The late afternoon sun dipped low over the old alleys of Eungam-dong, bleeding orange light onto rusted rooftops and cracked pavements. Street vendors packed up their carts, the scent of roasted sweet potatoes and fish cakes lingering heavy in the air. The hum of life — the chatter of old women gossiping on worn benches, the giggles of children chasing a frayed soccer ball — filled the narrow streets with a comforting kind of noise.

Han Seojun was lost.

Not geographically — no, his expensive car’s GPS still worked fine — but he was lost in every other way.
He leaned against the open door of his black Maserati, arms crossed, jaw clenched tightly. A faint trail of smoke curled from beneath the hood, staining the perfect image of luxury and power he carried with him like a second skin. His tailored black suit, sharp and precise, looked almost ridiculous against the faded murals of the neighborhood behind him.

Seojun checked his phone again. No signal.
The city’s towering skyline was a distant blur from here — as if he had stumbled into a different world entirely.

He kicked the tire lightly and sighed. How had he ended up here, of all places?
A simple wrong turn. A stubborn decision to avoid the main roads clogged with traffic.
Now, here he was — the almighty Han Seojun, CEO-in-training of Han Group — stranded in a forgotten corner of Seoul where time seemed to move slower.

A light laugh pulled him from his brewing frustration.

He turned, and there she was.

A girl, maybe his age or slightly younger, was watching him from across the narrow street.
She wore a loose white blouse tucked into worn jeans, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Her hair was tied into a loose, messy ponytail, strands of brown fluttering against her face in the late afternoon breeze. In her hands, she balanced a tray piled with what looked like steaming dumplings, the smell of pepper and chives curling toward him.

"You look like you just lost a battle with a machine," she said, smiling broadly.

Seojun stiffened.
People rarely spoke to him without reservation, and when they did, it was either out of fear or calculation.

"I'm fine," he said shortly, adjusting the cufflinks on his shirt.

The girl raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.
She set her tray down on a nearby ledge and wiped her hands on her apron. Crossing the street with easy steps, she peered under the Maserati’s smoking hood.

"Overheated," she diagnosed quickly. "You probably ran it too hard."

Seojun’s lip twitched. "And you’re an expert?"

"My dad used to fix cars before he passed away," she said, not missing a beat.
"I know enough to tell you that rich boys think expensive cars are invincible."

The word rich hung between them, thick and accusing.
Seojun said nothing. He wasn't wearing a brand logo, but wealth was stitched into everything he owned — from the gleam of his watch to the cut of his jacket.

"I’m Lee Haneul," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"And you're?"

He hesitated.
"Seojun," he said simply.

No titles. No last name.

Just Seojun.

There was something liberating about it.

"Well, Seojun-ssi," Haneul said, grinning. "You’re lucky you broke down in my neighborhood. We have the best street mechanic in all of Seoul. Give me a second."

Before he could protest, she was already dialing on her battered phone, walking a few steps away.

Seojun leaned against the car and watched her.
She moved with an ease he had never known — laughing easily, speaking warmly to whoever was on the other end of the line.
There was no pretense, no guarded expression, no calculation.

In his world, every word, every smile was a transaction. Here, even the air felt different.

The mechanic promised to arrive in thirty minutes. Haneul hung up and returned to him, handing him a can of cold coffee from her tray without asking.

"It’s on the house," she said. "Consider it a welcome gift to our little part of Seoul."

Seojun accepted it, feeling the condensation bead against his palm. He hated canned coffee — too sweet, too artificial — but he cracked it open and took a sip anyway.

"So," Haneul said, sitting on the curb and patting the spot beside her. "You gonna tell me what a chaebol kid like you is doing here?"

He narrowed his eyes. "How do you know I'm a chaebol?"

She laughed, tilting her head toward the Maserati. "Come on. That car? That suit? Your shoes cost more than my rent."

Seojun found himself chuckling despite himself.
He sat down beside her, the pavement surprisingly warm under his body.

"I took a wrong turn," he admitted, voice low.

Haneul nodded thoughtfully, kicking at a pebble with the toe of her sneaker.

"Sometimes wrong turns lead to the right places," she said.

They sat in companionable silence, sipping canned coffee under a sky beginning to blush with twilight.
The city in the distance buzzed with a life he knew too well — contracts, deadlines, expectations.
But here, in this forgotten pocket of Seoul, Seojun felt — for the first time in years — unburdened.

A child’s laughter echoed down the alleyway. Somewhere, a radio played an old trot song. The scent of grilling meat wafted from an unseen restaurant.

Maybe — just maybe — being stranded here wasn’t a disaster.

Maybe it was the start of something he desperately needed, even if he didn’t know it yet.

Chapter 1: A Broken Car, A New Beginning

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