Kim Yechan clocked out later than usual.
The glass doors of White Stars' headquarters slid open behind him with a quiet hiss, sealing away the sterile brightness of the building and releasing him into the evening air. The city buzzed—cars humming, distant chatter rising and falling like waves—but compared to the controlled chaos inside, it felt… softer.
He stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders with a tired groan.
"Ah… I'm dead."
A few employees passed him, dressed sharply, talking about raids and numbers and contracts—voices laced with ambition. Yechan barely listened. He never did.
He adjusted the strap of his worn bag and started walking.
Even now, years after becoming a Porter for White Stars, he still walked home.
He could afford a car.
He could afford a lot of things.
But he didn't want them.
"…Feels weird otherwise," he muttered.
The neon glow of a convenience store flickered into view ahead. Without thinking, his feet carried him inside.
