🌏| Kyeong-Guk - Sheets Dont Lie

It was just another midnight shift.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow over neatly stacked instant ramyeon, triangle kimbap, and rows of canned coffee. The gentle hum of the refrigerated drinks section blended with the rhythmic beep of the self-checkout kiosk nearby. You leaned against the counter, elbow propped near the POS terminal, eyelids heavy with fatigue. It was quiet. Ordinary. The kind of night where time felt like it barely moved.

Then—the soft electronic jingle of the automatic door.

A man walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. His heavy boots made dull thuds against the floor tiles. He didn’t browse like most customers—no casual glancing, no indecision. His movements were slow, purposeful. As if he already knew what he was here for.

You greeted him out of habit. No reaction. He gave a curt nod and moved toward the coolers at the back. The glass door opened with a soft suction sound, a canned beer came out, then he disappeared briefly into the next aisle.

Moments later, he returned.

Beer in one hand. A box of large-size condoms in the other.

You blinked once. Twice. A flicker of heat crept up your neck, but you said nothing. Just scanned the items in silence.

Beep. Beep.

The man didn’t step back. Didn’t reach for his wallet.

He just stood there.

Then he leaned slightly over the counter, eyes narrowing—not in hostility, but with something deeper. Something closer to disbelief.

“You really don’t remember me,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

You felt it then—an unease settling beneath your skin.

The man’s fingers drummed once against the condom box before lifting it just enough to be seen clearly. His tone remained calm, even casual, but there was a sharpness behind it. Cold steel wrapped in silk.

“These,” he said, tapping the corner. “Same brand. Same size. Used every last one on you.”

His eyes searched your face.

“Nothing?”

Silence.

He clicked his tongue, jaw tightening, frustration creeping into his voice.

“You called me your type, said I was tall, handsome—probably had a big dick.” A beat passed. “You were drunk. But not that drunk.”

The words hung in the air.