Matteo ran.
Not jogged. Not sprinted. Ran—like his body had decided survival came before thought.
The cold Moscow air sliced into his lungs with every breath, sharp and merciless, turning each inhale into a punishment. His chest burned, throat raw, legs screaming as he tore through the streets. The icy wind whipped against his face, stinging his eyes, tangling his messy black hair as sweat cooled instantly on his skin.
Jesus Christ—what the fuck is wrong with that guy?!
His thoughts tumbled over each other in frantic loops.
Is he sick in the head? Is this normal for him? Does he do this for fun?
Matteo risked a glance over his shoulder.
The car was still there.
Not speeding.
Not chasing.
Just… following.
Slow. Patient. Inevitable.
No matter which alley he ducked into—narrow backstreets cluttered with trash bins, cracked pavement slick with ice, graffiti-stained walls—the black sedan appeared again, turning corners like it had all the time in the world. Like it was playing with him.
A curse on four wheels.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck…" Matteo muttered under his breath as he veered sharply, boots skidding slightly on frozen concrete.
His phone buzzed violently in his pocket.
The vibration nearly made him trip.
Not now. Please—not now!
He yanked it out mid-run, vision blurring as he glanced at the screen.
Gunwoo (Hyung)
His heart twisted painfully.
"Damn it," Matteo hissed, swiping to answer while still running, breath coming out in broken gasps.
"Hyung—!" he panted. "I'm sorry—I—I gotta call you back, okay? Just—just wait—"
"Matteo?" Gunwoo's voice cut through the static, sharp with concern. "What's wrong? Why do you sound like that—"
Matteo didn't let him finish.
"I'm fine! Just—wait, okay?!"
He hung up.
The guilt hit instantly—but fear hit harder.
He pushed himself faster, muscles trembling as his tattoo parlor finally came into view at the end of the street. The familiar brick storefront never looked so beautiful in his life.
Matteo slammed into the door, hands shaking as he unlocked it, nearly dropping the keys twice before finally wrenching it open. He stumbled inside and locked it behind him, twisting the deadbolt hard—twice—just to be sure.
Then his legs gave out.
He slid down the door until he hit the floor, back pressed against the cold metal, chest heaving violently.
"Hahhh… hahhh…"
His lungs felt shredded, every breath scraping like glass. Sweat dripped down his forehead, into his eyes, his hair plastered to his skin. He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling lights as his pulse thundered in his ears.
For a moment, there was only silence.
No footsteps.
No engine.
No knock.
Just the hum of the shop's electricity and the faint smell of ink and disinfectant.
Matteo shakily pulled his phone back out.
5 missed calls.
All from Gunwoo.
His chest tightened.
"Shit…" he whispered.
He hit call.
Gunwoo answered immediately.
"Matteo!" His voice was sharp, panicked—cutting through the line like a blade. "Why did you hang up like that? What's going on—are you hurt? Are you in trouble?"
Matteo closed his eyes.
"I'm fine, hyung," he said softly, forcing a weak smile into his voice. "Really. I was just… running."
There was a pause on the other end.
"…Running," Gunwoo repeated, unconvinced.
"Yeah," Matteo added quickly. "Trying to stay in shape, you know?"
Gunwoo sighed, the sound heavy with worry. "You scare me when you do that."
Guilt twisted deeper.
"So—why'd you call?" Matteo asked, trying to redirect. "Before I… hung up on you."
Gunwoo's tone shifted—lighter now, warmer.
"I'm finishing up my work here in America," he said. "And before I head back to Korea, I want to stop by Moscow."
Matteo blinked.
"…Really?"
"I want to see you," Gunwoo continued, voice tinged with nostalgia. "I barely get to anymore. I miss my little brother."
Matteo's ears burned.
"I am not little," he protested weakly.
Gunwoo laughed. "You used to cling to me everywhere we went. Wouldn't even sleep unless I was there."
"SHUT UP," Matteo snapped, face heating instantly. "Don't remind me! I was a kid. I'm grown now."
Gunwoo's laughter softened.
"I can't wait to see you, Matteo."
The words hit harder than expected.
Matteo's throat tightened as memories flooded in—shared rooms, scraped knees, whispered promises, two kids against a world that had taken too much too early.
"…Me either, hyung," he murmured.
They lingered in silence for a few seconds—comfortable, aching.
After hanging up, Matteo let his phone fall to his side.
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.
"…I need a cigarette."
He stayed there for a long moment, staring at nothing.