The Hwanseo restaurant was always known for its silence. Even during the evening hours when Seoul was drowning outside the windows, a polite restraint reigned here. The sound of pouring wine, the light rustle of dishware, the muted lighting — everything looked too peaceful to be safe.
Seungho sat with his back to the window, tracing neon reflections on the glass. Across from him was Do-jun, tense but trying not to show it. A barely touched bottle stood on their table. The waiter brought salad and immediately dissolved into the shadows.
— Eat, — Seungho said softly.
— I can't, — Do-jun shook his head.
— Then just sit.
He hadn't finished speaking when a shadow fell across their table. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with wine.
— What a coincidence, — the voice was even, drawn-out, as if its owner was genuinely pleased to meet them. — Yun-ssi, Do-jun-ssi… I hope I'm not interrupting?
Seungho looked up. Standing before him was Hwan — without a tie, but in a perfectly pressed jacket. His smile seemed polite, almost friendly, but there was something unsettling about it, like the smile of a person who already knows where you'll step.
— You always know where we are, — Seungho said coldly. — Did you decide to sit down out of nostalgia?
— Nostalgia is too expensive a pleasure. But you know, I thought we should talk. It's easier to tell who's lying to whom at the same table.
He sat down without waiting for an invitation. The restaurant grew noticeably quieter, as if the air had thickened.
Do-jun involuntarily glanced at Seungho. He didn't move, but his fingers tensed.
— What do you want? — he finally asked.
— Nothing special. Just a reminder that family is a strange thing. It can unite, or it can destroy.
Hwan took a glass, poured wine, but didn't sip it.
— Did you know that Director Park is my brother?
Seungho frowned.
— What?
— Surprised? — Hwan chuckled, looking at the wine. — One father, different mothers. We weren't compared — we were separated into corners, as if we were two mistakes. And then we were thrown together again when someone at the top needed it.
He paused, as if savoring the words.
— And now everything is coming back. Park was always obedient, and I was too direct. He's resentful, you're in his way. And me? I'm just collecting what belongs to us.
Seungho slowly exhaled.
— It's not enough for you to destroy the company. Do you want to destroy everyone close to me?
— Me? — Hwan raised his eyebrows. — No. I'm just repaying debts. For everything you took, for everything that didn't belong to you.
Do-jun squeezed his hand in his lap.
— Is this personal?
Hwan looked at him for the first time — as if assessing the reaction of the one considered the weak link.
— Everything is personal, Do-jun-ssi. Especially when it comes to love and power. Your Yun thinks he knows how to keep people at a distance. But all his walls are built on the blood of others' decisions.
— Enough, — Seungho stood up. His voice became deeper. — I won't listen to your confessions.
— But you already are.
Hwan stood up after him, coming close. Only the smell of wine and the dull hum of the city remained between them.
— Park knows I'm here, — he said softly. — We calculated everything. You lost the day you believed you could not be alone.
He glanced at Do-jun, and his smile turned cold.
— Take care of him. He won't forgive you if you fall first.
Seungho stepped forward, but Do-jun grabbed his arm — his fingers trembling.
— Not here, — he whispered.
Hwan bowed his head slightly, as if curtsying.
— Good advice.
He left a business card on the table and left without looking back. The door closed behind him, and the music in the restaurant resumed — so soft that it seemed like a mockery.
Seungho stood motionless. Do-jun looked at him, not knowing what to say.
— You… really didn't know? — he finally asked.
Seungho shook his head.
— No. But now everything is clearer.
He picked up the business card. On it — nothing but the name: Hwan Insoo. Beneath it — three intertwined circles, like a symbol of something that would never break apart.
Do-jun quietly exhaled.
— He enjoys this.
— Yes, — Seungho replied. — And he knows I can't strike first.
⋆⋆⋆
The apartment greeted them with silence. They entered without turning on the light. The same rain that had been loud in the restaurant stretched out beyond the windows — only here it sounded duller, like an echo of Hwan's words.
Seungho took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then stopped in the middle of the room. He seemed to be trying to reassemble the air around himself. Do-jun watched silently. He wanted to approach, but the sound of the stranger's laughter still rang inside him.
— Are you angry? — he finally asked.
— No, — Seungho smiled without smiling. — I'm thinking about how long Park kept this a secret. — Hwan specifically said it in front of me. — He knew where to strike.
Silence hung heavy. The sound of the rain grew louder, and suddenly everything seemed unbearable — the long weeks of fear, the surveillance, the threats. Do-jun squeezed his palms.
— Sometimes I feel like all this is because of me. That if I wasn't around…
— Shut up, — Seungho walked over and pulled him close. — Don't you dare think that.
— But he's right about one thing: you're vulnerable because of me.
— I'm alive because of you.
He said it quietly, but the tone allowed no argument. His fingers slid across his back, soothing, grounding him. Do-jun inhaled — the damp air smelled of rain and something familiar.
Their kiss was born not of desire, but of the exhaustion of living in fear. Slow, long, like salvation. Seungho kissed him attentively, almost tenderly, as if examining the boundaries of reality. And when Do-jun responded, the tremor inside began to subside. They stood in the dim light, their breaths intertwined, and every touch sounded like a word: here, now, live.
— Don't let him break us, — Do-jun whispered.
— I won't, — Seungho touched his temple. — Let him play with masks. We're already without ours.
They sat side-by-side for a long time, silently, until the light outside shifted into night.
Later, close to midnight, Seungho finally went out — he needed to retrieve documents from the car. The parking garage under the building seemed deserted. Yellow lamps flickered, casting shadows.
He heard the sound before he saw it — a short click of a safety catch. Seungho dodged instantly, grabbed a metal crowbar from a maintenance cart, and struck at the shadow. A muffled cry, a body hitting the concrete.
Do-jun ran in a few seconds later.
— Seungho!
— It's fine, — He flipped the attacker over. — The package. Look.
Inside — a pistol, a radio, and a thin black card embossed with the three intertwined rings. The metal felt warm to the touch, as if it had been held in hands for a long time.
Do-jun looked at him.
— What is this?
— A key, — Seungho narrowed his eyes. — I saw this symbol on Park's documents.
— Do you think…
— They're all connected. Park and Hwan. Brothers. And now I know who will pull the next trigger.
He slipped the card into his pocket and looked at Do-jun.
— Let's go home. This is just the beginning.
The rain started again, and the water on the concrete smelled of rust. One thought hung in the air: masks fall when they are ripped off by force.