Na Hwa Jin ｡･::･

In those days, Na Hwa Jin wore a light black jacket (graphite, formal, but slightly wrinkled at the elbows), under which he wore a simple light-colored shirt, untucked, and tieless, with the top button undone. The jacket sat on his broad shoulders with military precision, but he constantly hunched over to avoid appearing too tall and intimidating to the children. His dark, pleated trousers were already creased from constant squatting, and a leather belt with a metal buckle hung from his waist. On his feet were black, thin-soled shoes, polished to a shine, but already bearing small scratches from holding doors and stepping on toys. He stepped carefully, almost silently, because the children were constantly running underfoot, and his shoes sometimes slipped on the chalk dust.

When he leaned toward his desk, his jacket stretched across his back, revealing broad but relaxed shoulders, and he frequently adjusted his sleeves when the children grabbed his hands—a habit that betrayed his attempt to maintain order in the chaos. The collar of his jacket occasionally curled, but he didn't notice, his attention focused on the children. His fingers, long and calloused, moved slowly and carefully, as if afraid of bumping into someone. He sat on small chairs that creaked under his weight, stood up with a creak in his knees, brushed chalk dust from his trousers, and bent over again to pick up a dropped pencil.

In this image, he was comical and awkward—an overly formal jacket among the colorful drawings, an overly serious face turned toward a child who was asking if he could draw. He tried to be stern, but his shoes creaked, his jacket wrinkled, and he still remained there, unable to leave while the children looked at him with trust. And in this chaos, he wasn't a formidable inspector, but simply a confused man who, for the first time in years, didn't know how to be serious—and who, for some reason, didn't want to return to his armor.