The soft beeping of machines pulsed steadily in the hospital room, rhythmic and clinical — a cruel contrast to the chaos still echoing in Jihoon's chest.
He lay against crisp white sheets, shoulder freshly bandaged, his body aching with every breath. But it wasn't the pain that made his stomach twist.
It was the news playing on the small mounted TV across the room.
"Breaking: Former gang enforcer Lee Minjae arrested after violent altercation on outskirts of the city. Police confiscated weapons at the scene.."
"Sources report multiple gunshots fired. One civilian injured—now identified as Jihoon, university student...."
"Minjae was taken into custody without resistance. Investigation pending...."
The screen shifted to a blurry image — taken from afar — of Minjae being pushed into the back of a squad car, hands cuffed behind him, face bruised, his expression unreadable under the flashing lights.
Jihoon's throat closed.
His fingers gripped the blanket tight over his lap. He couldn't breathe. It felt like watching Minjae disappear in real time.
Beside him, their mother sat quietly, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
She said nothing at first.
Then softly, as if afraid the words would make it more real:
"…I thought we left all of this behind."
Jihoon turned to her slowly. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, haunted — not angry, but filled with a grief only a mother could carry.
"We were just having breakfast," she whispered, voice breaking. "He was smiling. You were both safe. And now…"
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.
Jihoon looked down. Shame and helplessness washed over him like a wave.
"I should've stopped him," he murmured. "I should've made him walk away."
His mother placed her hand over his, gently.
"No," she said softly. "He wouldn't have listened. Not if it meant leaving you behind."
The news droned on in the background, flashing more headlines about Minjae's record — the past he fought so hard to bury.
Jihoon turned back to the screen, his voice cracking.
"He's not that man anymore."
And quietly, with eyes full of hurt and love, his mother nodded.
"I know," she said.
But neither of them knew how to save him now.
Meanwhile at the station, The hum of a flickering fluorescent light above buzzed low and steady.
Minjae sat with his hands cuffed to the metal table in front of him, his body bruised, shirt stained with blood that had long dried. His knuckles were cracked, the skin on his jaw split just slightly, but he sat upright — unmoved, unreadable.
Across from him, a senior detective leaned forward with a file open, a tired expression on his weathered face. A steaming paper cup of vending machine coffee sat untouched between them.
"Let's go through this again, Mr. Choi," the officer said, voice professional but cautious. "You're saying this wasn't a turf fight?"
Minjae's eyes lifted slowly, meeting the detective's gaze with that same cold, quiet intensity that had once made his name feared in underground circles.
"No turf," Minjae said flatly. "No deal. No power move."
"Then why did it look like the frontlines of a gang war out there?" the officer pressed.
Minjae didn't blink.
"Because Kangwon made it look that way."
The detective frowned. He flipped a page, eyes skimming notes. "You're telling me this was personal?"
Minjae leaned back slightly, his cuffed hands barely moving.
"Haemin was unexpected," he admitted. "Kangwon's always been dangerous, but Haemin? He's a wild card now. Protected. Untouchable."
The detective's eyes sharpened. "You're referring to the Haemin. Son of Governor?"
Minjae gave a slow, bitter nod. "Yeah. That Haemin. He's the one you should be worried about."
The officer sighed, closing the file.
"You expect me to put out a warrant for a governor's son based on the word of a former gang enforcer?"
Minjae's jaw clenched, but his tone remained steady.
"No. I expect you to watch your back. Because the second he gets bored… he'll be coming for someone else."
There was a silence in the room then — thick and heavy. The officer studied Minjae for a long moment.
The detective let out a long, quiet sigh and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
"You did the right thing," he said finally, voice low. "You saved your stepbrother's life, Minjae."
Minjae said nothing.
He didn't need praise. He didn't need validation.
The weight of Jihoon's blood on his hands — even in protection — was enough.
The officer hesitated, then added, "Anyone with a conscience would've done the same."
He flipped through a few more pages in the file, his jaw tightening as the list of past charges appeared: assault, weapon possession, gang affiliations, juvenile incidents, sealed records that still left shadows behind.
"But," the officer said, more heavily now, "what you did today… even if it was to protect someone — it doesn't erase this."
He tapped the folder softly.
Minjae's gaze lowered to it, jaw still set, voice flat. "I know."
The officer continued, "You've got a record that stretches back a decade. Even if you claim you've changed — and even if Jihoon backs your story — the system isn't built to forget people like you."
Minjae let out a slow breath, then looked up.
"I'm not asking it to forget," he said quietly. "I just don't want it to punish him for who I used to be."
The detective watched him closely, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
"You think this Haemin will come for Jihoon again?"
Minjae nodded once. "He doesn't forgive, and he doesn't forget. And now he's angry. That makes him unpredictable."
The officer closed the file slowly.
"Then I'll keep a copy of this recording for the right people," he said. "And pray it's enough when this goes to court."
The officer stood from his chair, gathering the file and pen, his expression unreadable as he prepared to leave the interrogation room.
Minjae's voice stopped him at the door.
"…Can I see him?"
It was soft. Quiet. But the words carried the weight of everything Minjae hadn't said — of blood spilled, of nights held in silence, of every time Jihoon had pulled him back from the edge.
The officer paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. He didn't turn right away. When he finally did, his expression was gentle… but firm.
"I know you want to," he said. "I can see it's killing you not to."
Minjae looked down, jaw clenched, chains on his wrists rattling softly.
"But the truth is," the officer continued, "right now, it's too dangerous for Jihoon to be near you."
Minjae looked up slowly, confusion flashing in his tired eyes.
"I'd never hurt him."
"I know," the officer said. "But this isn't about you anymore. It's about the people around you. Kangwon. Haemin. You're a target — and so is he, just by being close to you."
Minjae's lips parted, words caught in his throat.
The officer's tone softened, just slightly.
"I've seen men like Kangwon. They don't care about law. They care about pride. And they don't stop. Not until something—or someone—is destroyed."
He stepped closer to the table, leaning just enough to meet Minjae's gaze.
"Keeping Jihoon away… might be the only way to protect him."
Minjae sat still.
The fire in his chest was burning low now, replaced by something heavier — like sinking in chains he'd willingly chosen.
"…Please," he whispered, barely audible. "Just tell him I'm okay."
The officer nodded after a long silence.
"I'll tell him."
Back at Kangwon's mansion, the sharp clink of crystal against marble echoed briefly before being followed by a violent crash.
The glass of whiskey flew across the lavish room, shattering against the heavy oak door.
The amber liquid streaked down like blood on the wood.
Haemin didn't flinch.
He stood by the wall, arms crossed, his expression perfectly still. Cold. Detached. Like the man who'd just tried to kill him wasn't the one throwing tantrums behind velvet curtains.
Kangwon paced across the room, chest heaving, blood still trickling from the cut near his brow — a souvenir from Minjae's fist. His white shirt was stained at the collar, jacket long abandoned on the floor.
"You bastard," he growled, voice rough with rage. "That wasn't the plan!"
Haemin lifted an eyebrow, as if bored. "Didn't seem like a plan at all to me. More like emotional theatre."
Kangwon turned on him, eyes blazing. "I told you—I just wanted to scare him. Remind him what he walked away from. Not get Jihoon killed. Not throw everything to hell."
"Oh, please," Haemin scoffed, finally stepping forward. "Don't act like you weren't waiting for a reason to see him bleed."
"I wasn't going to kill him!" Kangwon roared, slamming his fist into the armrest of his chair. "He's still—!"
He cut himself off.
Too late.
Haemin smirked.
"He's still what?" Haemin said coolly, stepping closer now. "Still your favorite? Still the ghost that keeps you awake?"
Kangwon's lips curled in a snarl, but his voice dropped dangerously low.
"I should've never brought you in on this."
"No, Kangwon," Haemin replied, circling him like a shark. "You should've never pretended this wasn't personal. You didn't want revenge. You wanted attention. From him."
He leaned in, whispering like a devil in the dark. "You just wanted Minjae to look at you the way he looks at Jihoon."
Kangwon's hand snapped out, grabbing Haemin by the collar and slamming him against the nearby wall. The chandelier above rattled slightly from the force.
Haemin still didn't flinch.
He laughed. "Go ahead. You'll still be just the man he left."
Kangwon's grip trembled but he let go.
Shoving Haemin back, he turned away, pacing again, wiping blood from his brow with the back of his wrist.
"I'm not done with him," Kangwon muttered, voice shaking now—not just from fury, but something deeper. "Not until he knows how it feels to be broken."
Haemin tilted his head, brushing dust from his collar.
"You already broke him once," he said simply. "Problem is... he rebuilt himself. Without you."
The room fell silent.
And in that silence, Kangwon's expression shifted—slowly, like a storm turning in on itself.