Recalling the scene from the lecture hall brought that unpleasant feeling back all over again—including the image of Bae Jung-yoon talking to him in that condescending tone, like he was trying to scold him.
It’s not that he couldn’t understand why Jung-yoon acted that way. In truth, Jung-yoon had simply taken the most rational route, stepping in at the right time to de-escalate things. That was, after all, part of a team leader’s job—to mediate when members clashed.
If things with Park Ki-cheol had escalated beyond that spat, the outcome would’ve been far worse. So yes, he knew he ought to be grateful to Bae Jung-yoon. But being grateful didn’t mean he was comfortable with the guy’s interference. That was a whole different issue.
“Eh, it’s whatever.”
Hoon brushed it off. It seemed like Jung-yoon didn’t even know about what, to him, had been a rather dramatic incident. Then again, back then, Jung-yoon had been serving in the military.
If he didn’t know, all the better. It wasn’t a topic Hoon wanted to bring up anyway. It’s not like having a shouting match in public was something to be proud of—even if none of it had gone the way he intended.
“Doesn’t really seem like it’s just ‘whatever,’ though.”
Jung-yoon made the remark offhandedly and went back to eating. Hoon simply shrugged without saying anything more. Sometimes, silence was the best response.
And strictly speaking, it was a matter between him and Park Ki-cheol. There was no need to unpack every sordid detail of their bad blood for Bae Jung-yoon. Not everything had to be shared.
Fortunately, Jung-yoon wasn’t completely oblivious; he didn’t press the issue further. Instead, he asked another question.
“Want another bowl of rice?”
He seemed to be asking out of politeness after noticing that Hoon’s bowl was already half empty.
“Yeah.”
But Hoon didn’t turn him down. He nodded right away. His life philosophy had always been this: when someone offers to buy you food, you eat as much as you can.
***
After the early dinner, it was already nearing six. That unexpected meal with Bae Jung-yoon, which had him quietly on edge the whole time, ended up being less intense than he’d feared. Aside from that brief mention of Park Ki-cheol, nothing particularly deep had been discussed.
Hoon and Jung-yoon focused on eating in silence, each working through their share. Hoon couldn’t understand why Jung-yoon had asked to eat together when there wasn’t anything they really needed to talk about—but since he preferred quiet over awkward small talk, he didn’t bother starting a conversation either.
Jung-yoon tended to eat slowly. He was like that even when cooking for himself at home, so it wasn’t surprising.
Still, Hoon had always been a fast eater. Even though he’d made an effort to match Jung-yoon’s pace, he ended up finishing way ahead of him and had to awkwardly glance at him while waiting.
“Should I order you another bowl?”
When Jung-yoon finally noticed, he smiled and asked. But Hoon declined without hesitation.
He had scraped the last grain of rice out of his bowl, and now he was so full it felt like his stomach might burst. He waved his hands in refusal, and Jung-yoon nodded as if to say “Got it,” then finished eating at his own pace.
Naturally, the one who had suggested the meal paid the bill.
“Thanks for the meal.”
As they stepped out of the restaurant, Hoon muttered the thanks a bit awkwardly, and Jung-yoon smiled back.
“Next time, you can treat me. Right?”
It rolled off his tongue so casually, as if there would definitely be a next time. Hoon almost blurted out, Don’t count on it, but held back and just said sure.
Afterward, Jung-yoon mentioned he’d parked his car at school and asked, half-jokingly, if he should give Hoon a ride home. Hoon, of course, shook his head.
It was well within walking distance. There was no need to go out of his way just to ride in Jung-yoon’s car. And Jung-yoon had probably only asked out of politeness anyway.
They exchanged goodbyes in front of the restaurant, and only then did Hoon finally part ways with him. On the way home, he kept going over the dinner in his head, wondering if he’d done anything weird or awkward.
But it had been a pretty normal meal. The only real conversation they had was that brief talk about Park Ki-cheol. After that, they’d just eaten in silence.
Hoon let go of the worry pretty quickly. No point stressing himself out for nothing. It’s not like Bae Jung-yoon was trying to mess with him or anything.
Hands stuffed in the pockets of his thin jacket, he kept walking, and before long, he reached the front of his house. Standing in front of the worn-out gate, he pulled his key from his pocket—when he suddenly heard a small cry from somewhere nearby.
“Meow─.”
He turned around instinctively. Under the narrow glow of a streetlamp nestled between the alleys stood a pitch-black cat.
He’d never seen this cat before. Occasionally, he’d spotted a stray tabby prowling around the area, but this one—coated entirely in sleek black fur from head to tail—was completely new to him.
Their eyes met directly, those narrow pupils glowing yellow, locking squarely onto him. The cat was staring straight at him, like it was trying to send some kind of message.
Hoon turned his body fully toward the black cat.
“Hey there, kitty.”
He whispered softly, recalling the gentle voice Bae Jung-yoon had used when they’d first met. As if in response, the cat slowly blinked both eyes and replied with a faint meow.
“Miyang─.”
In the past, a stray cat like this wouldn’t have even registered in his vision.
In a world where it’s already hard enough just to take care of yourself, who has the luxury to care about anything else? He was already struggling to stay afloat, so how could he spare a thought for anyone else?
He’d always believed that meddling in other people’s business was a luxury reserved for those who had the time and stability for it. That belief had helped him justify his indifference to everything around him.
Strangely enough, today, he couldn’t bring himself to just walk away. Maybe it was the prayer he’d offered up to God recently that was weighing on his heart—that promise he’d made, saying that if he could become human again, he’d live his life paying attention to those around him.
Or maybe it was just the free sundae-gukbap warming his belly. A full stomach can make a man soft, after all—good character starts with carbs.
And even on days when he didn’t have this kind of leisure, he still felt that pang of emotion every time he saw a stray cat.
Kindred spirits. As silly as it sounded, the thought popped into his head before he could stop it.
What difference was there, really, between himself—barely scraping by, hopping from one job to the next with nothing to his name—and a stray cat wandering the streets in search of food all day?
Besides, half of him wasn’t so different from them anymore. If he wanted to, he could become a furry, four-legged feline right here and now.
Maybe that was why. Before he knew it, he’d already placed a can of cat food on the convenience store counter.
“That’ll be 1,800 won.”
The emotion-laden haze that had clouded Hoon’s mind abruptly cleared at the flat voice of the part-time cashier. He froze for a second, then let out a reluctant grumble.
“…Why the hell does cat food cost 1,800 won?”
That’s pretty steep. Even as the thought echoed in his head, it made him hesitate before reaching for his card.
No matter how much empathy he might feel—kindred souls or not—a broke-ass bottom-tier peasant like him hadn’t suddenly lost his frugal habits.
The mistake was grabbing it without checking the price. If he looked again, surely there’d be a cheaper one on the shelf, right? The idea flickered briefly, but then he looked at the cashier’s completely disinterested face and couldn’t bring himself to say, “Sorry, I’ll pick a different one.”
Even while tapping his almost-drained debit card, he couldn’t stop thinking: What the hell am I doing this for? Who’s this really helping?
He could’ve just bought a samgak-gimbap instead. And worse, the can of cat food was 200 won more expensive than the 3XL-size one.
“Have a nice day.”
Despite all the mental math spinning through his head, Hoon walked out of the convenience store with the can of cat food still in hand.
The cat might’ve left while he was gone. If it was still there waiting patiently, he’d reward it for that patience. If not, he’d just walk back and demand a refund.
He didn’t like the rude cashier’s attitude, but if it meant not letting the food go to waste at home, he was dead set on getting that money back.
Hoon strolled toward home at a deliberately casual pace. Luckily—or unluckily—the black cat was still there, sitting squarely on the cold asphalt, just as he’d left it.
“Mrrrrowww.”
The cat even let out a long cry when their eyes met, as if it had been waiting there for him the entire time.
Hoon took a few steps closer, then stopped.
“Hey, come here. I brought you something to eat.”
He stretched out his hand and gave the can a playful shake, like a lure. ‘Does it even know this is for it?’ The cat’s bright yellow eyes slowly followed the movement.
He crouched down and peeled the lid off the can. Just as he was about to set it on the ground, he noticed the sharp edge inside and hesitated.
‘If I leave it like this, it might get hurt.’
Frowning with concern, he paused for a moment, then dug through his bag and pulled out a palm-sized notebook. He tore out a few pages, laid them on the ground, and poured the food on top. He even used his fingers to scrape out the rest, making sure not a single morsel was wasted.
The cat twitched its pitch-black nose, sniffing intently. Seemed like it recognized the scent. But still, it didn’t approach—its wariness remained intact. Meeting its sharp gaze, Hoon took a step back.
“Go on, eat up. I picked this out thinking you’d like it. Smells good, doesn’t it?”
He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, keeping his eyes fixed on the cat. Finally, the little thing stretched out its limbs in a long, lazy arc.
Then, almost like it understood his words, it ambled over to the food with slow, cautious steps. Even then, it paused for a long time, watching him closely, as if still deciding whether to trust him.
Watching the tiny creature bristle with such guarded tension, Hoon rested his chin on one hand.
Up close, its jet-black fur gleamed with a lustrous shine—it looked surprisingly healthy. No matter how he looked at it, this wasn’t a cat that had been starving or suffering out on the streets.
“Do you have an owner or something?”
He asked the question, though of course, there was no reply.
“Great, I wasted money for nothing.”
Just as the regret began to kick in, the cat—still staring at him with those yellow eyes—suddenly lowered its head and began to eat, scarfing down the wet food with clear enthusiasm.
I’m so invested!