Fox Fire

Mina Park is exhausted.

Eighteen hours of travel. LAX to SeaTac. Uber through rain-soaked Seattle streets. And now she's standing in front of Hallasan Restaurant, her grandmother's place, looking at the "CLOSED" sign that's been hanging there for two months.

She has thirty days to save it.

Or sell it.

The key sticks in the lock.

Inside, the restaurant smells like memory. Gochujang and sesame oil. Her grandmother's perfume—jasmine and incense. Years of family dinners and whispered recipes.

The dining room is dark. Empty. Chairs stacked on tables.

She drops her bags and heads to the kitchen.

That's where everything always made sense. Where her grandmother taught her to make kimchi, to fold mandu, to taste with her heart instead of just her tongue.

The kitchen light flickers on.

And there's someone standing by the stove.

A man.

Tall. Lean. Dressed in dark clothes that look expensive. His hair is black, falling past his shoulders. His face is—

Beautiful.

Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes that catch the light like amber.

He's holding a wooden spoon.

Tasting something from a pot she didn't leave on the stove.

"Who the hell are you?" Mina grabs a knife from the block. "This is private property. I'm calling the police."

The man sets down the spoon. Turns fully to face her.

"You're late." His voice is smooth. Slightly accented. "Your grandmother said you'd come within a week of her passing. It's been two months."

"How do you know my—" She swallows. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jiho." He bows. Formal. Old-fashioned. "I've been bound to your family for nine generations. I am your servant, your guard, your—" His jaw tightens. "Your property, according to the curse."

"My what?"

"Perhaps you should sit down." He gestures to a stool. "This will take some explaining."

"I'm not sitting. I'm not doing anything until you tell me what you're doing in my grandmother's kitchen at midnight."

"Our kitchen." He corrects her gently. "Your grandmother and I ran this restaurant together for forty years. Before that, I served your great-grandmother. And before that—" He waves a hand. "It's a long lineage."

"That's impossible. You're like—thirty."

"I'm three hundred and seventeen." He says it casually. Like he's commenting on the weather. "I age slowly. One of the benefits of being Gumiho."

The word hits her like cold water.

Gumiho.

Nine-tailed fox.

Korean mythology. The stories her grandmother told her. Beautiful creatures who could take human form. Who were often depicted as se...