After the office, the club seemed even louder. The music below beat against the walls, but the upper corridors were silent. Do-yun held the folder of papers tightly under his arm. Director Jeong's signature burned in his consciousness, as if a piece of truth, dangerous to show, was carved into the pages.
Seung-ho walked beside him, his gaze overly attentive, but silent. Only as they reached the exit did he speak:
"We have a stakeout tomorrow evening. I want you to come with me."
The words sounded like both an order and a challenge.
***
Night swallowed the industrial district. Abandoned warehouses stood in rows, their empty windows dark. The wind whistled through the gaps, rusty beams groaned, and water dripped from the roof—every sound echoed, as if someone was breathing right next to them.
Do-yun led the way, his flashlight beam slicing the darkness, picking out piles of crates, pieces of tarpaulin, and iron beams. The smell of dampness and metal was so thick it felt like you could touch it.
"It's too quiet here," he whispered, peering tensely into the gloom.
"Suspiciously quiet," Seung-ho replied, just over his shoulder.
And at that very moment, the gates slammed shut with a crash. The metal struck so hard that the floor trembled. The echo rolled through the empty hangar, as if a giant had closed a cage.
Do-yun spun around abruptly.
"That's suspicious," he said, but his voice came out a bit deeper than he intended.
A shadow flickered through the beams. A rustle to the right, footsteps to the left. Someone was inside, more than one person. A foreign flashlight beam slashed across the floor and vanished.
Seung-ho swiftly pulled him close, shielding him with his shoulder. His chest became a wall, his breath a warm shield near Do-yun's ear.
"Stay close."
They moved along a row of crates. Do-yun's beam slid across the floor—and suddenly snagged on the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from beneath one of the boxes. He crouched down and pulled it out. The sheet was crumpled, the edges damp, the letters blurred by drops, but part of the text survived.
"You search where it is too dark. But the light is always nearby. The next door will open itself."
Do-yun froze. The paper trembled in his fingers, as if it were not a sheet, but a living warning.
"What is it?" Seung-ho leaned in, looking over his shoulder.
"A mockery," Do-yun said softly. "Or a challenge."
Seung-ho smirked briefly, without humor.
"So they knew we would come here."
And in the same second, a sharp crack cut the air. A shot.
The bullet slammed into the crate nearby; splinters flew. A second one whizzed past and grazed Do-yun's arm, searing his skin with fire. He cried out, instinctively dropping the flashlight, which rolled across the floor, bouncing its beam off the rusty beams.
"Shit!" Seung-ho yanked him behind cover, clutching his shoulder. Do-yun's arm was burning, blood seeping through the fabric of his sleeve, the crimson stain spreading wider.
The shots struck the warehouse two more times. Then silence. The footsteps receded, dissolving into the darkness. They weren't even trying to finish the job. This wasn't an attack—it was a signal.
Seung-ho pressed him closer, looking into his eyes.
"Are you okay?"
"Superficial…" Do-yun ground out. "Just a scratch."
"A scratch doesn't bleed like that," Seung-ho growled. His voice was heavy, angry—but the anger wasn't directed at Do-yun, but at those who had shot them.
He grabbed his wrist, pulling him toward the exit. The metal beneath their feet groaned, the drops fell louder. The entire warehouse suddenly felt utterly alien—like a stage set up specifically for them.
They burst outside. The night hit them with humid air; the rain drizzled, mixing with the scent of blood.
Seung-ho almost forcibly settled him into the passenger seat, leaned in, slammed the door so the metal rang, and walked around the car.
"Forget the hospital," his voice was sharp, almost a snarl.
Do-yun chuckled hoarsely, pressing his palm to the wound. "So you have a better solution? Or do you just want to bury me in silence?"
The driver's side door slammed shut, the engine roared to life.
"Better." Seung-ho shot him a quick glance, his eyes flashing. "I'll fix you up myself. At home."
"At home," Do-yun repeated with irony, but he no longer had the strength to argue. Pain and exhaustion crushed every word; the irony faded to a whisper.
The lights of Seoul blurred outside the window, the rain streamed down the glass, turning the city into a shivering watercolor.