The evening was strangely quiet. The club was alive — music boomed from the hall, lights shimmered on the walls, the scent of alcohol and perfume mixed in the air. But beneath this brightness, something foreign was palpable: nervous, mingled pheromones, as if someone was deliberately disrupting the usual rhythm.
Seungho sat in his office on the second floor, behind the glass partition. The hum and laughter drifted up from below, and on the desk before him lay a forgotten laptop. The guard said they found it under the bar counter. Black, unremarkable. Only a small sticker — three intersecting circles.
— Strange coincidence, — Do-jun noted, standing beside him. — The same mark was on the access card to the depository.
— There are no coincidences, — Seungho replied.
He turned on the laptop. The screen flashed, prompted for a password, but at the bottom — a note: "Shift + Enter — manual access."
Do-jun frowned.
— It's a trap.
— Or an invitation.
Yun pressed the combination. The screen flared — no explosion, no alert, just a folder opened. Inside — dozens of spreadsheets, marked with dates and route numbers. At the bottom — a folder titled "Flows_Park."
— God… — Do-jun leaned in. — This is a list of shipments. All through his firms.
— Yes. But look here, — Seungho scrolled down. — The latest dates coincide with the routes we tracked after the fire.
The files were clearly signed: "Route: Haneul Port — Date: Tomorrow — Cargo: Equipment." But they both knew that "equipment" concealed something entirely different.
Do-jun ran a hand over his face.
— Is that… all?
— No. There are logs here too.
He tried to open the next file, but the lights suddenly went out. For a second, there was absolute darkness, and then — an explosion.
A glare flashed from the window — bright, piercing, like a bolt of lightning. They rushed into the corridor. From below — screams, cracking sounds.
— The warehouse! — someone from security yelled. — The warehouse is on fire again!
Yun darted towards the stairs, but Do-jun grabbed his sleeve.
— You are not going!
— Our people are down there!
— That's your death! — Do-jun snapped, his voice sharp, almost a scream. — You're risking the child for this war!
The phrase cut the air. Yun froze.
Smoke was already seeping into the hall. It smelled of soot, rubber, something familiar — like the night at the depository. Do-jun stood before him, pale, eyes shining — with anger, fear, helplessness.
— Do you think I don't see that you're burning out? — he exhaled. — That with every step it's harder for you to breathe? That this isn't just a fight, but an obsession?
— This isn't about me, — Seungho's voice was quiet, but hard. — It's about them. About everything they've done.
— And what about us? — Do-jun stepped closer. — About me? About him? — his hand lay on his belly. — Where are we in all of this?
Silence. Only the fire in the distance and the rhythm of their broken breaths.
Seungho didn't answer. He simply walked over and hugged him. Not as comfortable. As the only way not to break. Do-jun resisted for a second, then went limp. His fingers clenched the fabric of the jacket, and his breathing became ragged.
— Don't go in there, — he whispered. — Don't leave us.
— I'm here, — Seungho replied.
Sirens wailed below, glass cracked from the heat. They stood amidst the smoke, as if in the middle of the sea — one breath for two.
Yun lifted his head, looked towards the window.
— They want us to burn.
— Then don't give them that fire.
He nodded. He took the laptop from the desk and pulled out the hard drive. Put it in his pocket.
— Let's go.
⋆⋆⋆
The apartment greeted them with dead silence. No light, no music. Only the sound of water dripping from the faucet and the reflection of fire in the window — distant, but still visible.
Do-jun sat on the sofa, silent. His palms were shaking. Seungho sat beside him, saying nothing.
— I hate that smell, — Do-jun said quietly. — It's everywhere.
— It won't be there tomorrow.
— And tomorrow you'll leave again.
Yun didn't answer. He just took his hand. Their fingers intertwined, slowly, without force.
Later, when everything quieted down, Seungho turned on the laptop. Half the files were corrupted, but one spreadsheet opened. In it — the shipment schedule for the next three days. And every company on the list — subordinate to Park.
He quietly closed the screen. They had found a new thread.