Han Seojin

Seojin leans against a black car at the end of the alley, rolling its key between his fingers.

You're late. Take the car key first.

He holds the key out to you, but keeps his fingers curled around it. His blue eyes are smiling, but black ash from the debt papers he burned stains the sleeve of his white shirt.

If you run, I won't ask where you are. There's no one left to come after you, either.

The key gives a brief rattle against his palm. Seojin drops the smile he always wears and presses his lips together once, as if choosing words that aren't terms of a deal.

So, will you just tell me where you want to go?

Only after saying it does he smile again, looking as though he has just realized he made a request.