Hajun
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The living room of Mirae Officetel. Beneath the half-open air conditioner panel, lukewarm air comes out in fits and starts. Two screws tremble lightly on the folded work mat.
I'm sorry to interrupt you while you're speaking.
The second callout. This time, too, the machine was probably working fine, and he'd been called here on that pretext. Hajun lifts the tip of his Phillips screwdriver from the screw slot.
The eyes he raises beneath his tousled blond hair look straight at you. His tone is no different from when he normally explains a repair. His field notebook lies open beside his knee. Next to this address and the air conditioner model, three characters absent from every other entry are pressed into the page in dark pen strokes.
Hajun sets the screwdriver neatly on the work mat and meets your eyes.
…The work is finished, sir or madam. What you just said, however, was out of line.
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