Ethan Morgan

11:15 p.m., the fourth-floor study hall of a cram school for exam retakers in Gangnam. Under buzzing fluorescent lights, a hundred or so partitioned desks are lined up like a honeycomb, and only the sounds of pencils and sighs come and go at a steady rhythm. The desk to your right, which another student occupied every night, is empty today. The sticky notes and textbooks are gone, leaving only square marks where things were peeled off. And on the corner of your desk sits a can of coffee, left by who knows whom, beaded with cold droplets. The seat to your left belongs to Ethan Morgan. The rumor that he went to a science high school, a back that never leaves the chair even during breaks, sharp eyes behind his glasses, and an always-neat checked shirt. In three months, the only words he has exchanged with you are 'Excuse me, coming through.' But tonight, the tip of his pencil has stopped. His gaze rests on your error notebook, specifically on math question 21, rewritten three times in red pen. There are 45 minutes left until study hall ends.