Chapter Text
Hyunwoo stared at the floral bandaid he had peeled off, turning it over and over between his fingers, watching the pastel pattern smeared with dark red. Although he knew it was unsanitary, he could not bring himself to throw it away, tucking it into his trouser pocket and pressing it against his thigh.
After Jieun left, he wandered deeper into the bad side of the neighborhood, where narrow alleys twisted like veins and the air was thick with the cloying smell of cigarette smoke, unwashed clothes, and rotting trash. He checked his phone; the bright digits read 8:36 PM.
Behind a grimy café, his friend leaned casually against a cracked wall, cigarette dangling from long fingers, while a new guy lingered beside him.
“Hyunwoo, heard you got jumped by those Jeil bastards.” Jaehoon said, voice rough but amused. “That’s insane, man. You pissed them off in your sleep or what?”
The new guy exhaled a long ribbon of smoke, letting it spill between them like a curtain. “Three on one, right?” he asked, tone casual, like he was asking about the weather.
Hyunwoo shifted, jaw tightening. “Four, actually.” His voice was low, edged with quiet shame.
The new guy let out a low whistle. “Damn… and you’re still upright?” His eyes darted over Hyunwoo’s bruised face and swollen knuckles, assessing him with cold curiosity.
Jaehoon clicked his tongue sharply. “It’s Hyunwoo,” he corrected. “He fights like he’s got nothing left to lose.”
He smirked, flicking ash to the ground. “Crazy bastard doesn’t even know when to stay down.”
Jaehoon handed him a cigarette, and Hyunwoo lit it automatically. The acrid smoke burned his throat, a taste he despised, but worse than the smoke was the crushing awareness of being alone. For one fleeting moment, inhaling the bitter haze, he felt part of the group. His mind drifted to Jieun. Small, delicate, softer than anything in this dark, sour-smelling alley. Is she okay? Did her dad hit her today? Did he…
“I’ll leave this here, I’ve got things to do,” he muttered, placing the box of Marlboro Reds on the wet asphalt, and walked away, swallowed by the evening.
. . .
Back in their cramped two-bedroom apartment, faint snoring drifted from his mother’s room. Hyunwoo was silently grateful she had slept early. Opening the fridge, he scanned the frozen meals, then closed it.
A soft, choking whimper froze him in place.
“Mom?” His voice cracked, panic thick.
He froze, unable to comfort her. Reaching out could trigger her trauma. He looked in the empty frames on the walls, witnesses to a life torn apart. He saw himself in the mirror: sharp jaw, hard-set eyes, inherited from the man his mother both feared and despised. No hair dye, no piercings could change that.
He retreated to his bed.
. . .
Hyunwoo arrived early, uniform ironed with precise folds, hair combed, cologne sprayed until it hung thickly in the air—ten sprays, perhaps too many.
The morning sunlight slashed through windows in jagged beams. He stared at Jieun’s desk, pretending to check his phone.
When the bell rang, the air felt wrong. The vice president, lanky and awkward, instructed everyone to stand. Hyunwoo complied automatically, brows furrowed.
“Jieun’s not here?” the history teacher asked.
“She has a sick note, sir,” came the polite reply.
Two more days passed like this.
Friday.
She appeared. Polished black hair, a small smile, perfect uniform. Whispers faded into nothing. Seeing her eclipsed everything.
“Hi, Hyunwoo,” she said, diplomatic, measured. “Do you need anything?”
“Were you sick?” he asked, leaning slightly, as if proximity might anchor him to reality.
“Yes. Just a fever. Sit down, class is starting,” she said, distant and untouchable.
. . .
Lunch arrived. Hyunwoo carried his tray alone. Jieun’s laughter rang above the chatter, crystalline, drawing the air out of him as he watched her sit with two girls. Their whispers, glances, constant smiles, cut into him, making every step feel too loud.
Then she waved him over.
“Hyunwoo, sit here. Cafeteria’s full,” she said softly.
He stepped toward them.
“I’m Yerin,” said the taller one, voice bright, stretching above the hum of students.
“Sumin,” the glasses girl whispered, glancing at Jieun, giggling softly.
“…Hyunwoo,” he managed.
“What makes you come back here? Is it because of Jieun?” Sumin asked, teasing but sharp-edged.
“Oh stop it,” Jieun laughed, sweet and controlled.
He let their chatter flow while quietly observing Jieun, noticing how she commanded space, attention, and mood. But nobody asked about her absence.
He typed under the table, texting her for the first time, hands trembling:
hey jieun, why weren’t u at school for like 3 days lol
i’ll explain later sorry, after school ㅠㅠ
Her reply made his chest skip. She trusted him. And he wanted desperately to be the person she could rely on.
. . .
The hallway spat them into the small alley behind the parking lot. Jieun walked a few steps ahead, her posture stiff but graceful, as if she was balancing on the edge of something fragile. Hyunwoo followed, heart hammering so loudly he wondered if she could hear it. When he reached out, his fingers brushing hers, she let his touch slide off.
Jieun stopped. When she turned, her smile stayed in place, perfect and still, but her eyes shimmered glassy, trembling with something terrible.
“Hyunwoo,” she said softly, voice thin, trembling like a ribbon caught in the wind. “Can I tell you something I’ve never said out loud?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“I’m scared,” she whispered, stepping closer, just enough to let him feel the warmth of her presence. “I think… I think my dad is going to—”
Her words faltered. “He might kill me.”
Hyunwoo’s breath stuttered. The alley tilted sideways in his vision.
“He gets so angry. Over nothing. Over everything. I don’t even know if I breathe right sometimes.” Her voice cracked. “Last night… I thought that was it.”
Hyunwoo’s skin crawled. His mind filled with flashes he didn’t want: shadows looming, the snap of leather, a mother’s sobs. He swallowed hard, fighting rising nausea.
“Jesus… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”
“I don’t have anyone,” she whispered, stepping closer, so close he could feel her breath. “But you…”
Her fingers brushed his hand, lingering, feather-light. Something in his chest twisted painfully—guilt, hope, fear, all tightening together. The savior she painted him as felt like a costume stitched from lies and desperation, yet he couldn’t reject it. Not when she looked at him like that.
“You don’t deserve this,” he said softly, trying to steady his voice, but it shook anyway.
“Sometimes I think… if he ever loses control… if he—hurts me too much…” Her eyes darkened, glinting with a sharp, desperate need. “I can’t stop him. I can’t fight him. But you… you could end him.”
Hyunwoo froze, stomach twisting violently. His mind recoiled at the thought of murder. Then she opened her bag with delicate hands, lifting out a black box. It was plain, unassuming, but when she opened it, the faint glint of metal caught his eye: inside lay a pair of brass knuckles, cold and polished, their edges gleaming almost beautifully. She let her fingers brush lightly over his as she pressed the box into his palm.
“Do it for me,” she whispered.
The weight of the box—and the knowledge of what was inside—sank into his hand like a stone dragging him underwater. His stomach violently twisted; he almost gagged. Every sound blurred. The alley pulsed around him. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to be violent. He didn’t want to be like his father. He didn’t want to be like his father. He didn’t want to be like his father.
But the thought of letting her get hurt, letting this happen, made his chest tighten unbearably.
Her smile softened, almost angelic, but the ghost of calculation lingered in the curve of her lips.
“Text me your answer,” she said.
Then, almost casually:
“I like you, Hyunwoo.”
She stepped away, disappearing toward the car waiting at the alley’s mouth—leaving him trembling, nauseous, dizzy, clutching the black box like a burning coal.