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# Chapter 89: When the Light Goes Out
When the automatic doors of GS25 slid open, Sae-ah’s heart stopped. Or rather, it skipped a beat. In that suspended moment, the entire world compressed into a single space: the fluorescent white glow of the lights, the humming of the refrigerators, and behind the register, the face of the store manager, Lee Hyung-jun.
His expression was a mixture of surprise and something else—as if the mere sight of her had triggered some revelation.
“Na Sae-ah?”
The manager’s voice was low. Not quite a question, more of a confirmation. The tone of someone seeing a ghost.
“Hello.”
Sae-ah spoke, her voice smaller still. The moment she stepped into the convenience store, she had transformed back. Into that Sae-ah. The one in the black vest. The one who stood here from 10 PM to 6 AM. The one wearing a name tag.
“Where the hell have you been? You haven’t shown up in a month. No contact, nothing.”
The manager rose from his seat. He was a man in his early fifties—a heavy smoker, a coffee drinker, his feet swollen from standing through the nights. Sae-ah knew him precisely. His routines, his sighs, his exhaustion.
Haneul was waiting by the door, arms crossed, cigarette in her mouth, standing as if she owned the place.
“I had personal matters. I apologize.”
Sae-ah said. It was part of the truth. Everything had been personal—Kang Ri-woo, Jeju Island, the airplane, her own vanishing voice.
“Personal matters? You?”
The manager looked like he was suppressing a laugh. But it was closer to a sigh.
“Yes. Family matters.”
A lie. But a necessary one. Sae-ah had learned how to lie. When it mattered. To survive. To protect herself.
“Family? Your mom? Your brother?”
“No. It was… personal.”
The manager stepped back, studying her face more carefully. As if searching for something hidden.
“You… are you okay? Your complexion looks a bit—”
“I’m fine.”
Another lie. Truth and lies were bleeding together now, and she could no longer tell which was which. Not her body, not her voice, not her decisions. Everything felt like it belonged to someone else.
“Anyway, I need help. I couldn’t find another part-timer. Can you do nights from 11 PM to 6 AM?”
The manager asked almost pleadingly.
“Yes. I can.”
Sae-ah answered. Haneul sighed beside her, but Sae-ah ignored it.
“Good. Start tomorrow. Minimum wage plus night shift bonus. Same as before.”
The manager sat back down. Behind the register, returning to his place. As if Sae-ah wasn’t there at all.
“Understood.”
Sae-ah turned and walked toward the door. Toward Haneul.
In the car, neither spoke for a long time. Haneul smoked; Sae-ah watched the window. The night of Hapjeong Station. A Saturday night. Young people heading toward Hongdae. Drunk voices filling the streets.
“You’re really going to work that job? 11 PM to 6 AM?”
Haneul asked, waiting at a red light.
“Yes.”
“But what about the music studio? Composing? That was your dream, wasn’t it?”
Haneul’s voice rose—not angry, but frustrated.
“I can do music… later.”
Sae-ah said. Another lie. Music had no “later.” Music was now, this moment. Or never. She knew that. But she couldn’t say it.
“Later? Listen, you’re 24. You might not realize it, but this age is the last one. The last chance to start music. If you miss it, you miss it. Your age won’t wait.”
Haneul spoke, releasing the accelerator as the light turned red. A long wait ahead.
“I know.”
Sae-ah said, then added:
“But I don’t have money.”
“Money? Borrow from me. I can give it to you.”
Haneul said simply, as if it were obvious.
“I can’t owe anyone anything.”
That was the truth. She already owed too much. To Kang Ri-woo. To her mother. To Do-hyun. And to her own voice. To her own music.
“Then you’ll borrow from that bastard Kang Ri-woo? Why not from me?”
Haneul asked, her voice burning red with anger.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. What could she say? Haneul was right. She always was. The most accurate person Sae-ah knew. So why did Sae-ah keep avoiding her? Because those accurate words cut too deep.
The light turned green. The car moved again.
“You know that bastard Kang Ri-woo filed a missing person report with the police, right?”
Haneul asked, eyes on the light.
“I know.”
“Then you mean something to him. Enough for him to do that. So why do you keep your distance from everyone else?”
Haneul’s voice dropped. No longer angry, but genuinely unable to understand.
Sae-ah’s eyes burned, but no tears fell. The part of her that could cry had already dried up.
“Kang Ri-woo is… dangerous. He’s not good for me.”
That was true.
“Yeah, I know he’s dangerous. But you? Why aren’t you dangerous? Why should I trust you?”
Haneul asked the most important question.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Because there was no answer. Could she trust Haneul? The answer was no. Sae-ah couldn’t trust anyone. Not even herself.
The car continued. From Gangnam to Gangbuk. Crossing the night of Seoul.
“Let’s eat first. You’re too thin.”
Haneul finally said, swallowing her anger. That was her way. When words didn’t work, you ate. You started over.
Sae-ah nodded silently.
A small soup restaurant in Gangbuk. Its name was “Grandma’s Soup.” The kind of place found all over Seoul. Where drunk people and those pulling all-nighters went.
When Sae-ah and Haneul sat down, it was already 10:45 PM. Dawn was approaching.
“Beef soup, one. Tendon soup, one. And rolled egg.”
Haneul ordered loudly, as if everyone should follow her lead.
“I can’t eat.”
Sae-ah said quietly.
“Then just have the broth. You need something. You look like a ghost.”
Haneul said, smoking inside the restaurant. Officially forbidden, but the owner said nothing. Haneul was like that—someone to whom rules didn’t apply. Or rather, someone who made her own rules.
The food came, steam rising from the bowls. Sae-ah picked up her spoon. Her hand trembled. Three times. Click, click, click. As if the sound didn’t belong to her.
“Your hand’s shaking. Why?”
Haneul asked.
“I don’t know.”
Sae-ah said, then sipped the broth. It was warm. Like her mother’s cooking.
“Is it because of that bastard Kang Ri-woo? What did he do? Really?”
Haneul asked, pressing deeper.
Sae-ah sipped again. No answer.
“Tell me. What did he do?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I know he did something. But what exactly… I don’t know.”
Sae-ah said. It was the truth. She didn’t know precisely what Kang Ri-woo had done. Whether it was love or control, or some twisted mixture. Whether he was protecting her or imprisoning her.
“Did he do something to you? Physically?”
Haneul asked, her voice dropping, growing more serious.
“No.”
Sae-ah said. Another lie. There was physical contact. Hand-holding, his arm on her shoulder, her face buried in his chest. It was all physical. And it was all a wound.
“Then mentally? With words?”
“…Yes.”
Sae-ah said. For the first time, she spoke the truth.
Haneul sat still for a long moment. Not eating. Not smoking. Just watching Sae-ah in the silence.
“What do you need right now?”
Haneul finally asked.
“I don’t know.”
Sae-ah said.
“Sleep? Food? Music? What?”
“…Music, I think.”
Sae-ah said. For the first time, she spoke it aloud. Music. Her deepest desire.
Haneul nodded, as if hearing it for the first time. Which she was—directly from Sae-ah’s lips.
“Then do music. Do music while working at the convenience store. You have time. Where’s the girl who used to compose at dawn?”
“I don’t have the energy to write at dawn anymore…”
“Then create it. Energy isn’t something you get from eating. It’s something you create because you need it.”
Haneul said precisely, then began eating her soup with a large spoon. Unstoppable.
Sae-ah began eating too. Slowly. But she began.
11:30 PM. Sae-ah walked back to GS25. Alone. Not driven by Haneul. She walked on the cold asphalt. The night wind brushed her face.
The manager was already gone. No need to wait for her. Sae-ah put on the vest, clipped on the name tag. Na Sae-ah. She couldn’t tell if the name belonged to her or someone else, but she wore it anyway.
Under the fluorescent lights. In the convenience store at 11:30 PM. Sae-ah began again.
The first customer came at 11:45 PM. A middle-aged man. He bought cigarettes and ramyeon. Sae-ah rang him up. She didn’t meet his eyes. As if no one could see her.
The night deepened.
1 AM. Drunk female college students came in. Laughing, chattering, leaving. Sae-ah rang them up.
2 AM. Quiet. The streets were quiet too. Only the humming of the fluorescent lights remained.
2:45 AM. Sae-ah stood behind the register, staring up at those lights. Bright, constant. And she wondered: what would happen if they went out? What would remain if this brightness disappeared?
Then her phone buzzed. No—not hers. The manager’s phone below the register.
It was set to auto-answer. A voice emerged:
“This is JYA Entertainment, Vice President Kang Ri-woo’s office. We are looking for Na Sae-ah. Is she there?”
Sae-ah’s body froze. Kang Ri-woo. That name. That voice—no, not his voice. His secretary’s voice.
She didn’t move.
“If Na Sae-ah is working there, Vice President Kang would like to meet her directly. It’s urgent.”
The voice continued.
As Sae-ah listened, she understood: she had to decide now. She couldn’t run anymore. Kang Ri-woo had found her. And he would keep searching.
Sae-ah’s fingers moved. Three times. Click, click, click.
Then she picked up the manager’s phone with one hand and spoke:
“Yes. This is Na Sae-ah.”
Her voice was small, but it didn’t tremble. Everything was already over. Running was finished. Now was the time to turn and face it.
The secretary on the other end sounded shocked:
“Na Sae-ah is responding. Vice President.”
Then the voice changed. Lower. Warmer. Kang Ri-woo’s voice.
“Sae-ah. Where are you?”
The moment she heard that voice, Sae-ah knew: she was already burning. And this fire would leave nothing behind.
“I’m at the convenience store.”
Sae-ah said.
“I’m coming now. Wait for me.”
“…”
“Wait. Please.”
Kang Ri-woo’s voice was breaking.
Sae-ah hung up. Then looked at the fluorescent lights again. The bright lights. The lights that would soon go out.
2:47 AM. Behind the register of the convenience store, Sae-ah was waiting for her fire.