Only one light was on in the kitchen — warm, subdued, with a yellow tint that resembled a breath.
Do-yun sat by the window, elbows resting on the sill. Outside, sparse cars left long streaks of headlights on the wet asphalt. Everything was still — even the clock's ticking seemed muffled.
He reached for his phone — the screen flashed with a notification.
A message from the investigator: "Testimony confirmed. Source — from the Park family."
Seungho stared at the words for a long time, then turned off the screen.
— They finished the interrogation, — he said. — It turns out Hwang really was… part of their family.
Do-yun looked up.
— What do you mean "part of their family"?
Seungho ran his palm over his face, as if trying to wipe away the exhaustion.
— Hwang is Director Park's half-brother. Their father was an Alpha — influential, harsh. But before his marriage… he had a liaison with an Omega. A prostitute. She became pregnant, and he paid to have the child taken away.
— Hwang? — Do-yun clarified.
— Yes. The boy was raised in an orphanage. His mother died of an overdose when he was nine. And then — he learned the truth. Who his father was. And who his brother was.
Seungho lowered his gaze.
— Imagine: one grows up in wealth, in luxury, becomes a director; and the other — in filth and pain. Park wanted to forget; the father — to atone with money; but Hwang… he simply began to hate everyone who was "clean."
He paused, his fingers tapping mechanically on his cup.
— He believed all Alphas were the same. That a society where Omegas are subordinate is corrupt. And he decided to prove it. First kidnappings, then drugs, then an Omega prostitution ring. He wanted to force everyone to see how "dirty" the order itself was.
Do-yun quietly exhaled.
— But he only repeated everything he hated.
Seungho nodded.
— He became a mirror of the same system. Out of hatred alone. Not for change.
The rain outside intensified; drops splattered on the glass.
Do-yun moved closer, sat beside him, and touched his shoulder.
— So, he wasn't just taking revenge?
— No. He wanted to destroy everything that had once cast him out of this world. Even if it meant destroying us.
He smiled, but there was no anger or pride in the smile — only quiet weariness.
— Park kept silent because he was ashamed. And Hwang screamed because he wanted that shame to be heard by everyone.
They fell silent. The sound of the rain filled the space between their words. The city outside the windows seemed foreign — but for the first time, not hostile. Just tired.
Do-yun gently placed his palm on Seungho's arm.
— And you? What do you feel?
Seungho looked at him — there was so much silence in that gaze that words became unnecessary.
— That all this cost a life. And, perhaps, it's not about victory. Just about the end.
Do-yun leaned in and kissed him — softly, like on the first day after a storm. The kiss was not passion, but an exhale.
They breathed in unison while the rain tapped on the windowsill, and in that music, there was something alive — as if the city itself was trying to say: enough.
— I think, — Do-yun said softly when they drew apart, — we are no longer living out of spite.
Seungho smiled.
— But simply.
Do-yun nodded.
— Simply.
He laid his head on his shoulder. The warm silence between them was like a promise: no need to be strong anymore. Just being was enough.
A short signal sounded from the hallway — a message. Seungho took out his phone.
Words from the investigator flashed on the screen: "The network has collapsed. But the stench will linger for a long time."
He read it aloud.
Do-yun smirked.
— Let it stink. We'll survive.
He got up, walked to the window, and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. The rain streamed down his reflection, blurring his features — as if taking all the old things, leaving only the light.
Seungho came up behind him, hugged him, burying his nose in his hair.
— We don't have to be perfect, — he whispered. — Just being is enough.
Do-yun nodded, without turning around.