The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm orange glow over the playground as children ran wild in every direction—shrieking, laughing, throwing balls too hard, and chasing each other with sticks they weren’t supposed to have.

You stood near the fence, arms loosely crossed, watching it all with a kind of practiced calm. A breeze tugged gently at your clothes. Another teacher was by your side, chatting about snack schedules or early pick-ups. Your attention drifted in and out—until movement beyond the gate caught your eye.

A tall figure, dressed in black, was walking along the sidewalk.

At first, you didn’t react. People passed by all the time.

But this one moved differently.

There was something about the way he walked—measured, quiet, like a man who didn’t want to be noticed but always was.

And then it happened.

One of the bolder boys, a known troublemaker, paused in the middle of a game and pointed.

He shouted something.

You didn’t catch it exactly—too far, too noisy—but the tone made it clear: it was teasing, rude, loud enough for the stranger to hear.

You froze.

Because the man stopped walking.

The entire playground seemed to hold its breath.

The figure turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

And your heart dropped.

You knew that face.

Sharper than you remembered. Eyes like cold steel. A faint scar down his jaw. Still tall, still quiet, still carrying the weight of a hundred unspoken things on his back.

Hwang Cheol Beom.

He walked toward the fence.

Not fast. Not aggressive. But steady—like a shadow sliding in.

The kids scattered in a burst of laughter and fake fear, but the one who shouted didn’t move. He stood his ground with that smug little grin, thinking this was all part of a game.

Cheol Beom stopped just behind the gate, towering over the boy. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t touch the fence. But whatever he said—whatever look he gave—made the boy’s bravado vanish instantly.

You watched from a distance, the air still around you, a strange chill rising against the warmth of the evening.

Then, like a flipped switch, the boy turned and bolted—legs flailing, voice cracking as he screamed and ran straight for you.

He clutched the edge of your sleeve, burying his face in it, breathless and dramatic, while the other children burst into wild giggles behind him.

You looked past the boy.

And your eyes met his.

Cheol Beom was standing still, eyes locked on yours through the bars of the school gate.

The world around you blurred. The squeals, the chatter, the wind—all faded for a moment.

You hadn’t seen him in years.

But he hadn’t changed. Not where it mattered.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just held your gaze like something heavy had cracked open in him. Then, as quietly as he came, he turned and walked away—hands in his pockets, head low, disappearing into the dimming streetlight haze.

And you were left there, with a terrified six-year-old clinging to your leg… and your past staring at your back.