“I don’t know how to help him,” Hongbin grumbles. “I don’t think I can.”

“I think you need a break, Bin-ah,” Hakyeon states clearly, drinking from his beer bottle. He always tries not to drink in front of Hongbin, but the mood of the night just didn’t permit abstaining. “We’ve been talking about Sanghyuk for the past half an hour. How are you doing?”

Hongbin slowly leans his head on Hakyeon’s shoulder, hooking his arm under his hyung’s as Hakyeon takes another swig. As much as Hongbin is 23 years old and a self-made man; the most comforting place on earth has almost always been next to Hakyeon. They’ve known each other for so long that it almost seems as if there’s nothing about Hongbin that Hakyeon doesn’t know – or couldn’t guess by just a look.

“I can’t do anything right,” Hongbin sighs. “I feel like I’m just not made for it in this life.”

“You know that’s not true,” Hakyeon reaches up to Hongbin’s head.

“Well… I can’t think of anything I’ve done right at all in my life.”

“You helped Sanghyuk,” Hakyeon tries. “You got him to the courtroom.”

“That was a bust. Nobody even went to jail for it. Not in a way that counts, anyway.”

“You got yourself here without your mother’s help, even though you thought you could never do it.”

“Hundreds of people in our country do that every day, hyung,” Hongbin sighs, feeling even worse.

Hakyeon “tsk”-s, and nudges Hongbin’s head off his shoulder. “You do something right every day that you are still here. Every day that you are our friend, that you’re this superb photographer that creates art like it’s no big deal. You don’t even know how grateful Taekwoon is that you were there during his dark days – you saved his life when I couldn’t.” Hakyeon clasps Hongbin’s hand in his. “Sanghyuk looks at you like the sun shines from your freaking . You’re doing everything right, Kong-ah. You just can’t see it.”

“I don’t know, hyung. I wake up every day and everything just… just hurts – my back, my head, my chest. I’m so tired.”

Hakyeon starts to get worried. When Hongbin had asked him out suddenly, leaving Taekwoon at home to hang out with Sanghyuk, he hadn’t thought it would be anything serious. But he can see Hongbin getting bad again. Hongbin’s eyes are always slightly red rimmed these days – and even though Hongbin had comfortably rolled up his long sleeves in the warm restaurant, he knows the inevitable is coming. Hakyeon feels sick that he has nothing to offer but his words – that he can never save Hongbin no matter how much he wants to. He has watched Hongbin fall inch by painful inch so many times over the course of their friendship, and there’s never anything he can do to make it stop.

But Hakyeon could beat a world record for talking. He's the most talkative person he knows. So he talks and hopes his words will somehow make a difference.

“Just know that you are loved, Hongbin-ah,” Hakyeon pats his junior’s head softly. “You are so loved.”

“I know,” Hongbin says, blushing a little despite his crushing sadness. “It’s just hard to believe it sometimes.”

***

The nurse walks Jaehwan to his room. It’s on the same level as the psychiatric ward (and try as they might to tell him that a TBI is not a mental illness, the rehab for TBI patients have the same staff as the group counselling sessions for the mentally unsound). Still, he isn’t snarky to the nurse. She’s kind of elderly, with a motherly face. Her voice is melodic, and she doesn’t look like she pities Jaehwan the same way other people do often. She talks to him like she would to any other patient coming in for a broken arm.

“You’re sharing a room with someone else,” Ms. Kim says, fluffing the pillows on the bed that must be his. “He should be back in a bit. He’s having a physical therapy session at the moment.”

Jaehwan takes a glance around the ward. On the side with his roommate’s bed, there are pictures blu-tacked on the wall (He knows because there’s a half-used packet of it on the side table).  They start from the headboard and make their way up in neat rows to almost reach the ceiling. His roommate must have a lot of precious people in his life.

“He’s a nice guy, don’t worry,” Ms. Kim smiles. “A little older than you, but very nice.”

“Yeah,” Jaehwan says, distracted. “Hey, thanks for walking me all the way here.”

“No problem. I’ll be at the counter if you need me,” Ms. Kim squeezes his shoulder the way a loved one would. “I’ll leave you to settle in.”

Jaehwan nods and bows as she leaves. He tries to unpack his bag, but gives up even before he gets to his toiletries. He sits on the edge of his bed and gives himself a few moments to breathe – it’s uncomfortable, the springs pressing against his , but he’s not complaining. Given that it’s four white walls, Jaehwan takes a lot more time to settle in than he would think.

***

Sanghyuk sees snippets of his own case on the internet sometimes, and he knows that people are angry. The discussion pages on him and Jaehwan are flooded with comments every day and they’re the topic of many talk shows even three months later. Sanghyuk reads enough to be able to split the general population into two main categories: half want the accused to rescind their spots in their companies, the other half want the courts to review their judgment.

Sanghyuk has carefully come to the conclusion that both categories of people are too naïve.  

Either way, him and Jaehwan had unanimously agreed not to try and appeal. They’re much too tired to watch themselves fail again – the white collars are the most important people in Korea. No government is crazy enough to incarcerate the executives of some of the biggest monopolies in the country. The Korean domestic economy would crumble. Sanghyuk, even with his little knowledge of the world, could understand this before he went to the police.  

Another thing Korean citizens don’t quite understand: how people like Sanghyuk and Jaehwan exist. It’s difficult to think about something as primitive as a slave trade – because that’s what it was – happening right under their noses, but it was simpler than most people think.

Money always gets things done. Pay someone enough, and they look away. Pay your people just enough for them to get by, and they won’t have the energy to investigate certain strange practices of the company. It was simple. So simple that it slipped right by everybody. 

People like him and Jaehwan don’t exist because people don’t think about them. They are just about as real as ghosts. There’s no reason to believe in their existence, or worry much about them, when you’ve never bumped into one.