Seoul, Present Day

The air in the Metropolitan Library's Special Archives was dry, cool, and perpetually scented with paper dust and centuries of forgotten ink. It was the perfect habitat for Han Chaerin.

Chaerin was a professional librarian who felt more comfortable among the ghosts of past knowledge than the messy, unpredictable world of the present. Her life was a meticulously organized shelf: logical, quiet, and absolutely drama-free. She loved the precise quiet of the old stacks, the way history was categorized and contained.

However, her existence was currently being invaded.

"Librarian Han, I'm telling you, this isn't just a book. It’s an artifact."

Yoo Jihoon was everything Chaerin was not: chaotic, ridiculously good-looking, and brimming with the unsettling confidence of a man who believed the world owed him its secrets. He was an investigative historian, a freelance documentary producer, and, worst of all, a man who saw the Archives not as a sanctuary, but as a treasure chest.

He was currently trying to check out a leather-bound, untranslated 15th-century Joseon text that was marked 'Non-Circulating, Fragile, Restricted Access.'

"Mr. Yoo," Chaerin said, adjusting her small, silver-rimmed glasses, her voice a low, even monotone. "I've reviewed your credentials. Your request is denied. This manuscript, titled The Chronicle of the Fallen Star, is sealed. It's too fragile for external use, and frankly, its contents are categorized as mythological folklore."

Jihoon leaned against the mahogany desk, giving her a smile that was both dazzling and deeply irritating. He wore a heavy, dark trench coat that looked completely out of place in the sterile, climate-controlled room.

"Folklore is just history that hasn't been proven yet, Librarian Han. And if you’d actually read the mythology, you’d know. It describes a celestial body shattering over Cheonma Peak. A blue light. The very spot where five villagers were found with their hearts... stopped. Not from disease. Not from old age. But from what the text calls 'a withdrawal of the life-essence'."

Chaerin remained impassive, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to dismiss his file. "Fictional accounts of sudden death are common in that period, Mr. Yoo. Tuberculosis, cholera—"

"No," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The text specifically mentions a 'Thief of Moments' and a woman who carried a 'Thread of Aura' to the future."

Chaerin frowned. The words "Thread of Aura" sent a strange, cold shiver down her spine—a feeling wholly unfamiliar to her logical mind.

"You've clearly sensationalized your research," she concluded coolly. "Please return to your assigned study cubicle. If you continue to disrupt the integrity of the Archive, I will be forced to revoke your access."

Jihoon straightened up, running a hand through his dark, slightly too-long hair. He paused, looking at her with an intensity that made her stomach flutter, an even more unfamiliar sensation.

"You're a brilliant gatekeeper, Han Chaerin. But don't you ever feel like there's a missing chapter in your own story?"

He turned and walked away, his trench coat swirling with the drama of a lead character exiting a scene. Chaerin watched him go, then sighed, rubbing the space just above her chest. She had a strange, dull ache there that she’d always attributed to a minor muscular issue.

The Night-Walker

Later that night, long after the library was locked and the security system was armed, Chaerin was in the basement, finishing a re-shelving project. The basement was a labyrinth of sliding steel shelves, rows upon rows of volumes no one had touched in decades. It was the deepest, most silent part of her domain.

As she moved down a narrow aisle, pulling an empty cart, a noise froze her. A sound that was impossible: the soft, heavy thud of a book being dropped in the section she had just passed.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She was alone. The security system was her responsibility.

Slowly, carefully, she turned the corner.

Standing in the aisle, bathed in the faint, green glow of the emergency exit sign, was Yoo Jihoon. He was holding the Chronicle of the Fallen Star—the restricted manuscript—open in his hands.

"What are you doing? The library is closed! This is trespassing and theft, Mr. Yoo!" Chaerin’s voice was shaky, but she tried to keep her librarian authority intact.

Jihoon didn't look startled. He looked... consumed. His eyes, fixed on the ancient script, were wide, disturbed.

"I wasn't trying to steal the book, Librarian Han," he said, not lifting his gaze. "I was trying to read the secret it holds."

He finally looked up, his expression morphing into one of urgent dread.

"I found it. A hidden appendix. A prophecy, maybe. The 'Aura-Heart' will awaken when the Thief of Moments begins to 'walk the present.' It says he’s here, Chaerin. He’s walking the present."

"That's enough," Chaerin took a step toward him, ready to grab the manuscript and call the police. "Put the book down!"

As she reached out, she felt a profound change in the atmosphere. The temperature plummeted instantly. The scent of dust and paper was replaced by a sharp, metallic odor, like ozone after a massive lightning strike.

A sliver of deep, dark shadow peeled itself away from the wall behind Jihoon, stretching into the aisle. It wasn't a normal shadow; it was a hungry absence of light, sleek and terrifying.

Jihoon saw the movement in Chaerin’s eyes. He spun around, dropping the manuscript.

Standing where the shadow had been was a man. He was dressed in a pristine, modern suit, tailored to sharp perfection. His features were elegant, chillingly beautiful, and utterly devoid of warmth. His eyes were the only thing that gave him away: they were a pale, glassy gray that seemed to absorb all surrounding color.

This was no ordinary intruder. This was Jeong-ho, the Oblivion Wraith. The Thief of Moments.

He looked past Jihoon, his glacial gaze fixing on Chaerin. His lips curved in a smile that promised both death and an eternity of loneliness.

"Five centuries, little weaver's thread," his voice was the same low, frost-bitten melody from the past. "I've waited for this thrumming."

He took one, slow step toward her. The air around her suddenly felt heavy, thick, like being submerged in water. Her hands felt clumsy, her feet sluggish.

He’s stealing time from me. The impossible thought flashed through her mind.

Jihoon, realizing the true danger, didn't hesitate. He lunged, shouting, "Hey! You want the book? Take me first!"

The Thief of Moments didn't even turn his head. He simply lifted one gloved hand, made a small, dismissive gesture, and a wave of compressed air—pure, directed force—slammed into Jihoon, flinging him hard into a steel shelving unit. He fell to the ground, unconscious, the air knocked from his lungs.

Jeong-ho advanced on Chaerin, his eyes fixed on the small, silver light that had just begun to glow, faintly, beneath the fabric of her shirt, right where her heart lay. The Aura-Heart was awake.

"I will take the shard now," he said, his voice quiet, almost mournful. "And with it, the potential of your entire bloodline. Every moment they were supposed to live will be mine."

He reached out, his hand moving with impossible speed towards her chest.

Just as his fingers were about to brush her, something snapped inside Chaerin. Not courage. Something deeper. A feeling of ancient fury.

No. Not this Destiny.

A sharp, silver-blue light exploded from her chest, momentarily blinding Jeong-ho. It wasn't a defensive blast; it was a rejection. The light shot out and struck the ground, not harming the Wraith, but hitting the very spot where the Chronicle of the Fallen Star had fallen open.

The ancient script flared gold, absorbing the blue light in a flash.

When the light faded, the Thief of Moments was gone. The aisle was silent again, save for the labored breathing of the unconscious historian.

Chaerin stood trembling, one hand clutched over the aching spot in her chest. She hadn't moved. She hadn't fought. The power had simply acted.

She looked down at the book. The ancient Joseon manuscript was still there, but where the prophetic text had been, the ink was flowing, changing. A new, golden script was rapidly filling the blank spaces—a message written by the spirit of her ancestor, Seo-yeon, five centuries too late.

In the moment the Aura-Heart woke and rejected the thief, it had written the next line of her fate.

Chaerin sank to her knees, reading the flowing script under the faint green light. It was a command, a chilling direction, written in the language of destiny:

> He who was thrown—Yoo Jihoon—carries the Echo. His soul is the reflection of the one you must love, the one who will stand against the Void. Go to him. Wake the Echo. The thread of your Aura needs his history to weave the future.

>

She looked at the unconscious man lying amidst the steel shelves, the irritating, chaotic historian. Her destiny, it seemed, was written in his echo.

The Thief is here. The Aura-Heart is awake. And the only way for Chaerin to survive is to wake the supernatural potential in the man she just wanted to kick out of her library.

This is the beginning of The Hourglass Thief. The plot is set: a supernatural being hunting a woman who unknowingly carries an ancient power, and a historian who is the only key to her survival.