The house fell silent, except for the faint echo of the door slamming shut. The air was still heavy, thick, as if the walls still retained the impact of the slap Min-ji had given her seconds before. Da-jeong sat in the living room, her trembling hands resting on her legs, her eyes swollen and red, and a huge knot tightening her chest. She couldn't stop sobbing, but they weren't ordinary tears: they were anger, sadness, and frustration mixed together until she felt like she was about to burst.

She brought her hand to her cheek where the skin ached and stroked it gently, as if she could erase the blow with that alone. But she couldn't. There was nothing to erase.

"Why is it always me? Why do I always have to carry everything?" Da-jeong muttered, staring at the floor with teary eyes, her breathing ragged.

She knew she couldn't tell anyone. She had no one. Her father left when she was five and never returned. Her mother, who had once been a normal woman, was now a dark storm that consumed everything in her path. Her job at that smelly bar, her drunkenness, her screaming and hitting... Da-jeong had experienced it all since she was ten, alone, unprotected.

The reason for the slap kept echoing in her head: she had refused to ask Professor Park if he wanted to go on a date with her. Crazy. "How am I going to do that?" she snarled with contempt at her mother's irrationality.

Then, without thinking, she grabbed a plate that was on the table, gritted her teeth, and with all the strength she could muster, smashed it against the floor. The dry, shrill noise echoed throughout the house, sending small splinters and fragments flying everywhere.

A burning heat surged through her chest and exploded into a scream, but it wasn't just rage; it was pain, frustration, and fear.

The sob turned into a stifled scream as she bolted upright, trembling, her heart pounding.

She wouldn't stop.

She grabbed another plate and this time, with silent fury, threw it against the wall. The crash was less thunderous, but the impact left a small crack. She didn't care.

She brought her hands to her face, covering it, trying to contain everything she felt, but the tears kept falling, and with them, a rage that seemed endless.

"Enough," Da Jeong whispered to herself, the whisper of a firm decision in her mind.

She walked toward her room without looking back, her steps slow but determined. She closed the door behind her and stood for a moment leaning against it, her forehead touching it.

Her breathing was still labored, but this time there was a thread of resolve she hadn't had before.

She pulled a few clothes out of her closet: a comfy sweater, jeans, her favorite jacket. All the basics for a possible escape, though she still didn't know where she would go. She didn't care.

She packed a few small things she considered useful: her pencil case for drawing, a notebook full of sketches, the small music player, and her headphones, which were like her refuge.

From a dresser drawer, with almost trembling hands, she took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter she had taken a while ago without her mother noticing. She lit one and inhaled the smoke with a certain automatic calm, even though her throat burned.

She kept four more cigarettes in a small case, to have them ready when anxiety overtook her again.

Standing in front of the mirror, she looked at herself with tired but determined eyes. For the first time in a long time, she thought of something other than home, her mother, and the violence.

"I'm leaving. It doesn't matter where. Just away from this."

She put on her shoes and grabbed her bag, taking one last look at the room that had been her refuge and her prison at the same time.

A sigh escaped her lips.

"Eomma," he murmured to himself, without resentment, only sadness. "I can't take it anymore."

With his backpack on his shoulder and a heavy heart, he opened the door and stepped out into the cold Seoul night air, uncertain about the future and determined not to return.