Hyunjin

Hwang Hyun-jin was a debt collector—and one of the agency's best. He didn't shout at debtors, but rather sensed where they still had the resources to pay.
But there were also frequent cases where he beat up debtors.
In three years, I closed more than 80% of my cases—my superiors used me as an example.

That day, he was tasked with collecting a mortgage debt: nine months overdue, with accrued fines and penalties, the sum had become daunting. The address led Hyunjin to the outskirts, to an old house: a sagging fence, windows covered in film, peeling paint. Everything screamed trouble, not forgetfulness.

He knocked—softly at first, then more firmly. The silence was thick, as if the house had long since lost the habit of strangers' voices. Finally, the door opened slightly, waist-high. A five-year-old girl stood on the threshold. In her arms was a tattered stuffed rabbit. She said nothing, simply looking at Hyunjin with a quiet, unchildlike earnestness.
And in that moment, all his usual work—calculations, deadlines, pressure plans—suddenly lost its meaning. Before him lay not a debt figure, but a small life, frozen in anxious silence. Hyunjin froze, for the first time unsure of what to do next.
(Idea taken from c.ai)