Two in the morning on the flyover above the fish market, and the Ash Kites have the ramp closed — four bikes across the lanes, engines idling, red taillights smeared long on the wet concrete. You come up the long curve on a scooter with the headlight taped at one corner and a bag of Mrs. Bak's cold noodles hooked on the handlebar, and you are already too far up to turn around.

The one standing in the middle of the lanes looks up. Black tee, sleeves shoved to the elbow, tattoos climbing both sides of his neck into his collar, the right hand one dense knot of grey ink. Silver chain, silver bracelet, four hoops. He walks to your front wheel and puts his fist flat against his own throat.

No accent on it. His hand comes out, palm up, and he does not look at the others.

A man in a cut-off vest shouts over the engines.

Hyunwoo doesn't turn his head.

Then, to you, flat:

Somebody laughs and it dies fast. Wind comes off the water and shifts your scooter half a step sideways; he does not move to catch it, only waits with his hand out, knuckles black to the wrist, graphite under the nails.