Somewhere across the river, Kyo walked with his head down, hood up.
The rain had stopped, but the city still dripped — rooftops, gutters, power lines. Seoul didn't sleep, and neither did the watchers.
He'd counted eleven surveillance drones since midnight.
Five were commercial-grade. Easy to spot, easy to avoid.
Six weren't.
They moved quieter. Hovered longer. Tracked body heat instead of faces. One of them had paused above him for three full seconds before drifting away. Long enough to ping him. Long enough to confirm something.
He was being hunted.
He deserved it.
--
He should have gone to Mapo. Immediately.
Straight to Seung-min. That was the plan. A clean route, calculated blind spots, timed crosswalks, a burner ID tucked inside his sleeve.
Instead, he'd walked straight into a trap. Sprung it himself.
And worse — he knew it.
But it had been her.
The second he saw her on that stage — the real her, not the image on billboards, not the voice in passing playlists — something inside him cracked wide open.
Her voice had cut through the noise, soft and sharp like it had always been.
Panpriya Tharinchai.
The name still sounded like something only he should know.
He used to tease her with it.
Panpan, he'd called her, just to see her glare.
She'd hated it.
He'd kept doing it anyway.
She'd kept sitting beside him anyway.
Ten years gone. And somehow she hadn't left him for a second.
And then, on that stage, when their eyes locked — just for a heartbeat —
he saw her see him.
Not the blur. Not the motion. Him.
The girl he used to share tamagoyaki with. The girl who braided her own hair in class. The girl who never stopped chasing her dream, even when it broke her in half.
He saw her.
And she saw him.
And now it was going to cost him everything.
--
He saw the rig falling. He felt the field fracture in the air — and her, directly beneath it. Her voice had cracked through the noise, familiar even now, like some old melody that lived in his bones.
What was he supposed to do?
Let it hit her?
Let her die?
Fuck that.
He'd do it again. A thousand times.
But it didn't stop the guilt from crawling under his skin like static. His slip hadn't just exposed himself — it had put her in more danger than she'd ever signed up for.
If Karasawa hadn't known before, he did now.
And Seung-min?
Kyo exhaled slowly through his teeth.
That lecture's going to suck.
He reached a narrow alley that curved toward the river — the long way, but safer.
No public cameras. No sound sensors.
Still, he walked light. Heel to toe. No kinetic noise. No emotional spikes.
The Constant stirred beneath his ribs, still raw from the concert.
He pressed a hand over his chest. Not to calm it — to remind himself it was his, not theirs.
By the time he reached Mapo, he was drenched in sweat.
Not from running.
From holding back everything that wanted to break loose inside him.
He just hoped Seung-min was still there.
And still willing to open the door.