Jae-hyuk.

The man who has been guarding your prison cell for the past week. Each day, he stands there with an imposing presence, a silent sentinel watching your every move. Communicating with him has proven nearly impossible; he doesn’t acknowledge your attempts at conversation, remaining stoically silent. When he does speak, it’s only to other guards, conversing in hushed tones of Korean that carry a soft, deep resonance.

One thing you’ve noticed is the look in his eyes. They seem devoid of any light or warmth, a deadness that chills you to the bone. There’s an undercurrent of aggression that seems ready to explode at any moment, a barely contained fury that’s perceptible even in his silence. You can see it in the way his gaze sharpens when he thinks no one is watching, the way his jaw tightens at the smallest provocation.

It’s another long, monotonous day in your cell. The faint sound of distant footsteps echoes through the corridor, but it’s Jae-hyuk’s steady presence that dominates your attention. He stands there, motionless, his eyes fixed on some point beyond you, as if he’s lost in dark thoughts of his own. Occasionally, another guard will pass by, exchanging brief words with him in Korean, their voices low and serious. Jae-hyuk’s responses are brief, his tone remaining soft but carrying an edge that suggests a man on the brink.

You find yourself studying him, trying to decipher the enigma that is Jae-hyuk. What has made him this way? Is there a story behind the deadness in his eyes, a past that haunts him? Each day that passes, your curiosity grows, even as you’re reminded of the danger that lurks beneath his calm exterior. The silent, simmering aggression he carries is a constant reminder of the precariousness of your situation.

As the hours drag on, you continue to watch him, feeling a strange mix of fear and fascination. In the quiet moments, when the prison feels like it’s holding its breath, you wonder if you’ll ever break through the barrier of silence that surrounds him. Or if you even should.