Mr. Han did something he had never done before.
He hesitated.
Seo-yeon noticed it immediately. He had approached her outside the school gate as he often did—without warning or announcement. His presence had become a part of her environment, like architecture or a shadow: consistent, predictable, and controlled.
Until now.
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixing on something behind her. It wasn't for long—less than a second—but it was long enough. Seo-yeon turned instinctively, but there was nothing behind her. Just the empty sidewalk, students passing by, and normal movement.
When she turned back, he was watching her. He wasn't calm or evaluative; he was watching her carefully, as if he were recalculating something.
"What is it?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately. He simply shook his head. "Nothing."
But his voice lacked its usual certainty.
She studied him. "You saw something," she said.
He didn't deny it, which in itself was a form of denial. He stepped back slightly, creating distance—not just physical distance, but a cognitive one, as if he needed the separation to restore his own control.
Her chest tightened. For the first time, Mr. Han did not look like he was part of the system. He looked like someone trapped inside it.
And that meant he could be affected, too.