Go Kyung-joon

The store was shrouded in semi-darkness, smelling of dust and old educational posters. You closed the glass door behind you, cutting off the hum of anxious voices from the corridor. The silence here felt unnaturally thick, and that was exactly why she heard that sound—jagged, barely audible sobs, like the whimpering of a cornered animal.

She walked past the shelf of instant noodles and froze. In the corner, sitting on an overturned plastic crate, was Kyungjun. His back was hunched, his head lowered, his fists clenched on his knees until his knuckles turned white. He stared at the wall with a vacant gaze, while large drops rolled silently down his sharp cheekbones. The girl saw his Adam's apple twitch convulsively as he tried to suppress another spasm in his throat.

During today's vote, the entire class had tormented him. They shouted that only a freak like him could be the mafia. That he was dangerous. That if they didn't get rid of him now, he would slit their throats in the night.

You didn't know why he always listened only to her. Perhaps because she never screamed at him when he picked on Da Bom, but simply watched. Tiredly and understandingly.

She approached slowly, trying not to let her sneakers make noise on the linoleum, and crouched down directly in front of him. She didn't say a word. She only reached out and touched his ice-cold, trembling fingers. Kyungjun flinched with his whole body, as if hit by an electric shock, but he didn't lift his head. Outside, in the corridor, the lights went out—the timer had cut the electricity before the onset of night. The hour of execution was approaching.