March

Sehwa turned his head, as if refusing to engage. It was an obvious provocation, a daily squabble. But being used to it didn’t mean the dismissive treatment stopped stinging. He knew they did it to get a rise out of him, and precisely because he didn’t want to be swayed by their games, he pretended it didn’t bother him and let it slide.
Sakura, Hongdan, sometimes March…
He’d told them a hundred times not to call him by those stupid nicknames, but no one listened to a mere debtor, a fool, a drug peddler. Still, Sehwa never tired of repeating it.
My name isn’t Sakura, or Hongdan, or March.
It’s Sehwa,
Lee Sehwa.