Chapter Text
***
The persistent beeping of the alarm filled the room in lazy waves. Eyes still closed, Joceline reached through the blankets, blindly groping for her phone on the nightstand. When she finally silenced it, she lay there motionless, listening to the distant sound of wind cutting through Seoul's streets.
The faint light of dawn seeped through the dark linen curtains, casting dull patterns on the worn wooden floor. It was early February, and even inside the heated house, the cold seemed to creep in through the cracks. Jo took a deep breath. The air carried that dry, clean winter scent she still hadn't fully grown accustomed to.
Today marked one year. One year since she'd traded Toronto for Seoul; one year since she'd left behind the feeling of home, the warm noise of her siblings, the shared coffees with old friends. One year of trying to build something new. And even now, there were days when all she felt was a strange emptiness—not sadness, not joy. Just... nothing.
She pushed the blanket aside and sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing her short, dark brown hair, which fell slightly disheveled across her forehead. She grabbed her black, square-framed glasses and put them on, blinking a few times until her vision adjusted.
The simple dresser beside the bed held small fragments of who she was: old photos—Gabriel grinning crookedly in some forgotten summer, the twins as gap-toothed children, a golden Brazilian beach captured by a shaky camera. And in the center, a portrait of her mother. That woman's smile seemed to warm the entire room, even now.
Jo ran her fingertips along the edge of the frame—an absentminded caress—and stood up.
The floor creaked softly under her wool slippers as she crossed the hallway to the bathroom. The mirror, fogged by the temperature difference, reflected the same face as always: creamy white skin, large blue eyes of an almost surreal shade, her curves hidden beneath an oversized flannel pajama set. She studied her reflection unhurriedly, adjusting her glasses on her nose.
"Still here," she murmured to herself.
From the closet, she picked what was practically her comfort uniform: wide-legged pants that looked like a long skirt, an oversized gray sweatshirt, simple boots, and the old black overcoat she'd brought from Canada. A tomboy style that, for her, was less about fashion and more about moving through the world without having to apologize.
The kitchen was comfortably silent. The electric kettle hissed as the strong scent of instant coffee began to fill the air. Through the window, she watched the quiet streets of Mapo-gu slowly waking up: signs flickering to life in Hangul, the distant sound of a car horn, hurried footsteps echoing against the damp pavement.
With the warm mug between her hands, Jo swiped open her phone, checking the group chat. Kelly, as usual, was already awake, complaining about her digital marketing class. Gina, on the other hand, had sent flower and heart emojis, announcing she wanted dessert after class.
Jo chuckled under her breath and typed a quick reply: "I'm in. But only if it's chocolate."
She adjusted the gray wool scarf around her neck, tucked her university ID into the inner pocket of her coat, and stepped outside.
The dry cold bit her cheeks the moment she crossed the small front garden. The sky was clear, washed in a pale blue so faint it was almost white. The city exhaled in clouds of vapor—from people's mouths, from manhole covers, from the coffee cups in hurried hands.
Seoul was never completely silent, not even at eight in the morning.
She walked through the residential neighborhood where she lived, a row of unassuming houses tucked between convenience stores and family-run cafés. The elderly caretaker, Mr. Park, stubbornly watered a flowerbed shriveled by winter. He waved at her with a gloved hand. Jo responded with a slight nod and a small smile.
The walk to the subway station was automatic, as ingrained in her feet as her own memories. And yet, on this particular day, there was a strange tension in the air—as if the whole world was bracing for something she couldn't yet see.
When she boarded the train, she found an empty spot near the door and leaned her shoulder against the cold wall. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, feeling the train glide along the tracks.
It was just another day.
Just one more.
Or maybe, Jo thought as the subway plunged into the dark tunnels, it was the beginning of something she didn't yet have a name for.
The campus of Seoul National University seemed to breathe under the winter's gray light. Modern glass-and-concrete buildings blended with older brick structures, forming a mosaic of eras trying to coexist.
Groups of students crisscrossed the wide pathways, their breath visible in small clouds. Jo moved among them, her fingertips tingling inside her gloves. Humans hurried past; among them, hybrids were scattered here and there—almost always working: delivering packages, sweeping the courtyards, pushing service carts.
She knew that despite their physical presence, hybrids were far from being accepted as equals. Most couldn't attend formal universities; their education was limited to community centers and basic vocational courses—if they were lucky enough to have a tutor who cared.
Jo averted her gaze to the ground. Inequality was an open wound Korea hid beneath layers of modernity and skyscrapers.
She passed through the main entrance of the Technology and Digital Media building, nodding briefly at the security guard. The wide stairs led her up, where the familiar scent of burnt coffee and fresh paper mingled in the heated air.
This building had become almost a second home. She made her way to the Multiplatform Programming classroom, sitting in the third row near the window. Her thick coat rested folded on the chair beside her, like a silent shield against the world.
She took notes in English and Korean without much thought, her body present, her mind drifting between lines of code and the silences the city left inside her.
When class ended, a notification lit up her phone.
Kelly: "We're waiting by the magazine stand. I'm STARVING to death!"
Jo smirked, typed a quick reply, and headed out.
Outside, the wind cut like invisible blades. She pulled her scarf up over her nose and crossed the street.
Kelly, her black leather jacket gleaming under the dull light, waved from a distance. Gina hopped from foot to foot, trying to keep warm.
"Finally!" Kelly exclaimed, grabbing Jo's arm. "If you'd taken any longer, I would've eaten my own hand."
"Not my fault the professor thinks 8 AM on a Monday is the perfect time for a two-hour lecture," Jo shot back, her voice low and laced with dry sarcasm.
Gina laughed, tugging them both toward the ramen shop.
The small restaurant smelled of miso, bamboo shoots, and hot oil. The soft yellow lighting and worn wooden tables created a cozy atmosphere, as if the entire world had narrowed to this warm little space.
Humans and hybrids shared tables, passing meals and muffled laughter between them. It wasn't equality. But it was something.
Jo sat across from her friends, draping her coat over the chair.
"If this ramen doesn't save my soul today, I'm starting a church," Kelly declared, scanning the menu like she was seeking redemption.
"I just want dessert," Gina murmured dreamily.
They laughed, ordered three steaming bowls and hot tea. Over the meal, they talked about the day's minor absurdities: confused professors, disastrous presentations, weekend plans.
Kelly, mid-slurp of broth, looked seriously at Jo.
"You are taking care of yourself, right?"
Jo blinked, surprised.
"Trying to."
"If you slack off, I'll break into your place and force-feed you soup," Kelly threatened, though the smile in her eyes softened the words.
It was good to have someone who cared.
It was good to feel, even briefly, like she belonged somewhere.
When the food was gone and the biting cold welcomed them back outside, Joceline knew she'd still face long nights alone, exhausting assignments, and winters inside her that were hard to name.
But for now, there was friendship. There was ramen. There was quiet laughter echoing on the wet sidewalk.
And sometimes, she thought, sometimes that was enough.
***