The Cinnamon Incident
The kitchen of Han Bakes smelled like a warzone—if warzones smelled of caramelized apples and burnt regrets. So-young stood on her tiptoes, peering into the industrial mixer as it churned a suspiciously lumpy batter.
"Mom, I think we killed it," she announced, poking the dough with a wooden spoon. It made a sound like a wet sock hitting pavement.
Across the counter, Li Na snorted into her coffee. "That's what happens when you let a thirteen-year-old 'experiment' with Dad's sourdough starter."
"I didn't experiment! I enhanced it!" So-young brandished her notebook, which read in bold letters: CINNAMON SUGAR EXPLOSION DREAM BREAD (VERSION 12). "This is science!"
Mom—still moving a bit slower since her recovery from the Strain poisoning—limped over and sniffed the mixer. Her nose wrinkled. "You used the cheap cinnamon again."
Li Na gasped like So-young had committed murder. "Han So-young! That's a crime in twelve countries!"
"It was on sale!"
"Exactly."
Jeong's ghostly laughter echoed from the walk-in freezer, frosting the door with icy patterns that suspiciously resembled a middle finger.
Winter Wonderland Shenanigans
Outside, Seoul shivered under its first real snowfall of the year. The streets around Han Bakes glittered with fairy lights, and the shop's windows were fogged with the warmth of ovens working overtime.
Business had been slow.
Not bad—Han Foods' subsidiaries never truly struggled—but the new Moon & Son "dull Bakeries" had stolen their usual holiday rush. Their perfectly uniform, perfectly boring snowflake cookies were everywhere.
So-young scowled at the latest sales report. "We need a winter hit. Something that'll make people remember what real baking tastes like."
Li Na, lounging on a flour sack like it was a throne, smirked. "So make something."
"I am making something!"
"You made cement."
Mom, ever the peacemaker, slid a tray of freshly baked hotteok between them. The fried pancakes oozed molten brown sugar and crushed walnuts. "Remember your winter assignment, So-young-ah."
Ugh. The assignment.
Every year, Mom made her create a new seasonal item for Han Bakes. Last winter's miso-caramel mochi bread had been a modest success. This year? She needed a legend.
So-young stared at the snow piling up outside. At the couples sharing steaming buns. At the kids licking ice cream—ice cream! In winter!—from the shop across the street.
Then it hit her.
"What if," she said slowly, "we combined hotteok… and ice cream?"
Li Na blinked. "That's disgusting."
Mom's eyes lit up. "That's brilliant."
The Birth of the "Blizzard Bun"
Three days, two mental breakdowns, and one minor fire later, the Blizzard Bun was born.
Layer 1: Crispy, buttery hotteok shell (infused with vanilla bean and a hint of black pepper)
Layer 2: Warm cinnamon-maple dulce de leche (soaked into the dough)
Layer 3: A scoop of toasted rice ice cream (made in-house with Han Foods' premium short-grain)
Final Touch: A dusting of crushed honeycomb candy (because everything is better with crunch)
Li Na took the first bite.
Then she took another.
Then she stole the whole plate and ran.
Mom laughed, her voice still a little raspy from the Strain damage. "I think we have a winner."
The 200% Surge
The Blizzard Bun launched on the coldest day of the year.
By noon, the line outside Han Bakes stretched around the block.
By 3 PM, they sold out.
By closing time, the Seoul Foodie Facebook Blog was flooded with #BlizzardBun posts, each more dramatic than the last:
"I would fight a man for this."
"This bun cured my seasonal depression."
"Moon & Son could NEVER."
Sales Report (That Evening):
Previous Daily Record: ₩8,500,000
Today's Sales: ₩25,300,000 (+198%)
Grandfather—who hadn't set foot in Han Bakes since Mom's poisoning—called at midnight.
"You outsold the flagship store," he said, voice gruff with something almost like pride.
So-young, covered in sugar and exhaustion, grinned. "Told you I'd make Han Bakes famous."
A pause. Then—
"Next time," Grandfather grumbled, "use the expensive cinnamon."
V. The Real Magic
Later, after the ovens cooled and the last tray was washed, Mom pulled So-young aside.
In her hands? A single, perfect Blizzard Bun—unmelted.
"You kept Jeong's starter in the ice cream, didn't you?" she murmured.
So-young bit her lip. The real secret ingredient? A pinch of bioluminescent yeast in the caramel—just enough to make the buns glow faintly under certain lights. Just enough to remind people that some magic couldn't be replicated by machines.
Mom hugged her tight. "Your grandfather will never admit it," she whispered, "but this? This is why we bake."
Outside, the snow kept falling.
Inside, the last Blizzard Bun on earth sat between them, its warmth lingering like a promise.