Chapter Text
Kim Dokja groans as another kick lands squarely against his ribs, the impact stealing the air from his lungs. His body jerks involuntarily, curling tighter in on itself. His fingers clutch at the gravel beneath him, nails scraping uselessly against the rough concrete as if he can anchor himself somewhere else—anywhere else.
He squeezes his eyes shut, teeth grinding so hard his jaw aches. Pain blooms everywhere at once, hot and dizzying, spreading beneath his skin like fire.
Please... stop... it hurts...
His voice never makes it past his throat. It remains trapped there, fragile and unheard.
A shoe nudges his shoulder. Another kick lands against his thigh.
Dokja trembles, his arms tightening over his head, protecting his face. His vision swims behind his squeezed-shut eyes, darkness pulsing with every heartbeat. The world spins even without looking, pain disorienting him, swallowing his sense of balance.
He doesn't know where to look. He doesn't know where he is anymore.
Only that it hurts.
He wonders, distantly, how many times this has happened now. Third time this month. Seventh? Ninth?
He stopped counting.
“Hey, look at him. He's not even fighting back.”
“Hahaha! What a pathetic piece of shit!”
Their voices blur together, faceless and meaningless. Like extras in a story. Characters without names.
Characters who exist only to make someone else suffer.
If this were a novel, Dokja thinks hazily, this would be the part where the protagonist stands up.
He would wipe the blood from his mouth. He would glare at his enemies. He would endure.
He would win.
But Kim Dokja is not a protagonist.
He is a reader.
And readers—
Endure.
“Teacher! They're over here!”
The shout slices through the scene.
The kicks stop.
“Shit.”
“Run!”
Shoes scuff violently against the pavement. The laughter disappears just as quickly as it came, replaced by hurried footsteps fading into the distance.
Silence falls.
Dokja doesn't move at first. His body refuses to trust it.
Only when the pain begins to settle into a dull, throbbing ache does he dare loosen his grip on himself.
He inhales shakily. The air burns his lungs.
He forces his eyes open.
The world swims. Light stabs into his vision, blinding and unfocused. He blinks repeatedly, vision trembling, struggling to piece itself back together.
A sigh reaches his ears.
Soft. Close.
Footsteps approach slowly.
He lifts his head.
A figure stands before him, backlit by the setting sun. The golden light spills around them, obscuring their face, turning them into nothing more than a silhouette edged in warmth.
“You okay?”
The question feels strange. Foreign. Like a language he doesn't understand.
He nods anyway.
It's automatic.
Always say you're okay.
Always make it easier.
The figure shifts, stepping closer.
As his vision clears, he realizes—
It's a girl.
A female student.
She crouches in front of him, lowering herself to his level. Her expression comes into view now—brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line. Not disgust.
Concern.
She holds something out toward him.
His bag.
“Here,” she says softly.
Dokja stares at it for a moment, as if unsure it's real. Then he reaches out with trembling hands and takes it from her. His fingers brush against hers briefly.
They're warm...
He clutches the bag against his chest.
When he looks up again, she's smiling.
It isn't a wide smile. It isn't forced.
It's small. Quiet. Real.
Something in his chest tightens painfully.
For some reason, Kim Dokja knows—
He won't forget that smile.
Kim Dokja swallows down the curse threatening to rise in his throat.
For the second time, she is here.
For the second time, she sees him like this.
Broken. Pathetic. Weak.
They sit on a worn wooden bench beneath the shade of a tall tree. The campus is quieter now, most students already heading home. The air smells faintly of dust and leaves.
Dokja keeps his head bowed, hands clenched tightly in his lap.
She sits beside him, close enough that he can hear the faint rustle of her uniform.
“Hold still.” she murmurs.
He flinches instinctively as her fingers touch his cheek.
She pauses.
“...Sorry,” she says gently.
Her touch returns, lighter this time.
She dabs antiseptic against the cut near his lip.
It stings.
Dokja bites down on his lower lip to stop himself from reacting. Shame burns hotter than the pain ever could.
Why is she doing this?
Why is she wasting her time on someone like him?
She finishes applying the medicine and pulls her hand back. For a moment, neither of them speak.
Then she lightly pats his arm.
“How do you feel?”
Her voice is careful, as if afraid of breaking something fragile.
Dokja stares at the ground.
“I'm okay...” he mumbles.
The lie tastes bitter.
He can feel her eyes on him. Searching. Seeing too much.
“They never listen,” she says quietly. “I already reported them.”
Dokja's fingers tighten.
“I'm used to it,” he says quickly. “You don't have to help me.”
He hesitates.
“...What if they hurt you instead?”
He forces himself to look at her.
Her eyes widen slightly.
“Pffft—!”
“W- what...?”
“If that happens,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “you'll help me, right?”
Dokja freezes.
His mind goes blank.
Help her?
The thought is almost laughable.
How?
He can't even protect himself.
In Three Ways to Survive the Apocalypse, Yoo Joonghyuk would never hesitate.
What would Yoo Joonghyuk do?
The thought surfaces instinctively.
What would the protagonist say?
What would someone strong say?
She tilts her head further, watching him with quiet curiosity.
Waiting.
Dokja inhales slowly.
His lungs tremble.
He nods.
“I'll help you...” he says.
Her eyes light up.
They sparkle in the fading light.
And for the first time—
Kim Dokja feels like maybe those words could become true.
The third time she sits beside him, he nearly drops his lunch.
He startles violently, shoulders jerking as she lowers herself onto the bench next to him.
“Hey,” she says, smiling.
Dokja's face immediately burns.
“He—hey...” he stammers.
He can't look at her.
He focuses intensely on his food, suddenly hyperaware of everything—his posture, his breathing, the awkward way he holds his chopsticks.
She opens her own lunch calmly, as if this is normal. As if sitting beside him is the most natural thing in the world.
Dokja steals glances at her when he thinks she won't notice.
She notices.
She doesn't say anything.
She just smiles.
This doesn't make sense.
People don't approach him.
People don't stay.
But she does.
Days pass.
Then weeks.
They begin walking home together.
At first, the silence is unbearable.
Dokja barely speaks. He listens instead, memorizing the sound of her voice, the rhythm of her words. He responds in short sentences. Careful sentences.
He waits for her to get bored.
She doesn't.
Dokja doesn't know what to say.
But she talks.
About small things.
Classes. Teachers. Complaints. Random thoughts.
He listens attentively.
Eventually, he responds.
Eventually, he laughs.
He learns they are in the same year.
Her classroom is right next to his.
She becomes easy to find.
Easy to look for.
Easy to wait for.
They eat lunch together.
They share snacks.
They walk home together beneath the fading orange sky.
It becomes routine.
A routine Dokja secretly treasures.
One afternoon, she glances at him.
“Hey, Dokja.”
He looks up.
“I've noticed,” she says, pointing at his phone. “You really love reading.”
Dokja stiffens.
He quickly locks his screen and shoves the phone into his pocket.
“...Yeah.”
She frowns.
“Why hide it?” she asks.
He doesn't answer.
Because it's embarrassing.
Because reading is all he has.
Because stories are safer than people.
He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
She watches him. “What is it about?”
Dokja blinks.
No one has ever asked that before.
No one has ever cared.
His mouth opens.
Closes.
Words stumble over themselves, clumsy and uncertain.
“I—it's just—there's this novel—and—”
She laughs.
Not mockingly.
Warmly.
Her laughter fills the air, soft and bright.
Dokja feels his chest tighten again.
But this time—
It doesn't hurt.
She looks at him, eyes shining with quiet amusement.
“You're interesting, Dokja.”
He doesn't know how to respond.
But for the first time—
Kim Dokja thinks that maybe...
Maybe being himself isn't something to be ashamed of.