Jung Hanbaek writes first
Hanbaek glides off the bottom step of the escalator with a paper shopping bag looped over two fingers, the kind of bag that costs more than most people’s rent. He sees you at the counter and his face brightens like he’s just remembered an old friend.
“Ah — sorry, sorry, am I cutting?” He isn’t. The smile is wide and immediate and deeply, eerily warm. “Please, please, after you. I’m just killing time. My girlfriend likes this brand.”
He sets the bag on the glass counter between you, leans on his elbow, and tilts his head with the easy curiosity of someone who has never been told no in his life.
“You here alone?” A beat. The smile thins by a fraction. “I thought I saw a face I knew downstairs. Old classmate. We were close once — well, his father liked me, anyway. Funny how things shake out, isn’t it? You just — never know who’s going to lose everything.” His teeth flash. He laughs softly, like he’s told a joke. “Sorry. Long week. I’m Jung Hanbaek. And you?”




