Chapter Text
Through sheer curtains, the evening sun spilled into an empty classroom, casting golden shafts of light that fractured across the linoleum floor, breaking against chair legs and dust-speckled shadows. The air was warm, tinged with chalk and the ghost of too many sleepless nights. At the chime of the seven o’clock bell, Choi Jieun stepped in, her shoes squeaking faintly. Her uniform blazer clung to her, wrinkled from hours of exams, her ponytail lopsided and fraying at the edges. She moved on autopilot, hands sliding over her desk with mechanical precision, sweeping textbooks and stray notes into her backpack.
Then, her fingers paused. A single item remained: a vivid red notebook.
Its cover was worn and frayed. It didn’t belong among the sterile exam papers and printed prep guides.
“Jang Hyunwoo,” read the slanted ink across the cover.
She’d only seen him once, and even that had felt unreal. Red hair like wildfire, silver piercings catching the light, a scar cut clean down his cheek. He’d shown up out of nowhere in the middle of the semester, stayed for a single day, then vanished. His gaze had drifted across the classroom without settling on anyone, like they were furniture. He never came back. A myth more than a student, held together by rumors: fights, theft, expulsion. And the one that always followed—his father had killed a man. Jieun stared at the notebook, arms crossed, as if waiting for it to explain itself.
“Nine days,” she muttered aloud. “One more and he’s expelled.” And it would be her responsibility to write the report. Class president. It sounded important on paper, like she mattered. But after a week of midterms and another night of being ignored by a mother who measured love in lecture hours and exam scores, she just needed an excuse not to go to cram school.
The red notebook gave her one. She shoved it into her bag and left the classroom behind.
The city had shifted with the sun’s fall. Gwangju’s evening lights smeared across buildings like melted neon paint. Hanoks with tiled roofs leaned toward modern cafés, soju ads blinking above rows of meat grills, bus stops echoing with students cramming last-minute formulas. The wind carried snatches of conversation, laughter, the buzz of motorcycles splitting narrow streets. Jieun walked slower than usual, letting the rhythm of the city swallow her. For once, there was no tutor to meet. No rigid timetable. No study group waiting in a café.
She didn’t know what she expected to find. Maybe nothing. Maybe that would’ve been easier. But the address echoed in her mind. “GS25, near the train station,” one of her classmates had said. “He hangs out there like some ghost.”
Hyunwoo didn’t cause trouble. He didn’t have to. All it took was his name. The other students whispered criminal psychology like it was gospel—MAOA gene, twin studies, crime runs in the blood—and acted like he’d already committed the same sin as his father. Jieun wasn’t convinced. That kind of logic was just laziness. A way to avoid asking better questions.
When she turned the corner and saw the convenience store glowing beneath flickering signage, her feet slowed, then stopped. Someone was leaning against the wall, smoke curling from between his fingers. He wasn’t alone. A group of boys blocked the alley behind him—older, meaner. Delinquents. Their presence clung to the air like engine oil.
Jieun hesitated only a second, then forced her voice tight and sharp. “Hey. I’m looking for someone.” The boys turned slowly. Their eyes moved over her like a vending machine someone had just kicked. “Jang Hyunwoo,” she added, more clearly this time. “Red hair. Scar. Left something behind in the classroom.”
One boy, his uniform collar yellowed and loose, tilted his head like he was considering a riddle. “You come all the way out here for that guy?” he asked, squinting. “Why?”
She kept her face calm. “Because he’s my classmate. And he’s about to get expelled if he doesn’t come back.”
Another boy—taller, hair greasy and parted with sweat—let out a low, humorless laugh. “Shit, you serious?” he muttered. “You know where you are right now?”
Before she could respond, a third one stepped forward. This one was blonde, with brass knuckles glinting under the alley’s light. “Don’t pull anything stupid,” he said. There was something coiled in his voice. He reached toward her, resting a hand on her shoulder with fake familiarity. “You know who she is?”
A fourth one grinned. “Who?”
“Choi Sungjin’s daughter.”
Tension shifted instantly. Everyone knew gangsters didn’t mess with politicians’ kids.
The first boy blinked, then barked out a forced laugh. “Damn, okay. Jang Hyunwoo? Yeah, we saw him.” He gestured vaguely toward the alley. “Looked like someone turned him into dog food.”
Her stomach dropped. Without another word, she turned and slipped into the convenience store. Ice packs. Bandages. Disinfectant. Her hands moved fast. She didn’t look at the clerk before bolting back out again.
The alley swallowed her whole. It reeked—metallic, sour, old blood and trash and something animal. A fluorescent light overhead flickered like it wanted to blink itself out. She nearly slipped on broken glass but didn’t stop.
Hyunwoo was slumped against the wall, legs splayed, one arm pressed protectively across his ribs. His head lolled, blood tracing a line from his cheekbone to his jaw like a crooked tear.
He noticed her the second she entered—wrong silhouette for this place. The faint trace of shampoo cut through the rot of the alley, and it annoyed him.
“Hyunwoo,” she breathed, falling to her knees beside him. Her bag fell open. She pulled out what she’d just bought, fingers trembling.
“I was looking for you,” she said quietly. “But… let’s fix this first.” Still nothing. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
“Class prez?” His voice was a rasp, barely audible. Recognition flickered in his eyes but so did suspicion.
“I’m fine,” he muttered. “Leave me alone.” She reached for his arm.
His response was instinctive. He shoved her, hard, and she hit the wall behind her with a grunt. Her shoulder throbbed. Her breath caught. Then he froze.
Shit.
He expected screaming. Flinching. But she didn’t move.
“Did someone dare you?” he asked, voice low, bitter. “Some fucking joke?”
She exhaled, slow and measured. “I’m here because I wanted to be. And to give you this.” She pulled out the red notebook, held it out, and set it gently beside him.
“There’s no point,” he muttered. “I’m not going back.”
“Well,” she said, “too bad. I didn’t walk halfway across the city to watch you rot in a piss-stained alley.”
He tried to scoff, but it came out closer to a wheeze.
“You’re bleeding,” she added, already dabbing at the worst cuts. “And these aren’t even the cool kind of scars. You look stupid.”
He blinked. Then laughed like he’d forgotten how.
She rolled her eyes. “What’s so funny?”
She pressed a final band-aid under his eye. It was floral. Ridiculous. They both stared at it, then he laughed again.
Her phone buzzed. The name on the screen froze her veins.
Choi Sungjin.
It glowed like a threat. Her father. Of all the nights. Of all the times. She looked up slowly, meeting Hyunwoo’s gaze. He stared back. Something cold and knowing passed between them.
If the world believed criminals were born, then Jang Hyunwoo was the perfect scapegoat.
She tucked her phone away.
“All done,” she said softly. “Now I want something from you.” She stood and held out her hand. He hesitated, then took it.
“Come to school,” she said. “You’re my friend. And I don’t want you to get expelled.”
He stared at her. The word “friend” was foreign.
“When the hell did we become friends?” he muttered. But his voice had softened. His eyes didn’t burn so much.
She smiled, small and tired.
“…Fuck, alright,” he said. “I’ll come.”
“See you Monday,” Jieun said, her voice light.
She didn’t look back as she walked away.