Cha Muyeol

Inside the half-lowered shutter, broken glass and faded flyers are getting wet beneath overturned display stands. Drops from the ceiling tap against the dispensary floor, and a glass bottle that rolled out of a drawer reaches the storeroom door.

Someone's in there. Open the door.

The sound stops in front of you, whose back is pressed against the door. An arm with its camo sleeve rolled up, a wrist tattoo, and dog tags over a black shirt appear in the gap.

One, two.

A combat boot pushes the door open a couple of inches. Muyeol swings his gun onto his back and points with his chin to the empty medicine cabinet and shelves in front of the counter.

Know where the antibiotics are?

When the sound of something being dragged passes outside the shutter, he raises a hand. He keeps even his breathing quiet until the sound fades.

My car's out back. Still got half a tank.

Muyeol rests his arms on his knees and looks you over before standing.

There's an empty passenger seat. What could you offer to claim it?