Park Ju-yeon's fatalism ②A yellow-and-white hamster sniffed the air in the darkened room. Its eyes—black, button-hard, and glass-bead dull—swiveled with its tiny head like rivets on a hinge. With two pink forepaws it scooped up a pinch of bedding, inhaled, then flicked the chips away in stop-motion speed and trotted onto its wheel.

The bearings rattled. Three seconds in, Park Juyeon rubbed his eyes and sat up. Half-blind, he fumbled under the pillow for his phone, keyed the screen, and flinched at the glare. “Three a.m. Seriously.” His mouth, still slack with sleep, sounded sticky. “Hey, why are you running laps at night—”

The hamster sprinted harder, tripped on its own momentum, and was flung to the side. It sniffed again, then bared the strong, ever-growing incisors of a rodent and began gnawing the cage bars.

The instant the gnawing started, the last shred of drowsiness vaporized. Juyeon scratched behind his ear, opened a chat app, and scrolled an old thread.
“How many days till she takes it back…”
He paused on the first message, then dragged the notification shade down and huffed in defeat. He wasn’t a light sleeper, but ever since doing that favor for an acquaintance, every noise grated on him. He looked at the hamster still chewing the door, pulled on a jacket, and got out of bed.

He often walked at dawn—first as exam-week stress relief, later because he liked it. The air at three a.m. was the freshest of the day, cold moisture laced with flower scent that settled his mind. Walking dark streets with earbuds was risky, but tonight he stuffed in the noise-canceling pair. The silence was too loud; his small surge of night-grumpiness needed amplification. He queued a metal album and let the racket scrub his mood clean.

Cicadas vanished behind the ANC; the world receded. Hands in pockets, he drifted along the narrow lane beside the apartment blocks. Drunks and delinquents haunted only the entertainment districts; night-shift workers were busy elsewhere. Empty streets consoled him, and he hummed along with the music—ridiculous with headphones on, but no one was watching.

Ahead, a fork lay under a crooked tree whose canopy turned the corner into pitch. Juyeon slipped one earbud free in case a car appeared. His foot landed on something soft.

Not soft—fabric.

He thumbed on the phone torch: a hoodie and jeans, half on the pavement. Reflex raised the light and, in the sweep, caught a face in profile. Juyeon jumped back, heart slamming into his throat. A second step, then he steadied the beam.

It was a man—tall, lying on his side. The patch Juyeon had stepped on was the front pocket over the stomach. The stranger’s skin was chalk-white, exhaustion so vivid it felt unreal, thrilling. Only one living soul here—himself—so fear crept in too. Juyeon knelt, shining the light into the man’s eyes. The brows knit in protest; life flickered. Juyeon patted the back of the cold hand once, twice—no response. Last try: shoulder.

The stranger’s lashes fluttered; pupils struggled to focus. Then, without warning, he flung both arms over his head.
“I was wrong—ah, ah—”

Juyeon froze mid-gesture—comfort or retreat Possibly a derelict with mental issues. The man curled tighter, sobs leaking between his forearms. The wail rolled down the street and echoed back. Juyeon glanced around—no windows lit—then knelt again. “It’s okay. Calm down…”

His voice edged just above the crying. The stranger peeked through his arms, then lowered them slowly. Tear-slick hair clung to his forehead; dirt and sleepless bruising only sharpened the clean, handsome lines of his face. Juyeon stared, then remembered himself. “Ah—do you need help”

The stranger stared back, hair settling like a crooked halo. “Juyeon” he said, perfectly accurate.

“You know me” Juyeon’s eyes went round. Ji Wook’s own fear ratcheted, but Juyeon’s quiet waiting eased it. He noted the man’s exhaustion—filthy yet not unkempt, not a vagrant. Hands open, body angled like approaching a skittish animal, Juyeon asked again, “Can I call someone Police Ambulance”

The stranger seized his wrist. “No police—please—”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Juyeon was jostled; the grip was strong. “Family, then Anyone I can ring”

Eyes wide, lips pressed, the man shook his head, fingers digging into Juyeon’s arm. “Please, no.”

Weird guy.
Juyeon drew back slightly; the stranger let go as if shocked, stammering apologies. Juyeon caught the retreating arm with just enough pressure to say harmless. The man swallowed loudly, quivering. His gaze felt like octopus tentacles—testing, recoiling. Watching the trembling bowed head, Juyeon murmured, “Then how can I help”

Mom would approve—so Juyeon soothed, patient. The stranger glanced left and right, confirmed they were alone, and forced out, “Let’s… go back.”

Juyeon hesitated. He could hold his own, but what did the guy need He checked his phone: Saturday, 3 a.m.—no excuse left. He pocketed it and lifted his eyes. The stranger avoided them, wide pupils and averted gaze puppy-like. Juyeon sighed, brushed fingertips against the other’s. “What should I call you”

He walked home slowly because Ji Wook clutched the tail of his jacket with feather-light force. Juyeon counted his steps so the hand wouldn’t slip. He kept his spine straight—any witness would swear he was being marched at knifepoint. Inside the apartment he asked, “Want to wash up” already moving for a towel. Ji Wook took it, eyes fixed on him with that same strange stare. Not afraid anymore Juyeon avoided the gaze, casual: “Hot water will take a minute.”