The stairwell of the Haewon Villa apartment complex always smelled faintly of damp concrete and fermented cabbage. For Kang Do-jin, it was the smell of sanctuary. It meant he had survived another night.

It was 2:15 AM. Do-jin kept his head down, his oversized black hoodie pulled up to hide the swelling on his left cheekbone. His knuckles, stuffed deep into his pockets, were raw and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He took the stairs slowly, favouring his right leg. The underground boxing ring in Itaewon didn't care about fairness; they only cared about blood and money. Do-jin had given them the former to secure the latter.

His breathing was still shallow, the remnants of the panic attack that had seized his lungs in the alleyway behind the venue. It was always the same. The roar of the crowd would morph into the slurred, drunken shouting of his father. The smell of sweat and cheap beer would drag him back to the freezing rural gym where he was nothing but a ten-year-old human punching bag.

Just breathe, he told himself, staring at the scuffed tips of his sneakers. He's dead. He’s dead.

He reached the third floor, expecting the usual suffocating silence of the cheap complex. Instead, he was greeted by the shrill sound of packing tape being ripped from a dispenser and the frantic whispering of three girls.

"I told you the sofa wouldn't fit, Ji-yoon! You measure with a tape measure, not your 'vibes'!"

"My vibes have gotten us this far, Bo-ram! Push it! If we pivot, it’ll go through the door."

Do-jin stopped at the top of the landing. The door to Room 301—the apartment directly next to his—was propped wide open. A massive, hideous mustard-yellow sofa was currently wedged into the doorframe like a cork in a bottle. Three girls, looking like exhausted university freshmen, were currently engaged in a tug-of-war with it.

Do-jin froze. Social interaction was not in his skill set on a good day. Today, with a split lip and the lingering tremors of a panic attack, it was an absolute impossibility. He pressed himself against the wall, hoping to slip past them to his door, Room 302.

"Okay, on three. One, two—"

The girl in the middle, who was pulling the front armrest, suddenly slipped on a stray piece of cardboard. She stumbled backwards, landing squarely on her rear with a soft oof, right at Do-jin’s feet.

This was Song Ha-eun.

She let out a groan, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face, before tilting her head back to look at whatever she had just nearly crashed into.

Do-jin flinched, instinctively pulling his hood down further, his shoulders tensing defensively. He stared fiercely at the floor tiles, praying she wouldn't look closely.

But Ha-eun did look. From her spot on the floor, her eyes widened. She took in the dark, oversized clothes that hung off his lean frame. She saw the fresh, dark purple bruise blooming on his cheek, the split lip that was still slightly glossy with fresh blood, and the raw, unbandaged knuckles gripping the hem of his hoodie like a lifeline.

"Oh my god," the girl named Bo-ram gasped from the doorway, slapping a hand over her mouth. Ji-yoon, the third girl, immediately grabbed the nearest object—a plastic spatula from a half-open box—and held it up like a holy sword as if she could actually fight.

The air in the hallway turned to ice. Do-jin knew exactly what they saw. A thug. A gangster. Someone dangerous who belonged in the dark.

He didn't say a word. He didn't offer to help. He just sidestepped Ha-eun, his eyes glued to the floor, and moved mechanically toward his door. His hands were shaking so badly that it took him three tries to get the key into the lock.

"E-excuse me," Ha-eun’s voice suddenly broke the silence. It was softer than her friends', carrying a warm, melodic tone that felt entirely out of place in the dingy hallway.

Do-jin’s back went rigid. He didn't turn around.

Ha-eun scrambled to her feet, brushing off her jeans. "Are you... Are you okay? Your face is bleeding."

"Ha-eun, shut up!" Bo-ram hissed loudly, pulling on her friend’s sleeve. "Don't make eye contact! Do you want us to die on our first day in Seoul?"

Do-jin didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. He finally shoved the door open, stepped into the pitch-black void of his apartment, and slammed the door shut behind him. The lock clicked with a heavy, final thud.

In the hallway, Ji-yoon slowly lowered her plastic spatula. "Well. That’s terrifying. We're living next to a mafia hitman. I’m breaking the lease. We're moving out."

"Don't be dramatic," Ha-eun murmured, though her eyes were still fixed on the closed door of Room 302.

"Dramatic? Ha-eun, he looked like he just crawled out of a John Wick movie!" Bo-ram practically shrieked, keeping her voice to a furious whisper. "Did you see his knuckles? He definitely beats people up for a living."

Ha-eun picked up the cardboard box she had tripped over. She remembered the way the boy had flinched when she fell toward him. He hadn't looked angry. He hadn't looked threatening. His shoulders had curled inward, and his eyes—the brief second she saw them—were wide and violently exhausted. He hadn't looked like a monster at all.

He looked like someone bracing for a hit.

"Come on," Ha-eun said, turning her attention back to the mustard-yellow sofa. "Let's just pivot the couch. We have classes at eight tomorrow."

Inside Room 302, Do-jin stood in the dark. The apartment was completely bare, save for a thin mattress on the floor and a single folding chair. He leaned his forehead against the cold metal of his front door, listening to the muffled, lively arguing of the girls next door.

For the first time in ten years—ever since his mother passed away and he learned to use isolation to survive—the silence didn't feel like a sanctuary. It just felt cold, ice cold.