That Girl From Random Chatting

Chapter 7: 007 - Not A Savior.



Seo‑joon's bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of his phone, which lay face down on the desk. He hadn't set an alarm; he'd surrendered to exhaustion and slept late into the morning. When at last he stirred, his head throbbed, not from any physical blow, but from the relentless weight of secrets he carried. The world of "Thanatos" had demanded too much, and even he needed a respite.

He wrapped himself in a hoodie and crept downstairs, hoping for a quiet day. Instead, he found Hamin waiting in his living room, arms crossed, shoulders squared, her expression unreadable.

"You skipped again," she said, voice calm yet firm.

Seo‑joon grimaced. "I needed a break."

Hamin's lips tightened. "From what? Your secret? Your responsibility? You can't save everyone alone."

Her words stung, but he said nothing. He slid onto the sofa, staring at the floor.

After a long pause, Hamin spoke again, softer this time. "May I sit?"

Seo‑joon looked up, surprised by the change in her tone. He nodded.

She sat beside him, body rigid. For a moment, they merely existed in the same space, two silent shapes lit by the morning light.

Finally, Hamin exhaled. "I know what it's like to hide."

Seo‑joon met her eyes. "How so?"

She looked away, gathering strength. "I was born prematurely. So small, the doctors said I might not live. My mother, desperate for hope, joined a cult. Believed my survival was divine intervention. She devoted herself to their every ritual, their every prayer, convinced it saved me."

Seo‑joon listened, heart tightening.

"My father tried to keep us grounded," Hamin went on, voice distant. "But my mother's faith turned into obsession. She fought him over every penny, every hour she could spend in their temple. One morning, she left, never came back."

She swallowed. "My father, blaming himself, drowned his guilt in work. He couldn't comfort me. I learned early that perfection was the only security. If I excelled, no one would abandon me."

A lump rose in Seo‑joon's throat. He reached out, hesitated, then let his hand hover above hers.

Hamin continued, softer still. "In middle school, I met Jayu Lim - 'Freedom,' they called her. She was bright and fearless… until the Iljin cornered her on the playground. I froze, watched them taunt her. Later, I found her phone and returned it. She cursed me for not helping sooner, but that moment… it changed me."

Seo‑joon's breath caught. He remembered the news, Jayu Lim's accident, only fragments: a motorcycle, rain, hospital corridors.

Hamin's voice trembled. "Not long after, Jayu… she lost a leg. Motorcycle accident. I spent every night at that hospital. Picking her up when she fell. Reading her sketches. Watching her try to smile."

Tears shimmered in Hamin's eyes. "I realized that kindness isn't perfection. It's persistence. It's showing up even when you're afraid. Even when you can't fix it all."

Seo‑joon's hand found hers. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked quietly.

She squeezed his fingers. "Because I've watched you slip away, thinking you had to be the savior. But saving someone doesn't require perfection or secrecy. It requires connection."

He swallowed. "I keep you in the dark to protect you."

She shook her head. "I protect your silence because I believe in what Thanatos stands for. But I needed you to know why I stayed, why I never outed you, even when I could have."

Her gaze locked on his. "Because you showed me the power of kindness before I learned it for myself. And I'm not letting you carry this alone."

Seo‑joon's eyes glistened. "I… I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing," Hamin whispered. "Just stay. Not as Thanatos. As you."

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time in weeks.

They sat together in the quiet, hands linked, discovering that true salvation lay not in hidden acts but in unveiled hearts.

No alarms, no broadcasts, just the simple promise of company, the truest refuge either had ever known.

...

Park Ha‑min came into the world fighting. Born two months premature, she was so small and fragile that doctors feared she might not live the week. Her parents watched over her in the neonatal ward, every monitor beep a prayer. Miraculously, Ha‑min not only survived but thrived, gaining weight, growing stronger, becoming the picture of perfect health.

Her mother, already emotionally tenuous, became convinced that Ha‑min's survival was nothing short of a miracle granted by the Eternal Light, a fringe spiritual movement she'd joined in desperation. Before long, Mom's late‑night prayers turned into daily rituals, her "blessings" into tithes, her faith into obsession. Dinner tables shifted from family conversation to scripture readings. Fights broke out. Ha‑min's father pleaded with his wife to see reason; she walked out one morning, leaving Ha‑min and her stunned father behind.

Dad tried to steady their fractured home, but guilt gnawed at him; he believed his failure had driven Mom away. He threw himself into work, leaving Ha‑min to internalize one unwavering truth: perfection was her only path to keep people from leaving. If she did everything flawlessly, there'd be no more fights… no more abandonment.

In middle school, Ha‑min was top of every class, but her real test came in the courtyard one afternoon. Jayu Lim, nicknamed "Freedom" for her wild laughter and bright ideas, was cornered by the Iljin (the local bully clique). Ha‑min watched from the stairs, every warning bell in her mind screaming to intervene. Instead, she froze, too terrified of imperfection to risk being seen as "soft" by her peers.

After the last girl turned and walked away, Jayu's phone slipped from her pocket. Ha‑min caught sight of it on the ground. Heart pounding, she picked it up and jogged after Jayu:

"Hey, your phone." Jayu turned, out of breath. "Thanks." Ha‑min tucked it into Jayu's hand and forced a small smile. "Don't blame yourself." As Jayu walked off, she called over her shoulder, "You'll say 'thank you' eventually."

That day, Jayu's whispered curse, "Piece of trash", stung worse than any punch.

Guilt haunted Ha‑min. The next morning, she cornered Jayu at her locker.

"Why didn't you transfer me to your class?" Ha‑min blurted. Jayu blinked. "You could've helped me back there."

Before Ha‑min could answer, the Iljin lunged at Jayu again on the playground. This time, Ha‑min shoved her textbooks aside and stepped in. A single punch to the ringleader's jaw sent him reeling. Jayu stood, shock and gratitude mingling in her eyes.

From that fight on, Jayu and Ha‑min became an unlikely duo: brainpower and bravado, both bruised but bonded.

On a rainy afternoon, months later, Jayu slipped on the slick pavement outside the school gates. A passing motorcycle lost control, skidded, and struck her, throwing her into the rain. Ha‑min arrived moments later, drenched, to find Jayu conscious but in agony. Jayu's leg had shattered.

At the hospital, Ha‑min sat vigil every day. She learned that Jayu would lose the use of that leg permanently. When discharge day came, Dad expected Jayu to bounce right back, "She'll overcome like before," he said. But in the hospital hallway, Jayu looked at Ha‑min with glassy eyes and confessed:

"I don't think I can walk again."

Ha‑min's perfect‑child façade collapsed. Tears she'd never allowed herself spilled freely. "You'll get through this," she choked. "I believe in you."

Jayu's parents grew distant, stung by medical bills and the collapse of their "miracle" story. Ha‑min watched as Jayu's world narrowed to her disappointment. Now, each hospital visit felt like school, Ha‑min took notes in one hand, held Jayu's hand with the other, searching Jayu's face for signs of hope.

One evening, Jayu whispered:

"Did you… Ever like me back then?"

Ha‑min's heart pounded. Before she could lie, she blurted:

"I... yes, I do. But not like that. I… I'm scared of the sadness I can't fix."

Jayu smiled wanly, and they held hands for the first time, a moment of fragile truth and connection.

...

The clock on Seo‑joon's desk read 2:37 AM when his phone buzzed. A single notification from their anonymous chat channel:

Anonymous: "Please… they're back. I'm cornered."

His heart jolted. He unlocked the screen:

Thanatos: "Where are you? Stay calm, I'm coming."

He threw on a hoodie, laced his sneakers, and slipped out into the night.

The campus was deserted. Streetlights hummed overhead as he dashed through service corridors toward the art building. A text message popped up:

Anonymous: "Behind the loading dock, by the broken kiln."

He rounded the corner into a narrow alley behind the kiln room. There, pressed against the graffiti‑scarred wall, was Kim Dong‑hyun, a quiet junior whose charcoal drawings adorned the art room. He cowered as three older boys, two seniors and a third‑year, loomed over him.

One sneered, brandishing a spray can. "Think your 'art' saves you now?"Another cracked his knuckles. "You snitched last week. We warned you."

Dong‑hyun's eyes were wide with fear. Seo‑joon's chest ached. He stepped forward:

"Leave him alone."

The seniors turned. The tallest spat on the ground. "Look who showed up, the campus phantom."

Seo‑joon's voice stayed calm but firm: "This ends now."

The bully laughed and swung. Seo‑joon raised his arm; the blow slammed into his forearm, pain flaring. He staggered but didn't fall. The attackers surged in. Seo‑joon blocked a kick, then delivered a quick push that sent one boy into a dumpster.

But there were too many of them. One landed a punch across Seo‑joon's ribs. He gasped, doubling over. Dong‑hyun cried out and lunged forward, only to be shoved aside.

Guilt and fear roared in Seo‑joon's mind: this was his fault. He'd invited the fight by arriving.

Gathering his resolve, he twisted free and delivered a firm blow to the ringleader's stomach. The senior grunted and took a step back. Seo‑joon seized the moment: he grabbed Dong‑hyun's arm. "Let's go!"

Together they fled into the night, footsteps echoing until the bullies' shouts receded.

At his apartment, Seo‑joon sat Dong‑hyun on the couch and pressed an ice pack against his bruised shoulder. Dong‑hyun limped but managed a grateful nod.

"I'm sorry," Seo‑joon whispered. "I thought I could handle it."

Dong‑hyun touched his side, winced. "I thought you'd save me."

He closed his eyes. "I tried, and I failed. I'm not… not a savior."

Dong‑hyun's gaze was soft but firm. "You helped me. You showed up."

Seo‑joon's breath caught. The mantle of Thanatos felt heavier than ever. He heaved a shaky sigh.

"It's not enough," he said. "I keep thinking that if I work non‑stop, I can protect everyone. But I can't save everyone."

Dong‑hyun placed a hand on his shoulder. "No one can. But you're more than your failures."

Seo‑joon realized the painful truth: heroism wasn't infallible. It was the willingness to stand up, even when you knew you could fall.

He nodded, eyes bright with determination. "I'll keep trying."

Dong‑hyun gave a small, tired smile. "That's enough."

By dawn's first light, Seo‑joon was alone again. Dong‑hyun's knock had faded with the sunrise and he had slipped away before classes began, determined to face the world on his own terms.

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