The next morning, Beom Seok paced anxiously outside Rinwoo's door. The memory of the bloodstain and the broken whisper from the night before haunted him. He didn't know what to expect—a ghost, a shattered man, a locked door.
He froze when the door slid open.
Rinwoo stood there, dressed in fresh, clean robes. His hair was neatly combed, and a soft, practiced smile was placed carefully on his lips. "Good morning, Beom Seok-ah," he said, his voice light. Too light.
The smile didn't reach his eyes. And it couldn't hide the rest. His skin was pale, almost translucent, making the faint lavender shadows beneath his eyes stand out like bruises. His slender frame seemed to have diminished overnight, his shoulders narrower, more fragile, as if the slightest breeze might cause him to fold.
Beom Seok's mouth opened, but the questions stuck in his throat. Are you okay? What happened last night? They felt too heavy, too dangerous.
