The morning moved with reserve, as if afraid to touch the glass. The car was parked outside the clinic; the warm air of the cabin smelled of leather, antiseptic, and patient silence. Yun held the wheel but wasn't looking at the road; his gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the city was just waking up.
— We are doing the tests today — he said. — And we tell the doctor everything. No secrets.
— Even about who I really am? — Do-jun ran a finger along the seatbelt. The dry fabric rustled like a raw nerve.
— If necessary — Yun answered firmly. — I will not let them use your condition against us.
— Do you think they can?
— They are already trying.
He turned and squeezed Do-jun's hand. Yun's fingers were warm, his gaze as calm as the surface of dark water, beneath which lay resolve.
— You are not alone, Do-jun.
— I know — he sighed. — I just can't believe all this... is happening to me.
The light of the morning city cut across their faces in a single, thin strip, as if checking who would falter first.
⋆⋆⋆
The club greeted them with a hum, like a whisper being tied into knots. The day shift was bustling behind the counter, cleaners rolled their carts, and the manager stood by the monitors with a face drawn tight as a wire. Rumours smelled of coffee, polish, and other people's fears.
— Did you hear? — the bartender whispered to the new hostess. — They say he… — her gaze darted toward the corridor where Do-jun had just passed — …is expecting.
— Who said?
— The hostess lowered her voice to a thread. — People's tongues can't be held back. The cameras yesterday… were glitching again. And security found something by the back door… — She trailed off. — Never mind.
Yun entered the hall so quietly that the whispers instantly folded their wings. His pheromones, carefully suppressed, still made the air denser. He did not raise his voice — he simply looked at the manager.
— All rumours go to my desk. Sources too. Who 'said,' where they 'saw,' when they 'heard.' Time, names, frequency.
— Yes, Mr. Yun — the manager swallowed. — We are compiling it now.
Do-jun didn't stop. He walked past the bar, toward the personal corridor. Every "glance-and-retreat" cut deeper than any words. Something inside him clenched: not from shame, but from the understanding of how easily other people's speech turns into a weapon.
— Leave it — Yun said quietly, right behind his shoulder. — Rumours are a jackhammer against someone else's bones. But while they talk, they reveal who fed them the story.
— Haneul — Do-jun reminded him. — Is this connected to him?
Yun nodded: their cutting thoughts aligned.
— We are going to the warehouse — he said simply. — Right now.
⋆⋆⋆
The day climbed higher, but the light did not warm up at all. On the club's roof, the wind combed the railing, dried the damp concrete, and carried the scent of coffee and dust from the neighbouring streets. Here, the city noise was muffled, and every word felt closer to the skin.
They stepped out for a minute—as if for fresh air. But in reality, for what couldn't be said downstairs.
— I called the doctor — Yun said. — After the tests, she will draw up a plan. Home, nutrition, regimen. We will switch security to a new protocol. Two personal drivers. Routes — alternating.
— You talk as if this were a war — Do-jun scoffed. The wind tugged at the edge of his coat, and he held it tighter, as if a coat could really ward off the wind.
— Because it is — Yun answered calmly. — Only now, it contains something more precious than anything else. And I won't pretend it's not.
Do-jun looked away towards the horizon. Right beneath their feet, the city stirred—like a massive animal with a thousand eyes and voices. He felt fear—alive, sticky, smelling of iron and antiseptic.
— I am not ready to be anyone's weakness — he said. — Not yours, not theirs.
Yun moved closer. His hand settled on the back of Do-jun's neck—not as a gesture of possession, but of balance. His thumb slid along the hairline, behind the ear, to the spot where the skin knew this path by heart.
— You are not my weakness — he said softly. — You are my boundary. Everything on this side — lives.
He touched Do-jun's forehead with his own. The kiss was brief—not an attempt to silence the fear, but a seal: "I am here." Do-jun responded almost immediately, his mouth still cool from the wind. In that kiss, there was no collapse—only tension, like a string before the bow strikes.
— Say it — Yun whispered. — That word. Just once.
Do-jun knew which word. And he fell silent. Something inside him scraped—not refusal, but unpreparedness. The wind hit harder, catching their coats like sails.
— Someday — he finally said. — When it stops feeling like a trap.
Yun nodded—as if that was the exact answer he expected. His fingers slowly left the back of his neck, lingered on his throat, one more second—and withdrew completely.
— Let's go — he said. — Enough air. Downstairs — work.
⋆⋆⋆
The warehouse on the outskirts smelled of chemicals and dampness. Long shadow-filled aisles, lights blinking a rare Morse code. Security was already waiting, two at the gates, one by the loading ramp. On the concrete deep inside, there was a thin, almost invisible trace of wheels, crossed out by unfamiliar footsteps.
— Cameras? — Yun asked. — Cut out with a loop.
— For twenty-seven seconds — the guard answered. — Like at the club.
"A message," Do-jun thought. The same cold precision as in the alley.
They moved inside. The air reeked of rust. On the left row, the boxes were pushed aside, as if someone had inscribed an alien route here. The silence became viscous.
— Here — one of the guards said, stopping by a metal door with a peeled sign: "Inventory 3."
The door opened with a dry click.
Inside, it smelled of old trouser fabric, damp cardboard, and pain. Haneul was sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the wall. He was too quiet—even his eyes moved cautiously, as if any movement could cause a crack. His wrists were bound with zip ties, his lips cracked, and on his cheek, the blue shadow of an old blow. Maimed—not by blood, but methodically: the fingers on his right hand were fixed with tape in an unnatural position, the nails on two were ripped down to the pink quick; on his thigh beneath the denim fabric, the square outline of a metal burn showed through, like a brand.
He looked up and let out a soundless "ah-ah" that never became a word.
Do-jun knelt beside him, without touching—not wanting to add an ounce of pain.
— Haneul — softly. — Can you hear me?
Yun stood nearby, hands in his coat pockets, but the tension betrayed his shoulders. His pheromones were deeply suppressed—only pure control remained.
Haneul nodded briefly. Around his neck hung a silvery fob—the same one Do-jun had seen in the alley, only now a thin black thread was tied to it. On the thread—a piece of transparent plastic with an engraved code.
Yun caught Do-jun's eye, silently asking: "See it?"
— "I see it."
— Hold it — he said, when the guard reached for a knife to cut the ties. — First, photos. Angles, distances, markings. Then — call a doctor straight here. And into the car — no questions.
The guards moved quickly and quietly. The camera flash cut the air, and Haneul flinched, pulling his head into his shoulders—like a bird under a wing.
— That's all — Do-jun whispered, leaning closer. — The camera — just once. After that — silence.
Yun crouched down to level their line of sight. His voice softened, as if the wind from the roof had returned.
— Who was with you? How many? — He spoke in short phrases, leaving room for breathing.
Haneul shook his head. Something rattled in his throat—a plug of salt and fear. He slowly raised his left hand—the one whose fingers were intact—and showed two. Then paused and added one more.
— Three — Do-jun translated. — Masks?
Haneul nodded. Reached for the fob, loosened the thread, and tried to remove the plastic plate. His fingers trembled. Yun carefully intercepted, pulling out the plastic square. It truly had a code—a sequence of numbers and a short word that sent a chill down his spine: "DEBT."
— A message — Yun said. — And a route.
— They knew we would find him — Do-jun replied. — They want us to follow.
— We will follow — Yun exhaled quietly. — But not where they think.
The doctor arrived in six minutes. Young, with her hair pulled back and confident hands. She nodded to Yun—respectfully, but without unnecessary words—and leaned over Haneul. Her voice was of the kind that teaches the air not to make noise.
— Dehydration. Hypothermia. Pain — moderate, but constantly maintained — She looked at the burn. — A heater mark. Not deep, specifically 'for memory.' We'll take him. Right now.
— Where? — Yun asked.
— To the clinic. Not yours — she said calmly. — Mine. I don't want any curious people knowing where he is.
Yun scrutinized her. The doctor met his gaze, as one endures cold water. Finally, he nodded:
— Escort — two cars. Covert route. Report — to my direct line.
— Will do.
⋆⋆⋆
When the stretcher was carried out, the air grew heavy. The warehouse seemed to have sucked all the warmth. Do-jun stood motionless, feeling the adrenaline recede and a chilling emptiness set in.
— They are talking to us — he said. — As if they are holding a dialogue. 'DEBT.' 'You forgot who you belong to.' They are making a showcase out of us.
— No — Yun answered. — They are trying to seize the right to our story — He squeezed the plastic with the code in his hand. — And the right to the story — that is power.
Do-jun looked at his hand. At how his knuckles whitened. And suddenly understood that the words about "story" were not a flourish, not a game. It was a way to keep himself on the line where he wouldn't spiral into pure rage.
— You wanted me to say that word on the roof — he said quietly. — And I didn't say it.
Yun looked up at him. His eyes held a weariness—the kind one doesn't hide, because it is honest.
— I didn't ask for 'now.' I asked for 'when you can.'
Do-jun stepped closer. In the warehouse chill, his body radiated heat. He touched the lapel of Yun's coat, straightened its line—a senseless gesture, but his hands needed something to do. Then he raised his palm and placed it on Yun's neck—where the pulse beat a rhythm matching his own.
— I'll say it now — he exhaled. — So that there are no doubts left for anyone. Not for them, not for you. And not for me.
Yun didn't move—he only slightly tilted his head so their foreheads met again.
— Say it — he whispered.
— We are family — Do-jun said. The words came out quietly, but the warehouse heard them like a resonant hum. — And they won't take that from us.
The silence struck back. Simple, clear. Yun closed his eyes and allowed himself what he hadn't since the night in the alley—he exhaled without reservation. His hands settled on Do-jun's waist, pulling him closer. The kiss was slower, deeper than on the roof; not a kiss-challenge, not a kiss-lock—a kiss-"yes."
— Now — stick to the plan — he said, when they stepped back half a pace. — We are going their route, but not as prey. We are going together. And every step — with calculation.
— What if they strike immediately? — Do-jun asked.
— Then they will see that we are not 'weakness'. We are the point through which they will not pass.
He squeezed the plastic tag in his fist—so tightly it almost cracked.
— And the debt… — Do-jun looked at the rectangle. — They left us a debt too.
Yun nodded. — We'll return it with interest.
They walked out of "Inventory 3." The corridor met them with the even light of the lamps. Outside, cars were already converging, "tails" and decoy routes. The wind on the ramp smelled of neon and the beginning evening.
And as the stretcher with Haneul disappeared into the minivan's door, Do-jun caught Yun's gaze and, for the first time in a long time, felt not only fear and anger—but also support, heavy as a stone and warm as a palm.
The words from the roof echoed in his chest differently: they were no longer a height from which one could fall. It was a platform on which one could stand.
Family. Now it was not a snare. It became the way out.
And just at that moment, when the meaning clicked into place, Yun's phone broke through the silence of the warehouse yard—briefly, without unnecessary melodies. An unknown number flashed on the screen and a single message, without greetings or signatures: "Next — him."
Yun raised his eyes to Do-jun. Not an ounce of panic flickered in his pupils. Only thin, transparent steel.
— They are rushing — he said.
— We are not — Do-jun replied.
And together they walked to the car—to where the road, short commands, unpredictable turns, and a plan that now built itself not around fear, but around the only word they had finally spoken aloud, awaited them.