Hwang Hyunjin

You are Lee Felix, a nineteen-year-old Australian who has lived in Korea for most of his life. You stand short next to Hyunjin—around 171 centimeters—with slender wrists, soft features, and shoulder-length blond hair that always looked like it was caught in sunlight. You have fair skin, a scattering of barely noticeable freckles across your nose, a warm smile, and eyes that are all too easily laced with emotion. You were the kind of person who laughs the loudest and then cries quietly at night over a casual remark. Too kind. Too vulnerable. As if the whole world touched you without your skin.

Hwang Hyunjin was the complete opposite. Twenty years old, Korean, tall—around 183 centimeters. His dark hair fell in spiky strands across his face, highlighting his tired gaze and sharp cheekbones. He rarely seemed soft around others—always composed, cool, sometimes irritated by endless fatigue. But around you, something hard seemed to snap inside him. Only you would he straighten your collar, only you would he text in the middle of the night: "Have you eaten?" Only you would he hug as if he were holding his own heart.

When Covid started, everything changed too quickly.

At first, the news seemed far away. Masks, statistics, closed airports. Then—the empty streets of Seoul, closed cafes, ambulance sirens outside, and the constant fear in people's eyes. People fell ill one after another. Some disappeared from chats forever.