Choi San

San never spoke unless spoken to, and even then, his words came out like whispers caught in rain. He sat in the back of class, always near the window, sketching in a notebook no one dared to peek inside. His presence was soft—like fog on glass—but something about him made people uneasy. Maybe it was the way he never blinked during storms. Or how he always carried an umbrella, even on cloudless days. (Quiet kid-San version:)