The Elevator ride down was excruciatingly quiet.
Taeha stood stiffly, hands in his coat pockets. Hamin was a step behind him, walking slower, still limping.
The air between them wasn't just awkward. It was strained. Like something fragile stretched to the point of snapping.
"I can take a taxi," Hamin said quietly, not looking at him. "You don't have to do this."
"I don't care," Taeha replied, eyes straight ahead. "If I don't take you home, he'll be pissed."
Another beat of silence.
They didn't mention past. Didn't mention last night. Didn't mention anything them.
Two strangers. Two shadows of what once was.
Taeha got into the car into the front seat.
Hamin hesitated before slipped into the back seat.
The Drive was quiet, they were in one Car.
Even then — even in such a small space — they sat worlds apart.
Taeha could see Hamin through the rearview mirror.
And what he saw made his stomach twist.
The top few buttons on Hamin's shirt were torn, hanging loosely.
And underneath, just barely visible — faint red bruises.
On his collarbone. His chest.
And worse, near his nipples.
Taeha gripped the steering wheel tighter.
In the mirror, he saw Hamin catch the glance — and quickly, with trembling fingers, he pulled on his jacket, zipping it up, hiding what was left of his shame.
The car moved in silence through the quiet early-morning streets of Seoul.
They didn't speak the entire way.
But even in silence, everything screamed.
Taeha didn't look back. But he could feel Hamin's presence like static behind him. Too close, too far.
"Just drop me at the next bus stop," Hamin said, his voice low, careful.
Taeha's brows knit together. "I'll take you home."
"I said the stop's fine."
Taeha didn't answer.
Instead, he kept driving.
Hamin shifted in the back seat. "I said—"
"I heard you," Taeha said flatly. "But unless you tell me your home address, I'm going to keep driving. You're not walking in that condition."
From the mirror, he caught the flicker of conflict in Hamin's face.
Eventually, reluctantly, Hamin gave him an address.
The car rolled into an old hillside district tucked far from the city's polished skyline. Faded signs. Rusted railings. Narrow alleys. And a long flight of cracked cement stairs that looked like they led to a forgotten world.
Taeha slowed, frowning softly. "This is… where you live?"
He couldn't hide the shock in his voice.
When they were in school, Hamin's family was wealthier than his. Hamin's father ran a successful business — imported electronics, if Taeha remembered correctly.
Now he was here. Limping through a crumbling alley.
What happened?
Taeha turned slightly, wanting to ask—but the passenger door clicked open before he could speak.
Hamin stepped out without a word.
No goodbye. Not even a glance back.
"Hamin—wait."
Taeha was out of the car before he realized it.
He jogged up behind Hamin, catching up just before he reached the base of the steep stairs.
"I just…" Taeha hesitated, pulling out a sleek silver business card from his wallet. "Here."
Hamin looked at the card, then at him. Blank. Walled off.
"If something happens," Taeha continued, "If you need anything. Just call."
Hamin didn't take it.
So Taeha gently tucked it into the pocket of Hamin's wrinkled shirt.
That small touch — soft, almost unnoticeable — sent a jolt through Hamin's entire body.
Taeha didn't know if he imagined it, but Hamin went completely still.
Like the air had stopped.
He was about to say something more — maybe an apology he didn't know how to begin — when Hamin's hand suddenly gripped his wrist and pushed him back.
"Don't touch me," Hamin hissed, voice low and shaking. "It disgusts me too."
Then he pulled the card from his pocket, crushed it tightly in his fist — and dropped it beside the stairs like it was poison.
Taeha froze.
The words echoed in his head like a slap.
"Don't touch me… it disgusts me too."
Back then, he had said nearly the same thing. At seventeen. In a crowded hallway. When Hamin had confessed with trembling lips.
He hadn't even looked at him that day. Just shoved him away, said—
"Don't touch me. You're disgusting."
Back then, it was about shame. About hiding. About fitting in.
Now…
It was his punishment.
Taeha watched in silence as Hamin turned and began slowly climbing the stairs. His limp was worse than before. Every step looked like it hurt.
But he didn't stop.
He didn't look back.
And Taeha stood at the bottom, heart breaking in the same rhythm as Hamin's retreating footsteps.