Kang Min‑Jae sat in his black Honda, the engine running quietly as he tied his long hair back. His brown coat rested neatly over his shoulders. He pulled out of the hotel garage, made the turn onto the street, and blended into traffic like anyone else starting their day.
He waited at the stoplight, calm, nothing unusual in his expression. When the light changed, he drove normally toward the ramen shop he always visited.
He parked, stepped out, and walked inside.
At the counter he said, "Two bowls of ramen. Egg and beef on the side."
The cook nodded. "It'll be ready in a moment. This is your order number."
Min‑Jae took the number and sat down. He scrolled through the news on his phone. A YouTube video popped up — someone ranting about a conspiracy theory, saying the Korean police were hiding something big. A theory was a theory. Nothing good came from it. He ignored it and kept scrolling.
Five minutes later, his order was ready. He picked up the two bowls and sat again.
He ate quietly.
He always ordered two bowls. One for himself. One for his daughter. She used to love ramen more than he did. That was why he kept coming here. The staff never understood why he always ordered two, but he never explained it.
He lifted his chopsticks and took a careful bite of the steaming noodles, letting the warmth roll down his throat. The shop smelled of broth and fried onions, familiar and comforting, a small slice of normalcy in a world that had offered him so little. For a moment, he could almost hear her laughter.
Soon, Min‑Jae finished the last of the broth, set the bowls on the counter, and stepped outside. The morning air was cold enough that his breath came out in pale clouds. He walked back to his car, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.
His phone buzzed through the car speakers. He answered without looking.
"Yeah?"
Park Joon‑Ho's voice came through. "We're still meeting at that restaurant I told you about, right? Don't take forever this time."
"I won't," Min‑Jae said.
"Good. See you later."
The call ended. He drove the rest of the way in silence.
When he reached the school, students were already crowding the front gate. Their voices were too loud, too excited. Something was off. He parked, got out, and walked toward them.
A fight was happening behind the gate.
Min‑Jae didn't shout. He didn't run. He walked straight through the crowd, pushing students aside with one hand. Two boys were on the ground, swinging at each other. One already had a swollen, bleeding nose. The other had blood on his teeth.
"Enough," Min‑Jae said.
They froze. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
He pointed at a nearby student. "Take him to the nurse. Now."
"Yes, sir," the boy said, quickly helping the injured one up before hurrying off.
Min‑Jae looked at the other boy — the one bleeding from his mouth. His expression stayed cold.
"I want to see you after school," he said. "Bring your parents."
The boy didn't argue. He just walked away, jaw tight.
Twenty minutes later, Min‑Jae was in his classroom, setting his books on the desk, waiting for the first bell to Ring.