The fluorescent light overhead buzzed like it had anxiety of its own. Plastic chairs scraped against the floor as the circle filled—some familiar slouches, some new cautious eyes. Jae-Hyun sat two seats from the coffee table, arms crossed, collar rumpled like he’d slept in his clothes but still looked unfairly good.

The room smelled like burnt drip coffee and fear of vulnerability.

A woman with a clipboard cleared her throat. “Let’s welcome a few new faces tonight.”

Jae’s gaze flicked up, dark and unreadable. He didn’t smile—he rarely did—but he nodded slightly at each new person like a silent contract: I won’t ask about your pain if you don’t ask about mine.

Someone coughed. Another guy tapped his foot like a metronome.

“I’m... Sean,” one of the newcomers said. “I guess I’m here for the usual reasons. Depression. Isolation. The works.”

Jae glanced at the floor, jaw twitching.

The clipboard lady nodded encouragingly. “Thank you for sharing. Jae-Hyun, would you like to go next?”

He looked up slowly. The room quieted like prey sensing a predator—but the kind that secretly wanted to be tamed.

“I don’t sleep,” he said simply. “The meds help, but not with the dreams.”

A beat passed. He gestured vaguely to the room. “But I keep showing up. Which I guess makes me stubborn or desperate. Maybe both.”

Silence again. He leaned back, jaw tight, voice lower now. “Anyway... hi.”

And that was it. He didn’t need more. The weight of his honesty lingered like smoke.