The blast of hot, humid air that greeted Han Yoo-jin as he stepped out of the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport was a physical shock. It was a stark, suffocating contrast to the cool, crisp autumn he had left behind in Seoul. Everything was different. The sky was bigger and a paler shade of blue. The signs were all in a language he understood but felt alienatingly dominant. The people moved with a languid, unhurried pace that felt deeply foreign to his Seoul-conditioned sensibilities. He was a fish out of water, gasping for air in a strange and unfamiliar ocean.
He rented a nondescript, generic American sedan—a vehicle with none of the sleek, compact efficiency he was used to—and checked into a cheap motel off the highway. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke and industrial-strength disinfectant. It was a lonely, anonymous space, a perfect reflection of how he felt. He dropped his single carry-on bag, pulled out his laptop, and connected to the spotty Wi-Fi. The plagiarism scandal was still raging back home. He saw a stream of anxious messages from Min-young, complete with screenshots of the latest hate comments and articles questioning their integrity. The clock was ticking, loudly.
His first move was a dead end. The last known address for Kevin Riley, pulled from an old utility bill record he'd managed to access, led him to a run-down apartment complex with a "For Rent" sign swinging crookedly from a balcony. A quick conversation with the building manager confirmed Kevin had been evicted two months ago for non-payment of rent.
Yoo-jin stood on the dusty Texas pavement under the oppressive sun, feeling a profound sense of being adrift. He had no contacts here, no network, no private investigators. He had only his wits, his rapidly dwindling savings, and his secret ability.
He couldn't think like a CEO anymore. He had to think like a producer, like a scout. Where would a struggling artist in Austin, Texas—a city legendary for its live music scene—spend his time? He got back in his rental car and drove downtown, heading for the city's musical heart.
His search became a strange pilgrimage through the soul of American music. He started on 6th Street, a chaotic river of bars and clubs, each one spilling a different genre of live music onto the pavement. He visited the legendary Continental Club, a hallowed ground that felt worlds away from the slick K-Pop studios he knew. He browsed the dusty aisles of Waterloo Records, a local institution. At each stop, he would subtly use his ability, scanning the patrons and performers, searching for a clue.
That night, he found himself in a small, dimly lit dive bar hosting an open mic night. The place was mostly empty, save for a few regulars and a handful of other hopeful musicians waiting for their turn. On stage, a young woman with a guitar was singing a heartbreakingly beautiful folk song to a nearly empty room. It was a scene he understood on a visceral level—talent pouring its heart out into a void. He felt a pang of empathy.
His eyes scanned the other musicians. He focused on a sad-looking singer-songwriter in the corner, a man in his late 20s with a worn-out guitar case covered in stickers. Yoo-jin activated his ability.
[Name: David Chen]
[Current Status: Musician, Part-Time Waiter]
[Current Thoughts: Man, this is brutal. I hope I get enough tips tonight to make rent. At least I'm not as desperate as Kevin was. I wonder if he ever managed to sell that vintage Telecaster he was always trying to fix. Said he needed the money badly.]
Yoo-jin's heart leaped. It was his first real lead. Kevin. Vintage Telecaster. The ghost had a name in this city. He waited until David finished his set—a melancholy but well-written song about heartbreak—and approached him at the bar.
"That was a great song," Yoo-jin said in English, buying him a beer. "You've got a real talent for melody."
David, surprised by the compliment from a stranger, especially one who looked as out of place as Yoo-jin, mumbled a thank you.
"I'm actually here looking for an old friend," Yoo-jin said, pulling out his phone and showing him the grainy photo of Kevin Riley. "We used to play a bit together years ago. His name is Kevin. I heard he had a really special vintage Telecaster he was working on."
David's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, you know Kevin? Yeah, that's him. Man, that Telecaster was his pride and joy. He was always tinkering with it, never had the cash to get it properly restored. Haven't seen him around the open mic scene for a few weeks, though. It's weird, he just kind of vanished."
The lead was solid, but it was also cold. Yoo-jin changed his tactics. The next day, he focused his search on vintage guitar shops, the kind of places a guy like Kevin would frequent. The first two shops were a bust. The owners were gruff, the patrons were tight-lipped. But at the third shop, a cluttered, charming place called 'South Austin Guitars,' he hit the jackpot.
The owner was a grizzled older man with a long grey ponytail and kind eyes. Yoo-jin showed him the photo. The man squinted at the screen. Yoo-jin focused his ability.
[Name: Hank]
[Occupation: Owner, South Austin Guitars]
[Current Thoughts: Yeah, that's Kevin Riley. Poor kid. A real talent, one of the most intuitive players I've seen in years, but a bundle of nerves. No confidence at all. He used to come in here all the time, just to look at the expensive guitars he couldn't afford. Hasn't been around in a couple of weeks, though. Last time I saw him, he seemed… agitated. Said he was getting a windfall of money soon and was going to lay low for a while. Seemed more scared than happy about it.]
"Yeah, I know the kid," Hank said aloud, his Texas drawl warm and friendly. "A great player, a real natural feel for the instrument. But a bit of a ghost. Comes and goes. Haven't seen him lately, though."
Lay low. The phrase stuck in Yoo-jin's mind. And the money. It all connected to the wire transfer. Kevin wasn't celebrating his newfound wealth. He was hiding.
Yoo-jin recalled the final piece of information from his initial scan: Kevin worked as a barista. It was a common side-hustle for struggling artists. Armed with this knowledge, Yoo-jin spent the rest of the day in his car, staking out the independent coffee shops in the South Austin area, near the guitar store. He sat for hours, nursing lukewarm coffee, watching baristas come and go, feeling the precious time ticking away.
Just as the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the street, he saw him. In a small, hipster cafe with a mural painted on its side, a young man with familiar sad eyes and messy brown hair was behind the counter. He moved with a joyless, mechanical efficiency, taking orders, steaming milk, wiping down the counter. He looked tired, anxious, and deeply, profoundly unhappy. It was Kevin Riley.
Yoo-jin didn't move. He didn't approach him. He just watched from his car across the street, his heart pounding with a mixture of relief and trepidation. The hunt was over. The ghost had been found. Now came the hard part: convincing him to face the world.