Page 131 of Scarbound

Fragments of the drive flashed through his mind like pieces of a dream. Then the office returned. Chung-Hee’s voice. His hands. The floor beneath Noeul’s knees.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

I did nothing wrong.

The thought came back from the night before, quieter now, less certain in the safety of daylight. Noeul looked down at himself. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. His mouth felt dry, his face sticky with tears. Outside, daylight spilled through the curtains, but he couldn’t tell the hour.

When he finally reached for his phone, he discovered he had slept well over half a day. It was noon. He was already late for work.

For a moment, panic struck him out of habit. Then something almost bitter rose inside him.

Let Chung-Hee complain. Not after what he had done.

Noeul pushed himself out of bed and walked slowly toward the kitchen. His body felt heavy, disconnected from him. He prepared his usual strong Americano and stood at the counter while the machine worked, concentrating on ordinary sounds: the grinding beans, the water, the quiet click when the coffee was ready.

He called Ji-Woo later that afternoon. He didn’t tell him what had happened. He only needed to hear his voice, the familiar complaints about university applications, his portfolio, his art teacher who apparently believed seventeen revisions were still insufficient. Noeul listened more than he spoke.

After they hung up, his gaze fell on the drawer where he kept his art supplies.

Kija.

The thought immediately brought Chung-Hee back with it. Noeul stared at the drawer. He could cancel the lessons. It would be easier. Safer.

The idea made something inside him recoil.

Why? Because Kija had spoken to him? Because someone had complimented him? Because Chung-Hee had decided another man touching his shoulder gave him the right to punish him?

No.

Noeul opened the drawer. He took out his supplies and placed them carefully across the table. His hands were still not completely recovered, and after some time his wrists began to ache, but he continued. Slowly at first, cautiously, then with increasing confidence.

For the first time in a long while, he wanted to paint. So he did.

Hours disappeared. His breathing steadied. His thoughts quieted. He became absorbed enough that he didn’t notice daylight fading from the windows or the city lights appearing beyond them.

Then the intercom sounded.

Noeul froze, the brush stopping against the paper.

“Noeul?”

Noeul stared toward the door.

“It’s me, Han Jun. I came to see how you’re doing.”

If Jun was here, it could mean only one thing. He knew. Heat rushed into Noeul’s face. Shame came first, followed quickly by anger. Chung-Hee had told him. Or perhaps Jun had seen enough himself.

“Please… open the door,” Jun called.

Noeul held his breath as his chest tightened. There was someone else outside. He knew before asking.

“He’s with you?”

A brief silence followed.

“Yes,” Jun finally answered.

Noeul stared at the door, eyes wide. Don’t open it. His fingers curled around the fabric of his trousers. Don’t open it.