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The rice is hot enough to burn Yun’s palms. It’s not the burns that are the cause of his tears.
He’s supposed to be the clever one, isn’t he? Hasn’t he called himself a genius since meeting Yona and Hak?
So why didn’t he notice something was wrong? Shin-ah never takes off his mask, and that was only the most obvious sign. His entire demeanor was changed in a way that couldn’t be attributed to teenage rebellion. Rebellious teenagers didn’t change that drastically that quickly.
Now, wrapping seaweed around the rice, Yun can quantify everything that at the time added up to an internal scream of wrong, wrong, wrong. Shin-ah demanded attention with the way he spoke, when normally he was happy to hang back and observe. The very way he walked dripped confidence, even arrogance.
“Possession by an evil spirit” is something so far removed from their normal that Yun can’t blame Jae-ha, Kija and Zeno for working it out too late.
Here’s the thing: it shouldn’t be an outside-context problem for Yun.
He lived with Ik-su for years. How many times has Yun overheard conversations with things he can’t see? Watched phenomena that couldn’t be explained by the laws of nature? Healthy plants withering in seconds on the mildest of days; a creature that he first mistook for a cat walking through the wall; an extinguished candle re-lighting on Ik-su’s murmured request. Yun knows better than anyone --except perhaps Zeno-- that the supernatural exists and interacts with the “regular” world.
He could have put the pieces together if he tried. Things could have turned out differently; those stupid rare beasts could be safe right now if he’d just stopped and used his head!
How would things have turned out? a snide voice, formed by the habit of years, asks. Yun doesn’t know.
No. That’s wrong, he does know. Not liking an answer doesn’t change it.
Things would be different if he fought for once in his useless life is a response based purely in emotion. Logically…
Logically, Yun knows the outcome wouldn’t have changed significantly. He cannot fight. He’s tried. He’s weak, and not the same way Yona claims to be. It’s not just a matter of undeveloped muscles. His hands are steady when he’s pressing hot rice into onigiri. He can sew an open wound with perfect accuracy.
When he raises a weapon, it’s another story. His limbs lock up. His hands shake. His mind digs its heels into the ground and does not budge.
Yun splashes water on his reddened hands and grabs another scoop of piping-hot rice. He molds it quickly, his fingers bent just so to make that perfect triangle shape. Onigiri is easy.
Protecting his friends is not.