The car stood by the roadside. Rain drummed on the roof, streetlights reflected in the wet asphalt, transforming the street into a shimmering mosaic of lights. It was warm inside the cabin, but the silence was oppressive.
Seung-ho turned off the engine. — The delivery is tonight, — he said, staring straight ahead. — The warehouse by the port. If I'm right, Lee's people should show up there. Do-yun tore his gaze away from the window. — What if it's a trap? — It is a trap, — Seung-ho replied harshly. — But it's better to walk into it ourselves than to give them room to maneuver.
His eyes gleamed in the darkness. There was no choice.
The warehouse greeted them with the smell of dampness, rust, and rotting paper. The walls were darkened with moisture, and water ran off the roof, falling onto the concrete in rare, heavy drops. Footsteps echoed, as if there were more people inside than there actually were.
They moved along the rows of crates; the flashlight beam picked out traces on the floor, then broken pieces of wood. Suddenly, a noise came from the depths: men's voices, hollow in the emptiness.
Seung-ho pressed a finger to his lips. They slipped behind a column.
The voices became clearer. — …the next shipment will be in three days, — said the first voice. Do-yun recognized it instantly. Director Lee. Confident, reserved, but with a new, steely edge. — Will that be enough? — asked a second voice. It belonged to a tall man in a long coat standing nearby. His face wasn't visible. — More than enough, — Lee replied. — But keep the club under control. The delivery must go through there tonight. If they suspect anything—it'll all be ruined.
Do-yun froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. The club. The delivery. It was all connected.
— And if they poke around there too early? — the man clarified. — Then they'll walk right into the trap, — Lee said calmly. — Everything is going according to plan.
Seung-ho glanced at Do-yun. He was pale. But there was no time left for discussion. A floodlight flared, hitting them directly in the eyes.
— Freeze! — a shout rang out.
Guards emerged from all sides; bolts clicked. The light of the flashlights stung their eyes, reflecting off the wet floor.
Do-yun flinched, but Seung-ho yanked his arm. — Back!
The first shot ripped through the silence.
They scrambled toward the crates, bullets struck metal, sparks scattered across the concrete. Do-yun stumbled, fell, hitting his rib painfully against the edge of a container. A sharp pain flared in his side; his breath caught.
— Get up! — Seung-ho roared, grabbing his collar.
Do-yun got up, clutching his bruised arm, but ran, gritting his teeth. Lee's words still echoed in his head: "the club… delivery… trap…"
The corridors buzzed with gunshots and shouts. It seemed as if the warehouse had come alive and was now chasing them toward the exit.
Seung-ho fired back in short bursts, every movement measured, but the pressure was too strong.
They burst out through the side door. The rain struck their faces, cold and sharp. — Faster! — Seung-ho commanded, shoving Do-yun ahead.
The car was waiting in the alley. The doors slammed almost simultaneously, the engine roared, and they sped away, leaving behind the glare of floodlights and the echo of footsteps.
Do-yun sat, holding his side. The pain from the bruise throbbed; every jolt of the car resonated through his body. He stared out the wet window, but only one image remained in his mind: Lee and the man next to him.
***
It was warm in the apartment, but the tension didn't subside. Seung-ho closed the door, checking the lock twice, as if to make sure the walls truly protected them.
Do-yun sat on the edge of the sofa, clutching his side. The pain from the bruise pulsed; a lump of anger—at himself, for being weak again—was stuck in his chest.
Seung-ho sat down beside him, turning him around. — Show me. Do-yun frowned. — It's nothing serious. — I'll be the judge of that, — Seung-ho replied curtly.
He gently lifted Do-yun's shirt. A purple bruise spread across the skin, reaching from his rib to his side. Do-yun flinched when his fingers made contact.
— Does it hurt? — Bearable, — Do-yun exhaled.
Seung-ho silently stood, retrieved the first aid kit. He returned with ointment and a bandage. His movements were precise, confident, yet every action was infused with care.
He gently applied the ointment to the bruise, softly massaging until warmth spread through the skin. Then he secured the bandage.
— That should help, — he said quietly.
Do-yun looked at his hands. Strong, composed, always ready for a fight—and now they were only for him. Something stirred in his chest.
— Why are you always so calm? — he asked. His voice was muffled.
Seung-ho lifted his gaze. — Because you are here. And I can't afford to be otherwise.
The words burned hotter than any touch. Do-yun looked away, but Seung-ho had already leaned closer. His lips gently touched his temple, then his cheek, pausing on his mouth.
Do-yun didn't push him away. On the contrary—he pressed closer, allowing the kiss to draw the bitterness of defeat out of him.
Seung-ho held him, tightly, his palm gently stroking his back. Every movement was like a promise: he wouldn't let go.
For a while, they sat like that—in silence, hearing only the rain outside the window. The kisses deepened, the caresses slowed, but there was no rush in them. Only warmth and the certainty that at least here, within these walls, they were safe.
Do-yun buried his forehead in his chest. — We were almost there, — he whispered. — And we'll be closer still, — Seung-ho replied. His fingers continued to caress his hair. — They aren't eternal.
Do-yun closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to relax in someone else's arms.
Outside, the rain still drummed on the window sills. But inside, it was quiet. Warm. And for the first time—the feeling that trust was possible.