Seungho left earlier that evening, saying only:
— I have to check something.
Do-jun didn't ask where — he understood the question wouldn't change the essence of the matter.
The clock showed almost midnight when the door opened. Yun entered silently. He shed his coat, went to the kitchen, and poured himself some water. He smelled of dampness, wine, and metal.
— Did you find it? — Do-jun asked from the semi-darkness of the living room.
Yun stopped.
— Not everything. But enough to understand who is selling us out.
— Who?
— One of the directors. The elder one, Hwan. He has long maintained a double accounting system, through a supply fund. Contracts for the transport of people passed through his accounts. Omegas.
Do-jun sat up, wrapping himself in a blanket.
— So, it's all true.
— Yes, — Yun set the glass on the table. — All this time they were trading bodies under the guise of cargo. Haneul, Park — everyone was part of the chain.
Silence. Only the rain outside the window, steady and dispassionate.
— I thought, — Do-jun said quietly, — that it would end when we found the evidence. That it would get easier. But it only got worse.
— Because now you see what we are living with, — Seungho replied. — This isn't business. It's a disease.
He came closer, stopping nearby. Do-jun looked up. In his gaze — weariness, but not weakness, rather transparency.
— Tell me honestly, — he said. — Will we ever get out of this alive?
Yun didn't answer immediately.
— I don't know.
— Exactly, — Do-jun chuckled, but without a hint of a smile. — And that's the scariest thing of all.
He looked down at his abdomen, running his palm over the fabric.
— Sometimes I feel like I won't live to see him.
Yun tensed.
— Don't talk like that.
— It's not pessimism. Just a feeling. Like something is growing inside that is already stronger than me. And I'm afraid that if this world breaks me, he won't be born in time.
Seungho sank down, sitting on the floor beside him.
— Listen to me.
Do-jun looked, not averting his gaze.
— I can't promise safety. But if something happens — I will stay by your side. Even when it's all over.
— That's not comfort, — Do-jun said softly. — That's a sentence.
— No. That's honesty.
He touched his cheek, tracing the line of his lips with his thumb.
— As long as you are here — I live. Everything else comes later.
Do-jun inhaled unevenly, as if something clicked in his chest.
— Then stay.
— Already am.
He pulled him closer. The kiss was not a beginning — it was a continuation of everything they couldn't say. Seungho held the back of his head, gently, as if afraid to crush him. His lips were soft but insistent. The rain intensified, and to that sound, they moved slowly, as if learning to breathe anew.
Yun laid him on his back, unhurriedly unbuttoning his shirt, kissing the skin where his pulse beat beneath his fingers. Everything was slow: the warmth, the breath, the touch. No sudden movements — only what was necessary not to fall.
Pheromones filled the room — not as dominance, but as protection. The air became thick, quiet, as if the rain had vanished behind glass. Do-jun ran his fingers over his shoulders, his back, lingering on his neck.
— You are always afraid of losing control, — he whispered. — And yet, this is love. When you can no longer stop.
Seungho raised his head, looked at him — his gaze tired, but clear.
— Then don't stop me.
He entered him slowly, without rush, as if in prayer. There was no struggle, no roughness — only breath, as if structured into a single rhythm. Do-jun arched; his fingers slid across the sheet, leaving trails. Yun kissed his chest, shoulder, abdomen, as if wanting to preserve every detail, every movement.
When it was over, they lay side-by-side, not saying a word. Do-jun breathed evenly, but his eyes were open — not sleep, but clarity.
— You know what's strange? — he said. — Right now, I'm not afraid.
— Why?
— Because now I understand why I live. Not for work, not for you. For him. For the three of us.
Seungho ran his fingers through his hair.
— Then you've already won.
They fell asleep to the sound of the rain — sparse, weary, but real. In the basement, where old magazines were hidden, water slowly seeped through the stone, washing away traces. The enemy became vulnerable — not because they were found, but because now they had something to lose.