Salju Pertama di Incheon

If I wanted to survive I had to do it again… To keep the gnawing emptiness at bay, to find a sliver of warmth in the perpetual chill of the alleyways, I had to be fast, invisible, and utterly ruthless. The memory of my last meal—a stale crust shared with a stray cat—was a sharp goad in my side. Today, I wouldn't eat crumbs; I'd eat well.

So when my tired eyes spot a rich-looking man from behind with his wallet sticking out of his expensive coat, I took a chance. He looked like the kind of person who wouldn't notice a missing wallet until he was comfortably settled in a high-backed chair, ordering a vintage brandy. Perfect. I slipped from the shadows like a ghost, my practiced movements silent and quick. My fingers brushed the buttery leather of the coat, a texture miles removed from the threadbare rags I wore, and closed them around the thick wallet. Success. I began to retreat and melt back into the crowd heartbeat away from freedom when...

Just as I felt the asphalt of the alley under my worn boots, a massive hand clamped around my wrist, not painfully, but with an absolute authority that stopped me dead. A deep, resonant voice, like distant thunder, rumbled right next to my ear.

"Don't fight, little one, I won't harm you!" he whispered, while grazing the shell of my ear, with his hot breath and warm lips. The unexpected intimacy, the sheer proximity of this stranger, sent a sudden unfamiliar sensation rolling down my body, settling low in my belly—a dizzying mix of fear and something akin to a startling jolt of electricity. He smelled expensive, like aged leather and pipe smoke, a scent that spoke of warmth and security, things I knew only in dreams.

With my hand still clutched around his expensive-looking wallet, I looked through my eyelashes at the giant man in front of me. He wasn't merely tall; he was an imposing fortress of a man, clad in tailored black wool that seemed to absorb the weak street light. His face, shadowed by the brim of a hat, was a puzzle of sharp angles and a tightly controlled expression. Yet, his eyes—when he lowered his head—were piercing, the color of dark night sky and held a surprising, almost gentle quality that contradicted his size and the predicament I was in.

His warm hand—easily twice the size of mine—still encircled my wrist, a gentle but unbreakable manacle, as he stared down at me. In that moment, the noisy bustle of the street faded. The world shrank until it was just him and me, locked in an absurd tableau: the seasoned pickpocket caught by her towering mark.

"Can I have my hand and my wallet back now, little one?" He husked next, his voice softening just a fraction. The low tone vibrated in the air between us, making me swallow hard, a dry, nervous gulp, as his unwavering eyes pinned me down on the spot. I could run, perhaps, if I dropped the wallet and bit his hand, but the thought felt exhausting and pointless under his gaze. The truth was stark and undeniable.

God, I was doomed! But somehow, as his thumb slowly traced the sensitive pulse point on my wrist, the doom felt less like a guillotine blade and more like a precipice, a terrifying drop into an unknown, perhaps even richer, fate. Who was this man? And why wasn't he shouting for the police?