The Investor

Chapter 6 – The Investor

Minseok arrived on a day when the café was almost peaceful.

That was how these things always happened.

The world waited for you to exhale before it reminded you it could still punch.

It was late morning, sunlight filtering in through the dusty windows, turning the air into something soft and golden. Yuna had put on a playlist she used to play during practice–quiet beats, gentle vocals, nothing that demanded attention.

Joonseo was behind the counter, measuring beans with a calmness he had earned through repetition. The apron no longer looked foreign on him. He tied it without thinking. He moved around the small space like he belonged.

Yuna emerged from upstairs carrying a small thermos, eyes still a little puffy from sleep.

“Mom’s okay,” she said, voice hoarse.

Joonseo looked up.

“Did you eat?”

Yuna rolled her eyes.

“You sound like a grandma.”

He didn’t smile.

Yuna sighed.

“…Yes,” she muttered. “A banana.”

Joonseo raised an eyebrow.

Yuna immediately added, “And rice.”

He let it pass.

It was a small victory.

She grabbed a towel and started wiping the same spot on the counter–out of habit, not panic–and the sight made him feel something unfamiliar.

Relief.

Like the café, for once, wasn’t sinking.

The bell above the door rang.

Both of them looked up.

A man stepped in wearing an expensive coat that didn’t belong on this quiet street.

He didn’t shake rain from his shoulders. He didn’t pause to take in the menu. He walked straight toward the counter as if the space had been built for him.

His hair was styled carefully. His shoes were polished. His scent–clean cologne, faint leather–filled the café more aggressively than the vanilla candle ever could.

Yuna went still.

Joonseo felt it immediately.

Not recognition.

Not surprise.

Something sharper.

A tightening.

The man smiled.

“Yuna-ssi.”

The way he said her name carried ownership.

Yuna’s fingers curled around the towel.

“…Minseok,” she replied.

The man removed his gloves slowly.

“As expected,” he said, glancing around. “Still charming. Still… you.”

Yuna’s jaw clenched.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Minseok’s smile widened.

“Straight to the point. I missed that.”

He looked past Yuna, eyes sweeping the café’s emptiness like he was assessing a failed investment.

Joonseo remained still behind the counter.

He didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Minseok’s gaze landed on him.

For the first time, the smile faltered–just a flicker.

“And who is this?” Minseok asked.

Yuna’s shoulders rose slightly.

“My part-timer,” she said.

The phrase sounded casual.

But her body language was protective.

Minseok’s smile returned, slower.

“Part-timer,” he repeated, tasting the word. Then he looked at Joonseo like he was looking at furniture. “You’re… new.”

Joonseo met his gaze calmly.

“Yes,” he said.

Minseok hummed.

“Good,” he said, as if deciding something. “Then you won’t mind giving us a moment.”

Yuna’s eyes sharpened.

“No,” she said.

Minseok blinked.

Yuna didn’t move.

“This is my café,” she said. “Say what you want here.”

Minseok smiled like she was being cute.

“As you wish.”

He pulled out the chair at the corner table–the one Joonseo always sat in–and sat down without asking.

Joonseo’s hand tightened around the portafilter.

Yuna’s eyes flashed.

But she followed him to the table, because avoiding him wouldn’t erase him.

Joonseo stayed behind the counter, pretending to clean.

But every muscle in him was awake.

Minseok clasped his hands on the table.

“I heard about the café,” he said.

Yuna didn’t react.

“From where?” she asked.

Minseok smiled.

“You’d be surprised how many people still talk about you,” he said. “Some with sympathy. Some with… interest.”

Yuna’s eyes narrowed.

Minseok leaned back.

“I’ll be honest,” he continued. “This place isn’t working.”

The words were blunt.

Like a knife.

Yuna’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she said.

Minseok’s smile didn’t change.

“I’m offering a solution,” he replied.

He reached into his coat and slid a sleek business card across the table.

The cardstock looked too expensive to touch.

Yuna stared at it without picking it up.

“I invest,” Minseok said. “Small businesses. Hospitality. Lifestyle. And–most importantly–brands.”

Yuna’s jaw clenched.

“I’m not a brand,” she said.

Minseok’s eyes softened theatrically.

“You’re being modest,” he murmured. “You were an idol, Yuna-ssi. That never disappears. People don’t forget faces like yours.”

Yuna’s laugh was quiet and sharp.

“They forgot fast,” she said.

Minseok leaned forward.

“They forgot the group,” he corrected. “Not you.”

Joonseo’s chest tightened.

He kept wiping the counter.

Same spot.

Same motion.

But the rag in his hand was too tight.

Minseok continued.

“This café could work,” he said, voice smooth. “But not like this. You need a concept. You need marketing. You need to lean into your story.”

Yuna’s eyes turned cold.

“My story?”

Minseok nodded.

“Ex-idol rebuilds her life. Small café. Second chance.” He smiled, as if pitching a drama. “People will eat it up.”

Yuna’s fingers trembled.

“So you want to… sell my failure,” she said.

Minseok chuckled.

“I want to reframe it,” he replied. “Failure is only ugly if you hide it. If you package it properly, it becomes inspiring.”

Yuna stood so abruptly her chair scraped the floor.

“No,” she said.

Minseok blinked.

Yuna’s voice sharpened.

“I said no,” she repeated. “I’m not letting anyone use me as a marketing gimmick.”

Minseok’s smile softened into something patronizing.

“Yuna-ssi,” he said, gently. “Pride doesn’t pay rent.”

The sentence hit the room like a slap.

Yuna’s face went pale.

Joonseo felt his vision narrow.

Minseok continued, tone still calm.

“You’re struggling,” he said. “Everyone knows. It’s only a matter of time before the landlord gets tired. Before the suppliers stop being patient. Before–”

“Stop,” Yuna snapped.

Minseok paused.

Then his gaze flicked toward Joonseo.

“Is he the reason you’re acting tough?” he asked. “A part-timer giving you confidence?”

Yuna’s eyes flashed.

“Don’t talk about him,” she said.

Minseok smiled.

“So he matters.”

Joonseo set the rag down.

The movement was quiet.

But it made both of them look up.

Joonseo stepped forward.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t posture.

He simply walked to the table and stopped beside Yuna, just close enough to signal something.

Presence.

Minseok looked up at him.

“Ah,” he murmured. “The part-timer speaks.”

Joonseo met his gaze evenly.

“She said no,” he said.

Minseok blinked, amused.

“And you are?”

Joonseo didn’t hesitate.

“Someone who listens,” he said.

Yuna’s breath hitched.

Minseok’s smile widened.

“How noble,” he said, dripping sarcasm. “Listen, kid. You can’t save a sinking ship by mopping the deck.”

Joonseo’s jaw tightened.

He knew the kind of man Minseok was.

The kind who didn’t see people.

Only leverage.

Minseok stood, smoothing his coat.

“I’ll give you time,” he said to Yuna, voice soft again. “Because I don’t want you to feel cornered. But you’re smart. You know I’m right.”

Yuna’s eyes burned.

Minseok reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope.

He placed it on the table.

“A sample,” he said. “A down payment. For supplies. Rent. Your mother’s medicine.”

Yuna froze.

Joonseo felt something dark tighten in his chest.

Minseok smiled at Yuna like he was already her savior.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “Just… think.”

Then he turned toward the door.

As he walked away, he added without looking back:

“Don’t let pride make you suffer.”

The bell rang.

The door closed.

The café’s warmth felt suddenly thin.

Yuna stared at the envelope.

Her hands were shaking.

Joonseo stood beside her, not touching, not speaking.

Because he could feel her fighting.

Pride.

Fear.

Anger.

Need.

All of it twisting together.

Finally, Yuna grabbed the envelope.

She didn’t open it.

She threw it into the trash.

The sound of paper hitting plastic was small.

But it felt like a thunderclap.

Joonseo’s chest tightened.

Yuna’s shoulders shook.

She exhaled, trembling.

“…I hate him,” she whispered.

Joonseo’s voice was gentle.

“You did good,” he said.

Yuna laughed bitterly.

“Did I?” she snapped. “Did I just throw away money my mom could use? Did I just throw away… survival?”

Joonseo swallowed.

“It wasn’t free,” he said quietly.

Yuna’s eyes flickered.

She looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

Joonseo held her gaze.

“He wasn’t offering help,” he said. “He was buying control.”

Yuna’s throat moved.

“…I know,” she whispered.

Her voice broke.

“But knowing doesn’t make the bills go away.”

The truth hung in the air.

Joonseo felt it in his bones.

Because he could make the bills go away.

He could.

With a single call.

With a single transfer.

But if he did, would she look at him like Minseok?

Would she see him as another rich man with strings?

Joonseo’s hands clenched.

He forced his voice steady.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said.

Yuna stared at him.

“Why are you saying we?” she asked.

Joonseo’s chest tightened.

Because he had already crossed a line.

He had already decided.

“I’m here,” he said simply.

Yuna’s eyes shimmered.

She looked away quickly, wiping at her face like she was angry at her own tears.

“I don’t need saving,” she muttered.

Joonseo’s voice softened.

“I know,” he said. “I’m not trying to save you.”

Yuna’s breath hitched.

“Then what are you trying to do?” she whispered.

Joonseo swallowed.

He looked around the empty café.

The chipped sign.

The wobbling chairs.

The warm lights.

The vanilla candle.

He looked at her.

Tired.

Brave.

Holding her world up with shaking hands.

He chose the truth he could survive.

“I’m trying to stay,” he said.

The silence that followed was loud.

Yuna stared at him.

Her mouth trembled.

Then she looked down.

“…Don’t,” she whispered.

Joonseo blinked.

“Don’t what?”

Yuna’s voice cracked.

“Don’t say things that make me believe in them,” she said.

Joonseo’s chest tightened.

He stepped back half a step.

Not retreat.

Respect.

“I won’t,” he murmured.

Yuna inhaled shakily.

Then, after a long moment, she nodded once.

Small.

Fragile.

Like she was accepting something without admitting it.

Joonseo picked up the rag again.

He wiped the counter.

Same spot.

Same motion.

Because routines were safer than feelings.

But as he cleaned, his mind was already moving.

Minseok wasn’t done.

A man like that didn’t walk away from something he thought he could own.

And Joonseo–

the billionaire hiding behind a plain hoodie–

was going to have to decide what kind of power he was willing to use.

Not to win.

But to protect.

That night, after Yuna went upstairs, Joonseo stood alone in Second Verse.

He looked at the trash can.

The envelope sat inside.

Unopened.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he reached down and pulled it out.

Not to use it.

To destroy it.

He tore it in half.

Then into quarters.

Then into pieces too small to mean anything.

He threw them away.

Then he took out the trash.

Outside, the air was cold.

The streetlights flickered.

He stood there with the bag in his hand and breathed.

The city didn’t know who he was.

Yuna didn’t know who he was.

And Minseok didn’t know what he’d just stepped into.

Joonseo looked up at the dark sky.

A thought settled in him–quiet, steady.

If Minseok wanted a fight, he could have it.

But Joonseo wouldn’t fight like a billionaire.

Not with money.

Not with public humiliation.

Not with crushing power.

He would fight the way Yuna fought.

With dignity.

With patience.

With stubbornness.

And with one simple promise he didn’t say out loud.

You’re not alone.