Annyeongz One-shots

69. Lost ( 2 )

The rain had stopped by the time Yujin got home, but the air still felt heavy and damp. He climbed the narrow stairwell of the old four-story walk-up in the quieter part of Gangnam—nothing fancy, just cracked paint on the walls and flickering hallway lights that smelled faintly of mold and old cooking oil. His apartment was on the top floor: one room, tiny kitchenette, bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. Rent was cheap, which was the only reason he could afford it alone.

He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and went straight to the small table where the bills sat in a neat, depressing stack. Electricity overdue by two weeks. Water notice. The landlord’s polite-but-firm reminder about next month’s rent. He rubbed the back of his neck, the cut on his cheek stinging under the bandage when he frowned.

He needed cash. Fast.

His phone buzzed—an old contact from the part-time electrician gig he picked up through a neighborhood bulletin board. “Urgent job tonight. Luxury house in Cheongdam-dong. Wiring and ceiling lamp replacement. Pays double if you can come now. Text yes/no.”

Yujin stared at the screen for five seconds.

Then typed: Yes.

He changed into his work clothes—faded black hoodie, cargo pants with pockets full of tools, worn sneakers—and grabbed his toolkit. The subway ride was long, crowded, and silent. He kept his hood up, headphones in but no music playing. Just noise to keep people from talking to him.

Cheongdam-dong was another world. Wide streets, manicured trees, houses behind high gates that looked more like small estates than homes. The address led him to a modern three-story villa—glass walls, sleek lines, security cameras blinking discreetly. He double-checked the number on his phone, then pressed the intercom buzzer.

A soft chime inside.

The door opened.

And there she was.

Wonyoung.

She was in casual home clothes—oversized white sweater slipping off one shoulder, soft gray shorts, hair loose and slightly damp like she’d just showered. No makeup, no perfect posture. Just her, barefoot on the marble foyer, eyes widening the second she recognized him.

“Yujin?”

He froze. For one stupid heartbeat, he forgot how to speak.

Then a deeper voice came from behind her.

“Who is it, Wonyoung-ah?”

Her father appeared in the hallway—tall, silver at the temples, wearing a crisp dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, the kind of man who looked like he owned half the buildings in Seoul. He glanced at Yujin, then at the toolkit in his hand.

“Ah, you must be the electrician,” he said pleasantly. “Come in, come in. We’ve been waiting.”

Yujin swallowed. “Yes, sir. Ahn Yujin. Assigned for the wiring and lamp repair.”

Wonyoung’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked between her father and Yujin like she was trying to solve a puzzle that didn’t have all the pieces.

Her father waved him inside. “Shoes off, please. The living room lamp started flickering this morning, but the main issue is in Wonyoung’s room—the ceiling fixture keeps shorting. She’s been using a desk lamp for two days now.”

Yujin nodded once, professional mask sliding into place. “Understood. I’ll take a look.”

He stepped inside, careful not to track anything on the spotless floor. The house smelled like expensive candles and clean laundry. Marble everywhere, abstract art on the walls, a grand piano in the corner that probably cost more than his entire apartment building.