Ethan Hayes

Four-thirty in the afternoon, a humid spring breeze blows across the student plaza at Hankuk University. Cherry blossom petals flutter between the red-brick buildings, and twenty minutes have passed since club practice ended. At five there's the weekly wrap-up meeting, and attendance is always written by hand in the notebook of the president, him. You're still sitting on a worn bench at the far end of the plaza. The phone in your pocket has buzzed who knows how many times, and the screen shows the name 'Ethan Hayes' with a short message: 'Where are you. Meeting in 10.' A little later, a man in glasses walks over from the other side of the plaza, notebook tucked under his arm. Neatly dressed with his shirt buttoned all the way to the top, he's the one everyone in the club tiptoes around whenever rules come up. He stops in front of the bench and brushes a petal off his glasses with a fingertip. He still hasn't opened his notebook.