The harsh electronic wail of the alarm clock pierced through the morning silence, dragging Kenji from the depths of sleep. His arm moved with sluggish protest, fingers fumbling across the nightstand until they found the offending device and slammed it into merciful silence.
"Fuck, it's already Monday," he muttered, his voice thick and gravelly from sleep. The words hung in the stale air of his small bedroom like a curse against the inevitable.
Minutes passed before Kenji finally surrendered to consciousness, pushing himself upright with a groan that seemed to echo from his very bones. He stretched his arms wide, feeling the satisfying pop of joints that had been compressed by another restless night. The floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet as he shuffled toward the bathroom, each step a reluctant march toward another day of corporate monotony.
The hot shower did little to wash away his lingering fatigue, but at least it made him feel human again. Steam clouded the small mirror as he toweled off, and for a moment, he caught his reflection—tired eyes staring back at him with the resigned expression of someone who'd long ago accepted their lot in life.
The shrill ring of his phone cut through his post-shower haze just as he stepped back into his bedroom. Chul's name flashed on the screen, and Kenji already knew this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.
"Hey there," Kenji answered, trying to inject some false cheerfulness into his voice.
"Don't 'hey there' me." Chul's voice crackled through the speaker, sharp with barely contained panic. "Where the hell are you, man?"
Something cold settled in Kenji's stomach at the urgency in his friend's tone. "What do you mean where am I? It's still 7:30. Work starts at eight—"
"Don't tell me you forgot about the goddamn presentation, you fucking idiot."
The words hit Kenji like a physical blow. His free hand moved instinctively to his forehead as the memory came crashing back—the presentation, the executives, the months of preparation that could make or break his career trajectory.
"Oh," he breathed, barely audible, praying Chul wouldn't catch his moment of panic.
The silence stretched between them like a taut wire until Kenji forced himself to speak with false confidence. "Of course I didn't forget. You know what? I'll be there at 7:40."
"You better be, so you can still practice your lines—"
Kenji ended the call with a sharp tap, cutting off what he knew would be another lecture. Chul meant well, but his tendency to mother hen everyone could be suffocating, especially when Kenji's own anxiety was already doing a perfectly good job of that.
"I should have just stayed unemployed," he muttered to the empty room, the sarcasm failing to mask his genuine dread.
His movements became mechanical as he dressed—light blue dress shirt, black slacks, polished shoes that pinched slightly but looked the part. The bread he grabbed from his dining table would have to serve as breakfast, a far cry from the leisurely mornings he'd once imagined for himself.
Outside, the morning air carried a hint of moisture that made him glance hopefully at the overcast sky. His small garden looked parched, the plants drooping slightly in their neat rows. Maybe it'll rain later, he thought, feeling a pang of guilt for neglecting them in his rush.
As he approached his gate, a familiar scene unfolded before him. Jiwoo sat cross-legged on the sidewalk just outside Kenji's property line, a small bag of cat food beside him as he gently stroked two scruffy strays. The sight never failed to bring a small smile to Kenji's face—in a world that seemed increasingly harsh, the kid's unwavering kindness felt like a small miracle.
"Jiwoo, you're going to be late for class," Kenji called out, his earlier stress momentarily forgotten.
The boy looked up with those bright, earnest eyes that seemed to see the good in everything. "It's alright, Mr. Kenji. My teacher for first period said last Friday that he'd be absent today."
Kenji crouched beside him, letting his fingers run through the soft fur of the calico cat. The animal purred contentedly, completely trusting—so different from the corporate sharks he'd be facing in twenty minutes.
"Okay. Be safe, kid," he said, giving Jiwoo's shoulder a gentle pat. The simple interaction felt more real than anything waiting for him at the office.
"You too, Mr. Kenji." Jiwoo tilted his head with that innocent perceptiveness that sometimes caught adults off guard. "It looks like you're going to be late for work."
Kenji chuckled, some of his natural confidence reasserting itself. "Don't worry about that, kid. I'll never be late. Never."
As Kenji's figure disappeared around the corner, Jiwoo remained with the cats, reflecting on his neighbor of five years. Before Kenji, the house had belonged to the Wang family—Mr. Wang Jae, his wife, and their twin daughters who used to give Jiwoo candy on holidays. His mother had explained their sudden departure simply: "Better opportunities in America." It was one of those adult explanations that said everything and nothing at once.
Then Kenji had arrived with a single suitcase and a reserved smile, settling into the house like he was trying not to disturb its memories. His mother called him "reserved," someone who preferred solitude, though Jiwoo had learned that wasn't entirely true. Kenji could be surprisingly outgoing when the mood struck him, sharing stories over dinner when Mom invited him over, or helping Jiwoo with his math homework on lazy Sunday afternoons.
The sharp chime of Jiwoo's phone alarm jolted him back to the present. 7:50 AM.
"Oh no. I don't want to be late again," he muttered, quickly gathering his things. "I can still make it if I run."
The school gates came into view as Jiwoo's sneakers pounded against the pavement. Mr. Gi stood at his usual post, and Jiwoo raised his hand in greeting as he sprinted past.
"Good morning, Mr. Gi!"
"Jiwoo, you're late again!" Gi called after him, but his voice carried more resignation than anger, like a man who'd lost a bet he should have known better than to make.
Behind him, his fellow guard Park grinned with satisfaction. "Pay up, Hoon. Told you that kid would be late today, but no—you wanted to make it interesting."
Gi rolled his eyes, pulling out his wallet with theatrical defeat. "Yeah, yeah. I'll pay you when our shift ends."
Park made an exaggerated fist pump before rubbing his thumb and index finger together in the universal gesture for money. "That's what I like to hear."
Jiwoo slipped through the classroom door at 8:06 AM, phone clutched in his sweaty palm. A quick glance through the door's window confirmed what he'd hoped—no substitute teacher sat at the front desk. Sometimes absent teachers were replaced at the last minute, turning what should have been a free period into an unexpected quiz or lecture.
Relief flooded through him as he entered the room, his earlier encounter with the stray cats and his successful sprint to school lifting his spirits. The classroom buzzed with the low chatter of students enjoying their unexpected freedom, but something felt off.
As Jiwoo made his way toward his seat in the middle row toward the back, he noticed a small crowd gathered around Wooin's desk. The new transfer student sat rigidly, surrounded by three students whose presence seemed to suck the warmth from that corner of the room. Jiwoo recognized them—troublemakers from Class B who had a reputation for "welcoming" new students in their own twisted way.
The sound that followed made Jiwoo's stomach clench. A sharp crack echoed through the classroom as one of the bullies' hands connected with the back of Wooin's head. The force was enough to make Wooin's chin drop toward his chest, his shoulders tensing with barely suppressed anger or pain—Jiwoo couldn't tell which.
"What a loser," one of them sneered as they filed past Jiwoo's desk, their voices carrying the casual cruelty that teenagers wielded like weapons. The classroom door slammed behind them with unnecessary force, the sound reverberating in the sudden silence they left behind.
Jiwoo approached Wooin's desk slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Hey, are you okay?" he asked quietly, crouching down to meet the other boy's eye level.
Wooin didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the window, watching something in the distance that only he could see. The silence stretched between them.
After a moment, Jiwoo straightened up and returned to his seat, understanding that some wounds needed space before they could accept help. He pulled out his book, but his eyes kept drifting toward Wooin's rigid silhouette.
What Jiwoo didn't notice was the way Wooin's reflection in the window had shifted, his dark eyes now focused intently on the boy who had bothered to ask if he was okay—the first person in this school to show him even that small kindness.