A rare silence hung in the apartment—thick, motionless, as if even the walls were holding their breath. Tea was cooling on the windowsill. The rain had been falling for three days, and the sound of the drops had become a background, like the city's breathing.
Seungho was buttoning his jacket, his movements precise, restrained, as if each was part of a ritual before battle. Do-jun stood by the window, barefoot, wearing only a shirt. In the glass reflection—his face, tired and too mature for his years.
He was silent for a long time, then quietly said:
— If it starts… you must save the child. No matter what happens.
Seungho stopped.
— Don't talk like that.
— I'm serious — Do-jun looked up. — Don't be a hero, don't prove anything to anyone. Just, if you have to choose—choose him.
Silence hung between them, thick as the air before a thunderstorm. Seungho walked closer, placed his palms on his shoulders, and made him look into his eyes.
— I'm not going to choose — he said quietly, but firmly. — I will save everyone. You. Him. Myself. Or no one.
Do-jun wanted to object, but couldn't—he just exhaled. He pressed his forehead to Seungho's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. That rhythm was a promise—not of salvation, but of the inevitability of being together until the end.
⋆⋆⋆
The restaurant greeted them with soft light, quiet music, and the scent of expensive wine. Outwardly—everything was respectable, even cozy. But Seungho felt that poison was hiding behind this cleanliness.
They sat at a corner table. Do-jun was silent, looking at a glass of water. His pheromones were calm, but somewhere beneath the surface—a subtle hint of tension.
When the door opened, the air seemed to change temperature. Hwan walked in—without security, without visible threat, with a perfect smile on his face.
— How touching — he said, approaching. — Sitting together, like an ordinary couple. Almost a family.
He sat across from them, without asking permission. The waiter silently poured wine, then retreated. Everything looked peaceful—but Hwan's gaze was sharp as a blade.
— You don't understand who your judge is, Yun — he said, swirling his glass. — Park is my brother. Half-brother, but still blood.
— A pause. A sneer. — Sometimes brotherhood is the worst form of love.
Do-jun flinched; Seungho tensed imperceptibly.
— So — he said quietly — all this is family business.
Hwan nodded.
— We're just correcting the system's mistakes. You are the mistake, Yun. You broke into a place where entry is denied by birthright.
He smiled a bit wider, leaning forward:
— You are an outsider. An impostor who decided to clean up a world that relies on dirt.
Seungho was silent, but his gaze turned to steel.
— Mistaken — he replied calmly. — The world doesn't rely on dirt. It relies on those who cover it up.
Hwan chuckled.
— In two days, you'll see everything yourself. Videos, documents, witnesses.
He leaned closer, his voice becoming almost intimate:
— I will show everyone the real you. And when it's over—your network will fall under its own name.
Seungho slowly stood up.
— Dinner is over.
⋆⋆⋆
They walked through the underground parking lot. The air was damp, smelling of dust and gasoline. Footsteps echoed in the concrete walls.
— He's lying — Do-jun said when they reached the car.
— No — Seungho replied. — He's telling exactly as much truth as needed to scare.
He opened the door, but didn't have time to sit down. The first shot—dry, short, somewhere from the side. The bullet hit a pillar.
Seungho violently pulled Do-jun down, covering him. Headlights flashed—a blinding light cut through the darkness. The roar of gunfire, echoing footsteps, the clang of metal.
He fired back—twice, three times. The echo reverberated in the walls; the smell of gunpowder filled the air.
— Left sector! — Do-jun yelled.
Seungho rushed behind the car they were shooting from. Two bodies slumped to the floor. A third tried to get up—didn't make it. Silence returned suddenly, as if someone had turned off the sound.
They sat in the car, their breathing loud, ragged. Seungho put the weapon on the seat, gripped the steering wheel. Do-jun held his palm to his chest—feeling his heart still beating, fast, painful.
— Are you okay? — Seungho asked.
— Yes — He exhaled. — But… Hwan won't stop.
— Neither will I — he replied quietly.
⋆⋆⋆
At home, the light was warm, soft. Do-jun sat on the bed, in the lamp's shadow, his hands on his belly. There—a slight, almost imperceptible movement. He froze, then called:
— Seungho…
He walked over, sat down next to him. Do-jun took his hand, placed it on his skin. Seungho felt a nudge—tiny, stubborn.
— He's alive — Do-jun said, smiling through his exhaustion.
— Of course. He's strong. Like you.
They sat like that for a while, without saying a word. The rain outside the window was steady and deep, as if the city itself had finally slowed its breathing.
Seungho lowered his forehead to his shoulder.
— I swear — he whispered — I won't let anyone touch either of you.
— Even if you have to...
— Even if I have to burn everything down.
Do-jun didn't reply. He just stroked his hair, and the silence became warmer than any word.
In the morning, the phone vibrated on the table. A message from Oh-hwa: "Found it. City Hall payment register. Signature—Park. They funded the network directly."
Do-jun looked at the screen, then at Seungho.
— It has begun — he said quietly.
Seungho merely nodded.