The rain came suddenly.
Not a drizzle — a downpour. The kind that erases everything: blood, footprints, sound, even fear.
Tae-Jun barely had time to pull the notebook into his jacket before it was soaked.
Yul jumped up and rushed toward the ruined bunker entrance. No roof, but the far-left corner still held a collapsed ceiling — low, tight, and barely wide enough for two.
He stopped. Looked back.
Tae-Jun was struggling.
The rain made the mud slick under him. His leg wouldn't move right. His arms shook with every crawl.
For a moment, Yul stood still in the storm.
Then he came back.
He didn't speak. He didn't ask.
He just grabbed Tae-Jun under the shoulder and half-carried, half-dragged him into the shelter.
---
Inside, it was cramped. The ceiling was low enough that they had to sit curled forward. Their knees touched.
The sound of the rain above was deafening.
But inside… it was warm. Not from the air. From being close.
---
For a while, neither moved. The rain had its own rhythm, like the heartbeat of a world that had forgotten them.
Tae-Jun's breath slowed. His head rested against the wall.
Yul leaned back, eyes closed.
Exhaustion was stronger than suspicion.
---
Later, Tae-Jun opened the notebook again.
Yul didn't look.
> Entry Eight.
Rain doesn't choose sides.
It falls on uniforms the same way. Enemy or not.
Today, for the first time… I didn't feel alone.
We shared silence. Real silence. Not fear, not tension. Just… stillness.
We're too close. Closer than soldiers should be.
But maybe, for now, that's what keeps us alive.
---
Tae-Jun's hand brushed against Yul's by accident.
He didn't pull away.
And neither did Yul.