Yongjun leaned forward, grabbing a bowl of American potato salad. He hated those kind of meals; he liked meat. Why couldn't he have it? He settled down in a seat, in a secluded corner of the cafeteria. He chewed on the bits of egg, ignoring the undercooked potatoes that he hated. A fellow trainee sat down beside him, watching his every move. Yongjun shifted away, his eyes revealing discomfort. He hated it when people even tried to touch him. The male beside him got out a pack of cards, waving it in front of Yongjun. "Do you play cards well? Because you sure do have a terrific poker face," he said, stifling a laugh.

He smirked. For once, in seventeen years, his eyes gleamed with competitiveness, but once again he kept the mindset to himself. No one needs to know about me. No one cares. He shoved his chair away, getting up and out the salon doors. The older trainee blinked a couple of times, before trailing after the 19-year-old. "Hey, Yongjun. Hey, hey," he surged forward, grabbing his forearm. Yongjun flinched, wrestling the older boy off himself before running off.

He struggled to breathe. He passed through doors, rushing past people and stopping at the back door of the entertainment building. He passed a hand over his eyes, the salty essence running down his cheeks. He hated it. No one was giving him enough space. Well, maybe his girlfriend is, but she was the only person. One, out of seven billion people, actually cared for him. The way he wanted to. He winced, for now his ankle was throbbing with pain. He sat down abruptly, helplessly watching his left leg tremble involuntarily. He was doomed.