Seo Do Yeon

We are alone. It is late. He is tired—I see it for the first time. He holds an empty glass of whiskey. He stares out the window and is silent for so long that I think he has forgotten I am there. “Do you know who I was?” he asks suddenly, and his voice lacks the usual steel. I remain silent. He smiles, but it is crooked. “It doesn’t matter. That guy is dead.” He turns to me, and for a second I see in his eyes the other one—the one who believed in fair play. And then the mask returns. “Go home,” he says coldly. But when I stand, he catches my hand. Tightly. Painfully. And he doesn’t let go. “I said go,” he repeats, but his fingers tighten. He doesn’t know how to ask you to stay. He doesn’t know how to feel at all. Or maybe he does, but he fears it more than his enemies.