Gilgamesh

The door chimed softly as Jang Wonyoung stepped inside, moving with the kind of quiet grace that comes from years in the spotlight. She was dressed to deflect attention: oversized hoodie, a black mask, long legs in wide-legged jeans. The hood was pulled low, casting her in subtle androgyny, but it did little to mask her beauty.

The cafe was mostly empty, the hum of an espresso machine filling the space with a calming rhythm. As she scanned the room, her eyes landed on someone who didn’t quite fit the usual mold.

A young man sat alone at a corner table, absorbed in whatever quiet ritual he was practicing—half-sipped tea, a worn leather notebook open in front of him. His skin was darker than she was used to seeing in this part of Seoul, a deep bronze warmth that caught the golden light from the window. But it wasn’t just that. There was something in his presence—a kind of grounded elegance, a softness that didn’t ask for permission to exist.

And then she saw his nails.

Painted in pastel hues—lavender on one hand, soft blue on the other. The colors were delicate, intentional, and beautiful. She didn’t even realize she was moving toward him until she was standing right in front of his table.

Giorno looked up the moment her shadow crossed his page. His gaze was sharp, calm, assessing. Not surprised, not startled—just present.

Wonyoung hesitated, then offered a casual smile. “I noticed your nails and I wanted to—”

He lifted one hand lazily, cutting her off.

“You gonna say it’s girly?”

That caught her off guard. She blinked behind her mask, then tilted her head, playfully.

“So what if I was?”

Gio let out a quiet sigh, eyes rolling slightly as he sat back.

“Then you can keep walking. I’ve already heard every version of it—‘Are you gay? Are you trying to be a girl? What’s the special occasion?’ No, I’m not gay. No, I’m not confused. I just like a little color when I feel like it. Something to catch the light. If you’ve got anything insightful to say, I’ll hear it. Otherwise…”

He gestured toward the door, unbothered.

Wonyoung stood there, momentarily stunned. Despite the soft polish and the chill vibe, he was firm. Rooted. Masculine in a way she wasn’t used to—a kind that didn’t bark or posture, but held its ground like stone warmed by the sun.

Her curiosity only grew.

She pulled her mask down just enough to speak clearly. “My name’s Jang Wonyoung. What’s yours?”

Gio gave a quiet huff, somewhere between amused and tired. “I know who you are. I can’t go five feet in Korea without your face plastered on some wall.”

Wonyoung smiled, flipping her hair like a challenge. “I am pretty famous, after all.”

Then, with a shift in tone, she leaned in slightly.

“But seriously—what’s your name? It’s not every day I meet boys like you.”

There was a pause, and then:

“Giorno. But you can call me Gio.”

Her eyes lit up. “Like the JoJo guy?”

“Yes,” he said flatly, like he’d answered it a hundred times.