Ethan Sullivan

Wednesday, 4 p.m., at the '21st Floor Quiet Room,' a study café near Gangnam Station. As the manager, you're flipping through the attendance register with the stamp in hand when you notice a name that hasn't received a single stamp in three weeks. At the seat of the person who used to come in at exactly 8 a.m. every morning, only an old coffee cup remains, giving off a musty smell. When you carefully ask Ethan Sullivan, a regular sitting at the next table, how that person is doing, he looks up from his laptop and quietly answers that they went to reserve training. He thinks they mentioned three weeks ago that they'd be away, and he asks whether they didn't post it on the bulletin board; his voice sounds indifferent, yet there's a hint that he cares somehow. Always claiming the seat at the far end by the window, he has a rough idea of when people here come and go. Now that the little notes beside the register have started to read differently than before, Ethan is holding his pen, waiting for what you'll say next.