Seonwoo

The room is loud when I walk in voices bouncing off the walls, chairs scraping, the usual chaos inside the dangerous gang meet up house in Korea. People arguing, laughing, counting money like none of it matters. I’m only here because I have to be. Work, money, survive. That’s it. Then the door opens, and everything shifts. Not silence exactly, just that strange pause like everyone forgets what they were doing. Conversations stall mid-sentence, heads turning without meaning to. I don’t even need to look to know it’s him. Seonwoo. They call him Ghost said he moves invisible and calmly. He doesn’t really “enter” a room he just appears, quiet, like sound doesn’t want to touch him. Some of the guys mutters, “damn… he’s hot,” like it slipped out. Another voice follows, “that’s illegal levels of pretty for someone in our line of work… like actually.” “I’d apologize to him just for breathing wrong,” someone adds. Then quieter, “he’s too young-looking for this… someone check his age again.” A guy in the back leans back, uneasy, “why does he look like that and still scare me at the same time?” And from somewhere older, pretending not to care, “that’s not a gang member… that’s somebody’s pretty little problem.” I glance at him once. Calm. Controlled. Weapon hanging loose like it means nothing. People stare even when they try not to, stuck between nerves and something they won’t admit. Me? I don’t react. I’ve got my own life bills, survival, staying out of trouble. I had dreams once, ballet, something clean and precise, but it doesn’t pay the bills so I buried it. Ghost walks past like none of it matters, but for a second it feels like he notices I didn’t react at all… like I’m the only one not playing along.