C | Chapter 1.2 | The Stranger | Crack in the Ordinary

Lloyd’s words were tempting. Ian realized he’d been buried under worry, so worn out that the idea of trusting someone else—Lloyd, even—almost sounded sweet.

“No.”

But he couldn’t bring himself to trust him.

“I’ll sell the house, but I won’t leave it to you.”

Ian didn’t trust people, his doubt as deep as a thirst.

“Go.”

He shrugged and turned to leave the kitchen first. His grip on the wine opener was tight; he half-expected Lloyd to come lunging after him. The tension made him ignore the sharp edge cutting into his palm. Lloyd’s voice slashed through the silence behind him.

“If you keep acting this way, you’re going to regret it.”

Ian forced himself to ignore the cold threat in Lloyd Gillen’s words.

***

It only took a few days for his bank account to get frozen.

“Damn it.”

Ian muttered as he stuffed the rejected ATM card back into his pocket with a sigh. Even counting the cash in his wallet, he didn’t have fifty dollars. Tonight’s tips from his part-time job at the restaurant might add a few more bucks, but even on a lucky day, it would barely cover his needs. The frozen account also meant that soon, the bank would come after his one remaining asset: the house.

Ian left the bank and unchained his bike parked nearby. The ride from his neighborhood to the city center wasn’t far, and he could get around easily on a bike. As usual, most of the city’s foot traffic was concentrated downtown, making his route simple but busy. Once on the bike, he took out his phone, scrolling to the real estate agent’s number he’d found in a quick online search that morning.

“…”

He still hesitated to make the call.

It wasn’t like he had any particular attachment to the house, certainly not enough to stay and take on over two hundred thousand dollars in debt. As Lloyd Gillen had said, the place was a ridiculously oversized, empty space for someone living alone.

It was especially unreasonable for a college student who hadn’t even saved up for the next semester’s tuition, and it wasn’t like he had any cherished memories there. That house was just the place where his mother had lived and died—nothing more.

Yet, strangely, he couldn’t shake his reluctance to sell. He felt something different from affection for the house, like a lingering instability, as if something unfinished still loomed there. Maybe it was because his stepfather’s murder had never been solved, leaving the house in a sort of vacuum, untouched and unmoving.

It was stupid, really. He should call Lloyd and ask if his offer from a few days ago still stood.

“Damn it,” he muttered again, realizing he couldn’t bring himself to call either the real estate agent or Lloyd. Not knowing why made him feel even more irritated. Where the hell was his life going, and when would he finally get a grip?

Grumbling at himself, he pedaled away. It wasn’t raining, but the sky remained a dark, brooding gray.

And then, he saw him.

On his way back from the store with a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk, Ian noticed a tall figure in a slate-blue trench coat standing near his house. He instinctively slowed his pedaling. The stranger was no ordinary bystander; he didn’t fit the image of someone loitering outside an empty house—no, his presence was too striking.

The man stood motionless, facing the Winchell House directly, his dark hair ruffled by the damp breeze. It was as dark as midnight. Ian’s gaze caught on the man’s sharp shoulders, where the tailored coat hung with a solemn, almost severe line. His shoes were heavy and solid as if they would never falter, adding an air of strength to his stance. Even from behind, his figure seemed both taut and graceful, exuding a relaxed yet unmistakably alert aura.

Then, in an instant, the man turned his head slightly, and Ian caught a glimpse of his piercing blue eyes—a gaze that cut through the gray air and locked with Ian’s.

“…!”

Something pounded in Ian’s chest. It was a feeling both foreign and familiar, like a nightmare he’d never dare to imagine. His heart leapt, and he lost his balance, he crashed to the ground with his bike. The heavy, reinforced bike frame and the backpack he carried weighed him down as he fell.

“…Ugh,”

Ian squirmed under the weight, feeling dampness spread across his back. His arm, crushed under the handlebars, throbbed with pain, making it impossible to move the bike off him. Then he heard soft footsteps approaching.

With a swift motion, the weight pressing down on him vanished as if by magic.

“Ah…”, Ian shrieked in pain.

As he tried to get up, a sharp pain in his lower back made him wince. Gripping his waist, he looked down, noticing a white stain spreading across his shirt. Great. The milk carton in his bag had broken.

“Damn it.”

Ian pushed himself up, thinking he should thank the person who’d lifted the bike, but he didn’t need to look to know who it was—the man with the piercing blue eyes.

“You don’t seem hurt,” a voice remarked. It was unexpected, young yet deep, with a smooth, almost soothing tone. Ian’s senses that were momentarily numbed by pain, sharpened again.

Thump, thump-thump.

The sound of his heartbeat roared in his ears, growing louder and louder until it almost hurt. What is this? I don’t know this guy. Who is he, and why am I feeling this way?

Unconsciously, Ian’s eyes closed as if to block out the stranger’s face, as if afraid of seeing something too chaotic. Then he felt a warmth approach him, and he knew the man was about to help him up.

“Don’t touch me!”

He snapped, his voice sharper than intended. The stranger’s response slid smoothly into his ears.

“Relax. I won’t touch you.”

Reflexively, Ian’s eyes flew open. He scrambled backward, waving his arms as if to push the man away, but when he opened his eyes, there was only empty air. He looked up; the man was already walking away, putting distance between them.

“Hey…! Wait!”

As the confusion subsided, Ian’s rationality returned. He should ask this man why he’d been watching his house, who he was, what his intentions were. The stranger hadn’t been idly glancing at the house; he had been standing there with a purpose.

“Hey, why were you—!”

But the man kept walking, seemingly unaffected by Ian’s calls. The figure that had once been so vivid melted into the gray air as if camouflaged by his coat.

“…”

Ian blinked a few times, and the man’s silhouette disappeared from his sight, leaving him wondering if the whole encounter had been a fever dream. A chill crept over his skin, where his clothes clung, soaked in milk.

“Honestly, you’re a weird guy.”

Ian sat on the dingy fabric couch of Tim Hogan, the broker he’d known for over six months, listening to his comments without much reaction.

“You know that? You’re seriously weird.”

Ian blinked as if to say, “And how does that concern you?” Tim muttered something under his breath about being fooled by that expression but kept grumbling as if he already knew Ian wouldn’t respond.

Ian ignored his rambling and got to the point. “I need work. I need money.”

Tim’s gaze turned sharp.

“Do you think I’m here just to hand it over?” Ian questioned.

“Are you out of business already?”

Tim’s irritation came through in his voice. “I told you before, jobs like the ones you want don’t just pop up! You don’t even need a hacker for half the stuff you’re asking for. You know that better than anyone. Why the hell do you insist on being so difficult? Try acting like a real hacker, for once!”

Ian took a sip from the soda can Tim had handed him and blinked again.

“What’s a ‘real hacker’ supposed to act like?” Ian quipped.

“Don’t tell me you’re asking that seriously.”

“Coming from you? You don’t exactly seem like a broker either.”

“What?”

Tim looked taken aback, then started mimicking Ian’s blank expression.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Why are you turning this on me?”

Ian gestured around the room. “This place.”

Tim’s so-called residence was a studio apartment beneath a dreary PC cafe near Hillside. Hardly the setup you’d expect for a hacker broker. His place had little more than a couch, a table, a mini-fridge without a freezer, and a TV. The mini-fridge probably only held an old Budweiser bottle and a couple of sodas.

In other words, it wasn’t a real home. It was just a front.

“If this were your real home, you’d have ditched broker work ages ago and made a better living playing the harmonica at the subway. No worries about cops, either.”

Ian’s point was clear: don’t poke around each other’s lives.

Whether Tim’s real home was in the Harem District or Beverly Hills was none of his business, and Tim, in turn, could focus on being a broker—bringing Ian jobs and pocketing a commission.

Understanding the message, Tim let out a slight hiss between his teeth as he took a sip from his beer bottle.

“Aren’t you considerate? Looking out for my income, even. Are you interested in me or something?”

Ian’s gaze sharpened, taking on a fierceness that made even Tim flinch. Tim knew how harsh Ian could be toward the men who tried to hit on him, so he instinctively braced himself.

Ian looked like he’d throw the soda can in his hand at him if Tim said anything else annoying. It wouldn’t hurt much, but Tim wasn’t eager to deal with sticky soda all over his couch.

“I told you not to joke about that.”

“…Alright, then don’t look like that.”

“I don’t look like this for you perverted bastards,” Ian snarled.

“Fine, just don’t throw that. If you’re not going to drink it, put it down.”

Ian took a loud, deliberate sip from the soda can, making a face at Tim. Typical attitude.

Tim clicked his tongue. As a broker, most of the people he dealt with were eccentric, to say the least. Hackers were a particular breed; nobody got into it just for the money. They hacked because they were obsessed with breaking into and destroying things that were off-limits.

In Tim’s experience, hackers were usually thrill-seekers, destructively fascinated with intrusion, destruction, and self-promotion.

In that sense, Ian Winchell deserved to be called a madman among hackers. He only took on trivial jobs—ones too insignificant for the police to bother with.

It wasn’t that Ian lacked skill; he was meticulous, always erasing his tracks cleanly.

Once, Tim had given him a high-paying job disguised as a small one, pocketing most of the profit himself. Even then, Ian completed the task flawlessly. But Ian didn’t act like other hackers.

He paid for bus and subway rides, and he even paid his phone bill every month. Hackers usually bypassed such trivial expenses—spending five minutes hacking a utility website meant no more bills for life, but Ian was different.

Ian might be the only hacker who didn’t derive any pleasure from stealing or wrecking things. He preferred to avoid drawing attention to himself and had no self-promotional tendencies.

In short, he was hardly a true hacker by traditional stereotypes, which made him a bit frustrating as a client.

Tim preferred hackers who didn’t cherry-pick their jobs like Ian did. But unfortunately, Tim had a soft spot for Ian, and it wasn’t because of Ian’s personality or skill. No, it was his damn face.

Tim used to think all Asians looked like dogs—slanted eyes, flat noses, yellow skin. But knowing Ian had changed his mind.

Ian had round brown eyes framed by thick lashes that cast soft shadows on his cheeks. His ivory skin looked like it would leave a trace of fine powder on your hand if you brushed it. His delicate bone structure made his slender frame look even more polished.

Tim found himself staring, thinking just one thing.

He was beautiful.

Regardless of gender, Ian Winchell was beautiful.

Rumor had it that at least a dozen men had approached Ian with unwanted attention, only to be met with either insults or fists. Whether Ian was truly phobic wasn’t clear, but one thing was certain—he treated both those who genuinely admired him and those who simply wanted to use him with equal disdain.

Damn it. Tim shook his head. Every time he saw Ian, he promised himself he’d stop going soft over that face. Hacking was illegal everywhere, and whether a job was big or small, you had to be prepared for the consequences. Tim Hogan wasn’t about to degrade himself by bringing Ian the kind of small-fry work he preferred.

“Damn it. I’m not some idiot or fool. I’m done letting you mess with me.”

Tim declared firmly, “Like I said, I don’t have the kind of jobs you’re looking for.”

Ian’s round eyes narrowed slightly, looking troubled.

“You’ve had them before. Find something.”

“I said I don’t have anything.”

“Find something. I need money.”