The school bell rang.
Backpacks zipped. Chairs scraped against the floor.
Students began pouring out of the classroom like a freed tide.
Lucas closed his notebook calmly and stood up.
Before leaving, he glanced over at Roby and said in a low tone:
"You might get in trouble... for sitting there."
Roby blinked.
"Huh? Why?"
Lucas didn't reply.
He simply walked out, silent as ever.
Roby looked at his desk.
Then his eyes slowly moved to the back row.
There were four seats there.
His... and three others. All of them perfectly empty.
No scratches. No books. No jackets. Nothing. Like they were cleaned and left untouched.
Curious, Roby walked up to a quiet student up front—a boy with glasses who was packing his books.
He tapped the kid lightly on the shoulder.
"Yo, quick question."
The boy turned slightly, startled.
"Y-yeah?"
Roby nodded toward the back.
"Those three empty desks... they always like that?"
The boy followed Roby's gaze.
Then hesitated.
The kid lowered his voice like he was sharing a ghost story.
"Trouble. They're the kind who skip class for weeks. One of them allegedly threw a chair at a teacher once. Another's been in fights outside school. Like... real fights."
Roby raised his eyebrows.
"And they're still not expelled?"
The boy shook his head fast.
"They have... connections. The school can't touch them. They come and go as they please."
Roby paused, then looked over his shoulder at the seat he just occupied.
"So I'm sitting in their turf?"
The boy nodded nervously.
Roby smirked and muttered under his breath while staring at the chairs:
"Perfect spot... to start quality chaos."
The school gates of Hanwol International buzzed with students heading out.
Some laughed, some stared into their phones, others were already hopping into sleek cars waiting by the curb.
Leaning against a black coupe in the parking lot, Jong-woo scrolled through his phone, still wearing sunglasses even as the sun dipped lower.
Roby strolled toward the car.
But before getting in, he paused — and glanced back over his shoulder.
Nam Do-yoon was walking alone, headphones still in, backpack lazily slung over one shoulder.
Roby squinted slightly.
"Guy like him… doesn't stay quiet for no reason," he muttered.
Do-yoon glanced up briefly.
For a split second, their eyes met.
Roby gave a small nod. No reaction.
Then he slid into the passenger seat of the car.
Inside, Jong-woo took off his sunglasses and looked at him.
"Tired?"
Roby didn't answer right away.
He unzipped his bag, pulled out a slightly crumpled slip of paper, and handed it over.
Jong-woo read it silently.
An address. A crematorium. Below it: "Kim Ji-hoon – 4 months ago."
He looked up, lips slightly parted.
"You sure you wanna go there today?"
Roby stared straight ahead through the windshield, face unreadable.
"He wasn't just a friend. He was the only person who made growing up in America feel less like surviving and more like… living."
Jong-woo nodded slowly, folding the note.
"Alright. But we're stopping for coffee first. You need a clear head, Roby."
Roby gave a crooked smirk.
"I only need one thing, Uncle."
"And what's that?"
"The truth."
The car engine roared to life.
And with that, they pulled out of the school parking lot — heading toward the last place Kim Ji-hoon's name appeared:
A quiet crematorium on the outskirts of Seoul.
The late afternoon air on the outskirts of Seoul felt cold and quiet.
Roby stood alone in front of the crematorium, right before a glass wall where hundreds of engraved names rested in order.
His eyes stopped on one name that pierced through his chest:
김지훈 (Kim Ji-hoon)
Clutched in Roby's fingers was a small, faded photograph—him and Ji-hoon as kids in New Jersey, grinning wide with ice cream in their hands, oversized baseball uniforms drooping off their small shoulders.
Without saying a word, Roby slowly pressed the photo against the glass, just beneath Ji-hoon's name. He stared at it in silence, his breath fogging the surface.
"You're not gone, Ji," he murmured.
"As long as I remember you… you're not really dead."
Footsteps approached softly from behind—Jong-woo stood near the car, waiting respectfully without interrupting.
Roby took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then turned around.
He walked to the car in silence and slipped into the passenger seat.
Jong-woo glanced at him.
Roby simply said:
"Let's go."
The black car rolled away, quietly leaving behind the cold walls of the crematorium.
But…
Just moments after the car disappeared, a young man in a dark hoodie walked through the crematorium gates.
His steps were slow.
Head down.
He stopped right in front of Kim Ji-hoon's name.
He didn't bring flowers. Didn't speak.
But his eyes were red—as if from crying… or carrying something too heavy to say out loud.
Who was he?
Roby didn't see him.
But their fates were on a collision course.
The crematorium fell silent again.
A soft breeze swayed the nearby trees. The boy's steps slowed as he stood before the glass wall where names were etched in clean rows.
One name stood out to him:
Kim Ji-hoon (김지훈)
Slowly, with a trembling hand, the boy removed his black hoodie.
His hair was slightly messy. His pale face calm—but his eyes...
It was Nam Do-yoon.
Expressionless as always.
But behind his gaze, something deep stirred—pain, regret, something unspoken.
He stood there silently. For a long time.
From the inside of his jacket, he pulled out a small paper origami crane—white, slightly wrinkled, with Korean writing scribbled on one wing. At the tip, the initials were clear:
"KJH"
Do-yoon crouched and gently laid the crane beneath Ji-hoon's name.
Then, in a barely audible whisper:
"Sorry... I was late. Again."
A flicker of memory crossed his eyes—
A flashback: Ji-hoon and Do-yoon as kids, standing near a riverbank by an old dormitory.
Ji-hoon laughs, teasing. Do-yoon frowns.
"If you ever ditch me when I need you, I'll burn all your dumb origamis," Ji-hoon joked.
Do-yoon mumbled,
"I won't leave you. But don't ask me to save people... I'm not that strong."
The memory faded.
Now only Do-yoon remained. Older. Quieter. And haunted.
Do-yoon took one last breath and was about to turn around—
when something taped under Kim Ji-hoon's name caught his eye.
A small, faded photograph.
Two little boys in thick jackets, smiling with their front teeth missing, holding melting ice cream.
One of them was clearly Ji-hoon, his smile unmistakable.
The other...
Golden-brown hair. Bright blue eyes. That annoyingly confident grin.
Do-yoon narrowed his eyes.
"…Who's this?"
He gently touched the photo with two fingers. In the corner, written in small letters:
> "Ji-hoon & Roby — NJ"
"...Roby?" Do-yoon whispered.
The name echoed in his mind.
Roby.
The new transfer kid from America. Loud, cocky, sharp-tongued.
The guy who stole everyone's attention in class without even trying.
And now...
his name is under Ji-hoon's.
Do-yoon looked back up at Ji-hoon's name, lips pressed together.
"So... you brought him here?" he murmured, voice tight.
He allowed himself the smallest smirk, bitter and sad.
"That kid... he's different."
And for the first time, in the softest voice only the dead could hear, Do-yoon asked:
"Is he after the truth, too?"