Han Jiyoung's grin sharpened as he took a slow step forward, closing the space like he had all the time in the world. The crowd parted without a word—no one dared brush against him. When he stopped in front of the old man, the train seemed to fall into a silence that pressed against Baeksan's ears.
Jiyoung tilted his head, studying the man seated calmly before him. His voice came low at first, almost playful, as if they were old acquaintances meeting after years apart.
"Well, well… I didn't think I'd find you here, of all places. Hiding in plain sight, hm? Pretending to be just another relic wasting away on a morning train?"
The old man said nothing. His face was steady again, but not calm—there was a weight in his stillness, a tension that Baeksan had never seen before.
Jiyoung's smile twisted into something cruel. He leaned closer, so close his shadow drowned the older man's features.
"You bastard." The venom spat sharp now, teeth bared in the words. "How many years has it been since you left us in that pit? How many bodies did you walk over just to play teacher here?"
Passengers nearby flinched at the sudden venom, but no one moved.
Baeksan couldn't breathe. His eyes darted between them—the towering figure of Han Jiyoung and the old man seated like a stone at the edge of the storm.
Every muscle in Baeksan's body screamed to get up, to run, to do something, but his legs refused him. He sat frozen, pressed back against his seat, his breath shallow and ragged.
Jiyoung's hand shot out, faster than Baeksan could process, and seized the old man by the collar of his coat. The sudden motion yanked the fabric taut, the old man's frame dragged slightly forward under the brute force.
"Answer me!" Jiyoung snarled, his teeth bared in a grin that looked more like rage than joy. "Say something, old man, for god sake! Tell me you remember their faces when you left them to rot."
Baeksan's eyes widened, blood hammering in his ears. The train rocked, the crowd shuffled back, whispers cutting through the tense air. Yet no one stepped forward, no one stopped it.
And Baeksan—he sat just behind them, close enough to see the tremor in Jiyoung's grip, close enough to see the fabric of the old man's collar strain in his fist, close enough that if he just reached out—But he couldn't move.
Not a finger. Not a breath. He could only watch.
Han Jiyoung's grip tightened, knuckles white against the fabric of the coat, the veins in his arm bulging. His voice rose, no longer carrying that mocking lilt—now it was blistered with years of venom.
"You think you can just sit here?!" he spat, his face inches away from the older man's, his breath hot and furious. "Smile at these people like you're some harmless sage? You think you've earned that seat?!"
The train rattled through a turn, bodies swaying, but no one dared step closer. Passengers shrank back against the doors, against the windows, anything to put space between themselves and the storm unraveling in the aisle.
Jiyoung shook him once, violently, collar jerking hard.
"Do you remember their screams? Do you remember how they begged?" His voice cracked sharp, filled with rage so real it felt like the whole carriage was trembling with it. "Or did you bury that too, along with the rest of them?"
Baeksan's lungs refused to fill. He could see the lines of strain in Jiyoung's jaw, the twisted smile that had gone wild, stretched too thin over his face. Every word was spit like fire, and yet the old man still hadn't spoken.
He only looked at Jiyoung, calm on the surface, but there was something else there now—not fear, not resistance, something deeper Baeksan couldn't name.
"Answer me, damn you!" Jiyoung roared, his voice booming through the carriage. He slammed the old man back against the seat, the thud ringing in Baeksan's bones. Passengers flinched as one, a ripple of terror passing through the crowd.
Baeksan sat only a breath away, frozen in his place, his own reflection trembling in the train's dark window. He wanted to shout, to move, to do something—but all he could do was stare as Jiyoung's fury burned hotter, every word like a curse pulled from the pit of his chest.
Jiyoung's hand hovered in the air for a moment longer, fingers still twitching with the urge to lift the old man clean off the ground and slam him into the steel wall of the carriage. His teeth ground together, a snarl caught halfway in his throat.
But then he felt it. Jiyoung.
The sensation was unmistakable—a chill, sharp and precise, running along the ridge of his spine. He froze, not because he wanted to, but because something primal inside him demanded he turn.
He released his grip without realizing, and the old man collapsed to the floor, coughing weakly, collar wrinkled from the force.
The collar slipped from his hand, and the old man crumpled to the floor with a ragged cough.
Jiyoung didn't look down. His head turned instead, pulled by that prickle that ran sharp down his spine, that cold pressure crawling up the back of his neck.
And there he was. The quiet one. The boy with the empty eyes.
Jiyoung's lips curled slowly, not into laughter, not into kindness, but into something colder. A smile that lived somewhere between mockery and fascination. He took a step forward, each bootfall steady, calculated, as if he wanted the sound to carry. The crowd recoiled with every move, pressed together against the walls of the carriage, making room for him without ever being told to.
He stopped directly in front of Baeksan, close enough that their breaths mixed in the narrow space.
Jiyoung bent just slightly, enough that his shadow poured across Baeksan's face, his own sharp features filling Baeksan's entire view. His voice came low, measured, his words stretched out as if he was savoring them.
"That look in your eyes," he said, almost thoughtful. "I've seen it before. The kind that doesn't beg, doesn't fight, doesn't even react. Like a piece glass. A pane you can see through, but never break without cutting yourself."
His smile deepened, his teeth just barely showing.
"But here's the truth," he went on. "People with eyes like that… they always think they're different. Somewhat untouchable. As if their silence makes them stronger than the rest. But silence is no shield. Emptiness isn't power. It's just… vacancy of your little fantasy in your head."
He tilted his head, studying Baeksan's blank stare as if searching for a crack.
"And I don't tolerate that vacancy. I don't tolerate men who sit still while the world demands they move. You think your quiet will save you when someone decides to tear it apart?"
Jiyoung leaned closer, their foreheads nearly touching, his voice dropping to a hiss only Baeksan could hear.
"It won't. Because when I decide to break something, it breaks. When I decide to take someone apart, piece by piece, their silence doesn't save them. It damns them. It makes them easier. You know what I mean?"
For a moment, he said nothing more. The smile lingered, sharp and self-assured, but in the corner of his eye, he couldn't stop flicking back to those unblinking eyes staring into him.
And though his grin didn't falter, a faint line of sweat slid from his temple down to his jaw.