Joon-ho shut the trailer door with his foot and slid the lock across like it was a weapon.
The sound was small—metal on metal—but it felt like the first clean breath he'd taken all morning.
Inside, the waiting room was too bright. Fluorescent light bounced off the white tabletop, off the mirror rimmed with bulbs, off the little paper cups stacked by the coffee machine. Everything looked sterile, as if the space had been designed to keep mess out.
Outside, the mess was crawling up the walls.
Seo-yeon sat on the edge of the couch, knees pressed together, hands clasped so tight her knuckles had gone pale. Her phone hovered in her grip like a ticking device she didn't know how to throw away.
Mirae stood near the mirror, arms folded, posture straight enough to pass for calm. Her jaw was set. The way her fingers tapped once—just once—against her elbow betrayed the pressure under her skin.
