The morning sun did absolutely no favours for the Haewon Villa apartment complex. In the daylight, the peeling paint looked less like "rustic charm" and more like a health code violation.

Inside Room 301, the smell of toasted sesame oil and frying eggs warred with the lingering scent of cardboard boxes. The mustard-yellow sofa sat triumphantly in the centre of the tiny living room, though it was angled awkwardly to hide a suspicious stain on the floorboards.

Song Ha-eun stood at the miniature stove, expertly flipping a rolled omelet. She was already dressed for their freshman orientation in a crisp white blouse and a neat cardigan.

Behind her, Bo-ram was pacing the length of the living room, aggressively brushing her teeth and looking like a conspiracy theorist who had just connected the dots.

"I'm telling you, it's a front," Bo-ram mumbled around her toothbrush, waving a hand toward the wall they shared with Room 302. "He's probably a debt collector. Or an enforcer for the triad. Did you see his knuckles? Those were not 'I tripped on the sidewalk' knuckles. Those were 'I punch people for unpaid loans' knuckles."

Ji-yoon, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor trying to untangle her laptop charger, rolled her eyes. "Bo-ram, you watch too many Netflix thrillers. If he was a triad enforcer, he wouldn't be living in a building where the water pressure drops every time someone flushes on the second floor."

"Criminals need to lay low!" Bo-ram countered, spitting into the sink. "And we just moved next door to John Wick's depressed younger brother. Ha-eun, back me up here."

Ha-eun slid the egg roll onto a plate and turned off the burner. She leaned against the counter, her mind drifting back to the dark stairwell.

"He didn't look like a criminal," Ha-eun said quietly, picking up a pair of chopsticks. "He looked... tired. Really, really tired."

"Serial killers get tired too," Bo-ram pointed out.

"Bo-ram, he could barely walk straight," Ha-eun sighed, dividing the eggs into three portions. "When I tripped, he flinched like he thought I was going to hit him. Enforcers don't flinch at a girl holding cardboard boxes."

"Well, I'm not taking any chances," Ji-yoon declared, finally freeing her charger. "From now on, our policy is absolute invisibility. We do not make eye contact. We do not say hello. We are ghosts who occasionally borrow the WiFi."

Ha-eun just hummed in response, though she couldn't quite shake the image of his wide, exhausted eyes from her mind.

On the other side of the thin wall, Kang Do-jin was currently wishing he was invisible.

He woke up on his thin mattress with a groan that sounded like a rusty gate. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he forced himself to sit up. The adrenaline from last night's fight had completely worn off, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache in his ribs and a sharp sting on his cheek.

He dragged himself to the tiny, mildew-stained bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. The water stung his split lip, but he didn't wince. Pain was a familiar roommate; it was the only thing that had never abandoned him.

He looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The bruise on his cheekbone had blossomed into an ugly mosaic of purple and black. His eyes were hollow. He looked exactly like the monster the girls next door thought he was.

Policy of invisibility, he thought, echoing the muted conversation he had accidentally overheard through the paper-thin walls ten minutes ago. Fine by me.

Do-jin walked back into the main room and picked up his worn wallet from the floor. He opened it. Two crumpled ten-thousand won bills and a few coins stared back at him. It was the meager payout from taking a beating for four rounds. It had to last him until the end of the week.

His stomach gave a violent, hollow rumble. He needed painkillers. He needed bandages. But mostly, he needed calories.

Pulling his oversized black hoodie over his head, he made sure the hood was pulled low to obscure his bruised face. He shoved his swollen hands into his pockets and stepped out into the hallway, praying the girls in Room 301 had already left.

The hallway was empty. He let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding and limped toward the stairs.

The local GS25 convenience store was a glowing oasis of fluorescent light and processed sugar.

Ha-eun stood at the hot water dispenser, carefully pouring steaming water into three paper cups of instant Maxim coffee. Bo-ram was raiding the pastry aisle, and Ji-yoon was arguing with the self-checkout machine.

The bell above the door chimed.

Ha-eun glanced over her shoulder and froze.

It was him. The boy from Room 302.

In the harsh, bright light of the convenience store, he looked even worse than he had in the dark stairwell. His hoodie swallowed his frame, and the limp in his right leg was far more pronounced. He kept his head down, his posture hunched, as if he were trying to shrink himself to the size of a mouse.

Bo-ram, who had just grabbed a melon bread, locked eyes with him from across the aisle. She let out a tiny, high-pitched squeak and immediately dropped into a crouch, hiding entirely behind a display of Pepero boxes.

Do-jin didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't care. He shuffled straight to the back of the store, grabbed a single cup of the cheapest spicy ramen, and headed for the counter. He didn't grab bandages. He didn't grab painkillers. Just the 900-won ramen.

Ha-eun watched as he approached the register next to the hot water dispenser. He pulled a crumpled ten-thousand-won bill from his pocket. His hands were shaking. The knuckles were a horrific shade of red and blue, the skin split and raw.

As he tried to hand the money to the cashier, his bruised fingers failed him. A shiny five-hundred-won coin slipped from his grasp, hit the linoleum floor with a sharp clink, and rolled directly to hit the toe of Ha-eun's sneaker.

Do-jin froze. He stared at the coin by her foot, then slowly looked up.

For the first time, Ha-eun saw his face clearly in the light. Beneath the brutal bruising, his features were sharp but remarkably gentle. There was no aggression in his eyes. Only a deep, paralysing panic. He looked at her like she was a judge about to hand down a sentence.

He didn't move to pick it up. He just stood there, his shoulders tense, bracing for the disgust or the fear he was used to receiving.

Ha-eun didn't scream. She didn't hide behind a Pepero display.

She simply bent down, her cardigan slipping off one shoulder, and picked up the coin. She stood up, took one step toward him, and gently placed the coin on the counter next to his ramen. She didn't let her fingers brush his—instinctively knowing he might flinch, but she made sure he saw the action.

"You dropped this," she said softly, her voice steady and warm.

Do-jin stared at the coin on the counter, then at her. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. He gave a tiny, jerky nod, his eyes darting back to the floor immediately.

"T-thanks," he rasped. His voice was incredibly deep, but rough, like it hadn't been used in days.

He grabbed his ramen, snatched his change, and practically fled out the glass doors, the bell chiming wildly in his wake.

Ha-eun stood at the counter, watching his retreating, hunched figure disappear down the sunlit street.

Bo-ram slowly popped her head up from behind the Pepero display. "Is he gone? Did he threaten you? Should we call the police?"

"No," Ha-eun murmured, her eyes still on the empty street. She thought about his shaking, ruined hands, and the way his voice had cracked over a single syllable. "No, we're not calling the police. I think... I think he's just really lonely."