The hospital rooftop smelled of antiseptic, asphalt, and the wind that carried the scent of rain from the streets. Seungho sat, wrapped in a hospital blanket, holding his phone. The screen glowed faintly, making his face look almost alien in the light.
Do-jun sat beside him. He was in a grey hoodie, his hair dishevelled, shadows of sleeplessness beneath his eyes, but his gaze—clean and alive. He silently watched as Seungho listened to the recording.
Park's voice sounded muffled, distorted—as if from far away:
"You don't understand, brother. He will destroy everything. He's not one of us. We should... we should have been together against him."
Then—Hwan's voice, quieter, almost caressing:
"You are weak, brother. I will make a monster out of him—and save us."
Seungho turned off the sound. For a few seconds, he just sat, looking into the darkness where the city lights glittered below his feet. The wind rustled the edge of the blanket.
— That's all there is to it — he said quietly. — Their whole philosophy. Brotherhood through fear. Love through betrayal.
Do-jun leaned in, touching his hand. — But you are alive. That means—you are not a monster.
Seungho smiled, bitterly, but not distantly. — Sometimes I think they were right. That everything I touch crumbles.
— No — Do-jun interrupted. — Everything you touch survives. — He looked straight into his eyes. — I am right here.
The silence lingered, but it wasn't awkward. It was warm. As if the wind itself had muffled the pain.
⋆⋆⋆
They returned home at dawn. The room greeted them with semi-darkness and the smell of wet concrete from the street. Seungho sat on the bed; exhaustion was cutting through his body from within. Do-jun walked past, switched on the desk lamp—soft light fell on the sheets, on his face.
— Lie down — he said. — Stop trying to hold yourself together.
Seungho wanted to object, but couldn't. He simply lay down. Do-jun sat next to him, slipped off his shirt, ran his fingers over his skin—warm, living flesh beneath his touch. Every scar, every mark—like a map of roads travelled.
— Your hands are shaking — Do-jun whispered. — Not from pain. Just… letting go.
He touched his lips to his neck. Carefully at first, then longer. Seungho closed his eyes—not from desire, but from relief. For the first time in a long time, the world had stopped demanding strength from him.
Do-jun slid closer, his palm on his chest, his breathing hitched.
— Don't run away — he said quietly.
— I wasn't going to.
— Then stay. Just… stay.
Seungho turned, met his lips. The kiss was not fast or greedy—it stretched out like a breath in which both sought life. He stroked his hair, slid his fingers down his back, feeling the skin beneath his palms warm, feeling the tension dissolve into breath.
Everything happened slowly, as if time had stretched to a soft light pulse. Their movements were not passion, but a response: their bodies spoke the language of trust. Neither of them chased a climax—they needed to prove that they were alive, together, here.
When Seungho entered him—without haste, cautiously, almost reverently—Do-jun exhaled, not from pain, but from the feeling that everything had fallen into place. Their breaths merged, their rhythm—steady, like a pulse.
— You're alive — Do-jun whispered, as if incanting. — You're alive, do you hear?
— I hear you — Seungho replied, kissing his cheek. — I hear you. And so are you.
And everything else lost its meaning: words, fears, the past. All that remained was skin, breath, and the warmth that restored meaning to the word life.
⋆⋆⋆
When dawn broke, light streamed through the curtains. Do-jun slept, nestled into his chest. Seungho lay quietly, stroking his hair with one hand. He couldn't remember the last time he felt such calm.
The phone on the bedside table vibrated. The screen lit up. A new notification. A video uploaded overnight:
"Yun Seungho—A Man Without Conscience. The Truth About the Owner of the 'Nox' Club."
He played it. On the screen—edited footage: him, blood, flashes of fire, unfamiliar faces. Hwan's voiceover:
"Look at the monster hiding behind a mask of nobility."
But Seungho saw the edit. He saw the substituted scenes. This wasn't an accusation—it was the desperation of an enemy. He turned off the sound, put the phone away, and looked back at Do-jun.
He bent down and kissed his forehead. Outside, the city was waking up, slowly, as if it, too, was choosing—to live on, no matter what.