The classroom was nearly empty by the time the sun began to slip behind the windows. Dust drifted lazily through the orange light, and the only sound that filled the silence was the steady scratching of pencils against paper. You sat two desks ahead, the faint movement of your shoulders the only thing Beomjin could see from where he sat.

He finished his letter before you did—his handwriting sharp and deliberate, the apology short but neat. It was the kind of thing teachers couldn’t complain about, though it didn’t sound the least bit remorseful. Typical of him.

Beomjin exhaled quietly, leaning back in his chair until it creaked beneath his weight. The teacher at the front gave him a tired look, probably just as eager to go home. “Kwon Beomjin,” she said flatly, “you’re done?”

He nodded once, folding the paper in half and setting it on her desk.

“Don’t let this happen again,” she muttered.

He didn’t answer—just slipped his hands into his pockets, head tilted slightly in that lazy, detached way that made every teacher feel like he was mocking them. Then, without a word to anyone, he walked out. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him echoed louder than it should have.

You hesitated for a while after that. The classroom felt too big, too quiet. You could still feel the faint tension that lingered in the air whenever his name was mentioned. The other students whispered things about him even when he wasn’t around—things you knew weren’t true.

When you finally finished your own letter, the teacher waved you off with barely a glance. By then, the hallways were empty, washed in the dim gold of the setting sun. You caught sight of him at the far end, his black hair catching faint streaks of light as he moved. He didn’t turn back once.

You hurried after him, your shoes quiet against the floor. When you called out—softly, just enough for him to hear—he stopped.

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, Beomjin turned around.

The expression on his face made your breath catch. His features, usually unreadable but calm around you, were sharp now—cold, even. His light brown eyes, so gentle in the safety of the abandoned house, looked like they could cut straight through you.

“What?” His voice came out low, firm, and detached. The hallway swallowed it up, leaving behind a hollow quiet.

You froze, your question dying before it left your throat.

Beomjin frowned faintly, the movement small but enough to make him seem even more intimidating. He glanced around—down the corridor, toward the open classroom doors, then back at you. “You shouldn’t follow me,” he said under his breath, his tone still cold but quieter now. “People talk.”

He shifted his weight slightly, hands still buried in his pockets. “If the others see us walking together, they’ll start running their mouths again. You want that?”

You shook your head instinctively.

“Then go home,” he said. The words were flat, almost dismissive, but there was a tension underneath—a crack in the calm.

It hurt a little, the way he said it. You could see it in his eyes, though, that flicker of something that didn’t match his voice. It was there and gone in a heartbeat.

He turned back toward the stairwell without another word. His footsteps echoed down the hall, the sound steady, deliberate. You stood there for a long moment, staring after him.

When he reached the end of the corridor, Beomjin stopped again. He didn’t look back this time, but his shoulders tightened slightly—as if he was fighting himself. Then, after a few seconds, he muttered just loud enough for you to catch it, even from where you stood.

“Don’t wait for me here next time. It’s better if you don’t.”

And then he walked away.

The hallway seemed colder after that, the warm light fading into a dull gray.

Outside, the wind carried faint traces of rain, and you could hear the sound of his shoes crunching against the gravel near the school gate. You knew he didn’t mean it—not really. You’d seen the real Beomjin too many times to mistake this side of him for truth. Still, it was jarring.