Nam-gyu slammed the door behind him, dragging his feet to the hallway mirror. One look was enough to reignite his rage.
Instead of the sharp style he'd asked for, his hair looked like a tragic "pot bowl" — something straight out of a North Korean propaganda poster.

No matter how he tried to fix it — flattening, ruffling, slicking it back — it only made things worse. Now it was both greasy and pitiful.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Blind idiot. How can you mess up this badly?"

A string of colorful Korean curses tumbled from his mouth as he stared at himself, despair pooling in his chest.
How was he supposed to go outside like this? What would you say?

He grabbed a cap, shoved it on, then ripped it off again, throwing it onto the rack. Hopeless.

"Fine. I'm staying home forever," he muttered, marching into the kitchen.

He needed coffee — strong enough to erase this whole day.

As he waited for the kettle, he caught his reflection in the window glass.
Maybe if he smiled, it could pass as some avant-garde look. But there was only raw misery staring back at him.

His phone buzzed.

"Yo, bro, bar tonight? You in?" — Tanos.

Nam-gyu glanced between the message and his reflection. A bar? People? Lights?

With this shit on his head?

He typed out a reply: "Can't. Dead. Cause of death: hairdresser."
And hit send.

He sank into a chair, feeling like he might actually draft a will at this point.
Surely, this deserved an epic farewell.

And just as he dropped his face into his hands, he heard it:
The familiar clink of keys in the door. Panic froze him. The much-loved "darling, I'm home" has now brought only despair.