The music broke off like a thread. The lights flickered in the hall; people screamed; someone laughed nervously — fear always has those who call it funny. Seungho entered through the back door. Security trailed behind, but he raised his hand — don't interfere.
— Cameras? — briefly.
— The top row is knocked out, — Oh-hwa answered, hurrying. — They knew where to strike. Three masked people, precise hits.
— Time?
— Seven minutes ago.
Behind the bar, a mirror lay shattered. The ceiling reflected in the shards, like a puddle of ice. Yun knelt down, picked up a thin module from the glass — a memory chip from the cash register stand. He glanced at Oh-hwa:
— Did they forget this, or leave it for us to find?
— Too clean, — she winced. — Looks like the latter.
In the crowd, someone groaned: a bartender — young, with a split eyebrow. Yun squatted, looked into his eyes:
— How many of them were there?
— Three. They didn't take the cash. Only demanded "three months of archives." They said: "Tell them Yun ordered it."
— Did you see their faces?
— No. But one had a scar on his neck.
Yun stood up. The scar wasn't new, but it confirmed they weren't just a rabble.
— Close the front. Send everyone away. And find me the recording from the back room; the camera by the door was on a separate line, — he gave Oh-hwa a look. — Did it survive?
— If we're lucky, it's in the cupboard, — she replied. — I'll dig.
The stage lights went out; the lighting evened out. The club once again looked like a club — only a faint smell of blood lingered in the air, mixed with simple syrup and lemon. Strange how violence always has a sweet aftertaste.
⋆⋆⋆
It was dark at home. Do-jun hadn't turned on the overhead light; only a wall sconce stood as a warm island on the wall.
— Are you okay? — he asked, without getting up.
— Yes, — Yun took off his coat, hung it on the back of a chair. — A raid on the cameras. Nothing personal. Almost.
— Almost?
— They were prompted to say I ordered it.
Do-jun smiled faintly.
— Polite. Saved us a press release.
Yun sat down next to him, not touching. The pause was short, like an intake of breath.
— Tired?
— Can't sleep. The city is noisy inside, — Do-jun touched his temples. — And your voice sounds like glass.
— It will pass, — Yun put his palm on the back of his neck. — Lie down.
The "cuddle" came naturally: without words, without pride. Warm skin, slow breathing, a shoulder as a pillow.
— Like this? — Yun asked.
— Like this, — Do-jun replied, closing his eyes. — Give me five minutes, and my "peace" will return.
When his breathing evened out, Yun's phone vibrated. A message from Oh-hwa: "Got it. Back room. Take a look." The clip opened without sound: a door, a corridor, a shadow on half the frame. And a face — almost in profile — Kim. Without a mask. Looking directly into the camera, as if checking if it was working. Yun froze. His fingers clenched tighter than he wanted.
— What is it? — Do-jun whispered, without opening his eyes.
— Later, — Yun replied. — Sleep.
He didn't sleep.
⋆⋆⋆
The morning smelled of wet asphalt and tart coffee. It was cold on the roof, but clearer — the wind blew away thoughts, leaving only the core. Do-jun leaned against the parapet:
— Tell me.
— Kim. In the back room.
— Himself?
— His face — yes. His confidence — also.
— Then it's not a 'slip-up', — Do-jun said. — It's a demonstration. They're not hiding anything so we stop looking.
Yun nodded.
— He will stand face to face. He wants a 'dialogue.'
— Are you suggesting a deal?
— I'm suggesting a trap that looks like a deal.
The wind carried the words further than desired. Do-jun glanced down at the tiny car roofs.
— Seungho… if he says, 'Let the Omega go and live,' what will you say?
— I won't accept the phrasing, — calmly. — I'm serious.
— So am I. I don't trade with people. Especially not life.
Do-jun looked back at him.
— You speak like a man who doesn't know the word 'crisis management.'
— I know the word 'measure.' And I only have one: you.
He wanted to object, but couldn't — his voice caught in his throat. Yun took half a step; his palms settled on his shoulders.
— If you want to walk beside me — don't say, 'Don't risk me,' but 'Here's what to do to make the risk less.'
— Fine, — Do-jun said softly. — Then first: don't accept offers with four people. Only one-on-one, and on your territory.
— Accepted.
He smiled with one eye — a rare reaction, like a sunbeam in winter.
⋆⋆⋆
Hwan waited in the negotiation room, like the owner of an apartment he'd bought long ago. No security, no assistants — just him, a glass of water, and a steady smile.
— Mr. Yun, thank you for making the time.
— You wrote 'discuss losses.' I'm discussing yours, — Yun sat opposite him, without removing his coat. — I'd say our shared ones. You have one club, and we are the suppliers.
— I suggest we leave the past behind. You — get the market back; we — stop 'taking an interest' in your archives.
— And 'the Omega stays out of the frame', — Yun added, without changing his intonation. — I'm glad you understand the subtlety of the issue. The public won't like this. Investors won't either.
— The public will love the numbers, — Yun slid a thin folder towards him. — Your foundation's accounts, routes, the names of those whose hands you used to work. This is a teaser. Not the trailer.
Hwan's gaze didn't flinch. He just pushed the folder back.
— Are you sure you want to play to the public?
— I'm sure you have already started.
A pause. Two cups of coffee that no one needed.
— Think about it until evening, — Hwan said softly. — Life can be surprisingly long if you agree on time.
In the corridor, it smelled of foreign cologne and polish. Yun stopped, took out his phone, and sent Oh-hwa: "Prepare the legal package. Deadline — today." Then a second message — to Do-jun: "Be quick."
He didn't have time to take off his coat — Do-jun was already standing in the doorway.
— And how does he say 'peace'?
— With the word 'agree.'
— And you?
— With the word 'no.'
— Then I have a request, — Do-jun said, looking into his face. — Don't decide anything about me alone anymore. I am not a decoration or a variable. I am part of the solution.
Yun was silent for a long time. Then he nodded.
— Ready to confirm that right now?
— Yes.
— Then don't pull away when you're afraid.
He stepped closer. The kiss was not soft — it was precise. Like a signature. Do-jun responded immediately — without doubt, as if he had been waiting for this deal all night. His fingers found the collar of Yun's shirt, pulling the fabric aside; his palm rested on his chest — to feel, not to control.
— Stop, — Yun whispered. — I don't want to 'take.'
— Then don't take, — Do-jun replied — take exactly as much as I release.
He sat with his back to the table, pulling Yun closer by his belt — confidently, without playing the role of weakness. The movements — precise, rhythmic, at the tempo of their breathing. The petting here was not released — it was an argument: "I am present, and I am the subject." Yun listened, adjusted, allowed himself to be led — a rare, new thing. There was no concession in it, only an agreement.
When the heat subsided, they didn't unhook their hands.
— Better like this? — Yun asked, in a whisper, like after a storm.
— This is honest, — Do-jun replied and, catching his breath, added: — Now you ask before rushing into the fire.
— I'll ask, — Yun nodded. — And I'll bring water with me.
The phone vibrated on the table. Oh-hwa: "Back room footage cleared. Frame with Kim — court-worthy. Sending a copy." Yun glanced at the screen, then at Do-jun.
— Will you look at me?
— Of course. This is about me too.
The video played without sound. Kim approached the camera, as if checking the focus. For a second, he smiled — not at people, but at the process. Do-jun quietly stated:
— He is not afraid of being seen. He is afraid of being understood.
— Why?
— Because then everyone will see his cheapness.
Yun unexpectedly smiled.
— That's a good title for my response to Hwan.
— Not a title, — Do-jun shook his head. — A logline. And we are not his victims; we are the audience that stopped applauding.
A light rain began to drizzle outside the window — fine, like an erasure. Yun turned off the screen and covered Do-jun's hand with his palm.
— Tonight, I'll send them 'no' officially. With packages, under protocol.
— I'll be right there, — Do-jun said.
— Right there, — Yun confirmed. — Not behind me.
They were silent, but the silence didn't feel heavy. A new rhythm was audible within it — not "alpha and omega," but a partnership in which each person had a voice. And for the first time in many weeks, the word "equal" felt warm.