Seoul, South Korea – 9:47 PM

Rain slicked the night streets of Seoul, the city alive with its late-night pulse—neon signs bleeding pink, purple, red, and electric blue onto puddled sidewalks like liquid confetti. The drizzle tapped gently against lecture hall windows, almost rhythmic. Almost hypnotic.

Zina didn't care. She was halfway through her escape ritual.

Her laptop was already closed, her notes shoved carelessly into her waterproof backpack, and her fingers drummed against the desk in impatient staccato. Class was over, technically, but the professor was still ranting about data encryption protocols like someone was going to kidnap his hard drive.

She glanced at the clock. 9:47 PM.

Good. Hana's class would still be running another twenty.

Time for ramen and soda pop, she thought.

She slipped out of the back row of the computer science lecture hall, ignoring the two dudes trying to whisper about her under their breath.

Probably talking about how "that hacker chick always looks like a walking Sanrio ad." Let them talk. Let them choke on her success later.

Outside, the rain greeted her with a soft hiss. The world was painted in neon now, and Zina? She matched it perfectly.

Wrapped in a bubble-pink raincoat, black boots splashing into puddles, and her short legs swinging with purpose, she strutted over to where her electric motorbike waited—sleek, custom-built by her own two hands. Matte black with neon pink decals, and one bold word painted across the side:

HALO.

She called it Bubbleburner.

With a hum and a flicker of LED lights, the bike powered up at her touch. Her smart watch buzzed, and her earpiece crackled with Hana's voice before she could even put her helmet on.

"You've been ignoring my calls for ten minutes," Hana whined. "Where are you?"

"I'm escaping before Professor Cho locks me in as a lab rat. What do you want?"

"Flour!" Hana chirped. Her end was loud—background noise of lectures, classmates laughing, probably someone snacking.

"Flour? For what?"

"We're baking for that charity event tomorrow, remember?"

Zina rolled her eyes and yanked on her helmet. "We? You mean you. I don't remember agreeing to any of that."

"Oh hush. It's good for you. You need to get outside, touch grass, breathe air that's not circulating through a hard drive."

"I pay our rent with those hard drives," she muttered, swinging her leg over the seat.

"And I bake the brownies that keep us emotionally alive. Now be a doll and grab flour, almond milk, and rainbow sprinkles. Pretty please."

Zina groaned as she revved the engine. "I hate you."

"You love me."

"Unfortunately."

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Zina pulled up to the nearest convenience store she could find, parking Bubbleburner with a dramatic lean beside a bunch of bland, corporate city bikes.

She left the engine humming. No one could touch it—not unless they wanted to be electrocuted and publicly shamed on the darknet. Biometric-locked, bitch.

Rain still fell in thin, silver threads as she walked in. The overhead chime dinged softly—too soft, almost guilty, like it knew it was interrupting her vengeance-fueled ramen mission.

She grabbed a basket and went aisle diving.

One bag of flour.

One carton of almond milk.

A pack of rainbow sprinkles that looked offensively cheerful.

Then, she paused.

There it was.

The last bottle of Cherry Vanilla Soda Pop, tucked at the back of the refrigerated shelf like a secret meant just for her. She reached for it like it was the Holy Grail.

"Hello, lover," she whispered.

As she approached the register, the cashier barely lifted his eyes. He scanned each item with the speed of a tired soul who hated capitalism but needed rent money.

Zina pulled out her masked card—an untraceable, black holo-chip with no name, just a shimmering crescent sigil on the front. She held it up. The scanner beeped. Payment accepted.

"Have a good night," the cashier said in a voice devoid of life.

"You too," Zina chirped, too peppy for 10PM and armed with sugar.

She walked out, paper bag hugged to her chest like a baby, slid her helmet back on, and climbed onto Bubbleburner with a purr of satisfaction.

Then her watch buzzed.

She glanced down.

Transaction Complete: ₩12,000,000.

Her lips curled into a slow, delicious grin.

"Jackpot."

The apartment lights greeted her with a soft hum, motion sensors flickering on pinks and whites across her high-security loft. The place was a warzone of mismatched tastes—Hana's calm mint-blue minimalism clashing against Zina's wild pink-and-black chaos.

One side of the living room looked like a Pinterest board: pastel mugs lined up, succulents in handmade ceramic pots, a quote board that read "Simplicity is Bliss." The other half? Neon signage that said "404: Feelings Not Found," game cartridges stacked like ancient scrolls, and plushies in devil horns lounging across a black leather beanbag.

The kitchen was shared neutral ground—sleek, modern, metallic—but even there, the pink skull-shaped cookie jar beside a tray of herbal teas screamed of their split personalities.

Zina beelined for the counter and dumped the baking ingredients carelessly, the flour bag bouncing with a dusty sigh. She twisted open a cherry vanilla soda pop, the hiss of carbonation music to her ears, and took a long sip before grabbing the preheated kettle. The metallic thermos sat under a 'Ramen is Love' sticker, faithfully keeping her water scalding hot.

She poured it into her bowl, dropped the noodles like a soldier deploying a mission, tore the packet with the skill of a hacker disarming malware, and padded barefoot down the hallway.

Her room lit up as soon as she stepped in.

Pink LED strips curved around her ceiling, casting soft magenta hues over walls plastered in vintage hacker posters, K-pop memes, and blueprints of drones and mechanical designs. Byte's charging pod glowed faintly by the bookshelf. He blinked awake, robotic eyes flickering to life with a sharp whirr, and trotted over to greet her.

Stuffed animals cluttered her shelves and bed—some pristine, others worn out from years of comfort. A giant pink whale she called "Commander Blush," a stitched-together plushie shaped like a bug-eyed frog in a hoodie named "Kroak," and in the center of her bed...

Tiko.Old. Faded. A small raccoon plushie with a chewed ear. The first toy a boy ever gave her.

She didn't notice it now.

"Hey, demon," she muttered, ruffling Byte's head. "Guess who just got paid?"

Byte meowed once, judgmental.

She snickered, then collapsed into her curved pink gaming chair, the seat hissing slightly under her as she dropped the ramen and soda pop on her desk like a shrine. Her fingers danced on the laptop.

A black screen blinked. Then loaded.

Numbers. Transfer logs. Confirmation stamps. ₩12,000,000. Neat. Secure. Untouchable.

Zina leaned back, noodles steaming beside her. "Alright," she purred. "Cold, hard cash for a quick snatch. I couldn't be more—"

The screen flickered.

A red box bloomed like blood across the UI.

SECURITY BREACH DETECTED.

Zina's eyes narrowed. Her lips twitched.

"Ohhh… cute."

She cracked her knuckles and leaned in.

This wasn't her first break-in attempt.

She wrote the encryption that her clients paid millions for. No one got in. Not without her consent.

Fingers flew. Protocols engaged. Firewall reset. Signal trace rerouted. Lockdown re-established.

She leaned back in her seat, smug as hell.

"Threat neutralized."

Byte jumped onto her lap, curling into a warm ball of vibrating tech. She stroked his back, lifted her chopsticks, and lifted a steaming bite of ramen to her lips—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Her body stiffened.

Byte sprang off her lap in a hiss of metallic fury. His ears twitched wildly.

The screen glitched. Then stabilized. And another message pulsed in blood-red across her desktop:

UNIDENTIFIED HEAT SIGNATURE DETECTED.

Location: BEDROOM DOOR.

Zina's stomach bottomed out.

Her blood ran cold.

She reached forward, hands shaking, and flipped through her internal camera feeds.

There it was.

A figure.

Tall. Still. Cloaked in shadow.

Standing right. Outside. Her. Door.

Her breath hitched.

"No… No one gets through that door..."

Not unless they slipped through during the 17.3 seconds the breach was open.

And even that was near-impossible.

Her heart thundered. Her body reacted before her brain caught up.

She reached under her desk, flipping a latch hidden beneath her gaming table, and pulled out a yoyo—black, glossy, wrapped with razor-thin iron wire. Custom-forged. Deadly.

Byte snarled.

The door creaked.

Zina took a step back, eyes locked, chest rising fast.

The door exploded inward.

The door exploded inward with a precise kick. Shards of wood skittered across the polished black floor tiles, skidding to a stop against her fuzzy pink rug. He moved in with silent efficiency, scanning the dim room tinted in electric pink. Neon strips blinked along the ceiling. Plush toys lined shelves. A cherry-vanilla scent thickened the air, sickly sweet.

Zina didn't scream. She never screamed.

Instead, she ducked low, rolled to her right, and whipped her yo-yo in a wide arc. The iron-thread snapped out with a deadly hiss, slicing the air inches from the intruder's face.

He dodged effortlessly.

His target was fast.

A flicker of movement to his left—she lunged, brandishing a yo-yo that gleamed under the lights, its wire slicing towards his cheek again. He tilted his head just enough to feel it whip past, air curling with metallic bite.

She flicked her wrist, retracting the yo-yo with a sharp zip, and lunged forward, jabbing the blunt end towards his throat.

He caught the next strike easily. His grip was strong—too strong. Her eyes widened as he twisted her wrist and sent her flying into a shelf of stuffed animals. The pink whale, commander blush, tumbled onto her head with a pathetic squeak....

She didn't scream. He admired that. Most targets screamed when they saw him.

She scrambled up and attacked again, knee darting for his ribs. He sidestepped, grabbed her hood, and slammed her down into her gaming chair. The wheels rolled back, crashing against the desk with a sharp clang. Her bowl of ramen toppled, broth spilling across black floor tiles like steaming blood.

She tore free from his grip, spinning with feline agility. Her pink hair fell over her eyes in wild curls, and she raised the yo-yo again in a familiar stance, her chest heaving with adrenaline.

He froze.

Time… stopped.

That stance. Those defiant red eyes. And most importantly, that familiar faint scar under her chin....

His heart thudded hard. No. No, it couldn't be. What where the possibilities?

His gaze flicked around the room, hunting for confirmation. Soda pop bottles lined the shelves. Cherry vanilla. Half-finished cans stacked on the windowsill. His eyes moved to her bed and there, sitting on her neatly made bed, was a small familiar raccoon plushie.

HIS raccoon plushie.

Tiko.

There were dozens of plushies like that, but this one was distinct. Right from the signatures he'd scribbled on the cream stomach part and the half ears.... He has only ever given it to one person.

He exhaled shakily, chest tightening beneath his tactical vest.

She watched him like a cornered animal, hair half-shadowed under the neon glow, yo-yo trembling in her grip. Tall. Broad shoulders. Long cornrows of blonde hair tied back neatly, stray braids decorated with silver rings that glinted under her LED lights. Gold eyes glowed faintly in the dark, and his dark honey-brown skin was inked with tattoos curling up his neck and under his jawline.

He wore all black—combat pants tucked into heavy boots, a tactical vest hugging his torso like a second skin. Over his chest, peeking from the loose collar of his shirt, was a small tattoo of a soda pop bottle with a cherry blossom wrapping around it.

Her legs were widened into an acrobat stance, defensive yet graceful. He remembered that stance. She invented it when they were kids, learning flips from her circus-performer mother. There was no doubt. From the soda pop addiction addiction, to the plushie, to the swift moves and then the scar...

His mission data flickered in his memory: Target – Code name: Soda Pop. Age: 18. Hacker. Location: Seoul, South Korea.

But the file hadn't said her name.

He spoke it anyway. He swallowed, throat burning as her name formed silently behind his lips. "Neve....." He called, unsure. Hoping that she would answer....

Her eyes widened. The yo-yo slackened in her grip as she faltered in her defense a bit. Her lips trembled as she scrunched her face into a warning glare "...How do you know that name?" she growled

Malik's pulse roared like bloodthirsty war drums. He reached up, pulling his comm piece out of his ear, letting it dangle at his collarbone." You're Neve?..."

Her heart raced. " Who the fuck are you and how do you know that name!"

His voice felt like glass scraping his throat as he said, " Halo....Neve, does that ring a bell?"

He watched her knees buckle. Her defiance shattered into something soft and trembling. Her grip on the yoyo slackened and lips trembled. Halo! The same name she buried. The same name she imprinted on her electric bike. The same name she mourned everyday." Whoever you think you are, this is not funny."

" Neve..." He took a step forward but she took one step back bringing her yoyo into a defensive position again. He raised his hand in surrender style." Neve it's me....Malik."

She shook her head, tears brimming and falling down her cheeks. "No… no, you… you died… They said you all died… Malik… you… you died—"

"Fuck, I didn't.....I" He turned his back to her slightly, pulling down his tactical collar to reveal the mark at the base of his neck. The birthmark—a broken halo, charred into his skin.

Her sob cracked through him like a blade. The dam was broken.

He turned back. Her yo-yo slipped from her fingers, clacking onto the floor as she whispered, " Malik? But how....how's that possible? How the fuck are you not dead!? And why didn't you come back for me! I thought you were dead for six years!"

His eyes blurred for half a second. He blinked it away. An assassin never cried on a mission." Neve...."

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Six Years Ago. South Korea, Boseong.

The room smelled like cherry soda pop and vanilla hair cream. Afternoon sunlight spilled through thin curtains, painting soft gold stripes on the lemon-yellow walls. Outside, sparrows chirped in the budding cherry blossom tree just below her window, their tiny wings fluttering with joy.

Zina lay sprawled on her bed, her snow white hair spread around her like cotton. She giggled as she poked Malik's cheek with her pencil eraser. "You're supposed to be helping, not falling asleep."

"I am helping," Malik mumbled, eyes half-closed, his long lashes brushing his dark honey-brown cheeks. "I'm your moral support."

She scowled at him dramatically, sticking her tongue out. He cracked a sleepy grin.

Between them lay her sketchbook, open to a page covered in messy doodles of soda bottles with smiling faces. Beside it stood two cold cans of cherry vanilla soda pop, condensation dripping onto the blanket.

Zina reached for her can and took a long sip, the sweetness bubbling in her mouth. "You're leaving tomorrow," she said quietly, eyes staring into the fizzy liquid.

He stiffened. She felt it. He sat up properly, shifting on her bed. His cornrows brushed his shoulders, stray braids jingling with silver beads. He looked down at her, gold eyes catching the sun's glow. For a moment, he didn't look fifteen. He looked older, sadder.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Dad got the Brazil job. Better pay. Better… everything."

"But not better for me," she muttered. Her voice cracked. She wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, smudging pink glitter eyeshadow across her pale cheek.

Malik chuckled softly, though it sounded forced. He reached out, plucking a stray cherry blossom petal from her hair, his fingers brushing her scalp gently. She shivered. Her stomach did a little flip.

He blushed—he actually blushed. His gold eyes darted away as he dropped the petal onto her blanket. "You got flowers growing in your head now?"

"Shut up," she whispered, smiling wetly.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The sparrows outside chirped louder, like the world was trying to fill the silence between their pounding hearts.

Finally, Malik reached into his backpack beside him on the bed and pulled out a small stuffed raccoon. Tiko. Its half-torn ear was stitched with pink thread, and the cream-colored belly bore his messy signature in black marker.

"I want you to keep him," he said, pressing it into her arms. His hands were shaking.

Her tears fell freely then. She clutched Tiko to her chest, burying her face in his soft fur. "I don't want you to go."

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. A soft, trembling kiss that tasted like soda pop and salt tears. "I'll come back for you," he whispered.

The kitchen smelled of eggs and chocolate powder. Zina was humming under her breath, whisking batter in a plastic bowl, still wearing her pink pajamas. The morning cartoons played faintly in the living room.

She heard it then. The sharp intake of breath. The quiet sob. The silence that fell like a guillotine.

She frowned, leaving her whisk on the counter, and walked barefoot to the living room.

Her parents sat frozen on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. Her mother's hands were pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her father was shaking his head, muttering prayers under his breath.

"Mom? Dad? What happened?" Zina asked, confusion prickling her chest like needles.

They didn't answer. Her father turned slowly, eyes red-rimmed as he crouched down before her, taking her small hands in his trembling ones.

"Zina… baby… there was… an accident."

Her stomach dropped. The cartoon voices behind her felt distant, unreal. "What… accident?"

Her eyes darted to the TV screen. Breaking News banners scrolled across. An image of a smoking plane wreckage on a forested mountainside. Headlines screaming:

"Flight 258 – No Survivors Confirmed."

Her father's voice was trembling. "Zina… it was Malik's family plane. I'm so sorry, baby… I'm so sorry."

"No." Her voice was flat. Hollow. "No. Don't tell me that."

"Zina—"

"NO!!" she screamed, ripping her hands away from him. Her vision blurred with tears as she stumbled back. "YOU'RE LYING! HE PROMISED HE'D COME BACK!"

Her mother sobbed harder, curling into her father's chest as he reached out to her.

But Zina ran. She ran to her room, slamming the door shut with trembling hands. She collapsed onto her bed, clutching Tiko to her chest, sobbing until her throat burned and her ribs ached. The smell of cherry vanilla soda pop lingered in her hair and on her lips.

Outside, the birds chirped and the sun shone golden. But her world had ended.

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They stood there for a long time, just staring at each other.

Malik felt something warm crawl up his throat as he drank her in. Zina. His Neve. But not the girl he remembered. This woman before him—she was sharper, brighter, and harder around the edges, like a glitter-coated blade.

Her once snow-white hair was now bubblegum pink, curling wildly down her back in candyfloss waves. Her red eyes, once innocent and round with childish wonder, now burned like molten rubies. Eyes of someone who had seen too much darkness and swallowed it whole to survive.

She was small—still short compared to him—but her body had changed. She had grown into herself beautifully, curves soft and feminine but underlined by toned slenderness, built from years of acrobatics and running from shadows in her mind. She shrugged off her damp raincoat, letting it fall to the floor with a wet slap. Underneath she wore tight black shorts and a hugging t-shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal pale arms littered with tiny strawberry-shaped stickers. On her legs, mismatched striped thigh-high socks—one pink-and-black stripe up to her thighs, the other only to her knees.

She ran a trembling hand through her hair, raking it out of her eyes, before sinking onto her bed with a silent exhale. Byte meowed worriedly at her feet, but she didn't notice.

Finally, she lifted her gaze to him, eyes narrowing with cold skepticism.

"If you really are Malik," she said softly, her voice like broken glass wrapped in velvet, "what's my favorite soda pop flavor?"

He blinked, startled at the question. "Cherry vanilla," he answered immediately.

She scoffed. "Anyone could guess that. It's all over my room."

A sad sigh escaped his chest. He dropped his head slightly, shadows hiding his eyes as memories flickered behind them.

"You hate physics but love coding," he began quietly. "You collect neon hair clips but never wear them outside. You bite your nails when you're thinking, even if they're painted. You sleep with one leg out of the blanket because you said the monster under your bed would get hot if you covered both. You…you name everything after food. Your favorite stuffed toy is Tiko because you said he looked like chocolate cream and you wanted to eat him."

Her breath hitched. Tears welled in her eyes. His voice cracked as he whispered, "It's me, Neve. I'm alive."

But her tears turned into rage. She stood up so fast Byte scrambled away in fear.

"Alive?" she yelled, pointing a trembling finger at him. "You died in a plane crash! They said it fell in the sea! You couldn't have survived that. You…you couldn't have!"

He swallowed hard, forcing down the tremor in his voice. "I did," he rasped. "I was trapped in an airtight luggage compartment. For a week. Until divers found me. They belonged to…to the family I work for now."

"Family?" she spat. "What family?"

"Assassins," he whispered. "They…they were supposed to kill a client on that plane. They took me instead. Raised me. Trained me. I didn't… I didn't have a choice."

Her chest heaved as tears spilled down her cheeks in hot rivers. "Why didn't you come back?" she croaked. "Why didn't you look for me?"

He closed his eyes, pain etched into every line of his face. "Four years, Neve. Four years in solitude, training. I was twenty by the time they let me out. I didn't know how to come back to you. I didn't know what to expect. I thought…maybe you'd moved on. Maybe you'd be safer without me. Especially now that I'm…who I am."

She laughed bitterly, a sound so broken it carved a hole in his chest. "Bullshit. I was your family. Or did you forget your promise to come back for me? For years I mourned you! Oh my god—I fucking pay your grave fee every three months! I deliver flowers every Saturday! I went through therapy! I had to teach myself how to wake up every morning without wanting to die because you were gone! How could you do this to me?"

He took a shaky step forward. "Neve—calm down—"

"Don't you DARE tell me to calm down!" she screamed, grabbing the closest thing—her soda can—and throwing it at him. It clanged against his shoulder and fell to the floor, spraying fizz everywhere. She grabbed another, but before she could hurl it, he closed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against his chest.

She struggled violently, fists pounding at his chest, screams muffled by sobs. But he didn't let go. He held her tighter, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar cherry vanilla scent. His arms were iron bars, his warmth like a hearth she had been cold from for too long.

Finally, her screams dissolved into broken sobs. Her knees buckled and he held her weight effortlessly as she pressed her face into his chest, tears soaking his tactical vest.

He stroked her hair, gently patting down the frizzy curls. His voice shook as he murmured, "You changed so much…your hair…pink now. You're not my little sunshine girl anymore… you're an anime yandere hacker now."

She stiffened and pulled back, glaring at him with watery eyes. "Is that supposed to be an insult?"

His lips twitched with a sad smile. "No. It's just…different."

She sniffled, wiping her nose with her wrist. "You changed too, Halo."

His chest clenched. Halo. Th

e name only she ever called him with so much love.

"I know," he whispered. "I know, Neve."