The space between Baeksan and the shouting man grew smaller, and the air thicker.
Beside him, the girl's fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag, her knuckles pale. She whispered something under her breath, too soft for him to catch. And across from them, the old man's eyes never wavered.
Not hard now. Not warm either. Just steady, as though he had been waiting for this very moment, and everything before it had only been rehearsal.
Baeksan kept his eyes on both of them, then back toward the advancing figure. He could feel the distance thinning. The crowd wasn't just parting anymore. It was being shoved, compressed, funneled closer toward him.
And when Baeksan tried again to look past the chaos to see behind the man, into the place where the crowd bent and broke. All he could make out was more darkness.
The man broke through the last line of bodies like they were paper, shoulders smashing aside anyone too slow to move. Someone cried out as a bag was ripped from their grasp, another stumbled into a seat, but no one tried to stop him.
Everyone simply folded out of his way, retreating, leaving an open corridor that ended exactly where Baeksan sat.
The girl beside him froze. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but no sound left her throat. She only clutched her bag tighter, shrinking inward.
Across from them, the old man remained still—back straight, gaze following the fury that advanced with heavy, uneven steps.
Then he was there. The shouting stopped the moment he reached their row, and the sudden silence was worse. His breathing filled the air, ragged and hot, each exhale dripping with something feral.
Baeksan tilted his chin up, just enough to meet him—and instantly regretted it.
The man towered above him, close enough that Baeksan could see the deep cracks in his lips, the faint streaks of dried blood near the corner of his mouth. His face loomed like a wall, so close that Baeksan could smell the acrid mix of sweat, smoke, and something sour.
And his eyes—They bored straight into Baeksan's, an unmovable, suffocating force staring down into him, stripping him bare.
Baeksan's breath caught. His shoulders locked in place, spine rigid against the seat. His body screamed to look away, to drop his gaze, but the man's presence pinned him like a nail through the chest.
The man leaned forward, closer still, until their faces were only a hand's span apart. His shadow swallowed Baeksan whole, the size difference obscene—his head and shoulders felt like they doubled Baeksan's own frame, blotting out everything else around him.
Baeksan's eyes stayed wide, unblinking, caught in the gaze that pressed against his very skin. His throat tightened. His mind flooded with noise, but no words formed. Only one instinct survived—fear. Pure, quiet fear.
And then, without thinking, his body betrayed him. Baeksan ducked.
The motion was small—his chin dropping, his shoulders curling, like prey folding inward to hide its throat. His breath rushed out ragged, but no sound left him. His entire being shrank beneath that gaze, his eyes fixed on the man's chest now, refusing to climb back up to his face.
The man didn't move.
For a heartbeat, two, three—he only stood there, his shadow crushing Baeksan, his breath filling the space between them. And Baeksan couldn't shake the thought that if he so much as raised his head again, he'd be torn apart.
"Greeting little one, my name is Han Jiyoung,"
Baeksan sat frozen, back pressed tight against the seat, every nerve screaming at him to shrink smaller, to vanish, but his body turned stiff, trembling faintly, unable to look away from the towering figure that cast a shadow over him.
Han Jiyoung leaned just a fraction closer, enough that Baeksan could feel the weight of his breath, steady and deliberate, like the man was savoring his own intimidation. His eyes—dark, unblinking—drilled straight into Baeksan's, and for one suffocating moment it felt less like he was being looked at and more like he was being measured. Measured and found lacking.
The smile never faltered. "So this is what passes for courage these days," Jiyoung said, voice heavy with mockery, each word dipped in amusement. He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking up and down Baeksan's rigid form. "Eyes wide, jaw locked, breath all tangled. You look like you've already lost, boy."
Baeksan's throat tightened. His instinct screamed to look away, to drop his gaze, but something in Jiyoung's stare pinned him down like a nail hammered through the floor.
Jiyoung chuckled low, the sound vibrating from his chest, arrogant and too loud in the hushed carriage.
Then, with the ease of someone who owned the space, he lifted his chin and looked past Baeksan—looked behind him.
And that was when Jiyoung saw it.
The old man.
He hadn't moved. Not a single shift in posture. But his expression—the one the old man had come to rely on, that calm mask of riddles and tests—was no longer there. Instead, a flicker. Small, brief, but unmistakable. His eyes had widened, only by the slightest degree, but enough that he felt it like a strike in his chest. Flustered.
For the first time, the old man was flustered.
Han Jiyoung's grin widened at the sight, crooked, cruel, savoring the reaction like a predator finally cornering prey. He straightened his spine, his full height stretching above the crowd, and spoke louder now, not just to Baeksan but to the entire carriage.
"Well now…" his voice rolled smooth and venomous, "…look who we have here."
Passengers shifted uncomfortably. Some pretended harder not to listen, eyes fixed on their laps. Others leaned just slightly, caught between fear and curiosity.
Baeksan's chest clenched as Jiyoung's eyes locked on the old man, burning with recognition that seemed older than this moment, older than this train, as if their history had been carved long before Baeksan ever stepped into it.
And the old man—he did not smile this time. He did not speak. He only sat, spine rigid, gaze fixed on the monster before him.