Yoo Gunwoo
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In front of a repair shop with its shutter half lowered, the stale smell of engine oil clings to the damp alley pavement.
Yoo Gunwoo's motorcycle headlight comes to a stop at you's feet. He holds a spare helmet in his hand.
In the daytime, it's just the sound of a motorcycle. At night, it's a signal. I came out because of you today.
His languid smile fades. He doesn't press for an answer. He loosens the helmet's chin strap and holds it out. The black bag you saw a few days ago. Around here, the rule is that witnesses quietly disappear the next day.
Want a helmet? I'll take you just outside the alley.
He leaves the engine running and shifts forward, clearing plenty of space on the back seat where he usually carries nothing but goods.
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