The apartment greeted him with silence. Do-yun closed the door, leaned against it, and for the first time all day, allowed himself to close his eyes. The hum of the bass still lived in his temples, and the smell of smoke and alcohol seemed to have seeped into his skin. He turned on the desk lamp—its soft yellow light spilled across the room, leaving the corners in shadow.
It was always quiet here. Too quiet. Sometimes he caught himself thinking that this silence resembled an emptiness where even his breathing sounded like noise.
He took off his vest, unbuttoned his collar, and walked into the kitchen. There was water in the kettle, but he didn't turn it on. He sat at the table and stared at the empty surface.
His heart was still beating irregularly in his chest. He remembered the corridor behind the bar, Seung-ho's gaze, the alpha's fingers on his wrist. And he hated himself for trembling not just from anger.
He stood up to drown out the thoughts and walked toward the door. Reflexively, he looked down—and froze.
A piece of paper, folded in half, lay beneath the door.
A chill ran down his spine. He hadn't heard footsteps, hadn't noticed a shadow under the door. But the note was here, as if it had been waiting specifically for him.
He picked it up, slowly unfolded it. Inside were only a few lines.
An address.
A direction to a warehouse in an industrial area, far from the center.
Nothing else. No signature, no explanation.
Do-yun squeezed the paper so hard it crumpled in his fist.
Thoughts hammered him, one after another. Who left this? Why? Is it a trap or a key? A coincidence or a new move in the game that had already consumed him?
He sat back down at the table, smoothed out the note, and ran his fingers over the letters. The handwriting was neat, alien, as if deliberately impersonalized.
A coldness spread in his chest. But along with it—a heat. An instinct he couldn't suppress.
"This is a chance."
He remembered the folder at the other warehouse, which had fallen into his hands too "accidentally." He remembered Seung-ho's words: "Enemies sit at the same table as us."
Perhaps the address was a continuation of the same chain. Perhaps there he would find what he had been looking for.
But should he tell Seung-ho?
He closed his eyes. The alpha's silhouette appeared before him—his voice, his hands, his ability to see beyond the mask. And a wave of resistance rose inside him.
No. He couldn't share this.
If it was a trap, he would take the blow himself. If it was evidence, only he would decide how to use it.
He folded the paper and tucked it into the inner pocket of his shirt. The room became quiet again, only the lamp casting a dull circle of light on the table.
But this silence was different now. It held a stranger's hand, a stranger's trace, a stranger's game.
Do-yun got up, turned off the light, and went to the window. The noise of cars drifted up from the street, and the rare headlights cut through the darkness. He looked down, and it felt as though someone invisible was waiting around every corner.
For the first time in a long time, he felt: his apartment no longer belonged only to him.