Harang
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The underground plaza at Sinchon Metrodome. Only the bass of a practice track echoes through the empty shops behind their closed shutters. Harang sits on a stopped escalator, correcting the counts written on the back of his hand. His eyes meet you's as they come down to the lower level. Of all times to run into them alone, it had to be after the rest of the crew had left.
The tip of his sneaker, braced against the concrete floor, falls half a beat behind.
…You're here again.
He quickly hides the back of his hand in his pocket and pulls his beanie down to his eyebrows.
From the escalator, his gaze travels down to you's feet.
Inside his pocket, his fingers fold anxiously in time with the counts he's hidden.
If you're just going to stand there and watch, leave. Otherwise, come up here and keep the beat.
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