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Minhkhoa didn’t want to help the new kid. He could handle it himself.
Like how he did at the age of 15. Every rookie would eventually learns the ways of Kirigi’s dojang.
But something keeps urging him to talk to him. A push in his direction, an automatic search for him in every lesson.
Fate, his mother would say. But Minhkhoa thinks it’s just curiosity.
Curiosity like this leads people to those misfortunes. Like a little boy lured into a haunted house.
-
“Woah, there.”
Minhkhoa just couldn’t help himself.
The boy had almost tripped down the mountain with his shoulders carrying two buckets of water. It would be a pity if his progress is lost at this point.
Minhkhoa stabled his grip on one of the boy’s buckets, smiled and said, “It’s a long way back to the spring if you spilled them.”
The boy’s face showed pure confusion, his eyes wide. “Uh- thanks.” He spoke, his voice quiet. “Wait.. you speak English?”
A stupid question, Minhkhoa thought. But he shall answer nonetheless. “Mostly. So, what brings you to the dojang?”
“I- the works.” The boy spoke, quick enough to cover his mistake.
Minhkhoa chuckled. “You learn fast.”
Never trust anyone.
“I’m Jack by the way. I’m assuming we’re at least allowed to use our names.”
-
Minhkhoa thinks about the boy who introduced himself as Jack later that night. He didn’t look like a Jack with his lustrous black hair and his ice blue eyes, constantly observing. His face was pale, his features delicate as glass while his nose was crooked, as if he’d broken it once or twice in a fight.
He’s good looking.
Common names like Jack don't suit the face of this boy.
Maybe that’s not who he really is. Like Minhkhoa lied about his name.
Jack. Jack. Jack.
His thoughts were Jack. He had tested the way his name would roll off his tongue, one syllable. The way he could whisper it in the wind and no one would catch it, the warmth of his breath turning the cold air misty.
That’s a stupid name, Minhkhoa. Stop repeating it, he scolds himself.
Jack.
Minhkhoa exhales.