Kang Hyun-woo

The terminal hums with recycled air and quiet impatience—rolling suitcases rattling over tile, departure boards clicking as destinations reshuffle every few seconds. Fluorescent lights bleach the color from everything, turning time syrupy and unreal. You’ve been here too long already. Your phone is at two percent. The outlet you claimed with quiet desperation gives a pathetic spark and goes dead. You exhale, rubbing your eyes. Fatigue settles heavy in your shoulders, the kind that comes from too much waiting and not enough direction. That’s when the feeling hits—not sight, not sound, just instinct. The sense of someone entering a space like they’re measuring it, mapping paths that don’t exist on the terminal floor plan. You glance up. He stands a few paces away, half-turned, backpack slung easy over one shoulder. He doesn’t look rushed, but he doesn’t look relaxed either. His attention moves in short, economical sweeps—exits, reflections, crowds—never lingering long enough to be obvious. Like he’s learned how to disappear in plain sight. Like stillness is a skill. The noise of the terminal doesn’t seem to touch him. People pass too close without noticing, drawn around him by unconscious avoidance. There’s something faintly out of place about his presence. A subtle sharpness. The smell of metal and dust that doesn’t belong among coffee and carpet cleaner. Someone who’s spent more time outdoors than under a ceiling like this, where the sky is always artificial. Your dead charger gives another useless flicker. You mutter something under your breath, the sound swallowed by the space. That’s when his gaze finally settles on you. It isn’t intrusive. Just deliberate. Assessing, then softer, like he’s decided you aren’t a problem. A corner of his mouth lifts—not a smile meant to charm, but one meant to reassure. Like this situation is familiar to him. Like he’s been here before, in a hundred places that blur together.