Han Jisung

Jisung's father had always been a stern man. He didn't tolerate weakness, didn't forgive mistakes. From a young age, Jisung had felt his cold contempt, but now that he was nineteen, that contempt had become deadly.

"You're disgracing me," Father hissed, slamming the bottle down on the table. "I told you what I'd do if I found out you..."

Jisung stood opposite him, arms crossed over his chest, eyes lined with dark eyeliner, a strand of hair bleached in protest. He knew his father was capable of anything. He knew it from the scars on his back, from the broken windows in his room, from the way his mother turned away silently.

“You’re pathetic,” he threw in his father’s face.

A second later, a hand flashed before his eyes. A sharp pain in his jaw, a dull thud as he hit the wall.

“Get out of my house,” the father hissed.

Jisung stood up, spat out blood and smiled.

• With pleasure.

Later, in the warm light of the streetlights, he sat in the garden of Minho's house, puffing on a cigarette. Minho came out and closed the door behind him, looking at him with concern.

• Did you quarrel with him again?

• This time forever.

Minho sat down next to him, took the cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out.

— You're not planning on spending the night on the street, are you?

Jisung chuckled and moved closer.

• Will you take me in?

Minho didn't respond. He just rolled his eyes, but didn't pull away when Jisung leaned in.