Chapter 9
In fact, Hyungoh had dealt with someone like Michael before—back in middle school. The kid was one of those stronger types everyone called the “neighborhood boss,” and unfortunately, they ended up in the same class. It led to incidents all year long.
He wasn’t the type to just throw punches and wander around without any self-control—your typical delinquent. Actually, that would’ve been easier to deal with. The real problem was that he was a teenage boy going through puberty, that turbulent period, with an incredibly active imagination. In other words, he had what everyone called “eighth-grader syndrome.”
And he had it bad—the worst case among the handful of middle schoolers suffering from it. He believed he was a demon. Went around claiming he was a descendant of Lucifer himself.
He’d hit people for making eye contact with him, hit them for not following his orders, torment his classmates for all sorts of bizarre reasons. Everyone feared him—even the teachers—because of his eccentric, unpredictable mindset.
Everyone except Hyungoh.
Then one day, when Hyungoh returned to the classroom after running an errand for the teacher, he found all his classmates standing in the hallway, fidgeting nervously. Through the crack in the door, he could see the boy alone inside, throwing a fit. Someone must have set him off. The teacher seemed unable to handle it and looked like she was considering calling the police.
Hyungoh thought it was ridiculous. Being in that sensitive phase himself, like any other teenager, he was annoyed at having to stand in the humid hallway with no air conditioning in the sweltering summer heat. He was also irritated by his classmates who kept repeating “What should we do?” He couldn’t understand why dozens of people were cowering because of just one guy.
What’s so difficult about this? Just humor him until he calms down.
But Hyungoh never showed these complaints. At school, he was the kind, smart model student. He didn’t want to create unnecessary trouble by showing unnecessary emotions.
As he watched the boy through the classroom door with barely concealed contempt, Hyungoh suddenly flung it open. The boy, who’d been throwing chairs and screaming, was now tossing all of Hyungoh’s cherished books out the window.
Oh no. Realizing his mistake, Hyungoh froze. As the boy spotted him and strode toward the door, the frightened students quickly slammed it shut. Even when a startled Hyungoh knocked, the terrified students wouldn’t open it.
Hyungoh wasn’t afraid of the boy, but he didn’t like getting hurt either. He was obviously going to get beaten up. He gulped as he watched that furious face approaching.
But they say you can survive even a tiger if you keep your wits about you, and even the strongest mantis is just a soft pebble before a rolling cart.
Hyungoh thought calmly. Surprisingly, the solution was simple, and it worked. After that day, everyone was amazed to see the boy behaving quietly around Hyungoh, as if he’d regained his sanity. Everyone kept asking about his secret method, but Hyungoh never told them—not until they graduated from middle school. His face would just flush red whenever someone asked.
Yes. That’s how it was.
Hyungoh recalled that moment. The veins on Michael’s slender hands were about to pop. He didn’t want to use that method again. Hyungoh swallowed hard.
“…Michael.”
Hyungoh hugged Michael tightly. Just like he’d embraced that boy back then. His face naturally grew hot as the memories came flooding back.
Michael, who’d been about to raise his hand, went stiff with surprise. He seemed startled by Hyungoh’s sudden action.
Focus, Choi Hyungoh. If you do it just like back then, there won’t be any danger. Please. Let it work on Michael too. Taking a deep breath, Hyungoh opened his mouth.
“I was worried about you, Michael.”
***
Hunter, sitting on a bench in front of the garden and sipping warm cocoa, glanced at his watch. More than enough time had passed for Hyungoh to have reached Michael’s house. They must have met by now. He strolled into the house and locked the study door. Hunter roughly hung his jacket on the coat hanger, closed all the windows, and drew the curtains. Somehow managing to find the remote in the pitch-black darkness, he turned on the television. A clear image of Michael’s room appeared on screen.
Hunter sat on the sofa with a languid expression, then suddenly raised his eyebrows. Hyungoh was hugging Michael tightly. Hunter narrowed his eyes and turned up the volume.
[How difficult has it been for you, all alone?]
Hyungoh’s voice cracked as his eyes suddenly reddened with tears. Michael stared at him blankly, as if spellbound.
[I think the burden on your shoulders is bigger and heavier than I can imagine.]
[…..]
[You must have been so tired and in so much pain. I may not be able to imagine your suffering, but still, I can understand you. No, I want to understand you.]
Hyungoh gently placed his hand against Michael’s cheek and whispered softly. Seeing his young nephew putting on such a clever act to escape a crisis, Hunter choked.
“Pfft… puhaha.”
Hunter’s shoulders shook with laughter. Michael’s dumbfounded expression was hilarious, and Hyungoh desperately performing to survive in that instinctively dangerous atmosphere was just as amusing. You got caught, Michael. Well, so did I.
***
Ah. I didn’t want to do this again.
Hyungoh thought to himself. I can’t believe I’m doing this again. He let tears roll down his cold face as Michael stared at him so intently he seemed to have forgotten to blink.
Hyungoh recalled that moment again. In that classroom with its bleak atmosphere, when he’d been left alone with that boy, Hyungoh had put on a performance to protect himself—just like now.
He patted him as if understanding everything, comforted him, empathized with him. He didn’t use grandiose words. Just ordinary, completely ordinary words. You must have had a hard time. You’ve been anxious all this time, haven’t you? Come here. It’s okay. You’re not alone.
Hyungoh knew exactly why the boy caused trouble, why he brainwashed himself into thinking he was special.
He just wanted attention.
It was really such a trivial reason. Hyungoh thought the boy was pathetic, but at the same time, he felt sorry and bitter. How much must he have pushed himself to become like that? How anxious must he have been, watching everyone point at him without understanding his desperate cry for attention?
“Now you’re no longer alone.”
Before he knew it, Hyungoh was comforting Michael sincerely. How much psychological stress must he be under to say such nonsensical things—that he was a god, that he knew everything?
Yes. What fault could you possibly have? Hyungoh secretly sighed as he glanced at Michael, who remained quiet, not rejecting the hand stroking his back.
Hyungoh slowly scanned the furniture in the room—overturned horribly—without Michael noticing. But who made it like this? Considering his neat appearance and slender build, it definitely wasn’t Michael.
“…ou.”
“Huh?”
How many minutes had passed? Michael, who’d been silent for quite a while, mumbled something in a small voice.
“You… too… same… lie…”
“…Michael?”
“…do… I…”
Michael suddenly lowered his head and started muttering to himself like a broken machine. Surprised, Hyungoh gently shook his shoulders while calling his name.
His appearance—all curled up and muttering incomprehensible words—even seemed a bit eerie. What’s going on? Did I say something wrong? While stroking Michael’s cold cheek, Hyungoh gently lifted his head and saw tears welling up in those large eyes.
“Herick, Herick…”
Herick? Hyungoh tilted his head at the name Michael kept calling repeatedly. Who’s Herick? Who could it be that makes him mumble continuously with such a sad expression? Still, thinking he should comfort Michael for now, Hyungoh embraced him once more.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
At Hyungoh’s touch, patting his back again, Michael finally burst into tears. His sorrowful tears soaked Hyungoh’s shoulder.
What did I do wrong?
Hyungoh was sweating profusely. This wasn’t the development he’d expected. He thought Michael would stop his outburst and become as quiet as a mouse, like that boy back then. But to cry this hard…
Surely I haven’t made things worse, have I?
