Snow clung to Matteo's lashes by the time he reached his apartment building.
It fell thick and quiet, the kind that swallowed sound and softened the city into something almost gentle. His boots crunched against the sidewalk as he fumbled for his keys, breath fogging in front of him.
Everything hurt in a dull, lingering way—his throat, his head, his chest. Anger still sat heavy beneath his ribs, but exhaustion was winning.
The lobby smelled faintly of old heat and laundry detergent. Familiar.
He climbed the stairs instead of taking the elevator, muscles moving on autopilot, and finally unlocked the door to his apartment.
It was small. One-bedroom, cramped kitchen, mismatched furniture he'd collected over the years. But it was warm. The radiator clicked softly in the corner, and the lights cast a yellow glow over everything. A blanket was draped over the back of the couch. A half-finished sketch lay forgotten on the coffee table. His jacket hung where he'd left it days ago.
Matteo shut the door behind him and leaned his forehead against it for a second longer than necessary.
Home.
He kicked off his boots, shrugged out of the coat, and let it fall wherever it landed. The silence pressed in—not uncomfortable, just real. He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.
Then it hit him.
The tattoo parlour.
His stomach dropped.
The memory came rushing back too fast—bright lights, the sudden sting, his body locking up. The way his phone had slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. His hyung's name flashing on the screen, mid-call.
"Shit," Matteo muttered.
He didn't even stop to think. He yanked the coat back on, shoved his feet into his boots, and was back out in the snow within seconds.
The ride there felt unreal, the streets blurred by snowfall and adrenaline. When he reached the shop, his chest tightened.
The door was wide open.
Just like it had been left.
Matteo pushed inside slowly.
Cold air bit at his skin. The place felt wrong—emptier somehow. His eyes went straight to the counter.
The cash register was gone.
"Fuck," he whispered.
Someone had taken it. Of course they had. An open door in the middle of the night, no one around—easy money.
His gaze dropped to the floor behind the counter.
There.
His phone.
The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks, the display completely dark. He crouched and picked it up, thumb pressing the power button over and over.
Nothing.
"Great," he muttered bitterly.
He straightened, forcing himself to breathe, then walked to the door and locked it properly this time. The click echoed louder than it should have.
After that, everything moved quickly and slowly all at once.
A cab. Bright lights. A repair shop that smelled like plastic and solder. He handed over the phone, answered questions on autopilot, and sat down while they worked.
Snow drifted past the window outside. People came and went. Matteo barely noticed.
His thoughts were elsewhere—maps, files, Aleksander's calm smile. The way he'd laughed. The way none of it had been a joke.
What had he stumbled into?
When his name was finally called, Matteo blinked like he'd been pulled from underwater. He stood, paid, and accepted the phone with numb fingers.
The screen lit up.
His breath caught.
Missed calls filled the display. Dozens of them. More than he could count at a glance.
Texts followed. Message after message.
Gunwoo (Hyung):
Where are you?
Answer me.
I'm worried.
Please.
Matteo's eyes widened, throat tightening as his hyung's name repeated over and over on the screen.
The snow kept falling outside as the sky began to darken.