UNKNOWN GUEST

#97 Officially A Nomad

I sighed, staring at my reflection in the small washroom mirror. Sunlight filtered through a narrow window, soft but persistent. I ran my hand over the beard—unkempt, rough—but it served its purpose, keeping me hidden. Shaving had become a luxury I couldn't afford.

How long had it been? Four weeks, 26 days since I'd moved out of Dr. Cho's apartment. In that time, I had already been to Japan twice.

Kobe was on my mind. Just last week, I found something unexpected at the port: SHIELD tech. A logo on a boat engine, worn but unmistakable. The realization made my heart race—was Hydra still operating somewhere nearby? It seemed unlikely, but I couldn't ignore the signs.

I stepped out of the washroom, shrugging on a jacket, securing the straps of my bag before I locked the door behind me. The dull thud of the lock echoed through the dimly lit corridor, and I took a moment to adjust my cap.

This building in East Seoul wasn't much—bare walls, flickering lights, faded paint—but it worked. Most of the tenants here were industrial laborers, quiet people just trying to get by, their lives grounded in the monotonous rhythm of hard work and survival.

I made my way to the stairs, glancing briefly down the corridor, as if someone might emerge from the shadows. But no one did. It was just me, moving through the silent hallways, heading down to the street. The air hit me as I stepped outside, warm with the faint buzz of city life waking up around me. The sidewalk beneath my feet felt familiar, comforting even in its worn-out cracks and uneven patches.

Walking toward the bus stop at the end of the street, I blended into the morning routine. People here didn't ask questions, and that was precisely what I needed.

Just behind the worn-down bus stop, a humble street-side fast food center sat quietly. The familiar aroma of sizzling meat and fresh oil wafted through the cool morning air, mingling with the scent of damp pavement from a light drizzle that had passed earlier. The city was still half-asleep, the sky a soft gray, and the only sounds were the occasional hum of early traffic and the faint clatter of pots from inside the shop.

I stepped inside, greeted by the warmth and the familiar sight of the small, modest counter and a few scattered tables. There weren't many people awake, let alone out and about, at this hour. Only the regulars, and today I seemed to be the first. The soft glow of a neon sign flickered weakly in the corner, casting a faint, bluish hue over the interior.

"Mr. Chul! Good morning," I called out as I approached the counter, waving to the owner behind the stove.

He was a stocky, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing his usual apron stained with remnants of the day's early fry-ups. His round glasses sat precariously on the bridge of his nose, which he adjusted the moment he heard my voice.

"Ehe! Good morning, Ben," he greeted back in his thick Korean accent, his voice gruff but warm. The clatter of his spatula against the grill paused as he turned to face me.

To them, I was just Ben—a name easier for the locals here to remember.

He wiped his hands on his apron and began to step out from the small kitchen behind the counter. "I'm leaving now," I said, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. I could still feel the slight chill from outside.

"Now? You think you'll get the subway this early?" he asked, his brow slightly furrowed as he approached me, his heavy footsteps echoing in the small space.

I nodded, the thought of the quiet subway platform flashing in my mind. "Yes. I found out about it last week," I replied, giving a half-smile.

Mr. Chul nodded in acknowledgment, his expression softening, though the tiredness was still evident in his eyes. He seemed to always carry that exhaustion in his gaze, from years of running this place almost single-handedly.

"Okhay," he responded, the 'r' in his accent rounding softly into an 'h'. He returned to the stove to finish up whatever he had been working on, but I could tell from the light in his eyes he wasn't fully awake yet either.

Just as I was about to leave, I noticed a small figure lingering at the entrance, her bright eyes peeking in through the door. Ji-seon, Mr. Chul's daughter, stood in the threshold, her face lighting up with recognition.

"Jiseon-a, annyeong!" I greeted, stepping closer to ruffle her neatly combed hair. She was wearing a cozy pink sweater, her small backpack slung over her shoulders, far too big for her tiny frame. She grinned at me, revealing her front tooth that hadn't quite come in yet.
(Ji-seon, hello!)*

"Annyeonghaseyo, samchon!" she chirped, her voice sweet and innocent as she bowed politely. Her cheeks flushed from the chilly air outside.
(Hello, uncle)*

"On-eul hag-gyo-e an-ga?" I asked, raising a brow, wondering why she wasn't already off to school.
(Don't you have school today?)*

She shook her head enthusiastically, her ponytail swishing back and forth. "Aniyo. On-eul-eun il-yoil-ieyo," she explained, reminding me it was Sunday—a day free from school. Her large eyes sparkled with the joy of having a day off.
(No. Today is Sunday.)*

I nodded in understanding. "Aah, okhay. Appa gwichanhge haji ma," I teased, giving her a playful look. Her father was notorious for spoiling her on his days off, though she never seemed to get into too much trouble.
(Okay. Don't trouble your dad.)*

Jiseon straightened up and nodded obediently. "Ne, samchon!" she replied with a firm nod, as though she was making a solemn promise.
(Yes, uncle.)*

I smiled, watching her for a moment longer before I finally turned back toward the door. The cold air greeted me again as I stepped out of the shop and onto the street, heading toward the bus stop where the bus would take me to the subway station. 

The bus rolled up to the stop with a familiar, gentle hum, its headlights cutting through the soft morning haze. It wasn't fancy or new, just one of those old buses you get used to after taking the same route for a while. The doors creaked open with a mechanical whirr, inviting me in.

I stepped up, the slight squeak of my sneakers on the rubber steps the only sound in the sleepy morning. Inside, it was quiet—almost peaceful. A few people were scattered around, either dozing off or scrolling through their phones, wrapped up in the calm routine of early hours. The bus had that lived-in feel, with faded seats and windows that were just foggy enough to give the world outside a soft blur.

I took my usual spot by the window, settling into the slightly cool seat, my jacket bunched around me like a second layer of comfort. The bus began to move, and the city slowly drifted past—buildings with their shutters still down, streetlights flickering as they were just about to give up for the day. The world was waking up, but not too fast. Just the way I liked it.

As we rolled past familiar streets, my thoughts drifted back to Mr. Chul and Ji-seon. It still felt strange, how things had unfolded. I wasn't supposed to get attached, but Mr. Chul had this warmth about him. When I moved out of Dr. Cho's place, he'd helped me find that shady apartment I now called home—not exactly five-star living, but it did the job.

Then he asked if I could cook. Could I cook? Well, not a chef by any means, but I'd fed myself well enough when Mom and Dad were off saving the world. So, I said yes. I'd cook at his small restaurant as "Ben," my new cover identity, and the rest was history.

He liked to call me "Ben Ten" as a joke. Not that I minded. The way he laughed every time he said it kind of grew on me. Plus, we had a good deal going—I could head back to Japan once a week, under the excuse of learning new cooking techniques, which Mr. Chul happily agreed to.

It was the perfect setup: I had a job that wasn't too boring, a boss who wasn't asking too many questions, and Ji-seon, his little girl, who had grown attached to me.

It was a risk, making connections. But sometimes, you just couldn't help it.

The bus turned a corner, and I leaned my head against the window, watching as the city slowly came to life. The light drizzle from earlier left a sheen on the streets, making them look like they were glistening under the soft glow of the rising sun.

People were beginning to stir—shop owners unlocking doors, the smell of early coffee brewing from corner cafés. The day seemed like...almost normal.