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The school bell rang, but Sang-woo wasn’t there to hear it.
Sang-woo wasn’t at school at all, even though it was a quarter past noon on a Thursday. He should have been in science class, working on his homework ahead of time or taking notes.
He definitely shouldn’t have been in a dingy alley with his best friend, standing awkwardly with his bag slung over his shoulder.
And yet, there he was. In a dingy alley with his best friend, standing awkwardly with his bag slung over his shoulder.
The October air was crisp and cool, scattered with distant foliage and the sting of exhaust. The smell of grilled squid and boiled corn from distant vendors picked up, sweet and oily, but all that aroma did was remind Sang-woo that their mothers could have been anywhere .
Next to him was Gi-hun, leaning against the sun-faded wall casually, as if he’d been doing this every day. He hadn’t specified how often he skipped, or how he’d even planned such an elaborate escape route. Just said, “It’s one day, Sang-woo-ya. The world won’t end.”
This counted as truancy. If they somehow got caught, their mothers would be furious, their records would be ruined, and the consequences would be unmatched. This was very, very wrong, and Sang-woo knew that. His stomach churned with a nausea that sent trembles through his hands and wormed its way up to his throat, burning hot. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since they’d left the school gates.
Still, there he was.
Why did he agree to this? That was far beyond him. He wasn’t much of a thrill seeker, and he knew the risks. What the hell was he thinking?
Maybe he was just lonely. Maybe he was tired of studying so much, always being the responsible one. Maybe he just wanted to spend time with his hyung. That all seemed perfectly plausible (if you ignored that he’d already slept over at Gi-hun’s two nights ago… and was planning to again tomorrow).
On the other hand, Gi-hun seemed completely at ease. He didn’t seem to have a care or worry in the world. His tie was loose and his sleeves were rolled up, the top button of his uniform undone like a middle finger to every teacher they’d just walked out on. He leaned back with a long exhale, his dark tresses fluttering in the breeze as if they were leaves.
Gi-hun flashed him a crooked smile, resting an arm on his shoulder reassuringly. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“I might,” Sang-woo muttered. “This is illegal.”
“Oh, don't worry! It’s just frowned upon.”
“That is quite literally what illegal means.”
Gi-hun chuckled and kicked a pebble down the alley. “Aish— come on, Sang-woo-ya, live a little. One day off school won’t kill you.”
Sang-woo shot him a look. “You say that like you’ve only skipped once.”
“If anything, me being an expert at this should reassure you. Much easier to get away with it.” Sang-woo pulled away, and Gi-hun must have sensed his remaining tension, because his grin softened a little, losing its teasing edge. “It’s gonna be okay, Sang-woo-ya. I promise. I’ll protect you regardless.”
And just like that, Sang-woo lost any train of thought about their crime. It wasn’t fair—why did Gi-hun have this much power in his brain? What sort of hex was he under, to submit to him with such a minuscule gesture?
He’ll protect me.
Gi-hun would protect him. That meant he had nothing to worry about, right?
“Fine. I trust you, hyung.”
Gi-hun smiled, heartfelt and bleeding with joy—a sight enough to make Sang-woo nauseous, heart pounding within his chest, needing to burst open and fly away. Then, he dug through his uniform pocket… and pulled out a small crumpled box, marked with off-white packaging.
Sang-woo blinked, confused, before staring at him with wide eyes.
Cigarettes?
“You ever smoked before, dongsaeng?”
Sang-woo nearly recoiled at the sight, backing away slowly. “Are you crazy?”
Gi-hun just gave a slow shrug, like it was nothing. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big—hyung, that’s illegal.”
“Are you sure?”
Sang-woo quit leaning against the wall, giving himself the smallest of height advantages as he stood up straight. “You’re not allowed to buy cigarettes unless you’re an adult. It’s a federal offense, I think.” He scowled. “I’m fifteen. You’re sixteen. That is not adults.”
Gi-hun blinked, pinching the cigarette between two fingers. “I haven’t heard that. Besides, isn’t skipping school illegal too?”
Sang-woo scoffed, clenching his jaw with a scowl. He wanted to snap back with something clever—no, hyung, it’s apparently frowned upon, since you clearly make all the rules in the world. Still, he said nothing, knowing this boy wasn’t going to listen. He was practically defenseless here, and that damn little look on his face wasn’t helping.
“Why did you bring those, anyway?”
Gi-hun balanced the cigarette between his fingers like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like absolutely nothing was wrong with this. “A couple of girls at that big school event last month showed me how. Real pretty, too.” He grinned, smug like he was expecting Sang-woo to be impressed.
Girls. Of course, it was girls. It always had to be girls. Gi-hun was always surrounded by them, always saying the right things, and laughing like it was easy. And the way he said pretty—like he’d meant it—was enough to leave a bitter aftertaste in Sang-woo’s mouth.
Sang-woo crossed his arms, that feeling of apprehension resurfacing. But it wasn’t the same jittery feeling as before. This time, it burned incandescently, synonymous with annoyance. “You don’t have to bring up girls every time you talk, hyung.”
“Tch. You could use a smoke.”
He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You need to lighten up, Sang-woo-ya. You’re fifteen, not fifty. You’re always stressed out, and every time we’re not together you’re doing boring things like studying.” He rapped against Sang-woo’s forehead gently, and he recoiled—why did he have to be so touchy? “That big brain of yours is gonna melt if you don’t cool it off every once in a while.”
“Cigarettes give you cancer, hyung. That’s not exactly cooling off.”
“Oh, that’s all just exaggeration to scare people. One smoke’s not gonna do anything to you. Here. Watch.” Gi-hun took a drag, lips closing around the cigarette with ease. As he smoked, the tip smoldered, growing gray and cindery until there was no more pure white at the end—replaced with ash. Then, he exhaled, drawing out a puff of smoke.
Sang-woo wrinkled his nose. The smell was repulsively vile. How could anybody enjoy this?
Gi-hun turned to him with a grin, holding the pack out like a bag of candy. Or a death sentence. Or maybe even a peace offering.
“C’mon. Just one. I promise it won’t kill you.”
Sang-woo stared at the cigarette. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew how devastated his mother would be if she ever found out, crying and begging for him to stop, or how much trouble he’d get in if anyone were to find out. Addiction was no joke, and the flyers passed around school exclaimed that.
But Gi-hun—the way he handled the cigarettes with care as if they were precious instead of poisonous. The way he watched Sang-woo with those steady eyes, delicately unyielding. The way he promised nothing bad would happen to him as if this were just another memory they were making. Just two teenage boys, smoking cigarettes behind an alleyway, with all their troubles put aside—if only briefly.
It was like nothing else in the world mattered.
Just him and Gi-hun.
And for a moment—a fleeting yet heavy moment—he didn’t care if this killed him. He didn’t care he was burying himself in his own shallow grave. If these were the nails in his coffin, cementing his final resting place, then at least the nails in his coffin were in Gi-hun’s hands.
Reluctantly, he took one from his fingers, not quite looking at him. “You’re such a bad influence.”
“You’ll thank me. Now, look at me. You wanna hold it like this ,” he explained, gesturing to the two fingers pinching his aflamed cigarette. “It’s probably the easiest way to, anyway.”
The lighter was still warm from Gi-hun’s hold, the metal still ardent from the last flick. Sang-woo hesitated, eyeing the cigarette as if it would bite him. He pushed it between his two fingers, albeit a bit unsteadily, and stuck it in his mouth. Then, he lit it.
Fuck. There was a cigarette. In his mouth. There was no turning back now.
“Good!”
The praise sounded so natural from him, and yet it sent a heat crawling up his neck that had nothing to do with the cigarette, dangerously close to excitement. Sang-woo didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. His lips were still around the filter, and he was too scared that if he opened his mouth, something humiliating would come out.
“Okay, now—listen, don’t breathe it straight from your lungs like it’s air. That’s how you end up hacking your lungs out and turning green.”
Sang-woo cocked an eyebrow, giving him a look. Then what was he supposed to do?
As if he could read his mind, “Pull a little into your mouth first. Just a bit. Like, uh, tasting it. Y’know?”
“That’s disgusting.”
Gi-hun shrugged, amused. “You’ll get it.”
You’ll get it. He said it as if this were just another math formula to learn.
He tried. He really tried.
He brought in the smallest puff he could manage as if he were testing hot waters. Smoke slipped into his mouth—acrid, dry, and weirdly sweet—and for a split second, it wasn’t that bad.
Then, instinct betrayed him, catching him off guard, and before correction was possible, he inhaled.
The reaction was immediate. His lungs clenched. He sputtered hard, nearly dropping the cigarette and lighting the entire alley ablaze (and in turn probably killing them. How pathetic). His eyes stung and watered as he bent forward, coughing like his body was trying to expel the whole damn thing.
“Shit,” Gi-hun said, laughing when he reached out and steadied him with a hand on his back. “I told you not to inhale!”
“Too late,” Sang-woo rasped between coughs, shoulders trembling from the force of them. “Fucking—god, that’s vile .”
“Yeah, first time’s always like that. You okay?”
“No.”
“Wanna try again?”
Smoke still clung to his lashes—at least, it felt like it did. The vapor was like a parasite, latching onto his entire body and draining him of all sense.
He was digging his own grave.
He was going to die. This alley—with the cigarettes and stale silence—would be his final resting place. His lungs would blacken and shrivel up, and he’d be gone within a blink.
But if smoking didn’t kill him, then the damn looks Gi-hun gave him would. The way he smiled, and giggled, and praised him was enough to strike him down right then and there. He was doomed either way. But Gi-hun, sitting there with him and acting like nothing else mattered, drove him mad. Gi-hun was the one who’d gotten him here and convinced him to do this.
If cigarettes were his grave, then Gi-hun could be his pallbearer. And he hated how he was okay with that.
So he nodded, mouthing something reminiscent of “one more”.
Gi-hun’s stupidly charming grin widened. “Atta boy.”
There it was again—that praise. Soft and warm and completely disarming. He nearly choked.
Instead of choking, Sang-woo drew the cigarette back, steadier this time. He didn’t dare think about how Gi-hun’s fingers brushed against his shoulders or the way his chest ached with more than just smoke.
“Slower this time, okay? Lighter. Not too much. There’s no rush.”
Keeping Gi-hun’s advice in his mind—lighter, not too much, there’s no rush—and tried again. Before he knew it, smoke filled his lungs once more.
He held it in his mouth as it cooled. Earthy. Still bitter. A bit sweet—he could make out hints of vanilla. Truthfully, it wasn’t bad.
Gi-hun lit up. “There you go! That’s it. You’re a natural, Sang-woo-ya!”
Those words shouldn’t have meant anything—just a stupid pat on the head from a man who didn’t know when to stop smiling.
So why did they feel so good?
“Yah, you wanna know something?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “My first time smoking, I did the same thing. Got too cocky and coughed my lungs out in front of a bunch of girls. They found it cute, though.”
Girls, girls, girls. Would it kill Gi-hun to talk about anything else?
Sang-woo exhaled a quiet laugh, a shaky thing. He couldn’t tell if it was from the smoke or Gi-hun’s voice curling into his chest like silk. Natural. As if this didn’t feel like stealing something. His innocence, maybe. Or whatever scraps of dignity remained after this.
And what was worse, he wanted Gi-hun to take more. He wanted him to ruin him, to smile like that and ask for another piece until there was nothing left but ash.
He took another drag, just to have something to do with his hands, and while the smell was still vile, he was starting to tolerate it. The process was beginning to feel more natural, and while it still burned at his throat a bit, it wasn’t overwhelming like before. His nerves, previously jittery and soul-shattering, were beginning to calm. Fuck, was he already being poisoned?
For once in his life, Gi-hun had gone quiet, save for the occasional sigh of smoke. What a stupidly pretty sight he was, parting his lips to exhale, and for a brief, paralyzing moment, Sang-woo yearned for those lips on his. Immediately he shook it off, trying to ignore the monologue that buzzed about how smooth and sweet it would feel, gravelly stubble brushing against his. Maybe he needed to look into the psychological effects of smoking.
He didn’t know how long they’d been back here. It could’ve been hours, or it could’ve been seconds. Regardless, it felt like an eternity, and he was torn between wanting to run away and wanting to indulge in the moment. He lifted the cigarette again, embers crawling dangerously close to his fingers.
“Yah—careful,” Gi-hun said, voice low. “You’re supposed to tap the ash off before it hits your fingers.”
“I was going to.”
“No, you weren’t. Here. Like this.” Gi-hun’s hand was already reaching before Sang-woo could object—gently, but firmly, his fingers slid over Sang-woo’s wrist. Rough. Warm. Anchoring. He guided his hands with practiced ease, angling them down toward the chipped concrete beneath them. His thumb grazed the inside of Sang-woo’s wrist, just briefly.
But it was enough.
Sang-woo’s breath caught in itself, subtle yet humiliating. His skin pricked, staticky, blooming with warmth and fizzling from the smallest of touches. Gi-hun wasn’t even looking at him. Just casually knocking the ash free, like he wasn’t ruining Sang-woo’s entire sense of gravity.
“There you go,” he said once finished, smiling like always (why did he have to smile?). “Now you won’t burn a hole through your hand.”
Of course, Gi-hun didn’t let go right away. The touchy fool just stood there, fingers still loosely curled around his wrist. The movement stretched, practically slowing time. Then, he looked up—eyes crinkled, grinning. His anchor was hooked around Sang-woo’s leg, digging lacerations into his skin and pulling him further and further down.
“You’re good at this. Better than my first time.”
And there it was again. That praise—silky, sugary, and smoky.
Sang-woo tried not to swallow too loud. He tried not to think about how warm his chest felt, fluttering with evil butterflies. He tried not to imagine what Gi-hun’s hand would feel like somewhere else. His neck. His jaw. His—
“I’ve got it,” he muttered, though his voice came out a bit of a pathetic whisper.
“Alright, alright, genius,” Gi-hun replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. The area where his hands were burned , and now Sang-woo wished to scold himself for letting his grasp slip.
The alley went silent as they smoked. The earlier smell of street food began to dull, replaced with the smell of sweet tobacco—and that’s how Sang-woo knew his funeral was imminent. Thick smoke curled through his chest like ivy vines. Another nail in the coffin. Another kiss from the reaper. He wouldn’t admit it yet, but this was growing on him.
It was so strange to him, how quickly his mind could change. He could barely remember the moments when he’d refused—they were so clouded by smoke and ash, so far behind him now. He caught himself taking another drag, and another, until soon the cigarette was nothing but a useless butt.
“Oh—just give that to me,” Gi-hun suggested upon notice. “Obviously we don’t have an ashtray, but if you rub them out against the concrete it usually does the job.”
Sang-woo moved on autopilot, extending the cigarette remains. The warmth of his fingers brushing against his own was a quiet jolt in the small alleyway. The remaining anxiety inside him had almost completely diminished, replaced by a strange, hollow calm. His chest didn’t ache as much anymore. The tight knot loosened enough to let the cigarette smoke fill the space instead.
He watched as Gi-hun crushed the cigarette butt against the rough concrete, the crunch reminiscent of a coffin lid snapping shut. Each drag he took wasn’t just smoke—it was ash settling on his youth, slowly burning away.
And yet, in the strange eye of surrender, Sang-woo found a flicker of peace. Maybe it was the calm after the storm. Maybe it was the first breath he’d taken in a long time without the weight of panic crushing him.
Maybe it was him.
Gi-hun looked back at him, a half-smile playing on his lips. “See? Not so bad, hm?”
Sang-woo couldn’t answer immediately. He was too busy feeling the slow, creeping pull of surrender—the way the smoke, the quiet, and this strange companionship all wrapped around him like a shroud.
“Want another?”
And in his post-mortem, he accepted.
Sang-woo was a smart boy. He knew what smoking addiction did, how it would slowly crumble a person from the inside out until they were nothing but a bitter husk of themselves. He’d read the fine print.
He was smart enough to know that even if he hadn’t realized it yet, this moment wouldn’t be the last. The bitter taste wouldn’t just cling to his lungs, but to his thoughts, twisting itself into a craving of its own. It was the beginning of a chain he couldn’t break, even if he tried.
The funeral had begun. He’d been lowered to the ground—ashes to ashes, smoke to smoke—and now all that was left was the wake. No grief-stricken wails, no tears, and no flowers. Just the sound of Gi-hun humming to himself as he lit another cigarette.
And if he ever craved another cigarette, it wouldn’t be for the buzz, nor the earthly-sweet smoke that rose. It would be because he yearned for the way Gi-hun looked at him while he smoked. He would have done it again, and again, and again, if it meant his brain was fed the imagination of Gi-hun.
That, even if he hadn’t realized it yet, was the beginning of something far worse than addiction.