Chapter Text
Chapter 1: One Voice Among Many
The sidewalk gleamed under the streetlights, as if freshly washed. The air smelled of humidity, metal, and the soy sauce of closed restaurants. Juntae walked slowly, hood pulled over his head, eyes drifting across the dim windows of the shops. Hands buried in the pockets of his too-thin jacket, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, he shivered against the early night’s chill that bit at his skin.
It had become a routine. He knew the path by heart now. He’d leave school, stop by home quickly, then head back out to walk to the small gray building on Beomcheong Street. There was a laundromat, a perpetually empty men's barber shop, and on the second floor, a tiny office with frosted windows: *Prevention Center – Anonymous Hotline.*
He’d never imagined working there. Never thought he’d need it.
It had started after... the end. After the fall of the Union. After the yelling, the tears, the blows, the kind of wounds you don’t forget.
In the days that followed, Juntae stayed close to Sieun, Hyuntak, Baku — like a reflex, like a need. He wasn’t strong, or brave, or fast, but he was there. He stood at the edge of that storm, as if that’s where he belonged.
And then one day, everything was calm again. Almost too calm. He came home late and found the house empty. A note on the fridge, two envelopes: one for the electric bill, the other with a few bills inside.
"We’re away for two weeks. Take care of yourself."
No pleasantries. No affection. Just that.
It didn’t surprise him. His parents traveled a lot. Sometimes they came back without notice, left even faster. When he was little, it used to hurt. Now, it just made him tired.
That night, staring at the too-white walls of the apartment, he decided he needed a job. Not just for the money. To feel a little more real.
He looked for a long time. Hours. Delivery gigs, night cafés, even Baku’s dad’s restaurant. But he didn’t want to run into friends or familiar faces. He wanted to keep this part of his life to himself, like a secret.
He only told Sieun, because he wanted his opinion. The boy stared at him for a moment, said nothing, then returned to the math problems on his notebook. Juntae hadn’t expected a speech anyway, or any real reaction. But the next morning, he found a neatly typed list of job ads on his desk — all matching his criteria.
When he saw the hotline posting — no qualifications required, training included — he hesitated. For a long time. He didn’t know if he had the voice for it. Or the words. But it was ideal.
He worked six nights a week. No more. Just enough to keep his grades from dropping — not that he was ever top of the class. Sieun wouldn’t allow him to mess up school anyway.
The first calls had been rough. His throat tight, voice shaky, palms sweaty. He hung up twice by accident. Another time, he cried after listening to a girl talk about her loneliness for forty minutes.
But then there was this woman. A mother. She didn’t know how to talk to her daughter, was afraid of losing her. And Juntae spoke. Hesitant. Clumsy. But she ended up laughing softly. She said: "You’re young, aren’t you? But you listen well."
And for the first time, he felt useful.
Not brilliant like Sieun. Not strong like Baku or Hyuntak. But necessary.
Juntae looked up at the building’s facade. The laundromat’s neon lights flickered faintly. A sign on the second floor still glowed: *Prevention Center – Anonymous Hotline.* He pushed the building’s door, climbed the creaky wooden stairs, then entered the office. The smell was always the same: lukewarm coffee, damp paper, disinfectant.
Two other volunteers were already there. Minji, a psych student, gentle and tired; and Mr. Choi, a retired teacher, the kind who wore knitted vests and called everyone “kiddo.”
They greeted him with a smile. Juntae nodded back, shy.
In a corner, Ms. Han, the supervisor, was preparing cups. She handed him his: black tea, no sugar.
"Good evening, Juntae. Booth 3 for you."
He nodded. It wasn’t warm, but it was steady. Predictable. Quiet. He sat down, put on the headset, leaned toward the dashboard. A screen read: *Available.* He inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes. Then pressed the green button.
And he waited. For a call, a voice. A piece of humanity, somewhere, on the other end of the line.
The headset was warm now, heated by his temples. Juntae had already taken two calls.
The first, a woman in her forties he almost knew by heart. She called often. Talked like a slow dripping faucet: gently, without really saying anything, not wanting to hang up. She spoke about her neighbor, her son, the weather, and Juntae just listened. He knew sometimes people didn’t want answers. Just someone to hear them.
The second call came less than a minute later. A teenager. He sounded young, tired. He spoke only a few seconds, barely two sentences. Then he hung up. The line beeped, sharp. It happened. Juntae noted the time, the voice’s tone, then returned to waiting.
He liked that in-between. The suspended moment. The not-yet-knowing if the next voice would be trembling, furious, hollow, or in tears.
Then, a soft click in the earpiece. A breath. A faint throat-clear. And a voice.
Low. Drawling. Almost careless.
Familiar.
"I don’t even know why I’m calling."
A silence. Almost hostile. Like someone pacing slowly in an empty room.
"Is anyone even there?"
A sharper tone, irritated, almost aggressive.
"Seriously, you gonna play the silent shrink card? Are you fucking with me?"
Juntae froze. Not a word. Not a movement. But he knew that voice. He knew it too well.
Keum Seongje.
The guy who laughed in the middle of fights. Who hit harder when told to stop.
The guy who once saved him, for no reason. And never looked at him again.
"You waiting for me to spill my crap, is that it?"
A short laugh. Flat. Not happy. Not nervous. Just tired. Almost resigned.
Juntae inhaled slowly. He felt a tension in his ribs, his fingers. But he finally spoke. Calm, steady voice.
"You can hang up whenever you want. Or talk. I’m here."
On the other end, the silence thickened. Then a faint clink — maybe a lighter, or a belt buckle.
"I shouldn’t be here. I should be sleeping, or smoking, or beating someone up. But I’m here."
A pause.
"I don’t know what to say."
Juntae closed his eyes.
"You don’t have to say what you don’t know. Just... what you feel."
A breath. Then a word, muffled. Maybe a laugh. Maybe something else.
And the voice, that voice:
"Do you all talk like that here? It’s annoying."
Juntae didn’t answer. But a small smile tugged at his lips, almost despite himself. He knew he shouldn’t show anything. And yet, that voice unsettled him.
A short, dry laugh. Lower. Almost a grunt.
"I’ll say it now: I’m not here for some dumbass stranger to give me cliché advice."
Juntae felt the tension rise in his neck, but let it go. He knew that kind of anger. The one that hides the rest.
"So say something useful or hang up. I don’t have all night."
The tone snapped, sharp, annoyed. But he didn’t hang up. He stayed.
So Juntae breathed slowly, picking every word with care.
"I understand. But for that, you’ll have to tell me what keeps you up at night — and what’s heavy enough on your chest that it made you want to call. I’m here. And I’m listening."
A heavy silence again. Almost uncomfortable. Juntae thought he could hear the boy’s breathing slow down, like he was torn between speaking and fleeing.
"Whatever. I don’t know why I called."
A pause.
"Should’ve just gone and beaten someone up, way more productive."
Juntae wasn’t surprised. Not by the words. But by the fact the line was still open. That he hadn’t already left.
A quiet sigh. Then, almost reluctantly:
"You still there?"
"Yes. If you want me to be."
No immediate reply. Just a breath, longer. Almost tired.
"Fine. That’s enough. Later."
And a sharp click ended the call. Clean. Crisp. Like a door slammed shut.
Juntae slowly removed his headset. His heart beat a little faster. He didn’t move right away. His fingers barely trembled, but his mind was racing.
He’d recognized him. No doubt. That low, cracked voice that laughed while hitting, that saw the world as a broken playground.
And yet, in that voice tonight, there was something else. Not the usual raw anger. Not the threats.
An emptiness. A call. Almost fear.
He hit the *Available* button, more from habit than intention.
Another call came in. A woman. He answered as usual, like nothing had happened. Calm tone. Attentive listening. But part of him remained stuck. Stuck on that broken line. On those words thrown like punches. On that half-spoken question: *You still there?*
The kind of question you don’t ask without reason. The kind you only say to someone... when you hope they’ll say yes.
Minutes passed. Two more calls. Then three. A short break, then back to it.
Juntae answered as always. He did his job. But the echo of that voice didn’t leave him.
At the end of his shift, he stood up a little slower than usual. He cleaned his booth, closed tabs, filed the last call log.
"Long night?"
It was Su-ho, his colleague to the right. Always a bit messy-haired, always with a thermos of lukewarm tea. He looked at him with that half-tired smile of people who don’t really ask questions, but still worry.
Juntae shrugged. He didn’t know what to say. Not to that.
"You seem out of it."
He attempted a smile.
"Just tired."
Su-ho watched him a second more, then nodded.
"You did good, like always. Get home safe, Juntae."
In the locker room, Juntae grabbed his bag. He paused a moment in front of the cracked mirror above the sink.
He hadn’t imagined that voice would return to his life. And certainly not like this.
But it was here now. And it still echoed in his head.
The sky was pale when Juntae left the center. Not yet fully blue. Not quite morning.
The air smelled of warm asphalt, half-awake city, leftover night rain. He walked slowly, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, shoulders low.
When he opened his apartment door, everything was still silent. The living room curtains filtered a weak light.
On the table, a hastily scribbled note:
"Flight moved to 6 AM. Fridge is full."
He recognized his mother’s neat, rigid handwriting.
It was normal. That didn’t make it hurt less.
He poured a bowl of cereal without appetite. Let the bathroom water run without stepping in right away. His body felt heavy — not with fatigue, but with something deeper, stuck to the bone.
He thought about the call. The words dropped like bombs. That voice.
*You still there?*
*Yes. If you want me to be.*
He’d never said anything so honest in his life.
Eventually, he lay down still dressed, curtains drawn, phone on silent. A few hours of sleep. No more.
When his alarm buzzed, he got up without a groan. A school day awaited.
The high school, the hallways, the familiar sounds. Juntae found his too-big uniform, his classroom seat, his notebook covered in scribbles. Sieun greeted him with a raised eyebrow. They chatted a little, as usual, in hushed tones.
But Juntae felt elsewhere. Not distracted — just offbeat.
He thought about the call. And the question he dared not voice:
*Will he call again?*
After class, Juntae didn’t go home right away. He still had time. Enough for a detour. He cut through a small alley, earbuds in more out of habit than desire.
He entered the corner convenience store. A simple place, lit by flickering neon, with the constant smell of instant noodles and damp carpet.
He grabbed a soda and a cereal bar. Hesitated in the aisles. Then he saw him.
Sitting by the microwave, slurping lukewarm ramen, one foot propped against the plastic table.
Keum Seongje.
Exactly like he remembered. Same posture. Same energy. And that smile — a little too wide, a little too hollow.
Juntae froze. Just for a second. His heart skipped, heavy and strange.
And just as he tried to look away, Seongje noticed him.
And smiled.
Not a polite smile. One of those carnivorous grins, like he’d just sniffed something amusing.
He looked up, still leaning over his ramen. Chopsticks suspended.
"Hey, isn’t that Baku’s little nerd friend?"
Juntae hesitated. His first reflex should’ve been to bow his head and leave. But his legs stayed rooted. As if part of him wanted... to be sure. To hear it again.
He answered in a low, slightly tense voice:
"Hello."
Seongje raised an eyebrow and chuckled, a dry laugh like a jolt.
"He talks. And he’s polite. Who would've thought?"
He took another bite, slowly, eyes still on him.
"You come here often? I’d have remembered a face like yours."
A smirk. "Lost, or breaking free?"
Juntae felt heat rise to his cheeks. He set his cereal bar on the counter, as if suddenly, leaving had become urgent.
But he dared, in a low voice, barely a whisper:
"I was just passing by."
Seongje let out a brief laugh, surprised. Less mocking. Almost amused.
"And you even answer? Damn, hanging out with Baku’s crew changed you."
He stood up in one swift motion, empty bowl in hand, which he tossed into the trash without ceremony. Then he stepped closer — just enough for Juntae to smell the familiar scent of cold tobacco clinging to his hoodie.
He stopped at his height, tilted his head slightly, that strange smile still on his lips.
"Later, nerd. Watch out — these convenience stores aren’t what they used to be. Bad crowds hang around."
And he walked out, hands in pockets, like he hadn’t said anything strange.
Juntae remained still for a moment. Heart beating too fast for such a brief encounter.
He grabbed his cereal bar, left some coins on the counter, and stepped out as well, not really looking around.
In his mind, one thought spun in a loop: *It was him. It really was him.*
The voice from the call. The voice from last night.
He’d recognized it. But Seongje hadn’t.
And maybe... that was for the best.