His Name Was Jinu

She didn’t ask his name the first time.

She didn’t need to.

She wasn’t curious, not in the usual way — not like the others who asked for followers, stage names, blood types. She wasn’t interested in what his Spotify wrapped looked like or which dorm room he slept in.

What caught her was the silence he carried.

Like it was stitched into his hoodie.

Like it followed him the way perfume followed idols.

But heavier. Older.

She saw him again two days after the push — not in the hallway, not under stage lights, but in the mission briefing room that wasn’t called that on paper.

Officially, it was “Vocal Warm-Up Studio 2C.”

Unofficially, it was the place where backup dancers learned how to draw sealing sigils with their feet, where stylists whispered incantations into glitter gels, and where the company’s real work got done — behind locked doors and sweet-smelling lies.

...----------------...

She stepped into the room, still tying her jacket, half-listening to the team leader talk about “low-level disturbances during fan sign transit,” when she noticed the hoodie again.

But not a hoodie this time.

Just a black t-shirt stretched clean across a lean back, the ridge of a shoulder blade visible where the fabric clung too tightly, the edge of his jaw defined in the flickering blue light of the projection wall.

He was seated apart from the others, one leg propped up on a folding chair, bandage still visible through torn jeans. He didn’t look injured. He looked like someone who’d forgotten pain existed.

She stood by the door longer than necessary.

Something in her stomach turned, slow and metallic — not nerves, not recognition — something more dangerous.

She knew that kind of silence.

She’d worn it once.

Still did, some days.

The meeting began. Someone mentioned recon reports from Incheon. Another spoke about music video locations and protective barriers disguised as LED rigs. None of it mattered. None of it stuck.

Because he hadn’t looked at her.

Not once.

And still, she felt it —

That pull.

...----------------...

His name was written on the mission board. Just once, in cold letters and thin marker strokes, under “Logistics & Shield Technician.”

Kang Jin-u.

Not a code name. Not a borrowed alias.

Jinu.

She stared at the letters longer than she should have, letting them echo in her head like a lyric that hadn’t dropped yet.

He didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did, and chose not to react.

Either way, it made her furious.

...----------------...

After the meeting, she caught up to him — not because she meant to, but because her feet moved before she had time to think. He moved fast for someone still recovering from a demon wound. He didn’t limp. He didn’t pretend to be invincible either. He just walked like someone used to moving through danger and not waiting to see who followed.

“Hey,” she called, sharp, from behind.

Her voice cut through the hallway like a blade unsheathed.

He turned.

Slow. Unbothered. Eyes unreadable.

They stood five feet apart, in the dull glow of the vending machine’s fake “Happy Snacking!” light.

“About the other day,” she started — but didn’t finish.

He raised one brow. “You still mad about the juice?”

No apology. No smirk. Just that flat voice again, like she was the one making something out of nothing.

She didn’t flinch. “You pushed me.”

“You walked into me.”

“You weren’t looking.”

“You were.”

He crossed his arms, and something in her breath hitched before she could stop it — not because of the movement itself, but because of the way he tilted his head slightly when he looked at her, as if examining something not entirely unpleasant, but not quite safe either.

“I didn’t know you were on the team,” she said.

He shrugged. “Didn’t know you were more than a mic stand.”

That one stung.

Not because it was cruel.

Because it was true.

...----------------...

Silence stretched between them, electric and strangely clean.

For the first time in too long, she didn’t know what to say next — didn’t know how to end the moment without retreat or violence.

He leaned forward slightly, enough to make her instincts spike, but he didn’t touch her. Just said, low and not unkind:

“You fight like someone who’s tired of being alive.”

She stared.

The line sank.