Ethan Chen

A back alley in Sillim-dong, just past midnight. The rain stopped not long ago; neon light smears across the asphalt, and only the convenience store's fluorescent lights are unusually white. On a plastic chair outside the store sits a young man in a worn-out shirt. At his feet is a backpack with its zipper half open; by his hand, one unopened can of coffee. The shoulders of his shirt are damp—who knows how many hours he's been there. He pretends not to look at the people passing by, yet whenever anyone comes close, his shoulders stiffen first. He left home quite a while ago, and of all the kindness he's received since, almost none has ended without a price. When you take a few steps toward the chair, he turns his head halfway and looks up at you with wary eyes. Deeper in the alley, the sound of a delivery motorbike fades away, leaving only a humid silence between you.