"Look at how a single candle can both defy and define the darkness."
 - Anne Frank

Smoke fills the air of the dull room. The walls are raw brick and the sides of the room are lined with boxes, stacked up to the ceiling. In the middle of the room, a bare light bulb illuminated the scenery poorly. Two men are sitting at a table; one young, maybe in his mid-twenties, the other one around 50. In front of both of them are standing glasses with a brown liquid. Most likely Whiskey.

The older man, Taebi, has a lit cigarette squeezed in between the index and middle finger of his right hand, and, with the same hand, he grabs his glass, taking a deep chug without leaving the younger one out of his cautious eyes.

His stubble and the dark circles under his eyes make him look even older than he is. All the searching and chasing in the past made him tired. But finally he found someone – someone that is able to help him put his ongoing race to a rest.

The younger man leans back into his seat, lazily propping the ankle of his one leg on top of the other knee as he coolly stretches out his hand, inspecting his nails professionally.

His light blonde hair reflects the dim light as a grin spreads wide across his face, distorting his features into a scary grimace. The flipped up collar of his long, black coat makes him look dangerous and the calm he keeps, despite the gruesome request he has just received, adds up to the picture he makes.

“So, how long do we have, Taebi?” the youngster sneers, not thinking about respecting his elder with honorifics. His chin snaps up as he speaks, his voice raspy and deep as he eyes his opposite. He leans back even more, balancing the chair on the two rear legs.

Taebi's face darkens and he sets down his glass, revealing that his finger's are trembling. He isn't able to hide that he is scared.

Scared that, just maybe, he is doing the wrong thing. He stubs out his cigarette on the wooden table, right next to two photographs that are placed in the middle of it.

The edges are worn-down and filmed over with the yellow signature of passed years. How often has he taken them out before? He can't remember. But he remembers brushing over the faces in the picture, imagining how everything could have ended if he didn't make that stupid mistake back then. H