Seoul had always been loud, relentless, alive. Cars still rushed along the Han River, neon signs blinked their familiar promises, and the voices of street vendors carried into the cold night. But to Lin, none of it felt real.
He sat on the narrow hospital bed, the white sheets pulled up to his waist. The air smelled of antiseptic and fresh paint, but every breath seemed to echo, as though the walls themselves carried whispers. His reflection in the polished metal railing looked pale, sickly, too thin. He stared at himself, but the eyes in the reflection didn't blink when he did.
"Lin."
The voice grounded him. Min-joon stood at his side, one hand on the railing, the other holding Lin's wrist like an anchor. His grip was firm, almost desperate. He hadn't left since they pulled Lin back into the world. His dark eyes were bloodshot, sleepless, but unshaken.
"You're here. You're safe. Listen to me—you're safe now."
