The rain continued as if it would never end. Droplets ran down the sedan's windows, smudging the lights of the streets and signs, turning the city into a trembling watercolor.
Do-yun sat, slightly turned to the window. His breath reflected as a foggy patch, and he wiped it away with his palm again and again. Seung-ho was silent. Only his fingers tapped on the steering wheel—not to the beat of music, for there was none, but to a rhythm of his own.
They entered an industrial area. Abandoned hangars, blank walls, lonely streetlights whose glow concealed more than it revealed. When the car stopped, they were met by silence. The warehouse gates were ajar, rain running down the rusty hinges as if it wanted to wash away the traces of other hands.
Inside, it smelled of damp dust and metal. Boxes were pushed aside, lids were ripped off, and papers were scattered on the floor, as if someone had been looking for something specific and hadn't had time to clean up.
Do-yun bent down and picked up a few sheets. Invoices, numbers, signatures. Ordinary trash. But among them was a folder that shouldn't have been there. He froze.
On the cover—a familiar logo. Too familiar. It was the company from a case he had worked on several years ago. A case that had been closed abruptly. Too neatly, too conveniently.
He held his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Seung-ho watching him.
"Something interesting?" The voice was almost lazy.
Do-yun flipped the folder over, trying to hide his tension. "Old documents."
"Hmm," Seung-ho raised an eyebrow. "You're good at keeping a straight face. But your eyes…" he smirked slightly. "They give away so much more."
Do-yun wanted to say a dry "you're mistaken," but the words wouldn't come out. He was filled with a chilling guess: this was no accident. Someone had left this here for him. As bait.
And if that were true, it meant someone knew they would be here, on this very night.
A shiver ran through him, a tremor that even the rain couldn't hide.
"A coincidence?" Seung-ho said quietly, as if to himself. "Unlikely."
He took a step closer, and his shadow fell across Do-yun's face. "In these matters, there are no coincidences."
Do-yun gripped the folder more tightly than he intended.
"So then…" He swallowed the word. Didn't finish.
Seung-ho tilted his head, watching him. "Someone is playing dirty. Too close. Too informed."
The phrase sounded light, but it carried a great weight. As if he were hinting at more than he was saying.
Do-yun looked up. "You think it's your people?"
"I think," he smiled faintly, "that sometimes enemies sit at the same table as us. And drink from the same glasses."
He said it almost playfully, but there was not a hint of a smile in his eyes.
Do-yun understood: he was right. Someone knew everything. Their routes, their conversations, even his past cases. And for the first time, the thought pierced him with perfect clarity—the enemy was on the inside.
He pressed the folder to his chest as if it could provide an answer. But the folder was just a shadow of the past.
Seung-ho stepped back, turning to the window where rain streaked down the warehouse glass.
"It's funny," he said quietly. "I came to test you, and now I'm the one with questions."
He turned around, and a look Do-yun had never seen before flashed in his eyes—not a threat, but interest.
"It seems we're both looking for the same thing."
Do-yun froze. The words were ambiguous. "The same thing"—what? The truth? An enemy? Or an opportunity to use each other?
"Don't rush to answer," Seung-ho added, noticing his look. "Time will put everything in its place. For now…" he smirked, but more gently than before. "Let's consider this a temporary truce."
Do-yun wanted to object. To say that a truce with a man like this was a mistake. But the words were stuck. He suddenly understood that resistance was pointless: they were already bound by someone else's game.
He gave a barely perceptible nod. "Temporary."
Seung-ho inclined his head in approval. "Smart."
The silence returned, but now it was different. Not deafening and hostile, but tense, like a string ready to snap.
They walked out together. The rain came down on them, but it didn't wash away the feeling: from this moment on, they were no longer simply enemies. And not allies.
They were forced partners in someone else's game.