POV: Kang Yejun
Something is wrong.
Yejun wakes up in an unfamiliar bed in darkness, his heart racing. For a moment he doesn't remember where he is. Then it comes back—the penthouse, Kaien, Haneul. The police warrant. The live stream. Everything.
He moves quietly out of bed and walks to Haneul's room. The child is sleeping peacefully, his small chest rising and falling in the rhythm of safety. Yejun stands in the doorway for a long moment, just checking. Making sure he's still real. Still here.
He is.
Days pass like this.
Kaien works from his home office, occasionally emerging with complicated expressions when his assistants call with news about the warrant or the live stream fallout. Yejun stopped checking social media after the first day. Knowing that #KaienScandal is trending just adds weight he doesn't need.
Instead, he learns to be Papa.
He takes Haneul to the park, watching the child run and laugh like he's remembering what joy feels like. They visit a bookstore where Haneul chooses three books that cost more than Yejun made in a week at the café. They cook dinner together, Haneul standing on a stool beside him, helping stir soup and asking endless questions about flavor and heat and why things change when you cook them.
The child attaches to him like gravity. Every morning, Haneul wakes up looking for Yejun first. Every afternoon, he counts the hours until Yejun picks him up from the tutor Kaien hired. Every night, he clings to Yejun during bedtime stories like the world might disappear if he lets go.
None of it feels fake.
That's the problem.
One morning, Yejun stumbles out of bed (the penthouse suite Kaien gave him, though he rarely sleeps there anymore) and walks to the kitchen. Kaien is there, already dressed, reading something on his phone.
On the counter sits a coffee.
Exactly how Yejun likes it. One shot espresso, two pumps vanilla, steamed milk with extra foam, temperature so precise it's still hot but won't burn his mouth.
He's only mentioned his coffee preference once. In passing. Days ago.
"You remembered," Yejun says.
Kaien glances up with silver eyes that are dangerous in their intensity. "Observed yesterday. You made it for yourself twice. Same proportions both times. Math is easy, Yejun. You're predictable."
But he's smiling when he says it, and the smile is warm, and Yejun knows the lie of that statement. Kaien didn't make this coffee because math. He made it because he's paying attention. Because he notices things about Yejun. Because in some fundamental way, Kaien cares.
These small moments are dangerous.
They build walls. They create intimacy that goes beyond the contract they made. Every perfectly prepared coffee. Every time Kaien moves aside so Yejun can sit closer. Every moment his silver eyes linger on Yejun's face like he's committing it to memory.
Dangerous.
That night, Yejun reads to Haneul. The child is fading, his eyes growing heavy, his voice drowsy as he asks for "one more story, Papa, please?" Kaien sits in the armchair across from the bed, pretending to work on his laptop but really watching them. Yejun can feel the weight of his gaze.
Halfway through a story about a dragon who learned to be gentle, Haneul says something that changes everything.
"In my timeline," the child murmurs sleepily, "you and Daddy always kissed goodnight. You'd tuck me in, and then you'd kiss, and it was the most beautiful thing. It made me feel safe. Like as long as you two loved each other, everything would be okay."
The room goes silent.
Haneul's breathing evens out into sleep, oblivious to the earthquake his words just caused.
Yejun can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except sit very still while his heart rewires itself.
He closes the book slowly and turns.
Kaien is standing. He's crossed the room without Yejun noticing. Now he's right there, close enough that Yejun can count his eyelashes.
"We should practice," Kaien says quietly. His voice is careful, controlled, but there's something dangerous underneath it. Something that wants. "For public appearances. We need to be convincing."
Yejun knows this is a lie. They don't need to practice anything. Kaien doesn't care about being convincing anymore, if he ever did. And neither does Yejun.
"Okay," Yejun whispers.
Kaien reaches out slowly, giving Yejun time to pull away. He doesn't. Kaien's hand finds his face. His touch is reverent, like Yejun is something precious. Something worth savoring.
"You're beautiful," Kaien says, and he means it. Every syllable carries weight and truth. "In every timeline, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Yejun's breath catches. "Kaien—"
"Shh." Kaien leans closer. "Just let me—"
Kaien's phone erupts with sound.
Not a notification. An alarm. A security breach alert that's so loud it shatters the moment like glass.
Kaien's entire body goes rigid. He pulls back, already moving toward the phone, already shifting into someone else. Someone dangerous. Someone CEO, not romantic partner.
"What happened?" Yejun asks, following him.
Kaien reads the message and his face goes white.
"They found it," he says, his voice hollow. "Jihoon's investigators found the quantum rift chamber. They're breaking through the security barriers. They're trying to access the dimensional equipment."
"How is that possible? Isn't your security—"
"They have government authorization," Kaien interrupts, already pulling up surveillance feeds on his home office monitors. "The police warrant from your brother gave them legal grounds to search my entire facility. They're using it to find proof that the device works. Proof that Haneul exists."
On the screen, Yejun watches armed officials move through what looks like a high-tech laboratory. They're photographing everything. Recording everything. Looking for evidence that will prove Haneul is real and therefore, somehow, illegal.
"They're going to weaponize this," Kaien says, and the fear in his voice is real. "They're going to figure out how to open more rifts. They're going to use it as a weapon. And Haneul—"
He stops.
Because in the corner of the security feed, Yejun sees it.
A figure in the crowd of officials.
Someone directing the search. Someone who knows exactly what they're looking for.
Jihoon.
But that's not the worst part.
Standing beside Jihoon is someone else. Someone who makes Yejun's blood freeze.
A man with silver eyes.
Not Kaien. A different version. An older version. A version with scars on his face and darkness in his expression.
And Haneul, waking up from his sleep, suddenly screaming from the bedroom: "DADDY! THE BAD MAN! THE BAD MAN IS HERE! HE'S COMING THROUGH THE RIFT! HE'S COMING TO GET ME!"
Kaien and Yejun run toward Haneul, but before they reach the bedroom door, every alarm in the penthouse starts blaring simultaneously.
The penthouse's security system announces in a calm, mechanical voice: "DIMENSIONAL ANOMALY DETECTED. RIF OPENING IN PROGRESS. EVACUATION RECOMMENDED."
And through the windows, Yejun sees something impossible.
The sky is tearing open again.
Just like on the bridge. Just like the night everything changed.
But this time, it's not blue light coming through.
It's something darker. Something hungry.
And standing at the edge of that tear is the silver-eyed man from the surveillance feed, reaching toward them with hands that promise nothing but destruction.
Haneul's scream echoes through the penthouse: "Papa! He's the reason we died! He's the reason Daddy couldn't save me!"
Kaien pulls Yejun close, his silver eyes meeting Yejun's with terrible certainty.
"We need to run," he says. "Right now. We need to take Haneul and run."
But there's nowhere to go.
The only exit is behind the tear in reality.
And the only way through it is past the monster wearing a familiar face.