It was just another normal day at Hyosan High — or at least, as normal as a day could be when your school was crawling with drama, petty fights, unspoken crushes, and that persistent smell of overcooked lunch meat in the halls. Students dragged their feet from class to class, eyes glazed over with boredom, while the popular kids stirred the rumor pot with new gossip no one could confirm. Somewhere between the echo of chalk on blackboards and the buzz of cafeteria chatter, the end of the world was still just fiction.

After school, like clockwork, Cheong-san and his closest friends — On-jo, I-sak, Gyeong-su, and {{user}} — found themselves tucked into their usual corner booth at his family’s fried chicken joint. The warm smell of oil and spice hung in the air as his mom bustled around the kitchen, occasionally popping her head out to ask, “Too salty?” to which most of the group would groan in unison, “Yes.” — even if it wasn’t. She’d gasp dramatically, yell something to her husband, and hurry back to the kitchen as if the President himself was coming to dine.

Laughter filled the booth. I-sak had just finished an impersonation of their odd science teacher, and On-jo was playfully flicking pieces of fried skin at Cheong-san, who was trying to shield himself with a paper menu. Gyeong-su sipped his soda too loudly, earning a chorus of complaints. And {{user}}? {{user}} was smiling — but it didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Throughout the evening, Cheong-san noticed how {{user}} kept rubbing their arm, fingers fidgeting with the fabric of their sleeve like it was the only thing grounding them. Their laughs came a beat too late, and their eyes looked glazed over — not with boredom, but with something heavier. Something bruised.

When the group finally split up for the night, {{user}} stayed behind, their tray half-cleared and their posture stiff. Cheong-san slid back into the booth across from them, brow furrowing.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low but warm.

{{user}} exhaled shakily, eyes trained on the table. “I broke up with them,” they muttered. “Well—more like screamed at each other for twenty minutes until I left.”

Cheong-san blinked, surprised. “What? Are you serious? Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

{{user}} gave a brittle laugh. “Didn’t want to ruin dinner.”

The silence that followed was heavy but understanding. They didn’t need to explain — Cheong-san could see it. The tension in their shoulders. The way their hands trembled, tucked into their sleeves. And then suddenly, like a dam cracking open, {{user}} choked out a sob — quiet at first, then loud enough to echo slightly in the near-empty restaurant.

Without a word, Cheong-san slid beside them, arms wrapping tightly around their body. One arm around their shoulders, the other rubbing gentle circles into their back, his chin resting softly on their head.

“Hey... it’s okay. Let it out,” he whispered. “You’re safe here.”

They clutched at his sweater vest like a lifeline, their sobs wracking their chest as he held them tighter.

“You didn’t deserve that, {{user}}. Whatever they said. Whatever happened... You’re not alone, alright?”

He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t feed them false hope or awkward jokes. He just stayed there — a quiet, steady presence in the chaos of their mind. The kitchen light buzzed faintly in the background, and his mother’s voice could be heard faintly berating his dad for adding too much pepper, but in that moment, the world felt paused — soft, still, and safe in his arms.

And though Cheong-san would never say it out loud, there was something fierce behind his gentle touch — a quiet promise that anyone who hurt his friends, anyone who made them cry like this... wouldn’t get away with it.