002 No Country for Young Men

It happens in an instant.

One moment, I'm falling, drowning, lost in a void of hue I'm not supposed to be seeing. Then next, I'm here.

Korea. Seoul, Gangbuk Middle School. 

A classroom. Recess.

I look down. I'm small. Too small. My hands are pale, almost sickly. Bones jut out from beneath the skin like they're trying to escape. 

The ground beneath me feels too solid, too real. 

I touch my face, my hair—light brown, shaggy. Not mine. Not mine at all.

Dowoon Lee. That's the name that comes to me, uninvited.

Ghosts whisper in my ear.

 Fifteen years old. A kid.

And then—pain. A foot slams into my side, sending me sprawling to the ground.

Laughter. Three of them. Burly. Savage. Faces twisted in mockery, voices dripping with disdain. "Still haven't removed the dye, huh?" one sneers. 

"The teacher let you keep this hair colour?"

I try to speak, to explain that it's natural, that I haven't dyed it. But the words stick in my throat, strangled by the sudden, overwhelming realisation that I don't belong here. 

This isn't me. This isn't my life. 

I'm not the one trying to make those words out.

Then, another kick. Harder this time. The force of it knocks the breath out of me. And just like that, something snaps. A connection severed. 

My soul wrenched from this frail, teenage body. And in its place—me.

The old me. The real me. The me that knows pain, knows violence, knows what it means to fight.

But I'm still here. Still trapped in this deficient, fragile form. 

The dizziness hits me first, the disorientation, and then the weight of what just happened crushes down. 

No time for panic, no time for questions. Because then, one of them punches me in the gut, and all that fear and confusion boils into something darker, something primal.

They don't expect me to hit back.

The first punch doesn't land the way I want it to. 

It grazes the side of the first bully's nose, a glancing blow that splits skin but doesn't break bone. He grunts, staggering back, but he's not down. Not yet.

The other two see this. They're not laughing anymore. They see the blood, smell the violence in the air, and something shifts. This isn't fun for them now. This is real.

The second one charges at me, fists clenched, his eyes wild. He's faster than I thought. Stronger, too. His fist slams into my ribs, hard, and I feel something crack. The pain shoots through me, but I don't go down. Not yet.

I grab his arm, twist, and drive my knee into his gut. He gasps, doubling over, but he's not out. He swings wildly, catching me in the jaw. My vision blurs, stars exploding behind my eyes, but I hold on. I have to hold on.

Around us, the classroom is deathly quiet. The students aren't just watching anymore—they're frozen. Some are edging back, pressing themselves against the walls, eyes wide with something more than just curiosity. It's fear. The kind of fear that crawls under your skin and stays there.

The first one's back on his feet, wiping the blood from his nose. He sneers, and before I can react, his fist crashes into my stomach. I double over, gasping for air that won't come. 

He doesn't stop. He grabs my hair, yanks my head back, and slams his knee into my face rather sloppily.

Blood sprays from my nose, spurting wild. My head spins, and for a moment, I think I might go down. But I can't. Not yet.

The third one moves in, silent and steady. He doesn't waste time with taunts or threats. He just grabs me by the collar and slams me into the nearest desk. My back arches, pain exploding up my spine. He lifts me up, ready to do it again, but I kick out, catching him in the knee. He grunts, falters, and I take the chance.

I twist free, ignoring the pain that screams through my body, and swing wildly. My fist connects with his temple, a solid, meaty thud. 

His eyes roll back slightly, and he crumples. Not out, but close enough.

They're tougher than I expected. Meaner. But I'm still standing. 

Barely.

The first one grabs me from behind, locking his arm around my throat. The room tilts, my vision narrowing to a tunnel. I can hear his breath in my ear, hot and ragged. 

I reach back, clawing at his arm, my nails digging into flesh. But he holds tight, squeezing, choking the life out of me.

In the corner of my eye, I see the second one coming at me again, fist raised. It's over, I think. This is it.

But then, something snaps. A flash of lucidity, or maybe just sheer desperation. I slam my head back, hard. His grip loosens, just enough for me to twist out of it. 

My vision clears, just in time to see the second one's fist swinging toward my face.

I duck, barely avoiding the blow, and drive my elbow into his ribs. He wheezes, stumbling back. And then I'm on him, fists flying, not caring where they land as long as they land somewhere.

The room is spinning. My body's screaming at me to stop, to let go, but I can't. I don't. I keep swinging until they're all down. Until they're groaning and bleeding and broken.

Until they're afraid. 

They'll smell the weakness, and they'll come for me again. And again. And again.

The third one tries to run, but I'm on him before he can take two steps. I grab his shirt, yank him back to the first guy, and smash his head against the ground. He goes limp. I don't stop. I can't stop.

This is what it takes.

When it's over, I'm standing in the middle of the schoolyard, breathing hard, my fists clenched, blood dripping from my knuckles. They're on the ground, groaning, broken. Beaten.

And I'm still standing.

I should feel triumphant. I should feel relieved. But all I feel is tired. I'm so tired. Because I know this isn't the end. Not really. It never is.

This is the part where everything is supposed to change. But it doesn't. One intervention doesn't change a life.

Because nothing ever does.

The classroom is a blur of faces, all wide-eyed and slack-jawed. The blood from my knuckles drips onto the floor, and the adrenaline that had kept me going is fading fast.

My breathing is ragged, each inhale sharp, like I'm sucking in glass.

And then I see him. Taehun.

Around us, the classroom is silent. 

'No one move' 

No one dares to breathe. Because they've seen it now. They've seen what it looks like when someone fights like there's nothing left to lose.

He stands out, tall, like he doesn't belong here. Like he's a giant in a room full of ants. 

His bowl-cut hair is too neat, his skin too perfect, muscles coiled beneath his uniform like they're just waiting for the right moment to spring. 

Black shears and slitted eyes the way they are in portraits of Asian models. Flares of his collar stand up with his pupils, and they come together with mine.

Nutjob.

His eyes—dark brown, long lashes—flick over the scene, and there's something in them. Amusement, maybe. Curiosity.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate. The kind of guy who seems like he'll rock your world with some cringe catchphrase. His gaze settles on me, and for a second, I think he's going to walk right past.

But then he stops, tilts his head, and lets out a low whistle.

"Not bad," he says, voice smooth, almost lazy. "Didn't think you had it in you."

My mouth is dry. The words stick in my throat. But before I can respond, he moves. Faster than I can register. A blur of motion, and then—

Crack.

A spinning dropkick. The air explodes from my lungs as his foot slams into my chest. My body crumples like paper, crashing into desks, legs tangled up in metal and wood. The world tilts, and for a moment, I see nothing but the ceiling, lights swimming above me.

Then the pain hits. 

A deep, bone-shaking pain that radiates from my chest to every corner of my body.

Why's this motherfucker's hair brown?

His voice, sharp and dismissive, cuts through the haze. 

And then gasps. The whole class, sucking in air like they're the ones who just got kicked.

Everything's fading. The adrenaline's gone. Replaced by something hot and heavy.

My vision blurs, edges darkening, and I know I'm slipping. Consciousness is a thin thread, fraying, snapping.

But before it goes, before the blackness takes me, I see him. 

Nutjob, standing over me, hands in his pockets. Casual. Like this is just another day for him. Like I'm nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

The beaten dog-eared book way my cheek had ended up, you thought I was a gang violence victim.

Then two hands stretch out from the sides of my vision. Right hands. One with a cigarette, the other with a neon green lighter. Offered like tribute, accepted without a word. Turtle spirit done right.

The last thing I see before everything goes dark is the flicker of flame, the curl of smoke, and Taehun's indifferent gaze as he looks down at me.

And then—nothing.