The silence lingered after the uppercut. Jiyoung's body slumped against the metal chair, his chest rising shallow, his eyes half-rolled as if the world itself had been knocked out of him.
Baeksan didn't look at him for long. He lowered his hand fully, exhaled through his nose, then reached down. His fingers dug into Jiyoung's collar, bunching the fabric with a slow, steady pull.
The passengers whispered. Nobody dared step closer, but all eyes were on the boy who hadn't said a single word until now.
Baeksan's voice broke the quiet. "I'll handle him."
It wasn't a boast. It wasn't meant for anyone in particular. Just words, plain and heavy, like a decision spoken aloud so it couldn't be taken back.
He hauled Jiyoung upright, the man's knees dragging against the floor as if his strength had been stolen. Step by step, Baeksan moved him down the aisle.
The passengers shrank against the walls, clearing a narrow path. Jiyoung's dead weight thumped against the railings with each sway of the train, his head lolling, his breath ragged.
Baeksan didn't look left or right. His eyes stayed ahead, wide and unblinking, fixed on the front of the car.
Behind his blankness, there was only that quiet echo—three points of contact, always—his hand gripping the man's collar, his other hand braced against the seats when the train jolted, his steps steady no matter the burden.
The murmurs followed him:
"Is he… dragging him?"
"Did you see that punch?"
"Who is that man…?"
He reached the driver's door. For a moment, the reflection in the glass caught him—his own face beside Jiyoung's slack, ruined one. The difference was stark. One hollow, one broken.
Baeksan adjusted his grip, lifted the man just enough so his weight didn't scrape the ground, and knocked on the door with his knuckles. Calm. Almost too calm for the scene he carried behind him.
When the door cracked open and the startled driver's eyes landed on Jiyoung's limp body, Baeksan spoke again, the same flat tone as before.
"This one's done. Keep him here."
He let Jiyoung's weight drop into the driver's reach. The man stumbled but caught him, eyes darting from the unconscious brute back to Baeksan as though he wanted to ask a hundred questions. None left Baeksan space to answer.
Because Baeksan was already turning away, walking back down the aisle with the same steady, silent steps, as though what just happened hadn't been a fight at all—just something that needed to be done.
The driver cracked the door wider, about to speak, but Baeksan didn't hand Jiyoung over.
Instead, he shoved the man's limp body forward, pressing his back flat against the doorframe. Jiyoung's arms dangled, his head slumped to one side.
Baeksan's gaze didn't waver. He slipped the strap of Jiyoung's own belt free, looped it around the metal handle, then tugged his wrist through. A second strap—pulled from a bag left on the floor nearby—pinned the other wrist across.
Elbows spread, shoulders sagging, the unconscious man hung in a shape that blocked the entrance completely, body stretched like a human barricade.
The driver's voice cracked.
"H-hey, what are you doing?! You can't—this is the driver's cabin!"
Baeksan didn't answer. His hands moved slow, deliberate, cinching knots, threading through railings and handles, ignoring the way Jiyoung's body sagged. Each pull was tight, efficient, the kind of knot meant not to come loose.
The second driver leaned out from inside, sweat forming at his temple.
"You, stop this right now. Do you understand where you're standing? This is dangerous—!"
Baeksan lifted his eyes. Just once.
No words. Just the stare. Wide, dark, unblinking. His pupils fixed on them as if nothing they said mattered, as if their warnings had already been measured and discarded.
The drivers froze. The rest of their protests withered in their throats. A chill spread through the narrow cabin air—neither of them wanted to meet that look again.
Baeksan pulled the last strap tight across Jiyoung's chest, securing him flush to the frame, the heavy body now spread like a nailed cross against the door. The man's head lolled, breath shallow, strands of sweat-soaked hair falling into his face.
When Baeksan finally stepped back, his work was silent, seamless. Jiyoung's body filled the doorway, a barrier of flesh and cloth bound so tightly that no one could pass without tearing him free. His body now shaped like on a cross.
The driver whispered, shaken:
"What… what the hell is this?"
Baeksan didn't respond. He turned, expression unchanged, eyes just as hollow as when he'd walked up. For him, it was done. Nothing to explain.
And as he walked back into the aisle, the passengers leaned away instinctively, as though the emptiness in his stare was something contagious—something colder than the fight itself.
The drivers flinched when Baeksan finally spoke. "Leave."
It wasn't a shout, not even raised above the hum of the train, but the weight behind it landed like a command no one wanted to test. His voice carried that same stillness as his eyes.
One of the drivers tried to muster courage. "Y-you can't just—this is the cabin, we're responsible for—"
Baeksan turned his head slowly, gaze sliding over him like a blade. The emptiness that pressed down harder than fury ever could. "Leave," he repeated.
The driver's lips trembled. His partner pulled at his sleeve, whispering, "Don't… just don't. Let's step out." They exchanged a look, then backed away, retreating into the aisle as if distance alone might soften the suffocating air.
The cabin door shut behind them.
Baeksan lowered himself into the driver's chair, back straight, eyes forward, as though the controls before him belonged to him. The weight of silence settled like dust.
For a while, Jiyoung hung slack in his restraints, head tilted, breath rough. Then a shudder ran through him. His eyelids flickered. Slowly, his face twisted awake.
"Ughh—damn… damn it—" His voice cracked as he tried to push against the straps, but the binds cut tighter. His body jerked, muscles straining, teeth bared. "You… you bastard!"
His head snapped up, eyes burning red with fury.
"You think you won, huh?!" Spit flew with each word, his chest heaving against the straps. "Untie me, you little rat! You think tying me up makes you strong?! You're nothing—fucking nothing! You hear me?!"
He writhed, his voice climbing into something uglier, almost desperate.
"Look at you, sitting there like you own this place! You don't scare me! You're weak, you're pathetic, you're just some scared little—"
Baeksan turned his head. His eyes met Jiyoung's.
The fight in Jiyoung's chest stalled. The words tangled and broke apart halfway out of his mouth. That stare—wide, black, unblinking, as if staring wasn't looking but swallowing whole. His breath hitched. His body shook, not from the binds, but from the sudden realization pressing against his ribs.
Baeksan said nothing. He just sat there, still as stone, watching. The weight of his gaze pressed harder than the straps around Jiyoung's chest. It stripped him bare, peeled away the anger, chewed through the arrogance until all that was left was the raw tremor of fear.
Jiyoung's mouth worked, but no sound came out. His jaw clenched, unclenched. He tried to summon the fury again, to scream, to curse, to spit—but every time his eyes locked with Baeksan's, his throat closed.
Finally, his voice broke into a whisper, fragile, shaking. "…The hell… are you?"
No answer came. Just that silence. That stare.
And Jiyoung, who only minutes ago had been all fury and fire, sagged back against the straps, chest heaving, lips trembling, his curses choked into nothing.
The cabin was quiet again. Only the steady rumble of the train carried on, indifferent, as if the world outside didn't care that one man's entire will had just been snuffed out by another's eyes alone.