The night quarter of the depository smelled of rust and damp cold. The rain didn't fall here — it hung in the air as a fog, saturated with gasoline and dust. The narrow streets between the warehouses looked like rows of silent confessionals: identical, gray, with metal gates behind which someone's secrets slept.
Seungho and Do-jun stood in the shadow of a truck, watching the building labeled 9B. Cameras on the corners blinked red; a guard was smoking by the entrance. The time was a quarter to twelve.
— Five minutes, — Seungho whispered. — Then motion.
Do-jun nodded. He held a tablet with an encrypted channel, tracking the signal. A thin green line pulsed on the screen — the rhythm of the locks, which would automatically deactivate for exactly twenty minutes, from 00:00 to 00:20.
— Are you sure the signal is correct? — he asked.
— Absolutely. But if Hwan realized we were coming here, he might have...
The sentence broke off.
At that very moment, the sky flashed somewhere blocks away. Flames rose like the breath of a monster, reflecting in the glass, and a second later, a dull explosion reached them.
— The warehouse! — Do-jun gasped. — It's their warehouse.
— No, — Seungho was already moving. — It's our distraction.
He understood before he spoke it: it was a trap. When they reached the intersection, the heat struck their faces. The wind chased plumes of smoke; beams cracked inside; molten metal rang in the air.
— Seungho! — Do-jun coughed, covering his mouth with his sleeve. — Someone is inside!
— No one is in there, — Seungho's voice was rough, but anger trembled in it. — They knew we were watching.
He rushed to the side entrance, where the plaster was already crumbling. He kicked the door open — and thick smoke surged out like a wave. Inside — chaos: falling crates, the crackle of fire, blinding heat.
Do-jun screamed:
— Don't go in! It's collapsing!
— If there's even part of the papers — I won't leave without them!
He dove inside.
The smoke burned his lungs; the air was thick, sticky. Flames spread across the walls like living tissue. A canister exploded somewhere in the distance.
Seungho felt for a desk on which lay burned folders, a laptop, a metal container with a code lock. The key was in his pocket. He ripped off the lid; inside — envelopes, charred at the edges, but whole.
— Got it! — he shouted.
In response — a cough and a gasp. Do-jun. He was by the wall, caught on a skewed crate. A beam was cracking above him. Seungho managed to rush over the moment it snapped. He pushed Do-jun, covered him, and the beam hit the floor inches from them.
The fire became unbearable. Smoke swirled in a vortex, blocking the exit. Seungho lifted him into his arms. Do-jun's body was light, but hot, as if his own fire was burning within him. He pressed him close and walked through the smoke, feeling his clothes cling to his skin, feeling the ash lodge in his hair.
Outside, the rain met them like salvation. Cold drops fell onto his burned palms, washing away the soot. Do-jun coughed, trembling, but alive.
Seungho knelt down, not releasing him.
— Quiet, — he whispered, unable to hear himself over the sound of the rain. — That's it, that's all.
An envelope lay on the asphalt between them. It smelled of soot and fear. Seungho tore the edge — inside were accounting journals, receipts, signatures. And one name, clearly written, as if they weren't afraid anyone would find it: Park Jaehyun. Beneath it — a seal. Round, with the city hall emblem.
Do-jun lifted himself, looking at the sheets, and whispered:
— This isn't just a network. It's a state contract.
— Fictitious, — Seungho nodded. — Park was selling a shadow as gold.
He wiped his fingers, smearing a grey streak on the paper.
— We saved the most important thing anyway.
Do-jun trembled, but no longer from fear. He looked at him — wet, scorched, with eyes that shone with something human, stubborn. Seungho felt that look and sighed.
— Don't look at me like that. I'm not a hero.
— Then who are you? — Do-jun asked softly. — Who carries a person out from under fire if not a hero?
He ran his fingers over Seungho's cheek, wiping away the soot.
— I thought I'd lose you.
Seungho grabbed his hand.
— You won't lose me. Never.
The rain intensified. Drops hit the metal, the skin, the envelope between them. The papers got soaked, but they didn't move. Seungho leaned in, pressing his forehead against Do-jun's.
— Promise me, — he said.
— What?
— That if everything collapses, you will stay alive.
Do-jun closed his eyes.
— Only if you're by my side.
The world narrowed to their breathing, mixed with the rain, to the smell of wet asphalt and smoke-scented paper. No words about victory. Only weariness, warmth, and a quiet vow — to survive, no matter what.
Later, in the apartment, Do-jun lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. His hair still smelled of soot, but his eyes were clear. Seungho sat nearby, sorting through the envelopes, each marked by fire like a memory.
He picked up one sheet — with the faded city hall seal. A thin red stripe crossed Park's signature.
— Now we know where to go, — he said.
Do-jun nodded.
— And who is behind him.
Seungho put the papers in a drawer and returned to him. He sat down, touching his shoulder.
— Sleep.
— And you?
— I'll be here.
Do-jun closed his eyes. Seungho's pheromones — soft, warm, like a refuge — filled the room. The flames, the smoke, the city hall, the betrayal — all of it remained outside the glass. Only silence and their breathing remained here — steady, like the pulse of the survivors.