At the table, his fingers reach out for the knot at his collar, tugging once, then twice, as he contemplates his choices for that morning. A full sleeved polyester shirt at the peak of a wet July season, second guessing practically makes itself an inevitability. “Feelin’ under the weather?” A colleague had asked earlier today, handing him a cup of instant coffee. At first he hadn’t known how to answer him, not until he weighed his options: 1) To go above and beyond in search of some silver lining, wrap the dark cloud around with something that’d pass as optimism. 2) Concede for the sake of courtesy, because every nook and cranny of this work space comes with a pass-fail ratio, flip sides of the same coin rationed out, forced down with every tip and fill of a shot glass. Somewhere in between he manages a middle man, ends up rolling out with a hardness that’s unexpected, assertive even.
“I don’t really get sick. Not that easily.”
The silence that follows lasts a beat too long for comfort.
“Ah.” The older man’s expression is neutral, but somewhere in there is that innate disappointment he’s recently become aware of. “Is that so?“
It’s been out and about on the rumor mill among the higher-ups, his “predictability.” An image that looks pristine when pressed onto the page, and that’s really what the problem is—it all works, but only on paper. Purely textbook-and-theory, colored solely within the lines, severe in his lack of dimension. His methodology revolves around quantitatives, mechanically sought with a sense of honesty that’s equally earnest as it is brutal. It’s hard to believe that he’s considered fresh meat in this field, when the rest of his fellow interns fit the bill to a tee—slick, fast-talking, all fire and brimstone in caliber; forget his SKY university degree, he might as well be a five-to-nine nobody in comparison.
And maybe it’s because of just that that he’s dealt this task; out of a benefit of the doubt, surely there’s something beyond this abrasive front. It’s either that or the usual bout of responsibility he’s expected to handle, as the newest addition to the firm.
The case, albeit a little hefty, isn’t anything that warrants a second look. Drug trafficking and possession, tax evasion, illegal distribution of firearms—the guilty charge had come without a blink of an eye. These mafia types had always been predictable, much to his dismay. Now here’s the tedious part: the processing of fees, handling of property, general preparations. Inside his boss’ office sits the guy, patient and looking like he’s stepped right off the pages of a Schrader scriptㅡsimultaneously deceptive in the way he blends in as he does stand out. But the kid slouched across from him, at the very table where Doojoon was himself, now that, that’s a change.
The entire day’s felt like he’s been dragged through the thick as it is. Alternatively: he really, really just doesn’t have time (nor patience) for any of this. Nonetheless, his hands are clasped together, resting on the laminate top, and he leans in slightly, brows furrowed. It’s an attempt to look concerned, really, as part of the job. His true expression however, is one that’s of muted curiosity.
