and watch you twirl pens, I can pencil that in too.” There was a beat of silence.

Then,

“Cute,” Jisung said, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “You’ve got teeth.” You sat back in her chair, arms crossing. “And you’ve got ego. Big one. I’m surprised it fits in here with all the air you take up.” He actually laughed. A quiet, surprised sound, like you’d caught him off-guard and he didn’t hate it.

“Most interns are too scared to say half that.”

“I’m not most interns,” she said simply.

His gaze lingered. Too long.

You didn’t flinch. Didn't blink. You was dangerous, he realized. Not in the way of lawsuits or incompetence—but in the way your eyes cut right through his performance, the way your presence didn’t flinch under pressure. He’d seen plenty of people fold under his disinterest. But not you.

And the thing was, he liked it. God, he liked it way too much.

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping a note lower. “Let’s get this straight. You bring me something smart, I’ll listen. You waste my time; I’ll make you regret it.”

Your lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “You won’t scare me off, Han.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Good. Wouldn’t be fun if I did.” The room felt smaller. Warmer. Something thick and charged buzzed in the silence between you. Then he grabbed your folder and opened it, eyes scanning fast. You watched him, arms still folded, legs crossed, a flicker of fire in her gaze.

“I need full employee logs for the Taipei branch,” Jisung said, tapping his pen against the folder. “Also, see if you can get internal memos from the last quarter. Anything involving the budget committee.”

“Got it,” You replied, standing smoothly.

You reached for the folder, fingers brushing the edge of his desk like it owed you something. Confident. Effortless. And just as she turned on her heel to leave—

—he looked.

He hadn’t meant to. Not really. It just—happened.

The way your skirt hugged your hips, the subtle sway as you walked like every step was calculated, fluid, commanding the air around her. Jisung blinked, his jaw clenching a little too tightly.

Fuck.

He looked away fast. Sat back. Ran a hand down his face like it’d erase the ten seconds of weakness he just experienced.

“She’s your intern, man,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, already annoyed with himself. “Get a grip.” But the image lingered. Along with the snarky little grin you gave him earlier the fire in your voice, the nerve.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to argue with you or—

Nope.

He shut the thought down. Immediately. He grabbed a random paper off his desk and stared at it like it was the holy gospel.

It wasn’t. It was a receipt for pens. Still, anything to distract himself. Because damn it, you were going to be a problem. And a hot one at that.

---

You leaned your head against the window, the cool glass pressing gently into your temple as your car hummed along the road, lights of the city beginning to dim behind you. Your phone was plugged into the AUX, and the low, rhythmic voice of RM filled the car like an ocean tide.

His voice always settled her nerves. Heavy thoughts dissolved into gentle weightlessness as you watched neighborhoods blur past concrete melting into trees, the air growing less polluted, the traffic thinning. Your week had already been a blur: Daejin’s pressure cooker energy, the barbed words exchanged with Jisung, the way he looked at you today like you were both a problem and a puzzle—

And still, he stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fight you or fold.

You scoffed softly to yourself and turned up the volume. You weren’t going to think about him right now. Not when your heart softened the closer you got to home.

The car crunched against the gravel driveway, your headlights sweeping over the familiar brick front and small white porch your dad had painted a decade ago. The house stood modest, cozy—just big enough to hold love and struggle in equal measure. You stepped out, heels in hand, dress blazer folded over your arm. The night air smelled like coming rain and hibiscus soap, your mom’s favorite. You climbed the steps two at a time and opened the door.

Inside, your father was seated by the small living room window, a blanket over his lap, the TV on low. Your mother was in the kitchen, humming to herself and peeling fruit, and Mr. Tae—her parents’ long-time caregiver—stood nearby folding laundry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mr. Tae greeted first, smiling warmly as he turned around.

“Hi,” you whispered, setting your bag down. Your voice dropped into something gentle, reverent. “How’ve they been today?”

“Good. Your mom’s been on her feet most of the day—she’s stubborn as always. Your dad’s been quieter. Tired. But good.” You smiled softly and nodded. You walked over to your dad first, knelt beside him, and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t say much—just smiled at you with kind, weary eyes and touched your hair the way he used to when she was little.

Your mom came over next, wrapping you in a warm hug that still somehow smelled like love and cornbread.

“How’s the new job?” her mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You gave a half-laugh. “Complicated. Intense. Full of egos and deadlines. But I’m hanging in.”

“You always do,” your mom replied, patting your hand. “You’re our miracle, remember?” You sat with them for a while. Ate some fruit. Let yourself be their daughter instead of a rising corporate intern or legal assistant. Let yourself exhale.

Because when you walked back into Daejin the next morning…you’d need that fire again.

---

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jisung leaned against it for a moment, keys still in his hand, the silence of the apartment washing over him like warm static. No city horns here. No coworkers. No Grey. No you. He exhaled slowly, dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes with mechanical grace. The space was minimal, sleek—clean lines and dark accents. Black couch, polished concrete floor, deep green plants that he tried not to forget to water.

It looked like someone with taste lived here. It felt like a hotel room someone never fully unpacked in. He peeled off his blazer, draped it over the bar stool, and walked straight to the kitchen—grabbing a water bottle and a leftover half sandwich from the fridge. Gourmet. Chef Han at it again.

The light of his laptop blinked softly from the corner of the living room.

He ignored it. Instead, he wandered to the window, bottle in hand, and stared down at the city glowing like an artificial galaxy beneath him.

Another day of everything and nothing. He’d barely slept this week. Work had been brutal. Interns had been annoying.

Well…one intern.

His jaw twitched slightly at the memory of you walking out of his office, confident as hell, throwing shade and facts like you was born in a courtroom. That mouth on you—sharp. Quick.

Too damn smart for her own good. Too damn hot for his peace of mind.

He took a long sip of water, then grabbed his phone. Your file was still open in his emails. He didn’t mean to reread it. He did anyway. Background: modest. Grades: impressive. Demeanor: biting. Expression? Always looked like she was two seconds from either kissing you or ending your entire bloodline.

And that skirt?

Jesus.

He dropped the phone face down on the kitchen island.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t ideal. He hated supervising for a reason—he didn’t like people clinging to him, watching him, depending on him. Especially not people who stirred up whatever this was. But you were different. Not in some romanticized, poetic way. No, more like…threateningly competent with legs for days and an attitude that gave him a headache and a half-chub at the same time. He groaned, running both hands through his hair before sinking onto the couch.

“God, Grey, why her?” he muttered aloud, throwing his head back dramatically.

No answer, of course. Just the sound of Seoul vibrating behind his window.

The weight of your stare still burned behind his eyes.

He knew this was going to get messy. He just didn’t know how soon.

But one thing was for sure, you were going to ruin him if he wasn’t careful. And part of him?

Didn’t want to be.

The food he had ordered just arrived, a warm burst of garlic and spice filling the cool silence of the apartment. Jisung set the cartons down on the island, unwrapping the napkins with the kind of robotic precision you pick up when you’ve eaten alone too many nights in a row. Spicy pork bulgogi, kimchi, rice, a small bottle of soju he didn’t ask for but the restaurant always tossed it in when they recognized his name on the order.

Perks of being Han Jisung.

He had just opened the chopsticks when his phone buzzed.

Dad

Incoming call.

Jisung stared at the screen for a second too long, jaw tightening. His thumb hovered, not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he already knew how this conversation would go. Still, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

A deep voice crackled through the line, rough and low like worn leather.

“You sound tired.”

“I am,” Jisung replied simply, stabbing into his rice. “Been a long week.”

“Hm. You’re still working with Grey?”

“Still am.”

A pause. The silence between them said more than words could. His father had always had this way of making small talk feel like an interrogation.

“He’s using you.”

Jisung scoffed, mouth full. “Grey doesn’t use people. He recruits weapons.”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t answer. He chewed slowly, staring at the television that wasn’t even on.

“You still think you’re doing something different than me?” his father asked.

“Yeah,” Jisung said flatly. “Because I don’t destroy people for sport.”

Another pause. This time heavier.

“You sound just like your mother when you say shit like that.”

Jisung’s stomach twisted. He took another bite, mostly to shut himself up.

“You supervising someone?” his dad continued, like nothing had just happened.

Jisung rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Because I know what that means. You don’t let people close. If Grey’s making you, it’s not for nothing.”

Jisung hesitated, his mind flickering to you, the fire-eyed intern with the mouth that didn’t quit and the brain to match. The way you stood her ground, talked back, made his blood rush like he was seventeen again.

“She’s…interesting,” he finally muttered.

“She hot?”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“What? You said interesting. That’s code.” Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s smart. Loud. Got a mouth on her.”

“So, you hate her.”

“…Something like that.”

There was a hum of amusement through the phone. For once, not a scoff or scold. Just understanding. A scary kind. “Watch yourself,” his father warned. “Grey doesn’t push you unless he’s trying to teach you something. Or test you. Or both.”

“I’m not new to this.”

“You’re new to her.” Jisung froze for a second, chopsticks suspended in the air.

“I gotta go,” he said, clearing his throat. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Call your mother.”

“I will.”

“Jisung.”

“What.”

“Don’t ruin it before it starts.”

Click.

The line went dead. Jisung sat there for a second, staring at the phone like it might say more. Then he set it down, picked up his food again, and muttered under his breath,

“…She’s still just an intern.”

But for some reason, he didn’t believe it.

Jisung was never the golden boy. Not in the traditional sense.

He wasn’t the loudest, or the most obedient, or the one who stayed out of trouble. But he was the sharpest. Razor-witted, eyes always ten steps ahead, and a tongue that could cut through hypocrisy like glass. From a young age, he was used to watching people argue from the staircase—his father, tall and thunderous, always in some perfectly pressed suit, barking down at his mother like she was one of the many subordinates who feared him.

His father, Han Joon-won, was a underground kingpin. Notorious in South Korea’s legal underworld for getting even the dirtiest white-collar criminals off scot-free. even though he was just a professor, he made his name not by defending the innocent, but by twisting narratives so well, the guilty walked out smiling.

His mother, on the other hand, Min So-ra, had been a viper in her work but the soul of the house.  Jisung had grown up watching them clash. Not over love—they hadn’t had that in years—but over principles. Over Jisung.

“He’s not going to be your legacy, Joon-won.”

“No. He’s going to be my evolution.”

When Jisung was 16, his mother left. Just packed her bags one night, kissed his forehead, and disappeared into a train station fog with nothing but her passport and a spine of steel.

She didn’t fight for custody. She didn’t drag him through courts. She just said, “I trust you to choose who you want to become.” And that ruined him more than any custody battle ever could.

When he was 20 and fresh out of university—with the kind of transcripts people framed—Jisung had offers lined up. Corporate firms, legal think tanks, political gigs. But none of it felt… earned. It felt like a train his father had put him on long ago, and the tracks were already built for him.

Daejin wasn’t a regular firm. It wasn’t even fully public. It was a private legal-intelligence consulting group, used by billionaires and politicians when the government couldn’t be trusted. Rumors said they helped broker backdoor treaties and helped dismantle crime rings from the inside. Jisung had accepted. Not because he trusted Grey, not because his mother signed behind his back, but because it felt like the first decision that was his.

He’d finished the bulgogi, the soju still cold beside his elbow, untouched. A silence lingered too long in the space around him—the kind that scratched at his ears. So, he picked up his phone again and scrolled to “엄마��. mom

He hadn’t called in weeks. She picked up on the second ring.

“Sung-ah.”

His chest clenched. Her voice hadn’t changed. Soft, calm, always like the air after a thunderstorm.

“Hey,” he said, a little hoarse. “You free?”

“For you? Always.”

He smiled softly, letting his head fall back against the couch.

“I got assigned someone today.”

“At work?”

“Yeah. Intern. I’m her supervisor.”

“And how do you feel about that?” He paused. How did he feel?

“She’s… interesting,” he muttered.

“That’s not a feeling, baby.”

He chuckled, rubbing his forehead. “She’s annoying. And smart. And looks at me like she’s trying to read my blood type.”

“So, she’s not scared of you.”

“No. And that’s the problem.”

“Or the point.”

Silence passed between them again, but this time it felt full. Safe. “Don’t let your father live in your mirror,” she said softly. “Not when there’s still light in your eyes.”

He closed his eyes. Let her words sink in.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Call more often. I like hearing you wrestle with your own stubbornness.”

He smiled, biting back the wave of emotion building in his chest.

“I will.”

Click.

The line ended, and Jisung sat there for a long time phone on his chest, soju uncapped. Thinking about you, about the case, about whether this internship of yours was the beginning of your legacy...

…or the unraveling of his.

---

The lights in War Room A were low but moody designed that way to make people feel like the truth mattered more in the dark. Glass boards lined the walls, already filled with cryptic arrows and pin-dotted strings from other ongoing cases. The table was long, cold steel, with matte black folders laid out like they were handling national security instead of corporate lawsuits. Y/N walked in clutching her notepad, lips set in a calm line, her heels tapping softly against the grey tile. Her nerves simmered under the surface, but her expression stayed focused, professional. The room had a tension to it like the oxygen had been filtered for people who played chess with lives.

Jisung was already there, sleeves rolled to the forearms, silver watch glinting under the ceiling light. His jaw looked sharper this morning tighter. He didn’t look up when she entered.

Just said, “You’re late.”

“I’m early,” she replied smoothly, glancing at the wall clock—9:02.

He looked up then. Eyes dragging from her face to the file in her hand, then back. “Right. Two minutes early. Congratulations, you want a cookie?”

“Only if it’s got sarcasm chips in it.”

A ghost of a smirk flicked at the corner of his lips. But it vanished before it could get comfortable. “Sit,” he muttered, motioning to the seat beside him. As she sat, more of the upper-tier team began filing in. Analysts. Consultants. A lead from the surveillance branch. Everyone looked polished and exhausted, like they hadn’t slept more than three hours in days. The weight of high-profile work wore heavy on everyone here and Y/N felt it. Like iron in her bones.

Grey entered last. Of course.

Wearing an all-black turtleneck and long grey coat, he looked more like a grieving poet than the head of a high-level legal-intelligence firm. But the room straightened when he walked in. His presence commanded without barking.

He didn’t speak until he’d set his black coffee down.

“This is the KraneTech litigation,” he began. “Thirty-two million dollars’ worth of hush money misfiled as marketing budget. A whistleblower’s coming forward. We’re handling the internal case, prepping for external liability.”

He glanced around the table, then locked eyes with Y/N.

“This will be Y/N’s first live case. She’s under Han.” Jisung sighed through his nose. Loud enough for her to hear it. Not loud enough to get called out.

“Everyone, give her the floor.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait—”

“You have 90 seconds,” Grey added casually. “What’s your understanding of the case from the file you read yesterday?”

Shit.

She straightened. “KraneTech misappropriated marketing funds to pay off silence regarding potential internal abuse and fraudulent operations. The whistleblower is anonymous for now but has indicated they have documentation and digital logs.”

The room watched her like hawks. She continued. “There’s a timeline gap between February and April 2023 where no financial statements match the campaign budgets. That’s likely when the payouts happened. There’s also a legal scrub done during April that feels… strategic. Like they were anticipating investigation.”

Grey leaned back, considering. “Interesting.”

She held her breath. Then, he nodded once. “You’ll shadow Han. You have two days to prove you can handle the next phase of the audit alone.”

He turned to Jisung. “She’s yours. Try not to murder each other.”

Jisung’s jaw ticked.

Grey left with most of the others. The moment the room was half empty, Jisung stood and walked toward the glass board at the front of the room. Y/N followed, silent, watching him as he clicked a button and the case projection flickered to life.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “You’re not bad.”

“Was that… a compliment?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m writing it down anyway.”

“You do that.”

They stood side by side now, looking at the digital board—emails, blurred invoices, personnel profiles. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

She crossed her arms. “Trace the digital logins. Identify the cleaner who did the scrub in April. Follow the emails that were archived after the fact. There’s always metadata.”

“Metadata and luck.” He paused. “You might actually survive here.”

“I don’t need to survive,” she muttered. “I plan to win.” He turned his head just slightly, watching her profile as her eyes stayed on the board. It annoyed him. How pretty she looked when she was focused. How cocky she sounded when she didn’t even know the half of what Daejin really did behind closed doors.

“You’re stubborn,” he said.

“I adapt.”

“That’s worse.”

She smirked without turning to him. “Maybe you’re just slow.” He blinked. God, she was insufferable. And kinda hot.

He cleared his throat. “Meeting’s over. Get what you need. I’ll send you internal files by noon.” She nodded, then turned to leave the room.

His eyes dropped instinctively—for a second—to the sway of her hips, her skirt hugging just enough.

He looked away instantly, jaw clenched.

“Fucking hell…” he whispered under his breath.

The office they used was colder than necessary. The kind of cold that kept you awake and working, courtesy of Daejin’s air conditioning set to “keep them alert or kill them trying.” The space was sleek, functional, and minimal: two large desks facing opposite walls, a shared table in the center stacked with files, highlighters, redacted papers, and two half-drunk cups of espresso.

Y/N had shed her blazer somewhere around 9AM. Now in a simple white shirt with the sleeves folded to her elbows, her fingers flew over her keyboard, the blue glow of her screen reflecting off her glasses. She was in full problem-solver mode, lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in that way Jisung had, unfortunately, noticed more than once.

Jisung sat across from her, slightly reclined, eyes darting between an evidence board and the KraneTech whistleblower’s anonymized file. He was chewing the tip of a pen, annoyed that it was yielding nothing new. His own desk was chaos with purpose: files, sticky notes, USB drives, all organized in his uniquely ‘smart but unhinged’ way.

Silence passed between them—not uncomfortable. Just focused.

“You notice this?” Y/N asked suddenly, flipping her laptop to face him.

Jisung stood and leaned over, arms braced on either side of her chair as he scanned her screen. Her perfume—something light and sweet—hit him too quickly. He pulled back a little.

She pointed. “The logs from the scrub session in April? Someone tried to delete twice. Different time stamps. But only one was executed.” His eyes scanned fast. Sharp. “Good catch. That means they weren’t working alone. One initiated. One canceled. Which means—”

“Which means the second person might’ve backed out,” she finished. Their eyes met. A beat of satisfaction passed between them.

She looked smug. He hated that he liked it. He straightened and returned to his desk without comment. “Cross-check the list of digital IDs with those on the financial audits,” he added, already typing again. “There’s a chance the person who canceled left a trail out of guilt. I’ll trace the IP from the meta headers.”

“On it,” she replied.

Hours passed. Coffee refilled. Notes scribbled. The room thickened with brainpower and caffeine fumes. By 12:17 PM, her stomach growled audibly. She froze. Jisung glanced up, cocked a brow. “You gonna eat or let your stomach file a complaint to HR?”

“I’ll grab something later—”

“You’ve been saying that for four hours,” he cut in, pulling out his phone. A few taps. “Lunch will be here in ten.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I chose to. Which means now you’re going to eat, intern.” His tone was teasing but firm. “Take a break. Let your frontal lobe reset before it fries.” She gave him a look, soft but stubborn. “You didn’t have to—”

“If you say that one more time, I’m ordering dinner too and making you eat it in front of the entire board.”

She blinked. He smirked.

“And that’s not an empty threat.”

Ten minutes later, lunch arrived—grilled chicken wraps, sweet potato fries, and iced black tea. Jisung slid one over to her, then turned back to his desk like it meant nothing. Y/N stared at the food. Then him.

“You’re not eating?”

“Later,” he muttered. “I want to finish this trace.”

“You sure? I can share.” He shot her a sideways look. “Don’t tempt me.” Her cheeks flushed, but she masked it with a sarcastic chuckle, “Relax, Han. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s just fries.” He smirked, but didn’t respond, back to his files, eyes scanning deep.

Y/N finally took a bite.

And—damn it—it was really good.

For the next half hour, they worked in silence again. Separate desks. Separate minds. But the same rhythm. The same obsession. The same unspoken energy. Enemies? No. Allies with fire in the air? Absolutely.

And neither of them realized it yet…

…but this was how chemistry always began at Daejin.

The city outside had long gone quiet. Seoul’s skyline twinkled through the window, streetlights casting streaks of orange and silver across the tiled floor. The office was quieter now—no whirring printers or urgent footsteps. Just two exhausted minds submerged in data, theories, and the kind of mental endurance that only legal warfare demanded.

Y/N sat cross-legged in her chair, one earbud in, hair messily pinned up with a pen poking through it. Her screen was a swirl of digital records, duplicated entries, firewall logs, she was squinting now, moving files around like puzzle pieces in her mind. A cold cup of coffee sat beside her, untouched for the last hour. Her knee bounced unconsciously, the adrenaline refusing to die down even though her body begged for sleep.

Then—she paused.

Froze.

Brows lifted slowly, lips parting. Her fingers darted over the keys, pulling up the original access logs from April’s double-deletion. She’d been chasing a ghost for hours, but there it was, plain as day: a duplicated ID signature tied to two different employee databases. The same person had registered under two different teams. Fake alias.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, breathless.

She snatched the file from the table where Jisung had left it earlier—his own scribbled notes, dots connected, theories half-built. The answer had been under both their noses the whole time.

“Jisung!” she called out instinctively, spinning her chair around, face bright with excitement and a little disbelief.

But when she turned—

He wasn’t responding.

Slouched in his chair, arms draped lazily across the desk, Jisung’s head had dropped sideways. His laptop screen still flickered, casting soft light over his peaceful expression. One hand was still holding onto the same file she now clutched, his notes stopped mid-sentence.

She blinked, then smiled. The moment softened her. There was something intimate about seeing someone brilliant in their most unguarded state. She stepped closer, voice low. “Guess we cracked it… both of us. Not bad for an overachiever and a half-asleep grump.”

No reply. Just a soft rise and fall of his chest. A slight twitch of his lips, like he was dreaming—maybe about work, maybe something far less exhausting. She shook her head fondly, knelt beside him, and tapped his arm gently.

“Hey, genius. Sleeping on the job now?”

Jisung stirred. Eyes slowly opened, bleary and unfocused at first. His lashes fluttered and his brows knitted as he squinted.

“Shit—did I pass out?” he muttered, sitting up too fast.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Right in the middle of your future law firm commercial. ‘Han Jisung: brilliant, relentless, occasionally unconscious.’”

He ran a hand down his face, groaning. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, voice firmer now. “Don’t apologize.” He looked at her, confused, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You need to go home,” she said softly, but there was command in it. “You look like you’ve been tired for years, not just tonight.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t argue.” She reached for his laptop and closed it. “I’ll clean up here, write up a preliminary. I’ll shoot you a copy before morning.”

He hesitated, still groggy, but caught in her unwavering gaze. Her voice was gentle, but it left no room for negotiation.

“…You always like bossing people around?” he mumbled, standing slowly.

“Only when they’re being stupidly self-destructive. Karma, really.”

That earned a small smirk. He slung his bag over his shoulder, but before he left, he paused at the doorway. She was already turning back to her laptop, immersed again.

“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter. She didn’t look up.

“Go home, Han.” He lingered for one more second, eyes tracing her silhouette under the cool light of the monitor.

And then he was gone.

---

Han Jisung’s apartment was all clean lines and controlled chaos. A half-folded hoodie hung off a kitchen chair, vinyl records were stacked by the turntable in no real order, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the hallway like a memory too stubborn to leave. He was buttoning up his dress shirt, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, his hair damp and messy from a rushed shower.

He grabbed his phone from the counter just as it buzzed.

New Email: Preliminary Draft — Case #1782

Sender: Y/N [yn.daejin.legal@corp.kr]

He blinked, brows furrowing.

Already?

He opened it, skimming fast at first—but then slowing.

Thorough. Organized. Insightful. She hadn’t just pieced together the data. She’d cross-referenced employee signatures, restructured their timeline, and even color-coded the suspects in the margin.

“…Damn,” he muttered, under his breath.

Then another ping.

Text from Y/N:

Morning. I might come in a little late today—just wanted to give a heads-up. Will join as soon as I’m done. Thanks again for last night. Hope you got decent sleep.

He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but definitely wasn’t neutral. His fingers hovered above the keyboard—he started to type, paused, erased, then just tossed the phone on the bed.

“Tch,” he muttered, grabbing his blazer. “Why is she so annoyingly good at this…”

And still, as he grabbed his bag and locked the door behind him, the corner of his mouth wouldn’t stop lifting.

He walked into the morning rush of Seoul, suit crisp, heart slightly off-beat, and thoughts already spiraling back to the girl who’d made him a little more tired… and a lot more intrigued.

—

The room hummed with pre-trial tension. A long, oval table dominated the center—sleek, black wood polished to a mirror shine. Screens displayed the case name, stacks of legal documents fanned out in front of each assigned seat, water bottles untouched beside stiff black folders. Jisung sat near the end, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes flicking between the time on his watch and the door.

9:05. You was five minutes late. Not a big deal.

But it made his left eye twitch.

He was about to tap his pen against the desk when the door finally swung open.

You stepped in—hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail, glasses perched delicately on your nose. That outfit? Deadly. A gray pinstriped shirt peeking from beneath a black cropped cardigan, slacks hugging your hips in a way that made Jisung’s train of thought flatline for two full seconds. He sat up straighter unconsciously.

You looked... put-together. Smart. Sharp. And not trying too hard. Your eyes met his and—there it was again—that same flicker of tension. Familiar, unspoken. But you walked over calmly, confidence in your steps, setting down your laptop and notes beside his before leaning in slightly and whispering, “Did you read the preliminary?”

He gave you a slow blink.

“Yeah.”

“Did I mess anything up? I—I rushed the tail end and didn’t double check that section with the warehouse codes.”

Jisung’s brows rose. You were nervous.

He leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth. “No, you didn’t mess up. It’s tight. You caught things even I didn’t at first glance.” You narrowed your eyes at him skeptically, biting back a smile. “You’re being sarcastic.”

Jisung tilted his head. “I’m actually not. Don’t get used to it though.”

You chuckled softly and straightened your back, trying to hide the little breath of pride you exhaled. The compliment, sarcastic or not, buzzed in your chest. Just then, the door opened again and Grey strolled in, black suit, no tie, coffee in hand, and that ever-serious gleam in his eyes.

“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s get this started. We’ve got five days before trial and no time to fumble.”

The room fell silent instantly, shuffling to attention. Jisung caught your glance from the corner of his eye as you both turned to face the screen. You were in this. Present. Awake. Ready. And damn if he wasn’t a little impressed. And a little more in trouble than he thought. Grey stood at the head of the table, setting down his coffee and clapping his hands once to get everyone locked in.

“Let’s keep it clean, focused, and brutal,” he said, eyes sweeping over the team. “We’ve got motive, but the jury’s going to need a narrative they can eat with a spoon. What’s the angle?”

There was a beat of silence before you cleared her throat gently.

“We start with the financial discrepancies in the subsidiary accounts,” you said, clicking your laptop and flipping the screen to show a clean graph. “Every quarter leading up to the embezzlement charge, there’s a small spike in activity—same offshore account, different shell companies.”

Grey raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And the evidence chain?”

“Verified. We have authenticated statements, plus a testimony lined up from the former assistant—she’s agreed to testify under condition of anonymity.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen against his thigh. “It’s a good start. But it’s not enough to prove intent. The defense will call it mismanagement or incompetence. We need to tie the money trail to motive.” Grey nodded slowly and gestured. “Han?”

Jisung leaned forward, fingers steepled. “So, we hit them where it hurts—optics. The accused transferred funds under the guise of ‘consultancy fees’ to a company owned by his college roommate. We subpoenaed his travel history—it matches up with four ‘retreats’ that happen to line up with the largest deposits. Add in emails recovered from the IT sweep…”

He tapped his file. “There’s one that says—and I quote—‘just make sure they don’t notice until Q3.’ That’s intent, with a side of cocky.” Your eyes flicked over to him. “And we link that to the board vote he forced through last September? That’s when he got majority control.”

Jisung glanced sideways at you and gave a little nod. “Exactly.” Grey folded his arms. “So, what’s the sequence of presentation?”

You raised a hand slightly, already halfway flipping pages. “We open with the paper trail—the clean, technical breakdown. It builds credibility. Then Jisung drives the intent point home with the emails and personal ties. By the time we present the witness, the jury already suspects him. Her testimony just confirms it.”

Jisung looked at you. Really looked. “We build the wall first, then drop the hammer.”

You didn’t smile, but your lips twitched in mutual understanding. “Exactly.” Grey looked between them for a moment before nodding, pleased. “Good. Tag team it. Han, you handle cross. YN, you prep the witness and the opening presentation. You’ve got three days. I want a mock run-through by Thursday.”

Everyone else began gathering their things and filtering out, but YN and Jisung lingered, documents still splayed across the table like a living crime scene. You gathered your notes silently, then paused.

“You’re not bad at this,” you said lightly, not looking at him.

Jisung let out a soft scoff. “You’re pretty decent yourself. For someone who doesn’t shut up.”

“Maybe if you weren’t always so smug, I’d have less to say.” He shot you a lazy smirk, grabbing his folder. “Nah. You’d still talk. It’s the only way you function.” You raised a brow, grabbing her coffee as she stood. “Just be ready Thursday, counselor.”

“Oh, I will be,” he murmured, half to himself as you walked off ahead of him. His eyes dropped to the sway of-

Focus, Han. Not now.

The case was a web. But with you, he realized it wasn’t just untangling it. It was figuring out who was pulling the strings alongside him. And for once, it didn’t feel like he was doing it alone.

Prep for the Mock Trial

The fluorescent lights in your shared office buzzed quietly as papers rustled and two cups of coffee sat cooling, forgotten. The clock ticked past 9:00 PM, but neither of you had noticed the time. You were seated cross-legged in one of the chairs, balancing your laptop on your knees, voice low but focused as you ran through your opening statement draft. Jisung was pacing slowly with a pen in his mouth and a highlighter tucked behind one ear, eyes darting from paper to whiteboard. Every now and then, he’d mumble something or make a noise of disapproval under his breath.

“You skipped over the offshore transfer in August,” he said suddenly, cutting into her flow like a scalpel. “What?” you blinked, scrolling up. “No, I didn’t—”

“You did. You jumped from July to September like August didn’t exist. That transfer ties into the witness’ credibility. If you miss that in court, we lose the entire momentum.”

“I said August,” you insisted, your tone sharp now. “You must’ve zoned out again.” Jisung rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t zone out; I just actually pay attention.” That landed a little harder than he expected.

Your fingers froze on the trackpad. “Are you seriously implying I don’t pay attention to my own case?”

“I’m implying,” he said coolly, “that maybe if you stopped treating this like a performance and started treating it like law, you wouldn’t miss simple stuff.” Your mouth parted, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re great at talking, Y/N, no doubt. But law isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about being right. And sometimes, you skip details because you’re so busy trying to be the smartest person in the room.”

The air went ice cold.

“Wow,” you said, standing up slowly, voice lower than before. “You know, I get it. You’re used to being the genius. The golden boy. So, God forbid someone comes in and actually keeps up.” Jisung’s mouth opened, then shut. His jaw flexed.

“I didn’t say that—”

“But you think it. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do care about how I come across—because I have to. Because unlike you, I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have parents who could afford law school. I don’t have a family name. I earned my place here.”

“You think I didn’t?”

“No,” you snapped, “I think you didn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to be seen. I think you have no idea what it’s like to have people doubt your intelligence the second you walk in because you don’t come from the right background.”

He looked like he wanted to fight that but then he muttered it, barely audible:

“Maybe if you weren’t so defensive all the damn time, people wouldn’t doubt you.” Your eyes widened slowly. That one hit like a punch to the ribs.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “Screw this.”

You grabbed your laptop and shoved it into your bag with trembling hands. He stepped forward instinctively, guilt rushing in like a wave, but you cut him off with just one glance, eyes glassy and betrayed.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Y/N, I—”

“You don’t get to apologize.” The door clicked behind you as you walked out, leaving only silence and the buzzing light.

Jisung stood there for a long time, the weight of his words pressing down hard. He knew he messed up. And he knew sorry wasn’t going to cut it.

---

The atmosphere in the trial room was different.

Tense. Unspoken.

The team sat behind the long table facing the mock jury box. Grey was seated like a hawk, sharp-eyed and still. Jisung was at the end of the table, posture impeccable, face unreadable. His tie was perfect, hair neat, but his fingers tapped nervously under the desk. You walked in five minutes before the session started.

You were pristine with pressed slacks, a sleek ponytail, silver-rimmed glasses. The same woman from the steps that morning. Cool, composed, unreadable.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t even hesitate. Grey gave a curt nod as the session began. “Let’s run it like it’s real. Y/N, opening.” You stood, the room holding its breath.

And as you spoke—calm, clear, devastatingly precise—Jisung could feel the growing tension in his chest. You were flawless. Unshakable.

And she wasn’t looking at him.

The mock courtroom buzzed with a synthetic energy, the kind that stemmed from performance but mimicked the high-stakes atmosphere of a real trial. Every step, every statement was under scrutiny. Professors and legal consultants sat with clipboards, eyes flickering between the two leads of the case.

You hadn't glanced at Jisung once. Not during his opening statement, which was admittedly impressive but a touch rushed. Not when they passed each other the exhibit binder. Not even when he tapped your arm to hand over his notes on the cross. You took them without a word.

Your expression remained neutral, every movement calculated.

Jisung was unraveling. Internally. On the outside, he maintained the illusion of calm, jotting things down, nodding here and there, but underneath, it was pure chaos. He’d stolen a few glances. Your eyes were deadset on the witness, your jaw sharp, mouth pursed in thought. And each time you succeeded, each time the jury murmured in appreciation, he should’ve felt pride.

Instead, he felt the hollow throb of regret.

You stood for cross-examination, heels clacking against the floor with commanding rhythm.

“Mr. Wexler, you mentioned that the email correspondence between you and the defendant occurred ‘frequently’ throughout Q3, correct?”

“Yes.”

You tilted her head, sharp. “Can you define ‘frequently’?”

“Uh… maybe twice a week?”

“Twice a week,” you echoed, eyes flicking to the projector. “Then can you explain why there are only four emails logged between July and September?”

The room shifted. The witness stammered. Jisung smiled. Instinctively, he turned to share that moment with you.

You didn’t even twitch. Didn’t acknowledge the success. Didn’t give him the usual side-smirk you shared when a point landed. Nothing.

You sat, fingers interlaced calmly. Cold. Professional. Grey leaned in slightly toward Jisung, whispering just loud enough: “She’s sharper today.”

Jisung forced a grin. “Yeah. She is.”

What Grey didn’t know was why she was sharper. Pain had a funny way of refining focus. And you were in no mood to forgive and forget. Especially not mid-trial.

As everyone gathered near the board, unpacking the session, you contributed where necessary, objective and direct. When Jisung asked you if you needed his notes for the rebuttal? You turned to Grey and said, “Could you pass me the updated printout?”

When he brought up a shared strategy they’d discussed last night?

“Actually, I revised that this morning. I’ll use mine.”

Every time he tried to breach the space between you — professional or personal — you slid past him like smoke. Unbothered. It was killing him.

---

Jisung finally caught you at the vending machine, alone. No audience. No Grey.

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Your tone was low but heavy. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You didn’t even turn. Just grabbed your drink and walked away, leaving him standing there with his apology still stuck in his throat.

The Actual Courtroom Trial – Day One

Location: Seoul District Court, 9:15 AM.

The courtroom was charged. Polished wood gleamed under harsh lighting, papers rustled like whispers, and every cough, click, and sigh echoed like it mattered. The gallery was half-filled with press, executives, and sharp-eyed legal interns hungry for drama. Y/N sat at the plaintiff’s table, expression blank, body composed like a trained performer. Her braids were pinned in a clean updo, her suit crisply tailored, gray with a deep navy undershirt that matched the cold glint in her eyes. Jisung, sitting beside her, looked the part too, fitted black suit, no tie, top button undone. Hands loosely folded over his notes; brows furrowed. He’d barely said a word to her since the mock trial.

She hadn’t said a word back. And now wasn’t the time to fix anything. Because the judge walked in.

“All rise.”

Everyone stood.

“Court is now in session in the matter of Daejin Tech vs. KraneTech and Min Hyunsoo.”

The judge, an older man with sharp eyes behind square glasses, glanced down at his docket. “Opening statements?”

Grey stood first. “Your Honor, we intend to prove that not only did the defendant willfully breach contract, but in doing so, they manipulated internal reporting systems to inflate data and secure funding under false pretenses.” He glanced down at Jisung, who gave the most subtle nod. Grey continued: “We will show you emails, witness statements, and system logs that confirm deliberate falsification, with direct involvement from Mr. Min.”

It was clean. Sharp. Confident.

The defense countered with a calm but vague approach — denying nothing directly, playing the ‘miscommunication between departments’ angle.

Classic. But weak.

Witness Examination — Day Two

By now, the courtroom had warmed up. The crowd had grown. Legal press had started posting snippets, curious about the two Daejin lawyers making waves. Jisung took the floor this time. His steps were slow, measured. The court reporter’s keys tapped steadily as he approached the witness: a former financial analyst who’d been fired six months prior.

“You mentioned seeing irregularities in the data, correct?”

“Yes.”

Jisung leaned against the podium, casual but precise. “And you reported it?”

“I tried. But the internal review team—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Withdrawn,” Jisung said easily, before shifting pace. “So you saw something. And you did…nothing?” The witness shifted. “I was told it wasn’t my place.”

“By whom?”

The man hesitated. “Let the record show the witness is taking a long pause,” Jisung added calmly, then looked to the jury. “Sometimes silence tells us more than words.”

The gallery buzzed. Y/N didn’t look at him. But her pen stopped moving for half a second. Just a twitch. Their next witness was the IT manager. Now it was Y/N’s turn. She stood tall, calm, with a file in hand as she stepped to the center. Her voice? Smooth and precise.

“You were in charge of all server logs for KraneTech?”

“Yes.”

“You have access to login timestamps, message histories, cloud storage?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She clicked a remote. The screen lit up behind her. “Can you explain this file name?” she asked, pointing to a suspicious folder — ’dev_recalibrationsQ3_v2’.

“It’s not one I authorized.”

“Yet it came from your department.”

“It did.”

“Then who accessed it?”

The man hesitated. Y/N didn’t blink. “I’ll save you the trouble,” she said, clicking again. “The IP address matches the defendant’s personal office system. And the login code was hardwired to his biometric key.”

Gasps.

“Would you still say you weren’t aware of any tampering?” she asked quietly. He swallowed. “No, ma’am.” Her face was emotionless as she turned back to the judge. “No further questions.”

Recess

Grey gave both Y/N and Jisung subtle nods of approval, but neither of them smiled. They weren’t talking. Not outside the courtroom. Not even in the prep room. They passed each other case files like strangers forced to cooperate. They presented united fronts like seasoned partners. But underneath?

It was a cold war.

Final Courtroom Verdict — Seoul District Court

Day Six, 3:45 PM

The courtroom was still. Not the kind of silence that came from boredom or fatigue, no, this one crackled. Anticipation hung heavy like fog, wrapping around every person in the room. Phones had been tucked away. The press wasn’t even live-tweeting anymore. Everyone was waiting. Jisung sat tall, his hands resting loosely on his lap. He didn’t look at Y/N. Not once. She looked straight ahead, lips barely parted, a pen clutched tightly in her right hand not writing, not fidgeting. Just holding. Her back was straight. Her jaw was steel.

The judge cleared his throat. “I have reviewed the evidence, testimonies, and expert analysis provided throughout this trial.”

A pause. “And while the defense attempted to establish a chain of miscommunication, this court finds that the fraud was deliberate, premeditated, and tied directly to Mr. Min Hyunsoo.”

A murmur swept through the gallery.

“I hereby rule in favor of the plaintiff, Daejin Tech.”

Boom. Just like that. Case closed. Grey let out the smallest exhale. A pleased smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Well done,” he said under his breath. But his gaze wasn’t on Jisung. It was on Y/N.

They stood. They bowed. The courtroom emptied slowly, reluctantly — like no one really wanted to miss what came next.

But Y/N didn’t stay. She packed up her documents methodically, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone. The moment the courtroom cleared, she slipped into the hallway, heels echoing sharply against the marble floor. Her suit jacket clung perfectly, hair neat, gaze fixed forward.

Until,

“Y/N,” Jisung called from behind her.

She didn’t stop. Not until he caught up and stepped in front of her, blocking her path just outside the conference room doors. The hall was mostly empty, voices muffled behind glass and oak.

“I just—” He paused, jaw clenching. “I need to apologize. What I said that night, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet but cutting. She looked up at him, not angry just… disappointed. Like she'd seen a side of him she wished she hadn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let myself get comfortable with you,” she said, slowly. “That was my mistake.”

Jisung’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“And I’m sorry for assuming I could be safe around you and still… be myself.” Her eyes dropped for just a second, then came back up, colder. “Won’t happen again.”

“YN/…” His brows furrowed, the guilt in his expression unmistakable. “Don’t do that.”

But she was already pulling herself back together. Tightening the line in her shoulders. Drawing the wall back up, brick by goddamn brick. “I’ll see you at work, sir,” she said, stepping past him.

That one word — sir — sliced clean and cruel. Not professional. Not respectful. Just distant.

And then she was gone. Leaving Jisung standing in the hall, stunned silent, holding onto an apology that had come too late.

---

The house smelled like warm rice and thyme-simmered chicken, that comforting kind of scent that wrapped around your bones and said you’re safe here. You sat at the edge of the couch, curled up under your mom’s old woven blanket. Your mother had already bombarded you with a second helping of food you didn’t ask for, and your dad had just settled beside her with a cold glass of malt.

“So,” her mom said gently, “how’d the case go?”

You exhaled slowly, letting your body sink into the soft curve of the couch. “We won,” you murmured, voice small but proud. Your mom grinned and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I’m so proud of you, baby. All those sleepless nights, hm?”

“Barely slept at all,” You chuckled softly. Your dad leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “And this Jisung guy? Your supervisor?” Your lips tightened slightly. “He was… fine.”

“You say that like he set your desk on fire,” your mom said with a teasing smirk. You smiled faintly but didn’t elaborate. Just twisted the edge of the blanket between your fingers. Your dad raised a brow, the way he always did when he was scanning for more beneath the surface. “Something happen?”

There was a long pause before you gave a small nod. “He said something… personal. During a fight. It just… I don’t know. Hit too close.” Your mom’s eyes darkened slightly. “What did he say?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” you muttered.

Your dad studied you for a moment longer, then sat back with a deep sigh, that thoughtful dad sigh that only ever came before life advice that could level you. “You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes we say stupid things when we care too much and don’t know how to say it.”

You blinked. “He doesn’t care—”

“He does. That’s why he pissed you off so easily. And why you’re still hurt.” You looked at him then, eyes tired. He met your gaze with a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve said some cruel things to your mother before. Words that hurt deep, even if I didn’t mean them. Sometimes men get scared, or flustered, and instead of admitting it… we shoot. And the first thing in the line of fire is usually the person closest.”

Your mom nodded softly from beside you. “Forgiveness doesn’t make you weak, darling. It means you’re strong enough to love past someone’s worst day.” You exhaled through your nose, leaning your head on your dad’s shoulder. You didn’t say anything but the weight in your chest loosened just a little.

—

The office lights were dimmed to a low glow, but Jisung hadn’t moved. His suit jacket lay draped over the couch, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone. He stared at the report on his desk, not really reading it. His fingers tapped mindlessly against the table.

There was no music. No celebration. Just silence and a gnawing ache behind his eyes.

He couldn’t stop replaying the way she said sir.

He’d earned that. He deserved that. But it still stung like hell. The door creaked open, and Grey strolled in with two takeaway cups in hand. “You’re still here?” he asked, incredulous. “Jesus, Sungie — we just won our most high-profile case this quarter.”

Jisung didn’t look up. Grey set one cup on his desk. “Why aren’t you home getting drunk and screaming into a karaoke mic with Changbin?”

Silence.

Grey’s gaze narrowed as he pulled up a chair. “This is about her, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. “I shouldn’t’ve made you supervise her,” Grey said eventually. “You hate team-ups. I knew that.” Jisung finally shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not it.” Grey’s brow lifted. “Then what is?”

Silence again but heavier this time. More telling.

Grey leaned back, mouth twitching. “You fought, didn’t you?”

Jisung didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t have to. Grey sighed, shaking his head. “She’s smart. And she keeps you on your toes. And she makes you care when you’re trying not to.”

“Grey…” Jisung muttered, tone low and warning.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna lecture you. I’m just saying, maybe don’t be a dumbass.” He stood, finishing his coffee. “Go home, Jisung. This office doesn’t need your brooding. And she sure as hell doesn’t need more silence from you.”

He clapped him on the shoulder once not hard, not playful. Just grounding. Then he walked out.

And Jisung sat alone again.

But this time… he picked up his phone. And he stared at her name. For a very, very long time.

…One Week Later…

The clack of heels against marble, the hum of printers, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the break room work carried on like the world hadn’t cracked open just days ago.

Y/N walked in every morning exactly at 8:50. Not too early. Not too late. Her hair pinned neatly, makeup clean and sharp. Professional. Untouchable.

Jisung noticed. He always did. But he kept his eyes on his screen when she passed his office. He pretended not to glance up when her laugh rang out from across the hall quieter now, but still there.

They only spoke when absolutely necessary.

And those conversations?

Clinical. Precise.

Like cutting stitches with cold hands.

Jisung stepped in to the meeting room with a file in hand, the tie he forgot to tighten swinging slightly as he moved. Y/N was already seated at the end of the table, flipping through a document.

“Update on the Barlow merger,” she said without looking up.

He slid into the seat across from her. “I… yeah. I got your notes.” A pause. “They were good. Really… good.” She nodded, still not looking at him.

The silence stretched like plastic wrap thin and suffocating. Jisung tapped the corner of his folder. “YN, I—”

She turned a page.

He swallowed. “About last week—”

“Jisung,” she said gently but firmly, still not lifting her eyes. “Let’s keep it about work.”

He nodded. Slowly. The tightness in his chest returned like a tide. “Right. Just work.” He left first.

---

The doors slid open. She was already inside.

He hesitated just for a second. But it was enough. She saw it.

“Getting in?” she asked quietly.

He stepped in. They stood in opposite corners, the silence buzzing with everything unsaid. As the doors closed, he risked a glance. Her arms were crossed. Eyes forward.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered.

She blinked. “What?”

“That night,” he said, a little louder now. “What I said. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “I know.” That should’ve been comforting.

But it wasn’t. “Then why won’t you look at me?” She exhaled. “Because I’m trying to keep my distance.”

The elevator dinged. She stepped out without turning back.

---

Grey glanced up from his desk when Jisung walked in looking like a man who’d just been hit with a lawsuit and a love confession at the same time.

“She talked to me,” Jisung said, tossing himself into a chair.

“Progress?”

“I think it was worse than silence.”

Grey hummed, closing his laptop. “You wanna know the worst kind of heartbreak?” Jisung rubbed his temple. “I already feel it, so go ahead.”

“When you realize they don’t hate you,” Grey said, “they just don’t trust you anymore.”

Jisung didn’t respond. Grey leaned back. “So, you’ve got two options. One — give up. Let her slip away because it’s easier than fighting. Or two — work your ass off to prove her heart’s safe with you again.”

Jisung looked up slowly. “And if she never gives me that chance?”

Grey cracked a small smile. “Then you better make damn sure she knows you would’ve taken it.”

---

The knock was soft, but firm.

Grey didn’t even look up from his screen. “Come in, Y/N.”

She pushed the door open, the crisp scent of bergamot tea and wood polish instantly familiar. The blinds were cracked just enough for the golden evening light to spill in, catching the silver in Grey’s cufflinks. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, stepping in and shutting the door behind her.

He finally looked up tired eyes, lips pursed, tie slightly loosened like he’d been too busy to care today. Or maybe, too weighed down.

“I hate doing this,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Truly, passionately, hate it. But apparently, I’ve become the damn emotional chaperone in this firm.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry… for what, exactly?”

Grey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You and Han Jisung. You haven’t spoken more than four sentences unless it’s about legal briefs or witness statements in two weeks. And that boy—” he paused, exhaling deeply, “—he’s not okay.” Her throat tightened just slightly, but she kept her face still. “We’re being professional.”

“You’re being frosty,” Grey deadpanned. “And he’s being distant because he thinks he deserves it. But the truth is, Y/N…” He paused. “He’s breaking. Quietly. Slowly. And I’ve only seen him like this once — first year. He tried so hard to prove himself and failed a case that cost an innocent man jail time. I walked into the office and he was just… sitting there in the dark.”

YN swallowed. She hated the visual of that, Jisung, the firecracker of their courtroom, looking that dim. That alone hurt.

“He hasn’t said anything,” she said carefully.

“Because he doesn’t know how to,” Grey said. “Because people like Jisung? They weren’t taught love like you were.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

Grey leaned forward. “His parents didn’t raise him with softness. His father only calls to scold or guilt-trip, and his mother left him to fight those battles alone. Every emotion he’s got, every ounce of passion or fear or pride, he channels into work because it’s the one place he can control. He doesn’t fall for people easily, YN. But when he does, it’s… heavy. Terrifying.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, heart twisting.

“Of course you didn’t,” Grey said gently. “He doesn’t let people know. But I do. I’ve seen it. I see it now. He’s in love with you, Y/N. Has been for a while.”

Her breath caught. She blinked. “No… he’s not. He’s just… regretful.”

“Regret doesn’t make someone stare at your desk like it’s a missing limb,” Grey said sharply. “Regret doesn’t make him pause at your office door and walk away ten times in a day. That’s love. Unsaid. Unshaped. But it’s there.”

She sat back in the chair, the leather cool against her skin as her mind tried to wrap around the weight of Grey’s words. The idea that Jisung — chaotic, brilliant, frustrating Jisung — loved her was something she hadn’t let herself entertain. Not really.

“You’re scared too,” Grey said quietly, watching her expression change. “But I’m telling you now… either talk to him, or you both keep walking around like ghosts. And you’ll regret it far more than that night.”

Y/N didn’t speak for a long time.

But when she left his office, her fingers hovered near her phone.

---

The quiet of your apartment felt louder than usual. No music. No background show running just for noise. Just the low hum of the fridge, and her pacing footsteps against the hardwood floor.

You stood by the window, your phone in hand, thumb hovering over Jisung’s contact like it weighed ten pounds. Grey’s words were still spinning in your head, colliding with the memory of Jisung’s tired eyes, his hands pausing at her office door, the things he never said.

You pressed Call before she could overthink it again. The phone didn’t even get to the second ring.

“Hello?” His voice came fast, sharp, almost breathless. “Y/N? Hey. Hi—are you okay? Did something happen? I—I was just—Are you okay?”

You blinked at the window, lips twitching despite herself. “Hey, Jisung.”

“Hey,” he breathed, like your voice hit him like air after drowning. There was a pause. Then he continued, voice softer, still a little shaky:

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I hoped you would. I just—God, it’s good to hear you.”

Your chest squeezed at that. “I just wanted to check on you,” you said gently. “How are you?”

Another pause. A breath.

“I’m okay. I mean—work’s fine. Everything’s… fine. I’m just—” He stopped himself, then laughed under his breath, awkward and raw. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, heart aching. “Me too.”

You could hear his breath slow just slightly, like the ice between them cracked not broken yet, but thinned. “I wanted to ask,” she continued, voice steady now, “if I could see you. Tomorrow. In your office. Just us. If that’s okay.”

Jisung didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said immediately. Then softer. “Yeah. Please. Anytime. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” she said, a tiny smile ghosting her lips. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

There was another silence, but this one was warm. Almost comforting. And when they hung up, both of them stared at their ceilings for a long, long time. Waiting. Ready to try again.

---

The sun had barely settled into the sky when you stood at the threshold of Jisung’s office, your heart thudding harder with every breath. You weren’t nervous at least, you told yourself you weren’t. You were just… bracing yourself. For a conversation overdue. For feelings neither of you had signed up for. Your hand hovered over the handle, fingers curling in, then releasing. The hallway was quiet at this hour. No distractions. No excuses. Just you, a closed door, and the man you hadn’t stopped thinking about.

You finally knocked, three soft taps. Polite. Almost unsure.

“Come in,” his voice called through almost instantly, like he’d been sitting there waiting.

When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was how he looked up fast, like he’d been facing the door the whole time. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but alert, like he hadn’t really slept even though it was a new day. His tie was loose. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just enough to show his forearms.

Your heart did a little tumble you didn’t appreciate.

“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping in. He stood up halfway. “Hey.”

And for a second, neither of you knew what to say. It was like the air between you was stitched together with tension and apologies that couldn’t be said in passing. Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the two chairs by the coffee table near his desk. The sunlight was spilling in through the blinds, casting soft stripes of light over everything. You nodded and took a seat, smoothing down your skirt. He sat across from her, elbows on his knees, like he was ready to leap forward—or run.

“I wanted to talk,” you started, eyes locked on him.

“I know,” he said quickly. “I mean—I’m glad you did. I’ve been trying to figure out how to…” He trailed off, sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve messed things up, haven’t I?”

“Not entirely,” you said softly. He looked up at you like that single sentence kept him from drowning. You licked your lips. “I talked to Grey.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Oh.”

“He told me things. About you. About how you grew up. About how… hard it is for you to get close to people.” Jisung shifted. The slight flinch in his posture wasn’t lost on you. “I didn’t come here to push you,” you said gently. “I came here because I needed to hear you. Not your file. Not Grey. You.”

He exhaled, almost crumbling.

“You scare me,” he muttered suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You do. You walk in like you’re on fire and you don’t even notice the way the room bends around you. You don’t flinch when I’m cold. You challenge me. You see through me like no one ever has and I—I hate it because it’s terrifying and I love it because it’s you.”

You sat frozen for a breath. Then another. Your lips parted, stunned. “I didn’t mean what I said that night,” he said, voice lower now. “I knew I crossed the line the second I saw your face fall. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry ever since.”

You nodded once. “You did hurt me.”

“I know.”

“But I also didn’t let you explain.” Jisung stared at you for a long time, then whispered, “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know,” she said back. Another moment passed. And then you reached for the coffee cup sitting cold on the table between them, lifted it to your lips, and made a face. “Jesus. How long has this been sitting here?”

He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t drink that.”

“So, we agree it’s toxic waste?”

He nodded. “100%.” A beat. Then she smiled barely. But it was there. And Jisung? He smiled too, but his was full, slow, blooming like it had been dying to stretch across his face again.

“I still owe you lunch,” he said.

“And I still owe you a win,” youreplied.

They weren’t fixed. But they were trying.

Han Jisung’s hands have never felt so useless. He’d just begun to feel like the ground beneath them was leveling out, like he could speak to you again without hating himself. And then you had to look at him like that, half-curious, half-devilish. Like you were planning something dangerous, and he was helpless to stop it.

You sat forward, your eyes locked on him, voice honeyed but sharp.

“So… why didn’t you tell me?” you asked casually, like you weren’t about to unravel him.

Jisung blinked. “Tell you what?”

“That you have feelings for me.” His brain blue-screened. Full-on system failure. “I—uh—w-what? Feelings? Me?” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Grey sort of told me yesterday.”

“Grey told—?!” he choked. “That—traitor—”

“Why didn’t you just say something?” you asked again, eyes twinkling. He fidgeted in his seat like it was suddenly too small for him. “Because! You’re—you. And I’m me. And this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m your—supervisor,” he stressed, as if that helped.

“That never stopped you from bossing me around in meetings,” you teased.

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that, I already feel like I’ve committed emotional HR violations.” You leaned back, lips pressing together to hide your laugh. And then, slowly, you stood. Jisung watched you, wary. “What are you doing?”

You circled his desk like a cat, stopping behind his chair. “Wait,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “are you flustered right now?”

“I’m not—!” he squeaked, voice cracking slightly. “I am composed, thank you.”

“Flustered. About me,” you sang, enjoying this far too much. “Han Jisung has a crush on his intern…”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks flushing even deeper.

“As if you aren’t too,” he shot back suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. And it hit you like a slap of heat. Your smile faltered for half a second. You blinked. “What did you just say?”

Jisung’s lips parted, like he wanted to take it back but he didn’t. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and honest.

“Don’t act like it’s just me.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and buzzing. And then—God help them both—you leaned forward, bracing your hands on the arms of his chair. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath hitch.

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

Then, without warning, you kissed him.

Soft. Bold. Quick. But the second your lips pressed to his, your brain short-circuited with a thousand alarms. What did I just do? Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic bubbling up before you even pulled back.

“I—” you breathed, stepping back fast, “I shouldn’t have—”

But you didn’t get the chance to finish. Jisung was already out of his chair. And then his hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and his lips were back on yours, urgent this time. Messy. Real. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time you argued with him.

You melted into it until you were both breathless and laughing against each other’s mouths.

“You totally overstepped,” he whispered, grinning. You rolled her eyes. “You literally chased me.” He smirked, still breathless. “And I’d do it again.”

One kiss turned into two. Then three. Then neither of you could remember who started what anymore. Jisung’s hands were frantic, like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. Your waist? Your jaw? Your hips? He settled for all of them, one after the other, pulling you impossibly closer between kisses that left you both gasping.

You weren’t helping—at all. You were smirking against his lips, fingers sliding under the collar of his shirt as you murmured, “You know, for someone so professional in meetings… you’re kinda desperate right now.” Jisung pulled back just enough to look at you, mouth parted in shock. “Wh—” His voice cracked. “That’s not fair—!”

“Awww,” you teased, dragging your finger down the center of his chest, “did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yes!” he whined, genuinely, breath stuttering. “Why are you bullying me right now?”

“Because you’re easy,” you grinned, grabbing the end of his tie and giving it a little tug. “And cute when you pout.” Jisung muttered something incoherent—probably a curse—before he gave up entirely and kissed you again, this time deeper, one hand firm at the small of your back while the other traveled down, fingers skimming the edge of her thighs. You let out a sharp inhale when he hoisted you up onto his desk like you weighed nothing. Papers crumpled beneath you, a pen went clattering to the floor, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care because his hands God, his hands were trailing up your legs with reverence and want all rolled into one shaky exhale.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to worship you or unravel you.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered against her skin.

“I learned from the best,” you shot back, already popping open the first button of his shirt. “Mr. Han.”

“Oh my God—” He was dizzy. Fully, utterly gone for you. His tie was undone, shirt halfway open, and your lips were ghosting along the edge of his collarbone like you wanted to memorize the taste of him.

And then—

RIIINGGGG—!!

The desk phone blared.

The two of you froze.

Jisung groaned. “No. No, no, no.” You snorted, forehead falling to his shoulder in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m about to unplug that thing for life,” he mumbled into your neck. “Shouldn’t you pick it up?” you teased.

“I should sue it for emotional damage.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You kissed me and now I’m ruined—of course I’m dramatic!”

The phone kept ringing. Reluctantly, breath still uneven, Jisung reached around you for the receiver, muttering a soft, “Don’t move,” like you were going to evaporate if he looked away for too long. He cleared his throat before answering voice still wrecked, like he’d just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Y-Yeah, Han speaking…”

There was a pause. You watched his expression shift from annoyed to concerned, his brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

“Mhm. Okay—okay. Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and sighed like he just aged ten years in thirty seconds. You tilted your head. “That didn’t sound like a lunch reservation.” Jisung winced. “It’s not. That was about the Parker brief—something blew up with the client and I need to help clean it before it spirals. They’re asking for me personally.”

He stepped closer, brushing your hair back gently. “I swear to God, if I didn’t have to go—”

“You’d what?” you teased, lips quirking. He grinned, leaning in to kiss you one more time, slow and deliberate. “I’d definitely get fired.”

You laughed against his mouth and pulled back. “So dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, his tone suddenly sincere. “But I am going to make it up to you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Dinner. Just you and me. No work. No Grey. No emergencies. Just us.” Your brows raised. “Is this a bribe, Mr. Han?”

“This is me asking you on a date, finally,” he said, smirking. “And lowkey bribing you.”

“You’re lucky I like food,” you said, hopping off the desk as he helped her down. “Lucky you like me,” he mumbled under his breath.

You caught that. You both smiled. As you adjusted your blouse and smoothed your skirt, you stepped over to him and fixed his tie with practiced ease, eyes focused on the knot like it was the most delicate task in the world. Then you slid a finger down the center of his shirt, giving one button an extra pat.

“There,” you murmured. “Ready for war.”

“I was gonna say court,” he chuckled, “but same energy.” You turned to leave, heels clicking against the polished floor. And of course, his eyes dropped immediately to your hips. And stayed there. Shamelessly. You didn’t even have to look back to know. You paused at the door, turned slowly, and caught him red-handed, gaze glued to you like he was trying to memorize every step you took.

“So, you were staring,” you said, one brow arched in challenge.

Jisung blinked, caught like a guilty puppy. “I—I was just—I mean, technically, you’re walking in my office so it’s my job to supervise…”

“Supervise my ass?” He grinned. “Exactly.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still showing up for dinner.”

“Only because I want dessert.”

“Ohhh my God.”

You winked and walked out, leaving Jisung running a hand through his hair, muttering, “She’s gonna destroy me,” with the biggest lovestruck smile on his face.

Waw....our flustered boy always comes out in the end huh? 🥰

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[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 2 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

The café always smelled like burnt espresso and despair.

This was, of course, not part of the marketing strategy. Just the natural consequence of a workplace where half the employees hated their jobs, the other half hated their lives, and you were a proud member of both categories.

The café wasn’t anything special. It was only a small, cozy place wedged between a laundromat and an even smaller bookstore that no one ever seemed to enter. It had decent coffee, passable pastries, and an espresso machine that made a sound like it was summoning demons every time it started up.

The morning rush had been a disaster, as usual. Some guy had ordered a "triple ristretto oat milk cortado with a whisper of cinnamon," and you'd fought the primal urge to ask if he wanted a therapy session with that. Then there was the woman who had stared at the menu for ten full minutes, only to proudly order "just a water" like she had done something revolutionary.

Like, sure, working at a café wasn’t the worst job in the world—there were no life-threatening situations (except for that one time Greg the Manager almost set the espresso machine on fire), and the pay was just enough to keep you from selling your left kidney. But there was something deeply soul-crushing about having to ask, “Would you like oat milk with that?” to people who wouldn’t hesitate to commit war crimes if you got their order wrong.

Still, you endured. Mostly because rent existed.

Now, with the lull between rushes, you were enjoying a rare moment of peace. There was only one customer in the shop: a guy sitting at the back, writing something aggressively in a notebook, occasionally stopping to stare into the distance like he was the main character in a tragic novel. You respected the drama.

Then the door opened, and you instinctively pasted on your Customer Service Smile™.

Two guys walked in. The first was a teenager with pink hair and a face that screamed "golden retriever in human form." He looked energetic, friendly, and like he’d never had a bad day in his life. He was smiling in a way that suggested he was either extremely friendly or about to ask if you had time to talk about your car’s extended warranty.

The second guy, though. Oh wow.

He was taller, older-looking, and had long black hair tied into pigtails. He walked in like a broken NPC. His movements were a little too stiff, like he was buffering between each step. Like he was following some kind of invisible instruction manual on "How to Act Like a Normal Person in a Café."

And was failing miserably.

His face was blank, aside from the faintly confused look in his brown eyes, and there was something weirdly intense about the way he stood there, as if he was waiting for someone to give him a quest.

You watched as the pink-haired guy - who had clearly dragged his companion here against his will - led them to the counter, grinning.

"Hello! Welcome to-" You trailed off when you saw the pink-haired one aggressively whispering something to his friend while gesturing toward the menu.

Pigtails nodded, his expression not changing even a little. "Understood. I will engage in an order transaction."

What.

Pinkie sighed. "Okay, man, just-just order like a normal person, alright?"

Pigtails turned to you. The eye contact was... unsettling. Not in a creepy way, but in a why does it feel like this man has never spoken to another human before way.

"Hello," he said, very seriously.

"...Hi."

"I am Choso. I would like a drink."

You blinked. "Uh. Yeah. That’s usually how this works."

Choso nodded slowly. Pinkie looked like he wanted to die.

"I will take... one coffee," Choso said, after a long pause.

Your deadpan stare could’ve rivaled the sun in intensity. "What kind of coffee?"

Choso blinked, staring at you like you had just explained quantum physics. Maybe he really wasn’t used to human interaction. Either way, it was kind of hilarious. "A normal coffee."

"There are a lot of normal coffees."

Choso looked at Pinkie, who was now staring at the ceiling like he was regretting every choice that had led him here. "Brother. What is a normal coffee?"

Pinkie groaned. "I told you, just say ‘latte' or a 'cappuccino.’"

"Latte or a cappuccino," Choso repeated, nodding.

"...Do you want latte or a cappuccino?" you asked. keeping your voice professionally neutral despite the immediate urge to start laughing.

Another long pause. Choso looked at Pinkie again. "Brother. Which one do I want?"

Pinkie ran a hand down his face. "Latte."

Choso turned back to you, face grave. "Latte."

You stared at him for a long moment, then pressed the button on the register. "Got it. One latte."

Pinkie, who you were now convinced was the only reason Choso had not accidentally wandered into traffic, exhaled like he’d just survived a war. "And I’ll take a cappuccino under Yuji, please!"

"Coming right up," you said, grabbing a cup.

As you worked on their drinks, you could feel Choso’s stare drilling into the back of your head. You stole a glance over your shoulder and, yep. There he was. Watching. Completely expressionless.

Yuji was whispering frantically. "Dude, stop staring, it’s weird."

"I am observing the coffee-making process," Choso replied.

"You’re making them uncomfortable."

Choso frowned. "I do not wish to cause discomfort."

"Then stop staring."

A pause. "Understood."

He pulled Choso toward a table by the window, where Choso sat so rigidly that it looked like he was about to be interrogated by the FBI. Yuji, in contrast, had already pulled out his phone and was scrolling through something with the casual ease of a person who had never been socially awkward in his life.

You caught Choso glancing around the shop, his brows slightly furrowed, like he was still adjusting to the idea of being here. The more you watched him, the more he reminded you of a stray cat—tense, a little lost, and not entirely sure whether he wanted to trust anyone.

Shaking your head, you set about making their drinks. It wasn’t until you brought them over that you noticed Choso still hadn’t moved from his original rigid sitting position. You slid his drink in front of him and waited, curious to see how this played out.

He stared at the cup. Slowly, his eyes lifted back to you. “What is this?”

You stared back. “Your latte.”

Choso blinked again. “Do I drink it?”

Yuji nearly choked on his cappuccino. “Of course you drink it! What else would you do with it?!”

Choso, apparently, had to think about that.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Yes, it’s for drinking. But if you’d rather throw it on the floor, I won’t stop you.”

Choso took a long, considering pause before, finally, picking up the cup. He took a careful sip.

Then froze.

Yuji leaned forward. “You like it?”

Choso’s fingers curled around the cup, his blank face shifting just slightly, eyes widening, shoulders lowering. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked… moved.

"Brother. This is satisfactory." he murmured, almost reverently.

Yuji pumped his fist. “See? Told you you’d like it!”

Choso looked at you. "Barista. This is satisfactory."

"Uh. Thanks."

Choso nodded solemnly, like you had just exchanged some kind of sacred vow.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to resist the urge to ask. “You’ve never had a latte before?”

Choso shook his head.

Yuji sighed. “He’s been missing out on a lot of stuff.”

That much was obvious.

Still, you watched as Choso took another sip, eyes half-lidding as he savored it. For someone who barely seemed present in his own body, he was taking this latte very seriously. It was almost kind of… cute? In a weird, vaguely unsettling way?

You shook off the thought, taking your place back behind the counter. Missing out on a lot of stuff though? What did that even mean exactly? Had he been living under a rock? In the mountains? Was he raised by wolves? Should you be concerned?

When they finally left, Yuji waved cheerfully. "Thanks for the drinks! We’ll be back soon!"  

Choso paused at the door, looking at you like he was trying to process something. Then, after a long moment, he gave a slow, awkward nod.  

“Farewell, barista.”  

With that, they were both gone, Yuji chattering on about who-knows-what while Choso followed, silent and looming.

You let out a breath.

What the hell was that?

[bambiiflowers]

Chapter 3. Just Joe

I’m driving back to the bookstore now, your bouquet sitting on the passenger seat. Twenty-five dollars? I’d have paid a thousand if it meant staying in your world for just a minute longer. But no, this is better. The slow burn. The long game. The big efforts. The kind of effort those Tinder-swiping, craft-beer-drinking, fuckboys you wasted your youth on wouldn’t even begin to comprehend. I bet their idea of romance is venmoing you $10 for an Uber and expecting a blowjob in return. Pathetic. They’re the type to tip 10% and think they’re philanthropist. And porn? Of course, they’re slaves to it. Too dumb. Too lazy, to appreciate you. They don't get it. They don't get you.

Love stories aren’t built on fleeting touches and throwaway flowers, no. Real love takes strategy. Planning. Patience. And that’s why I’m making it easy for you. You need to come to me, on your terms. It has to feel organic. Fate-like. The kind of story you’d tell our grandchildren one day romanticizing the shit out of it. “We met by chance,” you’ll say. “It was meant to be.” And I’ll smile, because you won’t know how much work I put into it, how much time I dedicated to you to make it happen.

Lucky for both of us, I already own the perfect spot. My bookstore. Quaint, charming, reeking of old paper and nostalgia. The kind of place that'll make you fell like you're living in a Nora Ephron film. You’d love it. You’d melt into it. It’s perfect, and it’s waiting for you.

I park the car and carry your bouquet inside, placing it on the checkout counter like it’s a trophy. Little do they know it is, at least for me. I’ll recommend your shop to a customer or two, and when they go to your store and tell you, “The guy from that bookstore a few blocks away suggested this place,” you’ll smile. God, that fucking smile. and I’ll have made my way into your head. You’ll think of me. Maybe even wonder about me. Just enough to give me a chance.

I grab my laptop, pull up Canva, and immediately regret it. The templates. The endless, soul-sucking templates. A parade of forced whimsy and pretentiousness. “Handwritten font” The fuck.? All this overer-saturated colors making my head hurt already. It’s like the visual equivalent of a Hallmark card, nauseating. And yet, here I am, scrolling through this dumpster of mediocrity for you.

Why the fuck do I need to pay for a PNG of a book? A book! The irony. Whatever. Fuck it, I'll get the premium version. Fuck Canva, fuck capitalism, fuck everything. I’ll do it for you. Because you’re worth it.

“Poetry Night,” I type. “An intimate evening celebrating the power of words.” Kill me. I hate myself for pandering. For making my bookstore into a stage for your predictable, romanticized fantasies. But you’ll come. You're the type of girl who'll see "Oh, a poetry event at a cozy bookstore, why not?" You’re the type of girl who clings to words like lifeboats, who cries over Neruda and pretends Plath’s despair is profound rather than pathetic. You’re naive. Painfully naive. But for once, your early 2000s romcom delusions work in my favor.

I print the flyer and pin it to the bulletin board by the door, right where you’ll see it if you step inside. I’ll make more copies later, maybe even drop one off at your shop. Casual, of course. Just one local business supporting another. Nothing weird about that. Just me, a perfectly normal guy, inviting you into my world. This is how love stories are made. Not your cliched predictable movies.

The flyer feels warm in my hands, fresh from the printer. It’s simple. Understated. Just enough intrigue to draw you in without giving too much away. I stare at it, thinking of you holding it, reading it, maybe tucking it into your bag next to that little notebook you probably carry everywhere. You’d write about this, wouldn’t you? About how the universe works in mysterious ways, about how it led you to this event, to me.

I place the typical “Be right back” sign on the door of the bookstore and walk into your flower shop, flyer in hand. Subtle. Normal.

You’re behind the counter when I arrive, arranging lilies in a vase. Your hair’s pulled back, strands escaping in a way that’s so fucking artless it feels staged. Of course, it’s not. That’s why it works. That’s why you work.

I clear my throat, and you look up, surprised. That smile again. Jesus Christ. It’s a weapon. “Hey,” I say, holding up the flyer. “Just dropping this off. It's for little poetry night I bought the flowers for. "Thought you might want to drop by"

Your eyes scan the flyer, and for a second, I think I’ve overdone it. Maybe poetry wasn’t the move. Maybe you’re more of a gallery-opening, acoustic-music kind of girl. But then your lips curve, and you nod. “That’s really cool,” you say. “I’ll try to stop by.”

Try?. Try. The most noncommittal word in the English language. But I let it slide. I can’t push too hard, can’t let you see how much I need you to be there. “No pressure,” I say. “Just thought you might enjoy it.”

I hang around just long enough to feel your eyes on me as I leave. I don’t look back. I don’t need to.

The night of the event, the bookstore smells like old books and desperation. Chairs are arranged in a semi-circle, fairy lights strung up in a way that looks effortless but took me two fucking hours and several curses to achieve. A curated stack of poetry books waits on a side table, begging for your attention. The crowd trickles in, regulars, strangers, and a guy in a scarf who’s definitely going to mansplain Rumi before the night’s over.

But not you. Not yet.

I keep glancing at the door, at my watch, at the door again. The clock ticks past seven. Seven fifteen. Seven twenty. You’re late. And for a brief, panicked moment, I wonder if I miscalculated. If I pushed too hard, too fast. This is what happens when you rely on people. They let you down.

But then the bell above the door jingles, and there you are. You’re here. Breathless, flushed, wrapped in a cardigan that practically begs me to pull it off you. You scan the room, and when your eyes land on me, you smile like it was fate. Like you were always meant to be here.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say, slipping out of your knitted cardigan. “I had a thing at the shop, but I didn’t want to miss this.”

“Glad you made it,” I reply, calm, composed, while my heart is hammering in my chest.

You find a seat in the middle of the room, just close enough for me to watch you without being obvious. I take my place behind the mic, opening the night with a short, cringy introduction. The crowd laughs politely, but I don’t care. I’m not doing this for them.

As the first reader steps up, I steal glances at you. You lean forward slightly, fingers grazing the strap of your bag like you’re auditioning for an indie film. And I buy the performance, because I have to. I can almost hear the gears turning in your head as you soak it all in. The words, the atmosphere, the inevitability of us. I catch your eye and nod, just enough to acknowledge you without giving myself away. You smile, small and polite. I could fuck you right here, on this stack of poetry books, and it would be art.

I barely hear the poems being read. Some pretentious crap about red laddles and absent fathers. Nothing new. None of it matters. The real art tonight is you, sitting there, your legs crossed, your head tilted. You’re the poem. You’re the only thing worth reading.

When it’s over, I linger near the door, pretending to clean up. You approach, just as I knew you would.

“That was beautiful,” you say, your voice soft. “Thank you for inviting me. By the way I'm Cassandra, but you can call me Cass, or Cassie, whatever you prefer. Although maybe you already knew it because of the 10% off thing you offer last time where i signed up" you smile shyly and shake my hand and your touch is just how I expected it to be.

Cassandra. As if I didn’t already know. As if I didn’t moan your name last night. “We’ll be doing more of these. Maybe next time, you’ll share something.” I shake your hand back and smile at you. “I’m Joe,” I reply. “Just Joe.”

You laugh, a soft, nervous sound. “Well, Joe. Maybe I’ll come to the next one.”

Your laugh lingers in the air, light and airy, but I can hear the layers beneath it. The hesitation. The curiosity. The way your lips curl into that little smirk like you're holding something back. Maybe. Noncommittal, again. But this time, it’s not a brush-off. It’s a hook. You’re testing me, seeing if I’ll take the bait, and oh, Cassandra, Cass, Cassie. Whatever the fuck name you want to give me to fall asleep to at night, I’ll take it.

I watch through the window as you walk down the street, your cardigan slipping off one shoulder in that way that looks accidental but never is. Your fingers graze the strap of your bag, and I know, without question, that the flyer is inside. Tucked safely between your notebook and whatever novel you’re pretending to read this week. You’ll look at it again later tonight, won’t you? In the soft glow of your bedside lamp, you’ll think of this evening. Of me. Of the way I said your name like it was new to me, like I hadn’t whispered it to the rhythm of my heartbeat a hundred times already.

I lock up the store and head upstairs to my apartment. It’s quiet, too quiet, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to think. To plan. To analyze every word you said, every movement you made. The way your hand lingered just a second too long when we shook hands. The way you laughed, not because you were nervous but because you liked the way my name sounded in your mouth. And I can't wait to make you climax and you say it under your breathless voice.

Joe. Just Joe.

I sit down at my desk, the glow of my laptop illuminating the dark room. Your Instagram page is open in one tab, your flower shop’s website in another. I scroll through photos of you—smiling with customers, posing with bouquets, standing in front of that goddamn neon sign that reads “Bloom where you’re planted.” It’s all so… precious. Too perfect. But I see through it. I see you. The real you. The one who bites her nails when she’s nervous, who hesitates before hitting “post,” who reads poetry to feel something deeper than the surface-level bullshit the rest of the world seems content with.

Someday, you’ll thank me for this. For all of it. For the plans, the patience, the endless hours spent studying every detail of you. You’ll see it for what it is: love. Pure. Uncompromising. Undeniable. And when you do, you’ll say my name, not like you did tonight, casually, carelessly. No. You’ll say it with love, with need, with all the gratitude of someone who’s been waiting her whole life for this.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen. The glow reflects off the glass of the vase holding the bouquet I bought from you. Your bouquet. The flowers are starting to wilt, their petals curling at the edges. Beautiful, even in decay. I’ll keep them until they rot, until they crumble into nothing, because they’re yours.

Nothing lasts forever. But us? We're different, we will.

[parisbluecat]

Haruka and Michiru authored a 5-volume work on "TARISMAN" which was published and available in bookstores. TARISMAN: A Pentalogy by Michiru & Haruka

Volume I: Winds of Precision Authored primarily by Haruka. It's 70% metaphors about motorcycle racing, 20% thinly veiled flirting with Michiru between the lines, and 10% helpful battlefield strategy. There's a full chapter dedicated to "how to make an entrance when the world is ending."

Volume II: Tides of Reflection Michiru's solo volume. Equal parts oceanic poetry, violin sonata sheet music, and savage critiques of 19th-century Romantic painters. Somehow makes you feel feelings and want to wear silk gloves. Includes watercolor illustrations she definitely painted herself.

Volume III: Tarisman Theory & Application Joint authorship. Deep dive into the metaphysical link between their talismans, soul resonance, and duty. Half academic, half lovers’ telepathic banter. The footnotes flirt with each other. Don’t read this volume in public unless you're prepared to blush.

Volume IV: When Stars Fall: A Chronicle of Battle A gritty, no-holds-barred recounting of the Silence arc from their perspective. Includes blacked-out redacted pages (thanks, Pluto), and one uncomfortably emotional passage that ends with Haruka saying, “delete this before print,” which Michiru did not delete. Oh my!

Volume V: Elegy & Euphoria: The Philosophy of Love in Chaos The final volume. Part memoir, part manifesto, part love letter to each other and to the world they’re trying to protect—even when it doesn’t deserve it (a world without Haruka is not worth saving). The last page is a photo of them laughing in a convertible with the caption: "THE Miracle Romance."

Now available in hardcover and moody ocean-blue leather binding.

[rinawrote]

Hell on Earth

Furfur (Good Omens) x Reader

AO3 link here

Summary: You confront Furfur once more, but this time feels different.

Warnings: Swearing, obsessive behaviour, light angst

previous chapter

Chapter 2 - From Cats to Complications

The next day, you told Aziraphale everything - and in return, he shared everything with you. It turned out you were living far beyond Hell’s design. They were desperate to drag you there. Your soul would go down deliciously in the fiery pits - remarked as one of the more “vibrant” among humankind - worth more, according to the infernal archives. But Aziraphale had been quietly intervening, fighting to save a dear friend from damnation. Now, it seemed, Hell had finally caught on, and their patience was running thin.

“His name is Furfur.” He gathered from your description. “I’ve met him before.”

“Furfur,” you whispered, shamefully enjoying the way his name felt on your tongue, “That’s so … cute.” was your initial thought, but you kept that to yourself.

Instead, you voiced a more prominent and appropriate concern, “If he was meant to take me to Hell … then why didn’t he?”

“Now that, (Y/N), that I don’t know.” Aziraphale answered, pondering the question some more.

Meanwhile, deep in Hell, Furfur’s mind was spinning as he readied himself to report his failure to the Dark Council. Why couldn’t he bring himself to do it? It should’ve been simple. She was right there. Alone. Vulnerable. He’d never hesitated before. So what excuse would he offer? “Sorry, my Lord, I didn’t condemn her because she was pretty and her angel friend might come for me. Then she told me to fuck off, so I did.” Pathetic.

He came to the conclusion that lying was the best option to save his skin.

“Have you claimed the soul yet?”

“No,” Furfur glanced down, “Ey, but, I’ve got a solid lead.” He nodded upward, his voice wrapped in faux confidence, “I’ll go back, I’ll get her soul. I will.”

And just like that, he was granted more time on Earth. Honestly, it beat the mind-numbing monotony of sitting at his desk, processing damned souls all day - even if he loathed the place. Re-emerging in Soho, Furfur sighed, already questioning what trouble he’d walked into. All this mess over a single bloody human. It was the most hassle he’d faced in over eighty years. He muttered under his breath as a sudden, violent rainstorm rolled in, trailing him like an ominous warning.

He told himself he’d try again. This time, he’d take your soul - just as he was meant to. But over the next few days, instead of carrying out his assigned mission, Furfur found himself doing nothing but watching you. He was there at every step: when you left for work, wandered into the bookstore, lingered at the coffee shop, or browsed the record store. Wherever you went, he was there like a shadow. He told himself it was strategy at first - learning your habits. Your weaknesses. But he kept … noticing things instead. The way you hum when you walk alone. The silly voice you do when you talk to your cat. That stupid half-smile you get when you find a song you like. He noticed too much. There was something perversely voyeuristic, sickeningly parasocial about it.

It rained every day that week. On this particular Thursday evening, however, Furfur was far less subtle than he thought.

You stood in your kitchen, wrapped in an oversized shirt, lazily stirring a cup of tea. From the living room, the soft crackle of your record player filled the space, and you hummed along under your breath. Then came the scent: rain and earth, rich and unmistakable. You knew he was there. But this time, you weren’t as afraid. He hadn’t realized you’d noticed him. Not yet.

“Do you always bring the storm with you?” You asked, startling the demon who lingered in the doorway.

“Y’what?”

“The storm,” you turned to face him, “It always rains when you’re around.”

“Oh, yeah, that,” he sighed, seemingly put out by your newfound nonchalance, “That’s what I do.”

“It’s pretty shit.” You chortled.

Under your gaze, he felt unexpectedly exposed. It had felt like an eternity since your eyes last met, and something inside him had been quietly aching for it - to be seen by you again. To catch just one more glimpse of that unfiltered humanity he couldn’t seem to look away from. Before he could find the words, you stepped toward him.

“Go on then.” You challenged.

“Go on what?”

“Aren’t you going to kill me?” You questioned, “Aziraphale told me why you came here.”

His eyes darkened and he strode toward you, almost confident, but something lingered beneath the surface. His hand found your arm, a light touch, but it sent a jolt through both of you. Neither acknowledged it. He looked down at you. Your lips parted, a strand of hair falling across your cheek. There was panic in your eyes, but something else, too. Something softer. Your breath caught in your throat.

Then he let go.

“For fuck’s sake!” He slammed his hand down on the kitchen counter, making you jolt. “I can’t do it now!”

“Why?”

“Cause you were looking at me!” He said, exasperated.

“Well what do you want me to do, close my eyes?!” You raised your voice, breathless.

“Yes - No! I dunno.” Furfur trailed off.

He frustratedly stormed off. You followed him into your living room, more curious than scared now, mug of tea in hand. He paced near the fireplace, hands on his hips, muttering under his breath. You caught fragments - “bloody ridiculous,” “never this complicated,” and something that sounded like a slightly mispronounced “fucking Aziraphale.”

You took a sip of your tea, then sat down slowly on the edge of the sofa. “So, you’re not going to smite me?”

He turned to you sharply, nostrils flaring just slightly in his irritation. “That was the plan.”

“And now?”

He stared at you like you were the problem - like if you hadn’t looked at him the way you did, with confusion and defiance and something more tender underneath, he’d still be on track. He rubbed his face and collapsed into the armchair across from you.

“There’s rules, y’know,” he muttered. “I was supposed to restore order. Tick a box.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he admitted bitterly, staring at the ceiling.

You blinked. “You came here to kill me, and instead you’re sitting in my living room having a moral crisis?”

Furfur didn’t answer. “There’s something about you,” he said eventually, sitting up. “And it’s messing everything up.”

You leaned forward, heartbeat unsteady. “Is that a bad thing? I’m not particularly in favour of being killed.”

He looked at you - really looked - and something softened around his tired eyes, just for a moment. You looked so … human. And that should have made this easier. It didn’t. Then he scowled, stood up, and said, “I’m making a cuppa.”

You blinked again. “You break into people’s homes to assassinate them and then help yourself to tea?”

He shrugged, already stomping toward the kitchen. “Call it a coping mechanism.”

You stayed sat, unsure whether you were horrified or deeply, dangerously intrigued.

Maybe both.

next chapter

[rafi420]

Coffees and reconstructing the new four-wheel drive of the brand: defining , alienation, labeling and attitude

In this coffee market that can conquer everything, in the face of the five major forces that dare to fight and the HE Tuber boundless competition on the track, if you want to become the industry leader, it is not enough to burn money and cost-effective products; similarly, start-up brands If you want to gain a foothold and grow, it is not enough to rely solely on innovative ideas and high-quality products.

companies need the courage to revolutionize the coffee industry; innovators need the desire to continuously iterate on their core capabilities; entrepreneurs need unique & extreme development thinking.

In fact, this article has been about "how to think", just like other articles about "what to do". In order to have a place in the future coffee market, a brand must have the following four new ways of thinking:

New Thought 1: Find someone who loves you—define rather than position.

New thinking 2: Differentiation – different, extraordinary and unique.

New thinking 3: Motivational thinking-labeled love.

New Thought 4: Make a cup of coffee with attitude - the promised land of love and faith!

 Find someone who loves you - define rather than position

The rise of Luckin has always been accompanied by two soul problems:

Question 1: Does the positioning of "professional fresh coffee" influence ' purchasing behavior, or does the marketing strategy of "who doesn't love the little blue cup" or "the first cup is free" used in the advertisement play a more important role?

Question 2: Is it the fission discount that saves Luckin’s life, or do factors such as stable quality, speed and convenience, unified image and transparent supply chain play a more critical role?

Brand Ape believes that allowing  to taste Luckin for the first time may be affected by many factors, including advertising, spokespersons, brand image, price and convenience; 

The fact is that many brands talk a lot about "positioning", as if "positioning" can win the market, but in fact it is meaningless unless you have a mine at home.

Think about it, even though there were once so many Luckin ads, how many people were impressed by the positioning?

All ambitious brands claim to be "user-centric" and are determined to create experiences that exceed user expectations. Unfortunately, they have never been able to effectively describe who chooses their coffee when and why?

Many idealistic coffee entrepreneurs regard "user connection" as the core of their operations, but most of them think that dual micro and live streaming are "connections", let alone what they will do after the connection.

At this moment, a coffee revolutionist, innovator, entrepreneur or operator, in this imaginative coffee market, first needs to have a new understanding of "positioning" and 

Data such as age, income, occupation, and interests under big data are difficult to cover the habits and behavior patterns of fragmented new consumer groups. Only granular individual research and exploration can truly and effectively explore people's beliefs, interests, habits and emotions.

In other words: there are only about 500 to 1000 different types of people in the world. Therefore, effective information only requires to draw conclusions and then influence marketing strategies.

This has been proven effective by Steve Jobs:Masuda Soaki's Tsutaya Bookstore and Suzuki Toshifumi's 7-11 .

Therefore, " The "7C methodology" proposed by Martin Lindström also provides a systematic approach

Connection, correlation, cause and effect, compensation and concept.

Brand building in today's era is a bit like the philosophers in the pre-Qin era: a hundred schools of thought contending, a hundred flowers blooming - they promote themselves with unique ideas, find circles, attract followers, and then achieve success in the world: Confucianism, political strategists, Mohism, Legalism, and military strategists , farmhouse, miscellaneous family.

By analogy to "positioning", in the post-growth era, it is difficult to position yourself/brand throughand attract  to "invest"; instead, you need to "define" yourself with some new concept The phenomenon of consumption stratification is becoming more and more obvious. Behind the "subculture" that can be initiated at any time, gathered at any time, and trendy at any time, there are more and more small circles, small cognitions, small labels, small scenes, small communities, small cultures, small lifestyles, and small values. With the help of mature digital infrastructure, these small circles have become new and the basis for supporting new business and new categories.

Circles develop more warm user relationships. This means truly empowering and finding meaning for every individual; it means that mobile time and fragmented space are reconnected and integrated; it also means that online activity and market prosperity go hand in hand.

Another understanding is that in the past, the competition for ’ minds was to seize the minds of . The competition for the minds of new consumer  is

relationship value-added", and "connection depth" means more business opportunities(this is the fundamental reason for Luckin's turnaround).

Because of this, the focus of marketing has changed a lot In other words, marketing has shifted from emphasizing "what it has" to "what it does", to "what you will feel", an

Follow changes and define yourself with new concepts; define communities by interests, tribes by attitudes, and lifestyles based on consensus; find the interest circles that are compatible with the brand and start conversations, which is more suitable for the coffee track and more Highly efficient and faster matching method.

At this time, what is the category? Is it important?

[bookswagononlinestore]

Buy the Best Motivational Books for Students

In the hunt for knowledge and personal growth, the journey through academics can be exhilarating and challenging. As students navigate the paths of learning, they often seek inspiration and guidance to fulfill their potential. Motivational literature- a genre that transcends textbooks and imparts wisdom, encouragement, and strategies needed to thrive in the academic arena.

These literary works work as guiding lights, offering insights to the students in resilience, goal-setting, and the development of a mindset that helps you embrace challenges as opportunities. From practical advice to profound philosophical perspectives, these Motivational Books are crafted to empower students to overcome hurdles, discover their passions, and forge a path toward success.

 My Journey: Transforming Dreams into Actions – APJ Abdul Kalam

“My Journey is a story of a life that is rich in beautiful lessons to be learned from it.”, “Dreams are not those that we see in our sleep, they should be the ones that never let us sleep.” – APJ Abdul Kalam

The book reveals the famous story of how a normal child from Rameswaram went on to become the President of India. It is an extraordinary tale of India’s most celebrated scientist who along with his research found time for his fellow people and worked hard towards their development. In this book, Dr. Kalam sheds light on several personal aspects like the people to whom he was very close and their influence on him. He talks about his upbringing and family as well as the various pangs and toils he had to go through.

I always felt that Dr. Kalam was a wise person who was open to helping people and always making the right decisions. He was a kind of role model for me.

A major part of this book deals with Dr.Kalam’s work in India’s space program. He talks about the difficulties they faced while developing India’s first space vehicle. Written candidly, you can now go through the minute details of the life of Dr. Kalam as told by the former President himself.

2. The Alchemist – Paulo Coelho

Written by Paulo Coelho way back in 1988, this book is still helping people find their purpose. More than this, this book also teaches that if you have the sheer determination to achieve your goal then nothing can stop you from achieving it.

The book follows a young shepherd named Santiago who has a recurring dream about a treasure hidden near the Pyramids in Egypt. To pursue his dream, he decides to travel to Egypt. On his way to Egypt, Santiago learns to listen to his heart, meets mentors, falls in love, and realizes that his dreams are part of the Soul of the Universe.

It inspires you to work toward your dreams despite failures, and troubles you may face.

Its primary theme is that all individuals should live in the singular pursuit of achieving their dreams.

In conclusion, The Alchemist is a book that is full of wisdom and valuable life lessons that inspire us to live more purposeful and meaningful lives.

            Bookswagon is the biggest online bookstore where you can purchase the Best-Selling Motivational Books Online at affordable prices. So visit the online store and shop for books right now.

[amazonseoservice]

Elevate your Online Journey on Amazon with Holistic Guidance

In this field of e-commerce, seller-central experts are seasoned professionals who have the experience and knowledge to shape your business to victory. Beginning its journey from a humble bookstore, it soon gained its space as the leading online retail shop in the world. It is your chance to capture the attention of the millions of customers on the platform, earning a massive fortune to not only sell on Amazon but also captivate the minds of individuals. From listing optimization service to Enhanced Brand Content is the synergy between the two that guides sellers and vendors to the new clouds of accomplishment. If you keep waiting to make millions, you will never achieve your dreams without comprehensive guidance. It is time to call the eStore Factory, your number-one guide.

Amazon Listing Optimization Service – The initial step on Amazon is to accelerate the sales journey. It is more than just essential to craft product descriptions that strike at the soul of the customers. These are not just product images or plain text and content but the perfect blend of persuasion with technical brilliance. From keyword analysis, title, bullet point, and description, experts work meticulously to design each component in favour of the brand. One of the most significant yet forgotten services is the competitive pricing strategy. Based on the market price point, they develop affordable prices that compel customers to pick your brand over others.

Dive deep into the world of product listings –

Keywords research – Incorporating highly relevant keywords that match your customer’s search queries perfectly. This makes sure it improves product visibility and reaches the right audience.

Title Optimization – The product title is the perfect synopsis of the key features of the product within two lines. Shortly and crisply, you can engagingly write the introduction.

Bullet point check – With 5 to 8 target sections, you can highlight the product’s key features and benefits that persuade customers to readily understand what the product entails and make an informed purchase decision.

Describe it right – Within 200 words, you can weave a piece of detailed information, penning down every piece of information about it in the most empowering ways. Within this section, you can add an extended version of the title and the bullet points making sure no points are forgotten.

Product lifestyle images made special – Did you know that images have a higher chance of leaving a more significant impact in the minds of the customers? Make your pictures lively and awe-striking when you have a team of designers available at your service. From brand logos, lifestyle images, and product photography to other content types, it is all done here!

Amazon Enhanced Brand Content – In the modern world, the product content is the comprehensive representation of the brand. Visually captivating listings can showcase the products, pushing the clicks with impressions and finally making sales. Are you ready to show product benefits and functionality for a better experience? Partner with the best Amazon seller consultant.

[cleverfoxpublishing-blog]

Navigating the Literary Seas: A Deep Dive into Book Publishing

Book publishing is a world of words where ideas take flight and stories find their forever home. This comprehensive guide will navigate you through the intricate and fascinating realm of book publishing, where creativity and commerce intertwine to bring literary dreams to life.

The Conception: From Manuscript to Masterpiece

Every book is born from an author's vision, a story yearning to be told. The journey from manuscript to published work unfolds in several vital phases:

1. Writing and Refinement:

Authors pour their hearts and souls into crafting compelling narratives. Editors work diligently with authors to refine manuscripts, ensuring clarity, coherence, and literary finesse.

2. Design and Aesthetics:

Book designers craft the visual elements that give books their unique charm. Cover design, typography, and page layout all play crucial roles in enhancing the reader's experience.

3. Production and Craftsmanship:

Printing, whether through traditional or digital methods, transforms manuscripts into tangible masterpieces. High-quality paper, ink, and binding are essential to this process.

The Business of Publishing

Publishing is not just an art; it's also a business that demands strategy and financial acumen. Publishers must carefully weigh market trends, target audiences, and distribution channels:

1. Market Analysis:

Understanding reader preferences and market dynamics is paramount. Publishers analyze data and trends to make informed decisions about which manuscripts to transform into books.

2. Distribution Expertise:

Getting books into the hands of readers requires a well-organized distribution network. This often involves partnerships with bookstores, libraries, and online retailers.

3. Strategic Marketing:

Books need visibility. Marketing teams conceive and execute campaigns that encompass everything from social media outreach to author engagements and book reviews.

Technology's Impact

The digital age has revolutionized book publishing. E-books, audiobooks, and online platforms have expanded how readers access and enjoy literature. Publishers must adapt to these transformations:

1. Digital Formats:

E-books and audiobooks offer new avenues for authors and readers. Publishers must optimize content for these formats while considering issues like DRM (Digital Rights Management).

2. Self-Publishing Revolution:

Authors now possess the means to self-publish through platforms like Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing. Traditional publishers distinguish themselves by offering unique value, such as editorial expertise and robust marketing.

3. Data-Driven Insights:

Data analytics empower publishers to comprehend reader behavior better. These insights inform decisions on book pricing, marketing tactics, and even content creation.

Charting the Future

The future of book publishing is an ever-evolving landscape filled with exciting prospects. Trends such as sustainable printing practices, AI-driven content creation, and immersive storytelling through virtual reality are reshaping the industry.

In this digital age, books remain powerful conduits for storytelling and knowledge sharing. The art and science of book publishing bridge the gap between authors and readers, unlocking new worlds, fresh ideas, and boundless imagination.

In conclusion, book publishing is a multifaceted realm where creativity, commerce, and technology converge. Whether you are an author, a publisher, or an avid reader, understanding the intricacies of this world enriches your appreciation for the written word.

[fightforthesoulofthecities]

Honor the work of Strategy Center Founder Professor Cynthia Hamilton at the Festival of Books

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text] Come to the Strategy and Soul Bookstore booth at the LA Times Festival of Books Honor the work of Strategy Center Founder Professor Cynthia Hamilton Apartheid in an American City Every Cook Can Govern Thinking Beyond Capitalism April 26th and 27th Booth #269 University of Southern California 3551 Trousdale Parkway, Los Angeles, CA…

[rockislandadultreads]

Book Recommendations: National Hobby Month

Refuse to Be Done by Matt Bell

They say writing is rewriting. So why does the second part get such short shrift? Refuse To Be Done will guide you through every step of the novel writing process, from getting started on those first pages to the last tips for making your final draft even tighter and stronger.

From lauded writer and teacher Matt Bell, Refuse to Be Done is encouraging and intensely practical, focusing always on specific rewriting tasks, techniques, and activities for every stage of the process. You won’t find bromides here about the “the writing Muse.” Instead, Bell breaks down the writing process in three sections. In the first, Bell shares a bounty of tactics, all meant to push you through the initial conception and get words on the page. The second focuses on reworking the narrative through outlining, modeling, and rewriting. The third and final section offers a layered approach to polishing through a checklist of operations, breaking the daunting project of final revisions into many small, achievable tasks.

Whether you are a first time novelist or a veteran writer, you will find an abundance of strategies here to help motivate you and shake up your revision process, allowing you to approach your work, day after day and month after month, with fresh eyes and sharp new tools.

One: Pot, Pan, Planet by Anna Jones

In this exciting new collection of over 200 simple recipes, Anna Jones limits the pans and simplifies the ingredients for all-in-one dinners that keep things fast and easy. These super varied every night recipes celebrate vegetables and deliver knock-out flavour but without taking time and energy.

There are one-tray dinners, like a baked dahl with tamarind-glazed sweet potato, quick dishes like tahini broccoli on toast, one-pot soups and stews like Persian noodle as well as one-pan fritters and pancakes such as golden rosti with ancho chilli chutney.

One brings together a way of eating that is mindful of the planet. Anna gives you practical advice and shows how every small change in planning, shopping and reducing waste will make a difference. There are also 100 recipes for using up any amount of your most-eaten veg and ideas to help you use the foods that most often end up being thrown away.

This book is good for you, your pocket and the planet.

The Ultimate Flower Gardener’s Guide by Jenny Rose Carey 

The colors, shapes, and scents of flowers are as ravishing to the senses as to the soul. But it’s all too easy get things wrong: colors that clash, flowers that bloom at the wrong time, plants that fail to thrive. Enter The Ultimate Flower Gardener’s Guide by expert gardener Jenny Rose Carey. She tells you exactly how to get started, how to combine plants for the most spectacular effects, and how to keep your garden going from year to year. Whether you’re interested in dramatic color combinations, how best to use a favorite flower, or how to create a garden for a specific purpose, such as nourishing pollinators, you’ll find the answers in this friendly, information-packed book. As Jenny herself says, “Don’t be afraid - just have a go!”

The Year of Reading Dangerously by Andy Miller

Andy Miller had a job he quite liked, a family he loved, and no time at all for reading. Or so he kept telling himself. But, no matter how busy or tired he was, something kept niggling at him. Books. Books he'd always wanted to read. Books he'd said he'd read that he actually hadn't. Books that whispered the promise of escape from the daily grind. And so, with the turn of a page, Andy began a year of reading that was to transform his life completely.

This book is Andy's inspirational and very funny account of his expedition through literature: classic, cult, and everything in between. Beginning with a copy of Bulgakov's Master and Margarita that he happens to find one day in a bookstore, he embarks on a literary odyssey. From Middlemarch to Anna Karenina to A Confederacy of Dunces, this is a heartfelt, humorous, and honest examination of what it means to be a reader, and a witty and insightful journey of discovery and soul-searching that celebrates the abiding miracle of the book and the power of reading.

[quietlyimplode]

Clintasha Advent - Day 7 (free day)

This will be a 2 parter (second part on the next free day I hope) based on this picture and headcannon by @shieldagentnatasharomanoff - thank you for letting letting me touch on it.

.

Natasha doesn’t feel well.

That’s not true.

She doesn’t feel right.

She considers herself and realizes that she’s not allowed to be unwell or not right and admitting that out loud would be akin to death. She quietly admits it to herself though and tightens her fists harder into the palm of her hand.

They keep saying she doesn’t belong, tell her that she’s a defector and as such she can’t be trusted.

She’s defected away so will never be accepted back into Russia, and she’s betrayed her country so will never be truely accepted by America.

They’re not wrong, but it leaves her as an outlier. Barton tells her it will ease. The psychiatrist tells her that her feelings are valid. No one offers practical strategies to cope with the intrusive thoughts that plague her.

As she wanders down the street, she’s drawn to the bookstore on the corner, it’s bright red doors standing out against the grey of the day.

She has to be back by 7pm, the curfew set by Shield for defectors, she muses. She’s not angry about it, truthfully; she doesn’t have a say. At least she’s allowed to leave now; but even as she’s allowed to leave, she doesn’t have anywhere to go.

For the last six months, she’s gone exactly four places.

Barton’s apartment, her hovel, the psychiatrists office, and Shield. Now that she’s cleared, they trust her not to run; even if it’s all she wants to do.

Taking a chance, she enters the bookshop.

It’s not as small as it looks outside, it widens to books on one side and a café on the other.

Natasha loosens her scarf, and her legs take her to the back of the café; she can see the doors, there’s no one behind her and there’s only one blind spot to her left, that she reasons if she rearranges the metal tins in the middle of the table, it’s better.

She’s greeted by a kindly old woman, who offers her a menu. Natasha smiles and shakes her head, ordering a fizzy drink, hoping the bubbles make her feel more grounded and a part of the world.

There’s seven people in here.

The two at the counter, a man in the stacks, a woman and child in the children’s books section, one leaving and one sitting at the table across the way.

“You can grab a book, if you want,” the woman tells her. “No obligation to buy, but sometimes a book can be a good companion.”

Kindness, Natasha finds, always hits her low in the guts, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Any recommendations?” She asks, recovering herself quickly, remembering how to make conversation.

The woman nods and leaves, Natasha’s eyes follow her as she disappears and then reappears. She hands her a book with a twinkle in her eye and a knowing look.

“Lora Mathis, The Women Widowed to Themselves,” the woman says, “please don’t be offended.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow.

She’s not offended but feels like the woman is looking into her soul as she nods and walks away, leaving her to her drink.

She flips through the offered book, and opens it randomly. The words she lands on seem to hit her squarely in the gut.

“I don’t want to do anything.

I don’t want to be anything.

I want to disappear elegantly.

I want people to look for my goodbye note

and find nothing but smoke.”

She gulps and closes the book, the words swirling in her head as all the feelings she’s been holding onto are held in them.

Her phone goes off and she’s pulled from her musings, it Barton, checking on her, sending her stupid jokes and trying like mad to connect. She ignores it, but is thankful there’s at least one person in the world that cares.

Natasha sips her drink, wanting to open the book again. She doesn’t have the courage, so she stares at the inanimate object and vows to come back.

.

(Now a 3 parter)

[northernstories]

African American Literature Suggestions from NMU English Department

The English Department at Northern Michigan University has prepared this list of several dozen suggested readings in African American literature, with some materials also addressing Native American history and culture. The first section contains books that will help provide a context for the Black Lives Matter movement. It includes books that will help readers examine their own privilege and act more effectively for the greater good. Following that list is another featuring many African American authors and books. This list is by no means comprehensive, but it does provide readers a place to start. Almost all of these books are readily available in bookstores and public and university libraries.

Northern Michigan University’s English Department offers at least one course on African American literature every semester, at least one course on Native American literature every semester, and at least one additional course on non-western world literatures every semester. Department faculty also incorporate diverse material in many other courses. For more information, contact the department at english@nmu.edu. Nonfiction, primarily addressing current events, along with some classic texts: Joni Adamson, Mei Mei Evans, and Rachel Stein, editors. The Environmental Justice Reader: Politics, Poetics, and Pedagogy. This classic collection of scholarly articles, essays, and interviews explores the links between social inequalities and unequal distribution of environmental risk. Attention is focused on the US context, but authors also consider global impacts. Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. A clear-eyed explication of how mass incarceration has created a new racial caste system obscured by the ideology of color-blindness. Essential reading for understanding our criminal justice system in relation to the histories of slavery and segregation. Carol Anderson, White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide. A very well-written but disturbing and direct analysis of the history of structural and institutionalized racism in the United States. Gloria Anzaldua, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. Anzaldua writes about the complexity of life on multiple borders, both literal (the border between the US/Mexico) and conceptual (the borders among languages, sexual identity, and gender). Anzaldua also crosses generic borders, moving among essay, story, history, and poetry. James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time. A classic indictment of white supremacy expressed in a searing, prophetic voice that is, simply, unmatched. Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me. A combination of personal narrative in the form of the author’s letter to his son, historical analysis, and contemporary reportage. Angela Davis, Are Prisons Obsolete? In this succinct and carefully researched book, Davis exposes the racist and sexist underpinnings of the American prison system. This is a must-read for folks new to conversations about prison (and police) abolition. Robin DiAngelo, What Does It Mean To Be White? The author facilitates white people unpacking their biases around race, privilege, and oppression through a variety of methods and extensive research. Ejeris Dixon and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarshnha, editors. Beyond Survival: Strategies and Stories From the Transformative Justice Movement. The book attempts to solve problems of violence at a grassroots level in minority communities, without relying on punishment, incarceration, or policing. Frederick Douglass, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass. The most well-known narrative written by one of the most well-known and accomplished enslaved persons in the United States. First published in 1845 when Douglass was approximately 28 years old. W.E.B. DuBois, The Souls of Black Folk. Collection of essays in which Dubois famously prophesied that “the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line.” Henry Louis Gates, Stony the Road: Reconstruction, White Supremacy, and the Rise of Jim Crow. Must reading, a beautifully written, scholarly, and accessible discussion of American history from Reconstruction to the beginnings of the Jim Crow era. Saidiya Hartman, Lose your Mother: A Journey Along the Atlantic Slave Route. In an attempt to locate relatives in Ghana, the author journeyed along the route her ancestors would have taken as they became enslaved in the United States. bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation. A collection of essays that analyze how white supremacy is systemically maintained through, among other activities, popular culture. Harriet Jacobs, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. Narrative of a woman who escaped slavery by hiding in an attic for seven years. This book offers unique insights into the sexually predatory behavior of slave masters. Ibram X. Kendi, Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America. A detailed history not only of racist events in American history, but of the racist thinking that permitted and continues to permit these events. This excellent and readable book traces this thinking from the colonial period through the presidency of Barack Obama. Winona LaDuke, All Our Relations: Native Struggles for Land and Life Any of LaDuke's works belong on this list. This particular text explores the stories of several Indigenous communities as they struggle with environmental and cultural degradation. An incredible resource. Kiese Laymon, Heavy: An American Memoir. An intense book that questions American myths of individual success written by a man who is able to situate his own life within a much larger whole. Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldua, This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color This foundational text brings together work by writers, scholars, and activists such as Audre Lorde, Chrystos, Barbara Smith, Norma Alarcon, Nellie Wong, and many others. The book has been called a manifesto and a call to action and remains just as important and relevant as when it was published nearly 40 years ago. Toni Morrison, The Source of Self-Regard. An invaluable collection of essays and speeches from the only black woman to win a Nobel Prize in literature. Throughout her oeuvre, Morrison calls us to take "personal responsibility for alleviating social harm," an ethic she identified with Martin Luther King. Ersula J. Ore, Lynching: Violence, Rhetoric, and American Identity. Ore scrutinizes the history of lynching in America and contemporary manifestations of lynching, drawing upon the murder of Trayvon Martin and other contemporary manifestations of police brutality. Drawing upon newspapers, official records, and memoirs, as well as critical race theory, Ore outlines the connections between what was said and written, the material practices of lynching in the past, and the forms these rhetorics and practices assume now. Claudia Rankine, Citizen: An American Lyric. A description and discussion of racial aggression and micro-aggression in contemporary America. The book was selected for NMU’s Diversity Common Reader Program in 2016. Layla F. Saad, Me and White Supremacy. The author facilitates white people in unpacking their biases around race, privilege, and oppression, while also helping them understand key critical social justice terminology. Maya Schenwar, Joe Macaré, Alana Yu-lan Price, editors. Who do you Serve, Who Do You Protect? Police Violence and Resistance in the United States. The essays examine "police violence against black, brown, indigenous and other marginalized communities, miscarriages of justice, and failures of token accountability and reform measures." What are alternative measures to keep marginalized communities safe? Ozlem Sensoy and Robin DiAngelo, Is Everyone Really Equal? The authors, in very easy to read and engaging language, facilitate readers in understanding the ---isms (racism, sexism, ableism etc.) and how they intersect, helping readers see their positionality and how privilege and oppression work to perpetuate the status quo. Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption. An analysis of America’s criminal justice system by the lawyer who founded the Equal Justice Initiative. While upsetting, the book is also hopeful. Wendy S. Walters, Multiply / Divide: On the American Real and Surreal. In this collection of essays, Walters analyzes the racial psyche of several major American cities, emphasizing the ways bias can endanger entire communities. Booker T. Washington, Up from Slavery. Autobiography of the founder of Tuskegee Institute. Harriet Washington, Medical Apartheid. From the surgical experiments performed on enslaved black women to the contemporary recruitment of prison populations for medical research, Washington illuminates how American medicine has been--and continues to be shaped--by anti-black racism. Malcolm X, The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Autobiography of civil rights leader that traces his evolution as a thinker, speaker, and writer.

If you would like to enhance your knowledge of the rich tradition of African American literature, here are several of the most popular books and authors within that tradition, focused especially on the 20thand 21st centuries. Novels and Short Stories James Baldwin, Go Tell It on the Mountain James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room Octavia Butler, Parable of the Sower Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man Langston Hughes, The Ways of White Folks Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God James Weldon Johnson, The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man Nella Larsen, Passing Nella Larsen, Quicksand Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye Toni Morrison, Beloved Richard Wright, Native Son Drama Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun Ntozake Shange, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf August Wilson, Fences August Wilson, The Piano Lesson Poetry A good place to begin is an anthology, The Vintage Book of African American Poetry, edited by Michael S. Harper and Anthony Walton. It includes work by poets from the 18th century to the present, including Gwendolyn Brooks, Lucille Clifton, Countee Cullen, Rita Dove, Robert Hayden, Langston Hughes, Yusef Komunyakaa, Claude McKay, Phillis Wheatley, and many others. Here are some more recent collections: Reginald Dwayne Betts, Felon Wanda Coleman, Wicked Enchantment: Selected Poems Honorée Fanonne Jeffers, The Age of Phillis Tyehimba Jess, Olio Jamaal May, The Big Book of Exit Strategies Danez Smith, Don’t Call Us Dead

[magic-and-moonlit-wings]

Reaction to ‘Wizards’

There were some elements of Wizards that I was quite pleased with and others I found disappointing.

Here are some notes I took while watching it: 

“I was busy,” says the guy who was ASLEEP.

Cuckoo clock in bookstore looks like Bular’s head.

Green Knight can teleport, confirming potential parallel character to Angor Rot and Tronos Madu, both yellow-eyed assassins with teleportation and tragic backstories (later confirmed, yes, there are parallels between this character and those two besides the visual one)

Jim always tips at the cafe; yup, that sounds like Jim 

Gunmar saving Jim: irony. Is Jim going to go to the Gumm-Gumm camp now? 

Confirmation that portrait was Arthur and Guinevere and she is “gone”, presumably by magic or killed by a troll - is she dead or did she just leave? (Later confirmed, dead)

Morgana’s name is carved on the tree under Arthur’s and Guinevere’s - was she in love with Guinevere too? 

Is that Nari with Morgana and Guinevere? (Later confirmed, yes)

Stone doll Callista finds looks like Angor’s totems - same village? He said it was “Gunmar’s war” that destroyed it, and she says it was a human attack, but Angor might’ve seen it as a retaliatory attack by the humans which Gunmar’s actions had provoked?

Arthur being the one to cut off Morgana’s hand makes Merlin SLIGHTLY less of an asshole for using it in the Amulet, but a lot of this still could’ve been avoided if Merlin had been willing to shut up and listen. 

Oh, except it wasn’t Arthur who cut off Morgana’s hand the first time anyway? 

Episode 3 ends without Steve getting knocked on his back, so that scene must’ve been his sparring match with Lancelot in Episode 2 instead of keeping it an Episode 3 tradition (like how Zuko and Iroh hug in Episode 18 of each season of Avatar the Last Airbender)

Why would Douxie be grossed out at the idea of swimming naked? Swimsuits have only been around for, what, 80 years? Presumably it was a specific lack of desire to see Steve naked.

Neat take on the Lady of the Lake. 

AAARRRGGHH used to have a triple set of horns - what happened to the other two? Receded, amputated, knocked off? Also, Gunmar says AAARRRGGHH is ‘holding back’ when they spar and has yet to win against him - if AAARRRGGHH was doing that on purpose, this supports my theory that he was debating how safe it was to stay on Gunmar’s side for some time before deserting. 

Morgana possessed? 

Angor Rot saved Morgana/recovers her body and gives a funerary-sounding blessing, showing he was sympathetic to humans before losing his soul  

Oh, and Nari gave her the new hand 

Wait, so who steals Angor’s soul in this timeline? 

Called it on that servant guy being a Changeling - he appears in the background of, like, every scene that episode where they’re talking about Morgana using unexpected strategies to sneak into Camelot. 

Wait, except his human form is an adult - so is he a polymorph? Or Familiars can be taken as adults but babies are easier to contain and have less ‘established personality’ to match after replacing them? Or has Morgana already been creating Changelings? AAARRRGGHH calls Jim “impure” when they meet in Dwoza, suggesting Gumm-Gumms already know what Changelings are, except Morgana wasn’t working with them yet

Is Callista going to be Deya? (Later confirmed, yes)

Show seems to be matching up with old theories about Deya being the first Trollhunter, confirming that the show, comics, and novels are all separate continuities (since comics and novels show pre-Deya Trollhunters). 

Gumm-Gumm berserkers - mind-controlled or grit-shaka’d (talisman of “no fear”), to throw themselves into sunlight like that?

Steve seems ready to refer to any half-decent older man as his dad, like when he refers to Merlin as ‘Wizard-Dad’. Maybe it’s because I was watching Brooklyn 99 recently but I’m reminded of Jake Peralta.

Big Jim’s crystal neck protrusions look like Strickler’s knife collar back when I thought that was part of his body. Glowy lines look like Gunmar; tie-in to Gunmar born of a “corrupted Heartstone” since Jim is “corrupted” now?

Aw, Krel called Ricky his dad. 

How did AAARRRGGHH fit through the HexTech door to the backroom?

“Cat and mouse” line cuts to a shot of Archie obviously imitating Nari (confirmed a few minutes later)

Toby has obviously seen Ghostbusters. “When someone asks you if you are a god, you say YES!”

Decoration in bookshop looks like Angor’s head.

Was that lightshow of Nari searching the world for Jim’s soul just a visual metaphor for her powers or did literally everyone on Earth see that?

“There’s a force neither of us can escape - gravity!” says the woman who can fly.

Morgana’s occasional echo-y voice in Trollhunters matches Bellroc and Skael - possession/magical-influence related?

So did Merlin have that book on him or did his body turn into the book?

Are all dragons fluffy and/or shapeshifters in this universe? 

Might’ve been smarter to keep Merlin’s staff intact and destroy the Grimoire so the Arcane Order never knows where to find the Genesis Seals, just saying.

If Morgana didn’t become “the Eldritch Queen” until, like, IMMEDIATELY before Angor approached her (therefore days earlier at most in the unaltered timeline), how had he heard of her to seek her aid? Was he actually reaching out to the Arcane Order? At least this explains why he didn’t go to the Trollhunter for help - there was no Trollhunter to approach yet.

Big Jim ‘dies’ in the same pose as AAARRRGGHH in Trollhunters Season 1 and Draal in Unbecoming, both false death scenes, for five-second foreshadowing Jim was alive. 

Mixed feelings about him being human again - like I’ve said, I didn’t think the Troll Jim subplot was well-executed but I also felt like, now that it’s been established, the show needs to stick with it. Since everything’s over I’m going to headcanon Jim having shapeshifting powers now and being able to switch between human and troll at will, he just didn’t think to try to do so on-camera.

Also, I feel like Jim’s relationship with Claire is once again completely overshadowing his relationship with Toby, instead of them being different kinds of relationships with equal weight. 

Barbara is going to be pretty shocked when her human son shows up again. She and Strickler don’t appear at all in this series, even in cameo. 

Maybe Jim’s not a troll anymore because, with Merlin and Morgana both dead, their magic is “broken” and that’s what was holding his transformation in place? Merlin’s through the potion, Morgana’s through the Changeling femur, both through the Amulet.

Is Jim still going back to New Jersey? Blinky’s got to, unless the trolls there have elected a new leader or they’re bringing the New Jersey Heartstone back to Arcadia.

Series ending scene also would work as the final scene of a movie, setting up a sequel hook even though it’s supposed to be over now. 

Seems like wizards are long-lived and age really slowly? Possibly a “will not die but can be killed” situation, like vampires, or unicorns (at least in The Last Unicorn) 

Additional thoughts after finishing the show and thinking for a while: 

I don’t get how Morgana could end up with such a reputation among trolls - enough to have superstitions about her, seen when Dictatious objects to Usurna saying her name - when they only interacted with her for like a few days at most. I guess she made a pretty strong impression on Gunmar, who passed that on to everyone else? Or maybe she cultivated that reputation over time via the Changelings?

Speaking of the Changelings, does this mean that, while Morgana designed the process to create them, she doesn’t make each individual one? Otherwise she would’ve had to pre-make a bunch in the time between getting her new hand and being trapped in the Heartstone. Although, if she can steal Angor’s soul remotely (with the idea she was already trapped in the Heartstone when that happened), she can probably also make Changelings remotely. 

I’m kind of sorry the Changelings got invented so quickly; I figured there would be some trial-and-error to that process.

How I think the Original Timeline went: 

Morgana would’ve turned to the Arcane Order seeking magic allies, later in the day that gets changed when the time-travelers arrive. Possibly she seeks out Nari, specifically, remembering her from childhood. 

Merlin then sees Morgana as the Future Threat and he or one of the knights (not Arthur) cut off her hand in the resulting fight. 

Merlin makes the Amulet. It chooses Callista, who is still in Camelot’s dungeon at the time, and she agrees to fight Gunmar in exchange for her freedom. 

She fully intending to go back on the deal and run for it, but then something-something-something and she learns her original name and saves the world anyway. Probably she’s the one who took down and imprisoned AAARRRGGHH in Dwoza, which inspired the other trolls there to follow her. 

Morgana finds out about the Trollhunter shortly before Angor arrives to ask her for magic, which is why she orders him to hunt the Trollhunters down.

Arthur thinks Merlin killed Morgana and wants to avenge her, leading him to the Arcane Order for the original not-time-loop-prompted attack.  

Show did a good job establishing and developing Douxie’s relationship with Merlin

Also, how did that bookshop end up a center of Merlin’s power? He’s only been in the modern world for a few months. Did he set a shop up off-camera while the trolls were travelling to New Jersey and the Akiridions were discovering Earth? 

How did Ricky Blank lose his head, anyway? Can Hex Tech fix him? Krel says magic and Akiridion tech combine harmoniously.