The white walls seemed warmer than during the day, and only the faint hum of the monitor reminded them where they were. The baby slept, tucked into a swaddling blanket, its breathing even and quiet. Do-jun sat on the bed, hugging his knees, his gaze stubbornly fixed on the window, beyond which the city shone—alive, cold, impassive.
— If you speak tomorrow, — he began, without turning around, — they will strike again.
Yun stood by the windowsill, his back to him.
— They will strike anyway, — he replied calmly. — The only difference is who they hit first.
Do-jun looked up. There was no reproach in his voice, but anxiety hid in every pause.
— You are hurt, Yun. You have a family. Why do you need to go in front of the cameras?
— Because if I stay silent—I have already lost.
He turned; there was neither anger nor doubt in his face—only weariness, refined by determination.
— They made a monster out of me. But if I don't tell the truth, I will remain a monster to everyone. Even to him, — he nodded toward the baby's crib.
Do-jun pressed his lips together, quietly lowering his eyes.
— I'm just afraid.
Yun walked closer, sat beside him.
— Me too.
— Then why are you not scared?
— Because I have already lost everything I could. And everything that remains—cannot be protected by silence.
He touched his cheek, his fingers warm, slightly trembling.
— You don't have to be brave. Just trust me.
— What if they try again? — Do-jun's voice became quieter, almost a whisper.
— What if everything repeats itself?
— Then I won't give them a chance.
Silence hung between them. Only their breathing, mingled, heavy. Yun took his hand. Their fingers intertwined, skin to skin, as if an oath was sealed in it.
— Promise me, — Do-jun said.
— What?
— That you won't make a victim out of yourself. Neither for them, nor for me.
Yun smiled, a little tiredly, but sincerely.
— And you promise that you won't hide me behind the child.
— It's a deal.
He leaned closer, touching his lips to his temple. The kiss was short, but it held everything—fear, loyalty, a plea not to disappear. And in response—the same slight movement, almost a vow.
— We will reach the end, — Yun whispered.
— Together, — Do-jun replied.
⋆⋆⋆
Later, when the room was plunged into semi-darkness, Yun stepped out into the corridor. The phone trembled in his hand—a notification. Sender: Hwan.
The message was short:
«Let the court decide everything. I will not attend, but my evidence is already there.»
Yun stared at the screen for a long time. The light of the city was reflected in his eyes—cold, steel. He understood that Hwan wasn't hiding. He was playing a game. And tomorrow, this city would decide who remained a human, and who—a shadow.
He returned to the room. Do-jun was sleeping, the baby softly breathing nearby. Yun stood over them, looking at the two beings for whom he now breathed. Then he leaned down, barely touching his lips to Do-jun's forehead, and whispered:
— Tomorrow everything will end. Or begin anew.