I, however, am always online during working hours for so many excuses and reasons. my replies depend on my weekly schedule - at times, it could take weeks, very rare, days.

you can call me muji and I am on the plus side, specifically +8. poke me only after twenty days of zero replies.

I am super uncomfortable with any kind of nsfw topics so if you are into those preferences, I am not the right person to talk with.

Nevertheless, I am fine with any other genre be it slice of life or angst. oh yes, I am a sky-level fan of angst so if you too, are a fan of angst, approach me with sadness in your eyes and tragedy in your heart.

Date of birth: April 12, 1994

Zodiac sign: Capricorn

Current Age: 30

Occupation: Prosecutor

Hometown: Seoul, South Korea

Orientation: Bisexual

Relationship Status: Single

Eye colour: Light brown

Hair colour: Black

"You promised her that you would help her!"

Promise.

What an ominous word, one that now felt like a noose tightening around Juwon’s neck.

Because of that promise, he found himself drowning in a seemingly endless ocean of self-doubt and overwhelming guilt.

As a prosecutor, he was well-versed in the law and served the Executive in prosecuting those who committed offenses. "I am here to ensure justice," he would tell himself, framed by notions of righteousness and support for the public who relied on him. It sounded ideal in theory: dressed in a prosecutor's robe, proud to uphold the principles of justice, fervently working on behalf of those who had suffered. But when the gavel fell and the dust settled, a lingering question crept into his mind: In the end, did he really protect the victims—the true victims of the crime?

"You promised her that you would help her!"

He did.

Every time he met with her, he followed up on witness statements and reassured her that the enforcement officers were working tirelessly to ensure her safety. With conviction, he promised that the perpetrator would face punishment—a retribution that would mirror her suffering. He stayed committed, sacrificing sleep to work on his submissions, tirelessly traveling to the courthouse, climbing the same stairs day after day, revisiting the crime scenes, desperately trying to build a case strong enough to bring the criminal to justice. After nearly a year and a half of relentless effort, he believed that finally, the grief endured by the victim would be acknowledged through a fair sentence.

But what could he do?

The court did not operate on pity or compassion; it was a machine governed by strict codes, where only what was considered acceptable evidence mattered. Despite his efforts in proving the case beyond a reasonable doubt, the court decided to prioritize the interests of the young perpetrator over the suffering he had caused.

Avoiding the crushing effect, they said in their judgment.

Instead of a full sentence that reflected the atrocity of the crime—a potential thirty years in prison—the judge handed down a mere five years, citing the young man’s first offense and supposed remorse as factors for leniency.

He was still a child when he committed the act. It could be detrimental to his bright future - a valedictorian and an athlete.

Five years.

What could five years do to compensate for the incessant nightmares haunting the victim? The pain of her trauma would not vanish or shrink within the walls of a prison. Just days before the decision was released, another cruel twist of fate entered the narrative: the criminal suddenly developed a severe lung issue, a condition never mentioned during the trial.

It became apparent that his standing as a valedictorian, a top medical student and the son of a Congressman, granted him an invisible shield that rendered him nearly untouchable. Eventually, the five years were reduced further, and he was granted an early release due to a pardon from the prison board based on his health concerns.

Then the unthinkable happened. The criminal resurfaced, emboldened and predatory, blackmailing the victim's family and threatening to hinder the scholarship application of her younger brother. He leaked intimate photographs that were a result of his violent acts, wielding their pain as further manipulation.

When Juwon attended the victim's funeral, the stinging tears of loss cut through the air he breathed. A bowl of jiggae splashed across his attire, the warm liquid a visceral reminder of the anger that emanated from the bereaved family. "You made promises that you couldn't keep! How could you allow this monster to roam free?" The accusations sliced through him, each word driving painfully into his already fractured spirit. What was the use of his position if the justice system could so easily be manipulated to serve the interests of the guilty?

Power.

He was familiar with power, having grown up in a wealthy, comfortable family. Despite his parents’ divorce, they provided him with everything, moving to Duke when he was a child, and eventually returning to Seoul when the custody was awarded to his father. Living among affluence, he had always felt secure—problems tended to melt away beneath the weight of familial support. Yet here he stood, knowing no one blamed him for the victim’s tragic fate, but the burden of their sorrow echoed relentlessly in his heart. The promise he made felt like a betrayal of himself.

He had chosen to study law to help the grieving, to champion justice and protect the innocent. But as he navigated this cruel system, his understanding of justice eroded. He was reminded that in this world, the law did not always safeguard those who deserved protection or deliver the promises he had made.

Each night, the grief transformed into nightmares. He could remember her tears, the hope in her eyes dimming with each meeting as he struggled to make sense of her pain. In stark contrast, he recalled the perpetrator’s smug grin, thanking him for his hard work when their roles should have reversed. Juwon learned far too late that his superior had familial ties to the criminal, an unspoken bond that twisted the scales of justice beyond recognition.

He had chosen the law, believing in its sanctity and its mission to protect the public.

But did it, really?

As Juwon pondered his role within the grand design, the crushing effect of his failures weighed heavily on him. Each case, each overturned verdict was a stark reminder that the scales of justice could tilt toward the powerful, while the most vulnerable remained unprotected. He felt the despair tightening its grasp around him, suffocating him with the reality that his work didn't translate to meaningful change for those who needed it most.

His father often told him that he thought too much, that it was normal for someone in his line of work to wrestle with moral dilemmas. While facing death and betrayal was an occupational hazard, should it also mean yielding to the whims of those with power and influence? Where was the justice for the victim, the one who had endured unimaginable pain, while the guilty danced free, shielded by their privilege?

Nightmares turned into sleepless nights; no matter how many pills he took, his mind remained restless, replaying every moment where he felt he had failed to protect her. Guilt crept into his consciousness like a cold winter breeze, chilling him to the bone and eliciting unshakeable doubt about the life he had chosen.

“Is this really what I am working for?” Juwon asked his soon-to-be former girlfriend, who was also a prosecutor.

“I never knew you were this weak, Juwon.” Weak? The word echoed in his mind with painful clarity. Was his life a joke to everyone around him? He thought this but remained silent. She continued, “I thought you were a cool guy, always so level-headed and calm. You’ve done your best, and what can you do if the courts decided so?”

Yes, in those moments, he recognised he could do very little. What infuriated him most was the celestial indifference of the justice system. He had appealed against the five-year sentence only to be reassigned to another case at the last minute—a betrayal that pierced through him like a sharp knife. Someone else, an entirely new prosecutor, would handle the appeal without the knowledge and passion he had invested. When he learned about it, rage boiled inside him.

All he truly wanted was to see the smile return to the victim's family—a fleeting sign that humanity still existed, that hope could prevail in this broken world.

“You overthink, Juwon. Life as a prosecutor is like this. If the evidence isn’t enough, no matter how hard we try to prove it, what can we do?”

Yes, what could he do?

What could he do other than go to work, as if the motions were enough to justify his existence, and continue living the mundane life of so many around him?

But could he do that?

Could he really continue living like this, feeling as though he was fighting against the very system that had come to represent everything he despised?

The breakup happened just two days after that conversation, an avalanche of emotions triggered by Juwon's decision to end a six-year relationship. His girlfriend called him a bastard, a label that stuck painfully in his chest, serving as a reminder of how far he had fallen from the ambitions and ideals he once held dear.

In truth, the cracks in that six-year bond had widened over time. His girlfriend projected her dreams onto him, relishing in the glamorous appearance of his career—an accolade that seemed to glitter from the outside. Numerous offers from corporate firms were almost tantalizing, persuading him to abandon his public service for lucrative private life instead. The temptation was relentless, but with each refusal, her disdain only deepened, taunting him for lacking ambition and vision. It seemed increasingly clear that she had clung to him for his family’s wealth and position rather than for the person he was becoming under the weight of his job.

In a moment of desperation fuelled by despair, Juwon submitted a resignation letter to the prosecution office, longing for a way out, far from the stifling affliction of his conscience. Yet, the office rejected his resignation, advising him instead to take a year-long hiatus before returning to the grind of jurisprudence. One year was better than none, he thought, resigned to see it as a sliver of hope.

So, he packed his bag after a major argument with his father and booked a flight back to Duke.

The place he once called home—or at least, he hoped it still was.