The waste disposal sector was no longer a hiding place; it was a graveyard that had just claimed another soul. The air was thick with the copper tang of Kyla's blood, mixing with the suffocating scent of ozone and ancient grease.
"Move," Miran commanded. His voice wasn't a suggestion; it was a low vibration that seemed to bypass Seol-wol's ears and strike directly at his spine.
Seol-wol couldn't move. His boots were rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on Kyla's empty, white stare. She had been the only one who looked at him like a human being, not a piece of hardware. And now, she was just more scrap metal. The Noise in his head—the digital screaming of the facility—was returning, a high-pitched frequency that made his teeth ache and his vision blur into violet static.
"I can't... I can't breathe," Seol-wol gasped.
The violet energy sparked at his fingertips, ready to explode in a mindless surge of grief.
Miran didn't wait for him to recover. He hauled Seol-wol to his feet with one hand and slung the unconscious Junseo over his shoulder with the other. He dragged them toward a narrow fissure in a pile of rusted mag-lev hulls—a space so cramped it shouldn't have been able to fit three people.
"In. Now," Miran hissed, shoving Seol-wol into the lightless, jagged crevice and crawling in after them.
Inside the hull, the world vanished. It was pitch black, smelling of rust and the sharp, expensive scent of Miran's skin—a smell that shouldn't exist in a gutter like this. They were packed so tightly together that Seol-wol was pressed flush against Miran's chest.
Every line of the elite's muscular frame was an intrusive weight against his own.
Outside, the Reapers arrived.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Red sensor beams cut through the gaps in the metal, sweeping over the darkness like the eyes of a searchlight. Seol-wol's breath came in short, panicked hitches. His heart was a frantic bird trapped in his ribs.
"Shhh," Miran whispered. In the dark, his hand found Seol-wol's throat. It wasn't a choke; it was a claim. His thumb pressed firmly against Seol-wol's pulse point, and his other arm wrapped around Seol-wol's waist, pulling him so close there wasn't a hair's breadth of space between them.
"Stay still, little thief," Miran breathed into his hair. "If you spike now, they'll turn this hull into a coffin for all of us."
"Don't... touch me," Seol-wol whispered, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't. The moment Miran touched him, the screaming in his brain died down. It was as if Miran were a black hole, effortlessly swallowing the excess energy that was killing Seol-wol.
It was a treacherous, sickening relief.
They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. Seol-wol could feel the steady, arrogant thud of Miran's heart against his own. He could feel the heat radiating from the elite's body, a warmth that felt like a predator's hearth.
Finally, the skittering faded. The red lights vanished. The Reapers had moved on, lured away by the ghost-signal of the "Double."
But Miran didn't let go.
"You're shaking," Miran noted, his voice a dark purr in the cramped space. His hand moved from Seol-wol's waist, sliding up under the thin, torn fabric of his medical tunic. His palm was calloused and burning hot against Seol-wol's skin.
"Kyla is dead because of us," Seol-wol rasped, his eyes burning with unshed tears.
"My brother is a shell. And you're just watching it happen. You enjoy this, don't you?"
"I am watching you," Miran corrected. He shifted, his legs tangling with Seol-wol's in the tight space. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over the shell of Seol-wol's ear.
"Kyla died because she was a variable I no longer needed. But you? You're the only thing in this facility that is actually alive. Do you have any idea how intoxicating that is to someone like me?"
Seol-wol turned his head, intending to spit a curse, but he found Miran's face inches from his own. The elite's eyes weren't cold anymore. They were filled with a terrifying, egoistic hunger—a mix of obsession and something much more primal.
"I'm going to kill you," Seol-wol whispered, his forehead leaning against Miran's in the dark.
"Then do it," Miran challenged, his grip tightening on Seol-wol's back, pulling him into a bruising, intimate embrace. "Kill me.
But while you're alive, you belong to the Heir.
You are the Master Key, and I'm the only one who knows how to turn you without breaking you."
Miran leaned in closer, the tension between them snapping like a live wire. For a heartbeat, the air in the hull felt like it was made of gasoline, waiting for a single spark.
Suddenly, Junseo let out a sharp, pained groan between them.
The spell broke. Seol-wol pushed against Miran's chest, his heart thudding against his ribs. "He's waking up. Get off me."
Miran stepped back, his expression returning to that of a cold, distant prince, though his eyes still burned with the remnants of that dark hunger. He kicked the rusted door of the hull open, letting in the dim, grey light of the sector.
"We have forty-eight hours left, Seol-wol," Miran said, standing up and looking out at the wasteland. "The 'Architect' is waiting in the Vault. And your brother... he isn't going to be your brother for much longer. If you want to save what's left of him, you'll have to do exactly what I say. No more bolts. No more scrap metal. Just me."
Seol-wol scrambled out of the hull, his body still tingling from Miran's touch. He looked at the unconscious Junseo, then at the dead girl in the distance, and finally at Miran.
He realized with a sinking horror that he was no longer a thief trying to steal a secret. He was a man caught between two monsters, and the one standing in front of him was starting to feel like the only home he had left.