The phone rang at three in the morning. The sharp sound cut through the silence like a gunshot. Seungho picked up the receiver without looking at the screen.
— Who is this?
The answer was a breath. Then a voice, quiet, like the rustle of paper:
— Are you still next to him? — Who? — The one who wears your name on his skin.
A pause.
— I can hear him breathing in his sleep — the voice continued. — Do you think I don't know what's beneath his heart?
Seungho didn't reply. He only straightened up, looking into the darkness of the room.
— You won't touch him. — Too late. Everything you touch burns down. Check the window.
Yun turned around—a short reflection flickered in the window. Not headlight glare—a flash. He exhaled:
— What did you do? — What you should have done yourself — the answer was calm. — Cleared the memory. The warehouse, the office, everything. Let your little world smell of smoke now.
The connection cut off.
Seungho stood in the middle of the bedroom. Do-jun woke up almost immediately—his gaze not confused, but alert.
— What happened? — The warehouses are burning. — Which ones? — Ours. And the office.
He spoke quietly, evenly. But his hands trembled. Do-jun sat up, looking at him.
— Don't go. — I have to. — Seungho, you yourself said he wants to draw you into this. — I'm not going to him. I'm going where anything might be left.
Do-jun reached out and squeezed his hand.
— Nothing will be left. You know that. — Then I'll check, at least.
Silence hung between them. Not an argument, not fear—just the realization that this night would separate them again. Seungho leaned down and kissed his temple.
— Lock the door. Don't open for anyone. — What if he calls? — Don't answer. — What if you don't come back?
He held his breath.
— I will come back. Even if I have to walk through embers.
He left quickly, soundlessly. The door closed, and the apartment plunged back into a muffled silence.
⋆⋆⋆
The street smelled of smoke even before he reached the club. Sirens cut the air. Flames burst from the windows, reflecting in the wet asphalt. Security, firefighters, shouts. He walked through the tape without listening.
The old wing of the club was burned to ashes—the very place where the internal audit archives were stored. The flame was yellow-orange, but a strange blue tint flickered inside. Yun understood: they hadn't just set paper on fire. An accelerant was used. Clean. Technical.
— Mr. Yun! — Oh-hwa ran up to him, wrapped in a trench coat. — Everything is gone. Even the server room. — Kim? — Left an hour before the fire. — Assistant? — Vanished.
He wasn't surprised. Only clenched his lips.
— They cleared the trail. — What do we do? — Watch who puts it out first.
The fire roared like a beast. In its flames, Yun felt a strange calm—the very silence that follows already-lived pain. He stood until the roof collapsed, and only then got into the car.
⋆⋆⋆
Do-jun wasn't sleeping. He sat on the windowsill, wrapped in a blanket, and listened to the rain fall. The streetlights outside flickered unevenly. Every light seemed to reflect what was happening where Seungho was. His phone lay on the nightstand, but he didn't touch it—afraid to hear the alien voice again.
When the door finally clicked, he didn't move. Yun walked in, smelling of smoke and cold. His jacket was soaked, his eyes were dull, but calm. Do-jun looked up.
— Everything burned? — Yes. — No one was hurt? — Besides us.
He sat beside him, placing a palm on his shoulder.
— Oh-hwa says there will be no traces left. No evidence, no servers.
Do-jun nodded.
— So, they won the round. — A round, yes. But not everything.
He spoke without certainty—just to say something. Do-jun turned to him.
— Do you want to know what I felt while you were gone? — What? — Emptiness. Real emptiness. Without fear, without anger. Just an empty space. I realized that I don't want to live in a world where you are out there somewhere.
Seungho looked down.
— I'm sorry. — Not for leaving. For not taking me.
He touched his cheek. His fingers were warm, tired.
— Don't be gentle with me — Do-jun said. — Just be.
He pulled him close, and Seungho allowed it. No words, no rush—only breathing, heavy, erratic. His fingers found his neck, shoulders, hair. In every second, he felt the return—not passion—but specifically the return.
They didn't try to forget the night—on the contrary, they lived through it to the end. Do-jun didn't cry, but his breath trembled. Seungho didn't console; he simply touched—with his palms, his lips, until everything was whole again. Everything that had burned there turned to ash. Here, in the silence, only the living remained.
When Do-jun fell asleep on his chest, Seungho stared at the ceiling for a long time. Smoke still lingered in the air, and it seemed as if the fire hadn't vanished, but had simply moved inside.