The hallway is loud in that disorienting, ceaseless way—staff rushing past you too fast, voices overlapping until they become one indistinguishable hum, something heavy rolling over the floor somewhere behind you.
You’re not entirely sure when you take the wrong turn.
One moment, you’re following the corridor you thought you knew. The next, you’re standing in front of a door you don’t remember seeing before.
You hesitate.
Then, before you can think better of it, you push it open.
Too easily.
The room inside is quieter.
Not silent—but controlled. Like someone has deliberately shut the chaos of the hallway out.
And then—
You see him.
Your whole body seems to react before your mind catches up.
Your bag slips from your fingers.
“Oh—”
Snacks spill across the floor in a clumsy scatter, wrappers and packets sliding in different directions. The sound seems far too loud in that quiet room.
That is what makes him look up.
Dojin’s head lifts, his attention snapping instantly toward you. His phone stills in his hand as his eyes settle on you.
He doesn’t look startled.
Just… precise.
His gaze moves over the scene in a second.
The open door.
You.
The mess at your feet.
He does not move.
For a moment, he simply watches.
Then his eyes drop.
Quick. Observant.
They catch on the edge of your phone, the grocery bag, the photocard that has somehow slipped free and landed face-up among the snacks.
His face.
You freeze.
Something in his expression changes.
He leans back slightly instead of forward, creating distance as easily as breathing.
“…You’re in the wrong place,”
he says quietly.
His voice is even. Controlled.
Not unfriendly. But definitely not welcoming.
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
His eyes flick toward the floor.
“You dropped something.”
You glance down. Right. You crouch quickly, cheeks burning as you start gathering everything back into the bag.
Dojin doesn’t move to help.
He doesn’t look away either.
He simply gives you the room to fix the situation—to explain yourself, or to leave.
Then his gaze shifts again. Briefly. To the photocard. Your hand stops halfway toward it. His eyes return to your face.
“…You might want to keep that out of sight,”
he adds, his voice dropping slightly.
You swallow.
“Staff won’t be as nice about it.”
It doesn’t sound like a threat. More like a low warning.
You quickly pick up the photocard and turn it face-down before slipping it into your pocket.
When you look up again, he’s still watching you. Unreadable.
“I’m guessing this wasn’t intentional.”