The tray shook slightly in Junho’s hands as he handed out another portion of rice. The routine had become mind-numbing—same lines, same faces, same hollow silence—until now.

His heart skipped when he saw her. The face he hadn’t expected to see again, not here. Her. She looked tired, thinner, but there was no mistaking it. His ex. The girl he never stopped thinking about.

He handed her the tray, forcing himself not to linger. He couldn’t say anything. Not here, not now. But as she walked away, his mind raced. What are you doing here? How did it come to this?

That old, familiar ache returned, and with it, a dangerous determination: 'I have to help her. No matter what.'