The club smelled of smoke. The scent was ingrained in the walls, the furniture, the clothes of the people who stood, hesitant to speak. The light was dim—the lamps in the hall flickered unevenly, one of them blinking like a broken pulse. Everything here seemed familiar and alien at the same time.
Seungho stood at the entrance, in a dark jacket buttoned up to his throat. The scar near his temple was barely visible, but his gaze—cold, weary—spoke louder than any marks. He took a step, and the chatter died down.
For the first time in a long time, he appeared here without security. Without shadows, without secrecy. He simply walked in—like a man who had stopped being afraid.
Do-jun walked behind him. He wore a simple shirt and an overcoat, slightly too big at the shoulders. He looked pale, but confident—his walk had a composure that couldn't be bought with power or money.
As they walked through the hall, one of the staff dropped a tray, glass clinked on the floor—and everyone turned. Someone whispered:
— That's him… the one Yun carried out of the fire…
— They say he was in hiding…
— And now… just like that, together…
Yun heard it but didn't stop. He walked up to the bar counter, nodded at the bartender—who just swallowed and lowered his eyes. Do-jun stood nearby, slightly behind.
— Gather everyone — Yun said quietly. — Let them know.
A few minutes later, almost everyone was in the hall—managers, staff, security. Some exchanged glances, some tried to hide behind a column, but curiosity was stronger.
Yun placed his palm on the bar counter, and that sound—dull, confident—cut through the whispers.
— Many of you have heard that I am a monster — he said. His voice was even, not loud, but it commanded attention. — That I burned warehouses, framed people, used those who trusted me. That this club is a cover.
A pause.
— Perhaps you even saw the video.
Several people lowered their gaze. Yun continued:
— There is no truth in it. Only fear. And an edit that cost lives.
He turned to Do-jun.
— But if anyone still doubts it… here is my answer.
He stepped closer and kissed him—simply, calmly, but firmly. Not for show, not for scandal. The kiss was not a challenge—it was a shield. As if to say: he is under my skin. No one has the right to touch him anymore.
The hall fell silent, as if in a vacuum. Even the air conditioner stopped humming. Someone coughed, someone looked away, and someone—for the first time in a long time—smiled with relief.
Yun pulled back, but didn't release his hand.
— This is my partner. — Simple words, spoken evenly, without hesitation. — If anyone decides that this is a weakness—let them try to test it.
No one dared.
Behind, in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar, a shadow flashed—a person with a phone, filming. Yun noticed. Their eyes met in the mirror. The shadow backed away, but it was too late—a brief glance, the short memory of a lens.
Do-jun quietly said, without turning:
— Let them film. It's too late to hide anyway.
— I know — Yun replied. — Let them see the truth.
Later, in the office, when the hall was empty, he sat at the desk, listening to water dripping from the air conditioner somewhere. In his hands—a tablet, an open news feed. The clip with the accusations had already garnered millions of views.
But a note, posted by an investigator from the prosecutor's office, flashed below:
"Video analysis shows time scale discrepancy. Different background. Cameras used in the 'evidence' were not operational at the claimed time. For details—please contact Yun Seungho personally."
Yun looked at the screen for a long time, without blinking. Then he smiled—not triumphantly, but calmly, like a man who, for the first time in a long while, saw a crack in the enemy's wall.
He looked up—Do-jun stood by the door, tired, but with the same expression of confidence he had this morning.
— What is it? — he asked.
— Possibly… a chance.
Do-jun walked closer.
— Then don't lose it. But not alone.
Yun took his hand.
— Never alone, now.
They stood there, amidst the smell of dust, tobacco, and extinguished light.