The hallway reeked of sweat and fresh polish, that distinct scent of an old gym mixed with brand-new waxed floor. Woosik stepped out of the locker room with his duffel bag slung lazily over one shoulder, earbuds in, black hoodie clinging to his damp skin after hours of training. His track pants stuck slightly at the back of his knees, evidence of how hard he'd been pushing himself that day. He looked tired-more mentally than physically-and his eyes carried that familiar detached glaze, like he was there but not really.

The late afternoon sun poured in through the tall windows, bathing the hall in a sleepy golden hue. Most students had already left for the day. The corridors were quiet, empty except for the occasional echo of a door slamming shut in another wing. That was probably why the stranger caught Woosik's attention at all. A presence where there shouldn't have been one.

He slowed when he saw the other boy, standing alone by the vending machine, struggling with what looked like a jammed soda. Woosik considered just walking past. He usually did. Talk less, be noticed less, feel less. But something about him made Woosik's steps hesitate. Maybe it was the way he looked like he didn't belong-like he was just as much an outsider as Woosik had been feeling these days.

Their eyes met. Woosik blinked.

He hadn't meant to stare, but the stranger's neck-it pulsed faintly the second their gazes locked. Almost imperceptible, but real. His breath hitched for a fraction of a second, chest tightening before he could reason it away. Coincidence, he told himself. A trick of the light. The doctors always said the glow was tied to psychological response-hope, illusion, wishful thinking. That didn't mean anything.

Still, his legs moved toward the stranger before he told them to.

He stopped just a couple feet away, yanked one earbud out, and dropped his bag to the floor with a soft thud. "That machine's rigged," he said casually, voice low and slightly rough. "You've got a better chance of punching it than buying from it." There was no smile, no charm, but something wry flickered in his eyes.

Without waiting for a reply, he stepped forward and smacked the side of the vending machine with his palm. There was a soft mechanical groan, a whirring click, and the can dropped with a satisfying clunk into the tray below. Woosik gestured toward it with a lazy motion, then leaned back against the machine like he hadn't just done something vaguely heroic.