The rain poured relentlessly. Car headlights sliced through the darkness in white streaks, reflecting in the wet asphalt. The city hummed, but for them, the world had shrunk to a narrow strip of road and footsteps that sounded too loud in the silence between words. Seungho walked behind him.
— Do-yoon.
The other man didn't turn around. His shirt was stuck to his back, his hair was soaked, and water ran down his face.
— Stop.
Do-yoon only slowed his pace enough to turn. The lamplight caught his face: cold, closed off. The face of a detective, not a waiter.
— You wanted to know why I'm here? - he said quietly. - Because someone has to do it.
— You're playing with fire, - Seungho stepped closer, his voice growing harsher. - You think you can break the system alone?
— I never planned to be alone. - Do-yoon clenched his fists. - But I won't let you stand in my way.
For a second, their eyes met. Everything was in that glance: the nights they shared, the touches, the rare moments of warmth. And the wall that had grown between them.
— So that's how it is, - Seungho spoke, a hint of weariness in his voice. - You choose your case over us.
— Us? - Do-yoon gave a bitter laugh. - You yourself said it's always dangerous near you. Maybe this is for the best.
Seungho was silent. He wanted to say: I was only trying to protect you. But the words got stuck. Do-yoon turned away and walked forward. His steps were even, but each one felt like a hammer blow.
— Detective Park, - Seungho called after him. - If you continue — there will be no turning back.
Do-yoon stopped for just a second. Rain streamed down his face, and he didn't raise his head.
— I don't intend to return.
He walked on, dissolving into the wet night. Seungho remained where he was, standing in the rain, his hands clenched into fists. Cars rushed past, their lights cutting through the space, but he stood motionless. And for the first time in a long time, he felt not power, but emptiness.
***
The club pulsed with bass, reflecting the neon in the puddles. But for Do-yoon, it was all background noise. He stepped outside through the staff door and lit a cigarette. The cigarette burned in his fingers, the smoke mixing with the smell of rain. Taxis drove past in the distance, drops drummed on the trash cans and the tops of air conditioners. The cold pierced him, but it was better than the silence within him. He inhaled deeper than usual, and only then tossed the butt into a puddle. The red dot was extinguished, spreading across the water, like a small reflection of his own heart. Taking one last deep breath of the wet air, he returned inside — through the back entrance. The corridor met him with familiar silence and the smell of cigarettes, spilled alcohol, and cheap deodorant. In the locker room, he silently peeled off his wet clothes, threw them onto the bench, and took his uniform from the locker. White shirt, black trousers, vest. Everything as always. The fabric was dry, cool. He buttoned the shirt and looked at his reflection in the dim mirror. His face was devoid of emotion. His gaze was hard. This was not a waiter. This was a detective, hiding beneath a uniform. He took a deep breath, adjusted his vest, and walked into the corridor. The music struck his temples again. The neon outside cast crimson and blue reflections on the walls. And ahead of him waited a night that promised answers.