Episode 27
22 March 2025, Saturday. Early evening. Near Yu-ra's apartment building.
The UAZ rolled smoothly into the parking lot in front of the building, its engine humming evenly, drawing a few surprised glances from passersby before coming to a stop.
Den got out of the car.
He was wearing polished black leather shoes, classic trousers, and a light-gray mandarin-collar shirt worn untucked, the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. On his wrist was a silver 'Citizen' watch—modest, not overly expensive, but solid and well-made. He leaned casually against the hood and typed a message to Yu-ra.
I'm here.
The reply came almost instantly.
Almost ready. Will be out soon.
Den rolled his eyes—not quite a sigh, more like letting the air slip out of his lungs.
Even Korean punctuality surrendered to a woman getting ready.
He stood there for a while, looking toward the entrance.
Then he noticed an elderly man standing a little to the side, watching him with open curiosity.
Den bowed respectfully.
The old man bowed back and, taking Den's politeness as an invitation, walked over.
"Good evening, young man."
"Good evening, harabeoji," Den replied, bowing again and standing straight.
The old man smiled—approval of young man manners was quiet and unmistakable.
"You look like a man waiting for a woman," he said kindly. "Like every minute's an hour."
Den smiled.
"You got me. Yes, I am waiting for a girl."
The old man nodded and said,
"Then allow me to give you some advice. Don't be mad she kept you waiting. It's a good sign."
Den tilted his head, intrigued.
"All right, harabeoji. Why is that?"
The old man smiled warmly, lightly touching Den's arm.
"If a woman is late, she wants to be beautiful for you. And what reason would she have to be beautiful for someone she doesn't care about?"
The old man smiled again, stepping back.
"Well then, I'd better go. Before I forget where I was heading. Have a good evening, young man."
"And you as well, harabeoji," Den replied with another bow.
When Den lifted his eyes again, Yu-ra was standing in the doorway.
A second ago, time had been slow, now it came to a complete halt.
High-heeled shoes, black leather shorts that fit her perfectly, and a delicate, tailored pale-blue blouse. Her hairstyle looked effortless at first glance—as if she had simply clipped her hair up—but the pins were placed with surgical precision.
Den grabbed the fender of the UAZ, as if suspecting her beauty might knock him off balance.
Yu-ra's reaction to the car, however, was no less dramatic than his reaction to her.
She froze for a second, visibly trying to reassemble the laws of the universe in her head. Then she smiled—the way a poker player with a good hand smiles when an opponent says 'all in'.
She walked toward him—no, glided.
Her eyes held a mix of surprise, boldness, and playful mischief.
"Seriously?" she said. "This? This is what I got dressed and made up for? To ride in this… this… what is it even called?"
She was barely holding back a grin.
"Bold. Are you really that confident?"
Den smiled and met her gaze.
"If you want, we can take the bus. Or I can call a taxi."
Yu-ra stepped closer, her voice low and teasing.
"And miss the chance to watch a handsome man wrestle with a car with no power steering and an ancient manual transmission? Not a chance."
She walked around the UAZ, trailing her fingers along the body as if leaving her mark on it, then stopped by the passenger door—waiting for Den to open it.
When she sat down and Den got in, Yu-ra asked right away.
"Just out of curiosity. Of all the cars you could have purchased, why this one?"
Den answered in an intentionally neutral tone:
"It has a unique feature that I like."
Yu-ra looked puzzled.
"Oh? And what might that be? Does this car actually have features?"
Den smiled, starting the engine of the UAZ.
"Only one. No sane girl gets into this thing unless she's really into the driver."
Yu-ra let out a soft, delighted laugh, clearly entertained by his bold joke.
22 March 2025, Saturday. Early evening. Dry cleaning service. Neighborhood near SNU's campus.
Mi-yeon stepped into the dry cleaner to pick up the dress she had spilled coffee on.
The owner recognized her immediately. He approached with a hanger, the dress wrapped in semi-transparent plastic. He bowed deeply before speaking.
"We truly apologize," he said carefully.
"We did everything we could, but there's still a faint mark near the collarbone. We're very sorry—we won't charge you."
Mi-yeon pressed her lips together. The last fragile hope she had been holding onto quietly collapsed inside her.
She bowed in return.
"It's all right," she said softly. "It's not your fault. Thank you for trying. Please let me pay. I'll feel bad if I don't."
The owner bowed again, even lower.
"Then we will give you a generous discount next time," he said earnestly. "We'll do better next time."
Mi-yeon paid, thanked him, and stepped outside.
The moment she reached the street, she lifted the plastic. The faint outline of the stain was still there.
On her favorite dress.
A gift from her parents. Expensive. Important. Something she had barely had the chance to wear—already ruined by her own carelessness.
Mi-yeon sank onto a nearby bench and began to cry, clutching the dress, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
A car passed by.
So-mi was sitting in the back seat. When she noticed Mi-yeon on the bench, shoulders shaking, she spoke calmly to the driver.
"Kim-gisa-nim. Stop the car."
The expensive sedan slowed and pulled over.
So-mi watched silently as Mi-yeon cried over the dress, struggling to calm herself.
So-mi frowned.
"Strange," she muttered. "She's acting like the world ended. It's just a ruined dress. I didn't think Mi-yeon was this materialistic."
The driver, assuming the comment was meant for him, answered without much emotion.
"Perhaps the item has personal value to her, agassi. It may be a keepsake. Or a gift from her parents."
So-mi pressed her lips together.
"Maybe."
She turned her gaze forward.
"Let's go, Kim-gisa-nim. I don't want her to spot me."
The car pulled away, but So-mi kept looking out the window.
If it's a gift from your mother … then I do feel bad for what happened.
Then, as if trying to justify herself, another thought followed quietly, deep inside So-mi.
I was going after Soo-yeong. But in war, collateral damage is unavoidable.
And almost immediately, harsher—more defensive:
At least you still have a mother. Unlike me. So stop crying.
22 March 2025, Saturday. Late evening. The Nexen Tire Speedway Festival, Yongin Speedway.
The festival was almost an hour's drive from Seoul. As they moved farther from the city lights, Yu-ra spoke, resting one elbow against the door, watching the road ahead.
"Street racing in Seoul is a hard 'no' now." she said.
"They cracked down after too many people got hurt."
Den nodded, eyes on the road.
"Hard to blame them," he replied calmly.
"For people, races are entertainment. For the police, they're accidents, bodies, paperwork, and memories they don't want."
Yu-ra glanced at him, approving.
"Exactly. That's why festivals like this exist. A compromise. You get fast cars, engines screaming, rubber burning—but without prison, fines, or getting expelled from university."
She continued, warming to the topic.
"Of course police and paramedics are always present. Everything's controlled. But aside from that…"
She smiled, eyes lighting up.
"…it's exactly what you imagine. Tuned cars. Beautiful girls. Confident guys. Loud music. And a lot of alcohol."
She tilted her head toward him.
"You'll like it."
Den smiled slightly.
"All right. I trust you."
Yu-ra lifted her hand and pointed ahead.
"Our turn's coming up. Take this exit."
Den steered the UAZ off the highway.
In the distance, clusters of lights shimmered against the darkness. The low, rhythmic pulse of music reached them through the night air, carried along with the distant roar of engines.
The festival had already begun.
Den drove slowly along the edge of the festival grounds, past rows of parked cars and clusters of people glowing under strings of industrial lights. Engines roared somewhere ahead, tires screamed against asphalt, and music pulsed low and heavy through the darkness.
He spotted an open space near the stretch of road the organizers were using as a racing strip and eased the UAZ into it. The engine rattled once, then fell silent.
For a moment, there was only the aftersound of motion—the ticking of hot metal cooling down, the quiet mechanical whisper of the car settling into rest.
Den stepped out, closed the door, and walked around the hood. He opened the passenger side and offered his hand.
Yu-ra took it without hesitation.
She stepped down lightly, heels touching the ground with practiced ease.
Their fingers stayed linked a second too long. Not performative. Just quiet confirmation of two people liking each other.
Still holding her hand, Den led her around the front of the UAZ, and gestured toward its hood.
"Get on the hood," he said quietly.
"You'll see the start and most of the straight from there."
Yu-ra looked around, impressed despite herself.
Den placed his hands at her waist and helped her climb onto the hood. The movement was confident but careful, as if he was used to making sure people didn't slip or fall.
She settled on the metal surface, crossing one leg over the other.
The night breeze caught her hair, lifting a few strands, and the neon lights of the track reflected in her eyes like scattered stars.
Den climbed up beside her.
Close. Intimate—but not invasive. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a small paper bag, opened it, and began cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth—one, then another.
The sound was almost absurdly calm against the backdrop of roaring engines and cheering crowds.
Yu-ra glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
Then she laughed softly.
"You know," she said, amused, "you're probably the only guy at these races eating sunflower seeds."
She tilted her head, studying him.
"I can't tell if that's dangerous… or strangely cute."
Den shrugged, unfazed, and tipped a few seeds into his palm. He held them out to her.
Yu-ra raised an eyebrow, then took a couple, copying his motion. She cracked one, then another, thoughtful.
"…There's something about it," she admitted, a small smile forming. "I kind of like it."
Ahead of them, engines revved louder, the crowd roared, and the night surged forward—but for a moment, sitting side by side on the hood of an old black UAZ, everything felt unexpectedly calm.
Another pair of cars rolled toward the starting line.
The crowd surged instantly—cheers, whistles, shouts cutting through the music. A silver Evo X hissed sharply, its blow-off valve snapping like a warning shot, while a black BMW M4 idled low and predatory, neon glowing beneath its sides like something alive.
Headlights from parked cars lining the strip blinked on and off, as if the machines themselves were applauding.
A flashy-looking girl stepped onto the track with the starting flags.
The timers on the board reset to zero.
Smoke. Engines. Adrenaline.
The air felt thick to breathe.
Den sat beside Yu-ra on the hood of the UAZ, the metal still warm beneath him, cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth. Every rev vibrated through his chest, deep and physical.
Yu-ra leaned back slightly, placing her palm on the hood behind her for support. Her back arched just a little—an unhurried, feline movement. She kept her eyes on the track, but her voice was for him.
"How," she said softly. "How do you do this?"
The engines howled higher.
She turned her face toward him and Den glanced at her.
"What exactly?" he asked.
At that moment, the Evo and the M4 launched.
Tires screamed. Smoke exploded outward. The roar hit like a wave, rattling bones and silencing thought.
Yu-ra laughed, wide and bright, eyes burning with excitement.
"This," she said again. "This right here."
She shook her head slightly, still smiling.
"I thought if we showed up here in your… tank… we'd be a joke the second we pulled in. That they'd laugh at me. And look at me now."
She gestured around with her chin.
"We're watching the race. Everyone's standing just to get a better view. And these guys—" she nodded toward nearby cars "—they won't even let girls lean against their precious paint."
She glanced down at the hood beneath her, then back at him.
"And here I am. Sitting on the tallest car like a queen on her throne."
She exhaled, amused and impressed all at once.
"I came here expecting mockery. And instead I feel nothing but jealous stares. It's always like this with you. How do you do that?"
She reached over and took a sunflower seed straight from his hand.
Waited.
Den met her gaze briefly, as if checking whether the question actually mattered.
Then he shrugged lightly, eyes returning to the track, and flicked another seed into his mouth.
"I don't do it on purpose," he said. "Natural charisma. Can't help it."
Yu-ra burst into laughter.
"Oh, great," she teased. "Cool and modest. Are you trying to make me fall for you?"
She said it playfully—but there was something alive, a little unsteady, behind her eyes.
"Tell me," she continued more softly, "is there anything you're bad at? Something that breaks the spell?"
Den turned back to her, smiling, and nodded.
"Yes. I'm a terrible cook. Absolutely awful. One bite of my food and you'd never look at me the same way again."
Yu-ra smiled—warm, gentle, unguarded.
She leaned in, resting her head against his shoulder, moving just a little closer.
"Then never cook for me," she said quietly.
They sat in silence side by side on the hood, watching the races, each in their own quiet turbulence.
Yu-ra's head still rested against Den's shoulder. She was relaxed—almost purring—comfortable in a way that felt natural, unforced, as if her body had decided before her mind that this was a safe place.
But a beautiful, happy woman sitting on the hood of an old UAZ, surrounded by an ocean of polished sports cars, was hard not to notice and impossible to ignore.
The crowd shifted, parting like water.
A man approached. One of the racing drivers.
Leather jacket. Low stance. A chain at his neck. The kind of confidence that came not from self-knowledge, but from never having been told no. Everyone here knew the type: for him, the track was a stage, and women were just part of the scenery.
His eyes lingered on Yu-ra first—slow, appraising. Den barely existed to him.
Then, finally, he spoke, voice casual, insolent, aimed straight at Den.
"Hey. Your girl's pretty," he said.
"Mind lending her to me for a minute? My photographer can take some great shots of her by my Skyline."
He jerked his chin toward a gleaming, heavily tuned car nearby.
Laughter rippled behind him.
Someone else went quiet.
The air changed.
Yu-ra stiffened. Her fingers tightened around Den's sleeve. She didn't speak—but the fire in her eyes promised she was one word away from tearing the man apart herself.
Den placed his hand over hers. A simple gesture. Grounding. Not permission—restraint.
He didn't change his posture.
Didn't stand. Didn't raise his voice.
Still sitting on the hood, calmly cracking a sunflower seed, he turned his head just enough to look at the man.
His voice was even. Cold.
Not threatening—but final.
"Did I give you any reason," he said, "to speak about her like she's an object?"
A pause.
"What makes you think you're in any position to lend her?"
Another beat.
"Get lost."
It wasn't a shout.
It was a statement of fact.
The crowd reacted with a low, instinctive murmur—not to the words themselves, but to how they were delivered. As if the man standing there simply did not exist in Den's world.
Yu-ra exhaled sharply.
A mix of shock and something dangerously close to awe washed over her face. The way he said it—so certain, so unbothered—like he truly had the right to draw that line.
Her eyes darkened. Deepened. Interested in a way that bordered on recklessness.
The racer finally looked properly at Den.
His smile vanished.
He stepped closer.
"Watch your mouth, tourist," he said.
"I was being polite. I could just take her. Or do you really think she'd choose your piece of junk over my car?"
Behind him, his friends cracked their knuckles.
But Den saw what mattered.
The hesitation. The flicker of his doubt.
The man hadn't expected resistance—especially not from someone sitting on an old SUV, eating sunflower seeds like he was on a village bench instead of at one of the biggest car events of the season.
Yu-ra slowly lifted her head from Den's shoulder. She leaned closer to his ear, her eyes never leaving the man in front of them.
"Oh…I am so not leaving your side now."
The crowd thickened. Phones came out. Conversations died mid-sentence.
The racer spat on the ground.
"Well?" he sneered.
"Hey Hero. Want me to say it again? Let her pose by a real car, or I'll just walk her away. What are you doing, hiding behind her skirt?"
He was trying to force Den to stand.
To step into his game.
To throw the first punch—so security would have an excuse to drag him out.
The moment balanced on a blade's edge.
And everyone was watching.
Den did not stand.
He didn't even shift his weight.
Still seated on the hood, still cracking sunflower seeds with lazy precision, Den tilted his head slightly and spoke as if continuing a casual conversation.
"That's your Skyline, right?"
A pause.
"Beautiful. Expensive. Must have cost a fortune."
The racer blinked.
He hadn't expected that.
For a split second, instinctively, he even turned his head—just a fraction—toward his car.
Den kept talking, tone unchanged, almost conversational.
"Touch my girl with even one finger," he said calmly.
"Mention her disrespectfully one more time.
Just give me a reason. Any reason. Try me."
Den leaned forward and lowered his voice, so only the driver and Yu-ra could hear him.
A small movement.
But the color drained from the man's face.
"And then," Den continued, "I'll start the engine… and pull a little closer to your beautiful, polished car."
The racer frowned, clearly not following yet.
Den added, lightly:
"I'm terrible at parking. It would be unfortunate if I accidentally clipped your pearl with the bumper of my ride."
He tapped the heavy metal bumper of the UAZ with the heel of his shoe.
A dull, unmistakable clang.
Steel. Not plastic.
The crowd exploded into a low, confused buzz.
"What is he saying to him?"
The racer snapped his head back toward Den.
In his eyes now—rage, yes. But also fear.
Because Den wasn't threatening fists.
He was threatening something far more sacred to men like him.
The car. The status. The image.
And both men knew the truth:
That old UAZ could carve deep scars into a pristine Skyline.
Yu-ra slowly tucked her hair behind her ear, watching Den as if she was seeing him for the first time. There was something openly dangerous in her gaze now—something that thrilled her.
Den finished quietly, like delivering a sentence.
"Insurance will cover it, of course," he said.
"But while it's in the shop, you'll be riding the bus."
He looked at the man directly.
"The photoshoot you're asking for will cost both of us time and money.
I'm fine with that.
Are you?"
The racer stood there.
A few long, tense seconds passed.
His nostrils flared. He wanted to shout. He wanted to swing.
He wanted to do something to regain control.
But his eyes flicked to Den's expression.
Then to the UAZ. Then—finally—to his Skyline.
And he did the only thing a man could do when he was unwilling to raise his bet.
He took a step back.
"…Your girl is too pricey."
His voice cracked.
He turned sharply, jerking his head at his crew.
"Let's go. This isn't worth it."
The crowd parted.
Someone let out a low, respectful whistle.
Yu-ra turned to Den slowly.
Very slowly.
Her voice was low, rough with heat.
"Den…"
She wet her lips.
"That was the hottest thing I've ever experienced."
She leaned closer.
"Take me home. Nothing else tonight is going to top that."
Her eyes shone.