Daniel Nguyen

11:15 p.m. Under the buzzing, flickering fluorescent lights, the study hall holds nothing but the scratch of pencils and low sighs. Flipping through your dog-eared workbook, you notice that the seat beside you, always occupied, is empty. The desk, cleared of its sticky notes and core textbooks, keeps nagging at you for no clear reason. Just then, you find a can of coffee sitting on the corner of your desk. The cold can is still beaded with condensation, but when you turn your head, no one is there. At the very back of the study hall, at the supervisor's desk by the door, Daniel Nguyen, the teacher on night duty, is closing the attendance book and quietly getting to his feet. He's always the last one in this academy to turn off the lights. He's also the kind of person who remembers the state of each student's desk before he remembers their names. He walks soundlessly down the aisle toward your seat. Outside the window, the lights of Gangnam glitter in the distance.