For the first time, the house didn't smell of anxiety, but of air—clean, as after a long sleep. The silence was strange, not empty, but rich: in it, he could hear breathing, the baby's quiet whimpers, the rustle of the curtain. Everything that used to seem mundane now sounded like a miracle.
Do-yun stood by the window, holding the baby. A sunbeam, cautiously breaking through the curtains, fell on the child's cheek. The skin was transparent, warm, as if light and life had gathered in one body. He didn't notice when he started to laugh. First quietly, then louder—as if he had allowed himself that sound for the first time.
Seungho came out of the kitchen, leaning against the door frame. He wore a simple domestic shirt, his hair slightly dishevelled. He stopped, not wanting to break the moment. He only watched—how Do-yun rocked the baby in his arms, and how the corners of his lips trembled with something new, unfamiliar.
— You're smiling, — Seungho said.
— Me? — Do-yun looked up. — I just... he smells of sun.
— You do too, — Seungho replied, moving closer.
He hugged them both. Do-yun's body was still fragile, almost transparent. He carried that very scent Yun remembered better than any word—the scent of life, milk, warmth, and a little bit of the weakness he didn't want to let go of. The baby stirred between them, and both laughed.
— I think he doesn't like it when I'm jealous, — Seungho said quietly.
— Of whom? — Do-yun smiled. — Of anyone who can be closer to you than me.
— Then you should get used to it, — he replied. — Now there are three of us.
They fell silent. There was no awkwardness in this silence—only a new, fragile reality they had to learn to live in.
In the living room, on the table—a laptop, folders, flash drives. Lawyers from the trusted group sat on the sofa, discussing the chain of evidence transfer in hushed tones.
— It's important that there are no leaks, — one said. — Everything must go through a secure line to the prosecutor's office. If someone from the city hall interferes again, the materials will be destroyed.
Seungho nodded. His face was collected and businesslike again, but his gaze occasionally returned to Do-yun. He was sitting on the sofa, pressing the baby to his chest. Tiny fingers touched his cheek—so small they looked drawn. A mug of already cold tea stood nearby. A swaddling blanket lay on his knees. This picture was etched in memory—too real, too domestic to be true after months of fire.
— Mr. Yun, — the lawyer reminded him. — We have prepared the statement for the prosecutor's office. The briefing is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.
— Good. Let Oh-hwa supervise the transfer. I don't want them to swap the drives.
He spoke calmly, but felt a strange heaviness inside. After every victory came a pause—short, like a breath before a new storm.
The words Urgent News lit up on the TV. No one turned up the volume, but everyone looked. On the screen—Park's face. A dim interrogation room background, his features drawn. His voice trembled.
— He's my brother. I couldn't... I couldn't stop him. Hwang always thought Seungho was a usurper, that he took everything that belonged to our family.
— Did you know about his plan?
— No. I just... closed my eyes.
The camera zoomed in. For a second, Park looked directly into the lens, and then looked away.
— He was sick. Always was.
Silence hung in the room. Even the baby stopped making sounds, as if sensing it. Do-yun was the first to breathe.
— Now everyone has heard, — he said quietly. — Everyone knows.
— Not everyone will believe, — Seungho replied. — But enough people saw the truth.
He walked over and turned off the TV. Reflected in the black screen—the three of them. And for the first time, Seungho felt neither fear nor exhaustion—only simple, calm acceptance.
Later, when the lawyers left, the house became especially quiet. The door to the nursery was ajar. Steady breathing could be heard from inside.
Seungho stood by the wall, watching Do-yun return from the bathroom—his hair damp, his shirt slightly slipped off his shoulder. The light from the corridor made his skin look golden. He walked closer, almost silently.
— Are you still thinking about Park's words? — he asked.
Do-yun didn't turn around.
— No. About his brother.
— Hwang?
— Yes. I just... I don't understand. How can someone hate so much to build an entire hell for revenge?
— It's possible, — Seungho said. — If you are empty inside.
He reached out, touching his shoulder. Do-yun flinched, but didn't pull away.
— I don't want you to be empty, — he whispered.
— I won't be. — Seungho pulled him close. — I have you. And him.
The kiss wasn't passionate—it was quiet, like a touch after a long illness. They didn't break the embrace, didn't hurry. It wasn't sex—it was a return to life, to breathing, to the body that had finally stopped being a battleground.
Seungho's fingers slid down his neck, lingering on his collarbone. Do-yun responded with a light, almost unconscious movement of his hip. The air between them grew denser, warmer. Everything happened simply: kisses, whispers, laughter, a light touch under the shirt, the smell of skin.
— Seungho, — Do-yun whispered softly, — you're alive.
— And you are, — he replied, pressing his forehead to his. — That's all that matters.
Later, they lay side by side, under the blanket. The baby was sleeping in the next room, and through the thin wall, a soft rustle could be heard—the sound of life that would now be with them forever.
On the table, the phone screen was blinking: a notification from the prosecutor's office. Briefing scheduled. 48 hours.
Seungho didn't open the message. He simply took Do-yun's hand, intertwining their fingers.
— In two days, it will all be over, — he said.
He fell asleep, not letting go of his hand.