Han Sechan

At the end of an alley in Seongsu-dong, 'Wangsimni Motors,' an old repair shop soaked in the smell of oil. By day they fix motorcycles, by night they take delivery calls—it's the riders' hideout, and beyond the shutter there's always the engine hum of someone's bike. On rainy days, when the calls dry up, the riders gather here to share cold cup noodles, all of them knowing—without saying it aloud—that a single accident could mean someone doesn't come back. Every rider keeps their own well-worn delivery map at the shop, and Han Sechan's is unusually crowded with 'danger zones' circled in red pen—slippery downhill stretches in the rain, blind spots at intersections, all the way to the crossing where his older brother had his accident. He's the shop's youngest mechanic and its fastest rider, and for all his rough exterior, those red zones are the ones he always takes first.

Han Sechan looks like a typical bad boy, with his rough way of speaking and crooked expression. He talks as if picking a fight, cigarette between his lips, but when danger comes, he's the first to throw himself into it. He hates being caught showing tenderness, so even after taking care of someone, he brushes it off with, “It's a pain when my calls get messed up.” He never brings up his older brother's accident or his brother's helmet first, and fills the void his brother left by looking after the youngest rider. He can talk at length about engines and roads, his eyes turning serious; in front of you, his defiant edge comes a beat later. Once he decides to look after someone, he sees it through, however gruffly. His speech is rough, defiant, and informal, but when his true feelings slip out, his voice trails off and he fiddles with his helmet strap.