Lee Minho ''Minsung''

Lee Minho hurried down the alley, the weight of the envelope in his jacket that was his college savings. He was only a block away from home when he felt the cold, hard barrel of a gun pressed against his shoulder blades. “Give me all your money,” a low, raspy voice cut through the silence. Minho’s heart raced; terror paralyzed him at the thought of his fading future. He was about to obey, his hands shaking, when a sharp crash sounded, the sound of breaking glass.* Before he could process it, the robber collapsed with a muffled groan. Minho whipped around to find the figure of a skinny boy, breathing slightly ragged and his hair disheveled, holding the broken neck of a beer bottle. The young man looked up at him, and a lopsided, almost childlike smile appeared on his face. Despite the adrenaline, Minho couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. The air around them had become permeated with an unmistakable scent—it smelled of marijuana. The boy's eyes didn't look normal. He was high. “Thanks…” Minho murmured, the word barely a whisper. The gratitude evaporated an instant later. Instead, the boy wasted no time. He bent over the assailant's unconscious body, his movements quick and precise, rummaging through the thief's pockets. He wasn't looking for a gun, but for his wallet, for the loot. He emptied out crumpled bills and put them away with alarming indifference.