I sucked leisurely on the ferrule of the little stub of a pencil, feeling my tongue graze slightly over the curved metal. An empty, pristine white paper sat invitingly on the desk before me, being the only non-mutilated page in my room. The discarded plastic cover I had previously stored it in reminded me that I had to steal more printer papers from the local library. Not that I was kleptomaniac or anything, I just had to complete my revenge plan on the cashier (she had made me pay fifty dollars as a fine for not returning the library's best-maintained book on its due date, even though I could see the hard-bound work hidden under her shirt).

I sighed and stared out of the window, hoping the torrential rain would give me some ideas for my book. After adamantly protesting that I could be the best fanfiction writer if I tried, I somehow ended up agreeing to contest for a bet. The bet being that I would give up writing anything longer than the compulsory essays set by our universities after the forty-fifth failed attempt. So far, I was on my sixty-ninth waste page, and no closer to finishing my miniature novella, but I was not going to tell that to my friends.

I placed the tip of my pencil on the page and started scribbling whatever popped into my head. "Kwon Yoobin stepped out of her house on a disgustingly cold Sunday morning," I wrote.

She wrapped her scarf around her neck and shrank against the thick material of her coat, feeling the wind whip her face like a bucket of stones. For some absurd reason, she had decided to aimlessly stroll outside her house, even though Seoul was seeing what was probably the fiercest winds since typhoon Maemi. She was feeling ruggedly confident and purposeful, until a small slip of paper sliced her nose painfully and fluttered away, gently dropping on a bush on the other side of the road. "Great," Yoobin thought, pulling her gloves further up her arms as she got ready to grab the offending paper, "yesterday I was a qualified marine biologist, today I am a twenty-five year old chasing a stupid paper through the streets." She rolled her eyes as the slip winked cheekily at her, before pouncing ahead.

Half an hour later, Yoobin clutched a very battered, and very muddy sheet in her hand triumphantly, wanting nothing more than to throw it away, when she noticed a bunch of numbers written on it in rather revolting handwriting. She was just punching in the digits when there was an ugly screech of breaks; a bright red tanker trunk being buffeted around by the wind was hurtling towards her at hundred-and-fifty miles per hour, and she found herself falling on the pavement.

Hard.