Before J, fear was a thing with a face,

the kind that passes you in alleys,

the kind that forgets your name.

After J, fear learned patience.

It learned to smile.

It became being watched,

even when nothing’s there.

People think fear makes you run.

It doesn’t.

It makes you wait.

And in the waiting,

you rot.

By the time Waan turns twenty, he knows three things.

1) His mother is never going to change.

2) Debt collectors don’t knock twice.

3) And Vee, the man who sometimes shows up bleeding and sometimes doesn’t show up at all, isn’t here out of kindness.

That morning he skips breakfast and nearly misses the 8:10 lecture. He spends the class half-listening, half-scrolling through messages from strangers claiming his mother owes them money.

Halfway through the lecture he starts compiling a list of the worst threats and the most creative misspellings of his name. Not because he isn’t afraid, but because pretending to laugh at them helps him breathe.

He’s almost through the last one, something about breaking his legs, signed your pal, Arta :), when another message pops up.

'Where the hell are the groceries? Nothing to eat. U said you’re free this weekend.'

He locks the screen without replying.

She’s forgotten again that he isn’t free. He takes weekend classes at a vocational program. Not his dream, but the only option he can afford. He tried for regular university last year. Even passed the entrance exam. But one look at the fee and he quietly folded the letter like it had insulted him.

Now he’s here with one-fourth the cost and three-fourths the headache. If he squints hard enough, he can still imagine a path where this gets him somewhere better. Maybe even a transfer.

If no one breaks his legs first.

He sighs and tries to refocus on the lecture. Something about constitutional breakdowns. Something he relates to more than he’d like.

By noon he’s at work. A full lunch shift at the restaurant. Hot oil, slammed trays, orders shouted from every direction. Waan moves through it like muscle memory.

Customers smile at him more than others. Some linger too long when handing over receipts. He doesn’t react. He’s long since learned that good looks don’t mean good luck.

It’s after dark when he finally gets home.

The apartment is small. Old building, fourth floor, no lift. He steps inside and kicks off his shoes.

His mother is at the table smoking. Half a bowl of soup sits cold beside her. She’s on her phone. Doesn’t look up.

“Did you bring anything good to eat?”

“No.”

She doesn’t press. Just stubs the cigarette out in a chipped mug and leans back.

He hovers by the table. “The loan sharks are back to harassing me.”

Her eyes flick up, annoyed. “Why do you even answer? Just block them.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple,” she says, waving him off. “You don’t have to take everything so personally. They’re just trying to scare you.”

“You’re really going to say that?”

She sighs. “I said I’ll deal with it. You don’t need to carry everything.”

“You’re not carrying anything,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

He doesn’t repeat it.

She stands and brushes past him. “You always act like I’m the enemy. I’ve done what I can, okay? If your father hadn’t bailed...”

“I don’t even remember the guy,” Waan snaps. “Mentioning him every time won’t fix anything.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then go fix it yourself if you’re so smart.”

He grabs his bag and walks out without slamming the door.

Not out of restraint, just because it might fall off.

Like everything else here.

He walks aimlessly, past a row of shops already closing up, past a couple arguing in the alley, past the stall that used to sell his favorite noodles before the owner got arrested for gambling.

That’s when he sees it. A flyer, cheaply printed, half-ripped, taped at a slant to a lamppost like it’s trying to sneak into the world.

---

---

Shady as hell. Poorly printed. No company name. Probably some scam. Maybe worse.

Still, money is money, and the restaurant barely pays enough to cover utilities, let alone her debts. And if it’s legit? Even half-legit? He could use that face for once.

He takes a photo of the flyer. Then deletes it.

Then goes back and takes it again.

Types a short message to the Line ID, just four words:

“Still hiring for modeling?”

Ping.

He jumps.

The reply comes instantly. No typing bubble. Just:

“Yes. Can you come tonight?”

Waan nearly drops his phone.

He considers ignoring it. Blocking them.

Instead, he types back:

“Where?”

After all, it’s not like anything good waits for him at home. 

He just doesn’t know what this choice will set in motion.