I woke up before the alarm, but I didn't move.
My shoulders felt like they had been replaced by lead weights, and every time I took a deep breath, my chest muscles tightened in a sharp, rhythmic throb.
It was a feeling I thought I'd forgotten since my early days of working out—the sweet, localized agony of "the pump" turning into a dull ache.
I rolled onto my side, groaning as the movement pulled at my lats.
It was a pleasant feeling, strangely enough. So pleasant that a part of my brain suggested skipping school just to go back to the gym and see if I could make my legs hurt as much as my upper body.
'Wait,' I thought, staring at the ceiling. 'I'm actually looking forward to more pain? Maybe Ha-neul was right. Am I really a perv?'
I dismissed the thought with a huff, forcing my heavy shoulders up.
I rolled out of bed, leaving my shirt on the chair, and stumbled toward the bathroom.
I splashed cold water on my face, looking at my reflection. The "Comma" hair was a disaster of bedhead, but my frame looked slightly fuller in the mirror, the skin tight over the muscles.
I moved through the house like a ghost.
Ji-hoon was already gone—likely an early morning jog or a head start at the firm.
Mrs. Lee and Mr. Lee weren't back yet.
The house felt too big and too quiet.
I wandered into the living room and flicked on the TV just for some background noise.
A morning sports program on JBC was wrapping up, showing highlights of a rising baseball star named Ye Ji-hun.
He looked clean-cut and professional, the kind of athlete the country adored.
But as the sports segment ended, the bright colors faded into the stark, grey tones of the morning news.
The headline flashed across the screen: [MASSIVE ANTI-GOVERNMENT PROTESTS TURN VIOLENT.]
I froze, the remote still in my hand.
The report showed footage from the "People's Rally" on November 14. Tens of thousands of protesters—estimates ranging from 68,000 to over 100,000—had choked the streets of central Seoul.
They were protesting President Park Geun-hye's labor reforms and the controversial state-issued history textbooks.
The camera cut to chaotic night footage.
Police buses formed walls; high-pressure water cannons were blasting into the crowds.
Clouds of tear gas obscured the faces of shouting students and farmers.
Then, a specific, harrowing clip: a 69-year-old farmer named Baek Nam-gi being struck directly by a water cannon.
He fell instantly, motionless.
"The reporter, Lee Eun-sook, stated he was in a coma, and the social outrage was reaching a boiling point."
"You're early today," a quiet voice said.
I turned. Ha-neul was standing at the bottom of the stairs, still in her pajamas, her eyes fixed on the screen.
"Yeah," I said, my voice low. "I went to sleep earlier."
We both watched the screen for a moment. The images of the water cannons felt worlds away from our quiet living room, yet the tension was palpable.
"It's getting worse," Ha-neul whispered, her usual sass completely gone.
The front door clicked open.
We both jumped.
Mrs. Lee walked in, looking like she had aged five years in a single night. Her uniform was wrinkled, and there were dark circles under her eyes that no amount of makeup could hide.
"Ah, San-gun... Ha-neul-ah," she sighed, leaning against the doorframe to pull off her shoes. "Children, you should be getting ready for school."
Ha-neul didn't say a word.
She ran to her mother and threw her arms around her waist, burying her face in Mrs. Lee's shoulder.
"I was so worried," she sobbed quietly.
Mrs. Lee's face softened instantly.
She dropped her bag and stroked Ha-neul's hair.
"Ha-neul... my little daughter," she smiled tiredly. "I'm alright. Just a little tired. The city is... restless tonight."
I stayed in the kitchen, feeling like I was intruding on a sacred moment.
I quickly plated some leftover sushi bake and an extra omelet I'd whipped up.
"Come eat," I said, trying to break the heavy atmosphere. "There's an extra plate for you, Mrs. Lee."
"Ah, thank you, San," she said, gently disentangling herself from Ha-neul.
"Ha-neul, that's enough," I joked, trying to lighten the mood. "You're acting like a five-year-old. Your mom is a professional."
Ha-neul snapped.
She spun around, her eyes red and teary, her face contorting with a sudden, sharp anger.
"Of course," she spat, her voice trembling. "How can an outsider understand what I feel? You just watch the news like it's a movie. This is our country, San. These are our people!"
The word outsider hit me like a physical punch.
"Lee Ha-neul!" Mrs. Lee's voice cracked through the room. She wasn't tired anymore; she was a mother. "What did you just say to him?"
"But Mom!" Ha-neul shouted, gesturing wildly. "He's really just—!"
"Lee Ha-neul," Mrs. Lee said, her tone dead serious. "Your card."
Ha-neul froze.
"But Mom—!"
"You heard me. Your credit card. Right now."
Ha-neul glared at me, a look of pure, concentrated venom, before storming up the stairs. The sound of her bedroom door slamming echoed through the house.
I stood there, holding a spatula, feeling cold.
Mrs. Lee sighed, sinking into a kitchen chair. I walked over and helped her out of her heavy work jacket, carrying her bags to the counter.
"Thank you for the dinner... or breakfast, San," she whispered, a small, sad laugh escaping her. "Don't mind her. It's not you. It's just the stress. The whole city is on edge."
"Is everyone okay?" I asked, pouring her a cup of coffee.
"Mr. Lee is at the hospital," she said, rubbing her temples. "They're overwhelmed with wounded people from the rally. Ji-hoon is likely at the firm, dealing with the legal reports and arrests. It's a long week for everyone. But don't worry, everything will be alright."
Ha-neul came back down a minute later. She didn't look at me. She marched to the table and placed her credit card down with a heavy thud before storming out the front door, not even waiting for me to grab my bag.
"You should hurry," Mrs. Lee told me, giving me a weary smile. "Or you'll miss the bus."
I pulled on my shoes and grabbed my backpack. As I reached for the door, I felt a hand on my arm. Mrs. Lee stepped out onto the porch with me and pulled me into a brief, maternal hug.
"It's alright, San," she whispered. "Just give her time."
I nodded, unable to find my words, and headed down the hill.
The morning air was crisp, but the atmosphere of the neighborhood felt heavy. As I reached the main road, I saw a familiar sight: Myung-dae revving his motorbike by the curb.
Just as I raised my hand to wave, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
I had been added to a new KakaoTalk group.
Group Title:Dae's Birthday..?
I looked at Myung-dae, then back at the phone.
Amidst the chaos of the city and the tension in the house, I realized the world was still turning.
And apparently, the Prince of Darkness was getting a year older.