The small restaurant on the corner smelled of broth and fried peppers. It had narrow tables, plastic chairs, and old, faded posters on the walls. Steam rose from the pots, the clatter of bowls blended with the quiet laughter of students who had stopped by for a quick meal after classes.
Seung-ho, in his expensive coat and impeccably pressed shirt, looked as though he had been accidentally teleported from another planet. A few students glanced at him furtively: it wasn't every day you saw a man like that in a place where the main dish cost less than ten thousand won.
Do-yun barely suppressed a smile. He couldn't imagine Seung-ho at a simple table with a bowl of ramen.
"I never would have thought you'd bring me here," he remarked once they were settled.
Seung-ho lazily surveyed the room. "Sometimes the best things are hidden in simplicity. Or do you think I only eat at expensive restaurants?"
"Don't you?" Do-yun couldn't help the irony.
"You have a very narrow imagination," Seung-ho smirked slightly.
The waitress brought their order: ramen, tteokbokki, a bottle of soju. The table became crowded with bowls. The warmth of the steam touched their faces, and Do-yun suddenly felt that after the night at the warehouse and this strange "truce," having dinner in a cheap restaurant felt like a challenge—and at the same time, a strange, almost intimate respite.
Seung-ho poured the soju and offered him a glass. "What shall we drink to?"
Do-yun took it, not answering right away. "To me continuing to 'play the waiter'?"
"A good toast." Seung-ho raised his glass slightly and took a sip. "You'll continue working at the club. If you disappear, people will become suspicious."
Do-yun lowered his head. "So, you need me… as part of the scenery?"
Seung-ho put down his glass and narrowed his eyes. "Don't underestimate your role. You're far more interesting than just scenery."
Do-yun felt everything inside him tighten. Those words were too ambiguous—somewhere between a threat and something else.
They ate in silence for a while. The noise around them—the students' laughter, the clatter of chopsticks against bowls, the hot broth—created a sense of a different life, a simple and alien one. Seung-ho sat relaxed, but his presence still stood out—his straight posture, the expensive watch on his wrist, a slight smirk as if he were watching a play in which he alone was the lead actor.
Do-yun caught himself thinking: this man knows how to look like a stranger anywhere, but he never loses control.
Late at night, he returned home. The rain had almost stopped, only a few drops still running down the roof. The apartment was quiet.
Do-yun turned on the light, put his bag on a chair, and walked into the kitchen. He poured water into the kettle but didn't turn it on. He just sat, staring at the empty table.
"Why am I doing all of this?"
The thought flashed so suddenly that he froze.
He remembered the police station corridors, the cold walls, the smell of cheap coffee. He remembered the folders with photographs—the face of a woman who had asked him for help and whom he had failed to protect. He remembered the empty apartment of a man who had vanished without a trace. Too many cases had been closed too quickly, too easily, as if someone were wiping away the evidence.
He clenched his fists. Everything he was doing now was a continuation of those failures. It was his way of proving to himself that the truth existed. That just once, he could hold on to it.
His phone vibrated.
An unknown number. One short message.
Don't interfere.
Two simple lines. But they held more terror than a gunshot.
Do-yun reread them again and again. His fingers trembled slightly. He knew only one thing: the enemy could see him. They knew where he lived. They knew what he was doing.
And that meant there was no turning back.