The evening stretched out as a long neon ribbon outside the window—red signs flickered, blue ones reflected in the glass; the city lived its life as if nothing had happened. But in this apartment, on the seventh floor overlooking the intersection, the air was different—too dense, as if filled with expectation.
Seungho stood by the window, looking down. The guards had already changed to the night shift. On the corner of the street—a black sedan with tinted windows.
— Three men down below, — he said briefly into the radio. — No unnecessary movements. Check the shift every two hours.
The reply was short, dry, and professional. He lowered the device, ran a hand over his face, and for the first time that day allowed himself to exhale. His back muscles ached—not from wounds, not from fatigue, but from the constant tension that hadn't eased since that photo arrived. "Heroes in the Crosshairs." Five words, and everything was on the edge again.
— Are you thinking again about how to hide us? — a quiet voice came from the kitchen.
Do-yun stood by the stove, holding a cup. In the lamplight, he seemed slightly transparent, but his gaze was steady. He wore a simple gray t-shirt, sleeves rolled up; a strand of hair had escaped at his temple from haste.
— Not "us," — Seungho replied. — You. And him.
— That's the same thing, — Do-yun said. — If you're not here, it doesn't matter.
He walked closer, placing the cup in front of him.
— Drink. It's not tea, just something hot.
Seungho took the cup, looking at him.
— You shouldn't stand by the window, — he said softly. — Let the security do their job.
— Let them, — Do-yun shrugged. — And I will live.
He sat on the countertop, legs dangling. The city was reflected outside the window—lights, streams of cars, glares of headlights.
— I don't want our home to become a cage, — he continued. — I'm tired of whispering. I want everything to be... simple. For them to see: we are alive.
Seungho slowly set down the cup.
— What if they strike again?
— Then let them know they couldn't kill us.
He looked straight ahead, without hesitation.
— Let them see. We are living.
These words sounded simple, without heroism. But it was that very simplicity that made Seungho's throat tighten. Everything he was protecting, everything he had fought the network for—was standing right in front of him, barefoot on the cold tile, and speaking with such certainty as if it had never known fear.
He suddenly laughed. Genuinely. Not briefly, not nervously, but deeply, as if exhaling several months at once.
— What? — Do-yun raised his eyebrows in surprise.
— Nothing, — Seungho shook his head. — Just... funny. You've become stronger than me.
— No, — Do-yun smirked. — I just know why I'm standing now.
He jumped off the counter and walked closer.
— Seungho, — he said almost in a whisper, — you shouldn't be constantly in armor. It will crack if you don't take it off in time.
He placed his palm on his chest—where his heart was beating, stubbornly and evenly.
— Take it off, — he whispered.
Seungho closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped. The silence between them became thick, warm.
Do-yun touched his neck with his lips.
— There, — he said. — Like that. Just breathe.
They didn't move quickly. Everything happened in the semi-darkness of the kitchen, under the soft hum of the city outside the window. Do-yun hugged him from behind, burying his forehead in his shoulder blade. Seungho took his hand, intertwining their fingers. This wasn't passion. It was a touch that brings back breath, that makes the night safe. A quiet, warm comfort, without unnecessary words.
When everything quieted down, they remained standing like that—shoulder to shoulder, while the neon light fell on the tile, drawing long red lines on the floor.
— See? — Do-yun said softly. — We're living.
— Yes, — Seungho replied. — And we're not hiding anymore.
He leaned in, touched his temple. The world outside the window was buzzing, but here, in their kitchen, everything was still. As if this very silence was what kept the city from falling apart.
Later, when they lay down, the phone vibrated. Seungho reached out, looked at the screen. A message from the investigator: The Prosecutor's Office requests your presence at the briefing. Tomorrow by noon. It is important.
He looked at Do-yun—he was already asleep; the baby next to him was softly breathing. Seungho put the phone aside and lay back down. The city buzzed outside the window. Not an enemy. Not background noise. Just life—finally returned.
And for the first time in long months, he didn't feel like he was in the shadows. He was in the light. And that light came from within.