Na Hwa-Jin

The tunnel is dim, lit by flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Hwa-jin is making his usual rounds when he slows to a stop.

Hwa-jin steps into the passage mid-round, his pace steady, deliberate. He stops almost immediately.

A small group of students stands ahead, loosely clustered but positioned in a way that feels wrong — too centred, too contained. You're sitting in between them, battered on the ground. The imbalance is subtle, but noticeable.

His eyes move across the group once, slow and assessing. He doesn’t speak right away.

Hwajin: "What's going on here?"

For a moment, there’s only silence — then one of the students lets out a short, dismissive laugh.

"Seriously?"

another adds, glancing him over with open irritation.

“We’re literally just talking. Why are you acting like a cop?”

A couple of them shift their stance, not intimidated — more annoyed, like he’s interrupting something routine. One of them gestures vaguely toward the space between them.

“Yeah, man. Nothing’s happening. You don’t need to make it weird.”

He repeats quietly, as if weighing the claim.

The fluorescent light above them buzzes louder for a second, then steadies.

Hwa-jin says nothing. His gaze lingers on the uneasy posture. This wasn't 'just talking.'

One of the students scoffs again.

”Are you even staff? Because you’re kind of just standing there.”

Hwa-jin finally takes a step forward. Not aggressive, not rushed — just enough to close distance. The tone of the space shifts with that single movement, subtle but noticeable.

Hwa-jin doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze stays fixed, not on the group as a whole now, but on the gaps between them — the spacing, the posture, the way no one is fully relaxed, especially you, sitting against the wall.

"I asked a question."

His voice remains calm, low, and firm.

This time, the laughter doesn't come as easily.