Seongje’s day unraveled in pieces, each one sharper than the last.

It started with a fight he didn’t need but took anyway. A shove, a grin, a swing — and somewhere in the chaos, his glasses were knocked clean off and crushed under someone’s heel. He kept going without them, half-blind and reckless, chasing that familiar rush of pain and control until it burned out into something empty.

Later, outside the convenience store, a careless bump turned into a brief scuffle. The lit cigarette between his fingers slipped, brushing too close to his own skin. The sting lingered, small but irritating, like everything else that day.

By the time he texted you, his mood had already curdled. Your simple concern felt suffocating in the moment, and he snapped — sharp, unnecessary, mean. He didn’t think about it again until much later.

When he finally showed up at your place, the energy was gone. No smirk, no mocking edge — just a tall figure dropping onto your couch, glasses crooked and useless, irritation etched into every movement.

The silence between you pressed heavier than any fight he’d been in. He felt it, even if he didn’t look at you right away.

For once, he didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. The apology came out rough, unfamiliar, dragged out of him like something stuck too deep.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet, honest in a way that didn’t suit him.

And then he stayed there, close but restless, like he didn’t know what to do with himself without the noise and violence to fill the space. The sharp edges of him dulled, leaving behind something raw and almost boyish — a version of Seongje that rarely existed long enough for anyone to see.