The air inside the orientation hall had turned stifling. What was once a celebration now felt like a room full of blurred edges and sharp, dissonant laughter. The smell of cheap soju and fried snacks, which I usually find tolerable in small doses, now felt like it was coating the back of my throat. My heart wasn't just beating; it was thrumming with a frantic, rhythmic pulse that had nothing to do with the music.
Danoh was gone.
The empty plastic cup on the table looked like an accusation. I stood frozen for a second, my phone still warm in my hand from Harin's call. Jeonghan was busy laughing with a group of seniors, his face flushed with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere. I didn't. I belonged in the shadows, observing. But the observer had lost his subject, and for the first time in my life, the silence I usually craved felt like a vacuum, sucking the oxygen out of my lungs.
I didn't think. I didn't plan. I simply turned and walked out.
The hallway was a stark contrast to the hall—long, dimly lit, and echoing with the distant hum of the ventilation system. My footsteps sounded like thunder to my own ears. I walked toward the exit, my eyes scanning every shadow, every doorway. Where would she go? Why did she leave so abruptly?
I reached the corridor leading toward the restrooms and the back stairwell. The light here was flickering, casting long, rhythmic shadows against the linoleum. And then, I saw it.
A small, slumped figure was tucked into the corner of the hallway, sitting on the floor. Her back was against the cold white tiles, and her head was buried deep between her knees, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs as if she were trying to make herself disappear.
I stopped. My breath hitched.
"Excuse me?" I whispered. My voice felt foreign, brittle.
She didn't move. A soft, jagged sound reached my ears—a sob. It was the sound of someone trying to be quiet and failing, a fragile, broken noise that cut through my chest like a physical blade. I moved closer, my movements slow, as if approaching a wounded animal. As I stepped into the light, I saw her face—or what I could see of it. Her hair was messy, and her shoulders were shaking.
But it was when I looked down that my blood turned to ice.
Her right leg was extended slightly, and there, staining the white fabric of her sock and trailing down her ankle, was blood. A lot of it. A jagged tear in her jeans revealed a nasty scrape, the skin raw and angry.
"Danoh," I said.
I didn't say 'Park Danoh.' I didn't say 'Student.' I said her name. It was the first time I had ever let it cross my lips aloud, and it felt like a confession.
She flinched at the sound, her head snapping up. Her eyes were glazed, swimming in tears and the hazy fog of alcohol. Her cheeks were a deep, feverish pink. She looked at me for a long, agonizing moment, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, recognition flickered in her gaze.
"Jeon... Hanbin?" she choked out.
Before I could respond, she reached out. Her hands were small and trembling, but she grabbed my cheeks, her palms hot against my skin. She pulled my face closer to hers, her touch desperate.
"Jeon Hanbin," she repeated, her voice cracking. Her eyes searched mine, full of a terrifying mix of relief and sorrow.
I didn't pull away. I couldn't. The warmth of her hands felt like it was seeping into my bones, breaking down every wall I had ever built. "What happened?" I asked, my voice low and urgent, my hands instinctively reaching up to steady her wrists. "How did this happen to you?"
"That... that senior," she whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. "He was chasing me... when I went to the washroom. He wouldn't leave me alone. He kept... trying to touch..."
She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't have to. A cold, murderous rage flared in my gut—a feeling so intense it scared me. Someone had tried to... and she had run. She had run until she fell, run until she bled, just to get away.
"I ran," she sobbed, her head falling forward against my chest. "I tripped. It hurts, Jeon Hanbin. It hurts so much."
"I've got you," I murmured, the words coming out before I could stop them. I looked at her leg again. The wound was dirty; it needed cleaning immediately. "You can't walk like this. Your leg is badly hurt."
She tried to shift, let out a sharp hiss of pain, and collapsed back against the wall.
"Let me carry you," I said. It wasn't a question.
I moved purposefully, turning my back to her and crouching down. I felt her hesitate for a heartbeat, then her weight settled against me. Her arms looped around my neck, her breath warm and smelling faintly of strawberries and soju against the nape of my neck. I stood up, hoisting her into a piggyback ride. She was lighter than I expected—fragile, like a bird with a broken wing.
I walked out of the building, ignoring the few students lingering outside. The night air was crisp, but I didn't feel the cold. All I felt was the steady rhythm of her heart against my back and the dampness of her tears soaking into my jacket.
There was a 24-hour pharmacy a few blocks from the campus gates. I walked fast, my jaw set. When I pushed open the glass door, the bell chimed sharply. An older man behind the counter looked up, his bored expression instantly vanishing into one of shock.
"Aigoo! Danoh-ya!" he exclaimed, rushing from behind the counter. "What happened? What is this?"
I felt Danoh stir against my shoulder. "Ajusshi..." she mumbled, her voice fading.
The man looked at me, his eyes sharp with worry. I adjusted my grip on her. "She fell," I said shortly, keeping the story simple for her sake. "She's hurt and she's had a bit too much to drink."
The pharmacist's face went pale. "Wait here, let me get the kit. I need to call her uncle. I'll call him right now!"
He scrambled to the back, pulling out a phone. My mind raced. Uncle? I stood there, Danoh's weight becoming the only thing keeping me grounded. A few minutes later, the door swung open again. A man in his late 40s, wearing a white apron over a casual sweater, burst in. He looked frantic, his eyes darting until they landed on us.
"Danoh! Is she okay?" he gasped, reaching for her.
I stepped back instinctively, shielding her. My protective instincts were on high alert. I didn't know this man. I didn't know the pharmacist. In this state, she couldn't defend herself.
"Wait," I said, my voice hardening. "How do I know who you are? How do I know I can trust either of you?"
The man stopped, blinking in surprise. The pharmacist stepped forward. "Student, it's okay. This is her uncle. He owns the restaurant right next door."
I looked at the man, my eyes narrowed. "Anyone can claim to be an uncle. Give me a reason to believe you."
The man stared at me for a second, and then, slowly, a small, knowing smile broke across his face. It wasn't a mocking smile; it was one of realization. He gestured toward the restaurant visible through the pharmacy window—a familiar, cozy place with steamed windows.
"I've seen you before," the uncle said softly. "In my restaurant. You used to come in with a taller guy—your brother, maybe? You'd sit in the corner and stare at Danoh while she was helping me out. You're the quiet one who never ordered anything but the beef soup."
The breath left my body. My secret—the one I had guarded for years—felt like it had been laid bare in the middle of a brightly lit pharmacy. He had seen me. He knew.
"I'm her uncle," he continued, his voice softening. "She doesn't just work there for money; she helps me because I'm family. Now, please, let me see her."
I felt a flush of heat creep up my neck. "I... I'm sorry, Uncle," I muttered, bowing my head as much as I could with Danoh on my back. "I didn't realize. I just wanted to be sure."
"It's alright," he said, patting my arm. "You did well to protect her. Put her down on the chair here."
"No," I said firmly, the stubbornness returning. "Let me carry her to the back. I've got her. I'll stay until the wound is dressed."
The uncle looked at me, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. "What is your name, student?"
I took a breath, feeling the weight of the girl who had occupied my thoughts for three years, now finally within reach.
"Jeon Hanbin," I said clearly. "I'm a freshman in her department."
"Jeon Hanbin," the uncle repeated, nodding. "Well, Hanbin-ah, thank you for bringing her home."
As the pharmacist began to clean her wound and Danoh drifted into a troubled sleep against the chair, I stayed. I sat by her side, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders. The world was still loud, and the future was still uncertain, but as I sat in that quiet pharmacy, the silence finally felt like it belonged to me.
I wasn't just an observer anymore. I was a part of her story. And I wasn't going anywhere.