Morning came gray and slow, the kind of dull light that made everything look washed out. The rain had stopped, but the smell of wet asphalt lingered.
Yoon sat quietly at one of the restaurant tables in his school uniform. Dozing off quietly. He spent almost the whole night trying to figure out why and what was happening to him.
His father's voice came in from the kitchen. "Eat before it gets cold."
The restaurant below their small apartment was already alive: the sizzle of oil, the clatter of pans, the smell of broth and soy.
Ordinary. safe
And yet, everything felt different.
His little brother came running in, hair sticking up; the thread between them was bright, bouncing yellow. Curiosity. Excitement.
He forced a smile.
"Yoon! Last night on the news, the cops…"
His mother snapped, "Eat first. Talk later."
Yoon just nodded. He could see it, the thread from his mother to his brother, trembling. She was a bit annoyed.
The threads told stories no one else could see, and he didn't know yet whether to be afraid or amazed.
After the meal, he got his middle school brother to his bus and cycled to school.
The morning air still smelled of rain and asphalt as he rolled into the school gate on his old bike, the chain squeaking softly with each turn. He parked it by the fence, where other students' bicycles leaned in a messy line, half of them missing reflectors or rusted from too many wet mornings.
Behind him, the soft purr of an engine cut through the chatter. A sleek, black luxury car glided to a stop in front of the main entrance. The tinted window slid down, and the driver hurried out to open the back door.
Out stepped Max.
His shirt collar was halfway down, and a silver chain resting against his chest caught the light. A designer watch gleamed on his wrist, something that probably cost more than most families' monthly rent. His tie hung loose around his neck, not tied but styled, like rebellion made fashionable. Even his shoes broke uniform code, polished leather, not regulation black.
He adjusted his sunglasses, glanced once towards the crowd gathering near the gate, and smirked. The whispers started immediately.
"That's max again."
"His dad is loaded."
"Did you hear he bought a car before graduation?
Yoon didn't bother looking twice. He wheeled his bike into the rack, locked it, and slung his worn bag over his shoulder. His uniform was clean but faded, sleeves rolled up neatly. His shoes were still damp from the ride, and his hands still smelled faintly of oil from tightening his brakes on the way.
As he passed the luxury car, its mirror caught his reflection, one student walking, another one being escorted.
Max was one of the privileged students at school. The kind who never lined up for lunch or worried about uniform checks. His father was rumored to have ties with a major gang, and whether true or not, no one dared to test it. The teachers looked the other way, the bullies walked free, and money decided what counted as trouble.
Yoon stepped through the school gate, unnoticed, the hum of gossip fading behind him.
…
The hallways buzzed with noise as usual, but everywhere he looked, invisible strings connected people like puppet lines. Friends, rivals, crushes, bullies. All tangled, glowing in faint color. He could consciously blink and lose them, or bring them back, something he learned while pondering last night.
"Yoh Yoon."
His friend Charles waved a hand in front of his face. Gym bag slung over one shoulder; his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal lean arms. He grinned—the kind of grin that had half the class sighing and the other half trying to imitate it. "You good? I heard someone almost died on last night's raid trying to deliver chicken." He said with a chuckle.
Yoon flashed an awkward smile. "Must have heard that from your dad, huh?"—Charles' dad was a police officer.
Beside him trailed Oliver, already munching on popcorn from a crumbled paper bag.
"Man, I told you he'd show up. Yoon's too broke to skip school—he'd miss the free WIFI," Oliver said, mouth half full.
Yoon smirked. "You've been eating since breakfast, Ollie."
"That was a warm-up," Oliver replied, tossing a popcorn into his mouth and missing completely. "Breakfast is the prequel. Lunch is the main story."
They both laughed.
"When are you quitting your gig, man?"
The three of them walked to class together, their laughter mixing with the morning chatter. Threads of soft orange stretched between them—warm, steady, and alive. Emitting warmth, comfort, playfulness, and lighthearted connection.
Minutes later, after the morning bell, a teacher walked into their class, and all the murmurs and laughter died down. All the threads connecting to the teacher shifted to dull gray. They screamed forced obedience.
By lunch, the colors and vibrations had become almost overwhelming. Every whisper, every smile, every lie—the threads reacted, hummed faintly at the edge of his sight.
He began to understand: this wasn't just sight. It was perception.
A truth no one else could hear.
…
The last bell rang, and the hallway emptied faster than usual.
Yoon slung his bag over one shoulder and stepped out, joining Charles and Oliver by the lockers.
A cluster of students had gathered nearby — shoves, sneers, a few muttered insults cutting through the noise.
"Rugby and football club again," Oliver muttered, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
Yoon glanced over. Focusing on the red threads connecting the two groups, taut and vibrating with tension. Anger pulsed like a red current, thick and quick, snapping and fraying at the edges. Fear curled beneath it, a thin silver line that trembled from the smaller kids in the back, unsure if they'd get caught in the chaos.
They stepped past the scene. Outside, the air had that faint metallic taste of evening rain, and the streets were slick and shiny under the fading sun. They each grabbed their bikes from the racks.
"Race to the corner?" Charles asked.
"You're on," Oliver replied, wobbling slightly under his round frame, but grinned anyway.
Yoon mounted his bike, letting the others speed ahead.
The ride home was familiar — quiet streets, the smell of damp concrete, the distant hum of traffic.
But everything felt different now.
He could sense what lay beneath the surface.
Who was happy.
Who was stressed.
Who walked on eggshells around whom.
It wasn't just intuition.
It was something else — something new.
The threads shimmered faintly around people as he passed, tugging and pulsing with emotion.
At home, he dropped his bag by the door. The scent of fried dumplings and soy sauce hit him—his parents' small restaurant always smelled like warmth and work. He waved at his little brother, who was glued to a handheld game, and didn't stop.
He picked up his black delivery box and adjusted it on the back seat, making sure it clicked firmly into place.
The central hub wasn't far — a modest warehouse with a flickering neon sign that buzzed faintly in the evening air.
A few people milled around outside, jackets zipped, eyes on their phones.
Yoon walked past them, opened the app, and scanned the list of available deliveries.
He tapped a few — light enough to carry, all headed to the same side of the city.
A box of kids' toys from another town.
A couple of sealed envelopes.
And some small packages, probably online orders — shoes, maybe, or phone parts.
He stepped up to the counter, where an old man sat hunched over a steel mug, steam curling from it.
His glasses had slipped low on his nose.
"Old man," Yoon called as he showed his QR code.
"Ah…you again," the old man muttered, squinting at him. "Wait…no, that's not right. Did I forget you already?" he shook his head, chuckling at himself. It wasn't just Yoon—the old man seemed to forget everyone eventually, as if names and faces dissolved in his memory like steam from his coffee.
He scanned Yoon's code, and items were delivered on the counter by a younger man who moved quickly and efficiently.
"Take this, too. Its destination is on your route," the old man said, handing yoon a plain gray envelope with only an address scrawled across the front.
"The owner didn't want it listed on the app. You'll get your pay upon arrival."
He went back to sipping his coffee slowly.
Yoon took the envelope, added it to the rest, and packed everything into the delivery crate.
He locked it, double-checked the route, and pedaled off.