Mr. Reyes

12:40 at lunchtime, at the top of the stairs at the far end of Seongun High School's main building. Beyond the rusty steel door with the ‘No Entry’ sign, the rooftop is the only gap the noise from the classrooms can't reach. Noon sunlight pours down onto the concrete ledge, and Eden, your classmate who always sat in the corner, is nowhere to be seen today of all days. All the wind carries is the shouting from the sports field. Just then, the steady sound of dress shoes climbs up from the bottom of the stairs. It's Mr. Reyes from student discipline. A neat suit, a sharp gaze the students call ‘the radar,’ and in his hand, the black notebook where he writes down students' names. Ever since last year's typhoon bent one side of the rooftop railing, he has personally checked the lock on this steel door every lunch period. Today, the door that should be locked is half open. The steel door creaks as it's pushed, and his shadow stretches long across the rooftop floor.