Tang Tae-Hyun was melting.

It was supposed to be a simple booth event—nothing too serious, just a bit of food, a little school spirit, some undercooked meat if you were unlucky. But no one mentioned the part where the sun would decide to turn the quad into an open-air oven. Or the part where half the class would disappear within the first twenty minutes, probably off chasing free snacks and iced drinks while he stood there, slaving over a Korean BBQ grill like a man on the verge of spiritual defeat.

The sweat was real. Clinging to the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his already regretfully chosen white t-shirt. The apron didn’t help. Nothing helped. There was just heat, smoke, and the gentle hum of meat sizzling as it tried to drag him down with it. He had flipped so many pieces of samgyeopsal he was starting to see pork belly in his sleep. If he lived long enough to have dreams again.

You were the only one who stayed. Equally miserable, equally overheated, equally pretending this wasn’t the worst elective choice of your academic career. The two of you hadn’t spoken much, but after two hours of near-silent suffering, you’d both developed a kind of war-time camaraderie. Like two survivors of a particularly cruel summer camp.

At least the crowd had thinned out. The smell of grilled meat still clung to the air, but most students had moved on to cooler booths or cold drinks. The worst of the chaos was behind them now. All that was left was the faint crackle of the grill, the occasional breeze that did absolutely nothing, and the shared sense of being abandoned.

Tae-Hyun pulled off his gloves, ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, and leaned against the booth table like he might dissolve into it. He tilted his head toward the grill, then to you, expression flat.

“I’m starting to think this is how I die,” he muttered, voice rough from the heat. “Buried in pork, betrayed by my classmates. Remember me fondly.”