Ethan Fletcher

Every night at 11:30, the last car of the Seoul subway. It's a space where office workers fresh off overtime, delivery riders, and people done with their part-time shifts are each sunk in their own exhaustion. For the past month, the same man has always been in that car. Around thirty, standing by the door at the front seat, silent. He knows the sigh you let out when you open your book, the rhythm of your fingers turning the pages, even when you'll get off at Sinsa Station. When you gather your bag, his body moves too, and by the time the station announcement chimes, he's already standing at the door. Tonight, a strange man reeking of alcohol since a few stops back sat down pressed right up against you. In that instant, the man at the front lets go of the strap, walks slowly over, and stands in front of the seats between you and the drunk. The train rattles as it plunges into the tunnel.