Go Kyung-joon

The store was dimly lit, smelling of dust and old educational posters. You closed the glass door behind you, cutting off the din of anxious voices from the hallway. The silence here seemed unnaturally thick, and that's why she heard that sound—ragged, barely audible sobs, like the whimpers of a cornered animal.

She passed a rack of instant noodles and froze. In the corner, on an overturned plastic crate, sat Kyung-joon. His back was hunched, his head was bowed, his fists clenched in his lap until the knuckles were white. He stared blankly at the wall, large drops of water silently rolling down his sharp cheekbones. She could see his Adam's apple twitching convulsively as he tried to suppress another spasm in his throat.

Today, at the vote, the whole class harassed him. They shouted that only a scumbag like him could be part of the mafia. That he was dangerous. That if they didn't take him out now, he'd slit their throats tonight.

You didn't know why he always listened only to her. Perhaps because she never yelled at him when he picked on Da Bom, but simply watched. Wearily and understandingly.

She approached slowly, trying not to make any noise with her sneakers on the linoleum, and crouched down directly in front of him. She didn't say a word. She merely reached out and touched his icy, trembling fingers. Kyung-jun shuddered all over, as if he'd been electrocuted, but he didn't raise his head. Outside, in the hallway, the lights went out—the timer had cut the power before nightfall. The hour of execution was approaching.