Had anyone ever truly wondered why life wasn't balanced?
Beomgyu often did.
Was it simply because people grew up in different homes, shaped by unique family dynamics and circumstances? It was a practical explanation, sure. But despite that logic, a lingering question always haunted him: Where did evil actually come from?
He'd thought about it many times. According to faith, God created everything—the world, the universe, and humans in His own image and likeness. The first man, Adam, followed by Eve. God had entrusted the world to humankind, tasked them with nurturing it, and spreading peace. By design, all creation was good.
So then... where did evil begin?
If God was goodness itself—pure, radiant, holy—why did evil slither its way into paradise? Why was there a serpent, said to be Satan, in the Garden of Eden at all? If light was all that existed, how did something so dark find its way in?
Beomgyu couldn't help but dwell on it. Did that mean God created evil? Was it meant as a test? If so, why punish generations of innocent people for the sins of two? Why allow temptation into the equation at all, knowing what would follow? If God had the power to stop it—why didn't He?
Couldn't He have erased Adam and Eve and started over?
They were questions Beomgyu didn't dare speak aloud too often. Not because he blamed God, but because his thoughts might offend others. Still, everyone had opinions—ideas, theories, doubts. And the older he grew, the more questions built up, their answers lost somewhere in the fog of faith and fear.
But he paused his thoughts there. He knew too well how sensitive such topics could be. If anyone had been offended, he silently apologized. His curiosity wasn't meant to challenge belief—it was just an honest search for meaning.
Setting those thoughts aside, Beomgyu's mind wandered to another aching truth: friendship.
Did people have real friends? Were they lonely like he was?
He hadn't always been this way. As a child, Beomgyu had been vibrant and cheerful. Surrounded by laughter, he once had friends he considered family. They played together, shared snacks, helped each other through anything. But as time passed, things changed. Friends transferred schools, joined new groups, and slowly, he was left behind.
He tried to keep up with them—reconnect—but the divide had already grown. Eventually, he didn't belong. They moved on, and worse, they turned against him. Some began to mock him, bully him, as if the bond they once had had never existed. Perhaps they were influenced by others. Perhaps they simply changed. But Beomgyu knew one thing: he had always been a loyal friend. Yet not one of them had been there when he needed comfort the most—especially not when his grandmother died.
That grief sealed his isolation. No one showed up. No one cared.
So, he became who he was now—quiet, wary, and emotionally armored. When you loved your friends deeply, but they tossed you aside like you were nothing—it hurt. God, it hurt.
Was he the problem? Or were they?
He didn't know.
Beomgyu had been staring blankly out the window when a soft tap on his shoulder startled him. Blinking, he turned to see a boy with a gentle face leaning close.
"I've been trying to get your attention. The teacher's calling you," the boy whispered.
Beomgyu blinked again. The entire class was staring.
He slowly turned toward the teacher—Choi Soobin—who stood at the front of the room with a slight smile that sent unease crawling up Beomgyu's spine. He was definitely in trouble.
"What's your name?" Soobin asked.
"C-Choi Beomgyu, s-sir," he stammered, voice small.
Soobin smirked, clearly amused by the tension in the room. Beomgyu's body trembled as whispers and soft laughter buzzed around him. This was exactly the kind of humiliation he had dreaded.
"It seems you were in deep thought. Was I too boring to capture your attention, Mister Choi?"
He shook his head silently, unable to find his voice. Soobin motioned for him to stand. His heart pounded so loudly, it drowned out the room.
"What do you think of my subject, hm?"
"G-Good, sir," Beomgyu mumbled.
"Really? Are you interested in biology?"
"N-Not much, sir. I-I only know a few things…"
"Is that so?" Soobin's eyes glinted with mischief. "Well, let me ask you a question. If you get it right, you can leave class and do whatever you want. But if you get it wrong, you're in detention for two hours. Deal?"
Beomgyu gulped, panic rising in his chest as the pressure mounted.
"They say that only ten percent of our brain functions, and the rest is unused. If that's true, how can we access one hundred percent of our brain?"
The room fell silent. All eyes were glued to him.
Beomgyu shut his eyes for a second and inhaled deeply. Then, gathering his courage, he replied:
"All humans—especially healthy ones—do use their whole brain. The brain has different regions, each responsible for specific functions. It doesn't work like separate machines turning on and off. Instead, it operates through complex interactions between those parts. If ninety percent of our brain truly went unused, then that portion would degenerate. But brain scans show that all regions are intact and active in healthy individuals. So the claim is a myth."
Gasps rippled through the class. Even Soobin raised his eyebrows in surprise before breaking into a slow clap.
"Not bad, Choi Beomgyu. I'm impressed. Since you got it right, you may leave. Think of it as a prize for answering a difficult question."
Beomgyu blinked in disbelief.
Was he serious?
Students groaned in protest, some glaring at him as if he'd just won the lottery. Beomgyu felt the weight of their resentment but held his head a little higher.
"Don't worry," Soobin said, smiling. "That was your graded recitation. Just make sure to pay attention next time, okay? Now, off you go."
As Beomgyu picked up his bag, the boy beside him whispered, "Cool."
Beomgyu glanced at him. The boy's smile was innocent, childlike. There was something strangely warm about it. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't like the others. But Beomgyu reminded himself not to trust too quickly. Appearances could deceive.
With heavy footsteps and a racing heart, he exited the classroom, ignoring the judgmental stares aimed his way.
He sighed as he checked the time on his phone. "Guess I'll just go to the cafeteria and read. I still have time before my next class," he muttered to himself.
Eyes on his screen, he didn't notice the uneven floor ahead—and tripped.
Before he could hit the ground, someone caught him.
"Are you okay?" a voice asked, gentle and concerned.
Beomgyu looked up and froze.
The man had glasses perched on his nose and held a stack of books. His hair was stylishly swept back, and his outfit was effortlessly elegant. Beomgyu's breath hitched. He'd seen attractive people before, but this man? He looked like he stepped straight out of a fairytale.
Beomgyu stood frozen, heart pounding. His thoughts scrambled like static noise.
The man smiled kindly and ruffled Beomgyu's hair. "Be careful next time."
And just like that, he walked away.
Beomgyu stared after him, still processing what had happened. Who was he? There was something about the man—something more than looks. A quiet depth, maybe even kindness. He didn't know him, and yet his presence lingered, vivid and confusing.
Beomgyu's cheeks flushed as he stood there, dazed.
Was this just an awkward accident... or the beginning of something?
He didn't have the answer.
Not yet.