Chapter 1: A City On Edge
Chapter Text
The human mind is truly the scariest thing of all.
Not the darkness that lingers in forgotten alleyways or the creak of a floorboard in the dead of night. Not even the monsters we invent to haunt us in stories. No, the most terrifying thing lies within us—silent, calculating, and inescapable.
The mind has a way of distorting reality, of making what seems real seem false, and what seems false feel more real than anything you’ve ever known. It convinces you that the world is one way, only to pull the rug out from under your feet when you least expect it. And the worst part? You never know when it will happen, only that it will.
This story begins not with an external threat, but with a mind unraveling—a journey into the darkest depths of what it means to think, to feel, and to fear. And perhaps, to destroy.
—
The newsroom of Jinsil News was a battlefield of words and deadlines, where reporters clashed with time, facts, and sometimes, their own conscience. Joshua sat hunched over his desk, his fingers poised over the keyboard, his eyes scanning the headline he had just typed: “Minister Jang: The Untold Truth Behind His Empire.”
A thrill shot through him. This was it —this was the kind of journalism he had dreamt of when he first stepped into this profession. The kind that peeled back the polished veneer of power and exposed the rot underneath. His sources were airtight, his evidence irrefutable. There was no reason why this story shouldn’t make it to print.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime from his laptop. A notification from Teams.
[Chief Editor Park]: Jisoo, my office. Now.
Joshua’s stomach twisted. No pleasantries. No explanation. Just a cold summon. He saved his work, grabbed his notepad, and made his way to the office, the carpet muffling his hurried steps. The newsroom was a blur as he strode upstairs toward the glass-walled office in the corner. A few colleagues shot him curious glances, some sympathetic, others indifferent. Everyone knew what it meant when you were called upstairs.
“Come in,” said a gruff voice as Joshua knocked.
Chief Editor Park, a middle-aged man with streaks of gray in his neatly combed hair, sat behind a polished mahogany desk. He gestured for Joshua to take a seat but didn’t look up from the papers in front of him.
“Jisoo,” he began, finally meeting his gaze. “About that article on Minister Jang…”
“Yes?” Joshua’s tone was eager, anticipating praise.
“Scrap it.”
The words hit him like a bucket of cold water. “Excuse me?”
“I said, scrap it.” Park leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. “It’s not going to print.”
Joshua let out a dry chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “You’re joking, right?”
Park’s expression didn’t change. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“But why? This piece is solid. It’s backed by facts, sources—”
“I know,” Park cut in, his tone almost tired. “It’s good work, Jisoo. Too good. ”
Joshua clenched his fists. “Then why are we burying it?”
Park leaned forward, folding his hands. “Because you don’t understand the kind of power Minister Jang has. Do you have any idea what will happen if we publish this story? Do you want our advertisers pulling out? Lawsuits? Threats? You think the truth is some noble weapon, but in reality, it’s a loaded gun aimed at yourself.”
Joshua’s nails dug into his palms. He had heard this speech before. The industry was full of people who once believed in truth but had since learned to bow. And Joshua—Joshua hated bowing.
“So we’re just going to let him get away with it? Let him misuse his position while people suffer?”
“Listen, kid.” Park’s tone softened, but his eyes remained steely. “Idealism is a luxury we can’t afford. We cover what we can, and we let go of what we can’t. That’s how we keep this place running. That’s how we keep living .”
Joshua opened his mouth to argue but stopped. What was the point? The resolve in Park’s voice left no room for negotiation. The young journalist felt something curdle in his chest—rage, disappointment, but most of all, exhaustion. He swallowed the words burning on his tongue and forced himself to nod. “Understood.”
Park gave him a small, approving smile. “Good. Find something else to work on. Maybe you can cover the charity event hosted by Muse Entertainment tonight.”
Joshua nodded and left without another word, his legs carrying him back to his desk as if on autopilot. He sat down heavily, staring at his blank screen. The document containing weeks of his research and writing sat untouched, waiting for him to delete it.
“Rough meeting?”
Joshua looked up to see Hyunjin, his colleague, standing by his desk, the silver around his neck glinting under the bright lights. In his hand was a steaming cup of coffee, which he placed in front of Joshua.
“I figured you’d need this after going upstairs,” Hyunjin said, a knowing smile playing on his lips.
Joshua let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he wrapped his hands around the warm cup. “How do you do it, Hyune?” he muttered. “How do you keep going when we’re constantly told to shut up?”
Hyunjin pulled a chair closer, resting his arms on the desk. “You pick your battles. And when you can’t fight, you survive. But don’t lose that fire, Josh.” His gaze was steady. “Not everyone here still has it.”
Joshua stared at his coffee, the steam curling upward like the ghost of his thwarted ambition. He couldn’t shake his disgust for those who misused their power, but for now, he would bide his time. The fight would have to wait—at least for today.
He let out a slow breath, then straightened, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the meeting. Finally, he glanced at Hyunjin and managed a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You better get your camera and best suit ready, Hyune.” he said. “We’ve got a charity gala to attend tonight.”
Another event where power dressed itself in generosity. Joshua exhaled, as he reached for his bag. If he couldn’t write the truth today, he’d at least keep watching.
—
The grand chandelier above cast a warm golden glow over the ballroom, its countless crystals shimmering like captured stars. Beneath it, a flurry of movement filled the vast space—waiters adjusting silverware, florists perfecting their towering arrangements of white orchids and gold-dusted roses, technicians running last-minute checks on the lighting that would bathe the room in a soft, ethereal brilliance.
In the center of it all stood Lee Chan, sleeves rolled up, a clipboard in one hand and his phone in the other. His sharp eyes scanned every corner of the Imperium Ballroom , taking in the progress.
“Move those tables two inches to the left—no, no, that centerpiece is blocking the sightline to the stage.” he called out, barely looking up from his notes. “And where's the champagne tower? That should’ve been done twenty minutes ago!”
A junior coordinator, barely keeping up, scurried over. “They're having trouble stabilizing the top tier, sir. The base isn't level.”
Chan pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply before exhaling through his teeth. “Alright, I’ll handle it. Make sure the VIP entrance is cleared—we can’t have guests arriving while staff are still running around like headless chickens.”
As he moved across the ballroom, his keen gaze caught sight of a waiter placing the wrong name card on a high-profile table.
“Hold it!” Chan strode over, plucking the card from the table and flipping through his seating chart. His voice remained calm, but firm. "Minister Song does not sit in the third row. She’s front and center, between her husband and the CEO of Muse Entertainment. Fix it.”
The waiter gave a nervous nod and rushed to correct the mistake, but before Chan could move on to the next issue, his phone vibrated in his palm.
Wonwoo.
Chan sighed, accepting the call and wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder as he waved a waiter toward the VIP section. “You’re calling now ? You do realize I’m running a circus here, right?”
“You’re at Regis Solis for the Muse Entertainment charity gala, aren’t you?” Wonwoo’s voice was level, but something in his tone made Chan pause.
“Yeah, and it’s a madhouse. What about it?”
“Something’s off about this event,” Wonwoo said, lowering his voice. “I’ve been seeing unusual activity from my department. Requests for additional security, last-minute clearance approvals for people who usually don’t make public appearances. Even some of my higher-ups have been keeping an eye on this gala.”
Chan scoffed, weaving through the ballroom as he spoke. “It’s a high-profile event, Won. Of course the guest list is ridiculous. The city’s elite love showing up for these things—throwing money around, pretending to care, while making backdoor deals over champagne.”
“This isn’t just about showing off wealth,” Wonwoo pressed. “The people attending tonight? Some of them never step into public unless there’s something bigger at stake. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s not just another charity gala.”
Chan slowed his steps, the weight of Wonwoo’s words sinking in. He had worked dozens of these events before, knew the kind of people who attended, the kind of performances they put on. But something about tonight did feel heavier—like an undercurrent of something unseen, waiting to break the surface.
Still, what could he do?
“I set up flowers and make sure the lighting is flattering,” Chan said dryly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not exactly in a position to ask questions.”
“I’m just saying—keep your eyes open,” Wonwoo murmured. “If something feels off, it probably is.”
Before Chan could respond, his earpiece buzzed.
“Mr. Lee, first batch of VIP guests arriving in twenty-five minutes. Final checks needed at the main entrance.”
Chan exhaled sharply. “Copy that.”
He pulled the phone from his ear, hesitating for just a second before speaking again. “Look, I have a million things to handle. Try not to dig too deep into this, Won and for the sake of God please don't plant this suspicion in Junnie’s mind. You know how he gets. Some things aren’t worth getting involved in.”
Wonwoo let out a quiet laugh. “Since when have either of us been good at staying uninvolved?”
Chan huffed, shaking his head. “I’ll see you later.” He ended the call, slipping his phone into his pocket before glancing around the ballroom one last time.
The weight of the night settled over him, heavier than before. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Clapping his hands, he raised his voice above the noise. “Alright, everyone! Final stretch! We’ve got twenty-five minutes until showtime—let’s make it flawless.”
No mistakes. No room for error.
Not on his watch.
—
The sharp knock on the door was persistent, followed by a voice laced with both amusement and determination.
“Lee Jihoon, open up.”
Jihoon, seated at his desk, barely acknowledged it. His fingers moved swiftly over his keyboard, lines of code cascading across the three glowing screens before him. A half-empty coffee mug sat precariously close to the edge of the table, untouched for hours.
The knocking turned into a firm, rhythmic series of taps. “Jihoon, if I have to break in, I will.”
With a sigh, Jihoon reached over and unlocked the door, barely looking up as Minghao stepped inside.
The Chinese male scanned the dimly lit apartment, taking in the cluttered desk, the drawn curtains, and the faint hum of a monitor left running in the background. His sharp eyes landed on Jihoon’s unkempt state—messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, an oversized hoodie that had clearly been worn for more than a day.
“Wow,” Minghao drawled. “You look fantastic.”
Jihoon shot him a flat look. “What do you want?”
Minghao leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Lunch.”
Jihoon huffed. “Not hungry.”
Minghao pushed off the frame and walked toward him, grabbing his wrist with a grip that left no room for argument. “You don’t get a choice.”
Jihoon groaned but let himself be pulled up. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re practically decaying in here,” Minghao countered. “Let’s go.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “But I’m choosing where.”
Minghao smirked. “Deal.”
The place was tucked between towering buildings, a little hole-in-the-wall shop with barely ten tables. It smelled of rich broth, fresh noodles, and sizzling pork belly, the air warm with steam.
Jihoon poked at his ramen absentmindedly while Minghao took a satisfied sip of his broth.
“You know,” Minghao said, tilting his head, “for someone who hates leaving his apartment, you sure know the best food spots.”
Jihoon shrugged, still stirring his noodles. “I don’t like people. Doesn’t mean I don’t like food.”
Minghao smirked, watching him. “Maybe you should try liking both.”
Jihoon rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.
They ate in comfortable silence after that, the sounds of the shop filling the space between them. The occasional laughter from other patrons, the clatter of chopsticks against bowls, the soft hum of the radio playing a jazz tune.
Then, as they stepped outside, Jihoon glanced at Minghao. “That art gallery is near here, isn't it?”
Minghao smirked. “That’s why I dragged you out today.”
Jihoon shook his head with a small smile. He should’ve known.
The streets outside Monochrome Studio pulsed with an unusual energy. The police station across the road was busier than usual—officers moved briskly in and out, their radios crackling with clipped voices. A row of sleek black SUVs lined the curb, their tinted windows revealing nothing of whoever sat inside.
Minghao slowed his steps slightly, eyes flicking toward the commotion. “Something’s up.”
Jihoon followed his gaze. “Could be because of the charity event.”
Minghao hummed in thought. “Ah, the talk of the city, right? The guest list is insane. Probably a security nightmare.”
Jihoon tucked his hands into his pockets. “Politicians, business moguls—pretty much a dream target if someone wanted to make a statement. No way the authorities wouldn’t be on edge.”
Minghao’s expression remained unreadable, but there was something in his gaze—an awareness, a quiet calculation.
“Still,” he mused, “feels heavier than usual.”
Jihoon glanced at him. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”
Minghao smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Perks of working at The Black Door.”
Jihoon studied him for a beat, noting the way Minghao’s posture remained carefully relaxed, too smooth to be natural. There was always something unreadable about him when he talked about that place, as if he was both a part of it and standing on the outside looking in. Jihoon didn’t push, not yet. He simply fell into step beside him as they stepped out into the cool afternoon, the sky painted in muted grays, the streets alive with a hum of distant car horns and scattered conversations.
The art gallery was an entirely different world.
A quiet reverence filled the space, the kind that made people instinctively lower their voices. Soft light illuminated polished marble floors, reflecting the artwork displayed along the walls. The air carried the faint scent of varnish and aged canvas, grounding the space in something tangible, something still.
Jihoon stopped in front of a large canvas—a stormy sea, its surface alive with deep blues and violent brushstrokes, waves captured mid-crash. The longer he looked, the more restless it seemed, like something barely contained within the frame, waiting to break free.
Beside him, Minghao stood with his hands in his coat pockets, gaze steady. "Reminds me of you."
Jihoon’s brow furrowed. "How?"
Minghao didn’t turn to him. "You hold everything in. But when you break? It’s like this. Wild . Overwhelming ."
Jihoon scoffed, but the response lacked its usual bite. Because the words lodged somewhere deep, too close to truths he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge. He thought about his own silences, the way they built upon themselves, layer after layer, until they inevitably cracked. He hated that Minghao saw it. Hated more that he understood it.
As they walked through the gallery, Minghao turned to Jihoon with a slight tilt of his head. “Is Shua covering this event?”
Jihoon snorted. “Not his scene. He hates these high-society events, but his editor won’t trust anyone else with it. So, he’ll be there, probably grumbling under his breath while pretending to enjoy the champagne. Meanwhile, he’s counting the minutes until he can bail.”
Minghao raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his gaze. “Sounds like a great time.”
Jihoon shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, for the rest of the city. Shua? Not so much. But he’ll make it work.”
They fell into a comfortable silence as they continued through the gallery, the hum of voices and footsteps in the background fading into the soft glow of the art. Jihoon hesitated for a moment before his curiosity got the better of him, and he broke the quiet.
"You always tell me to go outside more," he began, his tone lighter, as though testing the waters. "But what about you? How’s The Black Door?"
There was a slight shift in Minghao’s posture—just enough for Jihoon to catch it—before he masked it with his usual calm. But Jihoon noticed.
"It’s fine."
Jihoon narrowed his eyes. "And ‘fine’ means?"
Minghao let out a quiet breath, gaze flickering toward a nearby abstract piece, as if searching for a distraction. "It means I mix drinks, serve the city’s richest people, listen to things I probably shouldn’t, and pretend not to hear them."
Jihoon felt something uneasy settle in his chest. That tone, that carefully placed nonchalance—it was the same tone someone used when they were standing on unstable ground but had long since learned how to balance.
"That place isn’t just a bar, is it?"
Minghao gave a small, unreadable smile. "No. It’s not."
Jihoon studied him, the implications weighing heavily. "Then why are you still working there?"
Minghao’s smile didn’t waver, but something flickered beneath it, something just out of reach. "Because sometimes, knowing things is more useful than pretending you don’t."
Jihoon didn’t like that answer. He didn’t like what it implied, what it left unsaid. "Hao..." He hesitated, measuring his words. "Are you—"
"Jihoon." Minghao cut him off, voice quiet but firm. "There are things you’re better off not knowing."
Silence settled between them, heavier than before. Jihoon clenched his jaw, frustration curling beneath his skin. He didn’t like being kept in the dark, didn’t like knowing that Minghao was balancing on the edge of something he wouldn’t name. But he also knew that pressing now wouldn’t get him answers—at least, not ones Minghao was willing to give.
So instead, he turned back to the painting. To the storm still raging over the dark sea.
And for now, he let it go.
—
“You want me to do what?”
The entire station was a blur of movement—phones ringing, officers rushing in and out, clipped voices giving out orders. But amidst all the chaos, Detective Wen Junhui stood rigid, his rage crackling like a live wire.
Captain Byun barely looked up from his papers. “You’ll be working undercover as security at the Muse Entertainment Charity Gala tonight.”
Junhui let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Byun didn’t flinch. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Junhui dragged a hand through his hair, his breath coming fast. This had to be some kind of punishment. He wasn’t a rookie anymore, wasn’t some fresh-faced officer who needed to ‘prove’ himself—he was a damn detective. He built cases. He tracked criminals. He didn’t waste his time babysitting the city’s elite while they threw money at empty causes.
“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “I didn’t spend years busting my ass just to be reduced to some rich man’s bodyguard.”
Byun exhaled, finally looking at him. “It’s part of your job, Wen.”
Junhui let out a sharp breath, trying and failing to keep his temper in check. “With all due respect sir, I’m a detective. I solve cases. I track down criminals. And you’re asking me what—stand around making sure rich people don’t choke on their appetizers?”
Byun remained infuriatingly calm. “It’s an assignment, Wen. You don’t get to pick and choose.”
Junhui let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Right. So now we’re prioritizing keeping politicians comfortable over actual police work?” He scoffed. “Because God forbid something inconveniences Minister Jang and his friends while they sip on thousand-dollar wine.”
Byun’s gaze darkened slightly. “Careful, Wen.”
“Careful?” Junhui took a step forward, hands braced on the desk. “What’s actually happening here? Why are you sending me in? Because if you think I’m just going to waste my night standing guard while—”
“You’ll do it,” the captain interrupted, voice cold. “Because it’s your job.”
“This isn’t what I signed up for,” he muttered, voice lower now but no less sharp.
Byun leaned back, unimpressed. “You signed up to serve, Detective. And tonight, this is how you do it.”
Junhui bristled, fists clenching at his sides. He wanted to argue, to fight, to throw something—but then a firm grip landed on his shoulder.
“Jun.”
His partner, Detective Ahn Minjae, stood beside him, his voice steady. “Let’s take a walk.”
Junhui wrenched his arm away but let himself be pulled back, away from the argument that was only going to end one way. His pulse pounded in his ears as he stalked toward the exit, shoving the glass doors open and stepping into the cool night air.
Minjae followed him out, leaning against the railing just outside the station entrance.
Junhui exhaled, hands on his hips, head tilted toward the sky as he tried to cool the fire burning in his chest. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
“I know,” Minjae said simply.
Junhui turned to him, eyes still blazing. “Then why aren’t you angry?”
The detective tilted his head. “I am. But losing my temper in there wasn’t going to change anything.”
Junhui let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. “They’re wasting us, Jae. We could be doing something—actually stopping crime, not just smiling at billionaires and making sure their wine glasses don’t get knocked over.”
Minjae exhaled. “You think I don’t get that?” He studied his friend carefully. “Look, you can keep fighting this, or you can do the job, keep your eyes open, and find out what’s really going on.”
Junhui scoffed. “You sound like Byun.”
“Difference is,” Minjae smirked, wrapping his arms around the other’s shoulder, “Unlike him, I actually have your back.”
Junhui stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, hands still clenched. His anger hadn’t disappeared—hell, it still burned, an ember refusing to die out.
—
The conference room hummed with quiet conversation, the rhythmic clicking of pens and shuffling of papers filling the space between voices. The team sat around the long rectangular table, the projector casting a soft glow as the latest financial projections flickered onto the screen.
Seokmin sat near the corner, his fingers tapping lightly against the polished surface of the table. The numbers on the screen weren’t new to him—he had run the calculations himself, cross-checked the margins, and forecasted the potential revenue stream. The new drug they were developing was on track, and on paper, everything looked promising. But there was something about the room today, a subtle energy that had nothing to do with clinical trials or regulatory approvals.
“The projected market reach is looking solid,” one of the analysts, Minhyuk, stated, his voice crisp as he flipped to the next slide. “We’re estimating a fifteen percent increase in quarterly revenue once we launch, assuming FDA approvals come through, we should see a gradual climb in stock value by the second quarter.”
“That’s optimistic,” another voice cut in—Jiwon, the company’s director of finance. She adjusted her glasses, her gaze sharp as ever. “Realistically, we should factor in potential delays from regulatory agencies. If we overpromise and underdeliver, the shareholders won’t be pleased.”
Minhyuk exhaled, nodding. “Right, of course. Accounting for possible setbacks, we’re looking at an initial dip before the numbers stabilize.”
Seokmin exhaled quietly. This was standard. Expected. What wasn’t standard was the way half the room seemed more focused on something else entirely. The enthusiasm in the discussion wasn’t just about the drug. It was split, divided between business as usual and something looming in the background.
Sure enough, Jiwon leaned back slightly, her tone turning just a shade lighter. “Keep in mind that tonight’s charity gala will be important for Yoon Pharma’s image as well. The media coverage, the exposure—this event could significantly impact our public perception and, in turn, our stock price.”
A murmur of agreement swept through the room. Seokmin caught the way a few of his colleagues exchanged glances, some nodding with too much eagerness.
“The event itself isn’t about us,” she continued, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t make the most of it. The right conversations, the right exposure—it all feeds into long-term growth.”
Jaewon, one of the senior executives, smirked. “It’s good PR wrapped in a noble cause. Win-win.”
“Wouldn’t it be smarter to let the drug speak for itself?” he found himself saying. The words left his mouth before he fully thought them through.
A brief silence. Then, a chuckle from across the table—Jaewon. “Seokmin, you’re great at numbers, but you’re thinking too straightforwardly.” He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Perception moves markets just as much as results do. You can have the best product in the world, but if no one trusts you, it won’t matter.”
“And tonight helps with that?” Seokmin asked, though he already knew the answer.
“It’s a game,” Jiwon replied smoothly, a faint smile playing on her lips. “And we’re just making sure we play it well.”
The discussion meandered back into logistics, but Seokmin’s mind had already wandered. The numbers made sense. The strategy made sense. And yet, something about it left a sour taste in his mouth.
By the time the meeting adjourned, he gathered his things slowly, letting the conversation drift around him. The gala had worked its way into every discussion today, and it would follow him for the rest of the evening.
For now, though, he just needed a minute to breathe.
The break room was empty except for the steady hum of the refrigerator and the faint chatter from the hallway. Seokmin stepped inside, rolling his shoulders as he made his way to the coffee machine. He didn’t usually need a caffeine boost this late in the afternoon, but after that meeting, he needed something to cut through the noise still rattling in his head.
He pressed the button, watching as the dark liquid filled his cup, steam curling lazily in the air. The aroma was rich, slightly burnt, but he wasn’t really paying attention. His mind was still stuck in that conference room—on the way the entire conversation had tilted the moment the charity gala was mentioned.
There was something unsettling about how effortlessly business and charity had blended together in that room. No one questioned it. No one hesitated. It was just another strategy, another opportunity, another way to climb higher. It wasn’t about helping anyone—it never was. The event was a performance, a stage where the rich and powerful played their parts while the rest of the world watched. And their company? They were just another well-dressed guest, standing in the spotlight, making sure the cameras caught their best angles.
Seokmin exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He unlocked it with a quick tap, scrolling to his messages before firing off a text.
He exhaled, pulled out his phone, and unlocked it with a quick swipe. Their group chat was already active, a few unread messages blinking at the bottom of the screen. Seokmin didn’t hesitate before typing.
Seok: just got out of a meeting
Seok: 30% of it was actual work
Seok: the other 70%? Any guesses??
A reply came almost instantly.
Soonie: Let me guess—
Soonie: the goddamn Muse Entertainment gala.
Cheol: Oh great!
Cheol: corporates pretending to care about charity again?
Cheol: Love that!
Soonie: can’t wait for the rich to pat themselves on the back for being such good people.
Kwan: and what exactly is your company’s role in this life-changing world-altering event??
Seokmin chuckled to himself, rolling his eyes. He was starting to feel a little lighter already.
Seok: standing around looking charitable while subtly making sure our stock value goes up
Seok: PR is working overtime on this one
Cheol: of course.
Cheol: nothing like a fancy charity event to get them all excited about "image" and "stock prices."
Kwan: "Let’s pretend we care about the world while we plan for better sales."
Seok: EXACTLY!!!
Seok: they made it sound like this gala is going to change the world or something
Seok: the PR team’s got the whole company convinced it’s the most important thing happening in the next decade
Cheol: how many times did they mention “brand image” and “long-term growth”?
Kwan: i’m guessing at least 15
Soonie: let me guess—they had some “philanthropic angle” to cover their asses, too.
Cheol: you have to respect the level of manipulation
Cheol: they’ve made actual adults care about an event that has zero significance to their lives
Soonie: it’s all about the illusion
Soonie: you slap a “charity” label on something, throw in some high-profile guests, and suddenly it’s important
Kwan: don’t forget the media coverage
Kwan: gotta have those dramatic slow-motion clips of CEOs looking “concerned” while sipping thousand-dollar wine
Seok: LMAO exactly
Seok: I swear, every single person at work is acting like this is the Met Gala
Kwan: give it time
Kwan: someone’s gonna show up in an outfit that “symbolizes” economic disparity
Soonie: and people will eat it up
Cheol: I’m genuinely impressed by how they’ve made people care about something so meaningless
Kwan: corporate strategy at its finest
Soonie: the rich getting richer while pretending to be good
Seok: the PR machine at Muse is too good
Seok: they’ve got the whole city on a leash
Cheol: yeah it’s a game
Cheol: they’ve convinced everyone this gala is a “win-win.” Some charity, some PR, and everyone’s happy.
Soonie: and it’s working
Soonie: at least they’ve got the media playing along
Kwan: meanwhile I had to stop three kids from licking a whiteboard today
Soonie: THAT is real-world impact
Seok: you’re a true hero kwan
The messages kept rolling in, the conversation bouncing between sarcastic jabs and genuine irritation at how much space this gala was taking up in their world. Eventually, Seungcheol shifted the topic.
Cheol: anyway
Cheol: anyone up for meeting after work?
Seok: are you reading my mind?
Seok: I need a break
Kwan: what’s the plan?
Soonie: my place
Soonie: I’m cooking
Soonie: well attempting to
Kwan: attempting?
Soonie: ……
Soonie: no promises
Kwan: whatever
Kwan: i’ll take anything that’s not a toddler snack
Seok: DEAL!
Seok: See you guys there!
Cheol: Good!!
Cheol: we can discuss real problems
Cheol: like why Soonyoung still hasn’t learned how to cook
Soonie: fuck you Choi Seungcheol!!
Seokmin smiled as he locked his phone. The stress of the day wasn’t going to disappear with one message, but at least he had his friends—and some much-needed food and distractions—waiting for him. He could leave the “image” nonsense behind. Let the rich play their games.
He had better things to focus on.
Chapter 2: A Night of Shifting Tides
Notes:
Is it 10th April? No
Did I post another chapter? YESS
Chapter Text
Junhui stood near the grand entrance of Regis Solis, arms folded, gaze sharp as he watched the night unfold around him. His posture was relaxed enough to blend in, but every fiber of his being was wired with displeasure.
The entire front of the hotel was a scene of absolute luxury, a spectacle curated to impress. Rows of gleaming black cars pulled up to the grand entrance, their doors swinging open to reveal the city's most powerful figures. Flashing cameras lined the carpet, reporters jostling for position, their voices overlapping in an endless stream of questions and praises.
"Chairman Park! A photo, please!"
"Minister Seo, a few words about tonight's event!"
"Ms. Kang, you look absolutely stunning—who are you wearing?"
The city’s elite moved with well-practiced ease, flashing perfect smiles for the cameras before sweeping inside, where champagne and influence awaited them. CEOs, politicians, celebrities—all dressed in immaculate designer wear, shimmering under the golden glow of the hotel’s grand chandeliers. The air smelled of expensive perfume, polished leather, and exclusivity.
He had been in this world long enough to know what lay beneath the shimmer and shine. Deals sealed behind closed doors. Smiles exchanged over veiled threats. Money laundering disguised as charity. He wasn’t here to admire the luxury—he was here to watch.
Then, something shifted.
It was subtle at first, a slight pause in movement, a brief lull in the flow of arrivals. Then came the sudden swell of commotion—flashes intensified, voices raised, and Junhui turned his head toward the sleek black sedan that pulled up to the entrance. The back door opened with practiced ease.
Yoon Jeonghan.
He stepped out with the kind of effortless grace that only came from being raised in wealth and power. His charcoal-gray suit was impeccably tailored, its cut sharp against his lean frame. The crisp white of his dress shirt and the faintest gleam of platinum at his cuffs catching the light only emphasized the smoothness of his presence—calculated, effortless, untouchable.
His hair fell in soft waves, brushed back just enough to highlight his features—sharp yet unreadable, every inch of him curated to exude absolute control.
Beside him, his mother, Nam Hyesoo, stepped out with practiced grace. The chairwoman of Yoon Pharmaceuticals, she was a vision of ageless beauty, her presence commanding. In her deep emerald gown, she was elegance personified, her every movement precise, calculated. She offered only the faintest of smiles to the cameras, but it was enough.
Jeonghan, on the other hand, smirked. Not too much. Just enough. Enough to let the world know he was aware of the attention—aware that people would always look. Always whisper. Always wonder what went on behind those sharp eyes and an unreadable expression.
It was the kind of expression that wasn’t meant to be warm but rather to remind everyone exactly who he was— a Yoon . The heir. A name that commanded power.
Junhui exhaled through his nose, watching the way Jeonghan adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, the small, practiced movements that spoke of control, detachment, and privilege so ingrained it didn’t even need to be flaunted. His eyes followed Jeonghan, watching the way he moved, the way he leaned in just slightly when his mother spoke to him. Refined. Untouchable.
And then, Jeonghan’s gaze flickered toward him.
For the briefest second, their eyes met. A fraction of a moment. A barely-there pause in the chaos.
Then—nothing.
Junhui couldn’t read much in that glance. There was no smirk, no hint of amusement—just a flicker of recognition before Jeonghan’s gaze moved past him, uninterested, as if he hadn’t even noticed him at all.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
Junhui exhaled slowly, pushing down the irritation bubbling in his chest. He forced himself to look away, back to his job, back to the task at hand.
Joshua stood behind the crowd of reporters, letting them jostle for position as they shouted for soundbites and the perfect shot. He had no reason to push through them. Jinsil News had its own privileges. Unlike these freelance reporters and tabloid writers desperate for a quote, he had full access. VIP clearance.
Which meant that while they clawed their way to the front, he could be inside, sipping the finest wine, conducting his interviews in a much more civilized manner. But for now, he observed. Because the real stories weren’t found in press releases—they were in the way these people carried themselves.
Beside him, Hyunjin was already busy with his camera, angling for the perfect shot. Joshua trusted him to get what they needed—tonight’s event would be plastered across every front page tomorrow, but Jinsil had the advantage of exclusivity.
The arrival of Yoon Jeonghan had sent ripples through the already buzzing crowd. A man who carried his wealth like it was woven into his skin. No matter how much Joshua hated the arrogance that came with that privilege, he couldn't deny that Jeonghan knew how to command attention without lifting a single finger.
Joshua exhaled slowly, already knowing what would come next. If Jeonghan was here, then the other two wouldn’t be far behind.
And right on cue, someone murmured beside him, “The Kim family has arrived.”
Joshua didn’t react outwardly, but his gaze sharpened as another sleek car rolled up to the entrance.
Kim Industries.
A name that needed no introduction. A conglomerate that had sunk its roots deep into nearly every industry—finance, real estate, education, technology. If there was money to be made, the Kims had their hands in it.
The driver stepped out first, moving quickly to open the door.
Kim Minseok emerged first. The man behind the empire, dressed in a timeless black suit, the cut simple but undoubtedly expensive. His expression was as impassive as ever—a businessman who had mastered the art of revealing nothing.
Then came his wife, Minister Song Kyungmi. Politics and business intertwined. She wore a deep sapphire dress, her posture effortlessly poised, her gaze unreadable. She wasn’t just a political figure—she was a strategist.
But Joshua wasn’t focused on them. Because the moment the last figure stepped out of the car, the atmosphere shifted again.
Kim Mingyu. And of course, he looked the part.
The tailored black suit clung to his broad frame like it was crafted specifically for him. Unlike his father’s subtlety, Mingyu’s style was bolder, trendier, fashion-forward. He wasn’t just dressed well—he was making a statement.
His height made him even more of a spectacle. Towering, sharp-jawed, with that signature smirk that could only belong to someone who had spent his entire life knowing he was untouchable.
Joshua exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to scoff.
Unlike Jeonghan, who didn’t need to acknowledge his power, Mingyu flaunted it. He stopped in front of the cameras, tilting his chin up ever so slightly, flashing just enough of his sharp grin to send a wave of excitement through the reporters.
He loved the attention.
Joshua could already hear the murmurs.
“He looks like a damn movie star.”
“Kim Industries is going to eat up the headlines tomorrow.”
“Oh just wait for the Choi's to show up.”
“Imagine being born into that much wealth.”
Money. Influence. Untouchable.
He had spent years reporting on men like these. Men who inherited the world on a silver platter, who never had to fight for a single thing, who had never tasted a life outside of luxury.
Jeonghan, Mingyu and Hansol were just other names on that list.
Joshua scoffed under his breath. He didn’t need to listen to the scripted lines Mingyu was about to give the reporters. He already knew them by heart.
“It’s an honor to be here tonight.”
“Kim Industries is proud to support such an important cause.”
“We look forward to giving back to the community.”
Empty words.
And yet, despite himself, Joshua couldn’t look away. His gaze flickered back to the entrance. Now, only one person remained to complete the trio— the Choi heir . The organizers of tonight’s spectacle.
Joshua let out a quiet breath, settling in to wait. Because if Jeonghan and Mingyu had made an entrance, Hansol wouldn’t be far behind.
—
Wonwoo absentmindedly chewed on his food, watching as the Kim family made their way inside. And then, just as Joshua had predicted, the final set of luxury cars arrived.
The moment the final fleet of black cars rolled to a stop at the entrance of Regis Solis, Wonwoo knew—this was it.
The last act of the spectacle.
He sat on his couch, eyes fixed on the television screen, the glow casting sharp shadows across his dimly lit apartment. His office bag was carelessly discarded on the dining table, his tie loosened and forgotten. A half-eaten takeout box rested on the coffee table, chopsticks idly spinning between his fingers.
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as the camera zoomed in. Even sitting at home, away from the overwhelming glitz of the event, he could feel the shift in the air.
The Chois had arrived.
The first to step out was Choi Taekwon, the CEO of Muse Entertainment. A man whose name alone commanded respect. He straightened his blazer with a practiced ease, his expression composed yet warm—just enough to seem approachable, yet distant enough to remind everyone exactly who he was. He offered a slight bow in greeting to the press, acknowledging them before stepping aside.
Then, the real moment everyone had been waiting for.
Choi Vernon.
The moment Vernon emerged from the car, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn’t the sharp anticipation that Jeonghan’s presence commanded, nor was it the almost arrogant dominance that followed Mingyu. Vernon had something else.
A presence that was magnetic in its own right—not because he demanded attention, but because he never seemed to seek it in the first place.
Vernon was everything the headlines painted him to be. The perfect heir —impeccably dressed, effortlessly charming, and seemingly untouched by the darkness that often lurked behind wealth and power.
His suit was a shade darker than his father’s, immaculately tailored to fit his tall, lean frame. The subtle sheen of the fabric caught the light just enough to exude wealth without being ostentatious.
But it wasn’t just the way he was dressed—it was how he carried himself. Calm. Relaxed. Completely unbothered by the chaos around him.
And then he did something neither Jeonghan nor Mingyu had done. He smiled.
Not the forced, rehearsed kind. Not the polite, distant acknowledgment that was expected from men in his position. But warm, easy—like he actually meant it.
And it worked.
Wonwoo watched as the reporters eased, their questions less invasive, their voices losing the sharp edge they had when Jeonghan or Mingyu had arrived. Vernon had always been the most well-received among the three. The golden boy, the ideal son—the one who was always there, standing beside his father at business conferences, assisting his mother at charity events.
Because Vernon was different. Because Vernon made them believe he was listening.
His smile never faltered as he turned to his father, Taekwon leaning in to say something that made his son chuckle. A rare sight—a genuine moment between father and son, caught on camera.
And then—the final figure stepped out. Han Yura.
The moment Vernon held his hand out for her, the cameras zoomed in. The media loved them—the perfect mother-son duo.
Han Yura was as stunning as always, her presence exuding grace. If Taekwon was the face of Muse Entertainment, she was its heart. She smiled warmly at her husband and son before finally stepping beside them, and just like that—the picture was complete.
The perfect happy family.
Wonwoo chewed slowly, watching as they posed for the cameras, smiling, laughing, thanking everyone for attending the event. There was no stiffness, no forced gestures, just effortless, natural harmony.
Wonwoo watched, chopsticks frozen mid-air.
The Choi family was unlike the others. No scandals. No controversies. No whispers of corruption or misdeeds. Just perfection.
It should’ve felt unnatural, too pristine to be real, but with them, it never did.
They stood together for the cameras—Taekwon at the center, Yura by his side, Vernon standing slightly ahead, as if the future was already his.
As the cameras flashed, Vernon turned to face them directly, his warm smile never faltering.
“Thank you all for being here tonight. It means a lot.”
His voice, smooth and confident, carried through the commotion. Not forced, not scripted—just effortless. Like he meant it.
Vernon's warm smile never once faltered as he thanked everyone once again. The media adored him. The people adored him.
Wonwoo let out a slow breath, tossing his chopsticks into the takeout box with a soft clack. “Damn, how the hell do they do it?”
—
The Imperium Ballroom had always been synonymous with prestige and grandeur, but tonight, Lee Chan had outdone himself.
Every detail of the evening had been curated to perfection. The round tables, draped in deep navy silk, were adorned with towering centerpieces—arrangements of white peonies, orchids, and rare blue roses imported specifically for the event. Gold-rimmed glassware gleamed under the soft candlelight, and the scent of fresh blooms intertwined with the faint aroma of expensive cologne and aged whiskey.
The Imperium Ballroom was alive with the quiet hum of calculated conversation. Laughter, measured and poised, intertwined with the gentle clinking of crystal glasses, the hushed rustling of designer gowns, and the soft notes of a string quartet tucked into the far end of the room.
It was a world of power, dressed in silk and velvet, moving in perfectly rehearsed steps.
At the front of the ballroom, under the glow of an elaborate chandelier, the Choi, Kim, and Yoon families sat at a round table—close enough to the stage, far enough from the rest. Han Yura, Song Kyungmi, and Yoon Hyesoo conversed in smooth, practiced tones, their words flowing effortlessly between pleasantries and pointed remarks. Their husbands joined in, their deep voices threading through discussions of business, politics, and mutual interests.
Occasionally, a quiet chuckle or a well-timed remark shifted the mood, the conversation moving like a well-rehearsed dance—balanced, deliberate, and never without purpose.
Meanwhile, their sons, heirs to the legacies they were expected to uphold, moved through the crowd with a different kind of authority, like they belonged there. Because they did.
Jeonghan stood with effortless poise, a glass of wine balanced between his fingers, the liquid catching the light as he listened to the man in front of him. Their discussion had shifted from polite pleasantries to something far more pointed.
Across from him stood Chairman Jeong, a seasoned corporate magnate whose influence stretched across multiple industries. He was older, sharp-eyed, and carried himself with the weight of someone accustomed to being respected. But there was something in the way he watched Jeonghan, something condescending beneath the surface.
“You must be getting used to this by now,” Chairman Jeong mused, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Taking your late father’s place, stepping into his shoes, it must be quite the responsibility.”
Jeonghan’s expression remained unreadable, his fingers tapping once against the stem of his glass.
Chairman Jeong leaned in slightly. “After all, Yoon Pharmaceuticals has quite the legacy to uphold. Your father left behind quite a reputation. ”
There it was. The words were wrapped in silk, but the blade beneath was sharp.
Jeonghan let a pause stretch between them before taking a slow sip of his wine. His lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. When he spoke, his tone was light—almost amused. “You’re right, Chairman Jeong. It is a heavy legacy.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Which is why I find it interesting that despite everything, our company still stands taller than yours.”
The insult landed cleanly.
There was a flicker—a tightening of the older man’s jaw, a subtle shift in his posture. But he masked it well, giving a tight-lipped smile instead.
Jeonghan, unfazed, continued smoothly, “It’s admirable, really, how history remembers men like my father. But even more admirable,” he tilted his head slightly, “is how quickly it forgets those who are insignificant.”
Chairman Jeong’s fingers curled around his glass, his pride clearly wounded. But he wasn’t foolish enough to retaliate openly. Instead, he forced a tight-lipped smile and gave Jeonghan a curt nod before turning on his heel and walking away.
Mingyu, standing a few steps away, caught the exchange. Their eyes met.
Jeonghan raised a brow slightly, as if daring Mingyu to comment.
Mingyu huffed out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before turning his attention back to the conversation he had been having with a government official.
“So, will we be seeing you in politics anytime soon, Young Master Kim?” the man asked, eyes glinting with curiosity.
Mingyu, ever the charmer, leaned back slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Ah, but wouldn’t that be a little too predictable?” he mused. “Everyone expects me to follow my mother’s path. Where’s the fun in that?”
The official laughed, though his interest remained. “Still, with your presence, you’d be a natural fit in the political landscape.”
Mingyu’s smirk remained, but his gaze flickered for a brief moment. He knew exactly what the man was implying. “Maybe,” he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “But I prefer to make my own moves.”
There was an edge to his words, one that hinted that he wasn’t the kind of man to be placed on a board like a chess piece.
The official smiled, but there was calculation behind his eyes.
Across the room, Vernon moved with effortless ease. His presence lacked the sharp-edged precision of Jeonghan’s and the overt confidence of Mingyu’s, but it was no less impactful. His warmth was what made people gravitate toward him, what made them lower their guards.
It was why Minister Jang sought him out. “Young Master Choi,” Jang greeted, his voice smooth and measured.
Vernon turned with a polite smile, offering a small nod. “Minister Jang, it's good to see you.”
Jang’s gaze was sharp, assessing, before his lips curled slightly. “I was just telling your father earlier—Muse Entertainment has truly outdone itself tonight. A fine evening, indeed.”
Vernon inclined his head slightly. “I’ll be sure to pass on your compliments to the team. But knowing my father, he’d rather hear them directly from you.”
Jang let out a short, quiet laugh—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course, of course. Though I imagine your mother had quite the hand in it as well. Yura has always been a woman of impeccable taste.”
Vernon’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—something careful, something aware. “My mother puts her heart into everything she does.” he said smoothly. “That’s something I’ve always admired about her.”
Jang studied him for a moment before his eyes flickered toward the guests mingling around them. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” he mused. “The way people move in rooms like these. So many conversations, so many alliances. It makes you wonder, who holds the real power?”
Vernon exhaled a soft chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “That depends, Minister,” he said. “Is it the ones shaking hands, or the ones making sure the right hands meet?”
Jang’s smirk widened, but his eyes sharpened. He studied Vernon for a moment, as if reevaluating him.
“You have quite the way with words, Young Master Choi,” he finally said. “Your father must be proud.”
Vernon’s smile remained. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
Before Jang could respond, an aide approached him, whispering something in his ear. Vernon watched as the minister’s jaw tightened for the briefest second—a fleeting, almost imperceptible reaction—before he smoothly regained his composure.
"Excuse me, I have a few matters to attend to," Jang said, smoothly regaining his composure. “Enjoy the evening, Young Master Choi.”
Vernon nodded once. “Likewise, Minister Jang.”
As Jang disappeared into the crowd, Vernon exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back before scanning the room.
As he scanned the ballroom, his gaze naturally found Jeonghan first. Their eyes met—steady, unreadable. A silent exchange passed between them, subtle yet sharp, like the shifting of chess pieces on a board.
Then his attention shifted, drawn to Mingyu, who was watching him with a knowing smirk. A slight tilt of Mingyu’s head, the flicker of amusement in his eyes—it was enough.
They all understood the significance of tonight.
Then, just as effortlessly, Vernon turned away, his polished smile returning as he rejoined the game.
From his place at the bar, Joshua casually turned the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, his gaze drifting over the ballroom. He wasn’t just drinking—he was watching, reading between the lines of every carefully measured interaction in the room.
Then, he caught it. A flicker of something unspoken.
Vernon’s gaze swept across the room, locking onto Jeonghan for a fraction of a second. Then, almost seamlessly, his eyes shifted to Mingyu. No words, no nods, just an understanding that passed between them. And just as effortlessly, they returned to their conversations, like nothing had happened.
Joshua exhaled, setting his glass down.
Hyunjin, standing beside him, arched his brow. “What?”
Joshua tilted his head toward the three. “Did you see that?”
Hyunjin followed his line of sight, frowning. “See what?”
Joshua let out a quiet chuckle. “Exactly.” He leaned against the bar, eyes still lingering on the trio. “ The golden trio. Always in sync, even when they pretend not to be. They move like a unit without even trying. They don’t have to talk, don’t have to plan. It’s instinctual.”
Hyunjin hummed, considering. “Well, they’re the most influential heirs in the country. It makes sense they’d be on the same wavelength.”
Joshua scoffed. “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Hyune. It’s not just about power. It’s about how seamlessly they move through it. Like they belong in it. Like they were born knowing exactly how to play this game.”
Hyunjin let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn. You really think they have that much power?”
Joshua took a slow sip of his wine, eyes never leaving the trio. “It’s not about having power, Hyune. It’s about knowing exactly when to use it.”
Vernon finally stepped up to the stage, the light from the chandeliers above cast a soft glow on him as he stood confidently at the center. He raised his champagne glass, the delicate tap of it against the side of the flute ringing out clearly across the room.
The buzz of the crowd softened, and only the journalists' representatives with their high-end cameras were left snapping pictures. The flash of their cameras added a dash of sharpness to the otherwise tranquil atmosphere, each flash capturing Vernon’s composed figure as he prepared to speak.
“Good evening, everyone,” Vernon began, his voice clear and soothing, drawing immediate attention. “Thank you for your presence here tonight. It’s a privilege to see so many familiar faces in the room, and to share this evening with all of you.” His eyes swept across the ballroom, every word resonating with a natural authority.
Joshua, standing at the bar with Hyunjin, rolled his eyes slightly as the cameras continued to flash, even Hyunjin’s. He leaned toward his colleague, muttering under his breath, “Of course, the cameras love him. He’s always one step away from making it look like a pageant.”
Hyunjin shot him a quick, amused glance but didn’t respond. They both knew Vernon had mastered the art of drawing eyes to himself, even without trying. Joshua took another sip of his drink, barely keeping the contempt out of his voice. "The guy could sell anything with that smile of his.”
Vernon didn’t let the moment pass, and he continued, his tone shifting to something more serious, though it never lost its charm. “This event isn’t just about celebration. It's about purpose. About all of us coming together for something greater than ourselves. For those whose voices too often go unheard.” His gaze swept across the room, ensuring that every person felt included in his words. “This year, we are proud to announce the launch of a new foundation started by my mother, Han Yura, that will focus on aiding underprivileged children and women, providing them with the support and resources they need to thrive.”
Joshua, watching from his spot, couldn’t help but comment under his breath, "And of course, he makes it all about his mother, doesn’t he?" His words were barely audible, but the sharpness of his tone was unmistakable. “Wonder how much of this will end up in their quarterly report.” Hyunjin smirked, clearly entertained by Joshua’s irritation.
Vernon was not deterred. "And in collaboration with Kim Infrastructures, we are building an orphanage designed to give these children a better future—a future where they don’t have to worry about where their next meal comes from, or whether they’ll have a place to call home." Vernon’s gaze scanned the room, pausing for a brief moment to lock eyes with a few key individuals in the crowd, making sure they knew exactly how vital his words were.
The crowd applauded politely, but Vernon raised a hand, continuing without missing a beat. “But that is only the beginning. We are also proud to announce a partnership with Yoon Pharmaceuticals, led by Chairwoman Nam Hyesoo, to provide essential medications free of charge to those in need. This partnership is built on a shared belief that healthcare should never be out of reach for anyone, no matter their status.”
The murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd, but they were quieter now, perhaps because they understood the weight of Vernon’s carefully chosen words, or maybe because they had grown accustomed to the polished perfection of his speeches.
Joshua glanced over at Hyunjin, who was still quietly observing. “There he goes, handing out dreams on a silver platter.” Joshua said dryly, his voice barely audible. “But it’s all part of the show, isn’t it?”
Hyunjin leaned in slightly, whispering back, “You really hate this whole charade, don’t you?”
The journalist shrugged, still watching the Choi as he spoke. “It’s just too perfect, Hyune. They’ve got the perfect mix of philanthropy and business.”
Vernon’s tone softened, his gaze turning reflective as he addressed the crowd. “Together, we can make a difference, but we need to act now. To everyone here tonight, your generosity can change lives—make no mistake about that. Every contribution, every moment you choose to give, will have an impact beyond what we can imagine.”
He paused, looking over the room, and Joshua felt the weight of Vernon’s gaze, even from across the room. It was a skill Vernon had—making you feel like he was speaking directly to you, no matter where you were standing.
Finally, Vernon raised his glass high, and the room followed suit. “To a brighter future, to generosity, and to the hope that we can build something lasting together. Thank you all for being part of this evening, and for supporting this incredible cause.”
The applause that followed was loud, genuine, and filled with admiration, as cameras flashed in rapid succession, capturing the moment. Joshua didn’t join in, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “He’s got them all eating out of his hand.” he muttered, shaking his head as the crowd cheered. “One speech, and they’re all hooked.”
Hyunjin clicked pictures of the man on stage, his eyebrow furrowed in concentration as he muttered, “It’s hard not to be impressed.”
Joshua let out a small, bitter laugh. “Impressed? I’m not impressed. I’m just tired of watching the same game played over and over again.”
—
Seungmin stood near the dessert bar, a glass of sparkling water in one hand, his other tucked into the pocket of his tailored suit. The rich scent of chocolate ganache and caramelized sugar filled the space, but he wasn’t here for the desserts.
His sharp gaze moved through the ballroom, scanning the attendees with quiet calculation. CEOs engaged in light conversation, ministers making rounds with polite smiles, and socialites basking in the artificial glow of the cameras. It was all part of the grand spectacle—a carefully curated display of wealth, power, and influence.
A familiar voice cut through the chatter, low and amused. “Bored?”
Seungmin didn’t need to turn to recognize the owner of the voice. Instead, he took a slow sip of his drink, shaking his head slightly. “Just observing.”
Mingyu, standing beside him now, went silent for a beat before suddenly letting out a sharp laugh. “You sound like a serial killer scoping out his next victim.” he said, eyes glinting with amusement as he nudged Seungmin’s side.
Seungmin turned his head to give him a look—one filled with pure judgment, his expression twisting into something akin to mild disgust. “That,” he said flatly, “was a hideous joke.”
Mingyu, ever the performer, dramatically placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Why are you looking at me like that?” His lips curled into a near pout, though it barely masked the grin still tugging at his mouth.
Seungmin took a deliberate step away from him, turning slightly as if ready to abandon the conversation altogether. “If you’re going to say things like that, stay away from me.”
Mingyu’s laughter bubbled up again, loud and unapologetic. Before Seungmin could put more distance between them, he slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him back in with an ease that spoke of familiarity. His grip was firm but relaxed, a clear contrast to Seungmin’s immediate stiffening at the contact.
“Oh, come on,” Mingyu said, shaking him lightly. “What’s with the cold shoulder? Aren’t we supposed to be brothers?”
Seungmin rolled his eyes, reaching up to peel Mingyu’s arm off of him. “We’re not brothers per se .”
Mingyu scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned slightly toward Seungmin. “Brothers, cousins—what’s the difference?”
Seungmin shot him another unimpressed look. “A lot.”
Mingyu just grinned, unbothered as always, and reached for one of the delicate pastries from the dessert table, humming in satisfaction, when a familiar voice reached them before its owner did.
“Stay just like that.”
Seungmin and Mingyu both turned their heads to find Jeonghan standing a few steps away, phone in hand, camera already open. Without another word, he snapped a picture of them before finally slipping the device back into his pocket and making his way over.
“It's been a while, Min-ah,” Jeonghan said, his voice softer than usual, lacking the calculated smoothness he had been using the entire evening. This warmth, this quiet familiarity, was something he reserved for those who he held close. His usual effortless elegance remained, but there was a noticeable ease in his posture, a quiet openness in the way he regarded him. He wasn’t just making conversation—he was genuinely asking. “How have you been?”
Seungmin, still standing with a slightly unimpressed air, exhaled through his nose. “I was doing just fine until he joined me,” he said, giving a pointed look at his cousin. “Now I’m seriously reconsidering my career options.”
Jeonghan chuckled at that, his head tilting slightly in amusement. “Why’s that?”
Seungmin lifted his hand and gestured vaguely toward Mingyu’s arm, still draped casually over his shoulder. “Mingling with him will definitely get me into a scandal before I even debut.” he said dryly. Then, motioning his head toward the opposite direction, he added, “And being Kim Mingyu’s cousin will only make people think I got here because I’m part of the Kims.”
Mingyu gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest as if wounded. “Wow. The betrayal.”
But before Seungmin could retort, Mingyu’s gaze followed the direction his cousin had subtly pointed to. Jeonghan followed his gaze as well, and soon enough, both of them caught sight of a man standing just beyond the crowd—a journalist, camera in hand, snapping pictures of them from a distance.
Mingyu smirked. “Well, well,” he muttered, straightening up slightly. His usual playful air remained, but there was something distinctly sharper in his expression now. Raising a hand, he waved lazily in the journalist’s direction. “Looks like someone’s got their eyes on you, little brother.”
The moment their attention landed on him, the journalist stiffened, clearly caught off guard. He fumbled slightly with his camera, but after a moment of hesitation, he seemed to gather himself and started walking toward them.
Seungmin huffed a quiet laugh at Mingyu’s antics, shaking his head slightly. “Seriously?”
Jeonghan, standing beside them with an air of mild amusement, merely rolled his eyes. “You’re so dramatic,” he muttered.
The journalist approached cautiously, adjusting the strap of his camera bag as he stopped in front of them. Mingyu, still smirking, addressed him first.
“You’ve been taking pictures all evening, haven’t you?” His voice was light, casual, yet carrying an unmistakable weight. “Mind showing me some of them?”
The journalist hesitated for only a moment before nodding and handing over the camera. Mingyu took it with an easy smile, his eyes scanning the images with mild interest. The photos ranged from wide shots of the ballroom to close-ups of different attendees, all the way to the very ones of them taken just moments ago.
Without lifting his eyes from the screen, Mingyu spoke again. “You do take good pictures, Mr…?”
The journalist straightened slightly. “Seo Jinwoo,” he introduced himself. “From The Daehan Times.”
Mingyu finally lifted his head, his expression pleasant yet unreadable. “Mr. Seo Jinwoo from The Daehan Times,” he repeated smoothly. “Tell me, were you invited here tonight to cover the event?”
Jinwoo nodded hesitantly. “Yes, I was.”
Mingyu’s smile widened slightly, but there was nothing warm about it now. “That’s great,” he said, closing the camera’s preview screen. “Then you wouldn’t mind deleting all the pictures you just took that had nothing to do with the event, would you?” His voice was light, casual, but the meaning behind it was unmistakable. “After all, you weren’t invited to dig into our personal lives.”
A flicker of tension passed through the journalist’s expression, but he had no choice. With an awkward nod, he quickly retrieved the camera from Mingyu’s hands and began deleting the images.
Mingyu watched the screen as each photo disappeared, only looking satisfied once he was sure they were gone. “Good,” he said simply, stepping back. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Seo.”
Jinwoo muttered a quick apology before turning and walking away, his posture noticeably stiffer.
Seungmin let out a quiet sigh, while Jeonghan shook his head, clearly entertained. Mingyu, on the other hand, stretched his arms lazily before grinning at Seungmin.
“See?” he said, nudging his cousin playfully. “Hyung took care of it.”
Vernon had watched the entire interaction between Mingyu and the journalist unfold. As the journalist rushed away, flustered and defeated, he approached with measured, deliberate steps. His sharp gaze shifted from Seungmin to Jeonghan before finally settling on Mingyu. “Kim Mingyu,” he drawled, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Are you trying to tarnish our reputation?”
Mingyu barely looked up from the pastry he had just taken a bite of. Instead, he let out an exaggerated hum of satisfaction before turning to Jeonghan. “Our reputation, huh?”
Jeonghan chuckled, eyes gleaming with amusement as he swirled the champagne in his glass. “You know, I was under the impression that we were the highlight of the night. But clearly, we pale in comparison to the man of the evening himself.”
Mingyu caught on instantly, his lips curling into a smirk. “Ah, of course. Mr. Philanthropist. The golden son of the Choi family. A beacon of goodwill and generosity." He clapped his hands together slowly. “It’s truly an honor to breathe the same air as Choi Vernon.”
Vernon let out a sharp breath, shoulders tensing. “Can you two not.”
But Jeonghan wasn't done. “So, tell us, Mr. Philanthropist, how does it feel to be adored by the masses?”
“Yeah,” Mingyu added with a smirk. “After all, it's not every day we get to stand in the glow of such a noble man.”
Vernon groaned, rubbing his temple. “God, I hate both of you.” he muttered under his breath.
Mingyu nudged Vernon with his elbow. “You should be thanking us. We’re your biggest fans.”
Vernon shoved him off, but the hint of pink on his ears betrayed his embarrassment. For a brief moment, the stiffness in his posture eased, his carefully maintained public persona slipping in the presence of familiar company.
But then, as the laughter faded, his expression shifted. His back to the ballroom, away from prying eyes, his smile disappeared. His face turned unreadable, lips pressing into a thin line as he exhaled. “It's exhausting keeping that grin on all night.” he murmured. “Especially when all I really want to do is punch a few of them.”
Mingyu snickered. “Oh no, our golden boy has a temper?”
Jeonghan smirked. “Scandalous.”
“They'd still love him,” Mingyu mused. “It's practically in his branding.”
Seungmin, who had been silently watching the exchange, finally spoke up. “That’s enough. Stop teasing him.”
Jeonghan hummed, tilting his head. "But didn't you listen to his speech? What was that line again…" He paused, tapping a finger against his chin before snapping his fingers. “Together, we can make a difference, but we need to act now.”
Vernon chewed quickly, speaking through a mouthful of dessert. “That was written by one of Muse's scriptwriters.” he said, oblivious to the crumbs collecting at the corners of his mouth, momentarily dropping the image he usually kept up.
Jeonghan dabbed at the crumbs on his lips with a tissue, his expression soft with affection as he spoke. “Figures. Your parents know exactly how to use that sharp memory of yours.” he said, a warm, bitter smile tugging at his lips.
Vernon grabbed the tissue with a frown, his fingers clenched around it as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Stop addressing me like I’m a robot, some trophy on display.” he said, his voice low and edged with frustration.
Jeonghan and Mingyu watched him, their teasing momentarily subdued. The lightheartedness in the air faded, and after a moment, Mingyu spoke, his voice quiet and sincere. “At least we’re the only ones who treat you like a human.” he said, his gaze steady, the weight of his words a subtle reminder that Vernon was more than what others saw, more than just a trophy on display.
The Choi didn’t respond. His eyes flickered to the untouched dessert in front of him, and almost absentmindedly, he picked up a fork and took a bite. His expression stayed slightly scrunched in frustration, though his shoulders seemed to ease, the tension slowly melting away.
Seungmin took another small bite of his dessert, his sharp eyes flickering between the trio in front of him. He could feel it—something heavy lingering in the air between them, a tension they all understood but never spoke aloud. It was something unspoken yet deeply ingrained in them, the way they carried themselves under the weight of their names.
Rather than push further into that quiet moment, Seungmin let his gaze shift back to the ballroom. The grandeur of the event remained undisturbed—glasses clinked, laughter rose in polite waves, and the hum of conversations blended into the background. Yet, amidst the spectacle, something caught his eye.
His movements stilled, fork hovering just above his plate as his focus zeroed in on the other side of the room.
Near the center of the room, tucked just enough away from the main crowd to avoid immediate attention, stood Minister Jang and Minister Song Kyungmi—Mingyu’s mother and his own aunt. Their postures were poised, every expression carefully measured, but the intensity between them was impossible to miss. The way they leaned in, the way their lips moved in hushed urgency, it wasn’t the easy flow of polite conversation.
It was something else.
His gaze flickered toward the trio beside him, and without looking away from the ministers, he asked, “What’s the real aim behind this charity event?”
The weight of his words pulled their attention to him.
Jeonghan was the first to react, exhaling an amused breath before tilting his head. “You already know the answer to that.” he said smoothly, as if the question itself bored him. “Same as it always is.”
Seungmin finally turned his attention back to the group, eyes landing on Vernon. “I get that your father just legitimized his illegal funds through the foundation’s route.” He spoke bluntly, as if stating a simple financial fact. “And the others did the same in their own way.”
Mingyu raised a brow but said nothing, sipping his drink that he picked up from the waiter passing by.
“But that—” Seungmin tilted his chin toward the far side of the ballroom. “That’s something else. That’s serious.”
Jeonghan and Mingyu followed Seungmin’s gaze, their expressions tightening as they took in the scene. Vernon, careful not to make it too obvious, turned slightly to see what had captured their attention. The air between them grew heavier, the unspoken weight of what they were witnessing settling in. Then, as if to confirm their unspoken concerns, the Chief Commissioner of Police stepped into view, joining the conversation.
Vernon exhaled softly, his hand brushing the lapels of his blazer. “Minister Jang’s behavior has been unusual since the beginning of the evening,” he said, his voice low. “He approached me earlier.”
Jeonghan’s gaze sharpened. "What did he say?”
Vernon’s eyes darted between them before he let out a quiet sigh. “It started as small talk. At least, that’s what I thought,” he murmured, his fingers tapping absentmindedly on the edge of his fork as he replayed the conversation. “He complimented the event, followed by his usual praise for my mother. Then he asked about how people move in rooms like this, wondering who really holds the power. It just didn’t sit right.”
Mingyu’s lips twitched. “Let me guess—the golden son had a witty comeback?”
Vernon’s eyes narrowed slightly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “What do you think?”
Jeonghan let out a soft scoff, his smirk barely there. “That’s quite the comment.”
“More than just a comment,” Vernon replied, his voice tinged with something unreadable. “It was deliberate. He said it like he was testing me. Then he added, ‘You have a way with words. Your father might be proud of you, ’ like he knows something about me that no one else does.”
Mingyu shook his head, a bitter edge to his tone. “At some point, people are definitely going to start questioning the whole perfect happy family act.”
Jeonghan hummed, gaze flickering toward the ministers again. “He either thinks you’re someone worth pulling in or someone he needs to keep his eyes on.”
Mingyu scoffed lightly. “Jang’s been testing people for years.”
Seungmin turned back to the trio, voice low. “That man should’ve been exposed long ago.”
Mingyu let out a short laugh. “And yet, somehow, he’s still here.”
Minister Jang Namil had been the subject of numerous accusations—misuse of power, bribery, embezzlement. There had been moments, multiple times over the years, when the truth had nearly surfaced. Reports leaked, investigations started, rumors spiraled but each time, the allegations seemed to vanish just before they could gain real traction.
“You have to wonder,” Seungmin mused, eyes flickering back to the ministers, “how much leverage he has over the people protecting him.”
“Enough to keep himself untouchable.” Jeonghan answered, his tone light yet certain.
Seungmin leaned against the table, arms crossing. “And now he’s there, talking to your mother. And they have the Commissioner with them.” His tone was casual, but his meaning was anything but.
Vernon’s gaze was locked onto the trio across the room, suspicion stirring in his chest as he brought his attention back to their group. “Minister Jang has been circling something all evening. Whatever they’re discussing now it’s not just about business.”
Jeonghan exhaled through his nose. “That’s not just business,” he muttered. “That’s plotting.”
Vernon glanced back toward the ballroom, schooling his features into something neutral again. “I don’t like it.” He spoke, gaze momentarily distant. “Feels like something’s happening right in front of us, but we don’t know what.”
Mingyu chuckled, clapping a hand on Vernon’s shoulder. “You sound like you just realized how this world works.”
Vernon gave him a look but said nothing.
“Well,” Seungmin said, voice light but edged with something sharp. “Whatever it is, it’ll be tomorrow’s headline.”
Mingyu exhaled. “If it even makes it that far.”
Jeonghan gave a knowing glance. “No matter what happens, Jang will steal the headlines tomorrow morning, not this gala.”
As they all slipped back into the crowd of elites, their masks seamlessly returning to place, their gaze moved over the room, lingering on the crowd, the ministers, the quiet observers scattered in the mix. The three knew—there was no uncertainty in it—they were all caught in a web far beyond their understanding, each of them unknowingly playing a part in something much bigger.
The chain of events had already been set into motion, and they moved through the night, unaware of the gravity of what was unfolding around them. The calm they felt was nothing but an illusion, and by morning, things would be unrecognizably different. The storm, though concealed, was already building.
Chapter 3: The Beginning of the End
Notes:
I'll advice to read the previous chapter once again before starting this chapter for better linkage (for the hidden undertones to click). It's up to you honestly.
Enjoy reading!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The world woke up to chaos.
Morning news broadcasts flickered across screens in homes, cafés, and office spaces, all blaring the same shocking revelation— Minister Jang was dead.
The breaking news segments ran on repeat, Minister Jang Namil, a long-standing government official with a history of dodging corruption allegations, had been found dead in his private study at 4:23 AM. A single bullet to the head. Gun in hand.
But it wasn’t just his death that rattled the nation—it was the neatly prepared documents he had left behind.
A suicide note, written with meticulous detail, listed every corruption scheme he had orchestrated, every bribe exchanged, every backroom deal signed under his name. Attached were irrefutable pieces of evidence—bank transfers, offshore accounts, falsified government contracts, and even the names of low-level government officials who had helped facilitate his crimes. More damningly, he named corporate giants, owners of companies deeply intertwined with political power, exposing them as willing accomplices.
The nation erupted.
News anchors, still reeling from the shock, scrambled to keep up, their voices a mixture of disbelief and barely contained exhilaration at the scandal unraveling before them. The airwaves were filled with theories—some arguing that guilt had driven Minister Jang to this final act, others questioning if he had truly written the note or if this was a carefully staged murder to tie up loose ends. A few, bolder in their accusations, speculated that perhaps he had not acted alone—that in his desperation, he had chosen to bring others down with him.
One thing was certain— the tides had turned.
Joshua barely remembered how he got dressed or how he even got to the office. The moment he had received the call at twenty past five in the morning, his body had moved on instinct. He sprinted through the streets, heart hammering against his ribs, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts.
The echoes of last night's gala replayed in his head—the way Minister Jang had prowled the ballroom, weaving between alliances and whispered conversations. The carefully curated smiles. The knowing glances exchanged. And then there was the nagging weight of his own silenced report—the one that could have exposed this corruption before it took a deadly turn.
By the time he burst into the Jinsil News headquarters, the entire newsroom was already in an uproar, despite the fact that dawn had barely broken and the clock had yet to strike six. Phones rang off the hook, journalists scrambled to verify sources, and headlines were rewritten by the second as new details emerged. The tension in the air was electric, crackling with urgency.
“Josh!” Hyunjin called, rushing up to him. “Park wants us in the briefing room, now.”
Joshua nodded, inhaling sharply before pushing forward through the chaos.
The briefing room was packed. Chief Editor Park stood at the front, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as the senior journalists murmured among themselves. As soon as Joshua and Hyunjin entered, Park raised a hand, silencing the room.
“We don’t need to discuss how big this is,” Park started, his voice sharp and clipped. “Minister Jang is gone, but his legacy of corruption isn’t. Every news outlet is scrambling for pieces of the story, and we’re not going to fall behind. I want full coverage. We need sources, we need analysis, and we need to be ahead of every single speculation that comes up. Understood?”
A murmur of agreement spread through the room.
“I want each of you to focus on different angles—the named officials, the corporate involvement, the political fallout. And most importantly, I want a deep dive into the suicide note itself. We need to verify its authenticity before we feed our readers any half-baked theories. We need to track down these individuals, dig into their records, and connect the dots before the authorities sanitize the narrative.”
A few reporters exchanged knowing looks. They all understood how these things worked. A scandal this big wouldn’t be left unchecked for long—soon, PR teams, legal advisors, and the government itself would work to shape the public perception, controlling the damage before it spread too far.
“Every single channel is running this story.” one journalist muttered.
“And they’re all saying the same thing.” another added. “No one's asking why now ?”
Joshua clenched his jaw. Exactly.
Last night, Minister Jang had been mingling, smiling, speaking in riddles about power. He had approached several guests directly, dropping cryptic hints here and there. And now—now he was dead? Had they known? Had some of them anticipated this?
It was too damn convenient.
Park continued. “I want sources. I want statements. I want dirt. We need to be ahead of this before anyone else takes control of the narrative.”
Joshua barely heard him, his mind tangled in the implications of Minister Jang’s sudden suicide and the ripple effect it would have on those in power. His mind snapped back to the present as Editor Park dismissed the meeting, calling out, “Jisoo, stay behind.”
Joshua exchanged a glance with one of his colleagues before settling back into his chair, watching as the others exited. The door clicked shut, leaving only him and Editor Park in the room. The older man exhaled, rubbing his temples before turning his attention to Joshua.
For a long moment, Park said nothing. Then, with a sigh, he spoke, his voice quieter, more personal than Joshua had ever heard it. “You were the only one who really went after Minister Jang. While the others skimmed headlines, you dug into every hidden deal, every off-the-record meeting, every whisper of corruption. You were relentless.” He hesitated, then exhaled heavily. “And if we had published that story when you first pushed for it, it wouldn’t have been Jang in that morgue. It would have been you.”
The words landed like a stone in Joshua’s chest. He had always known there were risks to exposing the powerful, but hearing it framed like this, hearing the weight in his boss’ voice, made it hit differently. The Editor-in-Chief was ruthless in the newsroom, always pushing for the next big scoop, never one to coddle. But this wasn’t just about journalism. This was something else.
But Joshua wasn’t someone who needed protecting. He had always known how to take care of himself.
Before he could say as much, Park straightened, slipping back into the role of the relentless editor. “Prepare a list of questions for the press conference. The Commissioner is going to address the public, and you , more than anyone, know how to make a man crack under pressure.”
Joshua nodded, already understanding what this meant. A press conference this early wasn’t about transparency—it was about control. The authorities wanted to get ahead of the story before journalists like him could start asking the right questions, before the truth could take on a life of its own.
“Got it.”
Editor Park met his eyes, something unspoken passing between them. For all his sharp words and relentless demands, there was a rare moment of understanding in his gaze. They both knew Jang’s confession hadn’t told the whole story. The real danger wasn’t in what had been revealed—it was in what was still hidden.
Joshua swallowed hard, gripping his pen a little tighter. Because if Minister Jang had truly exposed everything, then someone else—someone with more to lose—wouldn’t be sitting still. They’d be watching. Reacting. Getting desperate.
And desperate people always made mistakes.
—
The subway car swayed gently as it sped through the tunnels, its fluorescent lights flickering for a brief moment. Seungcheol tightened his grip on the metal pole, his other hand holding his phone as the breaking news broadcast played on his screen. The volume was low, but he had no trouble following the captions flashing across the bottom. Around him, the morning commuters sat hunched over their own devices—scrolling through social media, listening to music—but here and there, he caught glimpses of the same news report on their screens.
Across the city, in a dim apartment cluttered with wires, monitors, and half-finished coffee cups, Jihoon was watching the same broadcast.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his phone propped up on his desk. His laptop sat open beside him, multiple tabs running—news reports, archived government files, encrypted databases he shouldn’t technically have access to. The glow from his monitors flickered across his face, but his focus remained on the press conference.
Something about this didn’t sit right. He drummed his fingers against the desk, eyes narrowing as he observed every microexpression on the screen. The commissioner’s tone, his carefully measured pauses—he wasn’t just giving a statement. He was giving a script.
“At approximately 4:23 AM today, Minister Jang Namil was found deceased in his residence. Based on preliminary evidence and the note recovered at the scene, his death has been classified as a suicide.”
Seungcheol exhaled sharply, thumb pressing against the screen of his phone. Suicide. Of course that’s what they’re calling it.
The subway rattled around him, but the world outside barely registered. Around him, passengers murmured to one another, some glancing at their own phones, others shaking their heads at the breaking news.
Somewhere in the distance, someone whispered, “He must have known they were closing in on him.”
Or someone closed in on him first, Seungcheol thought grimly.
Back in his apartment, Jihoon let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no humor in it. Too clean. Too convenient.
His eyes flicked to the scrolling news ticker below the live feed. The confession note had named names—business owners, low-level government officials. But not a single high-profile politician. Not a single mention of the powerful figures Minister Jang had been linked to for years.
The pieces were there, but they didn’t fit.
“Minister Jang left behind a signed confession detailing multiple instances of financial misconduct and abuse of power. We have received his statement and the accompanying evidence, which will be handled with the full extent of the law. Investigations are ongoing, and further details will be disclosed as they develop.” Commissioner Kang’s voice was steady, rehearsed.
Seungcheol inhaled deeply, tilting his head back against the subway wall. And just like that, they’re closing the book on it.
But it wasn’t over.
The conference room full of journalists stirred, murmurs rising as camera flashes flickered. And then, a new voice cut through the air—sharp, poised, and laced with challenge.
“Commissioner Kang, doesn’t it strike you as strange that Minister Jang suddenly chose to confess after years of evading allegations?”
A familiar voice. Both Seungcheol and Jihoon recognized it immediately.
Seungcheol lowered his phone slightly. Joshua.
Jihoon sat up straighter, interest piqued. “You go Josh.” He smirked proudly.
Onscreen, Hong Jisoo of Jinsil News leaned forward, eyes sharp and unwavering. He was poised, his tone polite, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.
Commissioner Kang barely blinked. “Minister Jang’s note clearly states his remorse. Guilt is a powerful motivator, Mr. Hong.”
Joshua didn’t let the silence settle.
“And yet, many would argue that guilt was never a trait commonly associated with Minister Jang.”
Seungcheol smirked, shaking his head slightly, getting an idea of what Joshua was doing. Here we go.
“For years, allegations were raised against him—illegal fund transfers, bribery, political interference—but every single time, those investigations mysteriously collapsed before reaching trial. Why confess now, and conveniently, at a time when these accusations were starting to resurface?”
A low chuckle escaped Jihoon. “Now that’s what I call the right question.”
Seungcheol exhaled, watching the screen intently. He knew Joshua wasn’t just trying to get a rise out of the commissioner—he was digging, pressing, waiting for the cracks to show.
Commissioner Kang's jaw tightened. “This case is still under investigation. As stated earlier, all necessary protocols are being followed, and there will be no exceptions in ensuring justice is served.”
A politician’s answer. No real substance. Not a wrong answer. But not a real one either.
Joshua leaned forward slightly, as if calculating his next move and Seungcheol thought Ah. He’s not done.
“One more question, Commissioner.”
Commissioner Kang nodded, though his patience was visibly wearing thin.
“In Minister Jang’s confession, he named several individuals—company owners, lower-ranking government officials. But it’s curious, isn’t it? None of the high-profile figures he was previously linked to were mentioned. Are we to believe that a man with such vast political and corporate connections conveniently kept his dealings limited to those at the bottom?”
Seungcheol let out a slow exhale, running a hand over his face. Damn, he's good at this.
Jihoon chuckled under his breath. This is getting interesting.
The commissioner hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.
“As I said, investigations are ongoing. If there are more individuals involved, they will be dealt with accordingly. This press conference is over.” With that, Commissioner Kang stood, ignoring the barrage of voices calling for further answers.
The screen cut to a panel of news anchors scrambling to analyze what had just transpired. But neither Seungcheol nor Jihoon needed to hear their takes.
They had already formed their own conclusions.
The subway doors slid open with a chime. Seungcheol stepped out, adjusting the strap of his bag as he made his way toward the university. His phone buzzed with messages—probably from the group chat—but he ignored it for now.
Joshua had asked all the right questions.
And Commissioner Kang had given all the wrong answers.
Jihoon shut his laptop with a quiet click, his mind already running through the next step. The people named in the confession were scrambling, but whoever had orchestrated this was two steps ahead.
The hacker leaned back against the back of his chair, arms crossed, his mind already working through the pieces of the puzzle. “If this was truly a suicide, then someone out there got exactly what they wanted.”
—
The scent of roasted coffee beans filled the break room, mingling with the quiet hum of the vending machine and the distant murmur of conversations from the firm’s hallways. Soonyoung leaned against the counter, watching as the coffee in his paper cup swirled in slow, lazy circles. The caffeine did little to ease the tension coiling in his shoulders.
It had been a long morning.
Minister Jang’s death—and the scandal he had left behind—had thrown the legal world into disarray. Law firms across the city were in a frenzy, scrambling to assess the damage, to see how deep the cracks ran and whether their own clients were at risk. It was all anyone could talk about, and their firm was no exception.
Across from him, Han Dohyun, his team lead, stirred his coffee absentmindedly, brows furrowed in thought. Seated at the small table, their intern, Kim Nari, clutched her cup with both hands, as if the warmth could somehow help her process the chaos unfolding outside these walls. Her eyes flickered between them, uncertainty creeping into her features.
“So…” she finally spoke, her voice careful. “This means everything Minister Jang did is officially exposed now?”
Soonyoung let out a quiet huff, a smirk curling at his lips, but there was no amusement in it. “Exposed,” he repeated. “That’s one way to put it.”
Dohyun sighed, leaning back in his chair. “It’s too clean. Suicide. A confession. A full set of documents neatly tying it all together. And not just his own crimes—he handed over a list of accomplices, too.” He shook his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s not exposure. That’s a controlled burn.”
Nari frowned. “But the documents are real, aren’t they?”
Soonyoung finally took a sip of his coffee before setting it down with a soft thud. “The documents are exactly what they need us to see.” He tilted his head toward the door, where the buzz of activity in the firm’s main offices hadn’t quieted since the news broke. “You think a man like Minister Jang suddenly found it in himself to be honest? The kind of guy who’s spent years covering his tracks?”
Before Nari could respond, the door swung open, and another intern stepped in. He was tall with sharp features, dressed in the firm’s standard dress shirt and slacks, his tie slightly loosened like he had just escaped a long round of case briefings.
He offered them a polite nod before heading to the coffee machine.
“Heavy day, huh?” Dohyun asked.
He chuckled dryly, his thick Busan dialect slipping in. “You could say that.”
The intern filled his cup in silence, giving them another small nod before slipping back out, leaving behind the lingering tension in the air.
Nari turned back to Soonyoung, her brows knitting together. “But if Minister Jang was part of a bigger system, wouldn’t they want to protect him? Why let him die?”
Dohyun exhaled sharply. “Because when the fire gets too close, you throw something into the flames to keep it from spreading.”
Soonyoung nodded. “Jang was useful—until he wasn’t. Now he’s just another piece sacrificed to keep the bigger players safe.” He took another sip, his voice quieter but no less certain. “And if history tells us anything, it won’t end here.”
Nari looked down at her cup, her grip tightening. She was young, still full of the belief that law existed to uphold justice. Soonyoung almost felt bad watching that illusion crack. She reminded him of himself, years ago, when he still believed that law and justice were the same thing.
He exhaled, tapping a slow rhythm against his coffee cup. “Look at the names in the confession.”
Nari hesitated. “A few businessmen, government officials…”
Soonyoung nodded. “Exactly. People high enough to make a scandal, but not high enough to shake the real foundations.”
Dohyun leaned forward, voice low. “And the ones who actually ran things? Nowhere to be seen.”
Nari’s fingers tightened on her cup. “So you’re saying this was staged?”
Soonyoung’s smirk deepened, but his eyes were cold. “I’m saying Minister Jang might have written that note, but who do you think made sure it got published?”
Dohyun let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Someone decided exactly who was going down with him.”
The room lapsed into silence, only the quiet hum of the vending machine filling the space.
Nari finally spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. “So what happens now?”
Soonyoung tilted his head, gaze dark with understanding. “Now?” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “Now the real game begins.”
—
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the secluded estate as Song Kyungmi’s black SUV rolled up the private driveway. The dense forestry lining the road offered a natural barrier from prying eyes, but it was paranoia—not caution—that had brought her here.
With the chaos unleashed that morning, every move had to be calculated, every step measured.
Jang Namil’s suicide had shattered the fragile balance they all relied on. While the public debated whether it was guilt or fear that pushed him over the edge, those who truly understood the weight of power knew better. This was not a mere death. It was a message.
Inside the car, Kyungmi adjusted her sunglasses, expression unreadable as she watched the estate come into view.
The moment the vehicle stopped, Kyungmi’s bodyguard stepped out first. His sharp gaze swept the area, scanning for any potential security breaches. He was young, but not inexperienced—years of working in the shadows had trained him well.
Only after he gave a slight nod did Kyungmi step out. The afternoon sun was harsh, but she didn’t flinch, her posture remaining rigid with controlled authority.
Her movements were fluid, calculated. Even as her heels clicked against the stone pavement, there was no hesitation in her stride. She knew exactly where she was heading.
As they approached the estate’s entrance, her bodyguard fell into step behind her, a silent shadow. Even now, she knew they were being watched.
The doors opened to a quiet, dimly lit hallway, leading them to the estate’s private meeting room. The moment Kyungmi stepped inside, she immediately took in the occupants—the very people she had spent years building alliances with, now gathered in uncertainty.
Seated on the leather couches were two men, one government official, another a business owner, their expressions a mixture of tension and unease. The third figure in the room, standing near the fireplace with a scotch glass in hand, was none other than Chief Commissioner of Police, Kang Dongwook.
The meeting room inside was dimly lit despite the late afternoon light filtering through the heavy curtains. Her heels barely made a sound as she entered the meeting room. But the first words that greeted her weren’t ones of welcome.
It was Minister Ryu who broke the silence first. His thick fingers tapped impatiently against the armrest of his chair. “Leave the watchdog outside, Song.” he said, nodding towards the male accompanying her.
Kyungmi didn’t spare him a glance. Instead, she let the silence stretch, taking a slow, deliberate look around the room. “Jisung,” she said, her voice calm but brooking no argument. “I want you right here.”
Jisung obeyed without question, positioning himself just behind her, his stance rigid and alert.
“If Namil's death has taught us anything,” she continued, removing her sunglasses with unhurried precision, “it’s that trust is a dangerous luxury.” She smiled coldly, the expression not reaching her eyes. “And right now, I trust none of you.”
Jisung didn’t react to their glares. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough of a warning.
Kyungmi moved to the velvet couch and sat, crossing one leg over the other with measured elegance. “Now,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Shall we begin?”
The discussion began tense, voices sharp with barely concealed frustration.
“This is a mess,” Director Go muttered, rubbing his temples. “The media is tearing into Jang’s confession like rabid dogs. Every name listed, every accusation—it’s all over the headlines. There’s no controlling it.”
“He had no reason to kill himself,” Commissioner Kang muttered. “Guilt? Fear of exposure? The man was a survivor. He would’ve found a way out.”
Minister Ryu scoffed. “Jang thought he could survive it. That’s what happens when you start believing you’re untouchable.”
Kyungmi exhaled, resting her chin against her fingers. “And you actually believe he killed himself out of guilt?”
A beat of silence. No one answered. Because the truth was, none of them believed it.
Commissioner Kang sighed, rubbing his brow. “I don’t know what to believe. But it’s convenient, isn’t it? A confession—signed, dated, and delivered with supporting documents. Almost too perfect.”
“That’s because it is,” Kyungmi said, leaning forward slightly. Her voice was lower now, controlled, but there was something unforgiving beneath it. “Namil was receiving threats. Encrypted messages. Someone was warning him, and we ignored it.”
A scoff. “Or he fabricated them to buy time.”
The room fell into a murmur, but Commissioner Kang merely sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “He did mention it last night.”
The words sent a fresh wave of tension through the group.
Ryu laughed. “So now we’re entertaining ghost stories? Convenient, isn’t it? The dead man can’t confirm your theories.”
Kyungmi shot him a look, one perfectly crafted to cut through condescension. “You think I’m fabricating this?” She let out a short laugh, devoid of humor. “You think I’m the only one who knows? Ask Dongwook. He was there when Namil said it himself.”
All eyes turned to the Chief Commissioner, whose lips pressed into a thin line. He hesitated—just briefly—but it was enough. “I didn’t take it seriously at the time,” Kang admitted finally, voice lower than before. “But he did seem unsettled . More than usual.”
Director Go shook his head. “We’re jumping to conclusions. That man was spiraling. He knew he was cornered. He panicked.”
Kyungmi leaned back, exhaling slowly. “And yet someone delivered every single document he left behind. Every single name he exposed. That doesn’t strike you as too convenient? If he had a way out, he would’ve taken it. Instead, he left behind a blueprint of our destruction. Why?”
A murmur spread across the room, uncertainty creeping into their expressions.
Finally, Ryu turned to her. “Fine. If not suicide, then what? Who do you think is behind this?”
Kyungmi didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let her gaze move around the room, taking in each of them. The tension, the suspicion, the way no one fully trusted the person sitting next to them. Instead, she reached for the notepad on the table, her fingers moving with a practiced precision.
She paused for a moment, the pen hovering over the paper as if choosing her words carefully, then began to write in sharp, deliberate strokes.
The only sound in the room was the faint, rhythmic scratching of the pen on the paper, each mark deliberate and calculated. The men around the table remained unnervingly silent, their eyes following her every movement.
When she finished, she tore the slip of paper cleanly from the pad and, with a quiet finality, slid it to the center of the table. The men leaned in, their gazes locking onto the single word scrawled in sharp, unyielding handwriting.
Shinigami.
The silence deepened, thick with the kind of tension that made the air feel heavier. A breath. Then another. A sharp inhale, as if someone had just fully grasped the weight of what they were seeing.
Minister Ryu’s jaw tightened. A curse slipped from his lips, barely more than a whisper, but unmistakable. His fingers curled slightly against the table, as if resisting the urge to reach for the paper himself. The color in his face wavered, a flicker of unease breaking through his otherwise composed expression.
No one needed to speak. The name alone was enough to send a chill through the room
Commissioner Kang stared at the name for a long moment before finally speaking. “You’re joking.”
Kyungmi’s expression didn’t shift. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Director Go sat back, his expression unreadable. “You’re pointing fingers.”
“I’m pointing at the only possibility that makes sense.”
A tremor of unease passed through the room.
Shinigami —a name that none dared speak aloud.
For years, their existence had been an urban myth, a whispered warning between the powerful. A name associated with disappearances, exposed scandals, orchestrated downfalls. A name that sent ripples through the highest circles of power, but had never been proven real.
Until now.
Minister Ryu scoffed, but there was an unsteadiness in his voice. “You’re trying to shift the target off your back.”
Kyungmi’s gaze didn’t waver. “You think I’m lying?”
“No,” Director Go murmured, fingers still resting on the slip of paper. “I think you’re scared.”
Kyungmi didn’t blink. “And you are not?”
The silence grew heavier, each person visibly uncomfortable in their own way. Subtle shifts in posture, the tightness of clenched jaws, and the quick glances exchanged were all betraying signs of the fear that loomed over them.
Jisung, standing quietly behind Kyungmi, lowered his gaze, his eyes briefly catching the name on the paper .
The inked letters seemed to burn into the air, as final as a verdict already handed down. A single thought ran through his mind, eyes turning darker as he stared at the black ink. This isn’t a warning. It’s a promise.
—
The sharp thud echoed through the classroom followed by the unmistakable clatter of plastic toys tumbling onto the wooden floor.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”
Seungkwan barely had time to react before his partner let out a pained grunt, his body sprawled across the floor, an overturned desk at his feet. The scattered remnants of the day’s chaos—stuffed animals, tiny chairs, abandoned crayon drawings—now joined the mess.
Seungkwan cursed, abandoning the books he was stacking on the shelf. He rushed over, grabbing Chan’s arm. “What the hell Chris? Are you okay?”
Chan groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his face as if he’d just been mortally wounded. “I think my life just flashed before my eyes.”
Seungkwan rolled his eyes but continued his inspection. “Are you okay?” His hands moved instinctively, brushing off Chan’s sleeves, checking for injuries. His eyes landed on a few small scrapes across Chan’s forearm, barely bleeding but painful-looking nonetheless.
Chan winced, brushing off Seungkwan’s fussing. “I’m fine—just give me a second—” He blew out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the impact.
Seungkwan frowned, inspecting the mess around them before narrowing his eyes at the overturned tiny wooden desk by Chan’s feet. “How the hell did you even trip on that?”
Chan barely glanced at the desk before snapping his gaze back to Seungkwan. “Who says something like that out of the blue?!”
Seungkwan blinked. “What?”
“That!” Chan gestured wildly, his Australian accent thickening slightly in his exasperation, before switching back to Korean. “You just —casually drop the idea that Shinigami was behind Minister Jang’s death like you are telling me about your dinner plans?!”
Seungkwan, still holding onto Chan’s arm, hesitated before scoffing. “That’s what made you trip? Not the actual desk?”
Chan gave him an incredulous look. “You literally said it like you were talking about the weather!”
Seungkwan, despite everything, let out a breathy laugh. “Okay, I did not say it like that.”
“You did!” Chan hissed, pulling his arm away. “And you said it with so much conviction!”
Seungkwan let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because it makes sense!”
Chan, still seated on the floor, deadpanned. “No, it doesn’t.”
Seungkwan crossed his arms. “It does if you think about it.”
Chan snorted. “I’m thinking about how my ass hurts from falling. That’s about it.”
Seungkwan rolled his eyes before plopping down onto the floor beside him, letting his legs stretch out as he exhaled. “Look. I wasn’t thinking much about it this morning, right? I mean, who had the time? Parents dropping off their kids, the staff meeting, handling those spoiled brats—”
“They’re not all spoiled.”
Seungkwan raised a brow. “Do you remember what Kim Jaeho’s mother said to us?”
Chan grimaced. “Okay, fair.”
Seungkwan rolled his eyes. “She acts like we personally hold back her kid’s academic future if we don’t sing his praises every morning.”
Chan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Some parents are exhausting.”
“Tell me about it,” Seungkwan muttered before shaking his head. “Anyway. Back to my point. I wasn’t really focusing on Jang’s death until the news updates kept rolling in.”
Chan leaned against the now-upright desk, arms crossed. “And?”
“And it’s too clean.” Seungkwan’s voice lowered slightly. “Minister Jang dies by suicide. A confession is left behind, neatly typed up with perfectly compiled documents. No loose ends, no strange gaps.”
Chan raised a brow. “That’s suspicious to you?”
Seungkwan gave him an exasperated look. “Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “The timing is too perfect. He was at the gala last night, completely fine. He leaves, and then suddenly—he decides to end it all? And not just that, but he manages to expose himself and half his accomplices? That doesn’t strike you as a little too convenient?”
Chan shrugged, unimpressed. “He probably knew the walls were closing in on him.”
Seungkwan tilted his head slightly, gaze thoughtful. “That’s what we’re supposed to think.”
Chan groaned, throwing his head back. “Please don’t start with the conspiracy theories—”
“It’s not a conspiracy theory if it’s true!” Seungkwan snapped.
“Okay, stop.” Chan held up a hand. “That doesn’t mean they were involved.”
Seungkwan stared at him. “Who else would be?”
“Anyone else.”
Seungkwan narrowed his eyes. “That’s a weak argument.”
Chan ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “You want to blame them because it’s easy.” His voice softened slightly. “But think about it. If they wanted him gone, they would’ve done it in their usual way. Quiet. No trace. No elaborate confessions.”
Seungkwan’s frown deepened.
Chan continued, voice firm. “What happened to Jang was messy. They don't do messy.”
Seungkwan crossed his arms, but something about Chan’s certainty made his stomach twist. “You’re telling me you don’t think it’s possible?” he pressed.
Chan gave him a pointed look. “I’m telling you that the bigger picture doesn’t add up.”
Seungkwan scowled, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Then what, you think someone from his own circle did it?”
Chan sighed, the weight of the conversation pulling his shoulders down as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It makes more sense.”
Seungkwan shook his head, shaking off the thought immediately. “No, no—they’d never turn on each other.”
Chan’s look was dry, cutting through Seungkwan’s certainty. “Minister Jang just threw half of them under the bus in his confession.”
Seungkwan stopped mid-motion, his words freezing in his throat. The realization hit harder than he expected. Minister Jang had implicated people in his confession, something Seungkwan hadn’t fully grasped before. The circle wasn’t as tight, as loyal, as he’d assumed. The possibility of internal betrayal suddenly seemed all too real.
Chan exhaled a quieter sigh, his tone softer now, almost sympathetic. “Look, I get it. It’s easier to point fingers, to think they’re the ones pulling the strings. But there’s no real evidence of that.” He met Seungkwan’s eyes, his gaze steady. “This wasn’t them. It was one of his own.”
—
Previous Night
3:27 am
The bedroom was steeped in deep shadows, the only source of light being the faint glow of the city skyline filtering through the sheer curtains. Jang Namil lay nestled in the plush expanse of his bed, his breaths slow and even. The events of the previous evening had long since faded into the haze of exhaustion, his body sinking into the comfort of his expensive mattress.
But then—a shift. A barely perceptible sensation, like a presence lurking just beyond the edges of his mind. His body stirred, shifting against the silk sheets, eyes blearily blinking open for a fleeting moment before he squeezed them shut again.
Probably nothing. Just his nerves playing tricks on him.
Except—something felt off.
An eerie stillness. A strange weight pressing down on the room. His heart picked up a beat. Slowly, cautiously, Jang turned in his bed, his mind still fogged with sleep. And then—he saw them .
One stood near the window, perfectly still, his posture almost relaxed. The moonlight cut across his figure, highlighting the subtle details of his silhouette—the sharp lines of a tactical, matte-black outfit, a mask obscuring the lower half of his face. His hands were tucked into his pockets of his leather jacket, exuding an effortless aura of detachment.
The second figure was on the couch, legs crossed, as if he owned the place. He rested an elbow on the armrest, fingers idly drumming against the cushion. Unlike the others, he radiated unsettling ease, as though this were nothing more than a casual meeting. His hood cast a faint shadow over his masked face, but Jang swore he saw the faint gleam of mocking amusement in his eyes.
The last one was by Jang’s desk, flipping through an old hardcover book as if he were browsing in a bookstore. His movements were slow, calculated, fingers gliding over the pages as though their contents were beneath his interest. He hadn’t even looked up—as if Jang himself was irrelevant.
Jang’s breath hitched. His body locked up, a primal instinctual fear crawling up his spine.
The figures were dressed in all black, their clothing blending seamlessly into the darkness. Their faces were hidden behind sleek, matte black masks—expressionless, devoid of humanity. The sight sent a sharp chill slicing down Jang’s spine.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Until— “Good morning, Minister Jang.”
The voice came from the one standing at the desk, smooth and measured, almost mocking. The figure closed the book he had been flipping through and placed it back onto the desk with deliberate care.
Jang’s mouth ran dry. His heart was now slamming against his ribs. He forced himself upright, his mind racing as adrenaline flooded his system. “Who the hell are you?” His voice was hoarse, rough from sleep, but the demand was sharp.
None of them answered.
Instead, the one lounging on the couch tilted his head slightly. Viper, that’s what they called him . “Let’s continue this conversation in your study,” he said, his voice laced with the kind of amusement that didn’t belong here. He gestured lazily toward the door.
Jang’s eyes flickered toward the now open door to his study, its shadowed interior looming beyond the doorway. His breath stilled.
They had been in his room. They had entered his locked home, bypassed all security, reached him in his most vulnerable state—and he hadn’t even noticed.
A cold sweat broke out along his back. His fingers twitched beneath the covers.
The emergency alarm.
There was one built into his nightstand, discreetly placed beneath the marble top—a direct signal to his security team. If he could just reach—
A sharp sting exploded across his wrist before he could even move. A searing, paralyzing sensation spread through his arm like wildfire.
Jang let out a pained gasp, jerking back. His hand fell uselessly onto the bed, his fingers curling but unable to grip. His entire arm had gone numb in an instant.
He gasped, wide eyes flying toward the window—towards Ghost .
Ghost still stood motionless, as if he hadn’t moved at all. But in his hand, he held a small, sleek air launcher, a modified weapon nearly silent in its execution. The projectile he had fired—undoubtedly some form of nerve agent—had rendered Jang’s arm useless in mere seconds.
Jang’s breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. He fought to move his fingers, but they wouldn’t obey. His own body wasn’t responding.
Ghost exhaled softly, shaking his head. “Too slow.” There was no mockery in his voice, no arrogance—just stating a fact.
Jang’s stomach twisted painfully. His hand trembled. He tried to flex his fingers—nothing. It was like his nerves had been cut off from his own body.
From the couch, Viper let out a low chuckle. “That was embarrassing. You should really work on your reaction time, Minister.”
Jang gritted his teeth, his heart hammering as he clutched his wrist. Panic coiled tight in his chest, but he forced himself to breathe. Think.
His security guards. They should have been here by now. There should have been shouts, gunfire, footsteps, but the silence in his mansion was deafening.
Which meant— Jang’s throat tightened. These three weren’t just some random intruders. They had taken every precaution. Disabled every obstacle before he could even blink.
His gaze flickered between them again. The way they carried themselves, the confidence, the precision—this wasn’t the work of some underground mercenary group.
This was something else. Something far worse. His mind screamed one name. But he didn’t dare say it.
Instead, he swallowed, his voice unsteady as he hissed, “What do you want?”
Viper leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching him with an air of lazy amusement. “We already told you.” He nodded toward the open study door, where Shadow now stood waiting. “Let’s have a little chat.”
Jang hesitated, his legs stiff, unwilling to move.
Then Ghost stepped away from the window. Slowly. Deliberately.
Jang’s pulse spiked. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself out of bed, his numb arm hanging uselessly at his side. Each step toward the study felt like walking toward his own grave.
The minister’s breath came in slow, shallow draws as he stepped into his study, every nerve on high alert. His mind screamed at him to wake up, to shake off whatever nightmare this was. But it wasn’t a dream. His body knew fear, understood it in ways his mind had yet to process. It wasn’t just the weapons these men carried, or the way they had entered his home like phantoms in the night.
The study was dimly lit, a single lamp casting long, eerie shadows across the mahogany desk. But it wasn’t the darkness that made his breath hitch.
It was the documents.
Stacks of them. Folders meticulously arranged, flash drives placed in neat rows, each labeled. The ink on the labels was crisp and clear, damningly precise—bribes, embezzlement, offshore accounts, forged contracts, election fraud, money laundering.
His entire career laid out in front of him like an autopsy report.
Jang’s blood turned cold. His own handwriting was visible on some of the papers. His signature stamped across contracts he had personally orchestrated. Some of these were decades old, things he had long buried beneath layers of red tape, bribed officials, and political immunity.
Yet here they were.
He swallowed, forcing his face into cold indifference. He wasn’t new to threats. He had seen countless people try and fail to bring him down. This would be no different. Finally, he dragged his gaze away from the desk, looking at the three intruders who had shattered the illusion of his untouchability.
Shadow stood behind Viper, one hand resting casually on the back of the chair, watching him like a scientist observing a test subject. Ghost lingered by the door, unmoving, silent. Viper was the only one seated, comfortably, like this was his office and not Jang’s.
Jang forced a breath. “What do you want?” His voice was hoarse, but he made sure it carried its usual authority.
Shadow’s gloved fingers tapped the wood of the chair before he spoke. “For now?” He gestured toward the chair behind the desk. “We want you to take a seat.”
Jang hesitated, but a glance at the three made him comply. There was something about that silence that unsettled him. He lowered himself into the chair, feeling the weight of the moment press down on his shoulders.
Viper leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His mask obscured his face, but his tone was laced with amusement. “I have to say, Minister.” He gestured to the evidence on the desk. “Your resume is quite impressive.”
Jang’s jaw tightened. He didn’t take the bait. He had faced worse situations. He had survived worse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shadow let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he picked up a particular folder, flipping it open. “Of course you don’t.” His gloved fingers trailed over the lines of text. “Let’s remind you, shall we? Rigged construction bids, shell companies used to launder bribes, siphoning millions from public funds for private projects— oh , and this one’s my favorite.” He turned a page. “The child welfare fund scandal. Millions meant for underprivileged children, but somehow, Jang Namil ended up with a brand-new luxury villa instead.”
Jang’s fingers curled into fists under the desk.
Viper hummed, tilting his head. “You’ve been slippery all these years.”
Shadow snapped the folder shut and set it down with a sharp sound. “You’ve survived more corruption investigations than anyone in this country. Always managing to come out unscathed.”
“It’s almost admirable, really.” Viper’s voice held a mocking lilt.
Jang’s eyes darted between them, his mind racing. He had to stay calm. Think. He schooled his expression. “If you’re here to make accusations, you’re wasting your time. I don’t operate based on rumors.”
Viper let out a low hum. “Rumors?”
Shadow tossed a flash drive onto the desk, its label mockingly clear.
Jang stared at it.
“This isn’t a rumor, Minister.” Viper’s voice was quieter now. “It’s proof.”
Jang’s mind raced. His connections ran deep. His power was vast. If they were threatening him with evidence, then they wanted something. He took a breath, forcing his voice into calculated calm.
“If you’re here to blackmail me, name your price.” His voice was steadier now. He leaned forward slightly, slipping into familiar territory. “Money? Power? A favor? I have connections that could benefit you. If you want—”
Shadow’s chuckle was slow, deliberate, almost pitying. He leaned against the chair, tilting his head. “You still think we’re here to make a deal?”
Jang stiffened. For a man used to buying his way out of everything, the idea of someone who couldn’t be bought was far more terrifying than any weapon they could use against him. His gaze flickered again—this time, to Ghost.
And that was when the real fear crept in.
Because Ghost hadn’t said a single word. He hadn’t made a single unnecessary movement. He stood still, watching, his presence alone heavy.
That silence was intentional. Jang felt his nerves fray.
He wet his lips. “Who are you?” His voice was lower now, careful. “You—your voices, they sound familiar.”
For the first time, Viper’s amusement faded. A tense beat passed. Then, Shadow chuckled. “Do they?”
Jang’s pulse spiked.
Viper leaned forward again, resting his chin against his clasped hands. “Then tell me, Minister.” His voice was light, teasing. “Whose voices are we wearing?”
The study felt smaller. The shadows loomed darker. And for the first time in his life, Jang Namil knew—he wasn’t walking away from this unscathed.
Jang swallowed, his mind racing to find a way out of this. His carefully built empire was crumbling right before his eyes, but he refused to let it end like this. Not like this. He let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to sit up straighter in his chair. His voice was measured, smooth, the voice of a politician who had negotiated his way through scandals, secured backroom deals, and manipulated the system to his advantage.
“You’re smart men,” he started, choosing his words carefully. “You know how things work in our world. Money, power, and influence, they decide everything. And I have all three.” His gaze darted between them, trying to gauge their reactions. Viper, still seated across from him, amused. Shadow, standing behind him, fingers tapping idly against the back of the chair, casual. Ghost, silent by the door, an unreadable specter.
Jang licked his lips, pressing on. “I can give you whatever you want. You need money? Name your price.” His voice took on a practiced sincerity. “Positions? Protection? I can pull strings you don’t even know exist. I can—”
“ Tsk .” The sound was small, almost bored, but it was enough to make Jang’s throat close up. Viper leaned back in his chair, tilting his head as he regarded Jang with the ease of a predator watching its prey struggle. “You’re trying too hard, Namil,” he mused. “It’s almost sad.”
Jang’s hands curled into fists on his lap. “I’m just being reasonable. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something from me.” His voice wavered, but he steadied it quickly. “So let’s talk, let’s—”
“Talk?” Shadow chuckled softly, shaking his head as he pushed himself away from the chair.
Jang’s pulse spiked. “Minister, we didn’t come here to negotiate.”
Viper sighed, stretching his arms before resting his forearms on his knees. Then, in a voice too casual for the weight of his words, he laid out Jang’s options. “Alright, let’s make it simple. You have two choices.” He held up one finger. “First, we expose everything. The fraud, the bribery, the embezzlement—all of it. We let the public decide your fate.”
Jang’s breath hitched. That would mean trial, imprisonment—disgrace.
Viper raised a second finger. “Or you do exactly as we say, and we decide your fate.”
The room felt too small, the walls closing in. Jang clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. That oppressive, suffocating silence. Jang could feel Ghost’s presence like a looming shadow, standing there, unmoving. He couldn’t take it anymore.
He turned his eyes towards the silent figure, trying to sound composed. “Come now. We both know I’m more valuable alive than dead.” His voice was lighter now, almost coaxing. “You wouldn't have gone through the trouble of gathering all this—” he gestured to the documents, “if you didn’t need something from me. You’re not killers, or else I’d be dead already.”
He tried to sound certain. To convince them—and himself.
Nothing.
Jang pushed on, desperate. “If you were here to kill me, you wouldn’t have spent all this time explaining my choices. That means—”
“Who said we don’t want you dead?”
Jang froze. The voice was quiet. Lethal.
His head snapped toward Ghost before he could stop himself, his eyes widening as he finally noticed—the gun. Sleek, black, and glinting under the dim study light. It had been in Ghost’s hand the entire time. Not raised. Not aimed. Just there. A silent promise.
Jang’s blood ran cold. His fingers curled against the armrests, his body tensing involuntarily.
Ghost hadn’t spoken a single word before now. And now that he had, it felt like the room had turned to ice. He opened his mouth, but for the first time in decades, words didn’t come.
A soft, disappointed sigh brought his attention back to Viper, who shook his head. “Ghost has a bit of anger issues, you see.” His voice was almost conversational. “But don’t worry.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin against his clasped hands. “He doesn’t play around.”
Jang’s stomach churned. His pulse was hammering now, but he forced himself to stay composed, gripping onto whatever sense of control he had left. “What do you want from me?”
His voice came out quieter, betraying just a fraction of his fear. And for the first time, Jang understood, he wasn’t negotiating. He was begging.
A slow, mocking clap broke the silence. Shadow leaned forward, his gloved hands meeting in a lazy applause, the leather making a soft, dull sound against the tension in the room.
“Finally.”
Jang’s gaze snapped to him, but Shadow was already reaching into his coat, retrieving a blank sheet of paper and a sleek black pen. With a careless flick of his wrist, he slid them across the polished desk, the paper stopping just in front of Jang.
The minister’s brows furrowed. “What is this?” His voice was hoarse, his throat suddenly dry.
Viper exhaled a quiet laugh, leaning back into his seat. “Your last statement, Jang Namil.” His voice was smooth, almost amused, as if the whole situation entertained him.
Jang froze. “My… what?”
Viper tilted his head. “Come now. You’re not a stupid man.” He nodded toward the paper. “You know what to do.”
Jang’s fingers curled into fists. His mind screamed at him to think, to plan, but the reality was settling in too fast. They weren’t here to negotiate. They weren’t here to threaten him into submission. They were here to end him.
A slow, creeping dread spread through his chest, heavier than anything he had ever felt before. His life—everything he had built, fought for, killed for—was about to end. And they were making him do it.
Jang licked his lips, his tongue dry as sandpaper. “You think I’ll just go along with this? That I’ll write my own confession and—”
“You will.” Ghost’s voice was quiet, certain. Jang looked at him, still standing silent, still holding that damn gun.
The minister’s throat tightened. There was no way out.
His eyes dropped to the paper again, his fingers twitching slightly as he hesitated. He sucked in a shaky breath, forcing himself to compose the little dignity he had left. If he had to do this, he needed leverage—a way to leave a mark. His gaze flickered up.
“I assume you want names.” Viper smiled. “Of course.”
A second sheet was placed in front of him, this time with a list already printed.
Jang’s stomach twisted the moment he saw the names. Some he had worked with for years. Some had been smarter, kept their hands cleaner, but he knew the truth. And yet something was off.
His fingers tightened around the page, eyes scanning the list again, reading each name carefully. These weren’t all of them. He knew who the true puppeteers were—the men who sat so high in the food chain that their names were rarely whispered, let alone written. And yet, those names were missing.
His voice came out quieter this time. “Why only these?”
Shadow smirked behind his mask, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Jang swallowed. “You know who the real players are. The ones at the very top.” His fingers curled against the sheet, pressing slightly into the paper. “Why aren’t they here?”
For the first time, Viper’s smile faded. He exhaled, tilting his head, regarding Jang like one might regard an insect crawling across their dinner plate. Then, with a small shrug, he simply said, “We start small.”
Jang’s breath caught. His hands suddenly felt too cold, his body too light. They weren’t just here for him. They weren’t just making an example out of him. They were setting the stage.
His hands trembled as he picked up the pen. The weight of the moment pressed down on him like an avalanche, suffocating, crushing. His eyes flickered to the sheet of paper before him, his own confession staring back at him, waiting. He hesitated.
Viper sighed, reclining in his seat, tapping his fingers lazily against the desk. “Come on now. We don’t have all night.”
Jang clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the pen as he forced himself to move. Each stroke of ink felt like a nail in his own coffin. Each word, a death sentence.
By the time he was done, the paper was filled with his crimes—the bribery, the money laundering, the backdoor deals, the people he had manipulated and discarded like chess pieces. It was all there, inked into permanence.
His fingers trembled as he reached for his official seal, pressing it onto the paper with a final, resounding stamp. And then, with a slow, agonizing breath, he scrawled his signature beneath it all.
His confession. His death sentence.
For a moment, silence filled the study. The clock on the wall ticked softly, a cruel reminder of time slipping away.
His breath hitched as Ghost stepped forward.
For the first time that night, the figure that had loomed in the background all this time, a silent reaper, was finally closing in. The dim lighting barely touched him, his all-black attire blending into the shadows he had emerged from.
Jang’s fingers curled into fists against his lap. His body was already numb with fear, but now, with each step Ghost took toward him, the terror multiplied.
His gut twisted. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
Ghost’s movements were measured, almost lazy. The black gloves on his hands made no sound as he approached, but the weight of his presence alone was enough to make the minister’s pulse spike.
He had seen death before. He had ordered it, had witnessed it, had felt the power of controlling who lived and who perished. But never before had he been at the receiving end of it. And he knew—he just knew—that what stood before him now was nothing less than death itself.
Jang’s gaze lifted to Ghost’s eyes.
Nothing.
Cold. Empty. Merciless.
A shiver shot down his spine. There was nothing there—no hesitation, no emotion, not even the satisfaction of a predator toying with its prey. Just a void.
A choked breath slipped past Jang’s lips before he could stop it. He swallowed, his gaze darting towards Viper and Shadow, as if waiting for them to pull Ghost back, to say this was some kind of twisted warning and not his final hour.
Shadow’s voice was light, almost mocking as he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “So, Minister, would you like to do it yourself, or would you like some assistance?”
Jang’s throat closed. His fingers twitched. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak.
Shadow tilted his head. “Not saying anything?” He glanced at Ghost, then back at Jang. “Ghost is not just good with his words, he has quite a way with guns as well, you know.”
Something clicked in Jang’s mind at those words. Something that made his entire world tilt. His breath caught, his pupils dilated as realization crept in like a slow, creeping horror. The familiarity of that statement, the way it was phrased—it sparked something in his memory. A recent moment in passing, words that he spoke that very evening.
Slowly, his eyes shifted back to Ghost. Those eyes. That stance. The suffocating silence.
Realization slammed into him like ice water. His breath shook. His world tilted. “No.” His voice barely came out. He looked between them, really looked. “Who—”
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a safety being released.
Jang’s body locked up as the cold steel of a silenced pistol pressed against his temple. The room spun. His vision blurred. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He was going to die. No matter what he said, no matter what he did this was his end.
“Choose,” Ghost finally spoke.
Jang’s entire body trembled. His mind screamed at him to speak, to bargain, to plead but he couldn’t. His voice failed him.
Ghost clicked his tongue in disapproval.
The barrel dug deeper into his temple.
Jang gasped softly, feeling the weight of it, the finality of it. His eyes darted to Viper, desperate. “Who… Who are you?”
The three of them exchanged glances.
Then, as if indulging the final wish of a dying man, Viper finally moved. His gloved fingers reached up, curling around the edge of his black mask.
Jang’s breath came ragged.
With agonizing slowness, Viper pulled the mask downward, revealing his face.
And Jang’s blood turned to ice as realization hit him. His breath hitched. His pupils blew wide. “You—” A name clawed at his throat, but before he could utter a sound Ghost leaned in.
His voice was soft. Almost a whisper. “Do you still think my father would be proud of me?”
Jang's lips parted, but the shot came first.
Notes:
Thoughts on who's Shinigami??
Chapter Text
The digital lock beeped softly as Seungcheol punched in the passcode, the apartment door clicking open. It was eerily quiet inside—Seokmin’s office bag sat neatly on the couch, and a small, neatly wrapped gift rested on the center table. The place was just as tidy as expected, everything in its place.
Except for the three uninvited guests now creeping through the entrance.
Soonyoung, already on a mission, had dropped to his knees in front of Seokmin’s bedroom door, fingers fumbling as he tried to pick the lock with what looked like a bent paperclip. His brows furrowed in deep concentration as he twisted the metal, muttering under his breath like some sort of master thief.
Seungkwan, standing behind him, let out an exaggerated sigh. “Soonyoung, for God’s sake. You’re an attorney. What are you even doing?”
“Breaking in.” Soonyoung didn’t even glance back, too focused on his self-appointed task.
Seungkwan pressed his fingers to his temples, inhaling deeply. “You literally work for the law. You prosecute people who break into places.”
“Technically, I don’t prosecute,” Soonyoung corrected absently. “I defend.”
“Not the point!” Seungkwan hissed.
Soonyoung didn’t even spare him a glance. “Relax, Kwannie. It’s not breaking and entering if we know the passcode.”
Seungkwan scoffed. “That is exactly what breaking and entering is.”
Seungcheol, standing behind them with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, finally spoke. “Are you sure you know what you're doing?” His tone was mild, more amused than concerned.
“I've seen it in movies,” Soonyoung mumbled, still jiggling the lock. “It’s something like this, I swear—” There was a sharp snap and the paperclip bent awkwardly between Soonyoung’s fingers. He blinked. “Okay, maybe not exactly like this—”
Seungkwan turned to Seungcheol expectantly. “Say something! Stop this madness. Be the voice of reason. For once.”
Seungcheol exhaled through his nose. Then, to Seungkwan’s absolute horror, he crouched down beside Soonyoung, nudging him out of the way with a casual push. “Move.” Seungcheol muttered, “Amature.”
Soonyoung blinked. “What—”
Before either of them could react, Seungcheol pulled out a thin wire from his pocket, inserting it into the keyhole with the practiced ease of someone who had definitely done this before. A soft click followed almost instantly.
Soonyoung’s eyes widened in awe. “Whoa. That was so cool.”
Seungkwan gawked at him, utterly scandalized. “Are you kidding me?!”
Seungcheol smirked, slipping the wire into his pocket as if this were an everyday skill. “You were doing it wrong, Youngie.”
Seungkwan was still stuck on the sheer insanity of what had just transpired. “You're a university professor, Seungcheol. Do your students know you have a side gig as a burglar? Are your lectures called Choi Seungcheol’s Guide to Lockpicking 101? ”
Seungcheol gave him a flat look. “It’s just a skill.”
“A criminal skill!”
Soonyoung snickered. “Well, Seungkwan, you just stood there and let us commit a crime. What does that say about you? Are you teaching your little preschoolers how to cover up illegal activity?”
Seungkwan gasped, absolutely horrified. “I am a role model! I teach children about honesty and kindness, not—whatever this is!”
“Sure, sure.” Soonyoung smirked. “But the fact remains, you’re an accomplice now.”
Seungkwan opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, the door swung open.
Three heads snapped up.
Seokmin stood in the doorway, his hair sticking up in all directions, eyes barely open, but still managing to glare daggers at the three intruders crouched outside his room. His t-shirt was slightly wrinkled, and he looked like he’d been in the middle of the best sleep of his life— until this.
For a long moment, none of them moved.
Then Soonyoung, ever the quick-thinker, reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of confetti, tossing it into the air with an awkward smile. “Happy birthday!” he chirped.
The tiny, colorful bits of paper fluttered to the floor in complete silence.
Seokmin slowly turned his gaze from the confetti, back to the three of them. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then his eyes darkened. “Get out.” he said flatly.
Soonyoung’s smile dropped instantly. “What? No! Seokminnie, come on. We—”
“Out.” Seokmin repeated, voice still raspy from sleep but filled with enough menace to send chills down their spines.
Soonyoung looked genuinely devastated. “But we brought your favorite cheesecake!”
Seokmin’s glare sharpened. “Eat it yourself.”
“I don’t like cheesecake!” Soonyoung whined. “I bought it because you like it!”
Seungkwan sighed, stepping forward to grab Soonyoung by the waist and physically drag him back. “Enough, you menace.”
Seungcheol calmly placed a firm hand on Seokmin’s shoulder, gently guiding him back into the room. “Go back to sleep,” he said. “Come out when you feel like it.”
Seokmin exhaled heavily, his tired glare lingering for a moment longer before he relented and shut the door in their faces.
The three of them stood in the hallway. The silence between them stretched, awkward and uncertain. Soonyoung shifted on his feet, looking between the closed door and the cheesecake still in his hands. “Well... that was dramatic.”
Seungkwan let out a slow sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What did you expect? You barged into his apartment at the crack of dawn waving a cake in his face.”
Seungcheol glanced at the door before shaking his head. “Let him rest. We’ll try again later.”
Soonyoung pouted. “But it’s his birthday…”
Seungkwan clapped a hand on his back, steering him away. “And it still will be in a few hours. Let’s clean up before he wakes up and murders us.”
The mess of confetti had been dealt with, but the pre-school teacher was still grumbling under his breath as he dusted off the couch cushions. “We came here to celebrate, and now we’re the ones cleaning up after ourselves? Some birthday surprise this turned out to be.”
Soonyoung, unfazed, had already migrated to the kitchen, poking around the cabinets with the curiosity of a raccoon. “If we want to make it up to him, we have to go all out. What do you guys think? Pancakes? French toast?”
Seungcheol, standing by the counter with his arms crossed, raised a brow. “Seaweed soup. It’s a birthday tradition.”
Soonyoung turned, pointing at him like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now that is an idea! Look at you, Professor, actually being smart for once.”
Seungkwan rolled his eyes. “As if you were about to cook anything remotely difficult.”
Despite their usual banter, they moved in perfect sync, weaving around each other in the kitchen with the ease that only came from years of friendship. Soonyoung stirred the simmering seaweed soup while Seungkwan expertly plated the side dishes, and Seungcheol handled the rice and eggs with practiced efficiency. The apartment soon filled with the rich, savory aroma of home-cooked food—warm rice, sizzling eggs, and the deep umami of seaweed soup. It smelled like comfort, like familiarity, like home.
By the time they finished setting the table, the spread looked almost too good to eat, like something out of a perfectly curated family gathering. Everything was arranged with care, from the neatly folded napkins to the way the dishes complemented each other, an unspoken testament to how much they cared.
Right on cue, Seokmin finally emerged from his room, freshly showered, his damp hair tousled in a way that made him look softer than usual. He was drowning in an oversized sweatshirt, sleeves slightly too long as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, blinking sleepily at the sight before him. His gaze flickered from the table to his friends, a flicker of amusement playing in his eyes before he let out a slow, impressed whistle.
“Well, well, well,” he mused, resting his hands on his hips. “If I knew throwing a tantrum would earn me a full-course meal, I would’ve started doing it years ago.”
Seungkwan, without so much as a moment’s hesitation, reached over and smacked the back of his head with practiced precision.
Seokmin yelped, jerking forward with a dramatic wince as he rubbed the sore spot. “Ow! What was that for?”
Seungkwan narrowed his eyes, voice laced with warning. “Dare to pull that stunt again, Lee Seokmin, and see what happens. We let it slide this time because it’s your birthday.”
The birthday boy grinned, utterly unbothered as he flopped into the chair, already eyeing the food with interest. “Noted. Now, let’s eat before it gets cold.”
They gathered around the table, the easy warmth of their friendship settling over them like a well-worn blanket. The food was still steaming, the aroma rich and comforting, but before they could dig in, Soonyoung excitedly brought out the birthday cake, setting it carefully in the center. A single candle flickered atop the frosting, casting a soft glow over the table.
Seokmin, being dramatic, took the knife and poised it over the cake with exaggerated precision, furrowing his brows like a chef about to create a masterpiece. His friends, however, were less than convinced.
“What?” he asked, eyes twinkling with laughter as he caught their skeptical stares.
Seungkwan crossed his arms. “You have a history of ruining cakes.”
Soonyoung nodded gravely. “You once dropped an entire cake before even cutting it.”
Seokmin gasped in indignation. “That was one time!”
“Twice,” The professor corrected smoothly, taking a sip of water as if he hadn’t just delivered a fatal blow.
Seokmin scowled, deciding that the best way to end the attack on his character was to take the first bite before they could dig up more dirt on him. “Whatever,” he huffed, shoving a forkful of cake into his mouth.
With the cake successfully dealt with, they turned their attention to the steaming bowls of seaweed soup. Seokmin picked up his spoon, blowing gently on the surface before taking the first sip. The warmth spread through him instantly, a familiar taste that reminded him of home, of childhood, of all the birthdays he had spent surrounded by the same unwavering presence of his friends.
Just as he swallowed, the trio suddenly erupted into a loud, synchronized, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
The unexpected shout nearly made Seokmin choke. He coughed, setting his spoon down with wide eyes. “ God —could you guys not?” He wheezed, glaring at them between gulps of water.
Seungkwan smirked, leaning back in his chair. “What? We were just making sure you felt celebrated.”
Seokmin shook his head, exasperated but laughing nonetheless. “I feel like I just turned five.”
“Well,” Seungkwan said, tilting his head with a mischievous grin, “it suits you.”
They ate at an easy pace, conversation flowing naturally, as it always did.
Seungkwan took a sip of the soup with a hum of appreciation before setting his spoon down and leaning in. “Speaking of five-year-olds, one of my students told me yesterday—completely serious—that he’s engaged. He and his classmate already have their whole future mapped out, from the wedding to their Disneyland honeymoon.” He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “The confidence. Imagine being that sure about your life choices at five.”
Seungcheol chuckled, stirring his soup. “Honestly? I think I’d take overconfident five-year-olds over the so-called ‘adults’ in my university classes any day. At least kids don’t act like they have a PhD in everything. Sometimes I feel like I’m just standing there for decoration.”
“You’d be a good decoration.” Seokmin off-handedly commented earning snorts of laughter from the other two males.
“Speaking of decorations…” Soonyoung mumbled, still chewing as his gaze drifted toward the coffee table and jerked his chin towards it. “What’s that?”
Seokmin followed his line of sight, his expression briefly unreadable as his eyes landed on the neatly wrapped box sitting there. Before he could answer, Seungcheol spoke up smoothly. “It’s from his company. Yoon Pharma gives birthday gifts to their employees every year.”
Seungkwan scoffed, shaking his head. “You ask the same thing every year and still act like it’s a mystery.”
Soonyoung shrugged, unfazed. “Well, my firm’s never given me anything for my birthday,” he said, stuffing another spoonful of rice into his mouth. “Not even when I won cases. You’d think that would warrant at least a cupcake.”
Seokmin smirked, leaning back. “Maybe they would if you stopped calling your boss ‘dude’ in court.”
Soonyoung’s jaw dropped. “That happened one time!”
Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “Twice.”
Seungcheol set his chopsticks down, casually adding, “Three times, actually.”
Seokmin laughed with the others, the easy warmth of their banter settling around him like a familiar embrace. But even as he joined in, his gaze kept flickering back to the coffee table.
There it was. The box.
Wrapped in pristine teal-colored paper, its edges sharp, the ribbon tied with precise care. It sat there like an unspoken presence, an unacknowledged weight in the room. To anyone else, it was just another birthday present—probably from his company, a simple token of appreciation for another year.
But Seokmin knew better. Because it wasn’t from his company.
Not really.
The first time it had arrived was his first year at Yoon Pharma. He had been fresh into the corporate world then—still navigating the long hours, still finding his footing, still eager to prove that he belonged. That birthday, when he had come home exhausted from work, the box had been waiting for him.
Same teal wrapping. Same meticulous presentation.
Curious, he had opened it right away. Inside, nestled in fine tissue paper, was a leather-bound planner. Not just any planner—it was exactly the kind he had been eyeing for weeks but hadn’t bought for himself. Alongside it sat a fountain pen, sleek and expensive, the kind that left an effortless glide of ink against paper.
He had thought it was from HR, a thoughtful company tradition. The next day, still touched by the gesture, he had gone to thank them. Only to be met with blank stares. “There’s no such policy in our company.”
The response had sent a chill down his spine. Seokmin had laughed it off at the time, brushing it aside as a harmless mix-up. But the thought still lingered. Who had sent it? He had written it off as a fluke—maybe a secret admirer, a mentor, someone who had taken a silent interest in him. But the next year, it happened again. And the year after that.
Like clockwork, at exactly midnight on his birthday, a carefully wrapped box would arrive. No name. No return address. No note. Just another carefully chosen gift—an elegant watch, a pair of cufflinks with his initials engraved, a silk tie in his favorite color. Thoughtful. Personal. Always something he would have chosen for himself.
And that was what unsettled him the most. Whoever it was—they knew him. His tastes, his habits, the little details he never even voiced out loud.
The first few years, he had tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was a friend, a distant relative, a generous boss who preferred anonymity.
But deep down, there was always a memory that Seokmin refused to touch. Refused to let it take shape, refused to acknowledge the way it lurked at the edges of his mind, waiting for a moment of weakness to slip through.
He didn’t wonder about the teal wrapping or the precise timing of the delivery. Didn’t let himself think about the hands that had folded the paper so neatly, the choice behind every carefully selected gift.
He didn’t trace it back to the past. Didn’t let it tether him to something he had long since walked away from.
The box was just a box. A coincidence. A meaningless gesture. And if his chest felt a little heavier as he turned away, well—some things were best left unanswered.
His fingers twitched against his knee, a brief betrayal of thought, but he exhaled slowly and let the tension slip away. Let the weight of the unopened box fade into the background, where it belonged.
What mattered was here—the present—the people in front of him. The ones who had barged into his apartment like it was their own, who had woken him up with noise and chaos but also filled his home with warmth, with laughter, with the kind of familiarity that didn’t ask for anything in return. The ones who had stayed, through every triumph, every misstep, every quiet moment in between.
Whoever sent the midnight gift—whether out of sentiment, obligation, or something else entirely—was a mystery meant for another day.
But not today.
—
Junhui’s car rolled up to the curb, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the windshield in golden streaks. Wonwoo was already there, standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, his usual unreadable expression in place as he watched the approaching vehicle. He didn’t say a word as he opened the passenger door and slid in, the quiet click of his seatbelt settling into the silence between them.
Junhui barely spared his friend a glance before pulling back onto the road. “You owe me for this,” he muttered, his fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel.
Wonwoo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, tone as dry as ever. “You always say that, and yet, here we are.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Junhui scoffed, shifting gears as they merged onto the main road. “Let’s take a moment to appreciate how I could’ve been sleeping in for once, but instead, we got a very urgent SOS message from the one and only Lee fucking Chan.” He shot Wonwoo a pointed look. “Who, need I remind you, has the absolute worst track record when it comes to defining emergencies.”
Wonwoo smirked slightly, watching the city blur past outside the window. “I give it a ninety percent chance that it’s something completely ridiculous.”
“Ninety-five,” Junhui shot back without missing a beat as the car halted at a red light.
Wonwoo stretched out his legs, leaning into his seat. “If it’s dumb, I’m turning around and walking out.”
Junhui snorted, “Oh, believe me, if it’s dumb, I’m making sure he regrets wasting my time.” The traffic light flicked to green, and their car eased forward, the hum of the engine steady against the afternoon lull. He exhaled through his nose, his lips quirking with something too sharp to be amusement. “Honestly? I kind of hope this is an actual life-threatening emergency.”
Wonwoo turned his head so fast it was a miracle his glasses didn’t slip right off. His stare was flat, unimpressed. “What the hell, Jun?”
Junhui didn’t even look at him, keeping his eyes on the road with a perfectly neutral expression—except for the unmistakable gleam of mischief in his eyes. “I’m just saying,” he continued, undeterred. “For once, I want one of Channie’s distress calls to be real. Not another catastrophe involving his tragic attempt at event planning. Or, God forbid, another ‘emergency’ because he stubbed his toe against the cabinet.”
Wonwoo snorted despite himself. “Right. Because it would be so much better if we rolled up to find him bleeding out on the floor.”
“Well—maybe not bleeding out,” Junhui allowed, lips twitching as he flicked on his turn signal. “But something that at least justifies the all-caps ‘SOS’ text.”
Wonwoo exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You have a very messed up way of thinking.”
Junhui shrugged, drumming his fingers idly against his thigh. “I’m just prepared.”
Wonwoo’s gaze sharpened. “Oh? And what exactly do you mean by prepared?”
Junhui’s hands remained steady on the wheel, his voice deceptively light. “I brought my gun.”
The air in the car shifted.
Wonwoo blinked once. The silence stretched. “I’m sorry, what ?”
“My gun,” Junhui repeated, as casually as if he had just mentioned bringing an umbrella. “And my taser. And my handcuffs. Just in case.”
Wonwoo squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache. “Jesus Christ.”
The detective’s grin stretched wider, wholly unrepentant. “What? If it is a real emergency, we should be prepared. You, of all people, should appreciate that. You work at Blue House—shouldn’t you be the one preaching about safety and security?”
Wonwoo inhaled sharply through his nose, his patience hanging by a thread. He did not have the energy to unpack the absurdity of this conversation. Instead, he slumped back against the headrest, exhaling through gritted teeth. “We’re going to show up and find Chan crying over a torn banner, aren’t we?”
Junhui hummed, tapping a finger against the wheel. “Most likely. But hey, if things go sideways, at least one of us is ready.”
Wonwoo cracked one eye open just to shoot him the most withering look imaginable. Junhui remained unfazed. Of course, he did. Instead of wasting his breath, Wonwoo folded his arms, gaze drifting to the streets passing by his window. He had known Junhui long enough to recognize a losing battle when he saw one.
But if this really was just another one of Chan’s overblown disasters—if they walked in only to find the so-called “emergency” was something like a broken centerpiece—he was turning around and walking right back out. No hesitation. No goodbyes.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the building, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun. Junhui killed the engine, leaning back in his seat with a skeptical glance up at the structure.
It was a modern commercial building, its glass windows reflecting the steady flow of people walking along the bustling street. Cafés lined the sidewalk, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mixing with the afternoon air. There was nothing remotely alarming about the place—no panicked onlookers, no signs of destruction, no crime scene tape.
Wonwoo exhaled, unimpressed. “If this is actually an emergency, then this building doesn’t suit the vibe of it.”
The detective hummed, tilting his head. “Maybe appearances are deceptive.”
Wonwoo shot him a dry look. “Or maybe we’re just idiots for taking Chan seriously.”
Junhui grinned but said nothing as he pulled out his phone, sending a quick text to their friend.
Jun [12:53 pm]: We’re here. Where are you?
The response came almost instantly.
Chan [12:53 pm]: First floor. Hurry.
Wonwoo stared at the text, then back at the building, unimpressed. “First floor?”
Junhui’s lips twitched in amusement as he pocketed his phone. “Only one way to find out.”
Without further debate, they unbuckled their seatbelts, stepping out of the car and into the thick of the weekend crowd. Whatever mess Chan had dragged them into this time, they’d soon find out.
The lobby was sleek and modern, but nothing stood out as particularly worrisome. No screaming, no fire alarms, no overturned furniture.
“This is already looking like a waste of time,” Wonwoo muttered as they made their way toward the elevator.
Junhui smirked. “A little faith, Won. Maybe he’s actually trapped under something heavy this time.”
Wonwoo ignored him.
The elevator chimed as the doors slid open, and they stepped outside. The corridor was silent—until a sudden high-pitched scream echoed from somewhere behind the huge wooden doors.
Both of them tensed.
Junhui’s instincts kicked in immediately. His hand shot into his jacket, fingers wrapping around the cool handle of his taser gun. His mind worked on autopilot, immediately assessing the situation. Wonwoo’s sharp gaze met his, muscles coiled in anticipation. Screams like that meant trouble. Meant danger.
The two cautiously scanned their surroundings before grabbing the metal handle and pushing the door open.
“What the hell?” Wonwoo muttered.
Before them was not the scene of a crime. Not a hostage situation. Not even a minor inconvenience.
It was a Mickey and Minnie Mouse-themed birthday party.
The entire hall had been transformed into a cartoonish wonderland. Large Mickey and Minnie cutouts stood at the entrance, their oversized gloved hands welcoming guests. The walls were decorated with red, yellow, and black balloons, some shaped like Mickey’s iconic ears. A massive banner stretched across the room, spelling out Happy 5th Birthday, Doyoon! in playful letters.
Junhui scanned the room, his expression blank. “This cannot be where he asked us to come.”
A long table was covered with a bright red tablecloth, filled with an array of colorful cupcakes, cookies shaped like Mickey’s face, and a towering birthday cake decorated with tiny figurines of Disney characters.
Kids were running around, giggling, screaming, chasing each other between clusters of balloons. Parents stood at the edges, chatting amongst themselves, occasionally stepping in to prevent minor disasters.
Junhui exhaled through his nose, loosening his grip on the taser. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Wonwoo sighed, already regretting the decision to come. “I knew it. Ninety-five percent chance, remember?”
They stood there for a moment longer, their dark, muted clothing clashing starkly against the explosion of colors around them. Parents stole brief, puzzled glances their way, no doubt wondering what two men who looked more suited for a crime scene were doing at a children’s birthday party.
Junhui rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly. “If Chan called us here for something ridiculous, I might actually kill him.”
Wonwoo hummed in agreement, though his gaze remained sharp, sweeping the room until it landed on their supposed emergency.
Lee Chan stood near the back, deep in conversation with someone, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. He didn’t seem frantic, injured, or in any form of distress—just absorbed in whatever discussion he was having.
“There,” Junhui said, jerking his chin in Chan’s direction.
Wonwoo nodded, unimpressed. “He better have a good reason for this.”
Before they could approach, Chan’s gaze flickered toward them. Recognition sparked in his eyes, and after a brief word to the person he was speaking to, he gestured to one of the staff members nearby.
The woman walked over with a professional smile. “You must be Junhui and Wonwoo?”
Wonwoo narrowed his eyes slightly. “Yeah.”
“Mr. Lee asked me to take you to the back room,” she said smoothly, already turning to lead the way.
Junhui and Wonwoo exchanged glances, eyebrows raised, Mister Lee?
“The back room?” Wonwoo repeated, skepticism laced in his tone.
The staff member only nodded. “Yes. This way, please.”
Neither of them moved immediately, exchanging another look before begrudgingly following. Their patience was wearing thin.
As they trailed after the staff member, weaving through clusters of sugar-high children, Wonwoo muttered under his breath, “I don’t know about you, but I’m mentally preparing to kill him.”
Junhui let out a slow smirk, cracking his knuckles. “Oh, don’t worry. I brought my taser for a reason.”
The moment Junhui and Wonwoo stepped into the back room, Chan looked like a man who had just spotted an oasis in the middle of a scorching desert. His shoulders sagged in sheer relief as he let out a dramatic exhale.
“Oh, thank God you guys are here,” he said, practically beaming as he stepped forward, arms outstretched, clearly about to embrace them in gratitude.
Junhui, however, held up a single hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Don’t move.”
Chan blinked, startled, his arms frozen mid-air. “Huh?”
Junhui’s expression was unreadable, but the look in his eyes had Chan hesitating. Wonwoo, standing beside him, crossed his arms and raised a single brow. “Did you,” he began slowly, voice dangerously calm, “literally send an SOS for a birthday party?”
Chan’s lips pressed together into a tight line. He shifted on his feet before nodding once. “Yes.”
Junhui inhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment as though gathering every ounce of patience left in his body. Then, with an eerie calm, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his taser, and aimed it directly at Chan. “Lee. Jung. Chan.”
Chan gulped audibly, his eyes darting from the taser to Junhui’s unamused expression. “Yes Junnie?”
Junhui’s jaw ticked. “Do you have any idea what we went through when we got your message?”
Chan opened his mouth, but one glance at Junhui’s expression had him closing it again. His gaze flickered toward Wonwoo for help, but the other man just adjusted his glasses, unimpressed. To make things worse, one of Chan’s team members was also present in the room, standing a little off to the side, silently observing the entire ordeal.
Junhui continued, his voice clipped with frustration. “I was ready to walk into a hostage situation.”
Wonwoo adjusted his stance, expression blank. “I was preparing to call an ambulance.”
Junhui scoffed. “And I was this close to tasing a five-year-old.”
Chan’s eyes widened in horror. “Please don’t tase a child!”
Junhui didn’t even blink. “Do not call for help for dumb reasons.”
Chan gasped, hand over his chest. “This is not a dumb reason! This is an emergency!”
Wonwoo’s patience was wearing thin. “A children’s party does not qualify for an SOS, Chan.”
“But it does!” Chan insisted, throwing his hands up. “First, the balloon guys got stuck in traffic, then the cake almost toppled over, and on top of that, I have 50 sugar-high children screaming at me while their parents look at me like I should be a magician instead of an event planner!” He ran both hands through his hair, eyes wild. “I’m on the verge of a breakdown!”
Junhui and Wonwoo exchanged a look. It was the kind of look that said this man is unbelievable.
Chan caught the look and scowled. “I swear to God, don’t look at each other like that!”
Wonwoo exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Channie,” he began, voice calm but firm, “you cannot just send distress signals like this. People use SOS for actual life-threatening situations. Not for a party where the biggest crisis is a late balloon delivery.”
Chan glared at him. “Says the man who’s never had to manage fifty children at once.”
“And I never will.” Wonwoo deadpanned. “Because I like my sanity.”
Chan threw his hands up again. “You guys don’t understand! If I don’t get this party under control, my entire career as an event planner is over!”
Wonwoo didn’t even hesitate. “That might be for the best.”
Chan gasped, clutching his chest. “Wow. Rude.”
Junhui was barely holding back a smirk, but he decided to let Wonwoo take the heat for that one. Instead, he clicked the safety back onto his taser and slid it back into his jacket. “Alright,” he said, stretching his neck, “since we’re already here, what do you actually need?”
Chan’s eyes lit up. “Help!”
Wonwoo groaned. “I walked into this conversation knowing I was going to regret it.”
Junhui crossed his arms, unimpressed, and eyed Chan warily. “Alright, event planner extraordinaire, what exactly help do you need? Guarding the cake?”
Chan perked up immediately. “So you’ll help!”
Wonwoo, already done with the conversation, turned on his heel. “No.”
Chan’s smile dropped. “Wait, wait, wait!” He reached out, grabbing the sleeve of Wonwoo’s sweatshirt before he could escape. “Come on, we’re friends! Childhood friends! You can’t just leave me like this.”
Wonwoo shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “That friendship is currently rapidly deteriorating.”
Junhui smirked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Honestly, Chan, you should be grateful I didn’t shoot anyone today.”
Chan’s face went pale. “Let’s make sure it stays that way for the rest of the day. Or at least until I’m out of your shooting range.”
Wonwoo narrowed his eyes, tugging his sleeve out of Chan’s grasp. “If I end up with some kid’s vomit on me, I’m filing a lawsuit.”
Chan bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Yes! Anything you want! Just stay!”
Then, before either of them could protest further, he took a step back and squinted at them, head tilting slightly as if mentally calculating something. Junhui and Wonwoo exchanged a look—one that said oh no, we don’t like that look at all.
Junhui raised an eyebrow. “Why do I feel like you’re sizing us up for something?”
Chan’s lips curled into a grin—the kind that usually meant trouble. “Perfect.”
Wonwoo’s frown deepened. “Perfect for what?”
Chan ignored him and turned to his team member, motioning towards the door. “Go grab them.”
Junhui blinked. “Them?”
Wonwoo took a step back, instinctively preparing to bolt. “Nope. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.”
Chan’s grin widened. “Oh, you will.”
Something about the way he said that sent a shiver down Junhui’s spine. Whatever was coming they weren’t going to like it.
Wonwoo folded his arms, eyes narrowing at Chan. “What exactly are we doing?”
Chan scratched his head, looking suspiciously sheepish. “Well… funny story. The mascots we hired kinda… backed out last minute.”
Junhui’s expression flattened. “And this concerns us, how?”
Chan beamed and, with a dramatic flourish, pulled out two large, oversized costumes.
There was silence. Junhui stared. Wonwoo stared.
Then, at the exact same time, “Absolutely not.”
Chan, undeterred, shoved the costumes toward them. “Come on! It’s just for an hour! The kids are expecting Mickey and Minnie, and I cannot afford another disaster today.”
Junhui pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s my day off, Chan.”
“Exactly! More of a reason to help a friend in need!”
Wonwoo scowled. “I left my game for this?”
Chan grinned. “Think of it this way—you’ll get to play real-life games with the kids.”
Junhui groaned. “That’s the worst sales pitch I’ve ever heard.”
Wonwoo sighed, glaring at the costumes. “There’s no way I’m wearing that.”
Chan blinked innocently. “Oh? Then I guess you can be Mickey and Junnie can be Minnie.”
Junhui immediately turned to Wonwoo. “No, you’re Minnie.”
Wonwoo scoffed. “Like hell I am. You fit the role perfectly.”
Junhui pointed at him. “You’re the one who has refined posture!”
Wonwoo shot back, “And you have the voice!”
Junhui gasped, scandalized. “Are you saying I sound like Minnie Mouse?!”
“I absolutely am!”
Junhui exhaled sharply, throwing his hands up. “I am a police officer, for fuck’s sake! Do I look like someone who wears frilly dresses and entertains five-year-olds?”
Chan took a slow, calculated step backward. “You once went undercover as a cabaret singer, Detective Wen.”
Junhui visibly flinched. Wonwoo’s eyes widened, turning to their detective friend in sheer disbelief. “Wait. What?”
Junhui immediately turned murderous toward Chan. “You swore to take that to your grave.”
Chan grinned unapologetically. “Desperate times, desperate measures.”
Wonwoo, still reeling, gestured wildly. “Okay, but why were you a cabaret singer—no, how — and why wasn’t I notified? ”
“Not the point!” Junhui snapped, cheeks reddening.
Wonwoo smirked, folding his arms. “I suddenly think you’d make an amazing Minnie Mouse.”
Junhui pointed a finger at him, deadly. “I swear to god, Jeon Wonwoo—”
“Rock, paper, scissors?” Wonwoo cut in, smug.
Junhui huffed, rolling his shoulders. “Fine.”
Three rounds later, Junhui stared at his defeat with pure devastation.
Chan clapped him on the back, beaming. “Congratulations, Minnie.”
Junhui exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you both.”
Wonwoo grinned, patting his shoulder. “Just think of it as undercover work, Detective.”
Junhui threw his head back with a groan. This was not how he imagined spending his Saturday.
—
The café was a quiet refuge from the city’s restless pulse, its warmth wrapping around the evening crowd like a well-worn coat. The scent of freshly brewed coffee curled in the air, mingling with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of porcelain. Outside, street lights flickered against the cool glass, blurring with the motion of passing cars.
Jihoon sat in the corner booth, fingers curled loosely around his coffee cup, the steam curling into the dim light. Across from him, Joshua stirred his latte with lazy precision, a knowing glint in his eyes.
“Minister Jang,” Jihoon said at last, letting the name settle between them like the aftertaste of something bitter. “Quite the masterpiece you wrote.”
Joshua’s lips twitched, his fingers drumming against the ceramic. “I do take pride in my work.”
Jihoon huffed a quiet laugh. “Work? You had the easiest job out of all of us. He served his own sins on a silver platter.”
Joshua tilted his head, conceding the point. “Fair. But tying up the loose ends, making sure every claim held up, ensuring none of those names could slither their way out of it? That took effort.” He leaned back, tapping a thoughtful finger against his cup. “Minghao gave us the right whispers. You had already cracked open his offshore accounts days before the incident. And me?” A small, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips. “I just gift-wrapped it for the public.”
Jihoon took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes flicking over Joshua with something between amusement and exasperation. “You make it sound easy,” he mused, setting his cup down. “But you also have a way of making enemies.”
The journalist shrugged, effortlessly nonchalant. “After years of watching politicians tear each other apart? It practically is.” He lifted his cup in a mock toast. “To corruption—and the wreckage it always leaves behind.”
Jihoon let out a dry chuckle, tapping his mug against Joshua’s. “To your talent for making enemies—and the ever-growing list of people who want you gone.”
Joshua grinned, utterly unfazed. “Hardly my first time.”
The conversation eased into a lull, the quiet hum of the café filling the space between them. Neither found the silence uncomfortable—just a natural pause, a moment to sit with their thoughts. Jihoon idly scrolled through his phone, skimming past unread messages before glancing up. “Has Hao replied yet?”
Joshua exhaled, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Nope. Not since last night.”
Jihoon’s brows drew together slightly, but he didn’t look surprised. Instead, his gaze flickered toward the large clock mounted on the café wall. A beat passed, and almost simultaneously, they both lowered their eyes to the date on their phone screens. A quiet understanding settled between them.
Joshua sighed, rubbing a hand over his temple. “Of course.”
Jihoon stared into his coffee, the surface rippling slightly as he tapped a finger against the ceramic. “He’s probably drowning himself in work. Took extra hours just to keep moving.”
Joshua nodded, his expression carefully blank. “That’s what I figured.”
Jihoon hummed in agreement, but neither of them spoke further. There was nothing more to say. They already knew.
Minghao never talked about it—not directly, not in a way that invited conversation. But they all knew. They had learned to recognize the pattern, the quiet ritual he fell into on certain specific dates.
Instead of acknowledging them, he buried himself in work. Long hours that stretched into the night, unread messages piling up, his phone switched to silent. Moving from one task to the next with single-minded determination, as if stopping for even a second would let something catch up to him.
And today was one of those days.
Jihoon exhaled a slow sigh, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “Guess that means we should go check on him.”
Joshua huffed a quiet laugh, though there was little amusement behind it. “You just want an excuse to go to Black Door , don’t you?”
“Please.” Jihoon shot him a flat look. “You know I hate crowded places.”
“Then why volunteer?” Joshua arched a brow, taking another sip of his latte.
Jihoon slipped his phone into his pocket and pushed back his chair, standing with a languid stretch. “Because someone has to make sure he doesn’t work himself into the ground.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, tilting his head at Joshua. “And because you’re paying.”
Joshua hummed, unconvinced. Then, with a knowing smirk, he pointed at him. “Because, like always, you’ve conveniently ‘forgotten’ to bring your wallet.”
Jihoon didn’t even blink, his smirk widening. “That’s called being resourceful.”
Joshua rolled his eyes, but he was already pulling out his card to cover their coffee. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s just go before I regret this.”
With that, they rose from their seats, grabbed their coats, and stepped out into the crisp evening air. As they walked toward Black Door , neither of them said much. But there was an understanding between them, unspoken but firm.
Because if Minghao wasn’t going to answer their calls, then they’d just show up instead.
The atmosphere inside Black Door was as exclusive as always—warm golden lights casting an ambient glow over the sleek bar counter, the hum of conversation mingling with the soft strains of jazz playing through the speakers. The air smelled of aged whiskey and expensive cologne, an unmistakable mark of the elite clientele this place catered to.
Minghao stood behind the bar, sleeves of his silk black dress shirt rolled to his elbows, top two buttons undone revealing a silver of his collarbones and chest. His movements were precise as he adjusted the lineup of liquor bottles, each placed with an almost obsessive level of care. His fingers moved with practiced ease, the silver rings on his fingers reflecting the lights of the bar, but the faint crease between his brows hinted at his less-than-thrilled reaction to the unexpected visitors now occupying the barstools in front of him.
He didn’t rush to acknowledge them, instead taking his time inspecting the wide array of bottles, as if their presence was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Jihoon and Joshua, however, remained comfortably seated, exuding an air of casual entitlement that would’ve been convincing if not for the fact that they had no business being here.
Finally, Minghao arched a brow, setting the bottle aside. “You two look suspiciously out of place.” His voice was dry, unimpressed. He leaned against the counter, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “What do you want?”
Jihoon exhaled sharply, giving the bartender a flat look. “What does one usually want at a bar?”
Minghao didn’t miss a beat. “Didn’t realize we were running a charity tonight.” he mused, wiping down the counter with slow, deliberate strokes.
Jihoon leaned forward, resting his arms over his chest as he regarded Minghao with a mock frown. “Didn’t realize we had to make reservations just to get a drink from our supposed friend.”
Minghao didn’t bother with a response. Instead, he picked up another bottle of whiskey, inspected the label with an air of disinterest, and set it back down without so much as a glance in Jihoon’s direction. It was an unspoken challenge—one Jihoon wasn’t about to back down from.
Narrowing his eyes, Jihoon sat up straighter. “Fine. I’ll just complain to the manager that the bartender here is slacking off and ignoring paying customers.”
A flicker of amusement passed through Minghao’s eyes, barely noticeable, but there nonetheless. He finally turned his gaze toward Jihoon, lips curling at the edges. “Go ahead. Pretty sure the manager will remind you that you don’t even drink alcohol.”
Seated beside Jihoon, Joshua let out a low chuckle, propping his chin on his hand as he observed the exchange with obvious amusement. The two of them bickering was as predictable as the sun rising—it was just how they were. Jihoon pushed, Minghao countered, and Joshua sat back, entertained.
Jihoon scoffed. “I can still order water or a Coke, you know.”
Minghao tilted his head, as if considering the statement before his lips twitched with suppressed mirth. “We don’t serve any of those here.”
This time, Joshua actually laughed, thoroughly enjoying the sight of Jihoon’s jaw clenching in mild irritation.
Jihoon rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Right, of course. This place is so high-class that basic hydration is a foreign concept.”
Despite his deadpan tone, there was no real bite in his words. They had known each other long enough to understand that this back-and-forth was just part of their dynamic—sharp words, dry humor, and an unspoken understanding that went beyond whatever nonsense they chose to bicker over.
Minghao didn’t say a word. Instead, he turned, moving with the kind of fluid precision that came from years behind the bar. He plucked a glass from the counter, scooped up a handful of ice, and placed it in front of Jihoon with a soft clink.
Jihoon stared at it. Then at Minghao. Then back at the glass. His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. “What the hell is this?”
Minghao leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed, the picture of indifference. “The water you asked for.”
Jihoon blinked, then jabbed a finger at the glass. “It’s literally just ice.”
Minghao shrugged, utterly unbothered. “You just need to wait for it to melt.”
For a second, silence hung between them—then Joshua absolutely lost it. He burst into laughter, slapping a hand against the bar as he doubled over. “Oh my god. That’s actually genius. You’re so evil!”
Jihoon shot them both a glare, unimpressed. “You think this is funny?”
Joshua grinned, wiping at his eyes. “Oh, I know it’s funny.”
Minghao smirked, tilting his head slightly. “You’re the one who wanted water.”
Jihoon inhaled sharply, rubbing his temples like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment. “I hate both of you.”
Minghao’s smirk widened. “No, you don’t.”
Joshua chuckled, swirling the drink Minghao had actually prepared for him. “Come on, Jihoon. Let the ice do its thing. Patience is a virtue.”
Jihoon shot him a deadpan look. “Shut up.”
Minghao merely shook his head, amused, before turning to attend to another customer. Meanwhile, Jihoon sat there, arms crossed, glaring at his glass of ice like it had personally betrayed him.
Joshua lifted his drink to his lips, only half-listening as Jihoon grumbled about the inhumanity of being served ice instead of water. Minghao, ever the picture of relaxed amusement, served the customer before he leaned against the bar, watching the two with an air of detached entertainment.
But then—a slurred voice from the seat beside him caught Joshua’s attention. “I'm telling you, it's all rigged.”
Joshua didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. But the slight shift in his grip around the glass, the way his head tilted ever so slightly—he was listening now.
The woman, clearly drunk, leaned heavily toward her companion, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “That top contestant? The one everyone’s obsessed with? She’s not even the one singing.”
The other person—a man, maybe in his late forties, judging by the gravelly tone of his voice—sounded skeptical. “That’s a serious claim.”
The woman snorted. “Serious but true. She has someone else doing her vocals.”
Joshua’s grip on his glass tightened slightly. A lip-syncing scandal? Not unheard of, but reality shows thrived on the illusion of talent. If his were true, it would blow up.
The man chuckled. “And how do you know that?”
The woman lowered her voice even more, but Joshua caught it. “Because my cousin worked on the production team. Said the contestant is the niece of one of the major investors. No one’s allowed to say anything, but they all know.”
Joshua exhaled slowly, his mind already piecing things together.
Beside him, Jihoon and Minghao were still watching him, both too used to his antics to be surprised. They knew that look. Jihoon didn’t bother questioning it. Instead, he just muttered, half to himself, half to Minghao, “Here we go again.”
Joshua, ignoring them completely, casually reached into his pocket. He pulled out his vape and set it on the bar top, fingers clicking something discreetly before nudging it just slightly toward the pair beside him.
Jihoon, who had been watching with the deadpan exhaustion of someone who had seen this far too many times, exhaled slowly. He reached for a peanut from the dish in front of him, rolling it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth. “Oh wow. A completely normal vape.”
Minghao, casually polishing a glass behind the bar, didn’t even look up. “Looks totally normal.”
Joshua smirked, feigning innocence.
Jihoon arched a brow, unimpressed. “And it’s definitely not an illegally modified recording device?”
Joshua placed a hand on his chest, scandalized. “Ji, please. I am a man of integrity.”
Minghao let out a quiet laugh. “Right. And I’m the Minister of Justice.”
Jihoon scoffed. “You’re going to get sued one of these days.”
Joshua shrugged, clearly unbothered. “If they can prove it.”
Jihoon sighed, already envisioning the inevitable disaster. “I can see the headline now: ‘Journalist Caught in Eavesdropping Scandal, Friends Pretend They Don’t Know Him, Further Claim That He Had It Coming.’ ”
Joshua didn’t even look at him. The conversation beside him continued, the woman’s words spilling out freely now, her companion failing to quiet her down. The journalist simply smiled to himself, knowing that by the time they left, he’d have everything he needed.
—
The golden glow of the pendant light cast soft, flickering shadows across the living room, wrapping the space in an intimate warmth. The coffee table, modest but sturdy, sat between them, holding the half-empty bottle of whiskey Jeonghan had insisted on bringing but had been the only one drinking it and an assortment of half-eaten snacks scattered across the surface. In the middle of it all sat a cake, modest yet perfectly made, a single slice cut and placed on a separate dish—left untouched.
Jeonghan lifted his glass once again, his wrist loose, movements fluid and unrushed. His lips curled into a lazy smile, eyes twinkling under the dim light. “To Hansol,” he declared, voice rich with amusement and just a touch of sentiment. “The birthday boy, the man of the hour, the reluctant recipient of my affections—”
“Jeonghan,” Vernon interrupted, unimpressed. He didn’t even bother raising his own glass. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him. “This is the fifth toast you’ve made since you got here.”
Mingyu, lounging beside Vernon, snorted. “Honestly, at this point, I’m surprised you remember how many toasts he has raised.” He turned his head, eyes narrowing at Jeonghan playfully. “You’ve been drinking since you got here. Are you sure you’re not already drunk?”
Jeonghan gasped, placing a hand over his chest like Mingyu had just accused him of treason. “How dare you, Kim Mingyu? I am not drunk.” He emphasized each word, sitting up straighter as if that alone could prove his sobriety. Then, as if proving another point, he downed the rest of his drink in one fluid motion before setting the glass down with an elegant clink.
Vernon shook his head, exhaling a quiet chuckle. He reached forward, absently nudging the whiskey bottle further onto the table so Jeonghan wouldn’t accidentally knock it over in his exaggerated theatrics.
Jeonghan, still undeterred, smirked. “It’s your birthday, Hansol. No matter how many toasts I raise, they’ll never be enough.” His voice was softer this time, less playful, and there was something gentle in his gaze that Vernon chose not to acknowledge. “If I want to raise ten toasts, I will.”
Instead, the birthday boy rolled his eyes, but the small smile on his lips betrayed him. Mingyu chuckled beside him, watching the exchange with fond amusement. “At this point, you’re just making up excuses to keep drinking.”
Jeonghan smirked. “And?”
Mingyu barked out a laugh, cutting a slice of the cake for himself. He scooped up a bite of his cheesecake, pausing mid-chew as he turned to Vernon with an incredulous look. “Okay, but seriously—why do you always order cheesecake when you don’t even like it?”
Vernon, draped lazily against the couch like he had all the time in the world, gave a slow shrug. “It’s not that bad.”
Jeonghan snorted, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “That’s because you’ve force-fed yourself the flavor for years. At this point, your taste buds have just accepted defeat.”
Vernon tilted his head slightly, considering that. The corner of his lips twitched—just the faintest hint of a smirk. “Maybe.”
A soft chuckle passed between them, the sound easy, familiar. It settled into the quiet that followed, a silence that wasn’t empty but rather full—with history, with memories, with years of knowing each other inside out.
There was no need to fill the gaps with meaningless words. They had spent too much time together, grown into each other’s lives in ways that made even silence feel like conversation. It was the kind of comfort that could only come from years of shared laughter, petty arguments, and an unspoken understanding that, no matter what, they’d always be there—cheesecake, whiskey and all.
Jeonghan stretched his legs out with a sigh, breaking the quiet. “So? What did your parents get you?”
Vernon snorted, the sound dry and humorless. He tilted his head back against the couch and exhaled sharply. “ Dang! Wrong question.”
Mingyu’s eyes brightened in understanding, a slow grin creeping onto his face. He pointed his fork at Jeonghan before turning to Vernon. “Okay, let me try,” he said, clearing his throat in exaggerated preparation. “Choi Vernon, the estranged heir of Muse Entertainment, on this fine day of your birth, did your ex-parents wish you a happy birthday?”
Vernon let out a low chuckle, though there was no real amusement behind it. He didn’t answer immediately, just turned his phone over in his palm. Then, finally, he glanced up at them, eyes unreadable. “What do you think?”
The grin on Mingyu’s face faded slightly, but the humor in his eyes didn’t entirely disappear. Jeonghan sighed, shaking his head, but there was no real surprise in his expression. None of them had expected anything different.
Vernon, choosing not to linger on the subject, looked back at his phone, his gaze scanning the screen before he spoke again. “The boys are calling us to the group house.”
Mingyu perked up while Jeonghan sighed again, heavier this time, but the hint of a smile was still there. “That means I have to move, doesn’t it?”
Vernon smirked. “Pretty sure that’s what it means, yeah.
Jeonghan groaned dramatically, slumping further into his seat as if the idea of standing up was an offense to his very existence. “Might as well. But you better prepare yourself, Hansol. You know they’re going to make a bigger deal out of this than I did.”
Vernon let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I know.”
Jeonghan stretched, standing up with a groan. “Good. Maybe they will have a better cake.”
Mingyu chuckled. “Or at least something other than cheesecake.”
Vernon rolled his eyes, pushing himself off the floor. “If you guys hate it so much, order something else next time.”
Mingyu threw an arm around his shoulders as they headed out. “Nah, it’s tradition at this point.”
Jeonghan, walking ahead, smirked over his shoulder. “Just like you pretending you like it.”
Vernon didn’t reply—just shook his head and let them tease him, the warmth of their company filling the spaces left behind by everything else.
Notes:
So, this chapter was supposed to end in a different way, but ig the suspense didn't click the way I expected it to in the previous chapter so this is the new end.
And to my readers who are waiting for the next updates of Alcazar, Error and Liberosis, I am working on them as well. These chapters for Dark Justice have been written since over two months ago so I'm updating as per dates set.
Stay Happy and Healthy!
-Nyxx<3
Chapter Text
The steady hum of office chatter filled the shared workspace—a blend of hushed discussions, clacking keyboards, and the occasional ring of a phone. Wonwoo sat at his desk, posture relaxed but mind sharp, flipping through the latest policy research. His fingers skimmed the pages, absorbing the dense text with practiced ease.
Reaching for a set of papers he thought he had left nearby, his hand met nothing but the smooth surface of his desk. He paused, brow furrowing slightly before realization struck—he had sent documents to the printer long ago and never retrieved them. Letting out a quiet sigh, he barely looked up as he called across the room, “Jiyeon, can you grab those prints for me?”
A chair rolled against the floor, followed by a scoff. “Wow. First, you make me suffer through these ridiculous policy meetings, and now I’m your errand runner too?” Jiyeon teased, making her way towards the printer.
Wonwoo smirked but didn’t lift his eyes from his work. “I’d offer to switch roles, but I doubt you’d survive an hour with my workload.”
Jiyeon let out an exaggerated sigh as she pulled the printed papers from the tray. “The way you say that makes it sound like I’m the slacker here.” She strolled over, waving the stack of papers teasingly in front of him before finally handing them over. “Here, your majesty. Anything else? Maybe a foot massage?”
Wonwoo huffed a quiet laugh, taking the papers from her. “Just some coffee, actually. Black, no sugar.”
Jiyeon arched a brow, smirking. “Oh, of course. The intercom’s right there, and if you dial extension 203, I’m sure someone will be delighted to take your order.”
“Noted,” Wonwoo replied smoothly, grinning while the female rolled her eyes but smiled as she returned to her desk.
The policy researcher went back to skimming through the documents, his fingers flipping page after page, his mind already sorting through the information—until something unfamiliar stopped him cold. A beige envelope nestled between the sheets. His name was written in neat, precise Hangul at the lower right corner.
Wonwoo stilled, his fingers tightening around the paper as a faint crease formed between his brows. His eyes flickered up instinctively, scanning the office. Everyone was still engrossed in their work, unaware of the sudden shift in his demeanor.
This hadn’t been in his document set. He was sure of it.
His pulse kicked up slightly, a creeping unease curling in his chest. Carefully, as if the envelope might burn him, he slid a finger beneath the flap and pried it open. A similar-colored cardstock slipped into his hands, the texture smooth against his fingertips.
And then, he read.
Time moves forward, yet shadows grow,
Faces change, yet eyes still know.
Guilt and anger, silence keeps,
Secrets buried, buried deep.
The world has changed, but truth remains,
Will you face the past or break the chains?
Return to where it fell apart,
Where all was broken, that’s where it’ll start.
The words struck something deep in his chest.
A chill crept down his spine, his heart hammering unexpectedly against his ribs. His grip on the cardstock tightened as his mind raced, trying to make sense of it. No, It can’t be that.
Swallowing the tightness in his throat, Wonwoo turned the cardstock over, and the air whooshed out of his lungs.
The ouroboros —a serpent devouring its own tail. A symbol that, years ago, had been nothing more than a design created for fun. Yet now, it stared back at him, carrying a weight it was never meant to have.
And beneath it, printed in dark, bold ink were the words: “Come home. Justice awaits.”
His fingers pressed into the cardstock, grip taut, as if grounding himself. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, but outwardly, nothing slipped—his face remained unreadable, his posture steady. Years of discipline kept him still, forced indifference settling over him like second nature.
But his mind was running. Scrambling to make sense of this. This wasn’t a coincidence. It was a message. A calling.
And it was personal.
For a moment, he simply stared at it. Around him, the office buzzed with routine chatter, the steady rhythm of work carrying on as usual. But in his mind, the past had just kicked open a door he had long since bolted shut.
—
Jihoon had always been a creature of habit.
Every ten days, without fail, he forced himself into a full apartment reset—cleaning, laundry, stocking up the kitchen. It was the one thing he could control, the one routine that made sure nothing—not even himself—spiraled too far.
So today, like clockwork, he had dragged himself through the motions.
The hacker sighed as he unlocked his apartment door, shifting the weight of his grocery bags in his arms. The sharp scent of detergent and fabric softener lingered in the air from his earlier laundry cycle, mingling with the faint traces of coffee he had brewed that morning.
He dropped the shopping bags onto the counter, rolling his shoulders to shake off the ache from carrying them up the stairs. Without thinking, his mind automatically started listing what went where:
Vegetables, lower drawer. Milk, fridge door. Snacks— probably in his desk drawer for when he worked. And finally instant noodles, bottom cabinet —because no matter how well-stocked his kitchen was, late-night hunger always called for ramen.
A mental checklist that kept him grounded.
Then, his eyes flicked to the time on his phone, and it clicked, “Ah, the laundry.” His shoulders sagged as a quiet groan slipped out. The load he had tossed into the washing machine earlier was probably sitting there by now, dry and waiting.
Sighing, Jihoon abandoned the groceries for the moment and made his way to the laundry room. He pulled out the fresh load, still warm and slightly wrinkled, dumping it into a basket before hauling it back to his bedroom.
He stared at the pile for a long moment before groaning, “Fuck it.”
Instead of leaving it for later, he started sorting through the clothes, methodically placing everything in its designated spot—shirts folded, socks paired, jackets hung. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to be doing right now, but at least it was done.
As Jihoon returned to the kitchen, he started putting the groceries away, sliding milk into the fridge and stacking canned goods in the cupboard. His movements were routine, almost mindless—until his hand brushed against something that hadn’t been there before.
A soft beige envelope nestled between the groceries.
His name was written in clean, deliberate Hangul on the bottom right corner.
For a moment, he just stared at it, his brain struggling to place it. Had he accidentally picked it up at the store? No, that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t part of his groceries, wasn’t something he had brought in. He had been holding the bags the entire time—no one could’ve slipped it in. His eyes snapped to the main door in caution but the door had been locked when he arrived. “How did this get here?”
Slowly, he reached for it.
His fingers brushed against the paper—it was smooth, expensive, intentional.
Unease prickled at the back of his neck, but curiosity won out. He slipped a finger under the flap and carefully pulled out the card inside.
The same beige shade. Thick, high-quality cardstock. And on it, a poem, written in neat black ink.
Time moves forward, yet shadows grow,
Faces change, yet eyes still know.
Guilt and anger, silence keeps,
Secrets buried, buried deep.
The world has changed, but truth remains,
Will you face the past or break the chains?
Return to where it fell apart,
Where all was broken, that’s where it’ll start.
Jihoon frowned. His pulse picked up—just slightly—as his eyes reread the words. Is this a joke? A prank? Who the hell would send me something like this?
It was cryptic, unsettling, too familiar in a way he couldn’t immediately place. Something about it pressed against a door in his mind that had been locked shut for years.
Not interested in playing along with whoever thought this was funny, he was about to toss the card into the dustbin—when something on the back caught his eye.
A symbol. The breath left his lungs.
The inked image stared back at him, sharp and deliberate—a serpent, curled in a perfect circle, devouring its own tail.
And beneath it, in bold, unrelenting ink “Come home. Justice awaits.”
Jihoon felt his stomach drop. The edges of the world blurred for a second as a memory—distant, but never truly forgotten—resurfaced.
His own voice—young, but firm with anger—whispered back at him from the past, “It means this friendship doesn't work anymore.”
A decision made not just in anger, but in self-preservation and slowly simmering hatred for them . The society had already chosen sides, painted the others as villains, and he hadn’t wanted to be dragged down with them. No matter how much history they shared, no matter how deep the ties had once run, no matter how many promises they had made—he couldn’t bring himself to trust them .
Not then. Not now.
Had it ever truly ended? He couldn’t help but think. Jihoon’s grip on the card tightened. His heart was steady, but there was a pressure in his chest that hadn’t been there before.
Could they still call it home?
Or was it merely a graveyard of ghosts, waiting for their return?
—
Mingyu had always known how to play the game.
The dimly lit private dining room hummed with low chatter, the scent of seared steak and aged wine thick in the air. Across from him sat Cha Hajoon—one of the many faces behind Kim Industries' growing investments, a man who spoke in numbers but moved like a politician, always testing waters before stepping in.
Mingyu smiled, charming yet unreadable, as he cut into his steak. “The Q3 reports exceeded projections, didn’t they? Our expansion strategy seems to be working well.”
Cha hummed approvingly, sipping his wine. “Indeed, Kim Industries is making impressive strides. And I must say, your mother is doing just as well in the political sphere. Minister Song is quite the force to be reckoned with.
Mingyu’s grip on his fork didn’t falter, his expression smooth. He nodded. “She always knew how to handle the battlefield, no matter what form it took.”
Cha smirked. “And what about you? Who will you follow—your father’s empire or your mother’s political ambition?”
Mingyu leaned back, swirling his wine in its glass. The golden liquid caught the light, much like his next words would. “Why limit myself?” he said easily. “Why not carve my own path?”
Cha let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Spoken like a true heir of the Kim family.” Then, with an almost knowing glint in his eyes, he added, “But I suppose it's in your nature. The golden trio always manages to make headlines, no matter what they do. It wouldn’t be a surprise if you built a completely new empire together.”
Mingyu internally scoffed, lifting his glass, meeting Cha’s gaze steadily. “And if such a day arrives,” he mused, “wouldn’t you be one of our investors?”
Cha grinned, raising his own glass in mock salute. “Of course. I’d be honored to support the golden trio.”
The conversation faded into a comfortable silence, the clink of utensils against plates filling the space as they focused on their meals. The quiet stretched, unbroken, until Mingyu finally set his glass down with an easy smile.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said smoothly, rising from his seat. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Cha nodded, barely glancing up as he turned his attention back to his food.
The restaurant’s washroom was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Mingyu let the cool water run over his fingers, watching his reflection as his conversation with Cha replayed in his mind. He was on the verge of dissecting it further when a faint sound behind him made him still.
Footsteps. Too light. Too careful.
His body tensed, instincts sharpening. He turned his head just slightly, catching the flicker of a shadow in the mirror—then it moved. Fast.
Mingyu barely had time to pivot before a masked figure lunged. Years of training took over. He dodged the first strike, blocking the second with his forearm. The movements were sharp, efficient—no hesitation, no wasted energy. This wasn’t a random attack. This was a calculated move. A professional.
Mingyu reacted instantly, twisting the attacker’s arm to throw them off balance, but they adjusted mid-air, using the momentum to drive a sharp elbow toward his ribs. He barely deflected it before they dropped low, sweeping a leg out—fast, aggressive, precise.
He leaped back just in time, narrowly avoiding the takedown, confusion clouding his brain. They know my style. How?
The thought barely registered before the attacker lunged again—feinting left but striking from the right. Mingyu saw it too late. A sharp jab slammed into his ribs. Pain exploded through his side, sharper than it should have been. His breath hitched, eyes flickering to the attacker’s gloved hand.
Brass knuckles. The realization came a second before another punch struck—this time to his stomach. The impact was brutal, knocking the air straight from his lungs.
Mingyu wheezed, his body instinctively curling inward, but his instincts didn’t falter. His hand snapped out, catching the attacker’s wrist. He twisted hard, but they moved with him—fluid, controlled—using the force to vault over his back.
A distraction. In that split second, something shifted beneath his foot. His balance wavered. Shit—! The floor was slick. A deliberate trap—liquid soap spilled just enough to send him skidding. His foot slid, his body tilting—just enough for the attacker to strike.
Mingyu hit the ground hard, the impact rattling through his bones. A sharp sting shot up his elbow where it scraped against the tile, but he barely registered the pain over the burning in his ribs and the lingering ache in his gut.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to move, pushing up onto his palms. His breath was shallow, his body protesting, but he couldn't afford to stay down. His mind raced, instincts screaming at him to be ready for the next attack.
But there was nothing. The washroom was empty.
Mingyu’s eyes darted around, scanning every corner, but the attacker was gone. No footsteps. No lingering shadow. No trace that anyone else had even been there. His pulse hammered in his ears as he slowly rose to his feet, his muscles tense, waiting for another strike.
Nothing came. It was as if the entire fight had never happened. As if he had imagined it. Except for the pain—sharp, undeniable proof that it had been real.
Mingyu let out a slow breath, wincing as he braced himself against the cool marble of the sink counter. His ribs throbbed in protest, and a dull ache settled in his elbow where he had hit the ground. He flexed his fingers, testing for fractures—nothing felt broken, but pain pulsed beneath his skin, a sharp reminder that he had been caught off guard. His jaw tightened. Sloppy. He should’ve been quicker. Should’ve expected something.
As he reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow, his eyes caught on something that hadn’t been there before. A soft beige envelope, stuck on the mirror. His name was written neatly at the bottom right corner in careful Hangul, precise and deliberate, as though the writer had taken their time with each stroke.
Mingyu’s heartbeat picked up. Cautiously, he straightened, ignoring the way his body protested the movement, and reached for the envelope. His fingers hovered over the smooth paper for half a second before he picked it up. It was lightweight, unassuming— too unassuming.
His grip tightened as he carefully slid the card from inside. The words on the cardstock were simple, yet they hit like a well-aimed blow. Mingyu’s fingers twitched as he read, unease curling in his stomach. He reread the words, slower this time. There was no signature. No sender. No further context. Just a poem laced with implications he didn’t like.
His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as he exhaled sharply, his mind already working through the possibilities. It could be a warning. A threat. A challenge. Maybe all three. But the part that unsettled him the most wasn’t the message itself—it was the fact that whoever sent this knew exactly how to get to him.
Mingyu exhaled sharply, steadying himself against the sink as his gaze flickered back to the mirror. His body still ached from the fight, his ribs protesting every breath, but that wasn’t what made his chest tighten now.
It was the symbol. Reflected perfectly in the mirror, bold against the soft beige of the cardstock, was the ouroboros .
His breath caught, fingers clenching around the envelope as something cold settled in his gut. He hadn’t seen that symbol in years. Hadn’t thought about it in years—or at least, he had pretended not to. His hand moved on its own, flipping the cardstock over as if he needed confirmation that what he saw was real. His fingertips brushed over the design, tracing the intricate, looping strokes that were far too familiar.
Because he had designed this. He, along with the others, had sketched and refined this symbol over late-night conversations and half-joking promises. A mark that was supposed to be theirs , a silent vow of loyalty, of trust. That no matter what, they would stand together.
But here it was, staring back at him. His eyes lowered to the message scrawled beneath it. “Come home. Justice awaits.” The words made something tighten in his chest. Home. Home?
His fingers pressed harder against the cardstock, as if he could erase the words, as if he could pretend they weren’t there. His lips curled, a breathy, bitter chuckle escaping before he could stop it. “Well,” he murmured to himself, thumb brushing over the symbol. “Isn’t this interesting?”
He lifted his gaze back to the mirror, meeting his own reflection. It was funny, really. That after all these years, someone still believed they had the right to call him back.
—
Seungcheol exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders as he walked alongside his student, the rhythm of their conversation still lingering in the air.
“So, what you’re saying is that ethics in business shouldn’t be treated as an optional guideline, but as a core principle in every decision?” the student asked, eyes gleaming with that earnest curiosity Seungcheol had come to admire in his more thoughtful students.
He nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small, encouraging smile. “Exactly. Ethical reasoning isn’t just a philosophical exercise—it’s a practical tool. Businesses don’t operate in a vacuum. Their choices shape society, impact lives, and influence trust. That’s why ethics can’t be an afterthought. It has to be the compass guiding the entire process.”
The student gave a breath of laughter, the tension easing from his shoulders. “That’s a relief to hear. I was afraid my paper sounded too idealistic.”
Seungcheol chuckled, his voice warm. “Idealism isn’t a flaw—especially in ethics. You’ve got a strong base. Just tighten your argument and ground it with a few more real-world examples, and you’ll have something truly compelling.”
As they reached the hallway’s end, the student thanked him once more before heading off. Seungcheol watched him go with quiet pride, then turned toward the faculty wing. On the way, he stopped by the campus café, greeting a few colleagues from philosophy and political science before finally retreating into the quiet of his office—a space lined with well-worn books and quiet conviction.
The door clicked shut behind him, and for a brief moment, the world outside ceased to exist.
The professor exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he sank into his chair, letting his eyes slip shut. Just five minutes. Five minutes to reset before he tackled the growing pile of papers on his desk. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee curled into his senses, a warm contrast to the slight chill of the air conditioning. His fingers tapped idly against the desk, mind slowly unwinding.
Five minutes turned into six, then seven. Eventually, he cracked one eye open, stretching his arms over his head before resigning himself to work. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”
He picked up the first paper from the stack, eyes scanning the opening paragraph. It wasn’t bad—needed a bit more structure, but the argument had promise. He jotted down a few notes in the margins, nodding slightly in approval.
Then he moved to the next one.
Seungcheol barely made it past the second sentence before a quiet chuckle slipped out. This… this had Seokmin written all over it.
There was a particular rhythm to Seokmin’s writing—a blend of wit and charm that made even the driest topics feel like part of a stand-up routine. Seungcheol shook his head, pen pausing before he scribbled in the margins: Your argument is as entertaining as it is chaotic. Keep the humor, but try reining it in a little.
The next paper wasn’t much better. If anything, it was even more dramatic—full of sweeping declarations and conclusions that, while confident, teetered on the edge of questionable logic. Seungcheol exhaled a quiet laugh. This sounds exactly like something Soonyoung would say.
He could already imagine Seungkwan’s reaction—his sharp, unwavering precision cutting through the exaggeration without mercy. No, Seungcheol corrected with a smirk, he wouldn’t even waste time critiquing it. He’d rewrite the whole thing just to make a point.
Shaking his head in amusement, he pressed on with the grading, the warmth of nostalgia settling deep in his chest. Years had passed, but his friends' voices still lingered at the back of his mind—shaping his thoughts, his reactions, as if they had never left.
He sighed, rolling his shoulders back as he reached for the next paper. The steady rhythm of grading had lulled him into a comfortable flow—one paper after another, red ink scrawling across the margins, the occasional amused huff escaping as he read through his students’ arguments. It was routine, familiar. A quiet, almost meditative task that kept his mind engaged without overwhelming it.
And then something disrupted that rhythm. The professor’s pen hovered over the page, momentarily distracted by something peeking out from between the answer sheets. A small corner of soft beige stood out against the stark white papers. His brow furrowed.
Reaching over, he tugged it free, flipping it between his fingers. An envelope—pristine, smooth to the touch, with his name written in elegant, precise Hangul on the lower right corner.
His first instinct was to assume it was from a student. Maybe someone slipping in a plea to reconsider their midterm scores. He had received all sorts of strange requests before—letters that ranged from humble apologies to exaggerated sob stories. But something about this envelope didn’t fit.
It was too pristine, too deliberate. Not rushed or desperate like a struggling student’s last-minute plea.
Curiosity stirred in his chest as he carefully opened the envelope, pulling out a thick cardstock of the same soft beige color. A poem. His eyes scanned the words, his fingers tightening on the edges with each passing line.
A strange unease settled in his stomach.
Seungcheol turned the envelope over in his hands, his fingers brushing against the smooth paper as he searched for something— anything —he might have missed. A sender’s name, an insignia, even a stray mark that could hint at where it had come from. But there was nothing. Just his name in elegant, precise Hangul, standing alone against the unblemished surface.
His brows furrowed. Carefully, he set the envelope down and picked up the cardstock again, flipping it over. And then he saw it. The ouroboros.
His breath caught, sharp and sudden, as if the air had been knocked from his lungs.
The symbol stared back at him—a looping serpent devouring its own tail. Once, it had been nothing more than an inside joke, a mark of brotherhood, a quiet promise between them. A symbol they had crafted together, drawn in the margins of notebooks and scrawled on the backs of their hands like some secret code.
But now, after so many years, after everything that had happened, seeing it again felt like being doused in ice-cold water. Seungcheol swallowed hard, his grip tightening as a rush of memories crashed into him all at once.
A sunlit room, the afternoon heat pressing in. Frantic voices. Accusations thrown like daggers. Shouting. Blame. A fight that had ignited in an instant—a reaction, a breaking point, sparked by the weight of everything closing in on them.
He could still hear the echoes of that moment—his own voice, sharp with frustration, Soonyoung’s heated retort, Seungkwan’s cutting words. No hesitation, no restraint. Just raw emotion spilling over, too sudden, too overwhelming, too final.
He exhaled slowly, trying to steady the anger simmering beneath his skin, but it was tangled with something else—something bitter, something that felt dangerously close to guilt. His chest tightened, his pulse hammering in his ears. He had thought they had buried this, had all agreed to leave it behind the moment they stepped out of that threshold.
Return to where it fell apart.
So why now? Why was this here?
—
The persistent chime of the doorbell barely registered in Chan’s sleep-addled mind, blending into the remnants of his fading dream. He groaned softly, shifting deeper into the warmth of his bed, his face half-buried in the pillow. His entire body felt like lead, weighed down by exhaustion and the lingering ache of an all-nighter spent managing a party that had spiraled out of control.
The event was supposed to have been simple—routine, even. But between demanding guests, last-minute changes, and chaos that only seemed to multiply by the hour, it had stretched far beyond what it should have. By the time he had finally made it home at dawn, Chan hadn’t even bothered checking his phone. He had kicked off his shoes, face-planted into bed, and let unconsciousness take over.
The doorbell rang again, sharper this time. He grunted, the sound half a protest, half a pained acknowledgment of reality. Who the hell was at his door?
With sleep still clinging stubbornly to his limbs, Chan forced himself up, rubbing his face as he stumbled toward the entrance. His hair stuck up in all directions, his shirt wrinkled from where he had been sprawled on his bed. He barely managed to crack his eyes open as he pulled the door ajar.
A delivery man stood there, utterly unfazed by Chan’s disheveled state. Without preamble, he shoved a medium-sized package into his hands and extended a clipboard toward him. “Sign here.”
Chan blinked, barely registering the request before scratching out his signature. The moment the transaction was complete, the male turned on his heel, already moving on to his next delivery.
The half-asleep man shut the door with a dull thud, glancing down at the package in his hands. He frowned, too groggy to process it, before tossing it onto the dining table without another thought. Whatever it was, it could wait.
With that, he dragged himself back to bed, collapsing onto the mattress with a relieved sigh. Within moments, sleep pulled him under once more.
Three hours later, Chan sat at his dining table, sluggishly working through a slice of toast, the last remnants of sleep still clinging to him. The exhaustion from the previous night had dulled, but his body still ached—a lingering reminder of the chaos he'd barely managed to control.
He exhaled, stretching his neck, mentally bracing himself for the rest of the day ahead. That was when his eyes landed on the package. His chewing slowed.
It sat there, unassuming, exactly where he had tossed it earlier. Chan frowned. He didn’t remember ordering anything. A work-related delivery, maybe? A thank-you gift from a client?
He pulled the package closer, the cardboard cool beneath his fingers. With a sharp tear, he pulled it open—only to find a single soft beige envelope resting inside.
His first thought was that it looked unnecessarily expensive.
Curiosity piqued, Chan slid the envelope free and tipped it, letting a card slip into his palm. His fingers moved on autopilot, flipping it over before he even thought to read the front.
The ouroboros stared back at him.
Chan sat motionless, fingers gripping the card as if it might disappear if he let go. His heart pounded in his ears, a slow, heavy beat that seemed to grow louder with every second. The air around him felt thick, suffocating, as if the weight of the past had suddenly materialized in the room, pressing down on his chest.
No way.
His eyes traced the ouroboros again, almost hoping—almost begging—that he had imagined it. But the ink was real. The familiar loops and curves, the careful strokes—they were exactly as he remembered. Exactly as they had together made it.
A mark of trust. A symbol that was supposed to mean something permanent.
But time had shattered that illusion. Whatever meaning the ouroboros once held had been drowned out by the echoes of that afternoon—by accusations flung too fast, by anger that had ignited like a spark in dry brush, consuming everything before anyone had a chance to put it out.
And he had done nothing.
A moment passed before he finally flipped the card back around and forced himself to read.
Return to where it fell apart,
Where all was broken, that’s where it’ll start.
As he reached the last line, shouts filled his head—sharp, angry, exhausted. Accusations thrown like weapons, voices layered with frustration and something far worse: betrayal .
Chan swallowed hard, his throat dry, his stomach twisting in a way he couldn't quite name. Confusion? Shock? Unease? No—it ran deeper than that. It was the same hollow weight that had settled in his gut all those years ago, when everything had shattered around them.
Come home. Justice awaits.
Guilt pressed against his ribs, quiet but unrelenting, creeping into the corners of his mind.
Because back then, when tensions had boiled over, when anger had flared too hot, when everything had started to unravel—Chan had stood there, saying nothing. He had let it happen. Let the words cut deep, let the misunderstandings grow, let them all walk away without stopping them.
And even today, after all these years, after all the distance—Chan still didn’t know what he would say.
—
Seungkwan stood in the classroom, his eyes sweeping over the small, bustling bodies of his students as they eagerly packed up their things. The air was filled with the chatter of little voices—some excitedly talking about what they’d do at home, some giggling as they stuffed their colorful backpacks haphazardly, and others asking for help with their zippers or lost erasers.
It was the same routine every afternoon, a moment of fond chaos before they all scattered back into the world beyond the classroom. Seungkwan loved this part of the day—watching them, ensuring they were ready, and making sure no one left behind their water bottles or snack containers.
Near the doorway, Chan was already at work, calling out names as parents arrived, his usual composed self as he gently guided the kids toward their waiting guardians. Seungkwan smiled as he crouched to help one of the younger kids struggling with their jacket zipper.
Just as he finished, a small tug at the hem of his sweater caught his attention. “Teacher Boo!" a small voice piped up behind him.
Seungkwan turned around, to see Minseo, a bright-eyed little girl clutching something in her tiny hands. Crouching at the child’s level as he always did when speaking to them, he asked tilting his head, “What's this?”
She hesitated for a moment before holding out a soft beige envelope. His name was written on it. As he took the envelope from her hand, a strange weight settled in his chest, a creeping unease slithering up his spine. Still, he kept his expression calm, his voice light. “Where did you get this?” he asked
“A nice person told me to give this to you,” Minseo chirped, rocking on her heels, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Who?” His voice was steady, but his heart wasn’t.
The girl only shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her little brows furrowing as she tried to recall. “That person was just there.” She turned and pointed toward the door, then looked back at him. “They said it’s important.”
Seungkwan’s stomach twisted. His head snapped up, eyes scanning the doorway, half expecting to see someone there. But there was no one.
The hallway beyond the classroom was empty, just the usual hum of voices and footsteps from passing teachers and students. No shadowy figure. No presence lingering just out of sight.
And yet, the feeling remained—the feeling of being watched. Forcing a smile, he turned back to the little girl and placed a gentle hand on her head.
“Hey,” he said, voice softer now, but firm. “You remember what we talked about strangers, right? You shouldn’t take things from strangers. And if someone asks you to do something like this, you should tell a teacher, your parents, or any responsible adult immediately.”
The girl blinked, then gave a small nod. “Okay.” She didn’t seem too bothered, already distracted by her bag as Chan called her name from the door leading to the school’s ground where the parents waited to pick up their children.
Seungkwan exhaled, straightening up as she scampered off, waving at him before disappearing into the hallway. He waved back, but his fingers trembled slightly. Then, slowly, he looked down at the envelope still clenched in his hands. It felt heavier than it should.
His mind was already racing, but he forced himself to breathe, to steady his thoughts. It could be anything, he told himself. But as his thumb traced over the familiar strokes of his name, something deep inside him already knew.
He turned away from the door, his fingers already slipping under the flap of the envelope, cautious but compelled. He wasn’t even sure why he hesitated—maybe part of him still hoped it was nothing, some harmless mistake, something unrelated to the gnawing pit forming in his stomach.
But the moment he caught a glimpse inside, the moment his eyes landed on the faint ink of a symbol he knew far too well, his breath hitched. Familiar strokes, a design burned into his memory, one he never thought he’d see again. His heart clenched, his grip tightening.
“What's that?”
Seungkwan nearly jumped, snapping the envelope shut as a voice chirped over his shoulder. He turned sharply to find Chan peeking over, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“A letter from someone special?” Chan teased, grinning as he leaned closer, trying to get a better look.
Seungkwan forced a scoff, willing his heart to stop its thundering. “Mind your own business, Chris.” he shot back, shooing Chan away with his free hand, shoving the envelope deep into his pocket like it was something scandalous.
But Chan was relentless. “Come on, who's it from? A secret admirer?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Wait, don't tell me—” he gasped dramatically and stage whispered, “is it from a long-lost love?”
Seungkwan rolled his eyes, doing his best to act normal. “Yeah, sure. A long-lost love,” he deadpanned. “Now, instead of being nosy, how about you clean up the room? I'll be back from the washroom.”
Chan groaned but didn't argue, waving him off. “Fine, fine, but I will find out one day.” he called after him, still grinning.
Seungkwan barely heard him. His feet carried him toward the washroom, but his mind was elsewhere, unraveling, spiraling back years to places he’d locked away.
By the time he stepped inside and locked himself in a stall, his hands were trembling.
Slowly, he pulled out the envelope. His thumb traced the edge, the soft paper now creased from how hard he’d gripped it. His breathing was uneven, his chest tight.
A part of him wanted to rip it open. To pull out the letter, read the words, trace the design he had once sketched alongside others—not as a mark of warning, but as a symbol of something they had believed in. Something that no longer existed.
But another part of him, heavier, resentful, coiled inside his chest and whispered: What more is left to say?
What good would it do to revisit something that had already crumbled?
Hadn’t they already buried it all?
Seungkwan swallowed hard. The sting in his throat burned as he forced himself to breathe through it, forced his fingers to move. He folded the envelope again. The paper bent under the pressure, creased sharply, but he didn’t care.
There was no point in reading it. No point in chasing ghosts. With a final shove, he stuffed it back into his pocket.
He had left the past behind.
And there was no use in being stuck in it now.
—
Vernon sat still, letting his stylist do her final touches, her hands light yet meticulous as she dusted off his blazer and adjusted the lapels. He barely paid attention, his mind already halfway through the interview, calculating responses, filtering out the right words to say.
A knock on the door. “We're ready for you, Mr. Choi.” a set assistant informed him.
Vernon nodded, smoothing down his blazer before standing. He glanced at the mirror one last time—a picture-perfect version of himself reflected back. Poised. Polished. Exactly what they wanted.
He stepped onto the set, greeted by the hum of cameras and the warm chatter of the production crew. The host, a seasoned media personality, was already deep in conversation with Han Yura, his mother, who sat gracefully on the velvet couch like she owned the place. Which, in a way, she did.
“Ah, and here comes the young star of the family,” the host beamed as Vernon entered the stage. “Choi Vernon, everyone!”
He smiled, smooth and effortless, slipping into his role as he reached for the host’s hand in a firm shake before turning to his mother. She placed a perfectly measured kiss on his cheek, the type that was meant more for the cameras than him.
“Always so dashing,” she cooed, her tone carrying just enough maternal affection to make people believe it.
Vernon chuckled, knowing exactly how it would translate on screen. “Well, I had to keep up with you, didn't I?”
The host laughed along, delighted by the performance. “The two of you really are the perfect mother-son duo. You make it look effortless.”
Yura tilted her head with a soft smile. “Because it is effortless. Vernon and I have always shared a deep bond, haven't we, darling?”
Vernon turned to her, meeting her gaze. A gaze that demanded compliance. He smiled. “Of course, Mom.” The word felt like poison on his tongue.
The interview moved along seamlessly. They answered questions about Yura’s work, her dedication to philanthropy, her ever-expanding empire of goodwill.
“The latest project, Sanctuary for Tomorrow —such a beautiful initiative,” the host gushed. “A foundation dedicated to supporting abandoned and at-risk children. What inspired you to start this?”
Yura’s expression softened into something akin to motherly devotion. “Children are our future. Every child deserves a loving home, proper care, and the guidance to shape their future. My foundation is built on that belief.”
Vernon straightened in his seat, his voice as smooth as silk. “My mother has always had a generous heart. She sees the gaps in society and works tirelessly to fill them. Sanctuary for Tomorrow is just one of the many ways she’s making a difference.”
The host placed a hand over her heart. “That’s truly admirable. It must be inspiring to have such an incredible role model as a mother.”
Vernon nodded, keeping his face unreadable. “She’s taught me everything I know.”
Yura reached for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. An image-perfect moment. The cameras would capture it as love. Vernon felt it as pressure.
He shifted slightly, but as he did, a sharp jab pricked at his chest. His hand brushed over the inner pocket of his blazer, feeling something stiff, foreign .
His fingers curled around the unknown object, his pulse kicking up just slightly. He kept his face neutral, masking the flicker of unease creeping in. But in his mind, alarms were already going off.
This suit had been laid out for him, checked and rechecked by his team. Nothing was ever unplanned in this world. So what was this? And more importantly—who had put it there?
The moment the director called for a break, Vernon was already standing, smoothing down his blazer with a charming, effortless smile as he excused himself.
“Need a moment, Mom.” he said lightly, ignoring the flicker of curiosity in Yura’s eyes.
She merely nodded, the same poised, perfect expression on her face, but he didn’t miss the slight narrowing of her gaze. Watching. Always watching.
Vernon turned away before she could ask anything, making his way straight to his green room. A stylist rushed towards him, probably to fix whatever they thought needed fixing, but he waved them off. “Not now,” he muttered, pushing the door open and shutting it behind him.
The room was silent, the contrast almost deafening after the buzzing energy of the set. He exhaled, letting his shoulders drop for the first time in hours. His fingers immediately reached into his blazer, pulling out the item that had been weighing against his chest.
A soft beige envelope. His name written on the front.
He turned it over, fingers running along the edges, searching for anything—an indication of who sent it, why it was here. But it was pristine, untouched except for his name in ink.
Vernon didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. He already knew. Less than an hour ago, Mingyu had texted their group chat.
Mingyu [1:19 PM]: I was attacked. Restaurant’s washroom. Out of nowhere but felt like it was planned. He left this. [3 attached images]
Mingyu [1:20 PM]: Someone knows.
The image was unmistakable. The same envelope. The same card. The same words.
Vernon exhaled slowly, tearing open the flap. The cardstock slipped out smoothly, thick between his fingers, weighty in a way that felt deliberate. He stared at the words printed on it, his lips pressing into a thin line as he read them again.
Even though he already knew what they would say. Even though the words had been burned into his mind ever since Mingyu sent them. Still, the chill ran down his spine.
He turned it over, almost on instinct. His breath caught the second he saw the symbol— the ouroboros. His fingers traced the design, slow and deliberate, following the same familiar strokes that he had once drawn himself along with them. A symbol that was theirs . A symbol that had meant something more. A promise. A bond. A past that they had buried.
He let out a hollow laugh, the kind that didn't hold a single ounce of humor. The irony was too much.
First, accusations. Then exile. Then silence.
Now this?
Calling them back? As if they had a home to return to? As if they had ever been given a chance to explain?
His grip on the cardstock tightened for a moment before he forced himself to breathe, forcing away the bitterness that clawed at his throat.
They didn’t listen to them back then. So what was this now? A game? A warning? Or something worse?
His fingers curled over the edge of the envelope, his knuckles going white. “Let’s see where this goes.”
—
Joshua made his way back to his desk, fingers tapping absently against the edge of his notebook as he mulled over the details of his latest article. The fire at the residential complex had been devastating—one casualty, several injuries, and dozens left without a home. Reporting the facts wasn’t enough; he needed to craft the story in a way that did more than just inform. It had to resonate. It had to make people care.
Maybe a segment on fire safety precautions? he considered. Something practical, something people could take away beyond just the cold, hard statistics.
He was still sifting through potential angles when he reached his desk—only to come to an abrupt stop. There, placed neatly at the center of his workspace, sat an envelope. His name was written across it in neat Hangul.
Joshua frowned. His first instinct was that it might be a tip. Anonymous sources dropping information at his desk wasn’t unusual. Sometimes it was cryptic messages hinting at corruption. Other times, it was whistleblowers too afraid to come forward directly. He’d received plenty of these over the years. But something about this one felt different.
Curious, he settled on his desk and picked up the envelope, running his fingers over the smooth texture of the paper. It was high-quality, pristine—nothing like the hurried scribbles or printed documents he was used to receiving from anonymous sources.
His instincts hummed with quiet alertness as he slid a finger under the flap, pulling out the cardstock inside.
“A poem?” His brows knit together as he scanned the words, mind shifting gears in an instant. Was this a message? A veiled threat? A hidden clue buried between carefully chosen lines? It didn’t match the usual cryptic leaks he received—no clear call to action, no names or locations to follow.
Still gripping the card, he flipped the envelope over, searching for anything else. A return address. Another note. A signature. Nothing.
Joshua exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the cardstock. His gut told him this wasn’t just some poetic gesture. Someone wanted his attention. And they had it.
He flipped the card over and went completely still.
His breath hitched, his pulse suddenly thunderous in his ears as his gaze locked onto the back of the cardstock.
The symbol. His fingers tightened around the edges, the paper bending slightly under the pressure.
No.
Joshua inhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, but the air felt thick—weighted with something old, something he had buried long ago.
The ouroboros stared back at him, its curves and edges etched into his memory like an unshakable scar. It wasn’t just familiar. It was his. Theirs . A mark that had once tied them together, a silent promise that had long since been broken.
For a long moment, he just stared, an icy sensation creeping down his spine.
Then, as if breaking free from a trance, Joshua set the card down, smoothing the creased edges with steady fingers before schooling his expression into something unreadable.
He turned sharply, scanning the newsroom, his gaze flickering over familiar faces, searching for anyone who might have lingered near his desk. His eyes landed on Hyunjin, deep in conversation with another reporter.
Without hesitation, Joshua crossed the room. “Hyunjin.”
The younger man glanced up, brows lifting. “Yeah?”
“Did anyone stop by my desk while I was with Park?” His voice was even, casual—but the way his grip tightened around his notebook betrayed the tension thrumming beneath his skin.
Hyunjin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. He cast a quick glance toward Joshua’s desk before shaking his head. “No, haven’t seen anyone.”
Joshua’s jaw tensed. “What about before that?”
Hyunjin shrugged. “No clue. I just got back from the shoot ten minutes ago.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “Why? Something wrong?”
Joshua hesitated for only a beat before offering an easy smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah, just checking.”
Hyunjin studied him for a second longer, as if debating whether to pry, but eventually nodded and turned back to his conversation.
Joshua exhaled slowly, turning back toward his desk, his mind already racing.
He sat down, the letter still waiting for him, the words on the cardstock almost daring him to read them again. His gaze dropped lower, settling on the line beneath the symbol. “Come home. Justice awaits.” he whispered the words.
The words echoed in his head, both foreign and uncomfortably familiar. Home. The word tasted hollow now.
The truth was, he had walked away from that so-called home long ago—not in anger, not in defiance, but with quiet, deliberate finality. He had chosen to leave, to sever ties, to carve out a life beyond the wreckage they had left behind. And he had never once looked back.
So why now? Why this?
And, more importantly, who was pulling the strings this time?
—
The evening air was thick with the familiar hum of the city as Soonyoung walked into the subway station, earbuds snug in place, music playing just loud enough to drown out the noise of the world. It had been a long day, longer than most. Hours spent poring over contracts, negotiating settlements, navigating the endless labyrinth of legal procedures. His mind was a tangle of legalese and deadlines, but the moment he stepped into the station, the weight of the day began to lift.
He scanned his transit card without much thought, stepping through the turnstile as he absentmindedly tapped his fingers against his thigh to the rhythm of the song playing in his ears. The station was busy, the usual evening crowd weaving through the space with the effortless familiarity of routine. Some were staring at their phones, others clutching briefcases, a few exchanging hushed conversations. It was just another evening.
Until it wasn’t. One moment, he was lost in his own world, and the next someone was crashing into him.
The impact was sudden, sending him stumbling back a step. His earbuds slipped out as he caught himself, blinking at the man who had just collided with him.
“Shit—sorry.” the guy muttered hurriedly, already crouching down to pick up the scattered papers and documents that had spilled onto the floor.
Soonyoung instinctively crouched down as well, grabbing a few of the fallen papers. “It’s fine,” he said, shaking off the initial surprise.
Among the scattered items, an envelope caught his eye. It had fallen near his foot, pristine and neatly sealed. Without thinking, he picked it up and extended it toward the man.
But by the time he looked up, the guy was already walking away. “Hey! You dropped—”
The words died in his throat. The man was gone.
The attorney frowned, glancing back at the envelope in his hand. It was a smooth, expensive beige envelope, the kind used for exclusive invitations or formal correspondence. He turned it in his fingers, looking for a name, an address—something—but the moment his eyes landed on the front, his breath hitched.
His name. Kwon Soonyoung.
The train rumbled into the station, wind rushing through the platform as the doors slid open.
For a moment, he stood there, staring at the envelope as a strange unease settled in his stomach. Then, almost on autopilot, he stepped onto the train.
The subway car was crowded, the usual post-work exhaustion hanging in the air. People clutched onto poles, headphones in, lost in their own worlds.
Soonyoung took a steadying breath, tucking the envelope under his arm as he grabbed the overhead handrail. His mind was running in circles, his thoughts twisting over themselves like tangled wires.
Who the hell had sent this? Who was that man?
His grip on the envelope tightened. The seal was unbroken, the paper thick between his fingers. With a sharp exhale, he tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet of cardstock. A poem.
His brows furrowed as he read the words. It was vague, almost cryptic, like something plucked out of a forgotten book. There was no sender, no explanation—just the poem.
Return to where it all fell apart
It didn’t make sense. He flipped the card over and his heart stopped. The breath in his throat turned to ice as his fingers tightened around the paper.
A sharp, violent cough tore through his chest.
It was there. The symbol. The ouroboros, the endless cycle—the emblem of something he had long buried, long walked away from.
And it was staring back at him.
His body jerked forward as he choked on air, his lungs seizing like they had been squeezed too tightly. His vision blurred for a moment, white-hot panic rising like a tidal wave as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Why was he panicking? He didn't understand.
Somewhere in his panicked reaction, he realized the people around him were staring. Someone touched his arm lightly. “Hey, are you okay?”
Soonyoung blinked rapidly, chest rising and falling too fast.
A hand extended a water bottle toward him. “Here.”
He took it with shaking hands, forcing himself to nod in thanks before taking a sip. The cool water steadied him, just enough for him to focus on something other than the roaring in his head.
A seat freed up in front of him, and the people beside him ushered him to sit. He dropped into it, his body heavier than it had been moments ago.
He let his head fall back against the subway window, eyes shut closed as he tried to control his breathing, as the train rumbled forward.
It had been years. They were supposed to be done.
Yet here it was, staring at him like a ghost that had never truly left. And then, as if someone had pressed play on a memory reel, the voices came.
Accusations, anger, betrayal.
Their voices.
His voice.
Fighting. Yelling.
Saying things they could never take back.
And in the center of it all was someone who used to be his best friend. Silent, unreadable, but his eyes said everything. Not anger. Not hatred. Just the cold weight of an ending. All because of them.
Soonyoung squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the envelope so tightly it threatened to tear.
He had walked away once. But something told him, whoever had sent this, whoever wanted to remind them, was making one thing clear. This time, they wouldn’t let him run.
—
The dimly lit employee locker room smelled faintly of cologne, alcohol, and the distinct musk of worn leather. Minghao stepped inside, rolling his shoulders to shake off the remnants of the outside world. The soft hum of the music playing in the bar seeped through the walls, bass reverberating lightly under his feet.
“Evening, boss,” one of the younger bartenders, Sihyun, called out with a grin as he passed by.
Minghao huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I told you to stop calling me that.”
“But you’re basically the boss when the manager’s not here.”
“I’m the head bartender, not the owner,” he corrected, making his way toward his locker.
“Well, you sure look like you own the place,” another bartender, Taesik, chimed in from the other end of the room. “Seriously, Hao, do you ever have an off day? You walk in here looking like you’re about to step onto a goddamn runway.”
Minghao snorted, unbuttoning his shirt as he turned to the locker’s small mirror. “Good skincare, healthy eating, and not letting idiots stress me out.” He shot Taesik a pointed look. “Which is why I keep conversations with you to a minimum.”
“Wow,” Taesik clutched his chest in mock offense. “I hope you get the worst customers tonight.”
Sihyun laughed, shaking his head. “You know how many people come to Black Door just to get served by him?”
Minghao clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he shrugged into his uniform shirt. “They come for the drinks, not me.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” Taeyong teased. “Bet you could score a date tonight if you wanted.”
Minghao only laughed in response, shaking his head as he turned toward the small mirror inside his locker, adjusting the collar of his shirt and unbuttoning another button. His fingers reached for his apron when something slipped from the shelf above, landing softly on the floor.
His gaze dropped. An envelope. Sleek, pristine, cream-colored cardstock. With his name on it.
His fingers twitched as he bent down to pick it up, the fine paper cool against his skin. A slow frown pulled at his brows. Who…? He turned slightly, eyes scanning the room. But everyone was busy—laughing, chatting, getting ready for their shifts. No one was looking at him.
His stomach coiled with unease. Still, he slipped his finger under the flap and pulled the envelope open. A single piece of cardstock waited for him. A poem.
His eyes moved over the words, slowly at first, then quicker as something cold settled in his chest. The language was indirect, cryptic even—but there was a weight to it, a familiarity that made his skin prickle.
Before he could process it further, his hands instinctively went to his phone in his pocket. With a sharp inhale, he pulled it out. His screen was flooded with unread messages.
Jihoon and Joshua’s names stared back at him in bold letters. The messages had come hours ago in their group chat.
Jihoon [14:23 PM]: [4 attached images]
Jihoon [14:23 PM]: what the fuck is this?
Joshua [16:52 PM]: you too? I thought someone was just leaving me tips for an article [1 attached image]
Jihoon [17:04 PM]: did you check the back of the card?
Minghao exhaled through his nose, pulse quickening. He hadn't checked his phone all day. His shift last night had drained him, and he'd spent most of today catching up on sleep, only waking up in time to make it to work.
With sudden urgency, he flipped the card over. His fingers twitched at the sight of the symbol. A cycle that never ended. A past that refused to be buried.
His grip on the paper tightened as something cold crawled up his spine. It had been years. He thought they had all moved on. He had moved on. But it seemed the past still had its claws in them.
His throat felt tight as an old memory resurfaced, unbidden and unwanted. “Aren’t you just like the others? Leeching off his name, his status. What could someone like you possibly offer him?” The words slammed into him like a punch, the same cutting, dismissive tone ringing sharp in his ears.
Minghao’s jaw clenched. He had tried. Tried to fight for what mattered, tried to fix what had shattered between them. He had waited in the cold, hoping— begging for just one more conversation. But the only response he got was silence and those cold, unreadable eyes watching from a distance. Eyes that once held warmth, now empty, distant, as if he had already become a stranger. A silence that had stretched endlessly, thick with the weight of betrayal.
Now, years later, the same past was clawing its way back. His hand shook slightly as he crumpled the letter, fingers digging into the expensive cardstock. He should throw it away. He shouldn’t care.
But for some reason, his body betrayed him. Instead of discarding it, he shoved the crumpled letter into his bag. Something about this wasn’t over.
This wasn’t just nostalgia.
This wasn’t just some coincidence.
Something was definitely about to happen.
—
The office was emptying out for the night, the low hum of computers shutting down and the occasional shuffle of papers the only sounds left. Seokmin let out a quiet sigh as he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. His screen flickered to black as he powered down his system.
“You’re done?” His deskmate, Jinyoung, stood by the door, already slinging his coat over his shoulder. “I can drop you off.”
Seokmin smiled. “Give me fifteen minutes. You go ahead, I’ll catch up.”
Jinyoung clicked his tongue. “You take forever to pack up.”
“Better than forgetting my stuff every other day like someone I know,” Seokmin shot back with a grin.
Jinyoung rolled his eyes but laughed. “Fine, I’ll wait near the elevators. Don’t take too long.”
Seokmin nodded, watching his friend disappear down the hall before he turned back to his desk. Most of his colleagues had already left, the few that remained offering quiet goodbyes as they passed.
He smiled, waving as he began gathering his things, carefully slotting his planner and files into his bag. But just as he reached for his charger, his fingers brushed against something unfamiliar.
Something that shouldn’t have been there. His brow furrowed as he pulled it out. An envelope. His name was written in neat, precise letters on the front. His stomach tensed.
Was it a business document? A misplaced memo? He flipped it over, looking for a company seal or sender’s name, but there was nothing. Just his name.
His fingers worked over the flap, carefully pulling it open. A single piece of cardstock slid out.
Seokmin’s eyes moved over the words, confusion settling in as he read the poem.
Time moves forward, yet shadows grow,
Faces change, yet eyes still know.
Guilt and anger, silence keeps,
Secrets buried, buried deep.
The world has changed, but truth remains,
Will you face the past or break the chains?
Return to where it fell apart,
Where all was broken, that’s where it’ll start.
This doesn’t make sense. His brows knitted together as he reread the words, slower this time, tracing each line as if the meaning would shift under closer scrutiny. But the feeling in his gut remained—an unease that twisted tighter with every passing second. There was something beneath the words, something just out of reach, a message woven between the lines that he couldn’t quite decipher.
His fingers curled around the edge of the letter, his grip unconsciously tightening. A slow, creeping sensation crawled up his spine, the unmistakable weight of being watched.
His head lifted instinctively, gaze sweeping across the office. His pulse hammered as he scanned the room, searching for—what, exactly? Someone lingering too close, a pair of eyes flicking away too quickly?
But there was nothing. Just the low hum of conversation from the break area, a few employees too preoccupied with their own routines to spare him a glance. Still, the unease didn’t fade. His attention snapped back to the letter, his stomach coiling with something colder than curiosity now. There had to be something—some clue, some indication of who had sent this.
He flipped the card over and his breath caught. That symbol. Those curves and designs. One he hadn’t seen in years. One he never thought he’d see again.
His fingers hovered over the ink, a sharp exhale slipping past his lips as he sank back into his chair. His grip tightened, knuckles paling, but his hands still trembled—just slightly.
It had been years, and yet the sight of it yanked him back without mercy—to a time of sharp words and sharper betrayals, when friendships had splintered under the weight of secrets, when trust had been nothing more than a carefully constructed lie waiting to collapse.
His jaw tightened, a bitter taste rising in his throat.
The irony was almost laughable.
The very scandal that had torn them apart, that had left their world in ruins, had its roots in this company. The place he now worked, the place he had convinced himself was nothing more than a career move, was the same one that had laid everything bare—stripping away illusions, and proving just how different their worlds really were.
His grip on the letter tightened. Why now? What was this supposed to mean?
A voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. “Seokmin!”
His head jerked up. Jinyoung stood at the door, waving impatiently. “Are you coming or not?”
Seokmin hesitated for half a second before forcing a smile. “Yeah.” With practiced ease, he tucked the letter back into his bag, burying it beneath work papers and routine.
Whatever this was, it could wait. Right now, he just needed a moment to breathe.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he followed Jinyoung out, leaving the symbol burning in the back of his mind.
—
Junhui exhaled slowly, smoke curling around him as he studied the chaos of strings, photographs, and clippings on his bedroom wall. The cigarette between his lips burned low, the bitter taste grounding him as his sharp eyes traced over the tangled network of crimes—cases that never quite made sense, verdicts that came too swiftly, justice that had no official executioner.
Shinigami.
For years, they had been a whisper, a shadow moving beneath the surface of power, delivering judgment to those who believed themselves untouchable. Every case he had marked bore their silent signature.
His latest addition—a detailed breakdown of Minister Jang’s death—stood at the center, a question mark scrawled beside it. Unlike their usual work, something about this one was different. Shinigami had their ways, and while they always left no loose ends, something about Jang’s death didn’t sit well. It wasn’t just the efficiency—it was the message behind it. A statement. A shift in their approach.
His gaze flicked over the other cases, years of evidence pinned in place:
An arm’s dealer was found dead in a warehouse, a single bullet to the chest. Authorities blamed a rival gang, but the anonymous file of exposed transactions and clientele that arrived at INTERPOL’s doorstep said otherwise.
In another such case, a CEO of a well-known conglomerate had boarded a private jet for a conference and never arrived. Days later, his video confession surfaced, but the hollow look in his eyes, the unnatural tremor in his voice—Junhui knew he hadn’t done it willingly. No body was ever found.
A media mogul who had built his empire on suppressing voices woke up with a USB drive on his bedside table. Its contents—decades of suppressed reports, bribery logs, and coerced NDA agreements—found their way into the hands of journalists that same morning. His empire collapsed overnight.
The list stretched back years, each case meticulously analyzed, strings linking them in a web only he could decipher. Junhui tapped his fingers against the latest pinned article— Minister Jang Found Dead in His Study, Suicide Confirmed.
The detective scoffed, “Bullshit.”
Junhui ran a hand through his hair, frustration thrumming beneath his skin. Who were they? How did they operate? More importantly—why did it feel so personal?
The doorbell rang, its sharp chime broke through his thoughts.
Junhui reacted immediately, snuffing out the cigarette and pushing off the wall. With a practiced motion, he reached for the discreet panel next to the board and slid it shut. The layers of his bedroom wall aligned perfectly, concealing everything beneath the false surface.
By the time he reached the door, his expression was casual, as if he hadn’t just been standing in front of years of obsession.
A delivery guy stood there, bag in hand. “Food delivery.”
Junhui narrowed his eyes but accepted it. The guy left without another word. Locking the door, he set the food down, and exhaled. He unwrapped the containers absentmindedly, stomach barely registering hunger. His mind still lingered on Shinigami, on the way Minister Jang’s case unsettled him.
That was when he noticed it. Tucked inside the bag, nestled between the napkins and chopsticks, was an envelope. Unmarked. No sender, no indication of where it had come from.
Junhui rolled it between his fingers, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. No sender? How ominous. He let out a low chuckle, tossing it onto the table beside his dinner. “So did Shinigami finally decide to send me a love letter?” he muttered to himself, voice laced with dry amusement.
The joke barely held weight.
A faint prickle crawled along his skin, not quite fear, but something close. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that paranoia was an overreaction. Being paranoid won’t kill you. Being careless will.
Still, whatever was in that envelope could wait. His gut told him that whatever it contained would completely ruin his appetite. So, he ignored it.
Sat down.
Ate his dinner.
But each bite felt mechanical, each chew dragging his mind back to the envelope.
By the time he was finished, the food had done nothing to settle the gnawing weight in his stomach. He exhaled sharply, pushing his empty container aside, eyes flicking to the envelope once more. It just sat there. A silent thing, waiting.
His fingers curled around it as he stood, carrying it with him as he retreated into his room. The door clicked shut behind him, enclosing him in the space that had been both his refuge and his cage.
He didn’t rush.
Instead, he changed into his sleepwear, loosened his muscles, rolled his neck. Then, finally, he sank onto his bed, fingers still tracing the edge of the envelope.
A breath.
Then another.
He tore it open.
A single card slipped out, landing softly onto the sheets.
His name wasn’t written on it. No formal introduction. Just words.
Junhui’s eyes moved over the message carefully. At first glance, it was poetic, almost nonsensical. But the weight behind it felt heavier than a normal poem’s should. His fingers tightened around the cardstock as he reread the last line. “Return to where it all fell apart.”
His chest constricted. There was only one place those words could be referring to. That apartment. That cursed fucking apartment.
A breath escaped him, slow and controlled, but his body betrayed him, his jaw tensed, his muscles coiled as if ready for impact.
He let the letter slip from his fingers and flipped it over. And there it was. That familiar, suffocating symbol. A snake devouring its own tail.
It stared back at him, its eye seeming to bore into his very being, as if it knew exactly what kind of storm it was stirring inside of him. His vision blurred at the edges, shadows of memories threatening to break through the walls he had carefully reinforced over the years.
The voices. The accusations. The betrayal.
Junhui clenched his jaw, forcing it all back into the pit where it belonged. His fingers hovered over the inked eye of the ouroboros. He studied it in silence. Then, with a scoff, he muttered under his breath, “Its eye is really fucking creepy.”
And just like that, he shoved the letter into his nightstand drawer, locking it away—at least for now.
—
The city stretched beneath him in endless golden veins of light, winding roads, and a skyline that looked almost like a mirage against the deep indigo night. From his office at Yoon Pharma, Jeonghan could see everything—the distant figures moving like shadows in their apartments, cars moving with slow deliberation through late-hour traffic, the faint glow of neon signs casting reflections on the glass.
Yet, the world outside may as well have been a painting, frozen in time. It felt distant. Unreal. Because his mind wasn’t here. Not in this office, not in this moment.
He lifted the glass in his hand, watching the amber whiskey swirl. The ice had already begun to melt, breaking apart in slow, delicate fractures. He hadn't taken a sip yet. Hadn’t even thought about it.
His thoughts were caught elsewhere—somewhere far older, somewhere buried beneath years of carefully constructed walls.
That day.
It played in his mind, unbidden and relentless, like a wound that had never quite healed. No matter how much time passed, the echoes of their voices, the accusations, the anger—the betrayal—never left him. He could still feel the heat of their stares, the cold finality of their words. The way everything had crumbled in an instant.
He turned away from the window, his eyes landing on his desk.
The blue forget-me-nots sat in a pristine bouquet, their soft petals catching the dim light of his office. Beside them, the envelope lay open, the message inside already etched into his memory.
Jeonghan’s fingers traced the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable.
When he had first seen the bouquet, he had stopped mid-step, a flicker of something sharp curling in his stomach. Not surprise—he had known something like this was coming. But expectation did nothing to dull the weight of it.
He had only stepped out for coffee. Barely ten minutes. No one should have been able to enter his office. There was no one else in the entire building apart from him and the security.
Yet, when he returned, they were there. Waiting.
He reached out, plucking one of the delicate flowers between his fingers. Forget me not. A cruel message. A deliberate choice.
His lips curled, amusement laced with something bitter. “As if I ever could.”
The past had never left him. It clung to him like a second skin, woven into his name, his blood, his very existence. No matter how much distance he put between himself and those years, they had never let him forget.
The only question that kept circling his mind was: Who? And, more importantly, why?
His phone buzzed against the polished desk, dragging him back to the present. He exhaled, fingers tightening slightly around the glass as he reached for his phone.
A message from Mingyu. He smirked, shaking his head slightly before unlocking the screen.
Jeonghan picked up the bouquet with one hand, tilted his phone toward it, and snapped a picture. Without hesitation, he opened their group chat and sent it.
Jeonghan [00:46 AM]: [1 attached image] Got a gift too.
The responses were immediate.
Mingyu [00:46AM]: Of course you did. Our resident prince getting the special treatment as always.
Vernon [00:46 AM]: I bet the sender has a crush on him.
Mingyu [00:47 AM]: That or it’s an apology bouquet for all the backstabbing we endured years ago lmao.
Jeonghan huffed a quiet laugh. Light. Almost real.
Their conversation was easy, smooth—just like it always had been. The same rhythm, the same effortless way they fell into teasing each other.
But beneath it, the weight of the unspoken still lingered.
Mingyu [00:51 AM]: So do we go?
A beat of silence stretched in the chat.
Vernon [00:55 AM]: Should we?
Jeonghan [00:57 AM]: Does it even matter?
Vernon [00:58 AM]: Would they even want us there?
Mingyu [00:59 AM]: And if we don’t go, nothing changes anyway.
Jeonghan [01:00 AM]: The outcome’s the same.
The three dots appeared. Then it disappeared. No one answered. Instead, the topic shifted, redirecting toward him.
Mingyu [01:02 AM]: Anyway, get out of the office. It’s late.
Vernon [01:05 AM]: Yeah, go home. Or at least eat something that’s not whiskey.
Jeonghan [01:06 AM]: Meet at the apartment
Mingyu [01:07 AM]: Ugh I hate you. And I’m in pain
Vernon [01:09 AM]: Pain from the fight or the fact that you lost?
Mingyu [01:10 AM]: FUCK. YOU.
Jeonghan chuckled softly, placing the phone back down. The bouquet was still there.
He should throw it away.
He could throw it away.
His fingers curled around the edge of his desk. For a second—just a second—his vision blurred, the past flickering through his mind like an old film reel, grainy and full of things he didn't want to remember. “I look at you three, and all I see are strangers.”
The echo of those words still scraped against his ribs. The cold finality of them. The way they had been delivered without hesitation.
He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. His pulse thrummed steadily, a dull rhythm against his temple.
He reached for the bouquet again. Held it. The weight of it wasn’t much—light, almost fragile.
The whiskey burned slightly as he finally took a sip, swallowing down whatever thoughts threatened to creep in.
There was no point in dwelling on it.
—
Flashback: The Birth of the Ouroboros
The tiny apartment felt even smaller with all of them crammed inside, sprawled across the floor, the couch, and anywhere else they could sit. The air buzzed with restless energy, the kind that came when school was out, homework was ignored, and none of them wanted to go home just yet.
“We should do something,” one of them announced, arms stretched behind their head. “Something cool.”
“Like what?” someone else asked, flipping through an old comic book.
A voice from the couch chimed in, “Let’s make a secret code or a symbol or something. Every group has one in movies, why not us?”
That got their attention. There was a moment of silence before someone groaned, rolling onto their stomach. “That’s so lame.”
“You say that, but you’re already thinking of ideas.”
“Shut up.”
And just like that, the challenge was set.
Pencils were snatched, sketchbooks flipped open, and suddenly, the apartment turned into an impromptu design studio. Someone kicked over an empty soda can in excitement, someone else nearly started a fight over stolen erasers, and at least two of them got marker stains on their sleeves.
“I’m thinking sleek and sharp,” one of them declared, holding up a rough sketch of a snake coiled into a perfect circle.
“That’s just an Ouroboros,” another pointed out, unimpressed.
“It’s a cool Ouroboros.”
“Too plain,” someone else chimed in, already scribbling over the design. “What if the scales had hidden markings?”
A voice from the floor hummed thoughtfully, adding a single eye in the center of the snake’s head. “This way, it’s always watching.”
“That eye looks creepy.”
“Exactly.”
Someone on the couch flipped their page around, revealing a version where the tail wasn’t just bitten—it was tangled, almost knotted into itself. “Like something that can’t be undone.”
Silence settled for a beat.
One of them grinned, shaking their head. “You guys are way too dramatic.”
“You love it.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re a part of these dramatics so suck it.”
There was no real vote, no official decision. In the end, they just started picking the best parts from each other’s designs—combining sharp lines with intricate patterns, an eye that never looked away, a tail that twisted into something endless.
When the final sketch was held up, someone let out a low whistle. “That looks kinda impossible to forget.”
Someone nudged the page with the eraser end of their pencil. “That’s us.”
Notes:
And it begins~
What do you think might have happened in the past?
Chapter 6: Where It All Fell Apart
Notes:
An early update because I won't be available until 15th.
Chapter Text
Flashback
The library was supposed to be quiet.
It was supposed to be a place where students focused on their studies, lost in the pages of textbooks and papers, not in the latest scandal making rounds in the news. But today, the whispers were deafening.
Jeonghan sat in the farthest corner, pressed against the wooden back of his chair, his head slightly bowed as he scrolled through his phone. The words on the screen blurred together, the headlines screaming at him, each one heavier than the last.
“Yoon Pharma’s low-quality drugs linked to multiple deaths—CEO Yoon Sangwook under arrest.”
“Unapproved medication sold on the market—company refuses to take responsibility.”
“Thousands left jobless as scandal unfolds.”
“Yoon family’s fall from grace—will they recover?”
He swallowed hard. The news reports weren’t just speculation anymore. Every new article brought forth more victims, more ruined lives. People had died. Families were shattered. And his last name—the name he had been taught to carry with pride—was at the center of it all.
Jeonghan could feel their eyes on him, even now.
It had been the same all day. From the moment he had stepped into the school, the hushed conversations, the stolen glances, the deliberate way people moved out of his way—it was unbearable. The whispers didn’t stop when he entered a classroom, when he walked down the hall, or even when he tried to lose himself in the library.
“That’s his dad, right? The one who got arrested?”
“Can you believe he’s still coming to school? I’d be too ashamed to show my face.”
“His whole family is rotten. No wonder he acts all high and mighty.”
“They're all the same. The golden trio, more like the murderer trio.”
Even the teachers were looking at him differently now. They didn’t say anything outright, but he could see it in the way they hesitated before speaking to him, in the way their gazes lingered just a second too long. He could see the judgment. The disappointment.
His fingers curled around his phone as he forced himself to breathe. “It’s not my fault.” He mumbled, reminding himself. But it didn’t matter. Because to them, to the world, to the society, it was.
Jeonghan gritted his teeth, his throat tightening as if hands had wrapped around it, pressing down. He wanted to tell them to shut up, to say I didn’t do anything , but he knew how that would go.
“Like father, like son.” That’s all they’d say.
He inhaled sharply and looked back at his phone, scrolling through the articles as if somewhere in the sea of damning headlines, he would find something—anything—that proved this was all just a nightmare. But there was nothing. Just facts, just consequences.
People have died.
His fingers trembled as he swiped the screen. He didn’t know. He hadn’t known. How could he? But that didn’t change anything. It didn’t change the ruined lives, the families shattered by loss.
His father had known. His father was behind this,
A bitter taste filled his mouth, and he clenched his jaw. You didn’t know. You didn’t do anything.
But was that really true?
A shadow fell over him.
“Wow,” a voice drawled, dripping with amusement. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Yoon. Thought you’d be hiding in some fancy penthouse while your daddy pays off the cops.”
Jeonghan didn’t react. He kept his eyes on his phone, but his grip tightened, knuckles paling.
Seo Yesung. He had always been loud, always the type to pick at weaknesses like a vulture circling dying prey. But today, his voice carried something sharper. The kind of cruelty people indulged in when they knew the world was on their side.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Yesung sneered. “Got nothing to say?”
Jeonghan remained still.
“Ahh, I get it,” Yesung smirked, leaning closer. “Too guilty to talk?"
Jeonghan’s fingers twitched.
“Come on, Yoon. At least pretend to be ashamed. Your dad killed people. Bet the blood money kept your house nice and warm though, huh?”
Jeonghan exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse to steady. Reacting wouldn’t help.
Yesung, however, was enjoying himself too much to stop. “Must be nice, living in luxury while kids lose their parents. I saw that news report—there was this little girl whose dad died because of your father’s crap medicine. She was crying so hard she could barely talk. Tragic, huh?"
Jeonghan clenched his teeth, nails pressing crescent moons into his palm.
“But why would you care? You probably sleep just fine, knowing all that money’s still in your family’s pockets.”
Jeonghan swallowed, his throat raw. “That’s not true. I didn’t—”
“Let’s see what the world thinks of you today.”
Before Jeonghan could react, his phone was snatched from his hands. “Give it back.” he said, voice low.
Yesung ignored him, grinning as he tilted the phone to read aloud. “The Yoon family empire crumbles as Yoon Sangwook is exposed for fraud, corruption, and reckless endangerment, leading to multiple casualties. Damn, they really don’t hold back, huh?” He looked up, eyes gleaming with malice. “But I guess that’s what happens when your family is a bunch of murderers.”
Jeonghan’s breath caught, stomach twisting violently. Murderers. The word hung in the air like a noose.
Yesung laughed, shaking his head. “I bet you knew. I mean, how could you not? You lived under the same roof as him. But I guess that’s just who you are, huh? Heartless. Thought you were better than everyone, but in the end, you’re just scum.”
Jeonghan stared at him, something cold and silent settling in his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it numbed the sharpest edges of his anger, leaving only exhaustion behind. He held out his hand. “Give me my phone.”
Yesung smirked. “Or what?” The taunt hung in the air, thick with mockery, but before Jeonghan could respond, a hand shot out from behind Yesung and snatched the phone from his grip.
Vernon’s voice was as steady as steel when he answered. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”
Yesung turned sharply, already scoffing, but his smirk faltered for the briefest second when he met Vernon’s eyes. The usually reserved, quiet boy was staring him down with something cold and unreadable.
“Wow, look who finally decided to speak up,” Yesung sneered, masking his unease with arrogance. “What, got tired of being Yoon’s little shadow?”
Vernon didn’t react. He simply flipped the phone in his hand, checking for any damage before stepping past Yesung and handing it back to Jeonghan without a word.
“That’s cute,” Yesung continued, his voice dripping with condescension. “Defending the poor little fallen prince. You think it’ll change anything? Think it’ll make people forget what his family did?”
Vernon exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “And what about you?” His voice was quiet, but there was an unmistakable bite to it. “Got nothing better to do than run your mouth?”
Yesung’s expression darkened. “Watch it, Choi!” he snapped, grabbing Vernon’s collar and yanking him closer. His grip was tight, fingers digging into the fabric of Vernon’s uniform. “You might think you’re untouchable just because you’re rich, but money won’t save you if I break your nose.”
Jeonghan was on his feet immediately. “Yesung, let go.”
Vernon, however, remained completely unfazed. His gaze didn’t waver, his posture didn’t stiffen. If anything, he looked almost bored. “You talk too much,” Vernon said flatly. “Reminds me of a dog who only knows how to bark.”
Yesung’s grip tightened in anger. “I’ll fucking kill you Choi!”
Jeonghan took a step forward, but before he could intervene, another hand appeared—strong, steady—and wrapped around Yesung’s wrist.
Mingyu’s fingers pressed down hard as he pried Yesung’s hand off Vernon’s collar, his grip unrelenting. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice even but laced with warning. “Let’s not do something you’ll regret.”
Yesung scoffed, shaking Mingyu off. “And what, you’re gonna stop me?"
Mingyu smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I could,” he mused. “But don’t you think bailing you out for murder might be a bit costly for your parents?
Yesung let out a low chuckle, rolling his shoulders back as he sneered. “You think my parents wouldn’t throw money at a problem until it disappears? You really don’t know who you’re talking to, do you Kim?"
Mingyu’s smirk widened, his voice dipping into something almost amused. “Oh, I know exactly who I’m talking to, Seo.” he said, tilting his head slightly. “I also know that there’s no bail for minors caught consuming and supplying drugs.”
The taunt drained from Yesung’s face in an instant, a flicker of fear betraying his confidence before he could school his expression.
Jeonghan caught the flicker of panic in his eyes—the subtle shift in his stance, the way his jaw clenched.
Mingyu tilted his head. “You really wanna play this game with us?”
For a long moment, Yesung said nothing. His lips parted as if he wanted to snap back, but instead, he just scoffed. “ Tch .” he muttered, straightening his uniform. “Typical chaebols —think you own the world. But let’s see how long that lasts now that your daddy’s in handcuffs, Yoon.”
Jeonghan’s stomach twisted, but his expression didn’t change. He had no more energy left for anger, no more patience left for defending himself.
Yesung clicked his tongue, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Enjoy your fall from grace.” With that, he turned and strode out of the library, his presence finally dissipating like the stench of something foul.
Silence settled between the three of them. Jeonghan turned immediately. “Sol, are—”
But he barely got the words out before Vernon cut him off. “Are you okay?”
Jeonghan blinked, startled
“We’ve been looking for you all day,” Mingyu added, arms crossed. His usually lighthearted tone was nowhere to be found. “You didn’t answer your phone.”
Jeonghan glanced at the device in his hand. He really hadn't checked it—hadn’t even noticed the missed calls, the unread messages. “I’m fine,” he muttered, slipping the phone into his pocket.
Vernon and Mingyu still didn’t look convinced. Mingyu sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We heard what people were saying. Not just about you, but about us too.”
Jeonghan frowned. “About you?”
Vernon exchanged a glance with Mingyu before answering. “That we should’ve cut ties with you the moment the news broke.”
Jeonghan’s breath hitched.
“They think we’re idiots,” Mingyu said, his voice carrying a bitter edge. “Clinging to a ‘criminal’s son’ like it’s some kind of disease.”
Vernon’s voice was quieter. “Like we don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jeonghan looked between them, searching their faces, trying to figure out what this meant. If this was their way of telling him—
But then Mingyu huffed, slinging an arm over Jeonghan’s shoulders. “And some people are even saying we were in on it.”
Jeonghan’s eyes widened. “What?”
Vernon let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Apparently, we’re part of some grand scheme now.”
Mingyu smirked. “Gotta say, I expected something cooler.”
Jeonghan lowered his head, guilt settling heavily in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
Mingyu and Vernon frowned before simultaneously smacking the back of his head—lightly, but firm enough to make their point.
“Don’t be stupid,” Mingyu muttered.
Vernon crossed his arms. “We’re not leaving you, Hannie.”
“You’ve got us,” Mingyu added, his voice softer. “No matter what. Because we know you. We know you would never do something like that. And we know how these things work, even if you would have been aware of any such thing, they would have made sure that you remained silent.”
“And anything is better than that silence.” Vernon exhaled, shaking his head. “I mean, sure, my mom’s gonna give me hell for it.” Then he grinned. “But it’ll be worth it. Right now, you’re what matters.”
Mingyu let out a laugh. “Same here. My parents have been warning me since the news broke to stay away from that Yoon —” he put exaggerated emphasis on the name, “but I’ve decided I’m going to be a rebellious teenager now.”
Vernon snorted. “You won't be teenager for long.”
Mingyu raised an eyebrow. “And yet, I’m just the right age to be an expensive disappointment. ”
Vernon scowled, “Hey! That’s my title!”
Jeonghan let out a quiet chuckle before he could stop himself. It was small, barely there, but it warmed something inside him—like, for just a second, everything wasn’t falling apart. For a moment, his vision blurred—not from tears, but from something heavier pressing down on him, something he couldn’t name. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
Not unwavering loyalty. Not them choosing to stay.
Mingyu’s arm tightened around his shoulders, and Vernon nudged his foot against Jeonghan’s under the table. A quiet, steady reminder that they were still here. “We’ll be a group of expensive disappointments.”
Jeonghan exhaled slowly. “Have you spoken to the others?” He asked, his voice quieter than he intended.
Mingyu and Vernon exchanged a look, something heavy passing between them. “No,” Vernon admitted. “They haven’t replied to any of our messages since the news broke.”
“I think it’s better they didn’t come to school today,” Mingyu added after a moment. “They don’t deserve to bear the brunt of all this—having to listen to the whispers, the stares, people trying to get something out of them just because they’re close to you.”
Vernon hummed, his gaze steady. “And if something more happens, we’ll make sure they don’t get dragged into it. Not a single scratch, not a single rumor sticking to them.” His voice was steady, resolute. “If people want someone to blame, someone to throw rocks at, they can come for us instead, but no one lays a single finger on them.”
Jeonghan felt something sink in his chest. There were ten others whose opinions mattered most to him—ten people who had been an important part of his life for as long as he could remember. And from their end, there had been nothing but silence. He swallowed, forcing himself to ask the question that had been gnawing at him. “Do you think they believe it?” His voice was steadier than he felt.
Mingyu let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do know that if they did, they’d have said something. They wouldn’t just disappear.”
Vernon nodded, but there was hesitation in his eyes. “They’re probably just trying to figure things out. It’s a lot to take in.”
Jeonghan let out a humorless chuckle. “You mean they’re deciding whether or not to cut ties with me.”
Mingyu frowned. “That’s not—” He sighed. “Look, I won’t lie and say this isn’t a mess and it won’t affect us. It is and it will. But you know them as well as we do. They wouldn’t turn their backs on you that easily.”
“And if they do?” Jeonghan asked, his voice quieter now, almost like he didn’t want to hear the answer.
Vernon exhaled, leaning forward. “They won’t.”
Mingyu’s expression hardened with conviction. “We trust them. They’d never break our friendship over some rumor or scandal.”
Jeonghan stared at them, searching their faces for any trace of doubt but there was none.
Mingyu clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not losing us, Jeonghan. And you’re not losing them either. Just give it time.”
Jeonghan exhaled, some of the weight in his chest easing, even if just a little. The silence from the others still hurt, but Mingyu and Vernon’s unwavering certainty made it bearable.
For now, that was enough.
—
The back of Seokmin’s parents' restaurant had always been their safe haven. The long wooden table, worn from years of shared meals and late-night study sessions, had been theirs since childhood. Conversations here were always loud, full of laughter, full of life.
But today, the silence between them felt suffocating. The only sounds were the occasional clink of chopsticks against ceramic, the murmur of other customers at the front of the restaurant, and the low hum of the news playing on a distant TV.
Their untouched meals sat in front of them, but no one was hungry. The air was heavy—thick with something unsaid.
Mingyu had sent a message in the group chat, like he always did. Apartment after school? No one had replied. Vernon had called Minghao. He hadn’t picked up.
Jihoon absently ran his fingertip along the rim of his glass, gaze unfocused. Joshua sat back in his chair, arms crossed, staring at the table as if deep in thought. Seokmin's fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh.
It was Soonyoung who finally broke the silence. “What’s there to talk about?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension. “It’s all over the news. People died. They lied about their drugs, and now people are dead because of it.”
Seungkwan nodded, his expression unreadable. “And not just that—families were ruined. People lost everything. Do you think it’s just a coincidence that Jeonghan’s dad is the one at the center of it?”
Chan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers curled into the fabric of his uniform pants.
Joshua let out a quiet breath, rubbing his temple. “You’re saying it like Jeonghan himself had a hand in it.” he muttered.
Junhui frowned. “Are you believing he didn’t?”
“I’m saying we don’t know,” Joshua said. His voice was calm, measured, but there was tension beneath it. “We haven’t even spoken to him. To any of them.”
Seungcheol, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “You think he didn’t know?” His voice was quiet, but his words carried weight. “You think someone like Jeonghan—who always knows everything—was completely clueless about what his family was doing?”
The silence that followed gave the answer.
Junhui scoffed, shaking his head. “Even if he didn’t know, it doesn’t change the fact that we’re now the kids who hang out with Yoon Jeonghan .”
Seokmin let out a soft, bitter laugh. “I didn’t think one scandal could erase years of friendship this easily.”
That struck a nerve. Joshua sighed, his fingers tightening around his sleeve. “We’re not saying it’s easy.”
Jihoon exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “I just—” He hesitated. “I don’t want to be dragged into this mess. And I know none of you do either.”
The words were heavy, and no one immediately responded.
Chan finally looked up, hesitant. “So… are we just gonna—” He swallowed. “Are we just going to pretend like they were never part of us?”
Seokmin bit his lip. “That’s what I don’t know.”
Minghao, who had been silent this entire time, finally spoke. His voice was quiet, but there was something firm in the way he said, “We have to make a decision.”
Wonwoo sighed. “Then let’s at least talk to them first.”
Soonyoung looked unconvinced. “And then what? If we talk to them, then what happens next?”
Wonwoo met his gaze. “Then we make the final decision.”
A heavy silence settled over the group. No one said it outright, but they all knew. This wasn’t just about one conversation. This was about deciding if they were willing to throw away years of friendship. If they were willing to break apart completely.
Seungcheol exhaled, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s talk to them after school.”
Minghao nodded. “At the apartment.”
No one argued. No one wanted to be the one to say it, but they had all already agreed. By the end of the day, everything would change.
—
The apartment felt colder than usual. The air inside was thick with unspoken words. The living room, once filled with effortless conversations and laughter, now held only tension.
The ten of them were scattered around the living room, yet the space felt too small, too stifling. Seungcheol sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely interlocked as he stared at the floor. Joshua stood by the window, arms crossed, occasionally glancing outside as if searching for something—or someone.
Junhui leaned against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets, his usual easy-going demeanor absent. Jihoon sat on the armrest of the couch, his knee bouncing impatiently. Wonwoo and Soonyoung occupied the dining chairs they had pulled closer, both silent, both lost in thought.
Seokmin paced near the kitchen, his socked feet making soft sounds against the floor, while Minghao leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, face unreadable. Seungkwan, unusually quiet, sat cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, fingers absentmindedly picking at the hem of his sleeve. Chan sat beside him, shifting impatiently, eyes flickering between the clock and the door.
The coffee table, once a space for scattered homework and half-eaten snacks, was now barren—except for a single water bottle someone had left behind. It felt symbolic, somehow, like the remnants of something that had already started slipping through their fingers.
The clock ticked past another minute, the hands moving sluggishly, dragging out the wait.
Twenty minutes.
They were twenty minutes late.
Seungkwan let out a sharp exhale, leaning back against the couch, his arms crossing over his chest. “This,” he said, voice laced with irritation, “just proves how much we really mean to them.” His words cut through the air like a blade, pointed, sharp.
No one responded at first. A few exchanged glances, but the tension remained.
Chan, sitting beside him, nudged his arm—subtle, but enough to make Seungkwan glance at him with a furrowed brow. Chan didn’t say anything, but the look he gave him was clear: Not now. Seungkwan huffed but didn’t push it further, his arms tightening around himself.
The lock on the door beeped, indicating the arrival of someone. All eyes turned toward the entrance as Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Vernon stepped in.
Their faces were carefully guarded, but there was something in their postures—hesitation, wariness. Despite that, they still managed a small smile in greeting, as if the room wasn’t thick with tension, as if everything was normal.
But nothing was normal.
Seungcheol, who had been seated, stood up slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was firm. He didn’t return the smile. “You’re late.”
Mingyu exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “We had to make sure the media wasn’t following us,” he explained. “Took longer than we thought.”
A scoff cut through the air. “Right,” Jihoon muttered from where he sat against the armrest, arms folded. “Took you twenty minutes to make sure you weren’t being followed?” His voice was quiet, but there was disbelief in his tone, and something else—something colder.
Jeonghan’s fingers twitched slightly at his sides, while his eyes flickered around the room for a second before looking away, lips pressing together. “We’re here now,” he replied, his tone deliberately calm. He walked to the center of the room, Mingyu and Vernon standing on either side of him. “Let’s just talk.”
“Talk?” Seungkwan’s voice cracked as he stood, his eyes brimming with anger. “You want to talk now? After everything that’s happened?”
Jeonghan flinched but stood his ground. “I know what’s going on looks bad—”
“Bad?” Junhui interrupted, his voice sharp. “People are dying, Jeonghan. Families are ruined because of your father’s company. Do you have any idea how many of our classmates’ parents lost their jobs because of this scandal?”
Mingyu stepped forward. “And you think we’re responsible for that? You know us better than that.”
“Do we?” Soonyoung snapped, his eyes narrowing. “Because it’s starting to feel like we don’t.”
“You’re not the only ones dealing with this, you know,” Wonwoo said, voice calmer, but no less pointed. His eyes were sharp, gaze unwavering. “Our names are being whispered just as much as yours.”
Vernon sighed, shoulders dropping slightly. “We know.”
“Do you?” Seokmin finally spoke, and for once, there was no lightheartedness in his voice. Only quiet frustration. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”
A heavy silence followed. The three of them stood there, taking in the weight of what was left unspoken. The unacknowledged hurt, the quiet resentment, the widening distance that had crept in between them. Why had it come down to this?
And for the first time, Jeonghan realized this wasn’t just about his father’s scandal anymore. It was about them . It was about everything that had been left unsaid. Everything that had already begun slipping away. He opened his mouth to speak—to explain, to defend, to say something, but he never got the chance.
The dam broke.
“Do you even understand what we've been dealing with?” Soonyoung’s voice cut through the tension first, his usual bright energy replaced by something much sharper. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “Do you?”
The words weren’t just frustration. They were betrayal.
“People keep looking at us like we're just like you—like we had something to do with this mess.” Seungkwan snapped, voice sharp and bitter. “Everywhere I go, I hear whispers. People asking if we knew, if we helped cover it up.” His voice cracked slightly, but his anger only burned brighter, masking anything softer underneath. “My mom got asked today if I took money to keep quiet, Jeonghan. Can you believe that?” His laugh was hollow, his eyes burning as he stared at the trio. “That’s how people see us now, because of you.”
Jeonghan flinched.
Vernon took a step forward. “That’s not fair. You know we didn’t—”
“No, you don’t get to decide what’s fair,” Jihoon interrupted, his voice calm but cutting, the kind of calm that only came when emotions ran too deep to express any other way. “We had to stand there and listen while they made us look like idiots for trusting you .” His eyes flickered toward Jeonghan, cold and unreadable. "And you want to come here and say what?"
Mingyu’s fingers twitched at his sides. “We’re here because we need to talk about this.”
“Talk?” Junhui let out a scoff, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles were white. “Now you want to talk? When it’s too late?”
“Too late?” Jeonghan repeated, his voice finally breaking through the storm of voices. His heart pounded against his ribs. His voice was quiet, but the emotion in it was unmistakable.
“How long did you know about this? Did you know what your father was doing, Jeonghan? Did you just look the other way?” Joshua’s accusation cut through him like a blade.
“I didn’t know!” Jeonghan shouted, his voice breaking. “Do you really think I’d let this happen if I did?”
“That’s easy to say now,” Seungcheol said coldly. “But we’re all being dragged into this mess because of you three. People are questioning why we’re even friends with you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to defend you when we don’t even know if you’re innocent?”
Vernon clenched his fists, but his voice came as a plea. “We’ve been friends since we were kids. How can you even question that?”
“Because trust only goes so far.” Minghao who had been silent until now spoke, “You three come from families that live off power and money. The rest of us, we don’t have that luxury.”
Mingyu stepped forward. “We didn’t ask for this to happen. We’re not responsible for what our families did!”
“But you benefited from it!” Soonyoung spat, his voice sharp and accusatory. “You’ve never had to worry about losing everything. While we’re out here watching our families struggle, you’re walking around in designer clothes, pretending like nothing’s wrong!”
Vernon spoke quietly, his voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to be us either. You think it’s easy being the kid of someone powerful? People judge you no matter what you do. We didn’t choose this life.”
Joshua’s gaze hardened, his usually calm demeanor cracking. “No, you didn’t choose it. But you sure as hell never rejected it, either. You want sympathy for being judged, but what about the people who were hurt because of your families? What about the people who lost everything? Who’s going to fight for them?”
Jeonghan’s mask cracked slightly as he took a shaky breath. “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t know how bad this is? I’m trying to fix it.”
Junhui scoffed, pointing an accusing finger to him. “Fix it? You can’t fix this, Jeonghan. People are dead. Families are broken. And you… you still have everything.”
“You don’t know what we’ve lost!” Mingyu snapped, his voice rising with frustration. “We’re losing everything right now—our friends, our reputation, everything! And none of you are even trying to understand!”
Seokmin finally spoke, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the argument like a blade. “Because it’s hard to understand people who stand by and watch while others suffer. You might not have been the ones making the decisions, but you’re still part of the same world that let this happen.”
Jeonghan’s hands trembled as he stared at Seokmin, his closest confidant, the one who always understood him. “You think I wanted this? You think I’m proud of my father’s actions? I’m ashamed of him—ashamed of everything he’s done. But I can’t change who I am.”
“Maybe not,” Seungcheol said, standing up, his voice heavy with disappointment. “But you could’ve been honest with us. You could’ve told us the truth before it came to this.”
Vernon’s voice cracked as he stepped forward. “We didn’t know! Do you think we would’ve stayed quiet if we did? Do you really think that little of us?”
“Right now?” Seungkwan’s voice wavered as tears filled his eyes. “I don’t know what to think. I look at you three, and all I see are strangers.”
Mingyu’s chest tightened, the words hitting him like a sudden blow. Strangers . The weight of it settled deep, leaving behind an ache he didn’t know how to ease. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as if grounding himself would stop the sting. He had never once doubted them—never once considered walking away. And yet, here they were, being questioned, being reduced to something unrecognizable.
Beside him, Vernon felt something in him crack, a sharp, splintering pain that lodged itself in his ribs. Seungkwan’s words echoed in his head, and for the first time, he wondered if there had ever been a point in fighting—if their loyalty had been misplaced all along. The thought made his stomach twist, a quiet sort of devastation settling in his bones.
Jeonghan could only stand there, the air in the room suddenly too heavy, too suffocating. It was as if the ground beneath him had been stripped away, leaving nothing but the hollow space where trust used to be. He had expected anger, accusations—he had braced for it. But this? The quiet, unbearable hurt? He hadn’t been ready for that.
The silence stretched, thick with all the things they couldn’t say.
“I didn’t know,” Jeonghan finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Does it matter?” Seungkwan shot back. His voice wasn’t loud anymore. It was something worse—it was tired.
Vernon ran a hand down his face, pain evident in every line of his posture. “Then what do you want us to say? That we're sorry? That we should have done more? That we should have somehow—what? Stopped the world from turning against us?” His voice was steady, but his hands were trembling at his sides.
“We trusted you,” Soonyoung murmured. His voice wasn’t loud anymore either. It was softer. Sadder. “And for the first time, I don’t think I do anymore.”
Jeonghan felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.
Mingyu took a step forward, his expression open, raw. “Please.” His voice cracked on the word. “You know us. You know we wouldn't—”
Wonwoo shook his head. “I don't know anything anymore.”
And just like that, the final crack split open. A line had been drawn. And Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Vernon were on the wrong side of it.
Jeonghan felt something crack inside him. His fists clenched at his sides, head lowered in shame. “I didn’t know.” His voice wavered as he looked up again, eyes filled with tears. “ I swear to you, I didn’t know anything.”
Seungcheol exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Not anymore.” His eyes flickered up, and for the first time, Jeonghan saw something deeper than anger. Something that almost looked like grief. “Because whether you knew or not… the damage is already done.”
The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of unspoken emotions pressing down on everyone.
Mingyu swallowed thickly, his eyes darting to each of them. “We’re still the same people,” he said, his voice softer now as he pleaded. “We're still us. That has to mean something, right?”
No one answered.
The silence didn’t just settle—it crashed down, suffocating in its weight. No flicker of reassurance, no quiet nods of agreement. Just the unbearable stillness of people who couldn’t bring themselves to look at them. Junhui’s arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his head bowed as if bracing himself. Seokmin’s hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white, his jaw locked as though forcing himself to stay quiet. Joshua stood rigid, eyes fixed on the floor, his usual warmth nowhere to be found. Even Wonwoo, the one who had always known what to say, what to do, only exhaled sharply, shoulders tense.
It was worse than anger. Worse than shouting.
This silence was the sound of something breaking.
Finally, Minghao spoke, his voice soft but steady. “Maybe we all need to face the truth. This… this friendship isn’t what it used to be. And I don’t think it can ever go back to what it was.”
Vernon froze, his jaw tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jihoon met his gaze, his expression unreadable. “It means this friendship doesn’t work anymore. Not when there’s this much distrust. Maybe it never did.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
Jeonghan sucked in a breath, his voice trembling as he spoke. “You’re really going to throw everything away? After all we’ve been through?”
Seungcheol stood there, his gaze piercing. “You threw it away the moment you walked in here expecting us to clean up the mess your families made.”
The silence in the room was suffocating. It pressed down on them, thick with unspoken words, unshed tears, and the unbearable weight of finality. Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Vernon stood frozen in place, their eyes darting between the faces of the people they had called friends—the people who, one by one, were turning away from them. Seungcheol’s words still echoed in his head, loud and undeniable.
You threw it away the moment you walked in here expecting us to clean up the mess your families made.
Vernon took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides, voice low but trembling. “We’re not asking you to clean up anything. We just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, trying to swallow the lump rising in his throat. “We just don’t want to lose you.”
Jihoon let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he pushed up from his seat. “You already did.”
The words cut sharper than Jeonghan expected.
The first to move was Wonwoo. He stood slowly, deliberate in his movements. His chair scraped against the wooden floor, the sound jarring in the suffocating quiet. He didn’t look at them. Didn’t say a word. He simply grabbed his bag and walked out, like it wasn’t even worth discussing anymore.
Joshua followed. But unlike Wonwoo, he hesitated. His fingers curled tightly around the strap of his backpack, shoulders tense with conflict. His lips parted as if to say something—maybe to give them a chance, maybe to tell them off. But then he closed his mouth, his expression turning unreadable. He turned on his heel and left, not sparing them another glance.
Jeonghan’s chest tightened.
Seungcheol was the next to move. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before gripping the back of a chair, his knuckles turning white. “I really wanted to believe that there was something left to salvage,” he muttered. His eyes, once filled with warmth, were cold now. Distant. “But I don’t think there is.”
The chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back, his jaw tight, his fingers twitching like he was restraining himself from saying more. But instead of anger, there was only exhaustion in his eyes. He turned, walking straight for the door without another word.
Jihoon walked out next, his steps firm and purposeful. No hesitation, no pause. The door barely had time to swing closed before Soonyoung stood abruptly, knocking over his chair with the force of it.
“You know,” Soonyoung said, voice shaking—not with uncertainty, but with rage. “I really wish I could say I was surprised.” His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white with the strain. He looked at Jeonghan then, his usually warm eyes cold and distant. “But I’m not. Because this is just who you are, isn’t it? Always finding a way to stay on top, no matter who gets crushed underneath you.”
Jeonghan opened his mouth—to deny it, to explain, to say something—but Mingyu stepped forward first, his face lined with exhaustion. “That’s not what happened,” he tried, but Soonyoung just scoffed, shaking his head.
“Save it.” he muttered, turning away. “I don’t want to hear it.” Then he walked out.
The silence that followed was filled with the sound of Jeonghan’s heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Junhui sighed as he got to his feet to move, his expression carved from stone. “The world already sees you as untouchable,” he said, voice like ice. “And you’re proving them right.” He shook his head, disappointment flickering across his face before he, too, walked out the door.
Seungkwan exhaled, shaking his head as he grabbed his phone from the table. He cast one last glance at them—at Jeonghan, at Vernon, at Mingyu. His expression was unreadable. “I hope you realize that the rest of the world isn’t going to forgive you as easily as you expect us to.”
Mingyu sucked in a sharp breath, stepping forward like he wanted to stop him, but Seungkwan had already turned away, disappearing out the door.
Seokmin was next. He moved slower than the others, picking up his jacket with a quiet sigh. Unlike the rest, his anger wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cutting. It was tired. “You should’ve told us.” he murmured. His voice wasn’t sharp like Soonyoung’s. Wasn’t bitter like Seungkwan’s. It was heavy. Disappointed. “But I guess we really belong to two different worlds, huh?”
Jeonghan swallowed past the lump in his throat, but it was too late. Seokmin turned, following the others out the door. The air in the room felt thinner, suffocating. The only ones left were Minghao and Chan.
Chan stood at the threshold, gripping the hem of his sweater tightly. His gaze darted between the trio, uncertainty flickering in his expression. There was something raw in his eyes—something that almost looked like regret, like he wanted to say something.
Minghao, on the other hand, exhaled slowly, his voice was softer than the others, but no less heavy. “It’s not like we want to do this,” He lifted his gaze to meet his best friend’s, and something flickered in his expression. “But we have to.”
Vernon’s fingers twitched at his side, a dozen things unsaid pressing against his ribs. “You don’t have to.” he said, voice barely above a whisper, eyes searching for one last hope. “But you’re choosing to.”
Minghao looked at him, something almost like sorrow in his expression. “And you’re choosing to pretend this isn’t real.”
Chan shifted on his feet but said nothing. Instead, after one last look at Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Vernon—one last, silent I’m sorry —he turned and walked out.
Minghao lingered for just a second longer, like he wanted to memorize their faces, the way they stood frozen in place, the way the weight of the moment crushed them. Then he sighed, “Take care,” gave them a small, sad nod, and followed Chan out.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And then there were three.
Jeonghan stood frozen in the middle of the room, his gaze locked onto the closed door as if willing it to swing back open, as if hoping— praying —that someone, anyone, would walk back in and say they didn’t mean it. That this wasn’t real. That they weren’t actually leaving them behind.
But the door stayed shut.
And the weight of their absence crashed over him like a tidal wave.
A choked breath slipped past his lips. His fingers curled uselessly at his sides. They’re gone. The words echoed in his mind, over and over, growing heavier with each repetition. They’re really gone.
Mingyu suddenly spun, his fist colliding with the wall with a sickening thud. “This isn’t fair!” he shouted, his voice thick with raw emotion. His chest heaved, his breath uneven as he stared at the dent his knuckles had left in the drywall. “They didn’t even let us explain! They just— they just left!” His voice wavered at the last word, and it cut through Jeonghan like a blade.
Vernon sank onto the couch, his hands burying into his hair as he hunched over, his whole body trembling. “We ruined everything,” he whispered, the words tasting like poison in his mouth. His hands fisted into his hair, gripping it as if he could physically stop the helplessness clawing at his chest. “They hate us.”
Jeonghan inhaled sharply, but the breath got stuck in his throat. His vision blurred, the lump in his throat swelling until it felt like he was choking. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto the floor, his knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud. “They’re all gone,” he rasped, barely recognizing his own voice. His throat burned, his lungs fought for air. “They’re all gone.”
His hands grasped at his hair, his shoulders trembling as the grief swallowed him whole. “We lost them.” His chest tightened, the weight of it unbearable. A sharp, agonizing sob tore out of him, and he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t hold it in anymore. “We lost everything ."
Mingyu turned, watching helplessly as Jeonghan shattered right in front of them. His sobs broke through the silence, raw and unrestrained, his entire body shaking with the force of it.
Vernon squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t look. He couldn’t bear to see Jeonghan— their Jeonghan —like this. The one who always knew what to say, who always carried them through everything, who never let them see him fall apart.
And now, he was crumbling right in front of them.
Mingyu slid down onto the floor beside Jeonghan, his own breath shaky as he reached out, gripping his friend's shoulder tightly. “Jeonghan—” he started, but his own voice cracked, unable to hold steady. “We’ll fix it.” he said, but his voice cracked, the words uncertain even to himself.
Vernon clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. “How?” he muttered. His voice wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, just a question thrown into the empty space, the gaping void left behind by the people who had just walked out. “They don’t trust us anymore. They never will.”
No one had an answer.
The apartment, once filled with warmth and laughter, now felt cold. The walls felt too big, the silence too loud. Every memory they had built here, every late-night conversation, every stupid argument, every promise made in whispered voices—it all felt like a cruel joke now. A relic of a life they no longer had.
The setting sun cast a golden glow over the room, but it didn’t feel warm. It only stretched their shadows across the floor, a reminder of how much emptier the space had become.
It was over.
A friendship they thought was unbreakable had shattered in front of them. An era they thought would last forever had just ended, and all that remained was the sound of Jeonghan's broken sobs echoing through the hollow space.
Chapter 7: Silent Ache of Familiarity
Chapter Text
Minghao stood in front of the door, staring at the keypad, but his hands stayed by his sides. The numbers came to him easily—years of muscle memory ingrained in his fingertips—but something about pressing them felt wrong. Like he was reaching for something that no longer belonged to him.
Had they changed it?
Would the door even open for him anymore?
The thought twisted something deep in his chest. His lips pressed into a thin line as he let his hand drop. Maybe it was foolish to think the past could still hold a place here. Maybe it was a sign that things had moved on.
The quiet chime of the elevator echoed down the hallway, its fading resonance swallowed by the stillness that lingered in the air. Minghao kept his gaze ahead, unmoving, until the hesitant call of his name—soft, almost disbelieving—broke through the silence.
“Minghao?”
His breath stilled for a fraction of a second before he turned. And there, standing a few steps away, was someone both achingly familiar and strangely distant.
Chan had changed. The years had stretched him taller, broadening his shoulders and sharpening his features. He carried himself with a quiet confidence now, something steadier than the restless energy Minghao remembered. And yet, despite the unfamiliar edges time had carved into him, his eyes remained the same, they still held something painfully reminiscent of the boy he once knew.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of unspoken years pressed between them, turning the silence thick and uncertain. There was no hostility, no resentment—just an awkwardness that came from standing before someone who once fit seamlessly into your world but now felt like a near-stranger.
Minghao was the first to break it. His voice, though steady, carried the faintest waver of hesitation. “You’ve grown up well.”
Chan let out a small, awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… time does that, I guess.”
Another lapse into silence. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably foreign. Like meeting the ghost of someone you once knew.
At the same time, their gazes shifted to the door before them—the one that had once belonged to all of them. Their eyes traced the keypad, lingering on its worn buttons as if expecting some tangible remnant of the past to remain. As if somehow, they would find the answer to a question neither of them could put into words.
Chan shifted beside him, his hands slipping into his pockets as he let out a small huff. “So what are we waiting for?”
Minghao glanced at him, then back at the door. “It’s locked,” he said simply.
Chan blinked. “Yeah, I can see that. What, you don’t know the passcode?”
Minghao exhaled, his fingers twitching at his sides. “No,” he admitted. “It’s been years. I doubt it’s the same.”
Chan tilted his head, his expression shifting between amusement and something more thoughtful. “Did you even try the old one?”
Minghao hesitated. His first instinct was to dismiss the idea—it felt foolish, like clinging to something that no longer existed. But still, he didn’t answer right away.
Chan watched him for a beat, then shrugged. “Well… maybe you should.”
Minghao turned his head slightly, studying him. There was no teasing in Chan’s voice, no expectation—just a quiet suggestion that carried more weight than it should.
A pause stretched between them, filled with the quiet hum of the hallway lights. Minghao sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck before finally stepping forward. His fingers hovered over the keypad, the sequence ingrained in his memory despite the years. He pressed the numbers in without thinking.
For a second, nothing. Then a soft beep. A quiet click. The lock disengaged.
Both of them stilled.
Minghao’s breath caught in his chest, and when he turned to Chan, he found the other man already looking at him. Neither of them spoke, but something heavy passed between them—nostalgia laced with disbelief, something deeper that neither wanted to name.
Minghao let out a slow exhale. “Guess some things don’t change.”
Chan’s lips pressed together, his fingers curling slightly in his pockets. “Or,” His voice was softer this time, almost careful. “Someone didn’t want them to.”
Minghao didn’t answer. Neither did Chan. The silence settled again—not the awkward kind, but the type that carried years of unspoken thoughts. Of something neither of them had quite figured out how to face.
They stepped inside, bracing themselves for the weight of abandonment—dust-covered furniture, heavy curtains drawn shut, the air thick with time left undisturbed.
But instead the apartment was immaculate.
Sunlight streamed through open curtains, stretching golden light across the floor. The air was crisp, carrying no trace of something long forgotten. The furniture stood exactly as they remembered it—unmoved, untouched, but undeniably tended to. Nothing about the space felt abandoned. It felt lived in. Cared for.
Chan’s breath hitched beside him. His voice, when he spoke, barely reached above a whisper. “Did you expect it to look like this?”
Minghao shook his head, his throat too tight to form words. Because they both knew what this meant.
Someone had been here.
Someone had kept this place alive.
Chan let out a slow exhale, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. He hesitated, then murmured, “Do you think—”
“I don’t know,” Minghao cut in, too quickly, too softly for the words to carry the sharpness they should have. He swallowed, the quiet around them pressing in. He could feel the past creeping in, seeping through the walls, slipping between the cracks of his composure faster than he could stop it.
His gaze drifted, catching on memories he hadn’t meant to revisit.
The couch where they used to argue over movie choices until someone inevitably gave in. The scuff marks on the wooden floor—the ones Jihoon had grumbled about but never actually fixed—remnants of late-night dance battles and impulsive dares. The kitchen, still as pristine as ever, where Seokmin had once nearly burned water of all things, a mistake that became an inside joke none of them ever let him live down.
It was all the same.
It looked the same. It smelled the same.
But it didn’t feel the same.
Because they weren’t the same
Minghao inhaled deeply, steadying himself before turning back to Chan. The man was still staring, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something between longing and uncertainty, between hesitation and the quiet hope of familiarity.
They made their way deeper into the living room, slower now, like they weren’t sure if they were intruding. The scene in front of their eyes made them stop.
Hung in the center of the living room wall, placed deliberately where it couldn’t be missed, was a framed photograph.
All thirteen of them. Grinning, laughing, arms wrapped around each other as if they had all the time in the world. A moment frozen in time. A version of themselves untouched by distance, by silence, by whatever had cracked between them all those years ago.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Of memories, of questions, of things neither of them had been ready to face.
Chan let out a breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “That wasn’t there before.”
“No,” Minghao murmured, stepping closer. His fingers twitched at his sides, an old habit, the urge to reach out warring with something heavier. “It wasn’t.”
And yet, it was here now. In the center of the room, where anyone who walked in would see it. A quiet message. A reminder. A lingering presence of something they’d once thought was lost. They stood there for a moment, staring at their past captured in a frozen frame. A past that, despite everything, someone had chosen to keep.
Chan’s fingers curled at his sides. His voice was unsteady. “So who put it there?”
Minghao didn’t have an answer. Because if the door code hadn’t changed, if the apartment had been cared for, if this picture had been put up, then there was someone who had been holding on to the past.
Someone who hadn’t let go. A quiet realization settled in his chest, heavy and unshakable.
The low murmur of voices from the hallway broke the heavy silence that had settled between them.
“Why is the door open?”
“Maybe someone’s already inside.”
The voices grew closer, followed by the soft shuffle of shoes being slipped off, placed neatly by the entryway—an old habit none of them had forgotten.
Minghao exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening at his sides. It seemed they weren’t the only ones who had come back.
Chan on the other hand, didn’t move as Seungkwan and Seokmin stepped inside, hesitant, their postures stiff. Their eyes scanned the room cautiously—like they weren’t sure if they had just walked into a place they once called home or a ghost of it.
And then their gazes landed on two already present. For a moment, no one spoke.
Seungkwan hesitated before giving a small nod. His voice, quieter than usual, carried an unfamiliar weight. “Hey.”
Chan shifted, hands slipping into his pockets. “Hey.”
Seokmin tried for a smile, lopsided and uncertain. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Everyone’s grown up.”
Minghao met his gaze, unreadable. “Yeah. It has been a long time.”
Silence. The kind that hovered awkwardly, stretching between them like an invisible thread—thin, fragile, threatening to snap. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Like stepping into a past that no longer fit quite right.
Seokmin cleared his throat, glancing around as if searching for something— anything —to say. He let out a small, almost incredulous chuckle. “It’s… surprisingly clean.”
Chan nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s what we thought too.”
Seungkwan, who had been quietly taking everything in, suddenly stopped. His body tensed, his gaze locking onto something on wall. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and when he spoke, his voice was different—sharp, edged with something unreadable.
“What the hell…” He took a step forward.
The others followed his line of sight. The framed photograph. It hadn’t been there before. It was placed deliberately, positioned where it would be impossible to ignore.
The pre-school teacher exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening. “Who put that there?”
Chan hesitated before answering. “It was already here when we came.”
Another silence. This one heavier, pressing down on their chests. No one needed to say it.
This place hadn’t been abandoned. Someone had been here. Someone had kept it alive. Someone had made sure this photo, this memory, remained untouched. The air in the room felt thicker now, weighted with more than just nostalgia. It wasn’t just longing—it was something deeper. A wound that had never fully healed. A past that refused to be buried.
The door swung open again. All of them turned at once, their bodies reacting instinctively, as if jolted from whatever trance had held them still.
Junhui stood in the doorway. He didn’t step in right away. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room with slow, deliberate precision—the kind that wasn’t just about taking in the space, but assessing it. Gauging the atmosphere, the tension in the air, the way no one quite met each other’s eyes for too long.
His gaze flickered to the photograph hanging on the wall, lingering there for just a beat longer than necessary. Then, finally, he looked at them.
Chan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my God,” he muttered. “Why the hell did you bring your baton?”
The detective blinked, as if he had only just remembered the object in his grip. He lifted it slightly, fingers flexing around the handle. Then— click —he flicked his wrist, extending it in one smooth motion. “I didn’t know what we were walking into,” he said, voice level, unreadable.
Seungkwan, still tense from earlier, inhaled deeply. His arms folded across his chest, but his voice held none of its usual exasperation. “That’s a valid point, actually.”
Seokmin’s brows shot up, the slight crease between them showing his unease. “Wait. Are you a cop now?”
Junhui let the baton snap back to its original size before slipping it back into his jacket. Then, with an ease that felt just a little too practiced, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge, flashing it with a hint of smugness. “Detective Wen Junhui.”
A low whistle left Seokmin’s lips. “Huh. Who would’ve thought.”
Minghao, who had been quiet until now, tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Guess all those crime dramas finally got to you.”
Junhui smirked, slipping the badge away, but there was something else beneath it. Something almost distant. “What can I say? I like catching bad guys .”
The words should’ve lightened the mood. Should’ve made someone laugh, or at least let out a scoff. But the amusement barely flickered before vanishing entirely, swallowed by the weight that still hung over them. Because despite the teasing, despite the momentary familiarity, nothing about this felt the way it used to.
Junhui stood a little too stiffly, his posture just a little too guarded. His eyes, sharp as ever, held something unreadable. Something that felt like suspicion.
And maybe— just maybe —he wasn’t the only one feeling it.
—
Soonyoung leaned against the wall outside the building, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched slightly as he stared at the ground. He had been standing there for a while now, shifting on his feet every few minutes but never making a move toward the entrance.
Seungkwan and Seokmin had already gone up—they had texted the group, confirming their arrival. That should’ve been his cue to follow, but his feet remained rooted in place.
He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Or maybe he just wasn’t ready. The past wasn’t something he had ever planned to revisit. And yet, here he was.
Lost in thought, he barely registered someone walking past him. The figure, clad in a hooded sweatshirt, moved ahead a few steps before slowing down, pausing entirely.
Soonyoung heard it then. The slight shuffle of feet, the hesitant intake of breath. “Soonyoung?”
His body tensed at the sound, something vaguely familiar pressing against his memory. Slowly, he turned to face the source.
The man stood a few feet away, his hood still up, a slight frown of confusion on his face. There was something about the way he held himself, the way his voice carried a subtle edge of familiarity, that made something stir in Soonyoung’s chest.
The man took a step closer. “Kwon Soonyoung?”
Soonyoung studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. The voice, he recognized it, but the face was hidden.
The man sighed, reaching up and pulling down his hood. Soonyoung’s eyes widened slightly as recognition slammed into him. “Jihoon?”
Jihoon gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. He had barely changed—his face still sharp, eyes still carrying that sharp, observant glint. But there was something else there, too. Something older. Something wearier.
Jihoon stepped closer, scanning Soonyoung’s face. “You got the envelope too?”
Soonyoung blinked, the question breaking through his moment of surprise. “The one with that symbol?” he asked carefully.
Jihoon nodded. “Yeah.”
A beat of silence. The air between them was thick with something unspoken, something heavy.
Soonyoung’s fingers twitched slightly in his pocket before, suddenly, his lips curved upward into a smirk. He gave Jihoon a once-over, then tilted his head. “You really didn’t grow much in height, huh?”
Jihoon’s expression darkened instantly. His jaw clenched as he shot Soonyoung a glare so sharp it could’ve sliced through steel. “Shut the hell up, Kwon.”
Soonyoung’s grin widened, the awkward tension between them shifting ever so slightly. Before either of them could say anything else, another voice called out. “Youngie?”
Both turned toward the familiar voice, spotting a figure approaching from the sidewalk. Seungcheol. His hair was slightly longer than before, Jihoon noticed, the way he carried himself still exuding that same steady presence. His steps slowed as his gaze flickered between the two of them, his brows furrowing slightly as his eyes landed on Jihoon.
A flicker of recognition crossed his face. “Jihoon?”
Jihoon gave another small nod, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. An awkward silence settled between them. Three people who had once been inseparable now standing in the same space again—yet feeling like complete strangers.
Seungcheol exhaled through his nose before breaking the silence. “Should we go up?”
The three of them exchanged glances. None of them moved immediately. But then, almost in sync, they all let out a small breath—one that carried the weight of years of distance, unspoken words, and unresolved emotions.
“Yeah,” Soonyoung said, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s go.” With that, they stepped inside.
The metal doors of the elevator slid shut with a soft chime, enclosing Seungcheol, Soonyoung, and Jihoon in the small, slightly worn-down compartment. The faint hum of the elevator filled the silence, accompanied only by the mechanical whir of their slow ascent.
Seungcheol’s gaze drifted to the panel above the doors, watching the numbers flicker as they climbed. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his coat, his expression calm but inwardly strained. The stillness was heavy, and he was the first to break it. “Seungkwan and Seokmin?” he asked casually, his voice low but steady.
“Already there,” Soonyoung replied, leaning slightly against the wall, hands loosely gripping the rail behind him. Then, with a pointed look, he added, “Did you not read the group chat?”
Seungcheol’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the question, before he let out a small, sheepish chuckle. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly finding the elevator floor incredibly interesting. “No,” he admitted with a half-shrug. “I was a bit caught up with a student.”
Soonyoung’s head snapped toward him, eyebrows shooting up. “Seriously?” he deadpanned. “On a Sunday?” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “God, Cheol, you really need to stop taking students’ doubts on weekends. Give yourself a day, will you?”
Seungcheol offered a half-smile, the corners of his mouth tugging slightly upward, but there was no real humor in his eyes. “Couldn’t help it,” he muttered with a nonchalant shrug. “She was struggling with the coursework. I couldn’t just ignore it.”
Soonyoung clicked his tongue in faux exasperation, but there was no real bite behind it. Only the familiarity of someone who had known Seungcheol far too long to be surprised by his selflessness.
Jihoon, who had been leaning slightly against the wall, quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke. “You kept in touch?” he asked, his voice slightly softer than intended, but with an edge of curiosity. His eyes flickered briefly between the two of them.
Seungcheol turned to him, their gazes meeting. For a split second, he saw something almost cautious in Jihoon’s eyes—something uncertain, hesitant. “Not all,” Seungcheol replied honestly. His tone was even, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. He glanced at Soonyoung briefly before adding, “Just us four.”
Jihoon’s eyes narrowed slightly. Us four. Meaning Seungkwan, Seokmin, Soonyoung, and Seungcheol. Just the four of them.
There was no accusation in Seungcheol’s voice, but Jihoon still felt something tighten slightly in his chest. A pang of something he didn’t want to name. He nodded stiffly, gaze lowering as the elevator dinged softly and the doors slid open with a muted chime.
As they stepped out, Soonyoung glanced at Jihoon out of the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging at his lips. He tilted his head slightly, his voice casual but with a teasing undertone. “What about you?” he asked, glancing sideways. “You kept in touch with anyone, or did you go full-on loner?”
Jihoon shot him a flat look, his lips pursing slightly. Without missing a beat, he scowled, narrowing his eyes. “Shut up,” he muttered, voice sharp but without any real malice. “I’m with Joshua and Minghao.”
Soonyoung raised his brows slightly, looking at him with exaggerated mock surprise. “Oh?” He clicked his tongue. “A whole two people? Damn, Jihoon, that’s practically a socialite.”
Jihoon glared at him but didn’t dignify the jab with a response.
They turned toward the apartment door, immediately noticing that it was slightly ajar. The three of them stilled. The door was open.
The realization made Seungcheol’s chest tighten slightly, his instincts sharpening. His feet slowed as he glanced at the others, silently wondering if they should be more cautious.
Jihoon, ever practical, eyed the gap in the door with a slight frown. His fingers twitched slightly, almost instinctively moving toward his pocket where he usually kept his switchblade, only to remember he had left it behind. “Why is the door open?” he muttered, voice low and wary.
“Seungkwan and Seokmin are already here,” Seungcheol replied quietly, his gaze steady but slightly tense.
With a brief glance at each other, they cautiously pushed the door further open and stepped inside. The first thing they noticed was the shoes. Neatly placed in the entryway. For a moment, none of them moved. It was such a simple sight—ordinary, even—but it hit them like a punch to the chest.
Because the last time they had stood in this apartment together, the shoes had been scattered haphazardly across the floor. Some had been kicked off carelessly, others left overturned. Sneakers tangled with boots, sandals halfway across the room. A mess of different footprints intermingling with familiarity and carelessness.
But now everything was neatly aligned. Each pair side by side, orderly and precise.
Soonyoung toed off his shoes slowly, his movements almost hesitant. He placed them neatly next to the others, his eyes lingering on the arrangement for a moment too long. Then, with a wry smile, he muttered softly, “Looks like we actually grew up.”
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried through the space, reaching Jihoon and Seungcheol, who stood silently by the door. Neither responded. But they didn’t have to. They could feel it—the same weighted nostalgia pressing against their ribs. The same bittersweet ache pulling at the edges of their chests.
As they moved deeper into the apartment, the familiar sight of the living room greeted them. The space was illuminated with a warm, golden hue—the soft afternoon light filtering through the uncovered windows. It painted the room in gentle strokes, highlighting the once-familiar furniture and the faint memories still clinging to them.
The three of them came to a stop as their eyes landed on the others already inside.
Seungkwan and Seokmin were sitting close together near the couch, their postures slightly tense. Minghao stood by the window, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze distant. Junhui was leaning casually against the wall, but his sharp eyes were scanning the room cautiously, as though still evaluating a threat.
Seungcheol and Jihoon exchanged brief nods of acknowledgment with the others, a small and somewhat impersonal gesture. No words were spoken.
Soonyoung, on the other hand, let his eyes drift to the photo frame on the wall. He frowned instantly, his brows knitting together. His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at it, his jaw clenching at the sight.
Without another word, he scowled and stalked over to Seungkwan and Seokmin, standing stiffly beside them. His eyes remained on the photo frame, dark and unreadable.
Jihoon, still by Seungcheol’s side, glanced around the room, his gaze finally landing on the same frame. He exhaled sharply through his nose. And then, with no hesitation, he blurted out, his voice laced with exasperation, “Who the hell put that frame up?”
The suddenness of his voice made a few heads turn.
Junhui, who had been eyeing the room in silence, glanced at him with an unimpressed expression. He jerked his chin toward the wall and drawled flatly, “Everyone has the same question.”
Jihoon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at the frame. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from it. From the memories it held. From the time it represented. And despite himself, he felt that same hollow ache he had tried so hard to forget.
Soonyoung, who had moved toward Seungkwan and Seokmin, shot a quick glance at the frame before scowling, his expression unreadable. His gaze flickered back to the group, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Whoever put that there, they clearly don’t want us to forget, huh?”
The space felt both familiar and foreign. Like they were intruding on something they used to belong to but now only had pieces of.
Jihoon’s eyes lingered on the frame for a moment longer before he shifted his gaze, finding Minghao’s quiet, unreadable expression. It was all too much. Too many years. Too many things left unsaid. The weight of it all seemed to pull them into the past even as they tried to move forward. And no matter how hard they tried, the silence that followed felt heavier than anything they could say.
The room had gradually splintered into smaller clusters, each group folding into their own conversation. Despite the familiarity, the lines between them felt more pronounced, the spaces they once easily filled now heavy with years of distance.
Seungcheol sat on the couch, his posture deceptively relaxed, one arm draped along the backrest. But his fingers tapped absently against the fabric—a slow, rhythmic cadence of barely concealed tension. His eyes, sharp and observant, swept over the room occasionally, lingering on faces for a fraction too long.
Beside him, Seokmin sat hunched slightly forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric slowly, the nervous habit betraying the calm expression he tried to wear.
Seungkwan sat on the far end of the couch, his arms firmly crossed over his chest. His leg bounced slightly, an uncharacteristic display of nerves. Every now and then, his gaze flickered toward the window where Minghao and Jihoon stood, but he quickly looked away, jaw tightening.
Behind the couch, Soonyoung leaned casually against it, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His weight shifted slightly from one foot to the other, but the hard line of his mouth remained fixed. His eyes, however, were anything but casual—dark and narrowed, flicking from face to face with a slow, assessing sharpness.
He let out a small, derisive scoff under his breath, just loud enough for the group to hear. His voice was low but dripping with mockery. “Guess they really wanted a reunion, huh?” he muttered, his lips twisting into a bitter smirk as he flicked his chin subtly toward the scattered groups.
The words lingered in the air, cutting sharper than he probably intended. Seokmin’s hand twitched slightly against his sleeve. He glanced at Soonyoung, his eyes flickering with a quiet warning.
“Youngie,” Seokmin murmured softly, barely above a whisper, but the weight in his voice was clear.
Soonyoung’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond. His eyes remained on the others, the glimmer of resentment still simmering beneath his detached expression.
Seungcheol’s gaze, ever-perceptive, lingered on Soonyoung for a beat longer. He caught the slight tension in his shoulders—the way his fingers curled faintly against his bicep. The leader didn’t say anything, but his eyes were calm and grounding as he quietly interjected. “They’re here,” Seungcheol murmured, his voice steady but low. “That’s all that matters for now.”
Seungkwan exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away. His arms remained firmly crossed, his fingers gripping his sleeves as though holding himself together.
Junhui and Chan stood against the far wall, slightly apart from the others. Their conversation was quiet, low enough to be lost beneath the soft murmur of voices filling the room, but no less significant.
Chan’s shoulder lightly pressed against the wall, his arms loosely crossed, though his posture was more restless than relaxed. His fingers idly curled and uncurled against his forearm, the subtle motion betraying the tension he tried to keep at bay. His gaze was distant, fixed somewhere in the middle of the room but not really seeing anything. His eyes were slightly hooded, heavy with thought, the faint crease in his brow deepening the longer he stared.
Beside him, Junhui leaned back against the wall with practiced ease, his frame relaxed but his stance deliberate. His arms were folded over his chest, but his eyes were sharp, constantly scanning the room—cool, detached, and alert. The subtle flick of his gaze shifted from face to face, taking in each expression, each movement, as though he were still assessing a scene for threats. Even here, even among people he once called friends, the habit was instinctive.
Chan let out a slow, measured breath. Without turning his head, he muttered dryly under his breath. “Did you bring the baton just in case we decide to kill each other?” The corner of his mouth twitched faintly upward, but the humor was fleeting—barely there. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Junhui’s lips quirked faintly, the barest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner, but the amusement didn’t linger long. He let out a soft huff through his nose. “You never know,” he deadpanned, his voice low and unbothered. “Could still happen.”
Chan exhaled a short breath of amusement, a dry chuckle slipping from his lips. But when his eyes shifted sideways—just briefly—to glance at Junhui, he noticed the way the other man’s grip subtly tightened around his own forearm. It was faint—so faint that anyone else might have missed it. But Chan saw it.
The small, almost imperceptible flex of his fingers. The way the muscle in his forearm tensed slightly beneath his jacket sleeve.
He was holding on. Not to maintain his balance. Not to appear casual. But because if he didn’t, his hands might start to shake.
Chan’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t say anything.
And Junhui didn’t offer an explanation. Didn’t loosen his grip. Didn’t look his way.
They simply stood there. Side by side. Watching the room in silence.
The tension in their limbs, the weight in their chests, the familiar quiet between them said enough. It was the same quiet that came after gritted teeth and unshed tears. The same quiet that came after learning to control the tremor in your hands, because you couldn’t let anyone see them shake.
By the window, Minghao and Jihoon stood side by side, their presence quieter than the others.
The afternoon light slanted through the glass, stretching long golden streaks across the floor. Minghao’s eyes remained fixed on the city skyline beyond the window, but his focus was elsewhere—distant. His arms were loosely crossed, fingers resting lightly against his elbows.
His grip shifted subtly, his fingers brushing absently against the fabric of his sleeve—a nervous tick. One Jihoon noticed. But said nothing about.
Jihoon stood slightly closer to the wall, arms folded over his chest. His fingers tapped idly against his bicep, a slow, unconscious rhythm. But his eyes weren’t on the skyline. They were on Minghao. He watched the way the other man’s gaze occasionally flickered toward the photo on the wall. It wasn’t deliberate. It was quick—a glance, a shift—but it happened more than once. Enough for Jihoon to catch it.
They hadn’t spoken much since they found their place by the window. Not at first. Their conversation was sparse—spoken mostly in glances rather than words. The quiet between them wasn’t unfamiliar. But now, it was heavier. Stilted. Like they were both holding their breath.
Jihoon didn’t mean to speak. The words left his mouth before he even realized he had said them. “You keep looking at it,” he murmured quietly, almost without thinking.
Minghao’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his sleeve. For a brief moment, he stilled, as though considering whether or not to answer. Then, almost too softly, he admitted, “Yeah.” His voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”
The faintest furrow tugged between Jihoon’s brows. He wanted to ask more—to press—but he didn’t. Because the weight in Minghao’s voice made him hesitate.
Jihoon lowered his gaze briefly, fingers still tapping against his arm, but slower now. More deliberate.
The sound of the door opening cut through the room, shattering the lull of conversation. Both Minghao and Jihoon turned slightly at the sound, their gazes snapping toward the entryway. Their eyes immediately locked onto the man stepping inside.
Joshua.
His figure was framed by the doorway, backlit slightly by the light from the hall. His eyes scanned the room with practiced calmness, but his gaze was sharp, sweeping over each face with quiet precision.
Neither Minghao nor Jihoon spoke. But they both knew. Joshua was assessing. Measuring the weight of the air the moment he stepped inside.
The journalist stepped in slowly, his hand still lingering on the door handle for half a beat too long, as though unsure whether to let it go. His eyes scanned the room, immediately taking in the people scattered throughout.
For a moment, he simply stood there, his eyes slowly moving from group to group, familiar faces stirring something dormant in his chest. The weight of their absence, of all the lost years, made his throat tighten slightly.
And then, inevitably, his gaze locked onto the framed photo hanging on the wall. His breath caught slightly in his throat. But his feet moved without hesitation. Automatically, instinctively. They carried him toward Minghao and Jihoon, drawn to them before he even realized it. But even as he reached them, his eyes remained fixed on the photo hanging on the wall. It was unmistakable—the way his gaze tightened slightly, how his throat bobbed faintly as he swallowed. He didn’t ask the question aloud. He didn’t have to.
Minghao followed his gaze, quietly answering the unasked question. “It was there when we walked in,” he murmured softly. His voice was steady, but his fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve.
Joshua’s eyes flickered toward him briefly, then back to the frame.
The bartender’s voice was quieter when he added, “Even the door code’s the same.”
Joshua’s lips parted slightly in surprise, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he slowly nodded, the weight of the revelation sinking in. His eyes lifted again, this time meeting Junhui and Chan’s across the room. The three of them exchanged a brief but familiar smile of acknowledgement—a quiet reassurance between old friends.
Beside him, Jihoon shifted uncomfortably. He let out a low murmur, half to himself. “This feels so awkward.”
Joshua’s eyes softened slightly, but instead of answering, he turned toward Minghao, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you sure you want to be here?”
Minghao’s response was immediate. “I’m sure.”
Jihoon’s eyes flickered between them before his lips pressed into a thin line. “Even if he comes?” His voice was lower now, quieter but sharp with meaning. “Because if everyone’s coming…” Jihoon’s gaze hardened slightly. “That means he will, too. You’re okay with that?”
The weight of the unspoken name settled heavily between them. Minghao’s expression didn’t falter. He gave a small nod, exhaling slowly through his nose. “It’s been years,” he murmured softly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Jihoon let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head slightly. His eyes narrowed faintly, voice dropping in disbelief. “Yeah? That’s why you overwork yourself on his birthday every year?”
Minghao stilled slightly, but his face remained composed. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—something momentarily raw—but he didn’t reply.
Before he could form a response, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. Their attention snapped to the door. The atmosphere shifted slightly, thickening with tension.
The door opened, and the familiar figure of Wonwoo stepped inside.
He hesitated at the entrance, his eyes sweeping over the room cautiously. His expression was calm, but there was a tightness in his shoulders, a faint hesitance in the way his hand lingered against the doorframe for just a second longer than necessary.
He looked older—more refined, more composed. His features sharper, more mature. But the wariness in his eyes was unmistakable.
For a moment, no one spoke. And then a loud scoff echoed through the room.
All eyes turned toward Soonyoung. His arms were crossed, one brow arched sharply, his lips curling into something almost smug. “Oh, look at that,” he drawled slowly, voice thick with mock surprise. “Being polite, are we?”
The room stiffened slightly. The attorney’s words were a barb, sharp and deliberate. The bitterness was unmistakable.
Seokmin, who had been seated now stood up beside him, reached out and pressed a firm hand against Soonyoung’s arm. A silent plea. Let it go.
But Soonyoung didn’t. He didn’t look away from Wonwoo. His eyes narrowed slightly, sharp and unflinching, daring him to respond.
Wonwoo’s eyes, calm but unyielding, slowly shifted toward Soonyoung. His stare was steady, heavy, unreadable. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension stretched thin, taut, filling the room.
And then Soonyoung’s lips curled slightly, his voice flat. “Not gonna say hi to your ex-best friend ? Or is silence the new form of courtesy these days?”
Wonwoo didn’t reply.
Instead, he calmly turned, walking past Soonyoung as though he hadn’t heard him at all. Without a word, he moved across the room and stood beside Chan and Junhui, his posture stiff but composed. He didn’t look back.
Soonyoung’s jaw clenched slightly, his fingers curling at his sides, but he didn’t say anything else. For a moment, the silence hung heavy in the room, and then Seokmin’s hand squeezed his arm gently, pulling him slightly back. Soonyoung exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the tension from his body.
But his eyes never left Wonwoo.
And across the room, Minghao watched it all quietly, his chest feeling heavier with each passing second. Because no matter how much time had passed, some wounds still hadn’t healed.
The silence stretched on, heavier than it should have been.
It clung to the room like a damp fog, seeping into the corners and weighing down the air. No one seemed eager to disturb it. Instead, they lingered in their own spaces, fractured into smaller clusters, their conversations brief and half-hearted—dying out as quickly as they began.
Despite the low hum of voices, the apartment felt stiflingly quiet.
It wasn’t like before—when their laughter had once spilled into every crevice, warm and familiar. When the pile of shoes crowding the entryway and the abandoned cups on the coffee table made the place feel lived in.
Now, even with everyone here, the apartment felt empty.
Soonyoung leaned back against the couch, arms folded over his chest. His eyes remained fixed on Wonwoo, a slight crease forming between his brows. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his grip on his arm was just a bit too tight.
Across the room, Wonwoo’s gaze flickered briefly toward the wall, as if trying to ground himself with the sight of the familiar photo. His fingers curled loosely in his pockets, his shoulders faintly tense. His eyes, once warm with familiarity, now carried something guarded—wary.
Minghao, standing slightly apart from the others, exhaled softly through his nose. His gaze lowered toward the floor, then shifted toward Joshua, who was standing beside him with his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.
The quiet pressed in around them, stretching longer with every passing second. And then, Seokmin spoke.
“So…” he started softly, his voice barely breaking the stillness. His tone was quiet, almost hesitant, as though unsure whether he even wanted the answer. His eyes flicked toward the others, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or maybe just recognition of the same uncertainty he was feeling. “Are we the only ones called here?”
His words drifted into the room and hung there, suspended in the heavy quiet. No one answered right away. The silence simply absorbed his question, stretching further still.
Jihoon was the first to respond. He gave a nonchalant shrug, his tone flat and indifferent, though his eyes were anything but. He scanned the room slowly, taking in every face before offering a clipped, “Looks like it.”
Chan’s eyes drifted toward the photo on the wall—the one they had all refused to acknowledge directly. His voice was quiet, but firm. “What about them?”
The unspoken question lingered heavily in the air.
Joshua, who had been leaning against the window sill, straightened slightly at Chan’s words. His eyes remained on the photo, the lines of his face unreadable. With a soft sigh, he replied, his voice low and matter-of-fact, “If they did receive that envelope… then shouldn’t they be here already?”
For a moment, no one said anything. But then Seungkwan scoffed sharply, the sound cutting through the room like a jagged edge. His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a bitter, humorless smile. “Do you really think they’d come here?” he asked, the mockery in his voice barely veiled. “Out of all places?” His arms crossed over his chest, his fingers gripping his biceps a little too tightly, as if holding himself together.
The sharpness of his tone made Chan’s shoulders stiffen slightly, but Seungkwan didn’t stop. His voice dripped with cynicism as he added, “They probably have luxury lunch appointments to attend or some grand event to grace with their presence. Red carpets, press, cameras. Why would they waste their expensive time here?”
Chan’s eyes snapped toward Seungkwan at that, his jaw tightening. His hands curled into loose fists by his sides. “That’s not fair,” he muttered, the tension in his voice barely concealed.
Soonyoung, who had been standing with his arms folded, lifted his head at Chan’s words. His eyes narrowed slightly, sharp with disbelief. “Not fair?” he echoed, his voice low but cutting. The words were slow, deliberate—coiled with restrained frustration. He straightened, unfolding his arms as he stepped closer. His tone sharpened, daring Chan to continue. “What exactly is not fair about this?”
Chan’s lips pressed together into a thin line. His eyes were defiant, but the slight twitch in his jaw betrayed the emotions he was holding back. “That’s not what I meant,” Chan ground out through gritted teeth, barely holding back his frustration.
But Soonyoung wasn’t in the mood for excuses. His voice came out sharp and bitter, the words laced with years of resentment that he hadn’t realized he still held onto. “Don’t tell me you actually think they’ll waltz in here like old times, just because we were summoned.” His tone dripped with disbelief, his lips curling into a mirthless smile. “They probably don’t even remember us in between all that glamour.”
Chan’s eyes flashed, his fingers clenching slightly at his sides, but before he could say anything, Junhui’s voice cut through the tension.
“Soonyoung,” Junhui warned softly, but there was a firmness in his voice, a barely concealed edge beneath the calm. His eyes narrowed subtly, dark with quiet authority. “You’re crossing the line.”
For a brief moment, the room stilled. Soonyoung’s sharp gaze flicked to Junhui’s, and the two locked eyes. Neither backed down immediately, but the weight of Junhui’s words lingered, heavy and unyielding.
The tension was thick enough to choke on.
Sensing the shift, Seungcheol finally stepped in, his voice calm but firm. The quiet authority in his tone was enough to make them glance at him, but it didn’t soften the simmering tension in the room.
“Let’s all settle first,” Seungcheol said evenly, but his gaze was steady, a silent command for everyone to stand down. His tone left no room for argument. “Then we’ll talk.”
Reluctantly, they all fell into uneasy compliance. The sudden movement—the dragging of chairs, the shifting of bodies—seemed louder than it was, breaking the heavy stillness.
Without a word, they instinctively fell into their groups. It was a habit they hadn’t even realized they had—a force of muscle memory, like a deeply ingrained reflex.
Joshua turned slightly toward Jihoon and Minghao, quietly gesturing toward the dining chairs. Jihoon shrugged slightly, expression unreadable, before dragging one out and sitting down heavily. His arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. Minghao followed quietly, though his fingers remained faintly curled against the edge of his thigh.
Joshua sat between them, leaning back slightly in his chair, arms resting lightly over his chest. His eyes lingered briefly on the photo frame again, his gaze subtly distant.
Meanwhile, Junhui, Chan, and Wonwoo took the opposite side of the room. Junhui remained standing at first, his eyes flickering over the others with quiet observation before he finally lowered himself into a seat. His movements were slow, deliberate. Chan sat near him, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. He absently traced a faint line on the edge of the coffee table with his thumb, his eyes vacant with thought. Wonwoo settled next to them but kept a subtle distance—a space deliberately left between him and the others. His eyes remained impassive, but there was a quiet wariness in the way he carried himself, like he was waiting for something.
The room fell into another brief silence, the kind that pressed against their ribs and made their chests feel too tight. It didn’t feel right.
The once-lively apartment—the place where their laughter used to echo late into the night—felt sterile now, hollow. The space between them was no longer filled with warmth or familiarity. It was filled with distance. With the remnants of fractured trust and unspoken wounds.
And despite the fact that they were all in the same room again, the gap between them had never felt wider.
The faint creak of a chair leg scraped against the wooden floor as Wonwoo shifted in his seat, his fingers idly tapping against his knee. The others were unusually still, the only sounds filling the room being the occasional shuffle of fabric or the faint exhale of a breath.
One by one, they slowly reached into their bags or coat pockets, pulling out the identical beige envelopes. The thick cardstock felt heavier than it should have, weighed down by the symbol embossed on its surface—a perfect ouroboros, the snake devouring its own tail.
The sound of paper hitting the coffee table echoed in the otherwise quiet room. First Seungkwan placed his down, the envelope making a soft thud. The others followed suit—Seokmin, Soonyoung, Joshua, Seungcheol, Chan, Jihoon, Junhui, and Minghao—until a neat stack of beige envelopes sat in the center of the table, their presence ominous and foreboding.
The last to place his down was Wonwoo. He stared at the ouroboros for a beat longer than the others, his jaw faintly clenched, before he slowly let the envelope slip from his fingers. The room stilled, and for a moment, no one spoke.
It was Wonwoo who finally broke the silence. His voice was low, measured, but there was a distinct weight to it. “Someone who knows us,” he said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the pile. His gaze darkened slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Someone who knows our past.”
The others’ eyes flicked toward him, but he didn’t look up. His fingers subtly curled against his knee, knuckles faintly taut.
“Because this,” he added, tilting his chin slightly toward the symbol, his voice tightening ever so slightly, “is ours . No one else knew about it.”
His words sat heavily between them.
Jihoon’s brows furrowed slightly, his eyes narrowing. He glanced around the room before his gaze slowly returned to the pile of envelopes. He exhaled softly through his nose, his voice carefully even but probing. “Was it one of us?” he asked suddenly, the question slicing through the heavy stillness. His eyes flicked toward each of them in turn, searching for the slightest hint of dishonesty or hesitation. “Did one of you send this?”
His voice was calm—almost clinical—but there was a sharpness to the way he phrased it, his distrust barely masked beneath the casual tone. His gaze lingered on Seungcheol a moment too long, then shifted to Soonyoung and Junhui.
The room seemed to collectively stiffen.
“No,” Seungcheol answered first, his voice steady but firm. His eyes held Jihoon’s, unwavering. “It wasn’t me.”
Junhui’s eyes narrowed slightly at the accusation, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. His voice came out flat, but pointed. “If you’re asking me, then no,” he said evenly, his eyes sharp with the faintest edge of offense. “I wouldn’t waste my time with something like this.”
Soonyoung let out a dry scoff, his lips curling into a humorless smile. He gestured loosely toward the pile of envelopes with a flick of his hand, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, because I’ve got nothing better to do than stage some dramatic reunion like a damn soap opera,” he muttered, his tone biting, though his fingers were subtly clenched against his thigh.
“Not me,” Seokmin added softly, shaking his head faintly. His voice was quieter than the others, more subdued. “I wouldn’t.”
“None of us would,” Joshua finally said, his voice steady, but there was an edge to his words, sharp with certainty. His eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced at Jihoon. “And you know that.”
Jihoon’s gaze lingered on him for a beat longer before he finally exhaled sharply through his nose and leaned back slightly, conceding.
For a moment, no one spoke.
But then Seokmin’s voice cut through the quiet, hesitant but weighted. His eyes flickered uncertainly between the others. “What if…” he started, slowly, cautiously, “…what if it’s them?”
The slight tremor in his voice made several heads snap in his direction. He didn’t need to clarify who they were. Everyone knew. The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and unspoken.
Seungkwan let out a sharp exhale, his eyes narrowing slightly. His voice was sharper than intended when he responded. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “It’s not them.”
Chan’s eyes narrowed slightly, skeptical. His arms folded over his chest. “And how do you know that?” he asked, his voice low and faintly challenging.
Seungkwan’s eyes snapped toward him, his voice coming out slightly more defensive than he intended. “Because they wouldn’t do this,” he bit out. “They wouldn’t.”
Jihoon let out a humorless chuckle, his eyes cold as they flicked toward Seungkwan. His voice was low and deliberate. “Wouldn’t they?” he muttered, the sharpness in his voice barely concealed.
Seungkwan opened his mouth to retort, but Minghao suddenly cut in, his voice quiet but firm.
“They could,” Minghao said flatly, his eyes locked on the envelopes. He didn’t look at anyone, his voice unwavering, emotionless. “And it makes sense.”
The room stilled. All eyes turned toward him.
Minghao finally lifted his head, his gaze slow and deliberate as he looked at each of them in turn. His voice was calm, measured, but there was something darkly resolute in the way he spoke. “This apartment…” he said softly, gesturing faintly around them, “…actually belongs to the Kims. It’s their property.” His eyes scanned the room, narrowing slightly. “If they wanted to, they could’ve sold it years ago. Or put it up for rent. But they didn’t.”
He paused, his gaze flickering around the space. His voice dropped slightly. “Everything here is exactly the same,” he added, his tone quieter, but pointed. His fingers twitched faintly against his thigh. “Like it was waiting for us.”
The room fell into a heavier silence.
Seungcheol, who had been quiet until now, exhaled softly. His eyes lowered faintly toward the floor as he mumbled under his breath, almost too low for anyone to hear. “It’s taken care of.”
But Junhui caught it. His sharp eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze locking onto Seungcheol. “What does that mean?” Junhui asked evenly, his voice low, measured. His expression remained impassive, but there was a faint sharpness beneath the calm. His eyes were piercing. “Taken care of by who? Them? ”
Seungcheol didn’t answer right away.
Junhui’s voice hardened slightly, the edge in his tone becoming more pronounced. “If they’re the ones who called us here,” he pressed, his gaze unyielding, “then why aren’t they here?” His eyes narrowed. “What game are they playing?” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, cutting through the room like a blade.
But before anyone could respond, Seungkwan let out a sharp breath and muttered darkly, his voice low but dripping with disdain. “They’re trying to show us,” he spat bitterly, his eyes flashing with contempt, “that they still have power over us.”
His words lingered heavily in the air, thick with resentment, making the silence that followed feel almost suffocating, but no one refuted them. Because deep down, none of them could deny it.
The golden trio hadn’t even stepped into the apartment. And yet they were already the ones suffocating the room.
Joshua exhaled sharply, his voice cutting through the restless murmurs that had begun to stir in the room. “This is pointless,” he muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear. His tone was flat, laced with quiet finality. He shook his head faintly, the tension in his shoulders visible. “If they wanted to be here, they would’ve come by now.”
His words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate, carving through the fragile silence like a dull blade.
Junhui let out a sharp exhale, the sound was more bitter than tired. Without a word, he dragged his hand roughly through his hair, fingers catching slightly in the strands before falling back down. His eyes flickered briefly toward the door—the same empty threshold they had all been stealing glances at for the past hour. Still empty. Still void.
“Yeah,” he scoffed dryly, the sound laced with sardonic disbelief. He flicked his wrist in a gesture of dismissal, his eyes narrowing faintly. “Let’s just leave. This was clearly some kind of joke.”
There was no heat in his voice. Just cold cynicism. But beneath it, there was something heavier. Something tired.
Near the couch, Soonyoung, who had been leaning against the armrest, suddenly straightened.
His movements were brisk—almost restless—as he pushed away from the fabric with a decisive step. The energy in his posture was sharp, frayed at the edges. Tension simmering just beneath the surface. “Yeah, this was fun,” he said coolly, his voice thick with mockery. But it wavered slightly at the end. A faint tremor of bitterness slipping through the cracks.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he slowly turned, letting his gaze deliberately sweep across the room. It moved over Minghao, over Jihoon, over Joshua, Junhui and Chan before finally landing on Wonwoo. The attorney’s lips curled faintly into a mirthless smirk. The kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice catching up after all these years,” Soonyoung drawled slowly, his tone deceptively casual. But the sharpness of his eyes—the pointed glare aimed directly at Wonwoo—made the words linger. Barbed and deliberate.
A taunt. A challenge. A wound, still raw, still unspoken, still bleeding.
And yet Wonwoo didn’t flinch. Didn’t avert his gaze. Didn’t look away. He simply stared back, expression blank, cold and detached. No retort, no flicker of guilt, no apology in his eyes. Just quiet, unyielding indifference. The kind that cut deeper than words ever could.
For a moment, nothing shifted. The room held its breath. Stagnant. Still.
Soonyoung’s jaw tightened slightly, and his fingers curled faintly at his sides, knuckles paling from the force. But he didn’t linger, didn’t give in. With a sharp exhale, he turned on his heel, about to walk away.
But then the door opened again.
The faint creak of the hinge echoed in the heavy silence, slicing through the tension like a knife. The room stilled. Every head turned sharply toward the sound.
Footsteps followed, soft, unhurried. The faint padding of socked feet against the wooden floor.
No one needed to look to know. They felt it. The shift in the atmosphere. The weight of it was palpable. Like something heavy and cold curling in their lungs, making it harder to breathe.
Every movement stilled. Every breath was held just a fraction too long. Every glance slowly, cautiously turned toward the entrance.
And there they were. The three who had once been inseparable from them. The three who had once stood beside them. The three from whom they had walked away.
Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Vernon stepped into the apartment with casual ease, moving like they belonged there.
But they didn’t, not anymore.
They were dressed in sleek, expensive business casual outfits, tailored with sharp precision. They looked like they had just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine—flawless and untouchable.
Jeonghan, at the helm, walked with practiced poise. His long, tailored coat fell neatly along the lines of his slender frame, the dark hue giving him an elegant yet imposing presence. His dark hair was styled with precise, effortless perfection—the kind that wasn’t meant to look effortless at all. It fell just slightly over his forehead, framing his sharp features like a portrait. He wore dark-tinted sunglasses, shielding his eyes, making it impossible for anyone to read them.
Vernon walked beside him, slightly behind. His stride was languid, casual but deliberate. The kind of confidence that came with knowing you didn’t need to prove anything. His hands were tucked loosely into his coat pockets, fingers hidden from view, shoulders relaxed. He wore sunglasses too—just as dark, just as opaque—masking any trace of emotion. But his lips, they were curved faintly into that familiar half-smirk. The one that once held warmth. The one that now felt foreign. Detached.
Mingyu brought up the rear. His stride was unhurried, longer than the others’, subtly commanding without ever trying to be. He moved with an easy confidence, one that didn’t ask for attention but inevitably drew it. His grin was wide and crooked, lazy with a touch of insolence, perfectly practiced. His hair was styled perfectly—every strand in place—and the faint, expensive scent of his cologne clung subtly to the air.
Crisp. Clean. Cloying.
Their clothes were pristine. Their movements fluid. Their confidence unwavering.
They were, without question, everything the others had grown to resent.
The silence in the room grew heavier as the trio slowly took in the apartment—the familiar walls, the faces that once felt like home.
For a moment, they stood by the doorway, unmoving. Their sunglasses remained on, their eyes hidden, shielding whatever traces of vulnerability they might have held.
And then, as though sensing the weight of it all, Jeonghan’s gaze shifted. From the people. To the photo. The one that shouldn’t have been there.
His steps slowed almost imperceptibly. His chest lifted with a slow, measured inhale. And for a moment, he simply stared. Longer than he should have. Longer than he meant to. The edges of his throat tightened faintly. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
And then he slowly turned back to the room, his gaze locking onto Soonyoung, who was still halfway turned toward the door, frozen mid-step.
A faint, breathy chuckle left Jeonghan’s lips. Soft. Airy. Cold. “You’re leaving already?” Jeonghan’s voice was light, almost mocking, though the slight hoarseness in his throat betrayed him. His eyes, still hidden behind his sunglasses, narrowed faintly. “We just got here.” His tone was light, but the sharpness in it lingered.
Soonyoung’s jaw tightened faintly. The muscle at the hinge ticked ever so slightly. But he didn’t turn around fully. Didn’t meet Jeonghan’s eyes. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost dismissive. A faint, humorless smirk tugged at his lips. “Should’ve gotten here earlier, then.” His voice was clipped, barely more than a mutter, but the faint scoff that punctuated the words was unmistakable. Sharp and bitter.
Jeonghan’s lips twitched slightly at the corners. A ghost of a smile. Empty. Hollow.
And then another voice floated through the heavy air. “Long time no see.”
Mingyu’s voice was bright and casual, entirely unfazed by the tension thickening the air. His grin was wide and wolfish, and he raised his hand in a careless wave, the picture of ease. “Missed us?” he added with a lopsided smirk. His voice was low and teasing, the words lilting slightly with playful mockery.
Like they were old friends reunited.
Like he wasn’t daring them to bite back.
The words were meant to be playful. But they were met with nothing but frigid silence. Not a single person replied. Not a single smile was returned.
Instead, the others watched them warily—some with distrust, some with anger, and some with nothing at all.
Seungcheol’s eyes hardened slightly, his lips pressed into a flat line. His fingers stilled against his knuckle, his breathing slow and measured.
Jihoon’s hands curled into fists by his sides, the sharp edge of his nails faintly digging into his palms. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw clenched.
Wonwoo’s gaze remained cold and unreadable, his arms loosely crossed over his chest, but his eyes were sharp—dissecting, assessing.
Seokmin and Seungkwan didn’t say a word, but the faint tightening of Seungkwan’s shoulders and the tension in Seokmin’s jaw spoke louder than anything they could have voiced.
Joshua’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes darkening faintly as he shifted his weight, arms crossing more firmly over his chest.
Junhui’s gaze sharpened slightly, his fingers twitching faintly by his side, muscle memory threatening to reach for his baton, the tension in his body subtle but visible.
Minghao’s eyes hardened slightly. His fingers curled faintly against the fabric of his sleeve, a subtle sign of restraint.
Chan’s eyes remained wide and wary, lips pressed into a thin, uncertain line.
The trio took it all in—the distrust, the resentment, the guardedness, the quiet, simmering fury etched into their former friends’ faces.
But they didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. Didn’t let the weight of it touch them. Instead, they stood perfectly still, expressions composed, impenetrable, cold.
The sunglasses stayed on. The glassy black lenses shielding their eyes from view. From scrutiny. From emotion.
Like armor.
Like a shield.
Hiding everything they didn’t want the others to see.
And in the suffocating silence, none of them spoke.
For a long, heavy moment, no one moved, no one breathed.
And the room—once filled with the echoes of their childhood laughter—was now drowning in unfamiliarity.
Chapter 8: Puppets On Invisible Strings
Chapter Text
“Missed you?” Seungkwan let out a sharp scoff, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a blade. His arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes narrowed with unveiled disdain. His lip curled into a sneer as he leveled his gaze at Mingyu. “Yeah, about as much as I miss food poisoning.”
“Food poisoning, huh?” Mingyu mused, his voice low, teasing. He clucked his tongue softly against his teeth, mockingly thoughtful. “Funny,” he drawled lazily, his dark eyes glimmering with something colder, more calculating. “I could’ve sworn you had a taste for the finer things.” His lips curled into a faint smirk, slow and deliberate. The slight tilt of his head making the condescension in his words feel heavier.
Before Seungkwan could retort, Vernon let out a quiet tutting sound from beside Mingyu. The faint click of his tongue was soft, almost lazy, but it cut through the air like a blade. “Salty, salty,” Vernon muttered with a slow shake of his head, as though he were genuinely disappointed.
He slowly slipped his hands into his coat pockets, his lips curving into a lazy smirk. And then, with a faint, practiced sigh, he added, “Don’t be so bitter, Boo.”
His voice was smooth, easy—like he was chiding an old friend. Like he was still someone who belonged there. But the slight bite beneath his casual drawl made it sting more.
Then with an almost exaggerated exhale, Vernon shrugged lightly. “We were just caught up at a shoot,” he said airily, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Some glossy mag needed us looking flawless.” He gestured faintly to himself, then to Jeonghan and Mingyu, with a faint flick of his wrist.
Completely blasé. Completely detached, like none of this meant anything.
“Had to maintain our public image, you know?” Vernon added, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Can’t afford to disappoint our devoted fans.” His words dripped faintly with mock innocence, as though he were genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of the public.
Junhui’s bitter laugh was a jagged sound that rang louder than it should have. He folded his arms over his chest, leaning back against the backrest, eyes narrowed with sharp amusement.
“Right. Public appearance,” he drawled, voice tainted with sarcasm. His gaze raked over the trio with unveiled disdain. “Can’t have the golden trio lose their sparkle, now, can we?”
Vernon’s grin widened, sharp and teasing, the mischief in his eyes hidden by the dark veil of sunglasses. With a dramatic click of his fingers, he pointed at Junhui, his smile slow and sly. “Look at that,” he said, mock delight dripping from his tone. “Detective Wen gets it.” He gave a slow nod of exaggerated approval. “Sharp thinking as always, huh?”
Junhui’s eyes narrowed into thin slits, the sharpness in his gaze hardening. His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers curling into a fist at his side, but he held his ground, leveling Vernon with a glare that could cut glass.
The icy amusement in Vernon’s smile only grew, as if he thrived off the barely concealed tension.
Seungcheol’s voice cut through the room, heavy and cold. The quiet intensity of it was far more damning than any shout. “You knew you wouldn’t be welcomed here,” he said evenly, his eyes hard, unyielding. His voice was low but edged with barely contained fury. “So why the hell did you even bother coming?”
Vernon’s eyes lazily shifted toward him, not a trace of intimidation in his expression. Instead, he feigned innocence, blinking with exaggerated surprise. “Dunno,” he said smoothly, voice light, almost bored. He gave a slow, one-shouldered shrug, entirely unaffected. “Just felt like catching up.”
Jihoon’s bitter snort sliced through the fake pleasantries. His lips twisted into a sneer as he leveled his gaze at Jeonghan, his eyes hard and unforgiving. “Is he your new spokesperson now?” Jihoon asked coldly, the words cutting like a blade.
Mingyu’s grin widened slowly, devilish and sharp, his eyes glinting with taunting mischief. His voice was low, almost purring, deliberately needling. “Why?” he murmured, leaning forward slightly, his voice a deliberate drawl. “You wanna be our spokesperson, Jihoonie?”
The old nickname, once spoken with warmth and affection, now sounded cruelly mocking on his tongue. Jihoon’s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he made a move to stand. His fists clenched at his sides, and for a brief second, it seemed as though he might lunge.
But before he could, Joshua’s hand shot out, gripping Jihoon’s wrist firmly. The touch was steady—grounding. A silent warning. “Don’t,” the journalist said softly, his voice low but commanding. His eyes were firm as they met Jihoon’s, silently pleading for restraint.
Jihoon’s teeth ground together, his nostrils flaring slightly, but he remained in his seat, though his eyes still burned with fury.
Joshua’s gaze shifted toward the trio, his expression cooling. His voice was calm, steady, but there was a distinct sharpness beneath the surface. “Why did you send those envelopes?” he asked flatly, cutting straight to the point.
Vernon let out a long, dramatic sigh, as though Joshua had just asked him to run a marathon. He pressed his hand to his chest with mock exhaustion. “Josh, seriously?” he groaned, dragging out the word theatrically. He shook his head with exaggerated exasperation and gestured toward the occupied couch with a lazy flick of his wrist. “At least let us sit first.”
Without waiting for permission, he casually strolled over to the dining table, his movements slow and deliberate, almost mocking in their ease. With an exaggerated show of indifference, he pulled out one of the chairs and plopped himself down.
Mingyu and Jeonghan followed his lead, moving with the same casual grace. Mingyu rolled his shoulders back before sitting down, making himself comfortable, while Jeonghan pulled out his chair with deliberate slowness. His eyes flickered toward the faces in the room—assessing, calculating—but his expression remained unreadable.
The trio’s envelopes appeared in Mingyu’s hand, and with a lazy flick of his wrist, he tossed them onto the pile of identical beige envelopes already on the table. The papers made a faint thud as they landed, a stark reminder that they were just as entangled in this as the rest of them.
Vernon cocked his head slightly, his gaze drifting back to Joshua, his voice disarmingly light, like they were picking up from a casual conversation. “You were saying?” he prompted with a tilt of his chin, as if Joshua had somehow interrupted him.
For the first time since they’d entered, Chan’s voice cut through the exchange. His eyes were locked onto the pile of envelopes on the table, his expression tight. “You got one too?” he asked softly, his voice laced with something unreadable—disbelief, suspicion, or perhaps both.
Jeonghan’s eyes slowly flicked toward him, the corners of his lips curving upward in a faint, detached smile. He gave a lazy shrug, as though the answer was obvious. “As you can see,” he replied softly, his voice smooth but devoid of warmth.
Mingyu leaned back slightly, arms draped over Vernon’s chair’s backrest, flashing his signature lopsided grin. “So it’s clearly visible,” he drawled, “we didn’t send the envelopes.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, almost lazily, “Because if I had sent them… I probably wouldn’t have staged an attack on myself while delivering it.”
Seokmin and Seungcheol’s heads snapped toward him at the same time, their voices overlapping in sharp disbelief. “You were attacked?!”
Mingyu made a show of widening his eyes, feigning exaggerated surprise, and clutched his chest dramatically. “Whoa! You care?” he teased with mock astonishment, his tone bordering on theatrical. “I’m touched.”
The sarcasm in his voice only seemed to add fuel to the fire, making Seokmin’s jaw tighten and Seungcheol’s eyes narrow into thin slits.
Minghao’s voice rang out next, cold and cutting through the mockery like a blade. “How do we know you’re not lying?” he asked bluntly, his eyes hard and unyielding as they met Mingyu’s.
Junhui, his voice low and sharp, added, “Yeah. Maybe you did send the letters. And just to avoid suspicion, you made some for yourselves too.” His voice was laced with venom while his lips twitched faintly into a sardonic smile. “Smart move.”
The words hung heavy, sharp and accusing. But the trio didn’t flinch. They didn’t blink.
Instead, Mingyu’s smirk widened just slightly, his eyes glinting with devilish amusement. “Now, that’s clever,” he drawled slowly, voice low and casual. There was no mockery in his tone, just smooth, deliberate admiration. As though genuinely impressed by the audacity of the accusation.
He clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head faintly. “Guess you really are a detective, huh?” he mused lightly, his lips twitching with the faintest smirk. “Thinking of all the possibilities.” He let the words hang there, light and condescending.
Junhui’s eyes darkened faintly, his lips tightening into a thin line but he didn’t look away.
Minghao’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly, his fingers tightening subtly against his sleeve but he said nothing. Just watched.
Vernon, still sprawled in his chair with a lazy grin, let out a faint, dramatic sigh. Like he was already bored of the conversation. “You guys are so paranoid,” he muttered with a slight shake of his head. His voice was light, almost teasing, but the glimmer in his eyes was anything but. “Trust issues much?” he added with a faint, condescending smirk.
But no one laughed.
No one smiled.
The room remained still, weighted by the distrust that clung to the air like smoke.
Jihoon let out a sharp, humorless scoff, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair, the sound steady but filled with irritation. His gaze remained locked onto Mingyu, sharp and scrutinizing. “That’s one hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low but dripping with suspicion. “You, getting attacked just when these letters magically appear?”
Mingyu’s response was almost immediate, effortless in its practiced ease. He gave a casual shrug, tilting his head slightly, as if the entire conversation was a mildly amusing inconvenience. “Life’s full of surprises,” he mused, his lips curving into a lazy smirk.
The dismissiveness of it—of him—only served to ignite something in Seungkwan. His patience had already been wearing thin, but now it snapped completely. He shot up from his seat, glaring daggers at Mingyu, his voice cutting and raw. “Oh, shut up,” he snapped, his hands clenched into tight fists. “You’re so full of shit, it’s disgusting.”
Mingyu didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, and he clicked his tongue in feigned disappointment. His tone was light, chiding, deliberately condescending. “Language, Kwanie,” he tsked, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta set a good example for the kids.”
A short, sharp laugh left Seokmin, though there was no real amusement in it—just disbelief. “Oh, so that’s what we’re doing now?” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “We’re playing cute?”
Junhui, who had been watching the interaction with a growing sense of disgust, leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze cold and unimpressed as he stared at the trio. “It’s really cute,” he said dryly, “how the three of you waltzed in here, acting like you’re not behind this.” His voice was deceptively even, but the sharp undertone was unmistakable.
Vernon let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he rocked back in his chair. “Damn,” he murmured, sounding more entertained than offended. “Paranoia’s really getting to you, Detective Wen.”
Jihoon scoffed, his expression twisting into something bitter. “Don’t act so innocent,” he muttered, arms folded tightly across his chest.
Seokmin nodded in agreement, his gaze bouncing between the three of them, disbelief coloring his tone. “So what, you want us to just buy this?” he said, motioning toward the envelopes on the table. “That you three just happened to be dragged into this too? That even you were targeted?”
The accusations filled the air, thick and suffocating, but the trio didn’t react. They didn’t waver, didn’t flinch, didn’t even attempt to defend themselves.
Jeonghan merely leaned back in his chair, watching the others with unreadable eyes. He didn’t argue, didn’t retaliate. He simply let the distrust simmer around them, completely unfazed.
The silence stretched until Minghao spoke, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. His tone was calm, but there was something beneath it—something raw, something tired. “How can we trust you?”
The words felt heavier than any of the accusations thrown before.
Minghao’s gaze drifted over the trio, lingering on each of them before finally settling on Vernon. The weight of his stare was unmistakable, filled with something deeper than just distrust. “How can I trust you,” he said, quieter this time, but infinitely sharper, “after everything that happened?”
For a moment, they just stared at each other. No words exchanged. Just the heavy silence of a past neither of them had spoken about in years.
Something flickered across Vernon’s expression—something almost unrecognizable. But it was gone in an instant, wiped clean, replaced by that same easy nonchalance.
And then Jeonghan spoke. “Then don’t.”
The words were simple, yet they rang through the room like a gunshot. A heavy silence settled over them all.
Minghao’s eyes didn’t flicker away from the man who used to be his closest friend as he nodded at Jeonghan’s words, agreeing to it. And somewhere behind the dark shield covering Vernon’s eyes, something faintly splintered again. But he didn’t let it show. Not yet.
Chan finally broke it, his voice quiet, uncertain. “Just like that?”
Jeonghan’s gaze flickered toward him, something eerily calm in his expression. “Yes Channie, just like that,” he repeated.
Seungkwan let out a sharp scoff, his arms folding tightly over his chest as he shook his head, disbelief and something bitter curling in his gut. He gestured toward the trio with an exasperated wave of his hand. “So that’s it? You just waltz in here with your stupid sunglasses, your smug little smiles, and expect us to just go along with it?” His voice rose slightly, his frustration barely contained. “Like nothing ever happened?”
The laughter that spilled from his lips was humorless, sharp-edged with anger and years of unresolved resentment. He shook his head again, scoffing under his breath. “God, you’re so fucking predictable.”
The words cut through the room, thickening the air between them, but the trio remained utterly unfazed. Their expressions didn’t waver, didn’t crack—not even a flicker of guilt or irritation. Their faces remained the same picture of effortless nonchalance.
Vernon clicked his tongue, the sound sharp and almost teasing as he shook his head. “You’re still dramatic, Boo,” he drawled, his voice light, almost amused. “You need to learn to let it go sometimes.”
Seungkwan’s jaw clenched. His fingers twitched where they rested on his arm, his entire body rigid with unspoken words and unhealed wounds. His lips curled into a sneer as he narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he spat, voice dripping in mock remorse. “Did I hurt the feelings of South Korea’s golden son?” He tilted his head, eyes flashing. “Did I bruise your precious ego, Young Master Choi?”
Vernon let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in what seemed like genuine amusement. “You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?” His lips curled into a smirk. “But don’t worry about me.” His voice dropped, casual but pointed. “You should be worrying about yourself.”
Soonyoung exhaled sharply, the sound filled with nothing but disgust. “You guys are such fucking jokes,” he muttered, shaking his head, barely able to contain the sheer irritation crawling under his skin.
Vernon turned to him, the smirk on his lips widening into something almost wicked, his voice taking on an almost purring tone. “Aw, did you miss me that much, Soonyoung?”
Soonyoung’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing dangerously thin. His fingers twitched at his side, his breath coming out slower, controlled—barely controlled.
Before he could snap, a voice cut through the tension.
“Enough.”
All eyes turned to Wonwoo, who had been silent until now, but whose gaze was now locked onto the trio, dark and unreadable. His voice was steady, but there was something cold beneath it. “Stop playing games.”
Mingyu turned to him, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Games?” he echoed, placing a hand over his chest like the idea of it personally offended him. “Who’s playing? We’re just catching up.”
Jihoon scoffed, shaking his head as he shot the trio a look of pure disbelief. His patience, too, was thinning rapidly. “Just stop,” he snapped. “Stop pretending you’re not behind this.”
Mingyu’s lips curled into a slow smirk, tilting his head slightly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Wow,” he mused, voice full of amusement. “You’re really giving us way too much credit.”
Vernon let out a slow, amused exhale, shaking his head as he adjusted his sleeves, completely unbothered by the palpable tension in the room. His lips curved into that same infuriating smirk, like this was all just a fun little game to him.
“Damn,” he murmured, almost wistful. “You guys are still too easy to rile up.” He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment before tilting his head ever so slightly. “And here I thought you’d grown up.”
Soonyoung’s patience snapped like a frayed wire. His body moved before his brain could catch up, and in the blink of an eye, he lunged forward, gripping Vernon’s collar in both fists and hauling him up to his feet.
The chair Vernon had been sitting on screeched against the floor, almost toppling over, but Vernon himself? He barely reacted. His hands remained tucked in his pockets, his posture loose, his expression utterly unbothered—if anything, amused.
Soonyoung was fuming, breath coming out in heavy, ragged exhales. “Shut up,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “Shut the fuck up, you bastard.”
Vernon let out a chuckle, so low it barely made a sound, his lips quirking in amusement. “Do it.” His voice was soft, taunting, dripping with something dangerous. “You want to hit me, right? You’ve been wanting to for years. So just do it.”
And Soonyoung did.
His fist connected with Vernon’s jaw with a sharp crack, sending his sunglasses slipping off his face and clattering onto the floor. Vernon’s head snapped to the side, but when he turned back, there was nothing—nothing—in his eyes. No rage, no surprise, no fear. Just a calm void that sent a shiver of unease through the room.
The silence was deafening.
A breathless chuckle slipped from Vernon’s lips, the sound almost entertained. He brought a hand to his mouth, fingers swiping across his split lip where blood pooled in the corner, glistening under the light. He ran his tongue over it, tasting the copper, then let out another soft laugh as if this was all just amusing to him. “That's all you got?”
The words were nothing but a whisper, but they held weight—heavy, taunting, inviting.
Soonyoung moved before he could think. His anger was a living thing, coiling tightly in his chest, screaming for an outlet. His fist clenched, ready to strike again and the room snapped into motion.
Minghao was the first to move, standing abruptly from his spot, tension rolling off him in waves. Seungcheol and Wonwoo lunged forward, grabbing onto Soonyoung’s arms just before he could take another swing.
“Soonyoung, stop!” Seungcheol’s voice was sharp, authoritative, but his grip was firm, steady, holding Soonyoung back before he could do something he’d regret.
Wonwoo’s fingers dug into his other arm, his voice lower, more controlled but no less urgent. “Don't.”
Soonyoung struggled against their hold, chest heaving, fury still crackling under his skin. His gaze burned into Vernon’s, hatred and something raw twisting in his expression, while Vernon just stood there, expression unwavering, gaze still steady.
Mingyu and Jeonghan hadn’t moved from their seats.
Jeonghan merely exhaled, tilting his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips—not entertained, not disapproving—just indifferent. Like he had seen this coming. Like it was just another inevitable moment.
Mingyu, on the other hand, arched an eyebrow, gaze flickering between Vernon and Soonyoung. His lips twitched, amused but not surprised. His fingers tapped lightly against the table, slow, methodical, as if counting the beats of the tension crackling through the air.
No anger. No reaction. Just watching.
“You done?” Vernon finally asked, his voice quiet, level.
Soonyoung lunged again. He didn’t care who tried to stop him, didn’t care that his knuckles were already sore from the impact against Vernon’s jaw. Rage burned through his veins, unrelenting, unforgiving.
Seungcheol tightened his grip. “Enough.”
Wonwoo, still holding onto Soonyoung’s other arm, yanked him back with more force this time. “Stop it, Soonyoung.”
But Soonyoung didn’t stop. He thrashed against their hold, struggling to break free, his frustration spilling over. And when Wonwoo pulled him back again, something snapped.
“Get the fuck off me!” Soonyoung snarled, shoving Wonwoo away with both hands.
Wonwoo stumbled back a step, regaining his footing quickly—but then Soonyoung turned on him, fully. And suddenly, his rage wasn’t just directed at the golden trio anymore.
Soonyoung’s voice was venomous, dripping with contempt as he stepped closer, pushing at Wonwoo’s chest—once, then again, harder. “Still loyal to them, huh?” His tone was cutting, accusatory. “Still standing by your beloved golden trio?” His eyes burned, fists clenched. “Still their fucking lapdog?”
A heavy silence dropped over the room.
Chan and Junhui immediately stood up, their muscles tensed, watching the brewing storm unfold between them.
Wonwoo’s jaw locked. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the muscle in his cheek ticking.
Junhui opened his mouth, ready to step in, but before he could, Wonwoo snapped.
“I don’t fucking trust them.” His voice was sharp. Cold. Unyielding.
For the first time that day, something flickered in the golden trio’s expressions. It was brief—so brief that no one could have caught it if they weren’t watching closely.
A flicker of something in Jeonghan’s gaze. A barely-there twitch in Mingyu’s jaw. A subtle shift in Vernon’s smirk, almost like a crack forming in a perfect mask.
But just as quickly as it came, they locked it away. Unbothered. Detached. Untouched by Wonwoo’s declaration. Or at least, that’s what they wanted everyone to believe.
The air was thick with tension, so heavy that it felt suffocating.
Soonyoung’s breath was ragged, his glare unrelenting. “Yeah?” he spat, his voice still sharp with bitterness. “Could’ve fucking fooled me.”
Wonwoo didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Instead, he stood his ground, meeting Soonyoung’s fury head-on. “I don’t trust them,” he repeated, his voice low and deliberate. And then without looking away he added, “I just don’t want you to be fucking stupid.” His voice was calm, quiet. But it cut through the tension like ice.
Soonyoung’s eyes widened faintly. The words struck harder than they should have. And then, the corner of his lip curled, a hollow, humorless smile. Cold and disbelieving. He let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. And then he scoffed sharply. “Right,” he bit out with a sharp sneer, his voice dripping with mockery. His lips twisted into a cruel, humorless smirk. “Of course you don’t.”
Wonwoo didn’t react.
Soonyoung took a step closer, his voice dropping into something sharp and biting. “Then why,” he seethed, “are you still fucking defending them?”
Nothing. Wonwoo just looked at him, dark eyes unreadable, jaw tight. Not a single word in response.
The trio remained where they were, not entirely relaxed but still giving off that effortless air of unbothered amusement. Jeonghan’s gaze flickered between them, head slightly tilted, watching—as if they weren’t in the middle of an explosive argument, as if he were merely entertained.
Mingyu let out a quiet, nearly imperceptible breath through his nose, arms crossed, his expression one of mild interest, as though waiting to see what would happen next.
Vernon, now seated with his legs lazily stretched out, rolled his jaw. His tongue darted out to swipe at the blood lingering on his lower lip, the ghost of a smirk still playing at the edges of his mouth.
Soonyoung saw all of it. Felt all of it. And it fueled his rage.
“Go on, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung pressed, his voice cutting through the thick, suffocating silence of the room.
Wonwoo didn’t move.
Soonyoung didn’t care.
He threw his arm out, gesturing sharply at the trio seated before them. “Why don’t you just fucking stand by your esteemed guests?” His voice was raw now—rough with barely restrained fury.
The attorney took another step closer, shoving Wonwoo back a fraction, his breathing heavy. “Go ahead,” he snarled, voice dropping to something near a whisper, something dangerous. “Show them where your fucking loyalty lies.”
The room was deathly silent. Tension hung thick in the air, suffocating, electric—like the moment before a storm breaks.
But even then, Wonwoo didn’t flinch. He didn’t step forward, didn’t step back. Didn’t react at all.
Mingyu’s gaze flickered to Vernon, watching as his friend absently licked over the cut on his lip. The blood, dark and glistening, was smeared faintly across the corner of his mouth. Vernon was leaning back in his chair, his expression still relaxed, unaffected, but there was something unreadable in his eyes.
Mingyu’s focus shifted and his eyes met Jeonghan’s. And in that instant—no words were needed. A silent understanding passed between them, an unspoken conversation held in the flicker of a gaze, in the twitch of a brow, in the faintest curve of a mouth that never fully formed into a smile.
Jeonghan stood.
The simple action commanded attention. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t exaggerated—but it was felt. The shift of power in the air, the way the room unconsciously adjusted itself around him. His eyes scanned the faces before him, impassive, calculating. Then, he settled on Junhui.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Detective Wen.” His voice was soft—too soft—a gentle hum of something dangerously sharp beneath the surface. It carried no urgency, no rush. A patient blade being sharpened, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Junhui’s posture stiffened ever so slightly, but he held Jeonghan’s gaze, his own guarded and watchful.
Jeonghan took a single step closer. “Battery.” The word was spoken like a casual remark, like a passing observation. As if he were listing off items from a grocery list. “Defined under Article 257 of the Korean Criminal Act.”
His tone was almost courteous, but razor-edged with something far sharper. A pause. A heartbeat. “Inflicting bodily harm through physical violence.” Each word clipped, precise.
Though his dark lenses obscured his eyes, the sharp intensity beneath them was palpable.
Seungkwan scoffed under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest, but he didn’t interrupt.
Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his foot tapping once—brief, barely noticeable, but betraying his irritation.
Joshua’s lips pressed together into a firm line, unreadable but aware where Jeonghan was taking this conversation, as his gaze flickered slightly between Jeonghan and Soonyoung, already anticipating the reaction to come.
Jihoon’s fingers twitched against his thigh, and his weight shifted slightly from one foot to the other—a subtle tell, barely there, but present nonetheless.
Jeonghan’s head tilted, ever so slightly, the faintest crease forming at the corner of his lips. “Punishable by up to two years of imprisonment…” A slight pause. His voice was smooth. Calculated. “Or a fine of up to five million won.”
Soonyoung scoffed under his breath. A warning, not quite spoken.
Jeonghan’s gaze never wavered from the detective. He stepped forward once more, closing the space inch by inch, his voice still light, still conversational, but carrying the weight of something more—something colder.
“Of course,” he murmured, the corner of his lips twitching ever so slightly, mock thoughtfulness creeping into his expression, “considering it was done in a fit of rage, the court might be… lenient.”
He let the pause stretch just a second longer than necessary. Let the words sink into the marrow of the room. “But still…” His voice softened further, almost intimate now, like a quiet murmur exchanged between confidants. “Assault is assault.”
The words landed with a dull, heavy weight, like a verdict delivered with a casual flick of the wrist.
A sharp exhale escaped Junhui’s nose, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. His fingers twitched, as if fighting the urge to react, but his expression remained composed, if not slightly colder than before.
Seokmin shifted uncomfortably, his arms crossing, his gaze flickering between Jeonghan and Soonyoung, waiting for the inevitable fallout.
Minghao exhaled quietly through his nose, watching, observing. But his fingers curled ever so slightly into his palm.
Chan had gone completely still, shoulders tense, fingers curled at his sides as though resisting the urge to intervene.
Jeonghan let the silence linger, let the weight of his words settle, before—finally—his gaze flickered toward Soonyoung. And with casual, practiced ease, he smoothly added, “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Attorney Kwon?”
The shift was instantaneous. Soonyoung’s expression hardened, his jaw clenching as a sharp breath pulled through his nose. His shoulders squared instinctively, as though preparing to go to battle all over again.
Jeonghan just watched, his expression unreadable, calculating.
Wonwoo, who had been tense since the last exchange, exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction—watchful, expectant.
Seungcheol let out a slow breath, the air from his nose sharp, biting down the instinct to step in.
Jihoon’s lips parted slightly—he knew Jeonghan’s game. Knew exactly where this was leading. And yet, all he could do was wait.
Soonyoung’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. His voice, when it came, was low, dangerously low. “What did you just say?”
Jeonghan’s head tilted faintly, as though considering. Then, a ghost of a smile, empty, hollow and razor-sharp. “You heard me Attorney Kwon.”
No one dared to speak, but the weight of Jeonghan’s words still hung like an executioner’s blade—cold, sharp, and purposeful.
Wonwoo exhaled sharply and stepped forward. His voice, though even, carried an edge of finality. “No one is pressing any charges.” The words landed heavy, a firm declaration that cut through the room.
Jeonghan’s lips twitched. Amused.
A low hum of interest escaped Mingyu, his head tilting slightly as if mulling over Wonwoo’s words. And then, with the ease of someone who had all the time in the world, he murmured, “Well, that’s not really your call to make, is it?” Deliberately, his eyes flickered toward Vernon as he continued, “It’s the victim’s decision.”
The Kim heir’s words were a pointed reminder, a subtle shift of power.
The room collectively stilled. Because technically—he was right. The decision wasn’t Wonwoo’s. Wasn’t any of theirs. It belonged to Vernon. And they all knew what would happen if he chose to take it further.
The mere thought of it sent a ripple of unspoken dread through them. No one spoke, but the consequences had already started unraveling in their minds.
A lawsuit. A public scandal. The media would eat it up like vultures, painting Soonyoung as an aggressor, as unstable. A violent outburst caught in a moment of fury.
It wouldn’t matter if Soonyoung had his own reasons. It wouldn’t matter if the wound on Vernon’s lip was deserved or not, Soonyoung would be the one who’d have to bear the consequences.
The truth wouldn’t matter. What would matter was the narrative.
And the Golden Trio? They were masters of crafting one.
Eyes drifted toward Vernon—watching, waiting.
But Vernon, he was utterly unreadable. His expression remained neutral, unaffected as if he hadn’t just been punched across the jaw moments ago. His jaw ached, the metallic taste of blood still sharp on his tongue, but he didn’t let them see that. He merely blinked at Mingyu, then exhaled a soft chuckle—mocking, almost entertained.
Jeonghan took a step forward, closing the small distance between them, and with practiced ease, pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket. He bent slightly, tilting Vernon’s chin with two fingers, careful yet deliberate, before dabbing the corner of his lip.
Vernon didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He just let Jeonghan wipe the blood away with an ease that spoke of familiarity. Of old habits and long histories.
The room remained silent. All of them—every single person in the room—knew what would happen if Vernon actually sued.
Soonyoung’s fists curled at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he swallowed down the bitterness rising in his throat.
Joshua’s brows knitted together, his eyes scanning Jeonghan’s every movement, wary.
Seungcheol exhaled slowly, the weight of consequences heavy in his mind, calculating the worst-case scenario.
Minghao’s gaze remained sharp, unblinking, assessing every word that hadn’t yet been spoken.
Chan, rigid, his fists clenched against his lap, felt like a bystander in a courtroom waiting for a verdict.
Jeonghan pulled the handkerchief away, eyes flicking downward to observe the smudge of red staining the pristine white cloth. He let out a soft sigh, shaking his head slightly. Then, barely above a whisper, he murmured, “No one gets blood on these floors.”
The words were spoken casually, yet they carried weight. A meaning buried beneath the surface.
Jihoon scoffed, the sound sharp, breaking through the thick air. His fingers curled against his knee before he leaned back, tilting his head slightly. “What now, Jeonghan?” His tone was edged with bitterness. “Are you threatening us with a lawsuit?”
A dry chuckle left Junhui’s lips—humorless, sharp.
Seungkwan exhaled sharply, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head in disbelief.
Jeonghan’s gaze lifted, turning to Jihoon. His expression remained unreadable. His voice, however, was smooth—practiced, cold. A blade wrapped in silk. “No,” he said lightly.
And then, his gaze swept across the room, over every single person present—every single person who, at one point, had once stood by his side. And with a calm, deliberate finality, he murmured, “No one gets to walk away easily after hurting the people close to me.”
The silence that followed was deafening, because they all knew what he meant. Because once upon a time, every single person in this room had been close to him. Had stood by him. Had known his loyalty and the weight of his protection.
And yet—They also knew how easily that loyalty could be turned against them.
Because Jeonghan never forgot.
Jeonghan never forgave.
And when he chose to protect—It was never without a price.
That was not just a statement, it was a promise. And everyone knew, Yoon Jeonghan never made empty promises.
This silence had teeth.
It bit into every inch of the room, gnawing through memories once warm, now reduced to hollow ghosts. No one moved. No one dared breathe too loud. The trio—Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Vernon—sat unshaken, while the others stared as if trying to recognize something familiar in their faces. But whatever boyhood warmth once existed it was gone. Vanished. Eclipsed by something colder, sharper, more calculated.
These weren’t the boys they grew up with.
They were strangers in familiar skin.
Joshua sighed heavily, breaking the stillness, his thumb and index finger pressing into his temples as if trying to hold back the headache building behind his eyes. His voice came out weary, frayed around the edges. “Why exactly the hell are you here?” he asked, not looking up. “And don’t say you’re just catching up.”
Vernon leaned lazily against the backrest, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Didn’t we already go over this?” he said smoothly. “We’re just catching up. Talking. Mingling. Bonding.”
Joshua’s head snapped up at that. His patience—always thinner around these three—had run out. “No,” he said firmly. “You’re not here for us. You didn’t come for a heart-to-heart. You didn’t come for closure. You’re not here to fix anything—so stop pretending like you are.”
Mingyu clicked his tongue, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. “Ouch,” he muttered, “that hurt.” But his smile said otherwise. Nothing hurt him anymore.
Jeonghan, still holding the blood-smeared handkerchief between two fingers, turned his gaze toward Joshua. His tone was quiet. Controlled. Too careful. “Do you think we had a choice?”
The journalist’s brows furrowed, confusion slipping into disbelief.
But it was Seungcheol who responded before Joshua could. His voice cracked like a whip through the room, loud and sharp.
“Don’t give me that bullshit.” His tone held no space for ambiguity.
Jeonghan’s lips twitched, the faintest shadow of a smirk. As though he’d been waiting for Seungcheol to bite.
“You had a choice,” Seungcheol continued, stepping forward, jaw clenched. “You always have a choice. Don’t stand there and act like you’re suddenly being forced into things. Don’t act like you’re some puppet in someone else’s play. You chose this. All of it.” There was venom in his voice now. Resentment. Betrayal. Maybe guilt.
Mingyu exhaled a quiet chuckle through his nose, his eyes narrowing as he turned his attention to Seungcheol. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been forced to accept a situation,” he said, voice calm but pointed. “Without anyone hearing our side of the story.”
That struck something. The room stiffened. Because underneath that single sentence were layers. Unspoken history. Regrets. Accusations that none of them had dared to revisit.
Seokmin exhaled, shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know why we’re still talking about this,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s the same shit. Every time.”
Junhui scoffed, his eyes never leaving the trio. “Exactly. It always ends with these three walking away. Just like they always do.”
Vernon tilted his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Well, we do have places to be,” he mused. “Can’t spend all night reminiscing with old flames and bitter friends.”
Then his gaze swept around the room, unbothered. “But as far as I can remember,” he added, “Last time we weren’t the ones who walked out first.”
Soonyoung let out a bitter laugh. Cold. Broken. Cruel. “Then why don’t you just leave?” he spat, voice full of contempt. “Go ahead, Vernon. Take the first step this time. Walk out. Just like you’re so good at doing.”
The silence that followed was sharp, almost deafening. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was history pressing in from all sides, thick with everything that had never been said. The weight of fractured trust hung heavy in the room, and for a brief second, it felt like no one knew whether to speak or stay silent. Like they were all teetering on the edge of something they couldn’t undo.
Joshua’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, the sound loud in the tense stillness. His voice came out low, but unwavering. “If they’re not taking the step,” he said, his eyes fixed coldly on the trio, “then maybe we should.”
The finality in his tone didn’t leave room for argument. It was a declaration. A decision. A line in the sand. The tension curled at the edges like burning paper, flickering with the kind of heat that wasn’t meant to last, but always left behind smoke.
Junhui let out a quiet sound of agreement as he stepped back from the group. His expression was tight with controlled resentment. “Finally,” he muttered. “Enough of this fucking performance.”
Seungkwan, tense and barely holding in his frustration, clenched his jaw. His arms were crossed too tightly, nails digging into the soft fabric of his sleeves, but after a moment of hesitation, he stood up too. His silence spoke volumes—I’m done wasting breath.
Chan lingered.
His body tilted toward the door, but his eyes stayed flicking between the trio and the others. He looked like he was fourteen again—torn in the hallway between friends and something more complicated than loyalty. Something deeper. History. It was written all over his face. But still, he took a step back.
And Jeonghan watched it all unfold.
Now seated, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded neatly in his lap. The blood-stained handkerchief was resting on his lap like an afterthought. His sunglasses masked his eyes, but there was something about the way his head tilted ever so slightly—like he was studying a chessboard in motion.
Then he sighed, almost wistfully. “Leaving already?” he asked, almost lazily. “And here I thought we were just getting started.” His voice was deceptively light, but it hung heavy in the air. The way he said it—it wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. A jab masked in politeness.
Soonyoung turned, eyes wild, frustration flaring again as he snapped, “Don’t do that.”
Jeonghan tilted his head, his tone playfully disingenuous. “Do what?”
But Soonyoung didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
The whole room knew exactly what he meant. That false softness. That fake innocence, like Jeonghan hadn’t been playing them since the moment he walked in. Like he wasn’t already three steps ahead of all of them. That calm condescension, that way Jeonghan peeled back the truth with a single sentence and still pretended innocence. The way he twisted guilt into performance and pain into mockery.
Mingyu’s lips parted into a slow grin as he let out a soft whistle, eyes sweeping over the group like he was watching an overly dramatic scene unfold in a soap opera. “So dramatic,” he murmured, leaning his weight against the back of a chair, relaxed as ever. “You’d think we ruined your lives or something.”
Seokmin scoffed, the sound hard and humorless. “We don’t have time for your games.”
Mingyu raised a brow in mock offense. “Games? I thought we were just—what was it again? Catching up?”
“You’re always playing games,” Seokmin snapped, no longer holding back. “That’s the problem. Everything’s a performance with you three.”
Vernon gave a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Shame. I thought we were finally having fun.”
Jihoon had been quiet for most of it. Calculating. Watching. Judging. But at that moment, he turned toward Minghao, his voice low, clipped, and firm. “We’re done here.”
Minghao nodded once, eyes flickering toward Jeonghan, then to Mingyu, and finally to Vernon before turning his back. He didn’t say a word. Just stepped back, his body already angling toward the exit.
One by one, they followed suit.
The movement was quiet. Coordinated in an unspoken way that only people who’d walked through hell together could manage. Chairs scraped. The air was heavy with resentment, betrayal, and silence that screamed.
But just as the first step was taken towards the door a shrill, piercing ring sliced through the air.
Everyone froze.
The shrill sound reverberated off the walls, cutting through the standoff like a scalpel. It didn’t come from anyone’s pockets, no phones lit up on the table, and no one made a move to silence it. It was unfamiliar—off.
Too loud, too sharp.
The rings didn’t stop.
Chan’s brows furrowed. His head slowly turned toward the corner of the room, near the old wooden credenza beneath the large photo frame mounted on the wall, taken in better times. His steps were cautious, guarded. “It’s coming from there,” he murmured, almost to himself.
They all watched as he approached the drawers. Every footstep echoed with the sound of the phone continuing its relentless shriek.
Chan knelt, yanked open the top drawer—empty. Then the second—just spare cables. The sound grew louder, like the phone knew it was being hunted.
He paused, looked over his shoulder. His eyes met Seungcheol’s across the room, steady and tense. There was a silent exchange—question and permission.
Seungcheol gave a tight, short nod. Go.
Chan’s fingers hovered over the lowest cabinet. His hand curled around the metal handle and pulled. A dull click. The door creaked open. Inside—there it was. A single, unmarked black burner phone. Face down, screen lit in a pale glow, still ringing. No ID. No name. Just a call.
The room held its breath.
“Whose is that?” Wonwoo asked sharply, breaking the silence. His voice was rough, layered in suspicion.
Everyone looked at each other. Shakes of heads. Furrowed brows.
“No,” Minghao said quietly, firmly.
“Not mine,” Jihoon added.
“Definitely not,” Seungkwan muttered, arms crossed tight.
Mingyu let out a soft exhale, eyes narrowed on the phone but said nothing. Jeonghan remained still as a statue.
Seokmin’s voice cut in, a touch louder now. “Chan,” he said, trying to steady his tone. “Answer it.”
Chan hesitated, but his fingers slowly reached forward.
“And put it on speaker.”
His hand trembled slightly as it hovered above the device. The unease in the room thickened—like invisible hands around their throats. He pressed ‘answer.’
The ringing stopped and there was silence. Not even breathing.
Then a voice spoke. It was artificial. Flat. Unnatural. Warped slightly, like run through an AI modulator, genderless and mechanical. The tone held no inflection. No warmth.
“Welcome back.”
The words echoed in the dead silence. A cold, invisible thread pulled tight in every chest.
Junhui stepped forward, tension laced through every muscle. “What the hell…”
Minghao’s throat worked as he whispered, “What did it say?”
Vernon, now leaning against the table, gave a slow blink. His expression unreadable. Unbothered. Jeonghan’s face remained neutral behind his sunglasses, but his jaw ticked faintly. Mingyu tilted his head, lips barely twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
No one spoke.
The voice had spoken like it knew them, not just vaguely but intimately. Personally.
Welcome back.
Back to what?
Back to who?
The phone now sat on the table now, its screen still glowing faintly. Silent. Waiting.
Seungcheol stepped forward, tone sharp. “Who is this?”
Nothing.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Soonyoung snapped, his voice laced with barely restrained fury.
Still nothing.
Just static faintly buzzing at the edges of the call. The phone was still connected.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
The voice spilled from the burner phone’s speaker again—cool, calculated, familiar in a way that sent a quiet, undeniable chill down every spine in the room.
Everyone exchanged uneasy glances. No one replied, but their silence spoke louder than any denial. Something was very wrong.
Joshua’s brows furrowed, jaw tight. “Who the hell is this?”
Still, no answer.
Vernon tilted his head, the corner of his lip twitching upward—not in amusement, but intrigue. “They’re not going to say,” he muttered. “Not yet.”
Chan took a cautious step back from the phone, as if its still-glowing screen could lash out.
Minghao’s gaze flicked back toward the open cabinet drawer where the phone had been found. There, half-hidden by the shadows, was something wedged deep into the back—a muted edge of cardboard just barely peeking out.
He moved toward it slowly. He crouched low, ignoring the question in everyone’s expressions.
“What are you doing?” Jihoon asked, voice clipped.
Minghao didn’t answer. He reached in carefully, brushing aside a cable, and then froze. There—nestled in the back—were thin cardboard containers. Matte black. Anonymous. Unmarked.
Three of them. He tugged them out with slow hands, his expression unreadable.
Seokmin leaned forward. “What is it?”
Again, no answer. Not immediately.
Minghao’s fingers ran lightly over the surface of one of the boxes, and a chill passed over him like static. The material was cold. Too cold. Then, quietly, he said, “I don’t know.”
He rose to his feet, the three black boxes stacked neatly in his hands, and walked back toward the center of the room. The others shifted as he neared, parting just enough for him to place the boxes down on the coffee table with a soft thud.
The burner phone still sat at the edge of the table. The voice returned, a dry mechanical hum threading through its tone.
“Do take your time. There’s a lot to unpack.”
Seokmin frowned, the crease between his brows deepening. “Yeah, no. Not creepy at all,” he muttered sarcastically, eyeing the boxes like they might explode if opened the wrong way.
The air in the room was stale. No one moved. All eyes were fixed on the stack of anonymous black boxes sitting like coffins on the coffee table, their presence both chilling and inexplicably commanding. Like something summoned.
No one said it aloud, but they all felt the same thing.
Dread. And curiosity—sharp and bladed.
Mingyu let out a soft exhale, stepping forward and glancing at the others, breaking the stillness with a click of his tongue. “Shall we?” he said casually, though his voice was a shade too calm, too deliberate.
No one answered, but no one stopped him either.
Minghao took the initiative, sliding open the box with deliberate slowness. The faint scrape of the lid made the silence feel louder.
Thick black folders, identical to the first, lined up neatly inside. Their labels—just names. Single, solitary names. Each folder felt like a verdict.
Junhui reached first. His brows furrowed deeply as he flipped one open—and then stilled, the shift in his body immediate. His grip on the folder tightened faintly, jaw clenching. “Shit,” he breathed under his breath.
“Who?” Wonwoo asked, already reaching for a different file.
Junhui’s jaw clenched. “Kang Dongil.”
That made everyone freeze. Seungcheol’s head snapped toward him. “As in...?”
“Assemblyman Kang?” Seokmin asked, incredulous. “He’s—he’s in line to chair the Ethics Committee—”
“A top government official,” Junhui muttered, almost numbly now, flipping through the folder. “Except these—these are full-on indictments. Bribery trails. Property laundering. Slush funds tied to private construction firms.”
His fingers trembled slightly as he turned another page. “Photographs. Secret recordings. Even timestamps.”
Minghao leaned over Junhui’s shoulder, brows drawing in. “This isn’t just surveillance,” he said. “It’s compiled. Organized. Like a case file—like someone’s already preparing to leak this.”
Joshua moved closer, brow furrowed. “What the hell is a file like that doing here?” The journalist’s hand darted into the box, pulling out a folder of his own. He opened it briskly and stiffened almost immediately.
“Kim Joohyuk,” he said slowly. “Media tycoon.”
“The one with the flagship broadcasting network?” Chan asked.
Joshua gave a small, bitter laugh. “Yeah. And here’s him accepting envelopes from a politician I won’t name yet. These are…” His voice faltered. “They’re fabricating stories. Paid reports. Weaponizing the media for... political gain.”
The others—driven by equal parts disbelief and dread—each reached for a folder from the open box.
The second box was opened. Then the third.
More names. More folders. One after another.
Seungkwan stared at his, lips parting slightly. “Jung Yoorim,” he said tightly. “She was the lead prosecutor in the Baek Ilho embezzlement case.”
“She’s been dubbed a rising star in the judiciary,” Soonyoung added automatically.
He flipped the page, and his breath caught. “She took money from a trafficking ring. Covered it up as a smuggling case.”
Wonwoo pulled a file at random, brow lifting in disbelief as he scanned the name. “Ryu Daejun. Actor. The sweetheart of South Korea.”
“Let me guess,” Seokmin deadpanned. “Nothing sweet about him?”
“Domestic abuse. Sexual assaults. Tax evasion. Drugs.” Wonwoo’s voice darkened. “And here’s the kicker—his agency buried it all. Paid off the victims. Pressured witnesses into silence.”
Jeonghan opened a folder next, his face unreadable. He didn’t speak for several seconds. Just turned one page. Then another. And another. Then, in a voice devoid of inflection “Jang Hwan.”
“CEO of Haeil Group.” Seungcheol asked.
Jeonghan nodded. “Tax fraud, corporate espionage, off-the-book acquisitions of biotech labs. Blackmailing board members. There are photos. Ledgers. Digital timestamps.”
Mingyu let out a slow whistle, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes as he flipped another open. “Kim Sangil. Former Minister of Trade.”
By the time they were all holding folders in their hands, the room had gone heavy with silence again. Not one of them spoke, not right away.
Each name was heavier than the last.
Each page, a carefully documented fall from grace.
Each photograph, a silent scream frozen in time.
“Is this...” Chan finally spoke, his voice low, “...what I think it is?”
“A hitlist,” Soonyoung said flatly. “But not the usual kind.”
“More like... a ledger,” Minghao added. “Every skeleton they never thought would see the light of day.”
Joshua exhaled, the weight of it loud in the dead-quiet room. His brows were drawn tight, his fingers slightly trembling as they hovered over the burner phone. He glanced from the cold metal device to the folders now littering the coffee table—names, photos, records. Lives, careers, empires—all teetering on the edge of exposure. “So who the hell compiled all this?” he asked, voice low, almost hoarse.
Junhui stepped closer to the files, his eyes scanning one of the folders with clinical intensity.
“Every name here,” he muttered, “if this went public—they’d be done. Prosecutors, CEOs, judges, idols, politicians. Some of these people would rot in prison.” The weight of his words hit like a blow to the chest.
Seungkwan shook his head slowly, disbelief etched across his face. “This kind of information—this isn’t surface-level stuff. This is deeper than any public record. This is surveillance, blackmail-level intel. Who even has access to—”
He stopped, eyes narrowing. Then, almost involuntarily, his gaze flicked to the trio.
Three men who had once been part of the same world. The same group. Three men who now sat in stark contrast, cloaked in polished control and cool detachment. They didn’t flinch under the sudden weight of attention. But something—something—shifted. Barely there, behind their perfectly composed façades.
Suspicion erupted like static across the room, crackling between every glance and half-held breath.
Seungcheol’s gaze hardened. “You three,” he said, measured but sharp, “what the hell is this?”
Mingyu raised a brow, a scoff just barely escaping him. “Us? You really think we did this?”
“Tell us we’re wrong,” Seokmin bit out, eyes hard. “Tell us this isn’t one of your twisted little projects.”
Still, Jeonghan didn’t speak. He only reached up, slid his sunglasses off slowly, and let them rest against his collar. His eyes—sharp, unreadable—met each of theirs with something just shy of exhaustion.
But the way his jaw tensed, the way he didn’t immediately fire back with some clever retort—it was loud.
Too loud.
The silence dragged.
“I’d love to take credit,” Vernon finally said, voice quieter than usual, but still laced with that ever-present edge of cynicism. “Really. This? It’s got drama. Elegance. Chaos. All my favorite things. I’m flattered you think we’re that well-organized.” He tilted his head. “But sorry to disappoint. Not ours.” And for once—his tone wasn’t sarcastic. It was honest. Earnest. Confused.
Jeonghan spoke next. Cold, concise. “That’s not ours,” He reached out, flipping open one of the folders again. His fingers moved with precision, but his eyes flicked across the contents with barely-concealed disbelief.
“We didn’t create these. We didn’t stash them here. And we definitely didn’t leave a burner phone in some dusty drawer beneath a goddamn family photo.”
Mingyu looked around the room, his gaze circling each face. The lightness had drained from his voice completely. “You think we’d go to this extent just to screw with you?” His jaw clenched. “If this were ours, we wouldn’t be sitting here like everyone else trying to piece it together.”
Seokmin frowned. The disbelief still rooted deep in his tone. “But you’re the golden trio. You walk in elite circles. If anyone had the power to collect this kind of dirt, it’d be you three.”
Mingyu’s voice cracked like a whip. “You think we’d risk having that kind of intel lying around? On people who could wipe us off the face of the earth with a phone call?”
“Then who did?” Minghao’s voice rose, this time not with suspicion but fear. His eyes darted back to the phone, still sitting silent, screen black. “If it wasn’t you—then who?”
The question reverberated through the room, swallowed by the quiet. No one had an answer.
And that was the most terrifying part of it all. The possibility that someone knew everything—about each of them. Knew how to orchestrate this moment. Knew how to turn thirteen fractured lives into a twisted chessboard.
The silence now was different. Not from distrust or rage. But something darker.
Dread.
Because if not them, then who the hell knew enough to bring them all here—like puppets on invisible strings?
Chapter 9: Echoes After The Storm
Chapter Text
The weight of the air was suffocating.
Thirteen people stood in a room surrounded by black folders full of secrets—secrets that could topple governments, destroy reputations, and rewrite the nation’s most powerful narratives.
The silence was fractured once more by the mechanical hum of the burner phone. The sharp voice returned—its tone unchanged, still calm, still artificial, but now tinged with finality.
“Best of luck... I trust you know what to do with what you’ve been given.”
A beat passed.
“After all... you always did, didn’t you?”
And then, just like that, the line disconnected. A sharp, decisive click echoed into the stillness of the room, like a gavel slamming down.
No one moved. Not at first.
The room, now lit with the late afternoon sunlight and scattered with open black folders of the damned, felt less like a meeting space and more like a crime scene now. The air was heavy with tension, unease curling in the corners like smoke no one could put out.
Seungkwan was the first to speak, his voice low and shaky, but laced with underlying anger. “Someone’s playing with us,” he said, stepping away from the table like the folders might combust at any second. “That was a show. That whole damn call was a show.”
Jihoon nodded, arms folded tightly across his chest. “No normal person gets that kind of access,” he muttered. “Even if someone was targeting these people... this kind of data isn’t just lying around.”
“Exactly,” Soonyoung said, grimly. His earlier fury had dulled into cold suspicion, but the heat behind his gaze hadn’t faded. “This wasn’t a threat. It was a provocation.”
Joshua was frowning deeply. “What I want to know,” he said, voice low but sharp, “is how . How the hell does someone have this? Do you know what it would take to get this level of detail?”
Wonwoo, standing beside him, nodded slowly. “Even police reports don’t go this deep. Most of this stuff would’ve been buried, redacted, or classified.”
Junhui’s mouth twisted into a grim line. “Even if I worked 72 hours straight without sleep at the precinct,” he muttered, “I wouldn’t be able to dig up half of this. Not unless I was in a room that didn’t exist, with clearance I shouldn’t have.”
Everyone seemed to collectively agree, heads nodding slowly, expressions dark.
“This isn’t some amateur hacker’s handiwork,” Seokmin said, rubbing at his temple. “Whoever this is, they’ve got more power than we’ve ever seen.”
“But the real question,” Seungcheol’s voice rang out, cool and commanding, “isn’t just how they found it.”
Everyone looked at him.
He was standing still, his arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable as he continued, “It’s also... why us ?” he asked, tone dipping lower. “Why the thirteen of us? Why now ? We haven’t been in the same room for years. We don’t talk. We don’t meet. And yet... this?”
His gaze moved across each of them, sharp and calculating. “This isn’t a coincidence. This was planned.”
Minghao leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, his eyes distant. “And how did they know so much about us?” he murmured. “Where we used to meet. That symbol. The location of this apartment.” He paused. “That photograph of all the things.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a confirmation of the thing no one wanted to acknowledge: they had been watched. For a long time.
“Then maybe it’s someone who knew us,” Mingyu offered. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the tension like a blade. “Someone who knows our history. Our... fallout .”
His eyes moved around the room. Not accusingly. Just weighing. “Someone who knew how close we were. How torn apart we got. Someone who wants us back in the same room.”
“To do what, exactly?” Jihoon snapped, but the frustration in his tone came more from fear than skepticism. “Hand out justice? Blackmail some of the most powerful people in the country?”
“Maybe that’s the point,” Vernon said quietly, “Maybe it’s a dare.”
Seokmin let out a long exhale and rubbed at his neck. “Still doesn’t make sense. Knowing us? Sure. A friend or ex-friend... maybe. But access like this? It’s military-level.”
“Or something worse,” Wonwoo murmured.
Jeonghan finally spoke up, his voice quieter than usual. “We’re not dealing with someone normal.”
Everyone turned toward him. He looked pale but composed, still standing where he had picked the folder minutes ago.
“That voice—mechanical, sure—but the way it spoke... it knew us. The tone, the timing, the words. That wasn’t just a message. That was tailored for us.”
“‘You always did know what to do,’ ” Seungkwan echoed bitterly. “They’re mocking us.”
Joshua sat back, folding his arms. “Or testing us.”
A long silence followed. No one wanted to say it, but the weight of it sat heavily in the room like a shadow cast over old wounds.
They had been drawn back together for a reason. Whether by someone they once knew, someone they had long forgotten, or someone who had studied them like pieces on a chessboard, the result was the same: they were in it now.
Together. And none of them knew what the next move would be.
The thick tension remained, clinging to the air even as everyone stood—or sat—motionless. The open folders still lay on the coffee table, their contents bleeding secrets no one should’ve seen.
Chan, still crouched near the edge of the couch, lazily flipped one of the folders closed. The rustle of paper sounded almost too loud in the silence. He stared down at the matte black cover for a few seconds, lost in thought, before finally speaking.
“You know,” he murmured, “this… calling us all here—whoever did it—it’s starting to make sense.”
All eyes turned toward him.
Joshua raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
Chan didn’t flinch under their eyes. His voice was steady now, with a strange clarity cutting through the haze of confusion. “Think about it. This wasn’t random. We weren’t picked just for nostalgia. We’re a team—even if we don’t want to admit it.”
He pointed at Joshua, who raised a brow in response.
“You,” he said. “You’re not just some journalist. You’re the Hong Jisoo from Jinsil News . You expose corruption with your pen like it’s a blade. You don’t write articles. You start revolutions. You uncover truths and broadcast them with fire.”
Joshua’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t do it to be loud. I do it because the truth should be loud,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest. “But what does that have to do with—”
“Because people listen to you,” Chan cut in. “You’re not just a writer. You’re a voice. One with reach.”
He didn’t let the silence linger. Instead, he turned and jabbed a finger toward Junhui.
“And Jun,” he said, “you’re a police detective. Not just someone with a badge—but someone who makes people talk. You walk into a room and flash that badge, doors open. Mouths open. You have access the rest of us could only dream of.”
Junhui stilled, and there was a flicker of understanding behind his gaze. He slowly nodded. “You're saying I’m useful to whoever did this,” he muttered.
“No,” Minghao replied. “He's trying to say maybe we all are.”
Chan nodded before he shifted to Soonyoung. “You’re a damn attorney. The kind people call, not the kind people run from. You know the law like the back of your hand—and more importantly, you know how to bend it. You’ve gotten people acquitted who had no right walking free. If anyone knows how to fight this game legally, it’s you.”
Soonyoung scoffed quietly, folding his arms. “I don’t bend the law. I apply it creatively,” he said dryly. But he didn’t disagree.
Chan kept going, his attention shifting to Jihoon.
“You,” Chan said. “People don’t see you, but you’re everywhere. An ethical hacker with hands in government firewalls and intelligence vaults. You’ve breached classified networks with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cat in your lap.”
Jihoon shrugged lazily. “Only on Thursdays.”
That drew the faintest smile from Mingyu, but no one laughed.
“And when we talk about government…” Chan’s eyes landed on Wonwoo. “We’ve got you. Senior research analyst in the Blue House. You sit at the table where national strategies are born. You see the political chessboard from the top down. You don’t need to dig for information—you're sitting inside the gold mine.”
“I’m not—” Wonwoo started to object, but Chan held up a hand to silence him.
“Let’s not pretend Won,” Chan said, his tone calm but unyielding. “We all know what you see and what you choose not to say.”
Wonwoo pressed his lips together and said nothing more. There was a beat of silence. Chan moved again.
“Seungkwan.” His voice softened just a touch. “A preschool teacher, yeah. But the most vocal, most fearless person I’ve ever known. You speak the truth even when it burns. You don't back down. People listen to that. You stand up when others bow down.”
Seungkwan shifted, shoulders still tense but eyes now fixed on Chan with something that looked like dawning comprehension. He didn’t speak, but the faintest nod of acknowledgment passed.
“Minghao.” Chan turned next. “A bartender. But not just any bartender. You work at Black Door. Everyone in this city knows that bar. The people who drink there? Officials, judges, executives, actors. The place where the city’s elite go to drink and forget. And when they drink, they talk. They loosen their ties and loosen their lips.”
Minghao’s gaze flickered, a low exhale slipping past his lips. “And I hear more than they think. More than I should,” he agreed. “It’s like every night is a confessional. They forget I’m there.”
“Exactly,” Chan nodded once. “You’re invisible to them. Which means you’re dangerous .”
Chan shifted to the front now, walking slowly as he spoke. “Then there’s Seungcheol.” he said, his voice dipping in gravity, “a professor who teaches ethics.”
The irony wasn’t lost on anyone.
“But more than that, you’ve studied politics. You’ve lived it, even when you didn’t want to. You understand how decisions are made, how policies are spun into silk. You teach people how to survive in a corrupt world while clinging to integrity. That knowledge—that mindset—is invaluable.”
Seungcheol didn’t move. But the faint twitch in his brow showed he was listening.
“And Seokmin,” Chan added, “a finance analyst who could tell if an account’s been cooked just by looking at the numbers. You can trace money. You can follow trails no one else sees. You read the gaps, the silences in balance sheets. You see the truth in numbers.”
“I’ve had to,” Seokmin said under his breath. “It’s part of the job.”
“It’s part of this job too,” Chan said, tapping the edge of the folder again.
He looked up then, sweeping his gaze across all of them. “And me... I plan events. Galas. Balls. Birthday parties. Fundraisers for the same people listed. I spend nights shaking hands with the same bastards we’re reading about in these folders. They look me in the eye and hand me their secrets with a champagne toast. I know their patterns. I know how they talk, how they walk. I watch them. I know their routines. Their habits. I’ve seen the cracks in their polished veneers.”
There was a stillness in the room now, deeper than before. A collective realization was dawning. A slow, spreading light. They weren’t just thirteen people thrown together for chaos.
They were pieces.
Pieces of a machine designed for exposure, infiltration, litigation, persuasion, destruction, and resurrection.
And then—almost like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment—Chan turned toward the golden trio.
Three names. Three legacies.
“And then... we’ve got the untouchables .”
Jeonghan tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable as ever.
Chan’s voice lowered as he spoke. “The golden sons of the country. The men born with legacy in their veins. The ones who could get a meeting with the President with a phone call. You three were groomed for power since childhood. Taught to fight, to negotiate, to win. You’ve been trained in everything—fencing, finance, politics, diplomacy. You could rule the country if you wanted to.”
The three of them didn’t flinch. But they didn’t deny it either.
Jeonghan hummed, a soft, curious sound, as if he'd already known it. Vernon just raised a brow. And Mingyu just stood still, gaze fixed on the floor for once, thoughtful.
Chan looked around the room, his gaze now circling the others. “This wasn’t random,” he said, quieter now. “This was methodical. We weren’t picked for who we used to be. We were chosen for who we are now. Our jobs. Our positions. Our access.”
He gestured at the folders again, the black secrets spread across the table.
“Someone’s pulling strings. But they didn’t choose the thirteen most skilled people in Seoul. They chose us. People who used to be one. People who know each other—where it hurts, and where we trust.”
The silence that followed was different from before. It was not confusion now, nor suspicion. It was the sound of the pieces clicking together. Of understanding arriving like the first roll of thunder before a storm.
Realization dawned like the sun creeping up behind a wall of black clouds. Whatever was happening… they were at the center of it. And there was no walking away now.
The air was thick—too thick—with tension and something new: understanding . For once, no one was yelling. No accusations were flying. Just the low shuffle of footsteps and the quiet creak of worn-out leather as everyone slowly took their seats again, this time with less hostility and more exhaustion.
Someone cracked open a water bottle. The sound hissed loudly in the silence like a whisper cutting through the unease. The bottles were passed around without much thought. No eye contact, no small talk. But no refusal either. That was something.
They were all still here.
The room, which had been echoing with sharp words, disbelief, and tension for the past couple of hours, gradually began to settle.
Minghao slumped into an armchair with a groan, head falling back. “This is either the start of a revolution,” he muttered, “or a very elaborate setup for a prank show.”
“If it is a prank,” Jihoon replied dryly, twisting the cap off his bottle, “I’d like to have a word with the producer. Preferably with a baseball bat.”
“Okay, okay.” Joshua leaned forward, both elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together. “Let’s think this through. What do we actually have in front of us?”
“A burner phone,” Seokmin offered. “A cryptic voice message. Three boxes filled with dossiers that could destroy the nation.”
“And us,” Soonyoung added with a humorless laugh. “Let’s not forget we’re part of the equation too. Thirteen strangers... or former friends… gathered in a place none of us willingly stepped into.”
“So now we’re just going along with it?” Mingyu asked, skeptical.
“No,” Joshua said firmly. “But we’d be stupid to ignore it. We’ve been handed something massive. Systemic corruption across every level of power in this country. And whether we like it or not, someone thinks we’re the ones meant to deal with it.”
“I don’t like it,” Seungkwan said bluntly, arms crossed. “You don’t just manipulate people into something this big and call it fate.”
“But fate or not,” Seungcheol said, voice steady, “we’ve seen it now. That changes things.”
“I mean…” Seokmin held up a folder, flipping through a few pages again, “this is real. These records aren’t faked. These signatures, these accounts… this isn’t amateur work.”
Junhui nodded grimly. “Trust me, I’ve spent months trying to dig up dirt on half these people and found crumbs. What we’ve got here? This is gold mine level.”
“Which brings us to the question,” Wonwoo added, finally speaking, “how did they get it?”
Minghao leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice quiet. “I’ve heard whispers of some of these people—names that kept coming up, odd connections. I just never had the proof. Now I do.”
Vernon tapped a finger against the armrest, eyes scanning the documents again. “So what? We blow the whistle and become martyrs?”
“Or targets,” Wonwoo added, gaze sharp. “These files aren’t just sensitive—they’re dangerous. Whoever compiled this… they weren’t just trying to inform us. They were, like Vernon said earlier, daring us.”
“Why us though?” Seokmin muttered. “We were done. Years ago. We all moved on. Someone pulled us back. For what?”
Chan looked up, his voice calmer than before. “Because, like I said, we’re the only ones who could actually do something with this.”
“There are entire organizations meant to handle corruption,” Junhui pointed out.
“And they’re all compromised,” Jihoon said. “Don’t even pretend otherwise.”
“So what,” Seungkwan snapped, frustrated. “We’re just supposed to… become vigilantes? Take down Korea’s elite with laptops and charm?”
Jeonghan finally spoke, the low, thoughtful hum of his voice drawing every eye to him. “You say that like it’s not something we could do.”
Seungkwan opened his mouth, then closed it. Because Jeonghan wasn’t wrong.
Junhui spoke next, his voice calm but firm. “There’s logic behind it. Look at the evidence. The person—or group—behind this knows us. Knew what each of us is capable of. That’s not just coincidence. That’s calculation.”
Mingyu, finally leaned forward, “They didn’t pick us for nostalgia,” he said. “They picked us for our skill sets. For what we could do together .”
Jeonghan gave a slow nod. “And because individually, none of us can take this on. But together… ” He let the rest hang in the air like a dare.
“I hate how you say that,” Seungcheol muttered, rubbing his temples.
“You hate because you agree,” Jeonghan said smoothly, eyes fixed on him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Jihoon leaned forward, fingers steepled. “If we do this… there’s no turning back. No playing it safe. We’ll be going after people who erase entire families just to keep their secrets.”
“Then we’re already in it,” Chan said simply. “Because this room? It’s already marked. That phone wasn’t just a call—it was a warning.”
A heavy silence fell again, as the gravity of their situation sank further into their bones.
Vernon let out a low, sardonic laugh from the corner, “Okay, but seriously. Are we just going to ignore the obvious?”
Everyone turned to look at him.
He shrugged, gesturing vaguely toward the folders and the room. “Whoever’s behind this wants us to play Avengers . Like, let’s not lie. But this isn’t some ‘save the world and hold hands’ type of story. This is a damn civil war. Because look around—there’s no trust here. Zero. Nada . You think we’re just going to jump on board a mystery operation after years of barely being able to look each other in the eye?”
A pause. Then, “You’re not wrong,” Minghao admitted.
“Hell no, he’s not wrong,” Seungkwan added, leaning back with a sigh. “The only thing binding us in this room is confusion. Not trust. Not loyalty. And definitely not friendship.”
Soonyoung nodded grimly. “We can’t move forward without addressing that. No operation works when the foundation is already cracked.”
“Then what,” Seokmin said, tone sharp, “do we stop before we even start? Pack our things and walk out? Pretend none of this happened?”
Wonwoo shook his head. “No. We can’t do that. These folders…” He gestured at the table, voice low but tense. “They’re dangerous. If they’re real—and I’m starting to think they are—then this isn’t something we can just walk away from. It’s not about us anymore.”
Joshua leaned forward again. “Then we need rules. Boundaries. A system, if we’re even going to talk about doing something with this.”
Jeonghan tilted his head, considering. “Rules?” he repeated.
“You know,” Seungcheol said sarcastically, “like not stabbing each other in the back?”
“A bold request,” Mingyu mused with a half-smile.
“I’m being serious,” Seungcheol said, voice sharp. “If we’re in this—and I’m not saying I am yet—but if we’re in this… we need to be able to function. Otherwise, we’re no better than the people in those files.”
Silence followed.
Then Junhui spoke again. “First, we verify the contents. If the folders are legit, that’s step one. Second, we find out who left them here and why.”
“Third,” Joshua added, “we determine our role. Are we whistleblowers? Saboteurs? Are we confronting people, or just exposing them?”
“Fourth,” Jihoon said flatly, “we don’t kill anyone. Period .”
Vernon raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You really think one of us would go there?”
Jihoon didn’t answer.
Jeonghan finally stood, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “We still don’t know who’s behind this,” he said. “But if they wanted to pull our strings, they succeeded. At least in getting us to think .”
Minghao stood next. “Then let’s think properly. Tonight is about information. We take it home if we want. We read. We process. We meet again, but only if everyone agrees.”
“Agreed,” Junhui said.
One by one, heads nodded around the room.
Even Seungcheol’s, though reluctant.
Vernon let out another short laugh. “Avengers, huh,” he murmured. “If we’re suiting up, someone better bring snacks. This is going to be hell.”
“Could you be any more tone-deaf right now?” Jihoon muttered, shooting him a look.
Vernon blinked, then raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying—if we’re diving headfirst into the corruption of half the country, I’d like to be properly fueled.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” Seungkwan snapped, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “You never do.”
Jeonghan’s eyes flicked to Seungkwan for a second, then to Vernon, whose posture hadn’t shifted. Calm, unreadable. Aloof as always.
“Some of us don’t have the luxury of brushing things off,” Soonyoung added, voice cool.
Vernon’s smirk dropped. The air grew still again—weighted.
It was Minghao who broke the tension. “That’s enough,” he said, tone clipped. “We all process differently. But we’re here. For now, that’s what matters.”
“‘For now’ being the operative phrase,” Seokmin muttered. “None of this means we’re agreeing to anything yet.”
“No,” Wonwoo agreed. “We’re not. And honestly, we shouldn’t.” Everyone looked over at him.
Joshua leaned forward, fingers now steepled under his chin. “This? All of this? It could still be a setup. Someone clearly knows how to manipulate us. That’s not something I take lightly. And I don’t trust—” his eyes flicked toward the golden trio, “—all of us. Not enough to just jump on board.”
“I second that,” Junhui said, arms crossed. “Not to be harsh, but I don’t trust any of you three.” He looked squarely at Jeonghan, then at Mingyu and Vernon.
Mingyu gave a long sigh, leaning back in his seat. “We didn’t ask you to.”
“You didn’t have to,” Junhui said flatly.
Jeonghan’s expression remained impassive, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. Still and cold like black ice. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “We’re used to it.”
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is,” Soonyoung muttered.
“I’m not here to reassure anyone.”
Another beat of silence.
“Alright,” Seungcheol said, the steel in his voice bringing all eyes to him. “This won’t work if we keep circling the same old grudges.”
“And yet we’re all still carrying them,” Jihoon muttered.
“I didn’t say we had to forget,” Seungcheol snapped. “But if we’re going to talk about whether or not to act on what we’ve seen tonight, then we need to be clear-headed.”
He stood, the full weight of his presence commanding the room. “Everyone take the night. Go home. Read. Think. Decide whether you’re in or out. Really think about what this means—what it could cost. And if you come back, it’s because you’ve made your choice.”
“And if we don’t?” Minghao asked, already knowing the answer.
“Then we don’t,” Seungcheol said simply. “We leave this here. Let it rot in the dark where it came from.”
No one argued. Because the truth was, even now, even with those folders sitting in plain view, glowing like landmines on the coffee table—none of them truly knew if they wanted to be a part of this.
The idea was too big. The risk too steep. The trust too broken.
One by one, people began to gather their things. Bottles left half-empty. Jackets shrugged back on. The folders remained where they were, untouched for now, like cursed relics.
Mingyu was already heading toward the door when he paused. “This doesn’t go away,” he said quietly. “Whether we walk away or not… this? It’s already started.”
Jeonghan followed him wordlessly, Vernon trailing behind with a look that said he’d already made up his mind—but hadn’t told anyone yet.
The others followed suit—no longer looking at each other, just nodding brief goodbyes or saying nothing at all.
Chan was the last to move, lingering by the burner phone, its screen now black and lifeless. He glanced at the files one more time, then reached down and carefully placed the lids back on the boxes.
“Civil war, huh…” he whispered to himself, echoing Vernon’s words from earlier.
With a final look around the now-quiet room, he shut the door behind him, leaving the silence—and the decision—behind.
For now.
—
The soft chime above the doorway rang as Seokmin pushed it open, letting the scent of grilled meat and seasoned broth roll over them like memory. The little restaurant hadn’t changed—still dim, still warm, still theirs, even if none of them really felt like they belonged anymore.
Seokmin’s parents were long gone for the evening. They trusted him with the keys years ago, never asking what he did with the place after closing. Tonight, like so many nights back then, it became a refuge. A graveyard. A place for ghosts and the people who used to be boys.
The four of them shuffled inside, weighed down by silence and too many unsaid things. They slid into the booth in the back corner—their old spot, the one with years etched into its surface. The table still bore the scratch marks from Chan’s anxious fidgeting, the faint doodles from Mingyu’s cocky attempt at redesigning it. Time had kept it intact, even if it hadn’t been so kind to them.
Seokmin disappeared into the kitchen without a word. Old instincts guided him: hot pot, leftover side dishes, four bottles of soju. He returned just in time to catch Soonyoung reaching for the strongest one.
Seungkwan snatched it midair. “Soonie. Come on. You’re a lightweight. We both know you’ll be weeping like a drama lead by the second glass.”
“I’m fine,” Soonyoung muttered through gritted teeth.
“He’s not wrong,” Seokmin added, setting down the bowls with a ghost of a smile.
Soonyoung huffed and grabbed the beer instead, cracking it open with more force than necessary. “I need something, alright?”
Across the table, Seungcheol hadn’t moved. He stared into the stew like it held an answer he couldn’t quite read.
“Let him drink,” he said finally, voice low. “We all know seeing Wonwoo again would mess with him.”
The air froze. Soonyoung’s grip on his glass turned rigid.
“Don’t say his name.”
Three sets of eyes turned toward him. His voice hadn’t just cut—it burned.
“You don’t get to say it like that,” he went on, his gaze lifting, sharp and glinting. “Like any of you know what that did to me.”
Seokmin opened his mouth, but Seungcheol raised a hand. His voice came quiet. “We do know. We were there when it fell apart.”
“No,” Soonyoung said. “You watched it fall. I was the one under the weight of it.”
He drank. The beer didn’t help.
There was a pause. Then Seungcheol spoke, quieter now, tired in the way only regret can make you. “I’m not trying to fight you, Soonyoung. I’m saying you’re not alone.”
“No one walked out of that room tonight unaffected,” Seokmin murmured.
“No one except them,” he added bitterly, pouring himself a glass. “God, did you see how they sat there? Like they were running the damn court. Like we were the ones who had to catch up.”
“Jeonghan especially,” Seungkwan said, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Didn’t blink. Spoke like he’d already mapped out every reaction before he walked in.”
“That’s who he is,” Soonyoung muttered. “A master manipulator. Every word, calculated. Every move, planned.”
Seokmin gave a short laugh, humorless. “And Mingyu. Tossing sarcasm like confetti. Like none of this meant anything. Like we’d all moved on.”
“I haven’t,” Seungkwan said, softer now, staring down at the glass he hadn’t touched. “Not a single thing’s left me.”
“They’ve changed,” Seungcheol said. “Hardened. Smarter. Colder. But different?” He shook his head. “No. They’ve just refined what they already were.”
“They’re not just heirs anymore,” Soonyoung said. “They’re something else now. A force. Like a syndicate.”
“Jeonghan didn’t even raise his voice,” Seungkwan added. “And still—every word hit like a goddamn bullet.”
“They forgot they ever needed us,” Seungcheol said, almost to himself. “Or worse—they remember, and it doesn’t matter to them.”
Seungkwan’s lips pressed into a thin line. The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet—it had weight. The kind of weight that came from grief with nowhere to go.
“I still can’t believe it,” he muttered. “That room. Those faces. It felt like stepping into a memory I’d buried six feet under.”
Seokmin exhaled slowly, pouring another glass. His tone softened. “It felt… weirdly good, seeing everyone again. Even after everything. Like for a second, the years fell away. But it would've been better if they hadn’t shown up. The way Jeonghan sat there—like some gilded judge. Mingyu cracking jokes like this was some reunion special. And Hansol... that look on his face. Smug. Untouched. Like he walked through fire and came out cleaner.”
Soonyoung didn’t answer. He just took another drink. His knuckles, red and raw, trembled slightly.
Seungcheol noticed. “You good?”
Soonyoung shrugged, but it was more twitch than answer.
“You know,” Seokmin said, watching him, “you clocked Vernon like you were trying to send his soul flying.”
Seungcheol gave a dry huff. “I’m surprised you didn’t break your hand. He's got a chin like granite.”
“Worth it,” Soonyoung muttered. “Felt better than any therapy session I’ve ever paid for.”
Seungkwan cracked a grin. “I’ve been waiting for someone to do that for years.”
“But,” Seokmin added, dragging the word out, “you do know Jeonghan’s threatening a lawsuit now, right?”
The grin dropped from Soonyoung’s face. “Yeah. I know,” he said, voice gravel-edged. “Didn’t even blink. Hansol’s mouth was bleeding, and he just brushed off his jacket like we’d scuffed his goddamn Prada.”
“No one gets blood on these floors,” Seungcheol said coldly, mimicking Jeonghan’s words with venom.
The words hung heavy. Somewhere between nostalgia and nausea.
“I don’t trust them,” Seungkwan finally said, refilling everyone’s glasses—even Soonyoung’s. “But I can’t stop thinking about what was in those folders. About that voice.”
“They were our friends,” Seokmin said, almost a whisper. “Do you remember the rooftop? After the exams? Mingyu brought fried chicken. Jihoon and Chan argued over Coke versus soju. Jeonghan fell asleep on your shoulder, Cheol.”
“Don’t,” Seungcheol snapped. His voice cracked like a whip.
Seokmin went quiet. But the memory clung to the air like smoke.
“They could’ve tried to explain,” Soonyoung said, voice low.
“The worst part is…” Seungkwan murmured, “I think they think they’re helping. That they’re protecting us.”
“They don’t protect,” Seungcheol said. “They manage.”
“And I’m supposed to trust that?” Soonyoung scoffed. “After everything?”
“No,” Seokmin said, finishing his beer. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
“Someone clearly thinks we’re still useful,” Seungkwan said, referring to the black folders they'd read.
“They haven’t seen how broken we are,” Soonyoung muttered.
“Maybe that’s exactly why they picked us,” Seungcheol said. “Because broken people have nothing left to lose. And everything to prove.”
Silence wrapped around them again, but this one didn’t sting. It just sat, like something old and tired. The restaurant hadn’t changed, but they had. Cracked. Calloused. Carrying wounds that never healed right. But in that moment, they weren’t scattered. Not entirely.
Soonyoung reached for another bottle, catching the light on his bruised knuckles.
“Tell Jeonghan to file the damn lawsuit,” he muttered. “I’ll break the other side of Vernon’s face just to make it worth it.”
—
The low thrum of music pulsed through the rooftop bar tucked away in a quiet alley off Itaewon, a heartbeat of bass beneath the buzz of the city. Neon lights from nearby signs flickered across rain-slicked pavement, casting watery hues into their glasses. The air carried a blend of smoke, spice, and something sweet—probably from the food truck two blocks down that Junhui had eyed on their way up.
Wonwoo sat hunched over a glass of whiskey, his fingers curled tight around it even though the ice had long surrendered to warmth. He wasn’t speaking—he rarely did—but the creases around his mouth were set deeper tonight. His dark eyes trailed a single rivulet of condensation sliding down the glass, as if it held some kind of answer.
Junhui lounged in his chair with practiced ease, legs stretched out and one arm lazily draped over the backrest, his other hand cradling a crystal glass of something amber and expensive. The ease was misleading. Jun always wore comfort like armor.
Chan, by contrast, sat forward on his seat, elbows on the table, his second cocktail already half gone. The drink was obnoxiously colorful, a burst of tropics in the middle of their storm cloud of silence.
“Can’t believe it,” Chan said, voice light but uncertain. “That it happened. That we all ended up in the same room again.”
Junhui gave a dry chuckle, swirling his drink. “Felt more like a reunion in a war room than a living room.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Wonwoo muttered, finally.
The air stilled around them.
Chan’s eyes flicked between his two friends, searching their faces. “Still… I didn’t think it’d feel like this. Like everything’s changed but somehow hasn’t.”
Junhui raised a brow. “You mean the bitterness? Or the fact that I was ready to draw my baton the second Jeonghan smirked like we were all still beneath him?”
Wonwoo snorted, but it was dry—hollow. “You should’ve seen Soonyoung’s eyes.” His grip tightened around the glass. “It wasn’t just anger. It was history. Hurt that’s been sitting there, rotting.”
Chan shifted. “You okay?”
Wonwoo’s jaw tensed. He looked down at his drink, then finally brought it to his lips. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t think I am.”
Junhui’s relaxed posture stiffened, his head turning toward him fully now. “Still stuck on Soonyoung?”
Wonwoo let out a shaky breath. “I shouldn’t be. It’s been years.”
“But it hasn’t,” Chan said gently, watching him.
Wonwoo nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “He still can’t look at me without clenching his fists. Did you see how fast he snapped when I walked in? Like he was ready for a fight.”
“You tried, Woo,” Chan said softly. “You reached out. Texts, calls... you even stood outside his apartment once.”
“Yeah,” Junhui chimed in, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. “You practically begged him to talk. But fixing things isn’t a one-man job. He has to meet you halfway.”
Wonwoo gave a bitter smile, eyes distant. “Maybe. Or maybe I didn’t try when it mattered. Maybe I only found my voice once it was already too late.”
A beat of silence settled.
“Sometimes,” he continued, his voice raw, “I wonder if I let my own guilt talk me into believing I’d done enough. That I could move on without really confronting what I let happen.”
Chan tapped his glass lightly against his. “He’ll come around,” he said with surprising certainty. “He’s stubborn, yeah. But he’s not blind. People change.”
Junhui hadn’t moved. His eyes were on the skyline, the glow of Seoul reflected in his glass. “And what if people change for the worse?”
The question hung there, sharp.
Wonwoo and Chan turned toward him.
“That file box,” Junhui said, barely above a whisper. “Everything in it… how real is it? How much of it can we even trust without inviting a storm we can’t handle?”
Wonwoo’s voice was quiet. “We’ve dealt with dangerous info before.”
“Not like this,” Junhui snapped. “And you saw how they acted. Jeonghan, Vernon, Mingyu… they walked in like they were CEOs of something bigger than all of us. No apologies. No explanations. Just perfectly curated control.”
“They barely acknowledged anyone unless they had to,” Wonwoo added. “Jeonghan watched us like we were liabilities. Vernon didn’t stop smirking. And Mingyu looked bored. Like none of this touched him anymore.”
Junhui scoffed. “They’re not the people we knew.”
Chan sat up straighter, eyes sharp now. “Neither are we. Let’s not forget how it went down when the scandal broke. We called that meeting. All thirteen of us. And then we tore them apart.”
Silence.
Chan leaned in, his voice quieter now. “We didn’t let them speak. Not once. Jeonghan’s voice cracked, Mingyu looked like he was going to be sick. Hansol tried to explain and Seungcheol shut him down.”
“I remember,” Wonwoo said. “And I left first. Didn’t say a word. Just walked.”
“We were young. Angry. Scared,” Junhui said. “That scandal killed people. It ruined lives. Yoon Pharma wasn’t just a name—it was blood on headlines.”
“But we never asked if they knew,” Chan murmured. “We assumed guilt by association. And then we acted like that was enough to burn everything down.”
“They still could’ve reached out,” Junhui said quickly, defensively. “All these years. Not one of them tried.”
“Or maybe,” Wonwoo said, “they thought we wouldn’t listen.”
“Or maybe,” Chan added, “they gave up the second we turned our backs.”
Junhui didn’t respond. His hand raked through his hair, frustration etched into every motion.
Chan looked between them both, his voice calm but resolute. “Do they even deserve all this hate anymore?”
Neither answered.
Above them, the city shimmered in fractured light, like a thousand truths trapped behind glass.
“They didn’t even look angry today,” Wonwoo said finally. “Not even hurt. They looked like they expected it. Like they walked in already knowing we wouldn’t trust them.”
“And yet,” Chan said, “they still showed up.”
Junhui gave a bitter laugh. “It’s hard to trust people who’ve mastered masks that well.”
“I’m not saying we forgive them,” Chan said. “I’m saying we stop living in assumptions. Ask. Listen. Before we condemn again.”
Wonwoo finally drained the rest of his whiskey, the burn grounding him. “Do they even deserve that?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Chan replied. “But I know what we became without them. And I’m not proud of it.”
Wonwoo gave a small nod. “Neither am I.”
Junhui finally lifted his glass, staring into it like it might give him answers. “And if we don’t like what we hear?”
Chan looked him dead in the eyes. “Then at least we’ll have heard the truth.”
The silence that followed didn’t feel so bitter this time. It sat differently—like something old starting to unravel, thread by fragile thread.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was the quiet that came before a storm.
—
The quiet edge of Yeouido Hangang Park, far from the cyclists, joggers, and night cruises, offered a rare kind of stillness—one that none of them realized they needed until now. A soft river breeze rustled the grass, mingling with the scent of instant ramen and city dust. Only a few street lamps illuminated their patch of the park, casting muted gold over the stretch of dirt and dry weeds by the water.
Joshua sat cross-legged, sleeves rolled up, knees dusted with grass. His open beer can rested against his thigh, barely sweating in the late night air. Jihoon leaned back against his elbows, eyes narrowed toward the dark current of the Han River. Minghao sat a little apart from them, legs stretched out, a single chopstick still lodged in his half-eaten cup ramen. Between them, like a forbidden object, lay a matte black folder—Joshua’s theft. Sleek. Clean. Ominous.
No one had opened it. Not yet.
They ate in slow silence, chewing through triangle kimbap and shared chips like it was any other late night. Like they weren’t sitting on something that could tear the city in half.
Joshua spoke first, voice low and reflective. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?”
Jihoon looked up, chewing. “What is?”
Joshua gestured loosely toward the folder. “We were supposed to be done with each other. New lives. New jobs. A clean break. But here we are again—like clockwork—summoned by a burner phone and an envelope.”
“Seoul doesn’t let go,” Minghao said, plucking a pebble from the dirt beside him and tossing it into the river. Plunk. “It just waits. Then circles back when your guard’s down.”
Jihoon let out a quiet grunt of agreement and jabbed at his noodles. “We’ve been handed a goddamn landmine. If half of what’s in those files is real, someone bled to get it.”
“Someone with reach,” Joshua added. “And precision. This wasn’t a leak. It was a delivery.”
Minghao rose, brushing invisible dirt from his pants. He wandered a few steps down to the water, where the grass gave way to small stones. Wordlessly, he bent to pick up another pebble and lobbed it into the river. Plip.
“What are we even supposed to do with this?” he asked over his shoulder. His voice carried in the open air.
“Expose it?” Jihoon offered with a shrug, not moving. “Leak it? You’ve got contacts, Josh. I’ve got system access. Hao hears more confessions at luxury bars than priests do on Christmas Eve.”
Minghao gave a soft laugh, still facing the river. “People talk when they think you don’t matter. Pretty privilege has its perks.”
Joshua leaned back on his palms, watching Minghao’s silhouette shift against the shimmer of the reflected skyline. “Doesn’t matter if we’ve got the tools if we don’t trust each other. You saw that room. One wrong word and someone was going to throw a punch. Soonyoung did.”
Jihoon sighed. “Well he was also five seconds away from a full brawl with Wonwoo.”
“And Hansol…” Minghao’s tone dipped colder. He turned and walked back slowly, settling down again. “That bridge is ash. He thinks I’ve always looked down on him. Maybe I did for a while. But he isn’t innocent.”
“No one is,” Jihoon said, rubbing his neck. “The group’s not cracked. It’s shattered.”
Still, Joshua’s thoughts circled. “But it’s the trio that sticks with me.”
Minghao tilted his head. “Jeonghan, Mingyu, and Vernon?”
“Yeah. They came in like ghosts. No emotion, no explanation. Jeonghan didn’t even blink. Mingyu sat like he owned the room—which he basically did. Vernon didn’t say a damn word.”
“They’re their fathers’ sons,” Jihoon muttered. “Built to survive. To deflect. They don’t flinch anymore.”
“They used to,” Joshua said softly. “Jeonghan used to be the loudest one in the room. Smiling, teasing. Mingyu used to cook for everyone. Hansol was... thoughtful.”
“Now Jeonghan could sell ice to Antarctica and walk away clean,” Minghao murmured. “Mingyu watches like he’s calculating stock prices. Vernon’s eyes… they used to be warm.”
Jihoon looked at the folder like it might bite. “Do you really think we should trust them?”
Minghao didn’t answer at first. He cracked open his second can of beer, gaze distant. “I think maybe we never gave them the chance.”
Joshua nodded slowly. “The night the scandal broke… Yoon Pharma’s drugs killed people. Unapproved, untested. Jeonghan’s father went down in flames. Then hung himself in jail. And all anyone could talk about was how the golden heir had vanished overnight.”
“We called them,” Minghao added, eyes fixed on the ground. “They came to explain. We shut the door before they opened their mouths.”
Jihoon leaned forward now, arms resting on his knees. “We were kids. Scared, furious. And they were the easy villains.”
“And now?” Joshua asked. “Now they’ve built empires of distance. They came today because someone called them. Not because they believed we’d listen.”
Minghao tossed another pebble, this one absentminded. Plip. “Maybe they’re cold because we left them in the fire alone.”
“Or maybe they were always fireproof,” Jihoon said darkly. “And we just didn’t see it.”
Silence stretched between them, uneasy and sharp.
“So what now?” Joshua finally asked. “Do we trust them? Or do we burn the whole thing down?”
Jihoon picked up the folder, weighing it in his hands like a bomb. “We don’t trust anyone. Not yet. But we read. We process. Separately. And then we come back. No drama. No blame. Just facts.”
Minghao nodded. “I’m in.”
“Same,” Joshua echoed.
Jihoon looked up. “And the rest?”
“We’ll figure that out,” Joshua said, eyes steady. “But one way or another, this thing is real. And it’s not going away.”
The river lapped gently against the rocks. None of them moved for a long time. The city hummed behind them, indifferent and massive.
And as the unopened folder sat between them, heavy with truths yet to be read, it became painfully clear:
Whatever had started wasn’t just some unfinished business from the past.
It was a reckoning.
And it was only just beginning.
—
The penthouse stretched wide and cold across the Seoul skyline, every inch soaked in curated opulence. Marble floors, chrome finishes, and floor-to-ceiling windows that swallowed the city whole. It was Jeonghan’s sanctuary—precise, clean, impossible to read. Just like him.
The three of them had said nothing since the elevator doors closed behind them.
Now, in the heart of their tower, the silence continued.
Jeonghan stood at the bar—dark walnut, hand-carved—his back to the others as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. His movements were slow, clinical, as though giving his thoughts time to catch up to everything that had just happened.
Behind him, Vernon was sprawled on the couch like he owned the place. One ankle crossed over the other, a melting ice pack pressed against the darkening bruise on his jaw where Soonyoung had punched him. He looked relaxed, careless, but the way his fingers flexed and unflexed against the cool compress betrayed something else.
Mingyu stood a few feet from the towering window, hands tucked into his pockets as he watched the cars crawl by like ants far below. The distant hum of the city filtered through the glass, muffled but present. A reminder that while the world moved on, the thirteen of them had been shoved backward into something they thought was long buried.
“So many years have passed,” Mingyu finally said, voice low, “but they still don’t trust us.” His tone wasn’t angry. Not sad. Just exhausted.
Jeonghan lowered the bottle to the counter and walked over to the armchair opposite Vernon, a crystal glass in his hand. He sank into the leather seat and took a small sip before replying. “And they won’t trust us,” he said. “Not for a long time. Maybe never.”
The whiskey burned down clean. Sharp. Fitting.
Vernon scoffed under his breath, the sound dry and dismissive. “Doesn’t matter. We went our own ways years ago. They chose their story. Let them keep it. Let them blame who they want. I don’t care.”
Jeonghan’s brow twitched, but he didn’t react. Mingyu turned away from the window, eyes resting on Vernon with a measured stare.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Clearly, you don’t care.”
There was a pause.
Then Mingyu continued, “That’s why you always make sure Minho or Chris are drinking at Black Door whenever Minghao has a night shift. Why do they suddenly show up every time there’s intel about a cartel buyer or some syndicate leader around for some meeting.”
Vernon stiffened but didn’t turn. “They like that bar. The vibe’s good.”
“Right,” Jeonghan said dryly, sipping his whiskey. “It’s just a coincidence the two of our most elite field operatives happen to ‘casually’ show up every time Minghao’s working the bar and a known predator from Gangnam walks in.”
Vernon leaned back a little more, clearly annoyed. “I never ordered them. They do what they want.”
Mingyu leaned against the window. “They chose to because you made them loyal. Because they know what Minghao means to you, even if Minghao himself doesn’t.”
Jeonghan added, “You track that bar like it’s your personal territory. And we both know Minghao hasn’t had a clue. You’re careful. Always.”
Vernon finally turned his head, looking not at them, but somewhere between. “It doesn’t matter. He won’t even look at me now. Not after what my mother said to him. After what I didn't say for him.”
The words hung there like broken glass. Sharp. Painful. Unavoidable. Even years later, it still had weight. The others remembered it too well.
It was the week the truth about Yoon Pharma had hit national headlines. The week where Seoul cracked open with fury. The media storm. The protests. The arrest of Jeonghan’s father. The betrayal. And the golden trio being confined to the walls of their respective mansions, without any contact of the outer world.
And in the chaos, in the sick silence of their world collapsing, Vernon’s mother had made it worse.
“Aren’t you just like the others? Leeching off his name, his status. What could someone like you possibly offer him?”
Han Yura, frosted and perfect and venomous.
She hadn’t whispered it. She’d said it clearly, standing at the backdoor of the Choi mansion. Vernon clearly remembered how Minghao had frozen, face pale, eyes wide, how his best friend had called his name, asked him to say something but he just stood there and watched.
Then Minghao had left. He hadn’t returned. Not to the estate. Not to Vernon. Not ever.
Jeonghan’s hand tightened slightly around the armrest. Mingyu’s jaw clenched. But neither said anything more about that day.
A full minute passed in stillness, the only sound the soft chime of ice shifting in Jeonghan’s drink.
Finally, Mingyu pushed off the window and walked to the center of the room. “We need to talk about the real problem,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Those envelopes. The folders. Whoever sent them—how much do they know?”
Jeonghan exhaled slowly. “Too much.”
“Way too much,” Vernon muttered, lowering the ice pack to his lap. “They knew where to find us. They knew exactly which strings to pull to make us show up in that apartment.”
“They knew the pressure points,” Mingyu added. “How to lure us. Manipulate us. They didn’t just pick random files. They picked the ones that would infuriate us. Challenge us.”
“Activate us,” Jeonghan murmured.
Vernon looked between them. “Then you think it was someone trying to recruit us?”
“Maybe,” Jeonghan said. “But not just any team. They knew exactly what we’d do with that data. They built that table to be a weapon.”
Mingyu’s gaze dropped, sharp and thoughtful. “But it also means something else.”
Jeonghan met his eyes.
“They might know,” Mingyu said. “About Shinigami.”
The word dropped like a stone in water. All three of them paused.
The Shinigami.
The invisible hand in the underworld. Seoul’s faceless retribution. The group built in the ashes of betrayal and born from the bloodied truths of corruption and power.
Jeonghan. Mingyu. Vernon.
The founders. The spine.
What began as a whispered rebellion in their early twenties had turned into a myth, a ghost-story passed between the city’s most powerful and most corrupt. But it was real. And dangerous.
Vernon’s expression shifted into something darker. “No one’s supposed to know.”
“They shouldn’t,” Jeonghan said. “But they might. Think about it. Who else would dare test us like this? Who else would even risk involving us unless they were sure we’d react?”
Mingyu nodded slowly. “This wasn’t a threat. It was a challenge. Someone knows what we’ve done—what we can do. And they want to see if we’re still capable of becoming monsters for the right cause.”
Vernon leaned forward, fingers steepled in front of him. “Or they want to expose us.”
Jeonghan’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll find them first.”
There it was—the quiet promise of retribution. Of control regained.
He stood, finishing the last of his drink, setting the glass down with a definitive click. “Whoever they are, they made a mistake.”
Mingyu nodded. “They pulled a thread they don’t understand.”
Vernon stood, cracking his neck once. “Then let’s make sure they regret it.”
The room was quiet again. But not hollow this time.
It throbbed with the tension of the past, the bite of old wounds, and the whisper of something darker now stirring beneath it all.
Outside the penthouse windows, Seoul glittered.
Inside, three kings stood not in defeat—but on the edge of war.
Because if the game had truly started again…
Then it meant someone else was now pulling the strings.
And the trio were no longer the only ones watching from the shadows.
Chapter 10: Everywhere and Nowhere at Once
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning buzz of the law firm was its usual organized chaos—heels clicking across polished floors, printers whirring in harmony with muffled conversations, the scent of roasted beans hanging in the air from the café on the ground floor. Yet, amidst the rhythm, Soonyoung sat utterly still, elbow on desk, eyes unfocused.
A sleek black paperweight spun lazily beneath his fingertips, catching glimmers of light off its polished surface.
The black folders wouldn’t leave his mind.
Every day since that apartment meeting, the names and crimes in those documents had replayed like a loop in his head—pages burned into memory. He'd read them twice, three times. And still, he wasn't sure if what they’d seen was justice waiting to be served or chaos waiting to break loose.
“You planning on hypnotizing that thing, Kwon?”
A sharp knock to the back of his head dragged him back to reality. Soonyoung blinked, looking up to see his team lead, standing beside his desk with a brow raised and a mug in hand.
Soonyoung winced, rubbing the spot. “Hyung—seriously?”
“Seriously,” Dohyun replied, sipping his coffee with ease. “You’ve been staring at that paperweight like it holds the meaning of life. Where’s your head?”
“Just... stuff,” Soonyoung said, sitting up straighter and pushing the paperweight aside. “Thinking about legal loopholes and moral gray areas.”
Dohyun narrowed his eyes. “You better not be contemplating treason.”
Soonyoung smirked. “Not yet.”
Dohyun grinned, clearly amused, and turned to walk off, but Soonyoung’s voice caught him.
“Wait, hyung—”
“Hm?”
Soonyoung glanced around quickly, lowering his voice a notch. “Do we have any interns who aren't currently assigned to a case? Someone reliable... smart... discreet .”
Dohyun raised a curious brow. “That’s oddly specific. You need a shadow or something?”
“Just someone to help me cross-check a few records. Nothing major,” Soonyoung said, already calculating the first layers of what he needed to dig into—property contracts, shell company formation patterns, a few politicians’ voting records. “Just… someone I don’t have to babysit.”
Dohyun hummed, tapping his mug with a thoughtful finger. “Let’s see... Not Kim Minseo, she’s on the class-action files. Not Hwanwoo either—kid almost deleted a shared drive last week…”
He snapped his fingers. “Ah! Yang Jeongin. That kid from Busan. Baby face, but sharp. Surprisingly efficient and doesn’t hang around the gossip hive in the break room. Keeps to himself.”
Soonyoung tilted his head, trying to place the name. “Jeongin? The one who had the heavy satoori when he first joined?”
“Yep. That’s him. Bright. Quiet. Cute as hell but has that stare that makes you feel like you missed a clause in a contract.”
“Right, right,” Soonyoung nodded, the memory returning. Jeongin had helped review one of the pro bono briefs last month, and his notes were more thorough than half the junior associates’. “Do you think I can borrow him for a few days?”
Dohyun shrugged, already turning back down the corridor. “Sure, I’ll make it happen.”
He paused, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “But you’re not roping him into anything illegal, are you?”
“Yup,” Soonyoung said without missing a beat. “Planning to break into your apartment and steal your precious figurine collection.”
Dohyun clutched his chest dramatically. “Touch my Gundam RX-78-2 and I’ll file a restraining order.”
They both laughed—genuine and easy, the kind of banter they had always shared amidst the madness of the office.
Dohyun waved as he walked off. “I’ll send Jeongin to your desk after five. Don’t corrupt the kid.”
“No promises,” Soonyoung grinned.
As he leaned back in his chair, the smirk faded, replaced by the thoughtful calm he wore when something deeper stirred in his mind. He picked up the paperweight again, giving it one final spin.
One by one, the pieces were falling into place.
He didn’t know yet if they’d all explode or snap together like a clean puzzle.
But he was starting.
And Yang Jeongin was about to be his first move.
—
“Let me guess,” Minjae said, pushing the glass door open with his shoulder as he stepped out onto the street, “you’re going to suggest that sad excuse of a ramen shop across from the precinct again.”
Junhui glanced up from his phone, his brows raised. “Hey, that sad excuse of a ramen shop saved your life last week when you skipped breakfast.”
“I would’ve rather died,” Minjae muttered, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as they walked side by side down the familiar, slightly cracked pavement.
The precinct was buzzing behind them—sirens fading in the distance, officers switching shifts, and the faint scent of printer toner and cold coffee lingering in the air. But outside, the world moved slower. Like the buzz of the station couldn't follow them out here.
They were supposed to be on a lunch break.
Supposed to be.
Junhui’s mind, however, hadn’t touched the idea of food since they stepped out.
“New case is weird, though,” Minjae continued, trying to fill the silence as they crossed the street. “That CEO’s assistant giving us a call about the blackmail threats? Said she found the envelope shoved into his office drawer. No fingerprints, no security camera hits. Like it just appeared there.”
“Mm,” Junhui nodded, distracted.
Minjae gave him a side glance. “You’ve been in your head all day, man. Everything alright?”
Junhui didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts were sticky—looping back to Sunday. To the weight of those thick folders. To the name that had crawled into the back of his skull the moment he tried to forget.
Kang Dongil.
A top government official.
A name in one of those folders.
And—if memory served—one that had come up in a complaint file at the precinct about two or three months ago. Not enough to arrest. But something—something dark.
“Hey,” Junhui stopped walking, his eyes narrowing as he finally turned to Minjae. “That assemblyman—Kang Dongil. Didn’t we get a civilian complaint about him?”
Minjae blinked. “Kang Dongil? Wait—yeah. Yeah, we did. From that teacher in Gyeonggi-do, remember? She claimed he’d harassed her repeatedly but never had enough proof. Just some audio clips and timestamps. We logged it, but…”
Junhui’s gaze sharpened. “What happened to it after?”
Minjae shook his head slowly, now serious. “I… don’t know. I remember we filed the complaint. Then Min from the profiler unit got involved somehow. And yesterday, he came in and handed some documents directly to the captain. Hand-delivered it.”
“Wait, Min?” Junhui repeated. “As in profiler Min?”
“Yeah. Said it was part of his ongoing behavioral analysis case or something. Looked real serious. Wouldn’t even hand it to Records—went straight to Captain Byun’s office.”
Junhui’s stomach turned slightly. “And no one’s said anything since?”
“Not a word.” Minjae frowned. “Come to think of it… the file’s not in our system anymore either. I searched our shared drive today to check something and it’s just… gone.”
That made Junhui stop completely. “Gone?” he asked, tone quiet. Careful.
“Gone,” Minjae said, expression twisting. “Cleaned. Like it never existed.”
Junhui exhaled, jaw tensing. The pattern was repeating. Information being buried. Names being cleaned. The very same names that someone had painstakingly compiled into those folders. Names with histories of crimes and cover-ups, and now—
Evidence quietly disappearing again .
His mind itched with all the things they weren’t seeing. With all the silence between what was filed and what was erased.
“You think… it’s connected to something?” Minjae asked, voice lower now.
Junhui didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the sidewalk for a beat, watching a crack run along the cement beneath his feet. “I think,” he finally said, “we just stepped into something that’s a lot bigger than any case we’ve worked on.”
Minjae’s throat bobbed. “So what now?”
Junhui turned back toward the precinct, that familiar detective steel settling in his bones. “Now,” he said, “we figure out what they are hiding. And why someone’s scrubbing the truth clean.”
He started walking back without waiting, the air around him colder. He didn’t need the ramen anymore. He needed answers. Before the silence swallowed them whole.
—
The buzz of the precinct greeted them as the duo stepped back inside, bellies full but minds far from at ease. The quiet lunch had turned into a spiral of questions Junhui wasn’t ready to let go of.
“I’m telling you,” Minjae muttered as they passed the reception desk, “if that file disappeared from our shared system, we should definitely keep digging.”
Junhui nodded silently, his gaze scanning the hallway, already distracted again. Something wasn’t sitting right with him. And it wasn’t just the half-cooked pork cutlet they chose instead of ramen from the shop across the street.
As they turned the corner, they nearly collided with a slender figure exiting the profiler unit’s hallway. “Ah—! Sorry, hyungs,” said the voice quickly. A familiar one.
Lee Yongbok.
He was young—mid-twenties maybe—and looked like he belonged in a music studio more than a police station, with his bright eyes, perfectly styled ash-blond hair, pinned away from his face in a half pony, voice deeper than any other officer around and an energy too upbeat for the precinct’s usual gloom. But he was one of the profiler team’s sharpest minds. Quiet, observant, and with an eerie knack for reading people.
Yongbok bowed politely. “Didn’t see you both there.”
“No worries,” Minjae grinned. “We almost tripped over you first.”
Junhui gave a small nod of acknowledgment. “You heading out?”
“Just finished a follow-up session,” Yongbok replied, then paused. “Actually… since you’re here, hyung—did anything come in for our team today? Like… a report envelope or file drop?”
Junhui and Minjae exchanged a quick look.
“What kind of report?” Junhui asked carefully.
Yongbok glanced around the hallway, eyes flicking to the open doors behind them before stepping just a bit closer. “It was a compiled profile report on a high-profile case,” he said in a lower tone. “Internal draft. I prepped the entire thing—cross-references, behavioral analysis, historical flags, everything. Was going to send it here yesterday for archiving, but… it’s gone. From our system. Vanished.”
“Gone?” Minjae blinked.
“Yeah,” Yongbok nodded. “And the physical envelope I’d prepped for your records unit—it disappeared too. From my desk.”
Junhui’s spine went rigid.
Minjae was the one to speak. “That’s odd because… your team lead, Min, he came by yesterday. Gave something directly to Captain Byun. He said it was urgent.”
Yongbok blinked, eyebrows furrowing. “Sunbae did?”
Junhui watched the shift. It was small. Subtle.
The twitch in Yongbok’s brow. The way his eyes darted once to the ground. The slight downturn of his lips, even though he gave a small nod of understanding.
“Ah… I guess that explains it then,” Yongbok said after a beat. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe he just handled the drop himself and forgot to tell me. He’s been running on caffeine and three hours of sleep, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Junhui didn’t respond. Just observed.
“Thanks, hyungs. I’ll catch you later,” Yongbok added, bowing again before turning and heading down the corridor.
As his footsteps faded, Minjae crossed his arms. “That felt weird.”
Junhui hummed low in his throat, still watching the corner where Yongbok had disappeared. “It was,” he said quietly. “He didn’t know.”
Minjae looked over. “You sure?”
“Positive,” Junhui replied. “Whatever his team lead dropped off yesterday, it wasn’t done with his knowledge. And Yongbok isn’t the type to miss a detail on something that big. He made that file. You saw his face—he wasn’t expecting it to be gone.”
“Then what the hell is happening in this precinct?” Minjae murmured.
Junhui didn’t answer.
Because for the second time that day, someone’s file had disappeared.
And someone high up wanted them buried.
—
The newsroom of Jinsil News was as loud as ever.
Phones ringing, keyboards clacking like gunfire in a warzone, printers groaning out their hundredth page of the hour. People hurried across the open-plan office floor like wind-up machines—coffee in one hand, stress in the other.
But Joshua sat still in the middle of it all, the only sound around him the gentle hum of his laptop’s cooling fan. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, half-written words blinking back at him from the screen.
He had been writing a piece about urban housing laws—simple, dry, factual. Something that didn’t make his heart crawl in strange directions. Something that didn’t lead him back to black folders with names that weren’t supposed to exist on paper.
He sipped his now-cold americano, brows furrowed as he tried to find the right hook. His mind, however, wasn’t entirely on the article. It hadn’t been since Sunday. The black folders still haunted him.
A notification lit up on his laptop screen.
[Chief Editor Park]: Jisoo, drop what you’re working on. New assignment. Draft a highlight story on the charges cleared against Chairman Shin Kyungho from Haewon Tech. Angle: Corporate perseverance through adversity. Get it out by 6 PM.
Joshua stared at the message. The name Haewon Tech leapt out at him. His spine straightened. He blinked once. Then again. The chairman of Haewon Tech—he was in the folder.
Folder #5 , to be precise.
Joshua had read it twice. Then a third time. It had been one of the thicker folders.
He remembered the neat, matte-black folder that bore the name like a brand. The memory still vivid: thick pages filled with accounting ledgers, whistleblower testimonies, screenshots of hush-money transactions, shell companies, and the photo of a Haewon Tech factory worker being escorted out after she tried to leak internal data.
The folder hadn’t just hinted at crime. It screamed.
And now here was his chief editor, asking him to write a tribute piece about the man.
Joshua leaned back in his chair, knuckles pressing into his jaw. He wasn’t naïve. He knew journalism had its chains—particularly when it came to corporations with influence, money, and government ties.
There was a time, early in his career, when he might have dismissed all this as part of the job. Tell the version you’re allowed to tell. Word it smart. Stay alive in the system. But ever since Sunday, ever since that voice over the burner phone reminded them they’d been chosen for a reason, something inside him had cracked open.
Haewon Tech wasn’t just a company. It was a fortress.
Still, he opened a new tab and searched: Haewon Tech Chairman Shin Kyungho .
Public records were pristine. No blemish. No trace of scandal. No controversies. No court hearings. No accusations. Not even the smallest blog post making an implication. Just awards, corporate success stories, and a recent quote about “ethics and innovation in Korean industry.” The search results read like an online shrine.
Joshua narrowed his eyes. This was too perfect. Far too clean.
Joshua sighed. His fingers dropped back onto the keyboard. He typed out a short reply to Editor Park.
Jisoo: Understood. Will deliver it before 6.
The journalist drummed his fingers against the desk, frowning deeper.
This wasn't a coincidence. This was control. And there was one person who could dig deeper into it.
He picked up his phone and fired off a message to Jihoon.
Joshua[14:32 PM]: Need a deep dig on Shin Kyungho. Haewon Tech.
Joshua[14:33 PM]: Anything that’s not public. Look for offshore accounts, shady transactions, records, all of it. Find me what’s been scrubbed.
Joshua[14:33 PM]: Let me know what you find.
Joshua[14:36 PM]: Urgent.
He didn’t bother adding a “please.” Jihoon would know. He locked the phone and shoved it face-down on the desk.
His eyes flicked back to his screen. He started typing the article. A glowing profile of perseverance and redemption, just like they wanted.
“Chairman Shin Kyungho, the man who weathered storms with a steady vision…”
He typed, paused, then deleted it.
Joshua leaned back, eyes tracing the newsroom beyond the glow of his screen. No one looked up. Everyone was busy with deadlines, page counts, clicks. It was business as usual.
But his world had shifted.
The cursor blinked at him like it was waiting to see which Joshua would write this piece—the company man or the man who had seen behind the curtain.
He could write what they wanted. He’d deliver it clean, sharp, and on deadline. But he would keep the truth elsewhere. His personal records. His quiet files. The ones no editor would see unless he wanted them to.
His fingers started typing again.
“Chairman Shin Kyungho, a pioneering figure in Korea’s tech landscape, continues to stand tall after recent controversy, emerging with reputation intact and stronger public support...”
He wrote efficiently. Smooth, unoffending. Polished. The kind of article that would be picked up and re-posted across business columns. The kind that covered sins with gold leaf.
But he also knew how to dig beneath that surface. And now, he wasn’t just reporting news anymore. He was living inside it.
As he continued writing, the image of the black folder burned in his mind. How many others like Shin were in those boxes? How many had entire media teams— newsrooms —working to preserve their image?
And why them?
Why had he , out of all journalists, been handed this poison fruit?
Because they knew you wouldn’t ignore it. The voice in his head wasn’t paranoid. It was practical. He was already in too deep.
Each sentence felt heavier than the last. Not because it was difficult to write—Joshua could craft lies with elegance. It was heavier because he knew exactly what he was helping conceal.
But he kept typing.
Because on the surface, he was a loyal journalist. The respected columnist. Jinsil’s golden boy with integrity and polish.
What they didn’t see—what they couldn’t see—was the second file he opened on his private laptop. Labeled only with a number: 13 . The number of those who were dragged into this mess.
Inside it were notes. Questions. Timelines. Threads he’d started pulling ever since they left that apartment. Things that didn’t add up. Mentions of the Shinigami group. Suspicions about who sent the envelopes.
Because whoever had done this—whoever had delivered those folders—had done their homework. Down to the last detail. About the corrupt. About them.
And now they were being pushed toward something. A move. A decision.
His phone buzzed beside his laptop and he flipped it over to Jihoon’s message.
Jihoon[16:18 PM]: Their folders are encrypted now. Like someone scrubbed and sealed it. But I’m on it. Gimme time.
Joshua stared at the message. A weight settled in his stomach.
He texted back.
Joshua[16:20 PM]: Keep digging. Don’t stop until you hit bone.
Jihoon never failed him.
He saved the article and emailed it to Editor Park’s inbox. Then he opened his private laptop, a separate file—encrypted, password-protected—and began making notes. Bullet points. Links. Memory triggers.
Because someone was moving pieces behind the scenes.
Someone with enough power to silence the courts, clean digital trails, and paint devils into saints.
But now… the silence had been interrupted.
The call on Sunday, the information dump, the folders—it wasn’t just a warning. It was a challenge.
Joshua leaned back in his chair and stared through the wide glass windows of the newsroom. The sky had turned overcast, shadows spilling between skyscrapers like a prelude to a storm. His reflection wavered faintly in the glass, a flicker of someone who was once only a reporter, now caught in the web of something far larger than a single byline.
He thought of the others. The tension in the room that afternoon. The mistrust. The fractured loyalty.
Vernon’s voice echoed in his mind— “This is a damn civil war.”
He hadn’t been wrong.
If they were to become a team again, if they were to even attempt peeling back the truth, then this right here—this moment of decision—was the start.
Joshua minimized the window and stood.
He wasn’t just going to write stories anymore. He was going to find the truth buried beneath all this power and protection. And this time, he wouldn’t be stopped by editors, publishers, or reputations.
He was going to burn through the lie.
And if the golden trio were hiding something—if they had truly been as unaware and innocent as they claimed—he would find that out too.
The truth was coming. And with it, the reckoning.
—
The private banquet hall was dressed in spotless cream and gold—an illusion of warmth, glossed in polish and power. Waiters floated around with silver trays of sparkling water and champagne, while a string quartet played in the corner like they weren’t watching South Korea’s most influential whisper behind champagne flutes.
Mingyu stood with a calm smile, dressed in an immaculate black suit, pin straight and tailored to perfection. He moved with effortless ease, one hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other shaking hands, nodding respectfully, laughing at the right moments. To anyone observing, he was the perfect poster son. Reliable. Presentable. Politically tuned and socially refined.
“Chairman Han, always a pleasure,” he said smoothly, bowing just the right degree. “Congratulations on your company’s expansion into the U.S. market. We’ve all been reading about it.”
Chairman Han beamed, patting Mingyu’s shoulder. “Ah, the boy has a good head on his shoulders. Your mother raised you well, Young Master Kim.”
“Thank you.” His smile held, but his eyes flickered, tracking the next guest entering the room.
Lee Sangjoo. Deputy Minister of Environment.
Jung Yoorim. Senior Prosecutor. And there she is.
All names he'd seen in those black folders.
As he stood rooted, nodding along to Chairman Han’s recount of a recent golf tournament, Mingyu’s mind was not in the present. He’d memorized every page of the folders that night. He knew the misdeeds, the dates, the coverups. He saw their polished smiles now with new clarity. Gilded shadows.
His mother approached from behind, a warm hand resting on his elbow. Song Kyungmi wore her signature crimson silk suit, elegant and commanding, her campaign badge pinned like a beacon on her lapel. “Everything alright?” she murmured, too softly for anyone else to hear.
“Perfect, Eomma,” he replied just as quietly, eyes still on the room. “You're the star tonight.”
Kyungmi gave a faint smile, the kind politicians wore when they knew cameras were never off. “Then make sure I shine,” she whispered. “You’re getting better at reading them.”
Mingyu's eyes slid across the ballroom again. Yoo Minsuk, former Director of Public Prosecution, laughed too loudly with a member of the National Assembly. Go Hanjin, Director of a conglomerate flagged for tax evasion, refilled his wine glass.
He adjusted his tie. “A few of your guests are more tarnish than polish.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Mingyu…”
He turned to her, smiling like the obedient son he was meant to be. “Just saying. Might want to double check who you’re seen shaking hands with tonight.”
Kyungmi raised her brow. “Don’t start getting paranoid. Politics isn’t a clean business.”
“It’s not meant to be this dirty either,” he said, low enough only she could hear.
“Be careful,” she replied sharply, the softness gone for a moment. “You’re smart, but smartness doesn't protect you from the knives under a smile.”
“I know,” he said.
But as she moved toward the stage to greet another wave of donors, Mingyu’s jaw tightened. Because he didn’t just know. He had proof.
And all these people in this room—smiling, sipping, scheming—had no idea someone had already started cracking their perfect mirrors.
He reached for a flute of champagne from a passing tray, pretending to sip.
Behind the facade of elegance, behind his polished image, his mind worked in layers. Evaluating. Sorting. Connecting.
Who dropped those folders into their lives? Who wanted to expose these people? And why include us?
Mingyu didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore.
He looked back toward a group of men clapping his mother on the shoulder, laughing as if the world belonged to them.
He didn't know yet what they would do with the contents of those folders.
But he knew this, that the game had begun.
And this time, he wouldn’t play blind.
His thumb hovered over his phone before he opened the group chat he shared with Jeonghan and Vernon. The three of them rarely used it these days unless it was strictly necessary, because most of their time they were together, but if there was ever a moment to break the silence—it was now.
Mingyu [21:23 PM]: currently standing within arm’s reach of at least 25% of the people from those damn folders.
Mingyu [21:23 PM]: someone remind me to burn this suit after.
Mingyu [21:23 PM]: also… if i disappear midway through the night, assume it was Chairman Jo’s wine. smelt expensive and poisoned
He sent it with a dry exhale through his nose, barely containing the cynical amusement curling in his chest. He watched the three dots bubble at the bottom of the screen before Vernon responded almost immediately.
Vernon [21:23 PM]: just smile and wave
Vernon [21:23 PM]: you’ve got at least five lawsuits and two scandal exposés around you.
Mingyu chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
Then Jeonghan’s reply popped up. Predictably, it came with no emojis, just that sharp, cool detachment he wore like a second skin.
Jeonghan [21:24 PM]: Don’t get cute.
Jeonghan [21:24 PM]: Also, make sure your collar’s not crooked.
Mingyu instinctively reached up to adjust his collar—then scowled at the phone like it had betrayed him.
Mingyu [21:25 PM]: i swear one day we’ll find out you’ve bugged me.
Vernon [21:25 PM]: One day? Pfft.
Mingyu smiled to himself, the ghost of something genuine threading into the fatigue lining his shoulders. Even now, in all their collective disillusionment, the three of them moved in sync like muscle memory. Cold, calculating, careful.
Mingyu [21:27 PM]: I swear someone here tried to get me arrested last year and now they’re offering me wine.
Mingyu [21:27 PM]: capitalism is wild.
Jeonghan [21:28 PM]: Smile.
Jeonghan [21:28 PM]: Don’t drink.
Vernon [21:30 PM]: Count every handshake.
Mingyu [21:31 PM]: already on handshake #22.
Mingyu [21:31 PM]: two of them used both hands. they’re the most guilty.
There was a pause.
Then Jeonghan's message made him a bit alert.
Jeonghan [21:36 PM]: Watch Yoo Minsuk. He’s been too quiet lately.
Jeonghan [21:36 PM]: Don’t let him corner you.
Vernon [21:37 PM]: if he does, offer him a drink. then spill it.
Vernon [21:37 PM]: oops. my bad. so clumsy 😇
Mingyu let out a quiet laugh, ignoring the polite wave of someone he vaguely remembered as a telecom investor. He wasn’t in the mood to network.
His mother approached just then, her smile never wavering, even as her eyes silently asked if he was doing okay.
“I’m fine, eomma,” he said, offering her a kiss on the cheek.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“Just soaking in the hypocrisy. Like usual.”
She rolled her eyes fondly and drifted away to greet more guests.
Mingyu’s phone buzzed again.
Jeonghan [21:42 PM]: Watch your back. If 25% are here, then the other 75% are watching.
His eyes flickered around the room once more. The glittering chandeliers. The clinking of expensive glasses. Laughter too loud to be real. Applause for speeches no one truly believed.
25% of the enemy list in one room.
God help the other 75.
—
The Black Door never slept.
Tucked behind a discreet alleyway near Hannam, the bar had no signage, no lights on the street, no loud music to lure in a crowd. Yet every night, Seoul’s wealthiest, most dangerous, and most powerful filtered in like clockwork—drawn not by advertising, but by exclusivity. No phones, no cameras, no names exchanged. Just drinks, whispers, and secrets that slithered between the velvet walls like smoke.
Minghao stood behind the marble-topped bar, dressed in black from collar to boots, sleeves rolled, a bar towel tucked into his waistband. His hands moved on instinct—measuring, pouring, mixing—while his mind remained far from the liquor bottles and polished glassware. He had been trying to push the memory of that Sunday night into the recesses of his mind, the night everything spiraled out of the quiet distance he had tried so hard to keep.
The folders. The names. The voices. The tension in that apartment thick enough to drown in.
But tonight, the Black Door was busy, and his cover demanded charm and composure. A light smile, a polite nod. Keep your eyes up and your ears open.
Which was what he was doing now—drifting toward the end of the bar, polishing an already spotless tumbler as he subtly hovered near two men deep in conversation. They wore expensive suits and carried the bored arrogance of those who had nothing to fear.
“Haewon Tech's cleaned up just in time for the election. Amazing how that works.”
Minghao's fingers slowed their movement on the glass he was drying.
Haewon Tech.
He remembered the name on one of the folders. And if that was not enough, Joshua and Jihoon were discussing the same that late afternoon.
“Yeah,” the second one replied, swirling his drink, “Cleaned up their records, their PR, and a few skeletons in their closet too, I’m sure. You know how it is. No sin survives money.”
Minghao leaned slightly, grabbing a fresh tumbler to polish. He wasn't looking at them—but he was definitely listening.
The first man snorted. “You think Kyungmi’s backing came free?”
“Of course not. Someone greased that wheel.” A pause. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of her own. That boy—what’s his name? Mingyu? You know he—”
“—Has claws under that pretty face,” the other finished with a chuckle. “They all do.”
Minghao’s smile didn't shift, but the glass in his hand was gleaming by now from how long he’d been polishing it and something in his chest tightened on hearing a familiar name in that conversation. Not that it was the first time he had heard any of the golden trio’s name in other’s conversations, but this time it felt different.
“And that journalist who published the last piece?” the first man asked.
“Disappeared from circulation,” the second replied with a wry smirk. “Transferred departments. Probably silenced.”
Minghao finally moved, placing the glass aside just as a shadow slid into the seat directly in front of him.
“Careful, bartender. With ears like that, someone might start thinking you’re in intelligence.”
Minghao didn’t even blink. He looked up, eyes meeting a familiar pair—sharp, feline, and far too amused.
“Careful,” he said with a slow smile, reaching for the Glenfiddich without being asked. “One might think you’re stalking me, doctor.”
Lee Minho slid onto his usual stool—dead center, front of the bar—with a crooked grin and the kind of posture that said he owned whatever room he walked into. Dressed in a dark high-collar coat, his eyes were sharp and amused. “You know I like to keep my habits elegant and dangerous. And you just happen to be both.”
Minghao rolled his eyes already used to this. “And here I was hoping for one night without sarcasm.”
Minho shrugged, resting his elbows on the bar. “You can hope all you want. Doesn’t mean you’ll get it.” He raised a brow. “So? Eavesdropping again?”
“Me?” Minghao gestured at himself in mock offense, reaching for a chilled bottle. “I was just... cleaning.” He grinned. “Might need a good ear doctor though, if you have recommendations. These things hear too much.”
Minho chuckled. “I’ll refer you to myself. But my services come with a price.”
“Let me guess, it’s not covered by insurance?”
“Not the kind you’d want, anyway.”
Minghao let out a laugh—soft but real—as he started prepping Minho’s drink. He didn’t even need to ask. A double Glenfiddich, one ice cube, hint of lemon zest. He moved easily through the motions, hands steady despite the hum of conversation behind him that still hadn’t died down.
He slid the drink over, meeting Minho’s gaze. “So, what brings you in today? Boredom? Work stress? Or did you miss my charming company?”
“Would you believe I missed your terrible jokes?”
“No.”
“Then yes. Work stress.”
Minho took a long sip of his drink, exhaling slowly. But even as he drank, his gaze flicked sideways, following the same conversation Minghao had just tuned into. “You shouldn’t listen too hard,” he murmured after a moment. “People around here—they don’t just talk. They plant ideas.”
Minghao’s voice was quiet but firm. “I need to know what I’m serving into.”
“Rough week?” the doctor asked, picking up his glass.
Minghao didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned his elbows on the counter, pretending to fix something beneath the bar as he murmured, “You could say that.”
Minho quirked a brow at the vague reply, his glass pausing halfway to his lips. “What happened? Someone finally confessed their undying love and you didn’t know how to respond?”
Minghao laughed softly, eyes flickering up. “Yeah, something like that. Except replace love with a full-blown headache and emotional whiplash.”
Minho chuckled, swirling the golden liquid in his glass. “Sounds like my med school years.”
There was an easy rhythm to their banter—a routine Minghao appreciated more than he let on. Lee Minho had been a regular for a little over two years now. Always came in late, never in a rush. Always ordered the same drink, never said more than he needed to. A quiet man with a sharp mind and a strange, grounded presence.
Minghao didn’t know much about him aside from the fact that he worked at a hospital and liked his scotch neat. And yet, there were days when the doctor’s presence felt intentional. Like he wasn’t just coming to drink.
But Minghao never asked. Because even secrets needed space to breathe.
Tonight, however, his brain felt too heavy, too restless. And despite the distraction Minho provided, his thoughts kept circling back to that Sunday night. To the boxes. The files. The faces. To that one face.
He busied himself behind the bar, washing glasses that didn’t need cleaning. Minho’s gaze followed his movements, sensing the tension simmering just below the surface.
“You always get this quiet when the city's loud,” Minho said after a while.
Minghao glanced at him. “Maybe the city’s been screaming too much lately.”
“Anything I should know about?”
There it was. The careful question. Disguised as a casual ask, but with enough weight behind it to suggest Minho wasn’t entirely in the dark.
Minghao's hands stilled for a fraction of a second before resuming. “Nothing you can’t read about in the morning news.”
Minho didn’t press. He never did.
And that only made Minghao more suspicious.
But tonight, he didn’t want to peel back that layer. Instead, he slid another napkin across the bar toward Minho, eyes sharp but tired. “Don’t suppose you have a cure for existential spirals?”
Minho smiled faintly. “That depends. Do you want the clinical answer or the real one?”
“Surprise me.”
“Take a week off. Leave town. Get some sleep. Eat real food. Stay off the internet. Cut off all your toxic relationships.”
Minghao snorted. “That’s the clinical answer?”
Minho shrugged. “That’s the impossible answer.”
A flicker of something passed through Minghao’s expression. “Thought so.”
There was a pause then—just long enough for both men to retreat into their thoughts. The murmur of the bar carried on around them: laughter echoing from the private booths, the gentle clink of glasses, and conversations tangled with lies and confessions.
Minho tapped the rim of his glass. “You know,” he said casually, “I heard something interesting the other day. Apparently, someone’s been digging anonymously on some very important people.”
Minghao froze—not noticeably, but Minho didn’t miss the brief flick of his eyes.
“Sounds like a bad plot for a thriller,” the bartender replied coolly, pouring another drink for a customer a few seats down.
“Or a very real prelude,” Minho mused, then leaned forward slightly, his voice lower, thoughtful. “If someone wanted to shake the city’s foundation, they’d start with whispers. Not explosions.”
Minghao’s jaw tightened just barely.
Minho studied him for a moment before reclining again, lifting his glass. “But what do I know? I’m just a doctor.”
“And I’m just a bartender,” Minghao said smoothly, meeting his eyes again. “We’re nobodies in a city of kings.”
Minho offered a lazy salute with his drink. “Cheers to that.”
But even as they exchanged their usual smiles, something heavier hung in the air.
Because neither of them were really just what they claimed.
Notes:
A quick short note:
The next updates might not follow the decided schedule as I'm having some personal stuff that requires more of my attention. I'll try to update as early as possible but I can't promise to update as pre the schedule I follow. Once this stuff is settled, we'll be back at regular updates.
Thank you for reading and I apologize for keeping you all waiting for the next updates.
-Nyxx
Chapter 11: Not An Update
Chapter Text
Hey guys. How are you all? I hope you're doing well.
First of all, I'm really very sorry for not updating.
So a quick update on the reason for delay in my updates.
Well currently I'm in the process of shifting to another country for my Masters. My university starts in September. This is a huge opportunity for me to restart and this I've focused my entire attention towards it.
And the past months I've been too packed up with the application processes and examinations required.
I have not abandoned any of my stories. I promise I'll resume the updates once I settle in the new country. It's just that right now I'm too packed with the shifting process along with the university’s and hostel accommodation and I don't get time to sit and write.
I have written few scenes in every ongoing story of mine.
I promise I'll start my updates once I settle.
Thank you for being so patient with this situation.
Until then take care!!
Wish me luck!!
—Nyxx♡
Chapter 12: Crossroads of Shadows
Notes:
Heyy y'all!!!
It's been such a long time since I've come here.
First of all i apologize to everyone for this huge delay and also for not replying to your comments, but I swear I've read all your comments and really thank you for all your words of support and wishes!! 🩵
So finally it's nearing a month for me here in Dubai and I've been too packed with settling. I'm still not yet settled completely, not made any new friends here and honestly it would take some time but yea.
I had to re-read all my works to get a grasp of where I had left the chapters.
And I'm starting with this book because honestly I was done with almost half of the chapter back in june-july.
Gradually I'll update the other works as well, but I can't promise a scheduled update. But I will try and update as soon as possible.
I hope you are healthy and happy!
I missed writing, I missed reading your comments, I missed interacting with you guys so much!
Now let's dive into the next chapter!! (it's not proofread, so if you find any errors do let me know
—Nyxx♡
Chapter Text
In a city that never paused, the world moved on—fast, loud, and utterly indifferent. Morning trains screeched across steel rails, horns blared in traffic jams that stretched like veins through the heart of Seoul, and people scrolled through their phones, more concerned with celebrity breakups than the systems collapsing quietly beneath their feet.
Deadlines. Meetings. Rent. Love. Loss.
Everyone was so caught in their own chaos that they never noticed the tremors under the ground—never questioned the carefully constructed calm. The truth could bleed out in the middle of a crowded street and go unseen. Even when corruption whispered from the shadows and truth sat buried in folders no one dared to open, life marched on.
Oblivious. Detached. Safe in its ignorance.
Because if the world really knew what hid behind its shining glass towers, it wouldn’t dare keep spinning so fast.
And maybe that’s what terrified Seungcheol the most—how easy it was for the world to keep spinning, even as something dangerous slipped between the cracks, growing louder, sharper, closer.
He sat alone in his office, the sun long dipped below the skyline, casting only the faintest purple haze against the windows. His desk was a mess of student essays and textbooks on ethical frameworks—Utilitarianism, Kant, Confucianism—all the philosophies he'd taught that day already blurring together.
A mug of untouched coffee sat cooling near his elbow. His jacket hung on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. The classroom downstairs had long emptied. Campus was quiet.
Too quiet.
Seungcheol leaned back, eyes scanning the glowing screen of his computer. The news site auto-refreshed.
“Local Factory Explosion Kills 4 — Officials Blame Faulty Wiring; No Investigation to Follow.”
He stared at it. Four people dead, wrapped in seven words and brushed away with bureaucracy.
No photos. No outrage. No accountability.
Just another line in the daily cycle of disasters people had grown numb to. They’d scroll past it, maybe mumble "how tragic," and then move on to the latest celebrity scandal or viral meme.
He scrubbed a hand down his face.
What were people even paying attention to anymore?
He remembered his classroom that afternoon. A lecture on social responsibility. Only three out of twenty students had stayed awake through the entire hour. One had the audacity to ask if ethics were “still relevant in a world run by money.”
Still relevant?
His fingers drummed the desk, restless.
Somewhere, someone was pulling strings—burying deaths, erasing truths. And everyone else was too busy counting likes or swiping through gossip to care.
The apathy was what disturbed him most. Not the corruption. Not the rot in the system. That, at least, was expected. It was the indifference of ordinary people that hollowed him out.
No one cared anymore—not unless the headlines affected them directly. And even then, only until the next scandal took over their feeds.
The thought lingered bitter on Seungcheol’s tongue, more biting than the cold coffee beside him. He stared out the window, past the quiet campus, past the glow of the library lights flickering across the green, into the deep indifference of the night.
His mind drifted—inevitably—back to the files. Back to that suffocating living room on Sunday. Back to the weight of those folders in his lap.
Names he recognized. Faces he’d seen shaking hands on TV. Crimes that should’ve made headlines. Proof—unfiltered, undeniable—laid bare in black ink and photographs.
And yet, what had they done?
They closed the lids. Shoved the files back into their boxes. Talked about trust, about history. About broken friendships and bruised pride.
No one had asked what the victims in those folders would’ve wanted. No one asked who was protecting the people who couldn’t protect themselves.
They all talked about being played. About being dragged in. But not one of them said they should act. Not really.
And wasn’t that the same indifference he had just condemned?
Weren’t they all doing the same thing?
Pretending they were better. That they were different.
But they weren’t.
His chest tightened slightly. He sat a little straighter in his chair, hand still tapping the desk, slower now.
They had walked away.
He had walked away.
From something that might’ve needed them. From something that could’ve—should’ve—been fought.
He’d spent years teaching about moral duty. About how the measure of a society isn’t in how it treats the powerful, but in how it protects the weak. And yet when it was their turn to choose, when the weight of truth had landed in their hands, what had they all done?
Stepped away. They recoiled. Backed off. Debated trust before action.
Talked about past grudges. About the golden trio. About themselves.
Like the information inside those folders hadn’t mattered unless it pierced their own skins first.
And wasn’t that the exact kind of selfish logic that let the world keep spinning, bleeding at the edges, while everyone smiled and said it wasn’t their problem?
He thought of Soonyoung’s anger.
Of Wonwoo’s silence.
Of the tension that wrapped around all thirteen of them like barbed wire.
He thought of the moment Jeonghan had said, “No one walks away easily after hurting the people close to me.”
And the way they’d all frozen, as if the cold edge of that truth had slashed straight through them.
He didn't trust them. He didn’t want to.
But he also couldn’t deny what Vernon had said—“This won't be an endgame. This is civil war.”
Because how the hell could they stand together when they hadn’t even decided if they were still on the same side?
Seungcheol let out a sharp breath, his jaw tight.
He hated the realization. Hated that maybe, just maybe—they had been no better than the people they once vowed not to become.
Was fear really that strong? Was the past really such a blinding weight that they couldn’t see the urgency in front of them now?
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, pressing his fingers into his temples.
They’d been given a match and shown the gas leak. And they’d walked away.
He didn't know if they still had time to make the right choice.
But he knew one thing, they couldn’t keep pretending like they hadn’t seen.
A sharp knock broke Seungcheol’s thoughts like glass under pressure.
He blinked, breath catching for a second as the weight of his own introspection slipped away—left floating somewhere between the folders in his mind and the flickering streetlight outside.
The office door creaked open, and Seo Changbin peeked in, a familiar grin tugging at his lips. “You spacing out again, Professor Choi?”
Seungcheol looked up, brows furrowed in confusion. “Huh?”
Changbin stepped in fully now, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. “We said fried chicken and beer after work, remember? You promised me after last week’s grading nightmare.”
A pause.
Then Seungcheol let out a low, tired “Ahh…” as the memory clicked into place. “Right. That.”
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, his earlier intensity momentarily giving way to something more casual. “Yeah, I’m ready. Just give me a minute to grab my coat.”
Changbin snorted, stepping into the room and plopping down on the chair across from the desk. “I thought for a second you’d ditched me to keep making googly eyes at your philosophy books.”
Seungcheol gave him a dry look, tugging his jacket off the back of his chair. “Googly eyes? Really?”
Changbin shrugged with a smirk. “You get that same look on your face every time you’re deep in thought. Like you’re about to pick a fight with Plato.”
Seungcheol let out a soft chuckle at that—dry, but genuine. “Maybe I am.”
He stood, straightening the lines of his jacket with practiced hands, though his thoughts still trailed behind. The folders, the silence, the guilt that lingered like secondhand smoke—it didn’t vanish, just tucked itself away behind the easy rhythm of conversation.
As he shrugged into his jacket, Changbin tilted his head slightly. “Oh, by the way—do you mind if a friend of mine joins us?”
Seungcheol paused mid-button. “A friend?”
“Yeah,” Changbin nodded. “He's been swamped with work lately, and we haven’t really had time to catch up properly. Thought tonight might be good. But only if you’re cool with it.”
Seungcheol considered it for a beat, then gave a simple nod. “Sure. The more, the merrier. As long as he can handle our complaints about academia and ethics.”
Changbin grinned. “Perfect. He's in event planning stuff—so believe me, he's got plenty of his own complaints.”
Seungcheol raised a brow with mock intrigue. “Sounds promising.”
Changbin stretched, cracking his neck. “I need that beer like I need oxygen. I swear if one more student tries to argue that lying isn’t technically unethical if it’s ‘for a good cause’—”
“Then you fail them,” Seungcheol deadpanned.
“Glad to know your sense of justice is still ironclad.”
Seungcheol gave a half-smile, opening the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
They walked into the hallway, the fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Changbin was already talking about a new ramen place that opened down the street, something about broth that “could resurrect the dead.”
But Seungcheol’s mind wandered again, trailing behind like a shadow.
They could eat. They could laugh. Pretend things were fine.
But underneath it all, the truth still festered.
—
The scent of sizzling oil and golden-fried goodness filled the small corner restaurant as Seungcheol and Changbin settled into their booth, warm lighting casting a comfortable glow across their table. The sounds of casual chatter, K-pop playing faintly overhead, and the occasional clatter of beer mugs completed the backdrop. It was the kind of place that expected nothing from you but to sit down, loosen your tie, and breathe.
Their order had just been placed—half-spicy, half-soy garlic chicken, two tall glasses of cold beer, and a side of pickled radish.
Seungcheol leaned back into the booth, scanning the crowd briefly before glancing at Changbin across the table. “So… where’s your mysterious friend?”
Changbin checked his phone and grinned. “Channie texted me just now—said he’s five minutes away. Probably stuck at a red light knowing him. I have no idea why he doesn't drive himself.”
Seungcheol paused subtly at the name—Channie? Chan?
His mind registered it immediately. Lee Chan?
He wanted to ask, to confirm, especially because this Chan was apparently in the events business too. The coincidence was too clean to ignore.
But something stopped him. A quiet instinct to wait. To see. So he simply nodded, taking a small sip of beer.
Changbin, meanwhile, fished out his wallet and slid a small business card across the table. “Here—this is him. He runs his own event consulting firm now. Big-shot stuff. You’d like his style.”
Seungcheol glanced down. The card was clean and minimal—matte black with raised silver print.
L. Chan | Director, Axiom Events.
A soft, familiar ache tugged at the back of his mind.
Of course it had to be that Chan.
He kept his expression even as he turned the card between his fingers.
Changbin, oblivious to Seungcheol’s internal reaction, smiled into his glass. “You’ll like him. Chan’s one of those people you meet once and feel like you’ve known forever.”
Seungcheol tilted his head slightly, curious despite himself. “You two met through work?”
“Nah,” Changbin chuckled. “We met back in university, actually. He was in business, I was in social ethics. We ended up in the same student council committee—organizing this charity event, of all things. Total chaos, zero budget, a fire drill mid-event…” He laughed. “But Chan pulled through. Kept the whole team running. After that, we just stuck.”
Seungcheol smiled faintly at the image. “Sounds like one of those people who thrives under pressure.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Changbin leaned in slightly. “But more than that, he’s just… solid, you know? Loyal as hell. Has his core group of childhood friends—one’s a detective, another’s some high-level researcher—but he never makes anyone feel like they’re on the outside.”
Junhui and Wonwoo, Seungcheol’s brain provided.
But he didn't say anything yet, keeping the fragments of their shared past and the reunion of previous Sunday out of his expression.
Changbin continued, oblivious. “Even with his schedule being packed with high-profile gigs and god knows how many social circles, he still checks in with people like me. Makes time. Remembers birthdays. He’s just that kind of person.”
Seungcheol quietly turned his attention back to the bubbling fryer behind the counter, hiding the sharpness of his thoughts behind a calm expression.
If it was their Chan—Lee Chan—then maybe this wasn’t just coincidence.
The professor leaned back slightly in his seat, thoughts racing. Of all the people in Seoul, of all the thousands of names and faces that could’ve crossed paths, why this one?
Maybe fate, in its quiet, unrelenting way, was pushing them all back together.
Threading them again through new people, new places, and giving them no room to outrun the past they'd all tried so hard to leave behind.
And if Changbin considered him one of the good ones then Chan must’ve spent years burying their shared history beneath a carefully crafted, quietly impressive life.
The door to the restaurant creaked open, letting in a gust of warm city air and a figure dressed in a casual navy button-up, his sleeves rolled up and collar slightly open.
Chan walked in, scanning briefly before his eyes landed on the booth near the window. He lit up immediately—at least toward one of the two men sitting there. “Binnie!” Chan grinned, lifting a hand in greeting as he weaved through the tables.
“Lee Chan, took you long enough!” Changbin laughed, rising halfway from his seat to pull him into a side-hug. “You still haven’t figured out how to beat Seoul traffic?”
Chan chuckled. “Blame the red lights and the cab driver, not me.”
But the lightness in his smile faltered the moment his gaze shifted past Changbin and landed on the second occupant of the booth.
Seungcheol.
Sitting composed, arms resting loosely over the edge of the booth, his expression unreadable. Their eyes locked, and something silent passed between them. There wasn’t tension exactly—not that anyone unfamiliar could see—but it wasn’t warmth either.
Chan straightened his back and dipped his head in a polite nod, tone polite but noticeably guarded. “Seungcheol-ssi.”
Seungcheol returned the nod with equal measure, his voice neutral. “Chan.”
The shift in tone was stark. Even Changbin, who’d been grinning just a second ago, paused and blinked at the difference. “Huh?” he looked between them. “Wait—you two know each other?”
Chan smiled faintly, keeping his eyes on Seungcheol. “We went to school together.”
“For a long time,” Seungcheol added, his voice smooth but pointed.
“Whoa—what?” Changbin sat back, eyebrows raised. “That’s wild. Of all the people to randomly bring together. You both never mentioned it.”
Seungcheol offered a faint shrug, his gaze not leaving Chan. “It’s been a while. We lost touch.”
“Yeah,” Chan replied, finally turning toward Changbin with a practiced ease. “It’s been years. But I guess Seoul’s smaller than it seems, huh?”
Changbin, entirely oblivious to the charged undercurrent, beamed. “Man, this is perfect. It’s like a mini reunion! This hangout’s gonna be even more fun than I thought.”
Chan just smiled at him, the type of smile that reminded Seungcheol of their shared childhood. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Sliding into the seat beside Changbin—across from Seungcheol—Chan made a conscious effort to shift his posture. Relaxed, open, but with a subtle lean toward Changbin, away from the man who knew just how fractured things once were.
He wasn’t going to let the weight of Sunday drag this evening down. Not when he was meeting a friend he hadn’t seen in weeks. Not when this was meant to be a moment of breath in the chaos.
The server returned with their chicken and beers, setting down the sizzling plates and cold mugs between them. The savory aroma filled the table.
Changbin was already reaching for the first piece, chattering about work and laughing about one of his classes. Chan joined in quickly, tossing in casual commentary and laughing where needed, his tone brighter, lighter.
But not once did he look at Seungcheol unless spoken to. Not once did he ask about that Sunday. And not once did he bring up the black folders or the truths buried beneath their past.
Because tonight, he was just a friend catching up.
Not the event planner with too many secrets.
Not the boy who once stood at the center of a broken circle.
—
The air inside the Blue House meeting chamber was deceptively calm — too still for a room that dealt with the pulse of the nation’s funds. The walls were lined with framed policies and development blueprints that had long since lost their meaning, serving more as decoration than reminder. The faint hum of the overhead lights filled the brief silences between long-winded reports and diplomatic nods.
Wonwoo sat near the middle of the elongated table, a small nameplate before him gleaming under the white lights. His pen hovered over his notepad, but he wasn’t writing. He was listening — really listening — to every carefully chosen word, every subtle pause in tone, every exchange of looks across the table.
This was his fifth such meeting this quarter, and nothing ever changed.
“…proposed allocation of 25 billion won to the new health infrastructure support program,” a senior minister was saying, his tone smooth and confident. “The division of these funds has been outlined as per the usual structure — twenty percent directly toward development, and the rest for logistical and administrative supervision.”
Wonwoo resisted the urge to sigh. He already knew how this script ended. Eighty percent — always eighty — would disappear into paperwork, audits, subcontracts, and “consultation fees.” The facilities that actually needed the funds — the ones in rural provinces, where hospital roofs leaked and machines were decades old — would get a small slice of the pie, if any.
And still, everyone here nodded.
Everyone but Shin Jiyeon.
“Excuse me,” she interjected, her voice sharp but controlled. Heads turned, some startled, some irritated. “If we truly intend for public health to benefit, should we not prioritize the actual facilities that treat people rather than administrative padding?”
A hush fell over the room.
One of the senior ministers raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a faint, practiced smile. “And how do you propose we ensure that, Ms. Shin? Funds are allocated according to ministerial discretion. You know that as well as anyone.”
Jiyeon’s gaze did not falter. “Yes, I know. But that discretion does not mean transparency should be optional. Every year, billions are earmarked, yet only a fraction benefits the intended recipients. Should we accept this as the status quo?”
Wonwoo glanced at her, noting the fire in her eyes. He admired her courage, even if it sometimes made the meetings longer, messier, and far more confrontational than they needed to be.
One of the ministers huffed, tapping a stack of papers. “Ms. Shin, your idealism is noted, but do remember the constraints of policy and precedent. We work within the system, not outside it.”
Jiyeon leaned forward slightly, her voice firm but controlled. “And when the system fails the people, do we just shrug and repeat it? No, we make changes. Real ones. The public deserves clarity. Hospitals, clinics, and care centers must be accountable for their expenditures, and the same goes for the ministries overseeing them.”
A minister scoffed, tapping his pen again. “You make it sound as if all of us are thieves.”
Jiyeon didn’t blink. “I’m not accusing anyone. I’m asking for verification. For accountability. Transparency.”
Wonwoo’s hand stilled mid-note. He felt a familiar twinge of guilt. He had seen the allocations go exactly as expected. He had signed off on reports he knew were sanitized. He had kept his head down. Yet Jiyeon’s unwavering scrutiny, her refusal to accept the façade, gnawed at him.
A flicker of discomfort passed through the room.
Wonwoo leaned back slightly in his chair, watching her. She wasn’t new here anymore, but her idealism still hadn’t been eroded by repetition. She questioned every inconsistency, every figure that didn’t add up — and even though it often led to friction, he couldn’t bring himself to stop her. Someone needed to keep poking holes in this polished, corrupt structure.
“Ms. Shin,” another minister began in a strained tone, “I assure you, the allocation process is entirely transparent.”
“With all due respect,” Jiyeon interrupted gently, “transparency isn’t just a process — it’s proof. And if no one outside this room can see where the money goes, then it isn’t transparent.”
The main speaker’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained polite. “Progress takes time, Ms. Shin. Change cannot happen overnight.”
Wonwoo watched her lips press together in frustration. He knew that expression well. It was the same one he wore on his first few years in the ministry — when he still believed reason could outshout greed.
He also knew what she was learning now — that logic rarely changed anything in rooms filled with people who benefited from silence.
Still, Jiyeon didn’t back down. “I’m aware of that, Minister. I’m just asking that we ensure the right people are waiting for progress — not dying before it arrives.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to touch.
Wonwoo’s eyes dropped to the notepad in front of him. His pen began to move — not to take minutes, but to jot fragments of thoughts. Phrases that might later help him piece together how the corruption threaded through their policies.
He didn’t need to look up to feel the glares directed at Jiyeon. She had spoken out of turn — again. But she’d also said what everyone else refused to.
When the meeting finally adjourned, the sound of chairs scraping and polite farewells filled the air. Wonwoo gathered his papers slowly, letting the ministers file out first. Jiyeon remained seated for a moment, rubbing her temples before finally standing.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly as they stepped into the quieter hallway.
She gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t know. I think I’m just tired of hearing the same excuses every month.”
“They’ll label you a troublemaker soon,” Wonwoo said, half in warning, half in admiration.
“Let them,” she replied. “Someone should be.”
He didn’t respond immediately. His gaze drifted toward the window overlooking the courtyard, where a group of reporters waited near the gates, shouting questions that would never be answered honestly.
“Do you ever feel,” she said suddenly, her voice quieter now, “like we’re just pretending to fix things that were never meant to be fixed?”
Wonwoo turned to her, expression unreadable. “Every day.”
The meeting room felt emptier once the last paper was stacked, but the questions Jiyeon raised lingered—like a quiet echo of conscience that refused to be silenced.
—
The office was silent except for the faint ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the air conditioner. Wonwoo sat at his desk, the glow of his monitor casting soft light across the papers scattered before him. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but the spreadsheet on the screen had long stopped holding his attention.
It had been two weeks since that unplanned reunion in their old apartment — two weeks since the folders appeared, black and sealed, with names that made their blood run cold.
And yet the memory refused to fade.
He could still see them — the files lined across the old coffee table, the stale air thick with disbelief, and the way Seungcheol’s expression had hardened when he recognized a name. Then another. Then another.
Wonwoo rubbed his eyes and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. He had thought he could compartmentalize it, bury the unease, return to work and pretend everything was as it used to be. But today had shattered that illusion.
Because just an hour ago, he’d sat across from three of those very same names.
They were all smiles in the meeting, laughing about economic growth and public welfare as though their hands weren’t stained with the money of the people. Wonwoo had nodded, taken notes, played his part — silent, efficient, obedient.
Just like always.
But now, back in his office, the weight of that silence felt unbearable.
He stared at the file on his desk — one of the reports he had compiled himself. He knew what was in it, what was missing, and what had been quietly erased at someone’s request. The signatures. The false audit numbers. The covered transfers.
He knew everything.
And he said nothing.
His jaw tightened.
Was he an accomplice now?
The question hit him like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples of guilt through him. He wasn’t the one signing the orders, but he was the one making them look legitimate. By staying quiet, by doing his job well, wasn’t he helping them hide it all?
He looked at his reflection in the black screen of his monitor — tired eyes behind rimmed glasses, the faintest slump in his shoulders, and a face that didn’t quite resemble the man who once believed in justice.
He’d told himself for years that people like him couldn’t change anything. That exposing corruption only led to lost jobs, blacklists, and threats.
But after those envelopes appeared, that excuse sounded weaker every day.
Because whoever had sent those files — they weren’t afraid. They had walked straight into the lion’s den and dropped evidence like a bomb.
And they hadn’t been wrong. Every detail they’d sent checked out.
Wonwoo’s pulse quickened as his mind replayed the images — pages of transaction records, photographs of briefcases being exchanged, encrypted notes between officials. Whoever that anonymous sender was, they were meticulous. Smart. Dangerous.
He stood, pacing slowly to the window. Outside, the city was washed in the orange hues of dusk. From up here, everything looked peaceful — cars gliding down the road, people rushing home, lights flickering on one by one. The city had no idea how rotten its roots were.
He pressed a hand to the glass, eyes distant.
Something was moving beneath the surface. He could feel it.
The quiet before a storm.
Because whoever had sent those folders — whoever knew so much about them — wasn’t just exposing corruption. They were orchestrating something.
Someone with reach, precision, and access that rivaled the government itself.
The group chat, his, Junhui and Chan’s had been silent for weeks since the reunion — everyone pretending to move on. But none of them had. Not after what they’d seen. Not after realizing that someone out there was pulling strings in their lives again.
His eyes traced the river that cut through the city. Somewhere out there, in that web of people and power, someone was moving the pieces.
And he and the others — all thirteen of them — had been dragged back into the game without consent.
Wonwoo let out a deep sigh, letting the memory of that afternoon replay like a film he could not pause. The anger in Soonyoung’s eyes when he punched Vernon. The calculated coldness of Jeonghan as he had spoken of legal repercussions. The casual amusement of Mingyu, always teasing, always just a step removed from the chaos around him. All of it… it had felt like a game. A game whose rules were known only to the players he had once considered friends.
He thought of himself in that room, caught somewhere between old loyalty and fresh distrust. He had tried to reconcile, to bridge the gap. But the gap was not his alone—it had existed long before, and maybe it would exist long after.
His mind returned to the folders. He had seen proof, yet he hadn’t acted. He had held knowledge in his hands and let it slide. And now, confronted with the sheer audacity of the person who had delivered it to them, he wondered if perhaps this was the universe’s way of forcing action. Of forcing accountability.
But for now, all he could do was sit, staring at the papers in front of him, and ask the questions that had no immediate answers:
Who is behind this?
How much do they know about us?
And what will happen when the world finally sees what has been hidden?
Wonwoo exhaled slowly. He could not yet answer them. But one thing was clear—he could not ignore them either.
A soft hum of unease settled over him as his gaze flicked back toward the window, the last rays of sunset bleeding across the city skyline. Somewhere out there, someone was watching them.
And maybe, just maybe — this wasn’t just about corruption anymore. Something bigger was unfolding. Something deliberate.
The city carried on as it always did, oblivious and indifferent.
But deep down, Wonwoo knew — something was shifting beneath the calm.
Something dangerous.
Something deliberate.
And this time, silence wouldn’t be enough to keep him safe.
Whatever storm was coming, it had already begun.
—
The clock on the far wall ticked lazily against the silence, each sound echoing against the high ceilings of the Shinigami mansion’s private study, its rhythm mingling with the faint crackle from the fireplace. Shadows danced across the mahogany shelves lined with old books, intelligence files, and the faint scent of burnt whiskey.
Three glasses glowed amber in the dim light.
Vernon sat on the couch, legs stretched out, his white shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, staring into the liquid gold swirling in his glass. Jeonghan lounged in one of the armchairs, sleeves rolled up, flipping through an encrypted report he hadn’t finished reading. Mingyu stood near the large mahogany desk, phone in hand, eyes scanning through the latest batch of news alerts that poured in daily.
The air smelled faintly of smoke and aged liquor. It was one of those evenings — quiet, heavy, deceptively calm — the kind that usually came before something broke loose.
“So,” Jeonghan began without looking up, voice dry, “Muse Entertainment managed to bury their latest disaster in record time. A drug-trafficking link disguised as a sponsorship deal with their subsidiary talent agency. Clean cover, quick silence.”
Mingyu snorted, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They must have hired half the media to choke the story before it even breathed.”
Jeonghan glanced up at Vernon, a teasing glint in his eyes. “And how much did you contribute to their brainstorming session, Mr. Choi?”
Vernon’s head lifted, eyes narrowing just slightly at the playful jab. He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he tipped the whiskey glass back and finished it in one swallow, the burn tracing down his throat before he set the glass down with a dull thud.
“None,” he said flatly, voice edged with quiet disdain. “I’m not at all interested in what my ex-father does under the guise of that polished banner of Muse.” He leaned back, gaze fixed on the fire. “If anything, I hope the whole damn empire collapses.”
There was a pause — not awkward, but heavy.
Mingyu whistled low. “That’s cold, even for you.”
“Cold?” Vernon let out a humorless laugh. “You don’t call it cold when you’re talking about rot. The Choi empire is a corpse wrapped in cash — the sooner it decays, the better.”
The ice in Jeonghan’s glass clinked softly as he leaned back, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You do realize if that happens, you won’t get a single won from it, right? No inheritance, no stocks, no shares.”
Vernon turned his head slowly toward him — no expression, just that quiet, sharp glare Jeonghan knew too well. The kind that said more than words ever could.
And Jeonghan’s smirk faded, replaced by something closer to respect. Because, of course, he knew. They both did.
Vernon wasn’t a Choi anymore. His name had been erased from the family registry years ago — his existence, legally and emotionally, discarded.
He had no ties, no claims, no benefits.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
Mingyu exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, guess that makes you the freest one here. No family obligations. No expectations.”
Vernon gave a faint, sarcastic smile. “Freedom’s a nice word for exile.”
The room fell quiet again, filled only by the faint crack of wood in the fireplace.
For a moment, Jeonghan’s expression softened. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You know,” he said quietly, “you sound more like your father every time you say things like that.”
Vernon’s jaw flexed — just once, before he muttered, “That’s not funny.”
Jeonghan didn’t push further. Neither did Mingyu. They’d known each other long enough to recognize when to let a wound stay untouched.
Instead, Mingyu picked up the bottle and refilled everyone’s glasses. The firelight flickered across their faces — three ghosts of privilege turned vigilantes, bound by secrets that could topple entire dynasties.
Vernon didn’t look up as he spoke again, “Care implies I still have something to lose.” He swallowed the entire drink in one gulp and poured himself another drink, the sound of the liquid filling the glass the only thing breaking the stillness. “They already took everything from me. Let them choke on what’s left.”
Jeonghan’s eyes followed the movement — the steady hand, the calm exterior, the hint of bitterness hiding in the way Vernon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t push further. They all had their ghosts; they just carried them differently.
A brief silence settled over the room. Only the faint crackle of the fireplace filled the air as the three sat, each lost in their own thoughts — the calm before whatever storm was coming.
Then, all at once, the calm broke.
A soft chime — one, two, three — filled the air as all their phones vibrated at once.
Jeonghan frowned and leaned forward, setting his glass aside. “That’s… not usual,” he murmured.
Mingyu was already pulling his phone from his pocket, his expression sharpening. “It’s from an encrypted ID,” he said, voice low. “No subject line, no preview text.”
“Open it,” Vernon said flatly, already unlocking his own.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint tap of screens. Then, three identical lines appeared on their displays — white text over black background.
Time’s running out.
You’ve seen what’s coming. Act before it’s too late.
No signature. No attachments. Just those words — clean, calculated, chilling.
The three looked up simultaneously, the air in the room shifting from relaxed to razor-sharp.
Jeonghan’s voice was the first to break the silence. “Sender?”
“It's heavily encrypted with a key,” Mingyu replied after a second, his tone clipped.
Vernon leaned back against the couch, phone still in hand, is gaze distant. “They’re getting bolder,” he muttered. “First the files… now this.”
Jeonghan’s expression hardened, the usual amusement gone from his features. “They’re not warning us,” he said quietly. “They’re warning the system.”
“Or,” Mingyu countered, “they’re warning us to move. Before the system does.”
The weight of his words hung heavy in the air.
Vernon set his phone down slowly on the coffee table, the reflection of the screen flickering across his face. “Then we better find out who’s keeping time,” he said, voice steady but low.
Jeonghan reached for his glass but didn’t drink. “If this is a coincidence,” he murmured, “then I’m the Pope.”
Vernon’s gaze shifted toward the window, where the night outside pressed against the glass — vast, quiet, and waiting. “Then it’s not a coincidence,” he said simply.
The room fell into that familiar stillness — the kind that only existed when all three of them reached the same conclusion without needing words. A shared look, a flicker of silent understanding, and then Mingyu was already in motion.
He snatched his phone from the table, fingers flying across the screen. “I’m calling them in,” he said under his breath, though he didn’t have to clarify who them was.
Jeonghan nodded once, leaning back in his chair. “Tell them to bring the laptop.”
Within moments, the faint hum of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Three minutes later, a sharp knock sounded on the heavy wooden door.
“Come in,” Jeonghan called.
The door creaked open, and two figures stepped inside — Lee Felix Yongbok and Seo Changbin, Shinigami’s tech and data specialists, better known in the underground as Cipher and Hex.
The contrast between them and the shadowy study was almost cinematic — Felix’s ash blonde hair catching the faint glow of the lamp, his expression calm but alert, and Changbin, dressed casually in his pyjamas, eyes sharp and assessing.
Two men living double lives.
By day, Felix was a respected police profiler, working under the Behavioral Analysis Division — his gentle manner, innocence and bright smile disarming anyone who met him. And Changbin? A university ethics professor, soft-spoken, always ready with some jokes and admired by his students for his patience and dedication.
But by night, they were something else entirely — masters of codes, manipulation, and digital warfare.
Changbin was the architect — the one who built the encryptions, layered the firewalls, designed the digital fortresses that kept Shinigami untouchable.
Felix was the infiltrator — the ghost in the grid, slipping through networks, systems, and high-security servers like smoke.
As soon as they entered, the mood in the room sharpened — quiet professionalism taking over.
“Got your message,” Changbin said, moving toward the table where the three sat. “What happened?”
Mingyu tossed his phone towards them. “Encrypted mail. It’s not the first, but it’s cleaner than anything we’ve seen. We need a trace.”
Felix caught the phone smoothly and glanced at the message, his brows knitting. “That’s… clean,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as he turned the screen. “Too clean.”
“Can you track it?” Jeonghan asked, his tone low but steady.
Felix exchanged a look with Changbin. “We can try.”
The duo moved quickly. Changbin set the laptop on the table — matte black, modified beyond recognition — and began plugging in the devices. Felix mirrored him, already transferring the data from Mingyu’s phone, fingers dancing across the keyboard with quiet precision.
Lines of code began to stream across the screen — endless, flickering, shifting.
The three founders of Shinigami watched in silence, their faces partially lit by the glow of the laptop screen. The faint whir of cooling fans filled the room, the soft tapping of keys the only other sound.
“Any luck?” Vernon asked after a few moments.
Felix exhaled, eyes still scanning the monitor. “Not yet, hyung. Whoever sent this scrubbed their trail clean. Whoever sent this layered their trail through multiple global nodes. Every ten seconds the route resets — you follow one path, it’s already gone.”
Changbin’s tone was grim. “That’s not amateur work. This is someone who knows how to hide.”
“Can you break through?” Jeonghan asked, leaning forward slightly.
“Already trying,” Felix murmured.
He opened a secondary window, launching an aggressive trace. Changbin fed it a decryption key he’d written himself, the algorithm pulsing like a heartbeat on the screen. For a few moments, the system worked — numbers and characters lining up, layers peeling back —
And then everything stopped.
The code froze mid-line. The cursor blinked once, then twice, before a message burned across the screen in stark white text:
ACCESS TERMINATED. KEY LOCKED.
A beat of silence.
Changbin’s brows drew together. “What the hell—”
Felix tried to reset the program, but the system didn’t respond. The entire interface was frozen, unresponsive, as though someone on the other end had been waiting — watching — for them to make their move.
A soft beep followed. Then the screen went black.
The faint reflection of their faces hovered over the empty display, five shadows in a room suddenly colder.
Mingyu leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell me that’s a firewall.”
Felix’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said quietly. “That’s not a firewall. That’s a countermeasure.”
Jeonghan’s gaze darkened, his fingers tapping lightly against his glass. “Explain.”
“Someone on the other end knew we’d come looking,” Changbin replied, his tone dark. “They weren’t just covering their tracks — they were watching for our trace. And they hit back.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The hum of electricity was gone; even the air seemed to still.
Vernon’s voice broke the silence, quiet but edged. “So we’re dealing with someone who can match our system. Someone who’s not just covering their tracks — they’re leading us in circles.”
Mingyu rubbed a hand across his jaw, his mind already spinning. “Someone who knows us,” he muttered.
Jeonghan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Meaning they’re not just a leaker or an informant. They’re an operator.”
Felix nodded grimly. “And they’re good. Good enough to shut us down.”
Mingyy exhaled slowly, his jaw tight. “Someone who knows our playbook,” he muttered. “Knows exactly how far we’ll go.”
Vernon glanced between the two techs. “Could it be one of ours?”
Changbin’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t answer. Felix looked down at the dead screen, his expression unreadable.
Jeonghan slowly stood, walking toward the window where the city lights glittered in the distance — Seoul, bright and oblivious as ever. His reflection looked back at him — cool, controlled, but with something sharper in his eyes.
“They know our methods,” he said quietly. “Our reach. Our timing. They’re not warning us to stop — they’re telling us the game has already started.”
No one argued.
Vernon reached for his glass again but didn’t drink, his fingers curling tight around the rim. Mingyu leaned forward, his expression hardening. Changbin and Felix exchanged a glance, the first flicker of unease crossing both their faces.
The warning wasn’t a threat. It was an announcement.
Time was running out. And whoever was behind that encrypted message had just made their first move.
—
The clock on Soonyoung’s living room wall ticked softly, the faint hum of the air conditioner filling the quiet space between muted voices and the occasional clink of a bottle on the coffee table. The four friends had gathered for what was meant to be a casual evening.
After long hours of work, they had decided to unwind—beer, leftover takeout, and some old comedy reruns flickering lazily across the television. It had been ages since they all sat like this without agendas, deadlines, or the weight of their separate lives pressing against them.
But that calm shattered the moment their phones buzzed in unison.
Each man stared at their screen, reading the same thing: An email from an encrypted ID, a message stripped of identity or trace. Only one line stood out in stark letters:
Time’s running out.
You’ve seen what’s coming. Act before it’s too late.
For a long moment, no one said a word.
Seungkwan was the first to break the silence. “Please tell me it’s not just me who got that.”
Soonyoung’s brows furrowed. “You too?”
“Yeah,” Seokmin muttered, flipping his phone around for the others to see. “Same one. Same message.”
Seungcheol leaned back on the couch, exhaling slowly as he rubbed his jaw. His phone still lay face-up on the table, the glowing screen reflecting in his eyes. “That’s no coincidence.”
The room dimmed under the weight of those words. The four exchanged uneasy glances, the casual comfort from earlier replaced by the cold, unspoken realization that this wasn’t random.
“So…” Soonyoung began carefully, his tone more sober than it had been all evening. “Do we… tell the others? Ask if they got it too?”
Seokmin nodded immediately, expression tense. “We should. It’s almost certain all thirteen of us got it. Just like those envelopes.”
That name alone—the envelopes—hung heavy in the air.
Those damned folders that had appeared a couple of weeks ago, each filled with documents, evidence, and secrets—every piece connected to corruption that ran too deep for comfort. They had never figured out who sent them, nor why. And none of them had dared to act on it. Until now.
“But,” Seokmin continued after a long breath, “we don’t even know if we’re supposed to do something. Or just… stay out of it. Maybe it’s another setup. Maybe it’s bait.”
Seungkwan’s voice came soft, uncertain. “And if it isn’t?” He looked up from his clasped hands, gaze flickering between them. “If we ignore it… if we pretend we never saw those folders or that email, doesn’t that make us accomplices? To everything in there?”
The room stilled again. The TV continued to play in the background, the laughter track hollow against the tension that had settled like fog.
Soonyoung leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His tone carried an almost cynical edge. “If we start thinking that way, Kwan, then we’ve been accomplices for years. Every single one of us.”
His words sank deep, echoing in the uneasy silence that followed.
He wasn’t wrong.
Each of them, in their own way, had brushed shoulders with the wrong people, seen too much, stayed too quiet. They had lived within systems built on compromise, power, and silence.
For a while, no one spoke.
Then Seungcheol’s low voice cut through. “What can go wrong,” he said, looking at each of them, “if we try to disclose even one of those names?”
Three pairs of eyes turned to him instantly.
“What are you saying?” Soonyoung asked, suspicion and curiosity intertwining in his tone.
“I’m just asking,” Seungcheol replied calmly, leaning forward now, forearms resting on his knees. “What’s the worst that could happen if we expose one? Just one.” His gaze was calm, almost analytical. “I’m not saying we act blindly. I’m just… thinking. Hypothetically. If we reveal just one name, what happens?”
Seokmin frowned. “And how exactly would we do that, hyung? We don’t have access to any networks, or the kind of protection that whoever sent that email clearly does. If we move even a step wrong, we’ll end up being the next ones to disappear.”
“Exactly,” Seungkwan agreed, voice tight with unease. “Whoever’s behind this has resources we can’t even imagine. They’ve already proven that with the way those folders appeared out of nowhere.”
Seungcheol hummed quietly, the sound low and contemplative. “Maybe. But can we really just sit here knowing what’s happening? Pretending it doesn’t exist?”
No one answered right away.
The soft city lights outside flickered across the floor, shadows stretching long and uncertain. The air felt heavier with every passing second.
Because deep down, they all knew—Seungcheol was right.
They couldn’t stay idle. Not anymore.
Each man drifted into silence, lost in thought—grappling with the same moral question twisting differently in each mind.
What would it cost them to act?
What would it cost them to stay silent?
The laughter from the television felt painfully out of place now. None of them reached for the remote to turn it off.
They simply sat there, in that small apartment, four men weighed by secrets too large for the walls around them—each realizing that the night had just taken a turn from ordinary to something far more dangerous.
And none of them were sure if they’d be able to turn back from it.
Chapter 13: The First Flicker
Chapter Text
The room fell into a heavy silence after Seungcheol’s words faded into the stale air. Even the lights seemed dimmer, as if the apartment itself understood the weight of what they were dealing with. The cryptic email lay open on the coffee table, beside it the four black files they had brought with them from that apartment, its contents still burned into all of their minds even though none of them dared look again.
Soonyoung drummed his fingers against his thigh, restless and jittery with the kind of energy that meant danger. Seokmin sat beside him, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp despite the nervous swallow in his throat. Seungkwan paced again—he’d done it at least ten times in the last half hour—while Seungcheol stayed leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze on the floor but mind clearly racing.
“Okay,” Seungkwan said finally, stopping mid-pace. “We can’t handle the whole list. Not us. Not with what little we know.”
“So we pick one,” Soonyoung replied immediately, as if he’d been waiting for someone to open the door so he could sprint through it. “One name. The weakest link. The one we can actually dig into without raising alarms.”
Seokmin exhaled. “Weakest… or the one least connected. Someone whose downfall wouldn’t immediately trigger retaliation.”
“Someone whose involvement is sloppy,” Seungkwan added. “If someone compiled this list, not all of them are equally protected.”
The name list from the folders in front of them wasn’t long, but each name was a threat in its own right—powerful people, corrupt people, people who had enough skeletons in their closets to decorate an entire graveyard.
Seungcheol finally pushed off the wall. “We start with someone who won’t notice four random civilians snooping around.”
“Four smart civilians,” Seokmin corrected with a weak grin.
Seungkwan rolled his eyes. “Please. Soonyoung nearly set his kitchen on fire last week.”
“That has nothing to do with investigative skills!”
“It has everything to do with your skills, period.”
“Yah I’m a respected attorney—”
“FOCUS,” Seungcheol cut in sharply, and three mouths snapped shut.
They gathered around the coffee table again. Soonyoung grabbed the scattered pages and spread it open again.
Four names.
Four levels of hell.
But one stood out.
“Here,” Seokmin said, tapping the fourth name. “Chairman Han Dojun.”
“Minister Jang’s cousin?” Seungkwan murmured.
“Light criminal record… no real influence of his own… but involved in three projects tied to Jang.” Seokmin glanced up. “Meaning he’s sloppy. And traceable.”
“And if he’s the weakest,” Soonyoung said, leaning closer, “he’s the one most likely to break if we dig.”
Seungcheol nodded. “We start with him. Minister Jang’s already dead and his entire corrupt deed’s list is out. So disclosing him won’t create much of a ruckus.”
Silence settled again. The kind that came right before a storm forms.
“So…” Soonyoung clapped once, a sharp crack in the room. “We try a new trick. Our own little… amateur recon mission.”
Seungkwan stiffened. “What kind of recon mission?”
Soonyoung smirked. “Let’s just say we’re going to do what Shinigami does.”
Three horrified faces stared at him.
“Don’t say that name out loud!” Seokmin shrieked.
“And we are not killing anyone!” Seungcheol added.
“I didn’t mean we kill him!” Soonyoung groaned. “I meant surveillance. Information gathering. Patterns. Weaknesses. We track him. We watch him. We dig.”
“And if he catches us?” Seungkwan demanded.
Soonyoung shrugged. “Run very fast?”
Seungcheol sighed deeply. “We’ll do this smart. We keep our footprint minimal. No confrontation. No direct approach. Just observation.”
Then he looked at them, one by one.
“You three don’t have to do this. It’s risky. And once we start, we can’t undo it.”
Seungkwan lifted his chin. “We’re already involved.”
Soonyoung grinned, reckless but determined. “Plus, when do we ever get to be the main characters in a thriller?”
Seungcheol pinched the bridge of his nose. “God help us.”
But even he couldn’t hide the spark in his eyes—the spark of purpose.
The four of them sat back down, shoulders squared, the fear still there but overshadowed now by something sharper.
Resolve.
“Tomorrow,” Seungcheol said. “We begin tracking Han Dojun’s routine.”
“And tonight?” Seokmin asked.
Soonyoung leaned back with a sigh. “Tonight… we pretend we’re normal. Just for a few more hours.”
But none of them felt normal anymore.
The moment they chose a name, their world shifted.
That was four days ago.
Around them, Seoul had continued as if nothing had happened. The streets hummed with life, neon lights flickered against the drizzle, and commuters hustled through the familiar rhythm of a city that never truly slept.
But inside Soonyoung’s apartment, time had stopped.
The world outside moved on, indifferent, while every night the four men sat hunched over their own obsessions, each tethered to the same thought: the folder they had chosen, the name they had picked, the man who should have been simple to uncover but wasn’t.
For four days, they tried. They tried to make sense of it, to trace a trail, to find the weakness in the name they had picked. But every lead dissolved like mist, leaving only more questions.
Seokmin had spent hours pouring over financial filings, scanning corporate records, chasing shadowed subsidiaries and old investment trails. He had hoped, foolishly, that someone so insignificant in the grand scale of corruption would leave a trace, a mark, something he could follow. But the numbers lied. The accounts had been erased, replaced, hidden under layers of shell companies that vanished as soon as he looked.
Every night Seungkwan sat cross-legged on the floor, tablet in hand, scrolling endlessly through news archives, comment threads, old forums. Articles that should have existed didn’t. Links led to blank pages, cached versions were incomplete, headlines blurred as though someone had rubbed ink over them in haste. He pressed harder, scowling, anger rising beneath the fatigue, but every attempt only reminded him that someone—or something—was always one step ahead.
“The internet doesn’t forget,” he muttered, voice tight, “and yet… it’s like he never existed.”
Across the room, Seungcheol worked quietly, corporate databases flickering in his glasses. He rarely spoke, but the low hum of frustration escaped him as each board meeting minute, each regulatory filing, each public record he opened turned into a carefully sanitized void. Everything that should have documented even the smallest infraction had been erased, rewritten, or replaced. It was too precise, too methodical. It wasn’t just that this man had hidden his tracks; it was as if the world had conspired to forget him ever existed.
Soonyoung had called in every favor he could remember, dug through forgotten archives, pried open sealed files, and stretched every legal boundary without quite breaking it. And when even that wasn’t enough, he pulled the last thread he could think of—Yang Jeongin, the sharp intern he’d convinced his team-lead to loan him.
At first, Jeongin had been bright-eyed and eager, leaning over each document with the enthusiasm of someone who still believed effort always led to answers. But by the middle of the second day, that enthusiasm had thinned into something taut and sharp. His brows pinched, his gaze lingered too long on the inconsistencies, and he asked questions with a caution that made Soonyoung’s pulse stutter.
“Sunbaenim… why are we digging into him?” Jeongin’s voice was careful, almost clinical. “These files don’t actually lead anywhere. It feels like… like you’re looking for something that isn’t here.”
The words were innocent, but his eyes were not—they were curious in the wrong way, alert in the wrong places, the kind of look that suggested he’d begun stitching threads together in his head.
Soonyoung forced a smile, too quick, too curved, warmth stretched thin over a lie. “Training exercise,” he said lightly. “You need to learn how to navigate dead-end cases. It’s part of the job.”
Jeongin nodded, but it wasn’t obedience—it was calculation masquerading as agreement. He stepped away from the desk slowly, his expression polite, but his gaze lingering a beat too long on the scattered papers.
Only when the intern finally left did Soonyoung let the facade drop, breath catching in his throat. Jeongin had wandered dangerously close to a truth he had no business touching.
And Soonyoung, suddenly aware of how easily someone else could be dragged into this mess, felt a cold weight settle inside him. He needed to stop. He needed to step back.
But the thought of abandoning the name on that list—of giving up when he was this close—gnawed at him like a wound that refused to heal.
By the fourth night, their apartment was chaos.
Laptops blinked empty promises, papers were scattered like dry leaves, sticky notes covered in illegible scribbles littered the table. They had nothing. No clue. No progress. Four men, experts in their own fields, ordinary in the world of shadows and influence, and yet they had assumed they could take even the smallest step against someone like this.
Seokmin finally closed his laptop with a dull thud. “We can’t do this,” he said, voice hollow. “We’re going in circles. We’re… not equipped.”
Seungkwan hugged his knees, head bowed, muttering under his breath, “We’re poking a sleeping monster. That’s what it feels like.”
Seungcheol’s eyes were dark, calm, unnervingly precise. “We didn’t choose the weakest one,” he said softly. The words carried weight, and all four of them knew it before they even registered what he meant.
“What do you mean?” Soonyoung asked, though a cold feeling had already begun to spread through his chest.
“Someone doesn’t want this man found,” Seungcheol said, quiet but sharp, “and if they’ve erased him this thoroughly… he isn’t weak. He’s protected. Someone is guarding him.”
A silence stretched between them. Four days of effort, four days of chasing shadows, and the truth was more terrifying than any discovery could have been. They were not alone. They had never been alone. Someone had been watching from the start, someone with the power to erase a man’s existence so completely that no ordinary investigation could ever reach him.
They sank into their respective corners, the weight of helplessness pressing in. None of them could deny it: they had stepped into something larger than any of them, and there was no turning back. Not now. Not ever.
And in that silence, one thought began to take root in each of them, unspoken but undeniable.
They needed help.
They couldn’t do this alone.
But asking for help meant risk, meant trust, and trust had been shattered thirteen years ago. Yet as the rain traced patterns down the window and the city lights glimmered through the mist, the realization pressed against them like a living thing: they had no choice.
They would have to reach out.
The realization settled heavily in the room, as if the walls themselves had heard it and were bracing. Four days of digging, four days of exhausting every resource they had, and all they had to show for it was a name—only a name—with no sins attached. Not because the man was innocent. But because someone had scrubbed the dirt so thoroughly that he gleamed brighter than any saint.
Seokmin stared at the mess on the table: dozens of files, screenshots, printed articles, tax reports, leaked databases. Every page painted the same picture—this man was spotless. Untouched. Almost unnaturally clean. And that, more than any recorded crime, was the warning sign.
He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky breath. “We need someone with reach.”
Soonyoung looked up sharply. “Reach for what? There’s nothing on him.”
“Exactly,” Seokmin said, turning the laptop around as if they hadn’t seen the pages a hundred times already. “No hacker. No journalist. No activist. No ex-employee. No whistleblower. Nothing. There’s no dirty money trail, no shady donations, no bribery hints, no land purchases through shell companies. He’s too clean. Cleaner than anyone realistically can be.”
Seungkwan hugged a pillow to his chest, his voice unsure. “So… what are you trying to say? That we’re… done?”
Seokmin lifted his head. “I’m saying we need someone with reach. We’re not hackers or political insiders or investigative journalists. We don’t have connections to dig where normal searches can’t. No matter how much we try, we’ll always hit a wall. And that wall is getting higher.”
Seungkwan blinked slowly, as if he already knew what Seokmin would say next but hoped he wouldn’t. “Are you suggesting we… include the others?”
Seokmin hesitated, then nodded once.
Soonyoung reacted immediately. “No.” The refusal cracked like a whip, sharp and instinctive. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair back. “Absolutely not. I’m not seeing those three bastards, and I’m sure as hell not working anywhere near Wonwoo.”
His voice trembled—not from anger, but from the memory of how things had broken all those years ago, in a way none of them had ever truly healed from.
Seungkwan ran a hand down his face, letting it drop into his lap. “None of us want that.” His voice wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t combative either—just tired, worn from four days of hitting walls. “Do you think I want to sit in a room with Jeonghan and listen to him talk like he owns the air? Or Mingyu acting like he can see through everyone? Or Vernon pretending he’s better than all of us because he was born richer and prettier? Because I don’t.”
Seokmin nodded. “I don’t trust them either. Especially any of the trio. If anything, I trust them even less now than before.” He ran his thumb over the edge of a paper, voice softer. “But right now, it doesn’t matter how we feel. We’re outmatched. Out-skilled. Out-connected.”
Soonyoung paced the length of the room, frustration simmering under every step. But the exhaustion in his posture betrayed the truth—he knew they were right.
Seokmin continued, gathering courage. “We’ve spent four days trying to pull even one thread. Just one. And we couldn’t find a single stain. Not because he’s clean—but because someone is cleaning him.” He tapped the table. The printed pages rustled like dead leaves. “This level of sanitizing isn’t normal. It’s intentional. Coordinated.”
“Protected,” Seungcheol whispered, the word sinking cold into the space between them.
“Protected,” Seokmin repeated. “By someone bigger than us. Bigger than anything we have access to.”
They fell silent again. A silence filled with the weight of reality they had been avoiding.
“So,” Seokmin said, exhaling slowly, “our options are simple. Either we let this go—everything we’ve started, everything we’ve uncovered, the past four days of work, the list, the questions—everything. Or we ask for help. Real help.”
No one spoke.
Seungcheol finally leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We need more eyes. More hands. More brains. More ways to dig. And the truth is…” He hesitated, swallowing the discomfort. “Just like us, the other six would be willing. Maybe even more than us.”
He wasn’t wrong. The injustice that had always tied the ten of them together—however faintly now—was still alive under their skin. The others would want to get at least one name from that list, to pull one thread loose, to expose even a fraction of whatever corruption had been hiding underneath.
Seungkwan let out a long sigh, shoulders sagging as if the weight of the decision settled fully onto him. “They’ll help. We know they will. Even if they don’t trust us… even if there's distance… they won’t ignore this.”
“They can’t,” Seokmin added. “Not when something like this is happening in their city.”
Soonyoung didn’t speak. He stood stiff, arms crossed, staring at the cluttered table—the notes that led nowhere, the screens full of blank trails. His jaw clenched and unclenched, battling pride, anger, regret, fear—every emotion tangled into a knot so tight it looked painful.
That truth lingered, uncomfortable and undeniable.
Soonyoung shook his head, voice shaking despite how hard he tried to mask it. “I don’t want to see the trio.”
“No one does,” Seokmin murmured gently.
“I don’t want to remember what it felt like when everything fell apart,” Soonyoung whispered, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t want to remember how this feels.”
Seokmin softened. “No one does, Youngie.”
“But,” Seungkwan said gently, “if we don’t… then whatever we stumbled into stays buried. And no one would ever know.”
The room fell into a deep, loaded quiet.
Soonyoung’s fingers curled around the back of the chair, knuckles pale. He inhaled shakily, exhaled even slower. “This is the last thing I want,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Seokmin said, “but it might be the only thing we can do.”
The truth settled over them, solidifying like ice.
Because one thing was certain—if they reached out, the others would answer. All six of them. Not because of forgiveness, or friendship, or nostalgia. But because injustice, once seen, had never sat quietly with any of them.
Soonyoung closed his eyes, throat working as he swallowed down the bitterness. “I hate this. I hate that we have no choice.”
Seungcheol nodded with understanding. “I know.”
The moment hung between them—heavy, uneasy, stretched thin with the weight of everything unspoken. Soonyoung stood there, breathing hard through his nose, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by force alone. He looked at the table, then at the laptop, then finally at the three people who had stood beside him through four impossible days.
“Fine,” he said at last, exhaling sharply, like the word stung. “We’ll ask for help.”
Seokmin’s shoulders loosened in relief. Seungkwan sagged deeper into the cushions. Even Seungcheol, who had been silent for most of the argument, nodded faintly—an unspoken thank god in his eyes.
But then Soonyoung added again, almost immediately, “But we’re not including those three.”
The sentence landed like a slap.
He straightened, voice rising—not angry, but firm in a way that came from old pain rather than pride. “If we do this… if we drag all of us back into this mess… it’ll be just the ten of us. Not thirteen. Not the Golden Trio. Not Jeonghan, not Mingyu, not Vernon. We don’t need their power, their money, their influence. They don’t get a seat at this table.”
He waited, almost daring them to challenge him.
Seungkwan didn’t. He nodded immediately. “I agree.”
Seokmin pressed his lips together. “Same. We said we’d ask for help—not invite back the people who ruined everything.”
Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping slowly against the armrest. He didn’t speak for a long moment, but when he did, his voice held a tired kind of gravity. “They’re not part of us anymore. Whatever we used to be—it’s gone. If we open this door, it’s only for the other six. That’s it.”
Soonyoung let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Agreed,” he said with a curt nod.
“Yeah,” Seungkwan echoed immediately. “Just the ten of us.”
“Ten,” Seokmin confirmed quietly. “Not thirteen.”
And for the first time since the discussion began, there was a strange sense of alignment among them. Not happy, not hopeful—just… resolute. They would do this together, the ten who were left. The ten who had been broken in different ways but still felt the pull toward justice like a bruise they couldn’t ignore.
But once the decision settled, silence crept in again—heavy and awkward. Because now the next hurdle lay bare in front of them.
“So…” Seungkwan said slowly, “how do we contact them?”
A sinking realization washed over the room. They didn’t have a single number. Not one.
Not even after that tense, awkward apartment encounter two weeks ago. They had all walked in and out of that space—stared at each other like strangers, stood on opposite sides of a cracked history—and no one had bothered to ask for a phone number.
Or maybe no one had dared.
It wasn’t forgetfulness.
It was fear.
It was not wanting to hope again.
“Unbelievable,” Seungkwan groaned, collapsing sideways on the couch. “We’re actual idiots.”
“We know,” Soonyoung said dryly.
“So what now?” Seokmin asked. “What do we do? Send out a flare? We can’t just… teleport to them.”
There was a beat of silence before Seungkwan perked up. “What about going to Black Door? If we go in person, we can at least find Minghao.”
The others stared at him.
Soonyoung sighed through his nose. “Do you know how expensive Black Door is? Do you want us to go bankrupt before we even fight corruption? We’ll be financially dead before we reach the foyer.”
Seungkwan winced. “It was just a suggestion.”
“Please don’t suggest things that require selling our kidneys,” Seokmin mumbled.
Seungkwan deflated again, but then, in a small hopeful voice, he mumbled, “What about LinkedIn?”
Three identical looks were thrown his way—flat, exhausted, unimpressed, and faintly offended.
A flat, exhausted, unimpressed, “Seriously?”
Seungkwan covered his face. “Okay, okay, never mind. It was a moment of desperation.”
“It showed,” Soonyoung said.
But Seokmin snapped his fingers suddenly. “Wait. Doesn’t Joshua work at Jinsil? He’s a journalist. He’s everywhere—articles, interviews, those exposés he writes. And journalists always leave contact details under their work.”
This time, the room brightened—not with relief exactly, but with possibility.
“That… could work,” Seungcheol said slowly.
“It’s smart,” Seungkwan admitted.
“Very smart,” Soonyoung added reluctantly.
Within minutes, they were gathered around Seokmin’s laptop as he typed. Joshua Hong. Jinsil Daily. And there it was—a recent article on corporate transparency. Clean header, elegant layout, and under it:
Official Contact:
Phone: xxx-xxxx-xxxx
Email: [email protected]
The four of them exchanged a wide-eyed look. Calling would be better. Faster. Harder to ignore. No one wanted to be the one to make the call.
“We’ll figure that out in a minute,” Seungkwan said, pretending they all hadn’t been avoiding the screen. “That’s one group down,” he whispered.
“But what about the other three?” Soonyoung asked. “Junhui, Chan and him—they’re basically… invisible.”
Wonwoo especially. Even saying his name made Soonyoung’s jaw tighten.
They searched for Junhui. Nothing useful. They searched for Wonwoo. Less than nothing—an online void so complete it irritated them. And Chan? A few tagged photos but no contact, no message option, no reach.
It felt like hitting another wall, until Seungcheol suddenly reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open, and slid a dark, elegant business card across the table. The card was clean and minimal—matte black with raised silver print.
L. Chan | Director, Axiom Events.
The room went silent. Dead silent.
The card gleamed under the light, sharp and impossibly out of place among their frustration. The other three stared at it as if it had sprouted flames.
“What… is this?” Seokmin asked, voice trembling with shock.
Soonyoung leaned in, eyes wide. “Where did you get that?”
Seungkwan’s voice went an octave higher. “Since when do you have Chan’s card?”
Seungcheol cleared his throat, suddenly looking almost sheepish. “A few days ago, I went for drinks with my colleague.”
“And?” three voices demanded at once.
“And my colleague invited a friend.”
“And?” Louder.
“And the friend turned out to be Chan.”
The explosion was immediate.
“You met Chan?!” Soonyoung shouted, half rising from his seat.
“You had drinks with him?” Seungkwan gasped.
“On the same table?” Seokmin added, scandalized. “You shared a table?!”
“And you didn’t tell us?” Soonyoung flung an arm toward him. “Not even once? Not even in passing?!”
Seungcheol held up both hands. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t a big deal.”
The three stared at him like he had declared the sun optional.
“Professor Choi,” Seokmin said, voice thin with disbelief. “Meeting someone we haven’t spoken to in years? By accident? And sitting with him? Drinking with him? And you didn’t think that was worth telling us?”
Seungkwan added, “You don’t even drink with new people!”
“I drank water,” Seungcheol muttered.
“That’s not the point!” all three snapped.
Seungcheol looked genuinely uncomfortable, which almost never happened. He scratched the back of his neck. “I just… didn’t know how to bring it up. It felt weird.”
“WEIRD?” Soonyoung repeated. “This—” He pointed dramatically at the card. “—this is not weird! This is divine intervention!”
“We could’ve contacted them four days ago!” Seokmin cried out.
Seungcheol stared at the card, then at them, helpless. “I didn’t know we’d need it.”
But beneath the shock, beneath the exasperation, there was something else too—relief. Tangible and immediate. Like a locked door had suddenly found a key.
The impossible thread they had been searching for had been in Seungcheol’s wallet the entire time. The four of them stared at the card lying in the center of the table like a live wire.
Two points of contact.
Two paths forward.
And through Joshua and Chan, every one of the remaining six could be reached. Their world—once sealed by silence and old wounds—shifted. Opened. Expanded. For the first time since this started, their path forward no longer looked like a dead end.
Now came the main question—one none of them wanted to voice, let alone answer.
Who would call?
The thought hung heavy in the air, settling over the small living room like dust disturbed from a long-forgotten shelf. None of the four looked at the phone lying on the table. It may as well have been a live grenade. Every one of them was suddenly, quietly hyperaware of their own breathing, of the way the seconds ticked by loud enough to echo.
Because calling meant confronting what they had all run from.
And all four remembered that Sunday.
That suffocating afternoon weeks ago in their old apartment—walls still faintly smelling of the past, floorboards echoing with voices that no longer belonged there and that damned photoframe showing them the past they had left behind. How everyone had walked in with stiff shoulders, guarded eyes, polite nods that felt more like defense mechanisms than greetings. The air had felt tight. Uninviting. Their shared history sitting like a ghost between them, daring someone to acknowledge it.
No one did.
And instead of finding closure, or understanding, or even something as small as common ground, they had all chosen the same thing: Avoidance.
They had walked away. Again.
So how were they supposed to call now? How were they supposed to tell those same people—those they had been avoiding since middle school—that they wanted to meet?
Even worse, that they needed them?
Seokmin let out a long, shaky breath, resting his elbows on his knees as his gaze stayed fixed on the floor. “This… is going to be weird.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Seungkwan muttered, hugging his pillow tighter. “The last time we were in the same room, we couldn’t meet each other’s eyes for more than five seconds. And Soonyoung—” He paused, the memory making his lips twitch. “He lost it. Punched Hansol, almost decked Wonwoo, borderline threatened Chan… and had an issue with literally everything anyone said.”
Soonyoung rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, voice low. The weight of the memory pressed against him, heavier than he expected.
They all remembered the scraping of chairs, the awkward shuffling of feet, the unspoken this was a mistake, the door closing behind them far too quickly.
Seungkwan’s eyes flicked up, meeting theirs briefly. “We’re not exactly coming back as friends, are we?”
“No,” Seungcheol said, the single word carrying more truth than he wanted. “But… we’ll manage. Somehow.”
Soonyoung leaned back, running a hand down his face. “We can’t sit here arguing about how weird it’ll be. That’s not getting us anywhere. The real question is—who’s going to do it?”
Seokmin sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Think practically. Whoever was closest to them back in middle school should make the call. That’s the only logical way. If anyone still has any kind of connection… even a sliver… it’s them.”
A pause. They all knew what he meant. They were all painfully aware of who had bonded with whom during those long-gone afternoons in the playgrounds and libraries.
Seungkwan glanced at Soonyoung. “You were… close to Chan, weren’t you? Not… the Golden Trio. Not Joshua. Chan. You two hung out. You two—” His words faltered, caught somewhere between nostalgia and resentment.
Soonyoung’s jaw tightened, and for a moment he looked away. “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “We were… friends. He was—he was loud, obnoxious sometimes, just like me, but… he trusted me. I… I don’t know. It’s been so long and that day at the apartment, the way I snapped at him...”
“You have to try once. It’s his choice if he wants to talk to you or not.” Seungcheol said, “If he doesn’t want to, then someone from us would step in.”
Seungkwan nodded. “Exactly. You’ll probably get through to him better than anyone else.”
Soonyoung gave a short, humorless laugh. “And yet, I’d rather not. God, calling anyone right now is torture. Why does the past always demand we touch it when we’re least ready?”
Seokmin shifted, resting his chin in his palm. “It’s not just you. None of us want this. But… we have to. Otherwise, the last four days of wasted effort—and the folders we found—mean nothing.”
Seokmin spoke again, voice low, measured, almost reluctant. “Joshua. He and I… we were close. Before everything fell apart, he and I—” He paused, swallowing. “We were… the ones who actually understood each other sometimes. He probably won’t hang up if it were me calling.”
Soonyoung raised an eyebrow. “Sure, he won’t. But will he believe you? Will he listen? He hasn’t forgotten the fallout any more than the rest of us have.”
Seungcheol leaned back, tapping a finger against the table. “He’ll listen. Hesitate first, probably, but he’ll listen. That hesitation—that’s all we need.”
The room was quiet for a moment, the four of them staring at the table, at the phone, at each other.
Seungkwan finally broke the silence. “Then it’s settled. You call Joshua. You know the old connection. You have the best shot.” He gestured to Soonyoung. “And you call Chan. You know him, better than anyone here. He’s the bridge to Junhui and Wonwoo.”
Soonyoung’s lips pressed into a thin line, tugging at the corners as he weighed it. “Fine. I’ll call him. But this… this doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten everything. Or forgiven anyone.”
Seungkwan grinned faintly, not mockingly, just relief spilling through. “No one’s asking you to. Just… call. That’s all.”
Seungcheol’s fingers brushed the business card lightly, as if it were a talisman. “We’ve spent years avoiding this,” he said softly. “Pretending we didn’t need each other. Now… we finally have a reason. And if we fail… at least we tried.”
Soonyoung shook his head, half-smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Tried. That’s all we can do. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Seokmin leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Then it’s decided. Two calls. Joshua. Chan. That’s the first step. After that… we see where the rest falls.”
For a brief moment, the room felt lighter. The air, less oppressive. The ghosts of the apartment, of all the past missteps, seemed to settle back into the corners. They hadn’t fixed anything. They hadn’t reconciled anything. But they had chosen action.
They spent almost an hour circling around the same debate again, but eventually the four resigned themselves to reality—they had to call Chan first. Whether it was the right time or not didn’t matter anymore. The clock blinked 10:45 pm, far too late for comfort, far too early to claim desperation.
Soonyoung sat with his elbows on his knees, the phone cold and slick between his fingers. He looked at the others as if one of them might suddenly offer to take his place. No such luck.
“Okay,” he murmured. “I’m doing it.”
He dialed Chan’s number and pressed the speaker before he could chicken out.
The first ring came sharp and loud, slicing through the quiet like a blade. The second ring followed, heavier somehow. By the third, Soonyoung’s knee was bouncing uncontrollably.
“Maybe he’s asleep,” Seokmin whispered.
“Maybe he won’t pick up unknown numbers at night,” Seungcheol said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Seungkwan snorted softly. “He’s an event planner. He survives on unknown numbers. He would pick up even spam because what if it’s a VIP client with a hundred-million-won wedding?”
But the fourth ring passed, and then the call cut. The silence that followed was flat and pathetic. They stared at each other. Four grown men looking like they’d just been rejected by their crushes.
Then Soonyoung’s phone lit up, an incoming call. Chan was calling back. His heart lurched into his throat. He scrambled to answer, thumb slipping once before he hit the green icon and the speaker.
“Yes—hello?”
A smooth, composed voice came through immediately. “Hello, this is Lee Chan from Axiom Events. How may I assist you?”
The professional tone made it worse. So much worse.
Soonyoung’s mouth went dry. “Hey… uh. Chan. It’s me… Soonyoung.”
There was a pause—so quiet it felt like the silence itself leaned forward. Then, cautiously, almost disbelieving: “...Kwon Soonyoung?” A beat. “Attorney Kwon Soonyoung?”
“Yeah,” Soonyoung replied. “That Soonyoung.”
Silence again. This one different—heavier, more complicated.
Chan wasn’t the type to hide what he felt, even through distance. His breaths went a little shallow. They could practically hear him recalibrating the entire situation. Finally he asked, voice lower, guarded, “…How did you get my number?”
Soonyoung let out a slow breath. “Your professor friend gave your business card to Seungcheol. He passed it to me.”
A quiet hum followed. Not agreement. Not approval. Just a sound. Something between acknowledgment and wariness. “…Right,” Chan said softly. “Okay. So… why are you calling me?”
Soonyoung stalled. He could feel Seokmin, Seungcheol, and Seungkwan staring holes into him. His throat tightened. “We, uh… we need your help.”
“…My help?” Chan repeated, genuinely confused. “Why would you need my help?”
Soonyoung swallowed. It felt almost humiliating to be the one saying this—to reach across a wound that still felt raw. “It’s… about the black folders. The ones we found at the old apartment.”
For the first time, Chan didn’t immediately respond. They heard a faint shuffle—maybe him sitting up straighter, maybe covering the mouthpiece for a heartbeat to gather himself.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Not fragile, but careful. “…Those folders.”
The room held its breath.
Instead of answering, Chan asked, “Do the others know you’re calling me right now?”
“Yes,” Soonyoung said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We agreed together. And—well—Seungcheol gave us your number anyway.”
“…Huh.” There was something strange in Chan’s voice. Not anger, not irritation. Just… surprise. It was almost unsettling. Then, after a long, long silence he spoke, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
There it was. The wall. The wound. The distance.
“Especially with… everything,” Chan added, the last word strained. “You and Wonwoo weren’t exactly—”
“I know,” Soonyoung cut in quickly. Too quickly. “I know.”
Seungkwan snatched the phone. “Chan, listen. This isn’t about the past. It’s important. We need your help. Yours, Junhui’s, Wonwoo’s. And we’re reaching out to Joshua’s group too. This isn’t about friendship—this is about something bigger.”
Another silence. A longer one.
Chan finally asked, “Will the Golden Trio be there?” His tone held such caution it bordered on fear—fear of history repeating, fear of the wounds opening up all over again.
“No,” Seungkwan replied firmly. “We’re not involving them.”
A faint exhale came through the line. Not relief. Just another recalibration.
“...Okay,” Chan said finally, his voice neutral again. “I’ll talk to Wonwoo and Junhui. I’ll… let them know you reached out. And just so you know, Joshua won’t be easy to convince.”
And then, without transition, he ended the call. No goodbye. No see you. No promise.
Just a click.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Soonyoung let the phone fall onto the table, rubbing his temples. “Well,” he said under his breath. “That was… deeply uncomfortable.”
Seungkwan exhaled audibly, slumping back into the couch. “Well… that went… exactly how I imagined it would. Awkward, tense, borderline hostile. But it worked.”
“Soonyoung, you’re going to have nightmares about that pause,” Seokmin muttered dryly.
“I already do,” Soonyoung admitted, almost whispering. “Every second of it felt like walking across a tightrope without a net.”
“Honestly?” Seungkwan murmured. “That’s the most civil conversation you and Chan have had in years.”
Seokmin groaned into his hands. “He sounded like we were asking him to donate a kidney.”
“He sounded like he saw a ghost,” Seungcheol corrected.
And none of them disagreed.
—
Black Door had that particular kind of atmosphere that screamed money. Soft golden lights, imported leather seats, and a bar counter so polished you could probably see your sins reflected back at you. It was not—by any stretch of imagination—a place for gremlins.
Which was exactly why Hong Joshua had dragged a hissing, protesting Lee Jihoon into it.
Jihoon had spent the whole day barricaded in his apartment, working on a case, courtesy of Joshua, coding something illegal-but-moral, or writing angry notes—Joshua honestly never knew. What he did know was that Jihoon hadn’t seen the sunlight in 48 hours and was beginning to talk to his plants again.
So Joshua bodily hauled him out, shoved him into the back seat of a cab, and announced, “Let’s go ruin Hao’s night.”
Jihoon didn’t even question it anymore. “Fine. But I’m not paying for anything.”
“You never do,” Joshua replied sweetly.
The moment the two walked in, every bartender in a ten-meter radius sighed in resigned dread. They all knew. These two were not here for drinks. Or ambiance. Or socializing.
They were here to annoy Xu Minghao.
And there he was—behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, hair perfectly styled, expression tranquil and zen-like as he chatted with one of his favourite regulars.
The man was handsome, charismatically soft-spoken, and apparently quite funny, because Minghao had that look on his face. The rare, elusive one—the faint curl of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Jihoon jabbed Joshua’s ribs. See that? That right there? Minghao is enjoying someone else’s company. Unacceptable.
Joshua nodded gravely. We must destroy this.
They didn’t say any of this out loud. Their expressions said enough.
Minghao’s eyes flicked toward them, and in an instant, his shoulders stiffened, the casual amusement that had been there moments ago vanishing like smoke. He let out a long, slow exhale and rolled his eyes with such exaggerated precision it was almost comical—if the tension in the air hadn’t made the gesture feel like a warning instead.
“Oh god,” he muttered under his breath. “Not today.”
Joshua wiggled his fingers in a greeting that was half-wave, half-menace. Jihoon simply plopped onto the high stool like a cat claiming territory.
The customer Minghao had been talking to glanced between them with curious amusement. “These your friends?” he asked Minghao.
“No,” Minghao said instantly.
“Yes,” Joshua countered and turned to the other man, giving a polite nod. “Hi, we haven’t formally met. I’m Hong Joshua, and this is Lee Jihoon. Pleasure.”
Minho, with that professional warmth he always carried, smiled and shook their hands. “Dr. Lee Minho,” he said simply. The formality was balanced with ease, as if he already understood these two were harmless troublemakers.
For a moment, the three settled into the bar’s rhythm: the soft clink of glass, the muted hum of conversation, the occasional laugh that didn’t reach the group. Minghao tried to focus on Minho’s conversation, but the pair of them—Joshua and Jihoon—were too deliberate, too confident in their mischief. Their eyes danced with quiet amusement, the way they leaned in slightly, as if daring Minghao to react.
When Minho finally left, tipping his glass politely, with a “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Joshua and Jihoon immediately turned their full attention to Minghao. The moment the doctor’s shadow disappeared, they began their teasing, subtle at first, just loud enough for Minghao to hear, just playful enough to draw him into the game.
“Busy night?” Joshua asked, voice casual, though there was an edge to it, a challenge wrapped in humor.
Minghao raised an eyebrow, dry, deliberate. “Is it your business?”
Jihoon leaned on the bar, smirking. “Oh, it’s always our business. Don’t pretend we don’t know you like the back of our hand.”
Joshua nodded in agreement. “Exactly. We’re practically historians at this point. Your habits, your moods, your little eyebrow twitches when someone says something absurd—archived and studied.”
Minghao’s eyes flicked to the pair, a spark of amusement mingled with exasperation. He had learned long ago that resistance was futile. They didn’t just see him; they understood him. And that understanding, as infuriating as it was, was wrapped in affection.
“Studying me now, are you?” he asked, his tone sharp, but the corners of his lips betrayed him. He couldn’t quite hide the corner of a grin threatening to form.
Jihoon’s smirk widened. “Always. Can’t let all this talent go unnoticed.”
Joshua tilted his head, leaning slightly closer. “Besides, it’s fun to watch you squirm. Admit it, Minghao—you enjoy our company whether you like it or not.”
Minghao shook his head, but the smile broke through, just enough to be seen. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, reaching for a clean glass, his movements deliberate, keeping his composure but betraying just enough amusement to encourage them.
The bar had faded into the background. For Joshua and Jihoon, it was just the three of them and Minghao realized it again: despite the annoyance, despite the controlled eye-rolls, he had never, not for a single moment, regretted having them there. The pair of them could be chaos incarnate, and yet there was comfort in the familiarity, even if it came wrapped in minor torment.
Joshua caught Minghao’s eyes briefly and grinned. “See? We’re good for you.”
Minghao’s lips twitched into a faint, reluctant smile. “Terrible for me, maybe. Good… questionable. But… fine. You win, for now.”
“Victory tastes so sweet,” Joshua declared, leaning back with the sort of smugness that immediately made Minghao threaten to throw a bar napkin at him.
Jihoon snorted. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yet here you are,” Joshua shot back.
Minghao’s coworkers drifted past—mostly to check on him, partly because Joshua and Jihoon fascinated them the way one might watch two cats torment a very patient dog.
One of the bartenders, Taesik, chuckled as he passed their section. “Hao, you okay? Blink twice if you need rescue.”
Minghao deadpanned, “Send help,” but his tone was far too amused for anyone to believe him.
Jihoon lifted his glass toward Taesik. “Aren’t you supposed to be on our side? Hao tortures us every other time we breathe wrong.”
Taesik scoffed. “And you repay him by showing up unannounced just to annoy him? That sounds like a you problem.”
Joshua beamed. “See, Hao? Public sympathy is on our side.”
“Public sympathy is fickle,” Minghao muttered, wiping down a spotless counter just for something to do. “One good drink and they forget you exist.”
Joshua opened his mouth to argue—dramatically, as always—but his work phone buzzed sharply on the bar counter, the vibration cutting through the ambient jazz and chatter.
All three of them looked at it.
Unknown Number.
Jihoon let out a low groan. “No. No, you’re not answering that. It’s almost eleven. Have some self-respect.”
Minghao, arms crossed, nodded. “You complain about overworking and then do this to yourself.”
Joshua sighed, already reaching for the phone. “What if it’s important?”
Jihoon mimicked him under his breath in a high-pitched tone, “What if it’s important?” Minghao snorted.
But Joshua had already swiped to answer. His posture straightened instinctively, shoulders pulling back, voice slipping effortlessly into that calm, composed register he used only in courtrooms and consultations.
“Hello. This is Hong Jisoo speaking.”
Jihoon rolled his eyes while Minghao muttered, “Acting like he’s on the clock… unbelievable.”
Joshua didn’t even have time to shoot them a warning look. The moment the caller spoke, the world around him seemed to drop out from under his feet. “...Joshua, hey.”
The voice slipped through the line soft, unsure—yet unmistakable. It hit him like stepping into a draft from a door he thought he had sealed shut long ago.
Joshua froze. Not the polite stillness he put on at work. Not the puzzled pause of someone receiving a wrong number. This was the kind of stillness that rooted itself in bone.
Beside him, Jihoon straightened, sensing the shift instantly. “Who is it?” he asked, but Joshua didn’t seem to hear him.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. His eyes were unfocused, slightly wide, as though the sound had reached someplace he’d carefully avoided for years. A breath slipped out of him—quiet, barely there, more reaction than choice.
Minghao leaned in, frowning. “Joshua? Hey. You okay?”
Joshua didn’t answer. His pulse thudded hard against his ribs, loud enough he could feel it in his throat.
Then the voice came again—hesitant, softer this time, as if bracing for impact. “Hey…uh…it’s… Seokmin. Lee Seokmin.”
A tremor ran through Joshua before he drew a breath—sharp, shallow, not nearly enough. “Oh,” he exhaled, the word cracking on its way out. “Oh.”
Jihoon mouthed, What the hell is happening?
Minghao mouthed back, He looks like he saw a ghost.
Joshua held up a shaky hand for silence, though he didn’t even look at them—he couldn’t. Not when his brain was still scrambling to catch up with the fact that Seokmin, of all people, had somehow dialed his number on a random Thursday night.
On the phone, Seokmin cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. He sounded like he was calling a stranger. Or worse—someone he wasn’t sure wanted to hear from him. “I’m… sorry to call so late. I wasn’t sure if you’d even pick up. But, um—this is important.”
Joshua swallowed hard, the motion visible even from across the bar. His voice came out quieter than usual, stripped of the polished tone. “Seokmin… how did you… why are you calling me?”
Jihoon’s jaw dropped. Minghao blinked once, twice, as if recalibrating his understanding of reality.
Minghao whispered loudly, “Lee Seokmin? Like— Seokmin? Our Seokmin?”
Jihoon narrowed his eyes. “What the hell—why is he calling you now?”
Minghao and Jihoon exchanged glances—wide-eyed, curious, slightly alarmed, and absolutely brimming with questions they couldn’t ask yet.
Joshua didn’t look at either of them.
Couldn’t.
Because Seokmin sighed softly—nervous, conflicted—and said the last set of words Joshua ever expected to hear from him at eleven at night, “We need your help.”
And Joshua’s fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles pale, breath caught halfway in his chest as Black Door went on glittering around them—unaware that the past had just walked straight back into his life with a single, fragile, trembling call.
Joshua didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t
His mind felt like a page someone kept trying to rewrite—thoughts slipping, overlapping, twisting into knots as he tried to process that Seokmin—bright, loud, dependable, stubbornly optimistic Seokmin—was on the other end of the line.
Asking for help.
From him.
Jihoon nudged his knee, gently at first, then harder when Joshua didn’t react. Minghao leaned closer, eyes sharp and curious, but quiet—watchful in that unnerving, perceptive way of his.
“Joshua,” Jihoon whispered, “say something before the guy thinks you died on the call.”
Joshua sucked in a breath. “Okay,” he finally said, forcing his voice steady even though it wobbled at the edges, “what’s going on?”
There was a rustle on the line, a soft exhale. Like Seokmin was bracing himself. “It’s… about those folders.”
Folders.
Joshua’s stomach did a slow, heavy drop. The bar noise faded, replaced by a hollow pressure in his ears.
He remembered the folders. They all did. Even though none of them had dared speak of them again after that chaotic, miserable Sunday in the old apartment.
Jihoon, eavesdropping shamelessly, stiffened. Minghao’s eyebrows shot up.
Minghao’s eyes darted between Joshua and Jihoon, the tension in his jaw making it clear he’d read every signal in their posture. Without a word, he nodded toward the narrow hallway leading to the back room. A subtle motion, but the message was clear: this was not the place to talk about folders, past mistakes, or ghosts of that chaotic Sunday.
Joshua’s hand went up instinctively. “Seokmin… can you hold on a moment?” His voice was calm, but his chest thrummed against his ribs, each beat sharper than the last.
A pause, and then a faint, resigned exhale. “Yeah… okay,” Seokmin replied, the hesitation hanging between the words like fog.
They followed Minghao through the bar, past clinking glasses and low murmur of conversation. Jihoon trailed close, curiosity and unease warring in his expression, while Joshua’s mind raced, circling the memory of those folders like predators around prey.
Once inside the small back room, Minghao shut the door behind them with a definitive click and twisted the lock. He leaned against it for a moment, eyes sweeping both of them before finally nodding. “We’re clear,” he said, voice low. “Talk.”
Joshua set his phone down, toggled the speaker, and let it rest on the edge of the table. “Seokmin,” he said, voice even, though every nerve in him was taut. “I’ve got you on speaker. Jihoon and Minghao are also here. What is it?”
From the phone came the faint, hesitant buzz of the line, and then Seokmin’s voice, measured but carrying the weight of memory. “Hi–uh…It’s… about the folders.”
Joshua didn’t let the silence linger this time.
He forced the surprise down—buried it somewhere behind the cool, clipped calm he used when a source called him at 2 a.m. with a half-baked tip. His breathing steadied, his shoulders squared, and when he finally spoke, it wasn’t the startled friend from five minutes ago.
It was the journalist.
“Seokmin,” he said, voice level, quiet, and edged with something sharper beneath. “Start over. Clearly. What exactly are you asking for?”
Jihoon and Minghao exchanged a look—both recognizing that tone instantly. The one that made CEOs stutter. The one that meant Hong Joshua was working.
On the other end, Seokmin made a tiny choking sound, clearly thrown. “I—right. Okay. Um.” He fumbled, regrouped, and tried again. “It’s… about the folders.”
“Be specific,” Joshua said, not raising his voice, but tightening every syllable.
“It’s the third time I’m listening to the folders.” Jihoon piped in, annoyance clear in his tone. “Are you planning on saying anything else or do we have to decode the rest just by you saying the folders?”
Seokmin’s voice came through the speaker, shaky, measured. “Those names… the list. We tried digging, but every file, every lead—it’s all… wiped clean. Like someone decided those pieces of the puzzle shouldn’t exist. No matter where we look, we hit walls.”
Joshua’s fingers tapped once against the table, slow, controlled. Only Jihoon noticed the tension coiling in his jaw.
“So,” Joshua said finally, eyes still on the speaker, “you’re asking for help.”
“Yes,” Seokmin admitted, voice low, heavy with the weight of the admission. “Yours. Jihoon’s. Minghao’s.”
Joshua glanced sideways. Both Jihoon and Minghao froze, blinking at the unexpected inclusion. Minghao arched a brow, crossing his arms.
Joshua exhaled slowly and focused back on the glass in front of him, amber liquid reflecting his tense expression. “And what exactly,” he asked, voice deliberate, “do you think the three of us can do for you?”
There was a pause on the line. Seokmin’s words were slow, cautious. “They’re big names, Joshua. We need someone who can dig without leaving a trace. Someone who notices the threads the rest of us don’t even see.”
Jihoon leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “You mean?” he asked, voice tight.
Seokmin let out a small, embarrassed laugh through the speaker. “You Jihoon. You’ve always been… ahead of the game. We noticed. Even back in middle school, you were hacking school Wi-Fi just for fun.”
Jihoon muttered something under his breath, half threat, half laugh, as Minghao’s shoulders twitched in amusement.
“And Minghao,” Seokmin continued quickly, “he knows people, knows places, can read a room like it’s a map. Honestly, we wouldn’t even try without him.”
Minghao let out a low whistle, eyebrows rising. “…Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It is!” Seokmin said immediately. “You three are the only ones who could make sense of what we’ve found.”
Joshua rubbed the edge of his glass with his thumb, his gaze darkening slightly. “And you’re calling now,” he said, voice calm, even, “because…?”
“Because we’re stuck,” Seokmin admitted. “Four days of dead ends. And because you’re the only one I thought might actually listen.”
Minghao’s eyes flicked toward Joshua, reading the subtle shift behind the calm exterior. Jihoon nudged Joshua’s knee gently, a silent reminder that he wasn’t alone in processing this.
Joshua drew in a breath, voice level. “This isn’t a small ask, Seokmin.”
“I know,” came the quiet reply.
“And you know it’s complicated.”
“I know,” Seokmin said again.
“And you also know I’m not the easiest person to convince.”
A brief silence. Then a soft, humorless laugh. “Yeah,” Seokmin said. “Chan said the same thing about you.”
Jihoon let out a low hum, shaking his head. “Some things don’t change,” he muttered, glancing at Joshua.
Seokmin’s voice wavered slightly, barely perceptible, unless you’d known him since they were thirteen. “We’re not asking all thirteen of us. Just… the ten. Not the golden trio.”
Joshua’s jaw tightened. “Why exclude them?” His voice stayed level, but suspicion threaded through it.
“Because we don’t trust them,” Seokmin answered honestly. “Not with this. Not yet.”
Minghao leaned back, arms crossed, letting the weight of the words settle.
“We called Chan first,” Seokmin continued. “He’s talking to Junhui and Wonwoo. We wanted to reach you next.”
Joshua pressed a hand against his thigh to steady himself. The ten of them—fractures, unresolved guilt, old wounds—compressed into a single, fragile plan. And Seokmin, of all people, had called him.
He swallowed. “You really think this is something we should get involved in again?” His voice was low, wary, frayed at the edges.
From the speaker came a humorless, almost resigned laugh. “Joshua… we’re already involved.”
Joshua closed his eyes. The back room was silent except for the soft hum of the phone, the distant clink of glasses from the bar, and the weight of everything that had never really ended.
Finally, Joshua spoke again. “What exactly are you expecting from me, Seokmin?”
There was a shaky breath on the other end—barely audible, but unmistakably anxious. “Help us figure out what we’re actually dealing with,” Seokmin said. “Help us dig. Help us confirm if we’re just… being paranoid, or if we’ve stumbled into something bigger than we thought.”
Joshua’s eyes narrowed. “And if it is something big?”
A beat passed.
“Then…we deal with it together,” Seokmin replied, voice steady but carrying an edge of fear he didn’t bother hiding.
Joshua’s jaw tightened—just slightly, the smallest flicker of tension. Jihoon caught it. Minghao caught it. Neither dared interrupt.
“Before I agree to anything,” Joshua said, tone shifting into something sharper, more precise, “I want details. Everything you have. Tomorrow. In person.”
Relief washed through the speaker, unmistakable even through static. “Yeah—yeah, we can do that. Afternoon? Somewhere neutral?”
“Yes,” Joshua said. “I’ll text you the location of our meeting.”
“Okay,” Seokmin murmured. “And… Joshua?”
Joshua’s spine stiffened. People only softened their tone like that when they were about to step somewhere dangerous. “It’s just… been a while.”
Joshua shut down the warmth before it reached him. Shut down the memory, the nostalgia, the echo of the boy Seokmin used to be. “I know,” he said, his voice cool, contained. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The call ended with a soft click—quiet, final, leaving only the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the back room. Joshua lowered the phone slowly, the weight of the conversation still hanging on his fingers.
Minghao watched him with a look that was half concern, half disbelief. Jihoon leaned in, studying Joshua’s expression like he was trying to decode it.
“What?” Joshua said, a little sharper than he meant to.
Minghao folded his arms. “Why did you sound like you were interviewing a government official about embezzlement?”
Jihoon nodded. “You went full journalist mode. On Seokmin.”
Joshua exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his temple. “Because Seokmin wasn’t giving us everything. And because whatever they found… it isn’t small.” He picked up his phone, turning it once in his hand before setting it down again. “That’s why I asked to meet tomorrow.”
Jihoon frowned. “You don’t trust him?”
“It’s not about trust,” Joshua said evenly. “It’s about clarity. And I’m not discussing this over a phone call he clearly wasn’t alone for.”
Minghao let out a low hum, the pieces clicking into place. “So tomorrow’s when we figure out how bad this really is.”
“Exactly.”
The room settled into a heavy silence. None of them knew the full story yet, but the tension in Joshua’s shoulders, the way his eyes had sharpened—those were signs they recognized far too well.
When Hong Joshua shifted into that cold, precise version of himself—the journalist with instincts sharp enough to cut—one thing was certain: Something serious had started. And tomorrow, they would walk straight into it.