writeplai
The neon lights of Myeong-dong blurred into streaks of electric pink and cyan as Min-ho ducked into the alleyway. He wasn't a runner, but tonight, his lungs burned like he'd swallowed embers. Behind him, the rhythmic clack-clack of polished oxfords echoed against the brick-a sound too heavy for a simple misunderstanding.
It started at the Café de Oul. A woman in a trench coat had slid a velvet box across the table, whispered, "The Director is pleased," and vanished before he could say he was just waiting for a latte. Now, Min-ho was being hunted through the labyrinth of Seoul by men who didn't care about his name.
He skidded around a corner, colliding with a man who looked like his own reflection in a cracked mirror. Same height, same sharp jawline, same obsidian-black coat. The stranger didn't flinch. He grabbed Min-ho's collar, his eyes cold and knowing.
"You have it," the double hissed.
"I'm just a graphic designer!" Min-ho gasped, fumbling for the box.
The stranger snatched the velvet casing just as the pursuers rounded the bend. In a flash of terrifying grace, the double stepped into the light, intentionally revealing his face to the gunmen.
"Wrong guy," the double mouthed to Min-ho, then sprinted toward the rooftops, drawing the hunters away like a moth leading a flame.
Min-ho collapsed against a dumpster, shaking. He realized then that he wasn't the victim of a mistake; he was the decoy. The real Director hadn't chosen him by accident. In the world of shadows, looking like the right person is the only currency that matters-and the most dangerous debt to owe.
He walked out of the alley, a ghost in a city of millions, wondering whose life he was living now.