(from "Battery Zero")
Friday.
The air smelled like rain and exhaust, the kind that clings to your uniform and never leaves.
Jiru's steps echoed against the cracked pavement as he walked toward the bus stop, backpack hanging from one shoulder. His tie loose and shirt half untucked.
He was seventeen, a scholarship kid at a school where shoes cost more than his parents' monthly rent.
"You've got real potential, Jiru," his homeroom teacher had said earlier that day, tapping her papers. "Don't let anything hold you back. Not your situation, not your doubts. Work hard and strive for greatness."
But she didn't know how hard it was to study when your stomach growled louder than your thoughts.
Or how heavy a cafeteria felt when every table was already full of friends you'd never have.
Lunch was the same as always — a tray of rice and kimchi eaten alone in the corner, head down, pretending not to hear laughter that wasn't meant for him.
By fifth period, he'd dozed off, forehead on folded arms until a loud snort escaped him mid-dream.
When he'd woken up, half the class was laughing and teasing him brutally. He caught familiar eyes staring, then quickly bent his head in shame.
"Shit!" he hissed.
And of course, the teacher called his name right then.
"Jiru. Office. Now."
He'd stood there while the teacher lectured him about "discipline reflecting dedication," words that sounded heavier than they needed to be.
"Thank you, ma'am." he managed.
"you can go."
The hallway was almost empty as Jiru left the staff's office for his class. His shoes squeaked faintly against the tiles, echoing in the still air. He stretched his shoulders, bones popping quietly, and let out a deep sigh.
"Two more miserable years before college," he muttered. His voice came out hollow.
He rubbed his eyes, dragging his feet as if gravity had doubled. He was too tired to think but he knew he had to hurry back to class to avoid being called to the staff's office a second time. He's been a regular attendee lately.
He rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. The day already felt too long.
Then came the laughter behind him.
Jiru froze mid-step.
He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. He could already feel his stomach twist.
He turned anyway.
Three huge boys from the humanities class, walking slow, deliberate steps toward him.
He recognized them and their cruel little smiles. The one in the middle already cracking his knuckles like he was prepared to fight.
"Damn," he muttered, voice trembling. He turned on his heel, ready to sprint.
He didn't get the chance.
A fist clamped into his hair and yanked him backward so hard his vision flashed white. Pain shot through his scalp, down his spine. He gasped. Not loud, just enough to make them grin.
"My toy," the boy whispered close to his ear, his breath warm and sour. "Why are you running?"
Jiru opened his mouth, but the words tangled and died before they left.
He was lifted — actually lifted — and slammed down.
The floor met him with a dull, heavy thud that rattled through his ribs.
The tallest boy crouched beside him, smirking. He grabbed Jiru's collar, slammed his hand into the wall beside his head. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
"Did you forget our agreement, freak?"
"I—" Jiru stammered, his voice cracking.
He didn't even remember what agreement they meant. There were too many. They made up rules all the time for fun.
One time he had to wait for them to finish lunch before he could have his. It didn't end well as his parents noticed him emaciating. News got to the principal and the boys were scolded. Jiru was allowed to eat But at the cost of tripled mistreatment and bullying. On somedays, it was better to not eat as he throw up everything whenever he got punched hard on his tummy.
Another time, it was running silly errands that made him miss classes and failed woefully by the end of the term. Sometimes the agreements were nastier and cruel. Other times— bearable.
"but what could the agreement be this time" he thought.
A knee drove into his stomach. His whole body folded around the pain.
Air fled his lungs. He gasped like a drowning man.
Then he heard Laughter again. Sharp and cruel.
Another grabbed his jacket, covered his head with it, and struck him again and again.
He didn't scream.
He never screamed. He'd learned that screaming made it worse.
"Man, you're such a loser," one of them said finally, throwing him aside like a piece of trash.
He slid against the tiles like he weighed nothing.
The third boy leaned down, his voice low and mocking.
"You better not run next time. You should be honored we even notice you."
The two behind him laughed harder, nudging each other.
Jiru didn't answer. His throat was tight. His head buzzed.
He thought about running again, about making it to the restroom or outside — but his legs wouldn't listen.
A fist connected with his cheek — not enough to knock him out, just enough to sting. To remind him what he already knew: he couldn't fight back.
"such a loser!" the tall one yelled, landing another hit.
And then—
"HEY!"
The principal's voice cut through their snickering from a distance.
The bullies froze.
"What's going on over there?"
"Nothing, sir! We were just—"
"No loitering around!" the principal snapped. "Get to your classrooms!"
They bolted, shoes squealing against the floor.
Jiru immediately got up.
"Sor—sorry, sir," he whispered.
The principal looked down at him, sighing through his nose.
And walked off to his office.
Jiru stayed still for a while — counting his breaths, one shaky inhale at a time — before pushing himself to move.
He wiped the dirt off his uniform. His body trembled from the effort.
Walking back to class, he'd wanted to disappear — so he went to the toilet instead.
That was when Kai stopped him.
"Are you okay?" Kai asked, his voice uncertain but lined with concern.
Jiru blinked.
Kai is talking to me?
"Huh? Uh—yeah. Totally fine. Why?" He said hiding the bruises on his face and dusting off the dirt on his uniform.
Kai hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "You just… looked pale. And you, uh, slept through, like, two whole periods."
He noticed?
Jiru's throat tightened. He had to lie.
"It's nothing really. I was tired. I'm fine." he said with a soft smile.
Kai hesitated a bit and then nodded with a smile "Well, see you in Class, Jiru"
"Yeah, totally."
When Kai walked off, Jiru quickly rushed into the toilet and stared at himself in the mirror.
Kai talked to me?
Kai barely spoke. And when he did, he didn't talk to most people— especially people like Jiru.
Then he eyed his dirty uniform and small bruises on his face.
"Stupi—idiot," he muttered gently slapped his forehead.
"That's just my face? That's your reply? I could have asked how he was? Or—or something. He probably thinks I'm a weirdo."
Great job, social genius.
"Well thankfully he didn't all that" he thought a he rubbed his bruised cheek.
Sigh.
Back to the classroom, he was ridiculed again for looking like trash. He caught Kai staring and looked away.
If only they knew.
The rest of the day went by rather quickly.
Now on his lonely walk home, his brain replayed every moment on loop. Every terribly awkward and embarrassing moment.
"I hate this," he whispered. "I hate my life. I hate this school. I hate pretending I'm fine. I hate everything!"
His breath fogged in the cool air. The world felt too big, too loud, too bright for someone like him.
"Maybe it'd be easier if I just... stopped trying," he said under his breath as he glanced at the Han River while passing, words swallowed by traffic noise.
Thoughts of how his family would cope when they hear the news of his passing. He didn't even have any friends. He hasn't done anything remarkable with his life.
"And then, Mom" he thought.
"she'll cry everyday and blame herself for things she couldn't understand"
Man, this is all too hard.
He sighed deeply.
He bumped into a man and didn't bother to apologize. Another adult shoved his shoulder hard enough to jolt him back to reality.
"Watch it, kid!"
"Oh, sorry," Jiru muttered, rubbing his arm.
At the bus stop, the crowd pressed together under the flickering streetlight. He couldn't handle it — too many people, too many eyes.
He sighed and raised a hand.
"Cab," he mumbled. "I just want to go home."
A dented yellow cab screeched to a stop. Jiru opened the door, muttered his address, and slumped against the seat without looking up.
From outside, someone yelled, "Hey! Dude, what's your problem? Chill out!"
Another voice laughed, "Asshole just cut the line!"
Jiru ignored them, slammed the door, and shut his eyes.
Then—
A hand caught the door just before it closed.
"Wait!" a voice said.
A tall good-looking guy, about twenty-five years old slid into the seat beside him, panting like he'd been running. Only now did Jiru realize the shouts earlier weren't for him — they were for this guy.
"Sorry, man," the stranger said between breaths. "I had to get away from those creeps back there."
Jiru frowned. "Huh? You just—what are you—this is my cab!"
The stranger smirked. "You looked like you could use company."
"Excuse me?" Jiru snapped. "What's that supposed to mean?!"
The guy leaned closer. "You're in danger."
Jiru blinked. "Of course I am! A stranger just barged into my cab! Kidnapping! Driver, stop the car! HELP—somebody!"
He started yelling out the open window until the guy clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Kid—shh! Calm down!" he hissed. "I'm not kidnapping you. I'm saving you!"
Jiru muffled, "Mmh wha?" through his palm.
The stranger sighed and removed his hand. "Look, my name's Minho. Just… trust me, okay?"
"Trust you? You literally just covered my mouth!"
"Yeah, because you were screaming like a dying pigeon!"
"Excuse me?!" He sounded hurt.
"Kid, just look at the driver."
Jiru turned — the driver's eyes were glassy. He grinned lazily at the road, face red, smelling of alcohol.
"Wait—what the hell—he was fine—"
"You didn't even look," Minho said sharply. "You just got in."
(Flashback: Jiru, exhausted, waving down the cab, muttering his address, not once raising his eyes.)
"Crap," Jiru whispered. "What do we do?"
Before Minho could answer, the driver gave a woozy laugh—then slumped forward, head smashing the steering wheel.
The horn blared.
The cab jerked forward.
"WHAT THE HELL!" Jiru screamed, clutching the dashboard.
"Move his foot!" Minho yelled, diving across the seat.
The driver's foot was jammed on the accelerator. The cab shot through a red light, horns blaring, people shouting.
"OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO DIE!" Jiru yelled, voice cracking.
"Not if I can help it!" Minho grunted, wrestling the wheel.
"Why's this happening to me?! I literally said I wanted to die like ten minutes ago but NOT LIKE THIS!"
"Stop screaming and help!" Minho shouted.
"What do I do, CPR his leg?!"
"Hold the wheel!"
"I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE!"
A flash of light — a massive truck barreling toward them.
"TRUCK! TRUUUUUKKK—!"
Minho grabbed the driver's shoulder, yanked him aside, and twisted the steering wheel with everything he had.
Tires screeched.
The world spun — metal, lights, screams — and somehow, impossibly, they missed the truck by inches.
The cab slammed to a stop in the middle of the intersection, facing the way they had come from.
Silence.
Cars honked.
People stared.
Jiru's chest heaved, eyes wide, hands trembling.
Minho let out a shaky breath. "You okay?"
Jiru burst into tears, clutching Minho's arm. "You saved me! You—holy crap—you actually saved me!"
Minho smiled weakly. "Thank Goodness that wasn't worse."
And then—
A sound. Fast, Louder and Closer.
Jiru turned his head toward the open window.
A black sedan tore through the intersection. Impact.
The world exploded. Glass, light, metal, weightlessness.
The car flipped once. Twice.
Jiru's scream cut through the sound—and in the spinning chaos, he saw Minho's face—calm, protective, eyes locked on his—a flash of warmth, like some
thing wrapping around him before everything went black.
Somewhere, as he floated in the darkness, a soft voice ran through his mind:
"I thought I'd already hit zero—that there was nothing left to lose. But as the world turned upside down, I realized… I still didn't want to die."
→ End of Chapter 1: The End of Everything.