Chapter 1: The Weight of White Ovals
The world, according to Do-yun, was measured in milligrams and plastic ambers.
The pharmacy was silent, save for the hum of the industrial refrigerator and the rhythmic, clinical scratch of a spatula against a counting tray. It was 5:30 PM. Outside the glass doors of ‘Sang-hoon’s Family Pharmacy,’ the sunset was bleeding a bruised purple across the Seoul skyline, but inside, the light was eternally, unforgivingly fluorescent. It was a light that didn’t allow for shadows or secrets.
One, two, three...click.
Do-yun’s fingers moved with a practiced, robotic grace. He transferred the small white tablets, anti-hypertensives for Mrs. Kim from the third floor, into the bottle. His neck ached. It was a dull, thrumming pain that started at the base of his skull and radiated down his spine, a physical manifestation of the twelve hours he had already spent sitting upright in a desk or standing behind this counter.
“Precision, Do-yun,” a voice drifted over from the back office.
His father, Sang-hoon, didn’t need to look up from his ledger to know if his son had faltered. His voice was like the pharmacy itself: clean, sharp, and impossible to argue with. “A pharmacist’s mistake is never just a mistake. It is a debt paid by the patient.”
“Yes, Father,” Do-yun murmured. His own voice sounded thin to his ears, like paper being folded too many times.
He looked down at his hands. They were stained with the faint, chalky residue of medicine. He wondered, briefly, if he scrubbed hard enough, would he find anything underneath? Or was he just made of this white dust now?
As he capped the bottle, his fingers involuntarily flicked against the plastic. Tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. A syncopated beat. For a split second, his pulse quickened, a strange, phantom energy surging in his calves. He imagined the floor wasn’t linoleum, but something that gave, something he could push off of.
“Do-yun.”
He froze. The rhythm died.
Sang-hoon stood in the doorway, his white coat pristine, his eyes scanning his son with the clinical detachment of a doctor examining a symptom. He checked his watch, a heavy, silver piece that signified a man who valued time above all else.
“Your mock exam results for chemistry were acceptable, but acceptable will not get you into Seoul National,” Sang-hoon said, stepping forward to adjust the collar of Do-yun’s school uniform. His touch was firm, less like a hug and more like a correction. “I’ve booked an additional three hours at the Academy tonight. Advanced Pharmacology. It’s an investment.”
“Tonight?” Do-yun’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “I thought... since it’s Friday...”
“Disease doesn’t take Fridays off,” Sang-hoon replied, his tone final. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, laminated schedule, handing it to his son. “Hard work is the only cure for a weak life. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
Do-yun took the schedule. The paper felt like lead. He traded his white lab coat for his blazer, grabbed his backpack that was crammed with five-pound textbooks, and stepped out of the sterile air-conditioning into the humid, heavy heat of the evening.
He was supposed to turn left toward the subway station. Left meant the Academy. Left meant the fluorescent lights of a different room, where he would memorize the side effects of drugs he didn’t care about until his eyes bled.
Instead, he stood on the sidewalk for a moment, his chest tight. The air smelled of exhaust, street food, and something else, something restless.
Then, he heard it.
A muffled, distorted throb of bass. It wasn’t the rhythmic click of the pharmacy. It was chaotic. It was loud. It was coming from the second floor of a crumbling brick building across the street, where a neon sign flickered with a dying buzz: ‘BEAT & BOUND.’
Do-yun didn’t turn left. For the first time in eighteen years, his feet moved before his mind could tell them not to.The humidity hit him like a physical weight, a stark contrast to the refrigerated, scentless air he’d been breathing since 4:00 PM. Do-yun stood on the cracked pavement, his backpack straps digging into his shoulders, feeling the sweat immediately begin to prickle at his hairline.
To his left, the subway entrance swallowed a stream of grey-suited workers and students in identical uniforms. It was a conveyor belt to the future. If he turned left, he would be on time for the Advanced Pharmacology lecture. He would sit in Row 3, take notes in blue ink, and his father’s investment would be protected.
But the bass from ‘BEAT & BOUND’ didn’t just reach his ears; it vibrated in the soles of his shoes. It was a low, dirty growl of a sound—unrefined, loud, and utterly alive.
He looked back through the pharmacy window. Sang-hoon was already back at his desk, his silhouette framed by rows of neatly organized medicine. From this distance, his father looked like a statue, frozen in a life of perfect order. Do-yun felt a sudden, sharp pang of vertigo. If he stayed on this path, forty years from now, he would be that silhouette. He would be the man counting white ovals in a room that never saw the moon.
His feet moved. Not a stride, but a shuffle, then a step.
Crossing the street felt like wading through deep water. Every car horn and screech of brakes felt like a warning, a collective scream from the city telling him he was out of place. He reached the entrance of the brick building. The door was heavy, painted a matte black that was peeling at the corners, revealing rusted metal beneath.
There was no order here. A hand-scrawled poster was taped to the glass, advertising a street dance battle that had happened three months ago. The air in the stairwell smelled of old rain and cheap cigarettes.
He began to climb.
With every step up the narrow concrete stairs, the music became less of a throb and more of a roar. It was a high-energy K-pop track, but the bass had been boosted until the lyrics were nearly drowned out by the percussion. It sounded like a heartbeat, one that was running too fast, one that was panicked and exhilarated all at once.
He reached the second-floor landing. A pair of double doors with small, circular windows stood before him. Do-yun hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle. His palms were damp. He thought of the schedule in his pocket, the laminated cure for a weak life.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the circular window.The room inside was a chaotic explosion of movement. Mirror-lined walls reflected a dozen bodies blurring in unison, but his eyes immediately locked onto one.
She was in the center, wearing oversized cargo pants and a cropped hoodie that looked like it had been through a war. She wasn’t just moving to the music; she was attacking it. While the others looked like they were practicing, she looked like she was escaping. Her hair, tied in a messy high ponytail, whipped around her face as she dropped into a low spin, her sneakers screeching against the wood floor.
She was vibrant. She was loud. She was everything the pharmacy wasn’t.
Do-yun was so mesmerized he didn’t realize he was leaning into the door. The latch, old and poorly maintained, gave way with a sharp clack.
The door swung open. The music flooded out into the hallway, drowning out the world, and Do-yun stumbled forward, his heavy backpack pulling him off balance. He caught himself just as the music cut out, leaving a ringing silence that felt heavier than the noise.
Twelve pairs of eyes turned toward him.
In the center of the room, the girl stopped. She was panting, her skin glowing with sweat, her chest heaving. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and squinted at the boy in the stiff, pristine school uniform standing in her doorway like a ghost.
A slow, recognition-filled grin spread across her face.
“Hey,” she called out, her voice raspy and bright. “Front row, third desk, right? The guy who never blinks in Calculus?”
Do-yun felt the blood rush to his face, a heat that had nothing to do with the humidity outside. “I... I’m sorry. I have the wrong floor.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, stepping toward him, her movements fluid even when she was just walking. She gestured to his rigid posture, his white-knuckle grip on his bag. “You look like you’re about to snap in half, Calculus. Come in. We have better air in here than the Academy.”
