Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jisung lay still, blinking up at the low ceiling above him as the static cracked through the tiny speaker. The recording kicked in a few seconds later—too loud, always too loud. He knew every word before it came.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

The voice was distorted like it had been fed through a machine a hundred times, smoothed out into something genderless, ageless, emotionless. It didn’t even sound human anymore. It was robotic and layered, meant to confuse him, to disorient him.

Are you scared, pet? I know you are. I want you to be. If you're scared, you're pleasing me. And that's why you're here.

He closed his eyes. The cold of the basement floor had seeped into his spine during the night. Or maybe it had been two nights. Or twenty. Or a hundred years. Time didn’t work here. Not underground. Not where the only measure of daybreak was this—this cursed tape, this lie that wrapped around his ears like wire.

Jisung mouthed it along with the tape, too numb to stop himself, "You're a body. A toy. A pet. You're mine to use, abuse and discard. You are at my mercy. I own you and you will respect me.”

He blinked into the darkness. The heavy collar around his neck chafed raw against his skin. The leash tugged gently when he shifted — a constant reminder that he belonged to someone else. That he existed to obey. His stomach cramped with hunger, but he ignored it. Hunger was a familiar ache. It meant he was still doing something right. Still here.

Good pets speak when spoken to. Good pets never fuss. They never scream. They never cry. You'll be good for Sir, won't you?

“Yes, Sir,” Jisung said quickly. The first time he heard the recording, he'd failed Sir's first test. He hadn't answered and Sir had been furious. He'd whipped Jisung until his back was nothing but a hunk of bloody meat.

Transgressions will be punished, by whip, by blade or by hand. Privileges may be taken away. The fact that you're breathing right now is a privilege, pet. That can be taken away from you too. Do you understand?

Jisung nodded, “Yes, Sir.”

He glanced at the blinking red light, staring at him from across the room. Sir was always watching, always waiting for Jisung to mess up. But he wouldn’t. Jisung was too well-trained for that. He was a good pet, yes.

Good pets are rewarded. And my favorite pets? They're granted freedom.

The speaker crackled. The tape clicked off. Silence returned like a weight. The room smelled like bleach and sweat. There were no windows. No clocks. No escape. Jisung stared at the ceiling, his cracked lips barely parted. He wasn’t sure if he’d slept. The bruises down his ribs throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Usually his legs were restrained, his hands kept free. But today his wrist was still tender from where it had been restrained since yesterday. He couldn’t even remember what he’d done wrong yesterday.

A single creak, soft, slow and deliberate, above his head cut through his thoughts and shattered the quiet. Jisung froze. Breath caught in his throat like a scream that didn’t make it out. His heart stuttered, then pounded so hard it hurt. His fingers dug into his palms.

Another step. And another. Directly overhead now.

Sir is awake.

Jisung’s body moved on instinct, pressing into the corner and curling into itself, shoulders up, legs tucked in, like if he could just make himself smaller, he could disappear. He didn’t cry. That wasn't allowed, but his mouth was open, gasping soundless breaths as the panic surged through his limbs.

His eyes flicked upward, as if he could see anything in the darkness. All he saw was black nothingness. But he could hear and that was more terrifying.

The fourth step always paused. It did now. Right above the ceiling vent—he’d memorized the floorboard patterns through pure terror. Sir always stopped there. To listen. To terrify.

He knows I’m awake.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut. His whole body trembled, his spine pressed to the wall. It didn’t help. Nothing ever helped. His brain screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go. Just the walls, the door, the cold metal drain in the floor, the darkness.

Another creak. This time, the one that meant Sir was turning. Turning toward the stairs.

No no no no no no no—

Jisung bit down on his knuckles, hard. Too hard. The sharp sting grounded him for a second. The panic didn’t go away. It never did, but at least it gave him something real to hold on to. Something that wasn’t Sir’s voice or the recording or the restraints or—

The stairs moaned. One step. Then two.

He whimpered. Couldn’t help it. Clapped his other hand over his mouth to smother the sound.

The door didn’t open. Not yet. But he knew it would. It always did. And when it did, he had to be ready. Had to remember the rules. Had to be a good pet.

The hose arched a slow, glittering stream of water across the flower bed, catching the early morning light and scattering it like a thousand broken stars. Minho adjusted the angle carefully, narrowing the flow with a steady hand, his sleeves damp with dew where the mist clung stubbornly to the edges of his hoodie. The chill of the morning air brushed his skin through the fabric, and he exhaled quietly, crouching to inspect the fragile roots of a newly planted sapling. His fingers pressed into the soil, firm but gentle. The movements precise, methodical, like everything he did these days. There was a comfort in the repetition, a kind of quiet prayer stitched into the earth with every touch.

Around him, the world was still. Soft. Ordered. Just the way he had learned to survive it.

He rose slowly, wiping his hands absently against his jeans, his gaze sweeping toward the uneven line of basil struggling near the edge of the fence. The leaves were wilted, the stems pale and thin, reaching weakly for a sun that never seemed to land where he needed it. Minho narrowed his eyes, already calculating how he might move them again.

“Still not getting enough sun,” he muttered under his breath.

Before he could step toward the fence, warm arms slid around his waist from behind, looping easily across his stomach. The sudden touch didn’t startle him. He had felt the familiar shift of the air a heartbeat before it happened, the way he always did with him. Minho leaned back slightly into the embrace, the corners of his mouth lifting before the first word was even spoken.

“You’re obsessed with that basil,” came the smooth, teasing voice against his neck. Hyunjin’s breath stirred the damp collar of Minho’s hoodie, sending a small shiver down his spine.

Minho let out a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “You say that like I haven't half-killed it already.”

Hyunjin’s laughter was low and musical, the sound curling warmly between them. “Let it die,” he murmured, nosing playfully at Minho’s jaw. “Come water me instead.”

Minho turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, savoring the closeness. His eyes caught on the sight of Hyunjin who was impossibly bright even in the muted morning haze. His golden spiky hair cropped close to his scalp, his skin glowing as if he carried his own light beneath it, his glossy lips. He wore fitted jeans and a thin sweater that clung lightly to his frame, looking completely out of place in the humble little garden. Too beautiful. Too polished. Like something that should have existed only in paintings, not here, not with him.

And yet here he was. And Minho wasn’t letting go. He kissed Hyunjin’s forehead lightly before murmuring, “You’re early, honey.”

Hyunjin smiled lazily, arms tightening around Minho’s waist. “Taught an early class this morning. Wanted to surprise you.”

Minho’s smile faltered slightly, though he masked it quickly. “You had people in your apartment again?”

Hyunjin shrugged, unbothered. “Babe, it’s fine. I moved some furniture around. Laid down new mats. They barely touched anything.”

Minho’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing at first. The idea of strangers in Hyunjin’s space unsettled something deep and cold inside him. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. But Hyunjin, as always, brushed it off with a kiss against Minho’s temple. Light. Easy. Like it was nothing.

“Don’t get all grumpy about it,” Hyunjin teased softly, the edges of his words dipped in honey. “I’m fine. It's my job.”

Minho exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders. He cupped Hyunjin’s face with both hands, tracing his thumbs over the high lines of his cheeks, grounding himself in the softness of him.

“You’re a troublemaker,” Minho said, voice rougher now, more real.

Hyunjin grinned, bright and unbothered. “And you love it.”

Without another word, Minho leaned in and caught him by the back of the neck, pulling him down into a kiss. It was slow, easy, like they had all the time in the world. Hyunjin tasted of mint and honey, something impossibly sweet, impossibly alive. Their mouths moved together in a quiet rhythm, hands sliding over each other with a tenderness that felt fragile.

The garden around them fell silent again, save for the gentle patter of water dripping from the hose at Minho’s feet. There was only sunlight breaking through the trees.
Only Hyunjin’s hand threading into his hair.
Only the soft, dangerous beat of a heart learning to pretend it wasn’t waiting for the next disaster.

Hyunjin leaned into him, fingers playing with the hem of Minho’s hoodie. “So,” he murmured, “what are we doing today?”

Minho glanced toward the sky. It was clear blue, just a whisper of clouds. He shrugged, eyes still half-lidded from the kiss. “We could pack lunch. Head to the park. Sit by the water. You can pretend to meditate while I actually relax.”

Hyunjin smacked his shoulder, “I do actually meditate.”

Minho rolled his eyes, brushing a thumb across Hyunjin’s cheekbone before stepping back. “Come on. I’ll make sandwiches.”

They headed inside together, past the garden gate and up the back steps. The kitchen door creaked like it always did. Minho still hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. He stepped aside to let Hyunjin in first and caught the faint scent of his cologne as he passed. Something floral, crisp and clean. It clung to the house now. Just like everything else about him.

Hyunjin didn’t live here, not technically. But his coat was draped over the kitchen chair. His toothbrush was in a mug beside the sink. There were two pairs of slippers at the door. His charger tangled with Minho’s on the counter.

Minho’s eyes drifted across the space, taking it all in. It shouldn’t have made him feel anything. But it did. Comfort. That was the word for it.

He wouldn’t say it aloud—not yet—but Hyunjin’s quiet invasion of his space was something Minho had come to rely on. Mornings were easier. Nights were warmer. The house didn’t feel like it echoed anymore.

He pulled open the fridge and grabbed a few things: lettuce, sliced cheese, that bread Hyunjin insisted on because it was “better for digestion.” Minho didn't care much for it, but it kept Hyunjin from nagging at least.

Hyunjin was already half-sitting on the counter, bare feet swinging slightly, fingers curled around a coffee mug he didn’t ask for permission to use. He never did. And Minho never minded.

“What time do you want to go?” Hyunjin asked, watching him.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

Hyunjin sipped his coffee and smiled. “Then I guess I’ll just be in your way untill then.”

Minho didn’t answer, but he smiled. He sliced the bread with practiced ease, glancing up when he felt Hyunjin’s gaze lingering.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking away from the cutting board.

Hyunjin took another sip of coffee, expression too innocent. “I’m appreciating.”

Minho rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. “Appreciate from a distance. You’re crowding the counter.”

Hyunjin slid off it with exaggerated grace, circling behind Minho and looping his arms around his waist from behind. “Correction! I’m crowding you.”

Minho let out a breath that was half a sigh, half a laugh. “You're such a brat.”

“I’m your brat,” Hyunjin said smugly, resting his chin on Minho’s shoulder. “And you love it.”

“Debatable,” Minho muttered, but he leaned into the touch all the same.

They stayed like that for a few seconds—Hyunjin warm against his back, Minho’s hands still busy with the sandwiches. It felt easy. Natural. Like they'd done this a hundred times, and they had, hadn't they?

Hyunjin's fingers crept forward, trying to sneak a slice of cheese from the cutting board. Minho caught his wrist mid-air. “Don't even think about it.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Hyunjin said smoothly, eyes bright with mischief. “Just acting on instinct.”

“Oh, your instincts are garbage,” Minho said, spinning around suddenly with a smear of mayo on the back of the butter knife. He tapped it to Hyunjin’s nose before the other could dodge.

Hyunjin gasped. “You did not just—”

“Told you,” Minho was already backing away with a smirk. “That’s what you get.”

“Oh, it’s war now!” Hyunjin lunged forward and Minho ducked, laughing as he tried to escape around the island. But Hyunjin was quick and caught him by the back of his hoodie, dragging him in.

Their laughter echoed through the kitchen, and in the next moment, Hyunjin kissed him—quick, breathless, grinning into it. Minho stumbled slightly against him, hands catching at Hyunjin’s waist. They stood there for a beat, tangled up in each other.

Minho let his forehead rest against Hyunjin’s. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I’m lucky you love me,” Hyunjin murmured, lips brushing his again.

Minho couldn’t say it back. But he kissed him like he meant to.

Usually Jisung would kneel and press his forehead to the floor like he'd been trained, but his wrists were still cuffed to the wall. Still, he bowed his head in respect as the door creaked open. He listened for the click of the lock as it sealed itself. Then footsteps. Slow, careful.

The masked figure moved through the basement like a living shadow, steady and silent. As he walked, lights snapped on, illuminating the filth in which Jisung lived.

Sir's mask was the same one Jisung had seen since the first day. It gleamed dully under the harsh lights. It wasn’t a simple mask. It was ornate, carved from some pale, bone-like material, molded into a blank, inhuman face. Swirling patterns curled over the forehead and down the cheeks, delicate and cold, like vines choking the features into stillness. There were no eyeholes. Only two dark, empty spaces where the eyes should have been, as if Sir wasn’t a man at all.

His gloved hands found the restraints, keeping Jisung's wrists extended above his head. Freed, Jisung's hands fell limply to his side. Immediately, Jisung knelt with his forehead pressed to the floor.

As soon as Sir's grip tightened on the leash clipped to his collar, Jisung lifted himself onto all fours. His palms slapped weakly against the floor, knees folding awkwardly beneath him. It wasn’t instinct. It wasn’t even fear. It was training, woven so deep into him that he moved like a dog at the first pull, unthinking and obedient.

The leash tugged forward and Jisung crawled. The leather leash stayed taut between them, guiding him through the familiar corridors of his world — cracked concrete, slippery with his piss and vomit under his bare knees, harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the sharp stench of bleach burning his nose. He kept close to Sir's boots, trembling with the effort of keeping up, even as his exhausted muscles screamed with every dragging step. His head stayed low, chin almost brushing the ground. Good pets didn’t look up without permission.

The hallway ended at a door. It was plain, metal, no handle. Sir pressed a gloved palm to the hidden panel and the door opened with a mechanical hiss, releasing them into a different kind of hell.

The flood of light was immediate and brutal, slicing into Jisung’s senses like a blade. He flinched instinctively, momentarily blinded, but the leash snapped tight at his collar and he corrected himself, steadying on his hands and knees, bowing his head even lower.

The chamber stretched out around them, sterile and gleaming. A drain embedded into the center of the floor. A heavy metal chair bolted into the concrete. A mirrored wall reflecting back a warped, monstrous version of himself. No furniture. No color. No softness. Only obedience. Only pain.

Sir guided him forward with another tug. Jisung crawled until he reached the chair, then sat back on his heels, hands resting lightly on his thighs, head still bowed. His breathing was shallow, heart hammering painfully against his ribs, but he stayed perfectly still. Waiting. Presenting.

Sir released the leash. Without needing an order, Jisung climbed into the chair, his muscles locking into familiar movements. He lifted his wrists, offering them up like gifts. The first leather strap snapped closed around his right wrist, pulling it firmly against the cold metal armrest.

The second strap cinched around his left wrist just as tight. His ankles followed, each one buckled down separately, forcing his legs slightly apart. Vulnerable. Accessible.

A thick strap pulled tight across his chest, pinning him to the chair’s back, flattening his shivering body against the unyielding surface. Finally, a loose loop of leather settled around his throat — not enough to choke, but enough to remind him who owned his every breath.

Sir checked each restraint twice, tugging with methodical care. Jisung let him. He stayed pliant under the handling, limp and quiet, offering no resistance, no sound except the soft hitch of his own panicked breathing.

Good pets didn’t resist. Good pets were easy to handle.

The silence pressed heavy on his shoulders. Thicker than the straps. Thicker than the collar. Then the wall-mounted speaker above the mirror crackled to life, splitting the quiet open with the familiar, distorted voice:

“You'll take everything I give you. No complaints. No screaming. Not one sound leaves your lips unless I permit it. You're a good pet. You're my good pet, aren't you?”

Jisung flinched inwardly but showed nothing, “Yes, Sir.”

His hands clenched against the restraints on instinct, nails biting into his palms, but he didn’t struggle. His mind sank into the words like a drowning man sinking into water. Familiar. Comforting in its horror.

"No mistakes. No questions. Be still. Be silent. Be good."

Sir moved to the tray beside the mirror. Jisung didn’t look. He knew better.

Instead, he fixed his gaze on the same cracked tile on the far wall. There was a jagged spiderweb fracture breaking the sterile perfection of the room. He counted the broken lines silently, focusing on their branching paths to ground himself.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. I'm a good pet. Seven. Eight. Nine.

The clatter of metal against metal sent a jolt through his body. Sir lifted an instrument from the tray. Jisung’s breathing hitched, but his body stayed still, locked into the chair like he was part of it. Then, Sir approached, gloved fingers finding Jisung’s limp arm, turning it outward, exposing the vulnerable pale skin of his inner wrist.

Obedient. Exposed. Ready. Cold metal touched him. The first cut was shallow, deliberate and clean.

Jisung flinched. He was careful not to make a sound. Even a whimper wasn't acceptable. His chest tightened in fear of punishment, but he made no further noise. He didn't struggle. He endured.

Another cut. Another neat, parallel line across his wrist. The sting blossomed outward like fire, racing up his arm. Blood welled slowly, fat red drops sliding against his skin before being wiped away by Sir’s gloved hand, clinical and detached. Tears welled in Jisung’s eyes and he willed them not to fall.

"Suffering is proof of devotion," the voice on the speaker whispered, syrupy and inhuman.

Tears blurred Jisung’s vision, hot and heavy, but he didn’t sob. He didn’t move. He let the pain carve him open and stayed perfectly, perfectly still, even as Sir reached for another tool — a different blade — and traced a sharp line across the tender skin over Jisung’s hipbone. The pain was different there. It was deeper, slower, radiating outward in a dull throb.

Jisung didn’t look down. He didn’t react. He kept his gaze pinned to the crack in the wall. Good pets endured. Good pets survived. He was a good pet.

The grass was warm beneath the picnic blanket, the scent of wildflowers carried on the lazy breeze that drifted through the park. Children’s laughter echoed from somewhere near the playground, and the hum of distant conversations melted into the easy background noise of a perfect afternoon.

Minho leaned back on his elbows, watching Hyunjin unpack their lunch with the kind of unnecessary drama only he could pull off—holding up a sandwich like it was a priceless artifact.

“I present to you,” Hyunjin said solemnly, “the most gourmet ham and cheese sandwich known to mankind.”

Minho smirked. “You watched me make that. There’s nothing gourmet about it.”

“Lies.” Hyunjin unwrapped the sandwich and took a theatrical bite, closing his eyes in exaggerated bliss. “Mmm. Culinary masterpiece.”

Minho shook his head, unable to keep the smile off his face. The sunlight caught Hyunjin’s hair, making it look like spun gold. His skin practically glowed under the afternoon light, his loose linen shirt rippling slightly in the breeze, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked too perfect for a place this simple—like he belonged in a painting, not sitting cross-legged on a blanket, chewing on cheap bread and grocery store cheese.

And yet he fit here, somehow. In Minho’s quiet little world.

Hyunjin gave him a mischievous smile. Then he leaned forward and plucked a grape from the container between them, popping it into Minho’s mouth before he could react.

Minho blinked, chewing slowly. “You’re unbelievable.”

Hyunjin grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Minho reached out and snagged Hyunjin’s wrist before he could grab another grape. He tugged him gently forward, closing the distance between them.

Hyunjin came willingly, laughing softly, until he was close enough for Minho to brush his nose against his. They stayed there for a moment, the rest of the world blurring into sunshine and soft wind and the faint smell of grass.

Minho kissed him—light, unhurried, tasting a hint of grape sweetness on Hyunjin’s lips. When they pulled apart, Hyunjin rested his forehead against Minho’s. “We should do this more,” he murmured. “Just... exist.”

Minho closed his eyes briefly, savoring the warmth of him. “Yeah. We should.”

Hyunjin stretched out on the blanket, propped on one elbow, lazily watching the clouds drift overhead. Minho handed him a bottle of water, and Hyunjin accepted it with a quick smile, tipping it toward him in thanks.

Hyunjin’s gaze suddenly shifted over Minho’s shoulder. His posture stiffened slightly.

Minho turned just enough to see them — an older couple from the neighborhood, walking arm-in-arm along the paved path that circled the park. Mr. and Mrs. Park. They were familiar faces. Minho had fixed their porch light once, and they slowed slightly as they passed near the blanket.

Hyunjin sat up straighter, always polite, always trying, and offered them a warm, genuine smile. "Good afternoon," he said, voice carrying just enough to be friendly without forcing conversation.

Mr. Park gave a short nod, barely a flicker of acknowledgment. Mrs. Park offered a tight, closed-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Neither of them slowed their steps.

They kept walking, but the chill they left behind was palpable. Hyunjin’s hand tightened slightly around the water bottle. His smile fell almost immediately, the tension sliding across his shoulders like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake off. Minho watched the color drain from Hyunjin’s face, watched the way he folded into himself just a little—still trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.

Without thinking, Minho reached out and brushed his fingers over Hyunjin's scalp, thumb lingering there in a gentle, grounding touch. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly.

Hyunjin tried to smile again, but it wavered. "I’m not," he lied, voice a little too light.

Minho didn’t push. He just leaned in, pressing a kiss to Hyunjin’s temple, letting the world around them fade again. “They don’t know you,” he murmured against his skin. “They only know what they want to believe.” Hyunjin closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words settle. Minho squeezed his hand once, firm and sure. "I know you." That was all that mattered.

The path cleared slowly. The old couple disappeared around the bend, and a few scattered families followed, chasing after toddlers or dragging picnic baskets back toward the parking lot. Within minutes, the stretch of grass around them was empty again, save for the distant sound of a frisbee game further down the hill.

Hyunjin peeked up from where he sat, glancing around with exaggerated caution.
“All clear,” he said, voice low and teasing.

Minho smirked. “What are you planning, criminal?”

“Something highly inappropriate for public spaces,” Hyunjin said, shifting closer.

Minho didn’t resist. He let Hyunjin climb into his lap, straddling him easily on the picnic blanket. The air between them shifted—warm, electric. Minho’s hands found Hyunjin’s hips, fingertips slipping under the soft fabric of his shirt like it was second nature.

Hyunjin leaned in slowly, savoring the closeness, the way Minho’s dark eyes softened when they were alone like this. His thumbs brushed Minho’s cheeks, his lips hovering just above Minho’s.

“This is probably illegal,” Hyunjin whispered, smiling against Minho’s mouth.

“Worth it,” Minho muttered.

The kiss started slow—soft, patient, like they had all the time in the world. Minho tilted his head, deepening it, hands sliding up Hyunjin’s back, holding him closer. Hyunjin responded instantly, his fingers threading into Minho’s hair, tugging gently, coaxing a low noise from the back of Minho’s throat.

The world slipped away. No judgment. No whispers. No eyes watching them.

Just the steady beat of Minho’s heart against Hyunjin’s chest, the sun warm on their skin, the sweet, breathless press of lips and teeth and tongue. Hyunjin smiled into the kiss, that lazy, golden kind of happiness that only he could wear so well. Minho chased him, kissed him again harder, pulling a small, pleased sound from Hyunjin’s throat.

When they finally pulled apart, Hyunjin stayed close, forehead resting against Minho’s, breathing hard, smiling like a man who knew exactly how much power he had. Minho didn’t mind giving it to him.

“So,” Hyunjin smirked. “What are we doing next week?”

Minho played dumb, forcing his face into a thoughtful expression, “Next week? What's so special about next week?” Hyunjin elbowed him and he laughed, “You know I'm joking. I'd never forget your birthday!”

“Better not,” Hyunjin huffed as he tackled him down to the blanket, laying across his chest.

They lay there tangled together, in a world of their own making, while the sun arced higher overhead and the rest of the town carried on without them. For now, nothing could touch them.

The leash went slack. Jisung stayed motionless, forehead pressed against the mattress, limbs trembling with cold and exhaustion. He didn't lift his head. Good pets didn’t move without permission.
He waited, straining his ears for the next cue — the soft scrape of plastic against the concrete floor. The weight of the dish settling beside him, exactly where it always did.

Only then did his body react, but even that was careful, slow and mechanical, like every action had been carved into him over countless repetitions. His stomach twisted painfully, but not from hunger. Hunger was nothing now, an ever-present shadow he no longer questioned. It was the ritual — the expectation — that made his body clench and twitch. He knew what came next. He knew what he was meant to do.

Slowly, shaking, Jisung pushed himself onto his hands and knees. The leash pulled taut again, collar digging into the raw skin of his throat, a constant reminder of who and what he was. He didn’t lift his gaze higher than necessary. He blinked down at the dish, barely focusing through the fog clouding his mind.

It was the same. Always the same. A grayish, sour slop that might have once been vegetables or rice or meat — it no longer mattered. The smell hit him thick and rotting, but he didn’t recoil. Recoiling meant punishment. Recoiling meant he was bad.

He crawled forward, dragging the leash across the ground. The moment he hesitated — a heartbeat of fear, of disgust — the leash jerked sharply, snapping him back into focus. Without hesitation, Jisung dropped his head lower, pressing his forehead briefly to the floor in apology before inching forward again, obedient. Silent.

He opened his mouth and took a bite directly from the dish, his lips brushing the filthy plastic edge. No hands. No dignity. No humanity. Only obedience.

The slop sat heavy and cold on his tongue, tasteless and slimy. His stomach lurched violently, but he forced himself to chew, to swallow, to accept. One bite. Then another. And another.

The only sounds in the room were the soft scrape of his teeth against the dish and the quiet, steady rhythm of Sir’s breathing somewhere nearby. Watching. Always watching.

Each mouthful made his insides twist tighter, the nausea climbing higher, but he kept eating. Every bite was a rule. Every swallow a lifeline.

"Be good, and you’ll be free."

The tape’s hollow promise played in his mind, worn and cracked from too many repetitions. He finished the last mouthful before the sickness overwhelmed him, his muscles locking up tight against the urge to retch. Trembling, he pulled back, sitting on his heels like he’d been trained to — palms flat on his thighs, spine straight despite the weakness screaming through his body.

Sir didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The leash gave a single, deliberate tug.

Jisung dropped his gaze to the ground instantly, heart pounding, throat working around a dry sob he didn't dare release.
He stayed frozen, chest heaving quietly, slick residue from the food still clinging to his lips.

A good pet was all he needed to be. Even if it meant forgetting what it felt like to be human. Even if it meant forgetting his own name, if Sir ever asked it of him.

The soft clink of silverware and the low hum of conversation filled the air around them. Candlelight flickered across the white tablecloth, casting warm glows and long shadows against the windows overlooking the dark river beyond.

Hyunjin sat across from Minho, absolutely radiant in a fitted dark shirt, sleeves cuffed just enough to show his elegant wrists. His glossy lipped smile—the real one, the one he saved for Minho—made him look even younger.

“You’re staring,” Hyunjin said, amusement dancing in his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Minho replied, lifting his wine glass in a mock toast, “you’re indecently pretty for someone aging another year.”

Hyunjin laughed, bright and clear, drawing the attention of a few neighboring tables. He didn’t seem to care. He leaned in across the table, chin resting lightly in his palm. “You better have gotten me a good present if you’re going to insult me.”

Minho smirked, setting his glass down.

“I did,” he said simply. “Happy birthday, honey.”

He reached down and slid a small, plain envelope across the table. No frills. No fancy wrapping. Just his steady gaze and the weight of what was inside.

Hyunjin’s eyebrows lifted as he picked it up, turning it over once before slipping a finger under the flap and pulling out the paper inside.

It wasn’t a card. It wasn’t a letter. It was a deed. The ownership papers to a small commercial property right in the center of town. Hyunjin’s mouth parted slightly as he read, brow furrowing in disbelief.

“A studio,” Minho said, voice quieter now. “Your own place. No more teaching yoga with strangers crammed into your living room.”

Hyunjin looked up at him, stunned. “Minho...”

“It’s not huge,” Minho continued, trying for casual. “But it’s nice. Bright. Big windows. Plenty of room for you to actually stretch without knocking over a lamp. I consideded just renting it out monthly for you but it works out cheaper buying it and—”

“Min?” For a second, Hyunjin said nothing. Just stared at him, eyes shining faintly in the dim light.

And then he shoved his chair back, ignoring the few startled glances from nearby diners, and rounded the table. He dropped into Minho’s lap, arms winding tight around his neck, burying his face against his shoulder.

“You idiot,” Hyunjin mumbled, voice thick. “You absolute idiot. You’re perfect.”

Minho wrapped his arms around him, feeling the weight of him, the warmth. The honesty of it. He smiled into Hyunjin’s hair, breathing him in. He didn’t think about the money. He didn’t think about the old savings account that now sat empty. He didn’t think about how technically, half of it wasn’t even his.

Hyunjin clung to him a moment longer, arms tight around Minho’s neck like he didn’t want to ever let go. Minho let him stay. He didn’t care about the stares, the clatter of dishes from nearby tables, the tiny ripple of attention they were drawing.
Let them look. He shifted slightly to make more space for Hyunjin, one hand settling instinctively against the small of his back.

“You’re going to get us kicked out,” he murmured against Hyunjin’s ear.

Hyunjin pulled back just enough to flash him a wicked, breathless smile. “Maybe that was my plan all along. Maybe I just wanted you for myself.”

Minho couldn’t help it — he laughed. A real laugh, low and rough in his chest, the kind that only ever seemed to surface around Hyunjin.

“Come on,” he said, squeezing Hyunjin’s hip lightly. “You haven’t even had your cake yet.”

Hyunjin slid back into his seat with a final kiss pressed quickly to Minho’s temple, the brush of his lips soft, lingering. Minho watched him settle, cheeks still flushed, fingers smoothing over the papers again like he couldn’t quite believe they were real. It made something fierce and fond tighten in Minho’s chest — the way Hyunjin looked at him, like he was the only thing that mattered.

“You’re serious about this?” Hyunjin asked, voice softer now, almost reverent.

Minho nodded once. “I want you to have it. You deserve it.”

Hyunjin bit his lower lip, like he was fighting the urge to grin too wide, and tucked the envelope carefully back into his jacket. His eyes never left Minho’s.

“I’m gonna make you so proud," he said quietly.

"You already do," Minho answered, just as quietly.

Their meals arrived soon after — plates of carefully plated dishes neither of them really cared about. They lingered over the food anyway, sipping wine, brushing hands together when they thought no one was looking, legs brushing under the table.

Hyunjin talked about what he would do with the studio. Paint the walls something bright, leave the floors open and bare, maybe start teaching meditation classes, too. His eyes lit up when he spoke, hands flying animatedly, voice fast and excited in a way Minho rarely got to see.

Minho just watched him. Listened. Memorized the way Hyunjin’s whole body seemed to glow when he was dreaming. For now, nothing else mattered. They had tonight. They had each other.

The leash stayed clipped to his collar, heavy and unmoving.

The dish sat abandoned near the mattress. The flies came next, buzzing lazily around it, drawn to the sickly sweetness of decay. Their sound filled the room, droning endlessly in the corners of his mind.

Sir hadn't returned for what felt like days. Jisung couldn't tell anymore. The overhead light never changed. The air never moved. No clocks. No windows. No footsteps. No tape recording playing. The red blinking light of the camera was no longer there. There was only the ache inside him, sharpening with every hour that passed.

At first, he had only slept. His body folded into itself on the thin mattress, too exhausted to even shiver. But thirst came soon after, dry and clawing, scraping down his throat until it burned. He woke up gasping, lips cracked, tongue swollen against his teeth. Throat so dry he couldn’t call out. Anyway, good pets didn’t call out.

Instead, he crawled — weak and clumsy, dragging himself across the filthy floor, leash slithering behind him. In the farthest corner he could reach, where the wall met the ground, the pipe still leaked. It was his only mercy. Jisung lowered himself flat onto the concrete, pressing his cheek against the icy filth. He opened his mouth, waiting patiently like a starving dog at a dry bowl.

Drip.

A single droplet fell, splashing against his tongue. Hardly anything. But it was life. It was survival. He stayed there, waiting for every precious drop, ignoring the sharp ache in his neck, the cramping in his legs, the black spots flickering at the edges of his vision.

He waited. And waited.

Drip.

Another taste. Another fragile tether to existence.

Still, Sir didn’t come.

The air thickened around him. Time smeared into something endless and empty. Part of him started to wonder if Sir would ever return at all. Maybe he had been abandoned. Maybe he would die here, nameless and alone, with a collar locked around his throat.

Part of him almost hoped for it. But a smaller part — mean and desperate and loyal — whispered that he could still be good. That Sir would come back if he stayed obedient. If he stayed ready. If he stayed perfect.

Pressing his forehead to the cold floor, Jisung whispered the only prayer he had left, the only word that still meant anything in his hollowed-out world.

Please, he silently begged.

He didn't know what he begged for. To be set free? Or for Sir to come back? Maybe there wasn’t a difference anymore.

The front door clicked shut behind them, soft and final.

Hyunjin’s laughter still lingered in the air, low and warm. He was already peeling off his jacket, letting it fall to the back of the couch as he kicked off his shoes. The glow from the hallway light touched his skin like gold, catching the shimmer in his eyes as he turned toward Minho.

"Still my birthday," he said with a grin, walking backwards down the hallway.

Minho smirked, fingers working open the buttons of his shirt as he followed. “You’re really milking it.”

Hyunjin stopped just outside the bedroom door, tugged his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and dropped it carelessly to the floor. "I’m worth it."

Minho couldn’t argue. Not when Hyunjin’s hips swayed like that.

Inside the bedroom, the air shifted — softer, quieter. Hyunjin sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Minho approached. Minho stood between his knees, cradled Hyunjin’s face in his hands, and kissed him. Slow. Deep. Familiar.

Hyunjin’s hands slid under Minho’s shirt, dragging it up, fingertips ghosting over warm skin. When Minho pulled back to strip it off, Hyunjin leaned forward, kissing along his chest, down his sternum, lips hot and open.

Minho pushed him back onto the bed, crawling over him, hands skimming along Hyunjin’s sides as their mouths met again, messier now — lips parting, tongues sliding together.

Clothes disappeared between kisses and whispered laughter. Hyunjin’s back arched as Minho pressed kisses down his neck, across his chest, tongue flicking over his nipples, tracing down to his belly button, pausing to suck gently at the skin just above his ribs. He always liked the spots that made Hyunjin shiver.

Minho took his time. Let his hands map every inch of Hyunjin’s skin — stroking, teasing, worshipping. He kissed down Hyunjin’s stomach, nuzzling at the soft skin above his hips before settling between his thighs. Hyunjin was already hard, the flush of arousal pink across his chest and cheeks.

Minho licked a slow stripe along the inside of Hyunjin’s thigh, savoring the way Hyunjin squirmed beneath him. Then he reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, slicked his fingers, and brought one to Hyunjin’s entrance.

He circled it slowly, teasing, letting Hyunjin get used to the sensation before pressing in just the tip. Hyunjin gasped, thighs tensing around Minho’s shoulders.

Minho murmured against his skin, "Relax for me."

Hyunjin nodded, fingers curling into the sheets, eyes fluttering shut as Minho gently pushed deeper. He worked him open slowly, carefully — one finger at first, then two, scissoring gently, curling to brush that spot that made Hyunjin’s breath catch in his throat.

"Fuck, baby—" he whispered, hips lifting.

Minho kissed the inside of his knee. “You’re doing so well.”

When he added a third finger, Hyunjin moaned, head tipping back against the pillows. Minho continued until he felt Hyunjin fully give in, breathy and pliant beneath him.

He pulled back, slicking himself up with the same practiced patience. Hyunjin opened his legs wider, eyes heavy, face flushed.

Minho crawled up over him, guiding himself to Hyunjin’s entrance, and leaned in to kiss him as he pushed in—slow, deep, careful. Hyunjin gasped into his mouth, arms wrapping tight around Minho’s shoulders.

They moved together, unhurried and close, skin sliding against skin, the rhythm building gradually. Minho rocked into him with deep, steady thrusts, hitting just right, again and again. Hyunjin’s back arched, nails dragging down Minho’s spine, voice cracking on every moan.

“You feel so good,” Minho whispered, forehead pressed to Hyunjin’s. “So perfect.”

Hyunjin’s response was a desperate kiss, messy and open-mouthed, his hips rising to meet each thrust. He took Hyunjin’s hands into his own, holding them above Hyunjin’s head. His thrusts grew erratic until the pressure built to a breaking point and both of them unravelled with soft gasps, clinging to each other through it.

Afterward, Minho collapsed beside him, chest heaving. Hyunjin rolled into his side, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and tucked his face into Minho’s neck.

They didn’t speak. There was no need. They were still holding each other when sleep took them.

The door opened with its usual finality, a sharp mechanical click that sliced through the heavy, breathless silence of the basement. Jisung didn’t move. He didn’t lift his head. He stayed exactly as he had been taught, forehead brushing the filthy mattress, limbs trembling from cold and exhaustion, from fear, from hope. His muscles screamed under the strain of stillness, but he didn’t dare shift. Not until permission was given. Not until the ritual allowed him to move. The heavy leash clipped to his collar pressed against the side of his neck, cold and constant, a reminder that he still belonged to someone. That he hadn’t been forgotten after all.

Boots crossed the concrete floor, each step deliberate and unhurried. Jisung counted them in his mind, his heart syncing to the slow, purposeful rhythm. Each impact against the ground echoed in his skull, pushing everything else out—hunger, thirst, loneliness—all drowned beneath the overwhelming relief of those approaching footsteps. Sir had come back! Sir had returned for him! The simple fact of it bloomed in Jisung’s chest like a sick, desperate kind of joy.

Then came the sound—the crackle of the speaker mounted high in the corner, distorted and warped until the voice that emerged was something less than human and more than a god. It filled the room with command, with structure, with meaning.

"Good morning, sweetheart. Are you scared, pet? I know you are. I want you to be. If you're scared, you're pleasing me. And that's why you're here.

The words hung in the air, vast and terrible. Jisung didn’t move. He didn’t lift his head. He waited, heart hammering against his ribs. A long pause. The kind that tested loyalty. Patience. Submission.

When he felt a tug on his leash, Jisung obeyed immediately, though his body betrayed him with its clumsiness. Stiff joints popped painfully as he pushed himself upright, hands sliding weakly across the floor for balance. He shifted, slow and careful, until he settled onto his knees, back straight despite the shaking that ran through his frame. His hands found their place on his thighs, palms flat, fingers splayed just so. The leash tugged lightly, a reminder, and he ducked his chin lower, lowering his gaze to the filthy floor. He positioned himself the way he was supposed to. The way Sir liked. The way good pets waited.

Jisung didn't flinch. Fear had long ago been scrubbed clean from his reactions. What remained was the simple, dogged instinct to comply. To obey. To survive. Fear didn’t matter here. Only rules. Only ritual.

Sir stood motionless, a silent sentinel wrapped in cold authority. The bone-white mask concealed his face, smooth and gleaming under the buzzing fluorescent lights. The black voids where eyes should have been seemed to stare straight through Jisung, hollow and endless. Sir’s presence filled the room as much as the light and the stale air, inescapable and absolute. There was no tenderness in it. No cruelty either. Only the unshakable certainty of control.

This wasn’t punishment. This wasn’t kindness. This was ownership.

Sir stepped forward, and Jisung stayed perfectly still, breathing shallowly, letting the world narrow to the sound of boots against concrete.

What followed wasn’t violent. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t anything human.

Jisung let it happen without resistance, without thought. His mind floated somewhere high above his broken body, disconnected and silent. He obeyed because that was what he was made for now. Because he still, somehow, believed that obedience could earn him something. Attention. Protection. Purpose.

A gloved hand gripped the back of Jisung's neck, steady and unrelenting, forcing him lower. Another shove nudged his knees wider apart, baring him, positioning him exactly as Sir wanted. Jisung stayed perfectly still, breath shallow, heart pounding in his ears. He didn't dare lift his head. He didn't dare move.

He belonged to Sir. He was meant to be used. When he heard the sound of a zipper, he steeled himself for what was to happen.

Sir pressed his cock into him, forcing Jisung open with a slow, brutal stretch. Pain bloomed hot and immediate, tearing a hoarse gasp from Jisung’s throat. The burn of being stretched made his nails claw weakly against the concrete. His muscles spasmed around the intrusion, trying and failing to resist.

Sir moved with mechanical thrusts, deep and unrelenting. Each movement rocked Jisung forward, the leash cutting tighter against his throat. The sharp slap of skin on skin echoed through the empty room. Sir gripped Jisung’s hips with a brutal, unfeeling steadiness. He used Jisung’s body like a tool, taking what he wanted without hesitation. No words. No sounds. Only the relentless, punishing rhythm of his thrusts. Jisung flinched at every rough thrust, body trembling uncontrollably. Tears streaked down his cheeks, silent and hot.

When Sir was done, his cum running down the back of Jisung's thigh, Jisung collapsed, sore and leaking, curling into himself as the cold seeped into his bones. He whispered, “Thank you, Sir” into the floor, voice breaking.

Minutes dragged by before Sir returned. There was the scrape of plastic on concrete, the faint, sour scent of food filling the stale air. Jisung heard the dish being placed a few feet away, along with the battered plastic bowl half-filled with precious water. His mouth watered painfully, his stomach cramping with need, but he didn’t move. Not yet. Not until permission was clear.

The leash slackened—a signal. Jisung crawled forward, slow and trembling, dragging the leash behind him. He lowered himself to the ground until his mouth hovered just above the chipped plastic dish. This time there was no hesitation. Starving, he began to gobble. He didn't care that the food was thick and cold and slimy, but it was a gift. A reward. Proof that he had been good enough to keep. Good enough to still matter.

The water followed, swallowed down in greedy, shaking gulps, the plastic bowl rattling against the floor as he drained it dry. When the last mouthful was gone, Jisung sat back on his heels, breath hitching painfully in his chest. His whole body ached. His skin burned from the cold. His mind swam with exhaustion and sick gratitude.

He pressed his palms flat against his thighs once more, spine straight, chin tucked low. And he whispered the only words he had left, "Thank you, Sir."

Because gratitude was survival. Because gratitude was devotion. Because gratitude was all he could offer in return for being allowed to exist another day. Because a good pet was grateful for even the smallest kindness. Even if that kindness wore chains.

At some point, the lights dimmed. Or maybe his vision just blurred from exhaustion. His body curled in on itself slowly, instinctively. A whisper of warmth pressed against his back — not comfort, just fabric — and then nothing.

Jisung didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke to the smell of dirt and grass. Long blades of damp grass clung to his skin. The ground was uneven beneath him, cool and soft in a way that made his bones ache from the contrast.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The sky above him was wide. Open. Black dotted with silver. Too big. Too bright. Too wrong.

He blinked, heart already racing. His head throbbed. His mouth was dry. The leash was gone. The walls were gone.

He sat up slowly, dizzy, every muscle screaming. And then he saw him. Sir. He stood a few feet away, dressed in black, the mask still in place. Silent. Still. Watching.

Jisung’s breath caught. Then the speaker clipped to Sir’s belt crackled to life.

“Run,” the mechanical voice commanded. “You have one chance.”

Jisung stared, frozen. It had to be a trick. A test. Another punishment waiting behind whatever he chose.

He didn’t move. He wasn't stupid. This was a trick and he wasn't going to give Sir a reason to punish him.

Sir tilted his head slightly, and then he stepped forward. Not fast. Not threatening. Just close enough to reach out.

His gloved fingers slid into Jisung’s hair. A gentle touch. Almost… affectionate.

Jisung flinched anyway, heart thudding. Sir stroked his hair once, twice—then without warning, slapped him hard across the face.

Jisung gasped, the impact rocking him sideways into the dirt. His cheek stung, eyes watering from the force of it. He didn’t cry out. He didn’t move.

When he looked up again, Sir had pulled something from his coat. It was a gun.

He pointed it straight at Jisung’s chest and the speaker crackled again.

“Run or die.”

Jisung’s breath hitched. He didn’t understand.

Freedom wasn’t something that happened. Not really. Not without punishment. Not without pain. This was a trap. It had to be.

He stayed kneeling, trembling, staring down the barrel of the gun. An owl hooted somewhere in the thicket of trees ahead and Jisung whimpered, startled by the sound.

The wind picked up, brushing the tall grass like waves. The speaker repeated itself, “Run.”

The gun didn’t move. And Jisung had seconds to decide his fate. If he stayed, he might die. If he ran, he might die faster. But something deep in him—ancient, primal, something he thought he'd lost—begged him to move.

So Jisung ran. He didn’t think. His body just moved. Legs shaking, lungs burning, vision swimming, he shoved himself upright and bolted across the field, the tall grass slicing at his bare skin as he pushed through it, stumbling almost immediately.

His legs, unsteady from disuse, buckled beneath him. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his chest. But he got up. He had to.

He ran again, clumsy, limping, his bare feet torn by rocks and roots. Every step was a gamble. His muscles screamed, and the pain was sharp, vivid, real in a way nothing had been in so long.

Behind him, he didn’t hear footsteps. No gunshot. No chase. But he didn’t trust it.

He didn’t look back. He ran through a fence, the wire tearing into his arm. He ran through thorn bushes, through mud, through branches that slapped his face. His body was a litany of wounds, old and new, but it didn’t matter. Not now.

He didn’t know where he was. Or what direction he was heading. Only that he had to keep going. He broke through a line of trees just as the world ahead lit up.

Lights.

Blinding, unfamiliar, artificial headlights cutting through the darkness. And the roar of an engine. Jisung stumbled into the road, arms flailing, mouth open in a soundless scream. Tires screeched. Horns blared. He saw the shape of a car swerving and another coming fast behind it.

He fell to his knees in the middle of the asphalt, blinking against the sudden light and the car door opened. Someone shouted. Another voice—panicked, sharp. Someone running toward him.

Jisung's hands trembled as he lifted them to shield his face from the light. He didn’t speak. Good pets didn't speak unless spoken to.

The room was quiet, filled with the soft rustle of blankets and the rhythmic breath of sleep.

Minho lay on his back, one arm loosely draped around Hyunjin’s waist. Hyunjin was curled into his side, face tucked against his shoulder, a slow rise and fall to his chest. The sheets were tangled around them, still warm.

Outside, the wind brushed gently against the windows. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The world, for once, was still.

Minho stirred only slightly when the phone buzzed on the nightstand. He blinked groggily, one hand fumbling across the dark wood for the screen. The light was blinding in the pitch black, but the name stopped him cold.

Changbin.

Minho’s brows knit together as he sat up slowly, careful not to jostle Hyunjin. He answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

There was a long silence on the other end. Then Changbin’s voice—tight, controlled, but strained at the edges.

“Minho,” he said, low and steady. “You need to come down to the station.”

Minho’s heart picked up, cold creeping into his limbs. “Why? What's happened?”

Another pause. Then, “They found Jisung.”

The world tilted. Minho didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He just stared into the darkness, the sound of Hyunjin’s breathing still soft beside him, the echo of Changbin’s words reverberating through the silence.

They found Jisung.

Chapter Text

The hospital hallway was too quiet. Minho stood stiffly outside the closed exam room door, arms crossed so tightly across his chest it made his shoulders ache. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, sterile and humming, casting a pale glare across the white tile floor. Every few seconds, a nurse passed by without stopping. No one looked at him.

Behind that door, Jisung was being examined. Jisung. Alive.

He hadn't seen him yet. No one had let him. He only knew what Changbin had told him on the phone—his voice low and serious, his words barely holding together. “They found him,” he’d said. “He’s alive.”

Since then, the world had tilted sideways. Minho’s hands hadn’t stopped shaking.

He stared at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe Jisung would walk out and say his name, soft and familiar, like nothing had changed. But the door didn’t open.

“Minho.”

He turned sharply. Changbin stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, expression carefully unreadable.

“Can I go in?” Minho asked immediately. “Please.”

Changbin shook his head once. “Not yet.”

“I just need to see him. One second.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

Minho took a step closer to the door, then stopped himself. “I need this, Changbin. You know he’s—” His voice cracked, “He – we —” and he couldn't even get the words out.

“I know,” Changbin said. He already sounded tired. “But he doesn’t know where he is. He’s not… present. He hasn't spoken a word since they brought him in. They had to sedate him just to examine him. If you go in like this—he could shut down again.”

Minho pressed a fist to his mouth, willing his heartbeat to slow. He felt like he was standing on glass, every breath too loud, every second a weight against his chest.

“What if he asks for me?”

“He hasn’t said anything.” Changbin’s voice was gentle now, but firm. “We’ll let you know the second that changes.”

Minho looked down, jaw tight. His fingers twitched at his sides. “Okay.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he stayed by the door, eyes fixed on the narrow window—blinds shut, nothing visible. He didn't know what he’d say when the time came. He didn’t even know if Jisung would look at him.

Minho swallowed hard and shifted closer to Changbin, his voice barely above a whisper, “What’s he like? I mean… when they found him, what was he like?”

Changbin hesitated. His jaw flexed. “You sure you want to know that right now?”

Minho nodded, but the motion felt weak. “I need to.”

Changbin exhaled slowly, glancing toward the shut door before answering. “He was naked. Filthy. Bruised all over—old scars, newer ones. Looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. Maybe longer. He ran into traffic like an animal. Didn’t even speak. Just collapsed.” Minho blinked hard, turning his face away for a moment like the words physically hit him. “He had a collar on,” Changbin added. “Locked tight around his neck.”

Minho didn’t say anything at first. His throat was burning.

“He didn’t recognize anyone,” Changbin said more quietly now. “Wouldn’t let the paramedics near him at first. He fought like he thought they were going to hurt him. But not really. He didn’t even have the strength to resist properly. Just panic.”

Minho's nails dug into the skin of his arm where he clutched himself. “He was always so gentle.”

Changbin looked at him. “Maybe he still is.”

Minho nodded once, hollow. “I should’ve found him sooner.”

“No,” Changbin said firmly. “Don’t start that. Not now.”

But the guilt had already sunk its claws in. Minho stayed silent, staring at the door as if sheer willpower might open it. His breath quickened. The silence behind the door was too much, too heavy. It pressed down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. While Jisung had been tortured and at the mercy of some sick animal, Minho had been trying to move on. He was disgusted at himself.

“I need to see him,” he said again, louder this time. “I can’t just stand here.”

“Minho—” Changbin’s voice sharpened with warning.

But Minho moved. One step forward, then another. His hand reached for the door handle.

Changbin grabbed his arm. “Don’t.”

Minho tried to shake him off, chest rising and falling too fast. “I just want to see him. I’ll be quiet, I won’t touch him—just let me in for a second.”

“You can’t,” Changbin said, stepping in front of him now, gripping his shoulders hard enough to keep him still. “He’s not ready. You barging in there like this won’t help him. It’ll make it worse.”

“I can’t wait out here like this,” Minho hissed, voice breaking at the edges. “He’s in there and I haven’t even— I don’t know if he’s okay. I don’t know if he even knows he’s safe.”

“He’s not alone,” Changbin said firmly. “Seungmin’s in there with him.”

That gave Minho pause.

“Seungmin's there?” he asked, breathing hard.

“Yeah. He dropped everything when he got the call. He’s doing everything he can. You know he is.”

Minho’s shoulders slumped slightly under Changbin’s hands, his whole body taut and shaking. “He’s my— I should be the one in there.”

“I know. And you will be. But not right now.”

Minho looked at the door like he could burn a hole through it, his chest aching with something too big to name.

“You’re not being kept away,” Changbin said, gentler now. “You’re being asked to wait. For him. Because this—what he went through? It’s not something you can fix by walking in and holding his hand. He needs space. And time.”

Minho leaned back against the wall, fists still clenched at his sides. “Tell Seungmin…” he started, then stopped. “Tell him to be gentle with him.”

Changbin nodded. “He already is.”

Jisung looked barely human.

He lay motionless beneath the thin hospital sheet, nothing more than bones and bruises wrapped in paper-thin skin. Even sedated, his body trembled faintly, as if some echo of fear still lived in his muscles and refused to let go. His wrists rested limp by his sides, the skin there rubbed raw and dark with healing bruises. Beneath the gauze dressing, Seungmin knew there were ligature marks—deep, permanent ridges in his flesh from restraints worn too long.

Seungmin stood at the foot of the bed, still in his white coat, though he hadn’t touched the stethoscope around his neck in hours. He wasn’t just a doctor right now. He was Jisung’s friend. And he was horrified.

The other doctors spoke in low tones, working quickly but carefully. A nurse checked the IV, adjusting the drip. Another physician documented abrasions on Jisung’s legs and back, murmuring to the scribe beside her. Every word they spoke added a new fracture inside Seungmin’s chest.

There was no part of Jisung that was untouched. Bruises of every age and shape painted his thighs and ribs, some yellowed with age, others fresh and deep violet. His arms were mottled with dark fingerprint bruises. The nurse said when he was brought in his back had angry welts—some long-healed, others still scabbing. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

No, the worst came when they examined his pelvis and thighs. The nurse in charge of the examination had a steady voice, but even she paused before reporting the findings. “There’s extensive trauma in the perineal and anal area. Multiple healed tears, consistent with repeated sexual assault over a long period of time. Scar tissue suggests the injuries were never properly treated. Some scarring appears infected. Recent activity… possibly earlier today.”

Seungmin turned away for a moment, swallowing bile. He’d seen post-trauma cases before. He’d seen assault victims. But never someone he knew. Never someone who used to smile at him from across café tables and text him bad memes after midnight. Never Jisung.

He forced himself to turn back. Because Jisung deserved that. Deserved someone who could look at his wounds and not flinch. Someone who would witness his pain and still stay.

But then the nurse peeled back the sheets and Seungmin saw it all with his own eyes. The markings. At first, they looked like tattoos—simple black ink, faint and uneven. But when he looked closer, his blood went cold. Someone had carved into Jisung’s skin. Thin, deliberate lines—made with a knife, maybe a scalpel—then inked crudely afterward. Some were scarred over, twisted and shiny. Others were fresher, the edges still angry and raised. The tattooed scars were jagged and ran in erratic lines across his skin. But there were also words. No, the same word etched again and again across his body—on his inner thighs, above his hipbone, scrawled across his ribs, and worst of all, the nape of his neck. Like a collar without a chain. Like a claim. PET.

Seungmin’s hands clenched at his sides. He couldn't speak. The air felt too thick. The antiseptic smell made his stomach turn. His vision blurred.

He heard a doctor say something about sedative levels. Another one requested a psych consult. None of it registered.

Jisung was twenty-five years old. He was supposed to be a teacher. He was supposed to be engaged. He was supposed to be happy. Instead, he was lying here with years of pain scrawled into his skin. With secrets buried in muscle memory and instinct. With fear etched so deep it radiated from his bones.

Seungmin stepped closer to the bed, slower now, watching the way Jisung flinched even in sleep when a nurse adjusted his blanket. His body tensed, arms jerking slightly before going still again, like a dog trained not to resist.

It wasn’t right. It would never be right.

And Seungmin wasn’t leaving. Not again. Not when Jisung had lived this long in silence. Not when someone had taken everything from him and tried to make him forget who he was. Seungmin stood by his side until the room quieted.

And he promised—out loud this time, even if Jisung couldn’t hear it yet, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The door shut with a soft click behind Changbin, but Seungmin barely registered it.

“You okay?” came Changbin’s voice, low, careful.

Seungmin didn’t answer right away. His eyes kept drifting back to Jisung’s face—drawn, unrecognizable in all the worst ways. The boy who used to fill every room with his voice, who laughed too loudly, cried too easily, and loved with everything he had—was silent now. Silent and still.

“He’s stable,” Seungmin said eventually, voice flat from too many hours without rest. “Vitals are holding. Hydration underway. We’ve cleaned and treated the open wounds. External trauma… we’ve never seen worse.” He paused. Swallowed. “There’s bruising on his wrists and ankles. Rope burns. Scarring on his hips. His back. Old injuries too. All healed wrong—never treated properly. He’s malnourished to the point of organ strain. Dehydrated. Infections starting along pressure points and old cuts. But… that part we can fix.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying to reassure—Changbin, or himself.

Changbin stood a few steps from the bed, arms folded. “And the rest?”

Seungmin exhaled through his nose. He knew the question was coming. It still made his stomach turn.

“He was tattooed,” Seungmin said, the words heavy on his tongue. “Not professionally. Carved into old scars. Over and over—the same word.” His grip tightened on the file until the edge bent. “Pet.” He saw Changbin wince slightly, just at the corners of his eyes. “Lower back. Inner thigh. Rib cage. Even his neck.”

He didn’t say what it meant. He didn’t have to.

“And?” Changbin asked, quieter this time, as if hoping the answer might change if he lowered his voice.

Seungmin didn’t flinch. “Long-term sexual trauma. Consistent. Escalating. Some internal scarring. Healed over improperly. The full scope… we won’t know until he wakes up. And even then—”

He broke off. The words started to sound clinical again, and he hated that. He was speaking like a doctor, but inside, he was screaming like a friend.

“I don’t know what they did to him,” he said softly, eyes locked on Jisung’s fragile form. “But it wasn’t just physical. He’s been reprogrammed. Conditioned. His silence, his posture—it’s not fear anymore. It’s muscle memory.” He looked at Changbin. “This wasn’t just survival. It was obedience.”

“Seung, I'm sure someone else can take care of him. There are other doctors—”

“If his best friend won’t take care of him,” Seungmin snapped, “who will?”

Changbin frowned, “You're obviously having a hard time.” He placed a hand on Seungmin’s shoulder, “Maybe let the others handle things tonight.”

Seungmin shrugged Changbin’s hand off and shook his head adamantly, “I need to be here.”

Changbin’s jaw clenched. His shoulders rose like he might say something, then dropped again. “Minho’s outside, you know,” he said after a beat. “He’s a mess.”

“I’m not surprised,” Seungmin muttered. “He should be.”

“I told him we’d talk to him when you’re ready.”

Seungmin nodded once, then stood, walking to the foot of the bed. Jisung’s face was turned slightly toward the ceiling, eyelids flickering faintly with the sedation.

“Let's get that over with,” Seungmin muttered.

Minho looked like he hadn’t slept. His hoodie was wrinkled, his hands twitching restlessly at his sides, eyes locked onto the door behind Seungmin as though he could will it open with desperation alone.

Seungmin and Changbin had barely stepped into the hallway when Minho stood up straight, all his focus zeroing in, “Is he awake?”

Seungmin shook his head. “No.”

Minho took a step forward. “Let me in. I just — I need to see him.”

Seungmin’s body stiffened instinctively. He shook his head once, sharp and immediate. “No. That’s not possible right now.”

Minho’s mouth opened, frustration bleeding into his expression. “I won’t wake him. I just need to see him. I need him to know I’m here.”

“I said no.” Seungmin regretted the cold edge in his voice immediately, but he didn’t take it back.

Minho turned to Changbin instead. “Come on. You know me. You know I wouldn’t—”

“You’re still a suspect, Minho,” Changbin said evenly.

Minho blinked. “You can’t be serious. Forget that fucking badge for a minute, Changbin. You know I'd never hurt him.”

Seungmin held back a snort. Minho wasn't fooling anyone with that act.

“It’s not personal,” Changbin said. “It’s standard. In cases like this—where a person disappears under suspicious circumstances—the fiancé is always considered. And we don't know anything about where he was, who did this to him.”

“Well, it wasn't me.”

“I know,” Changbin replied gently. “But the only person who can clear you is Jisung. And he hasn’t said a word yet.”

Seungmin crossed his arms tightly, not out of judgment—but because he couldn’t bear the pleading look on Minho’s face. An act. That's what it was.

“If you go in now,” Seungmin explained, “and he wakes up still confused, still scared, and he reacts badly—what then?” he asked. “You want that to be the first image he has of you after three years?”

Minho faltered, shoulders sagging. “I just… I thought maybe seeing me would help.”

“If it will, Detective Seo and I will bring you in,” Seungmin said. “But it has to come from him.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Minho looked down, voice barely audible, “Okay.”

Seungmin didn’t say anything else. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Not while the guilt still sat in his throat, bitter and thick. Not while a part of him still hadn’t forgiven Minho for what he did. He just turned back toward the door. And left Minho waiting.

The sky was still dark, that quiet hour just before dawn when everything felt suspended. The house was silent, except for the soft creak of the front door opening.

Hyunjin sat on the edge of the bed, already dressed in one of Minho’s oversized sweaters, legs curled beneath him. He hadn’t slept after Minho left. He couldn’t. Not when he’d woken alone, the sheets cold beside him, and no note left behind.

The moment Minho stepped inside, Hyunjin was there—leaning against the wall just outside the bedroom, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“You didn’t wake me before you left.”

Minho froze in the hallway. He looked exhausted. Shadows dragged beneath his eyes, and his clothes smelled faintly of antiseptic and concrete. Did he go to the hospital?

“I didn’t want to—” he started.

“You didn’t want to what?” Hyunjin asked, voice quieter now. “Let me know you vanished in the middle of the night without saying a word?”

Minho rubbed a hand over his face. “I got a call. About Jisung.”

Hyunjin’s posture stiffened. His breath caught in his chest. “Is he…?”

“He was found. He’s at the hospital.”

Hyunjin blinked, a second too long. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. He didn’t know how to react. Part of him wanted to smile, to say he was happy for Minho, for Jisung. But the other part—the selfish, twisting part—ached. Because he knew everything was about to change. He looked down, ashamed of the knot forming in his stomach.

“That’s… that’s good,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I hope he’s okay.”

He didn’t mean to sound hollow. But he did.

He didn’t tell Minho how he felt. Didn’t say that fear was coiling in his chest like a vine. That he knew what was coming. That no matter how gentle Minho had been with him, no matter how steady—it would never compare to the bond that Jisung and Minho had once shared. He didn’t say he felt like a placeholder.

“He's not okay,” Minho muttered, sitting at the edge of the bed. “He was beaten, he was starved and…” He shook his head, unable to get the words out.

Hyunjin held out a hand, “Come to bed, baby. You need to rest.”

Minho hesitated, staring at Hyunjin’s hand as if he was being offered poison, “I don't think… I mean, I guess I want to be alone right now.”

Hyunjin’s hand fell limply to his side, his lips parted in surprise. His heart sank into the hollow pit of his stomach, “Oh.”

“I – I'll sleep in the guest room,” Minho said, standing up. “I—”

“No, you don't have to,” Hyunjin said instead, stepping back into the hallway. “I'll leave.”

He knew he was being petty. But he also couldn't stand being around to see the barrier Minho was building between them.

“Don’t say that,” Minho replied, his voice rough. “You don’t have to go.”

Hyunjin paused, hand resting on the doorframe. He didn’t turn around.

“I do,” he said quietly. “You don’t see it now. But you will.”

“Hyunjin, it's dark outside—”

“I'll be fine.”

The city was still dark when Hyunjin knocked softly on his friend's door. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of his coat, body folded small against the chill. He hadn’t brought anything with him—not a bag, not a change of clothes. Just keys, phone, and a heart full of dread. It took only a few seconds before the door opened.

Felix blinked at him, hair tousled from sleep, wearing an oversized t-shirt and pajama pants. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t hesitate.

“Hyunjin? Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin said immediately, his voice raw. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Felix stepped aside without question. “Come in. Of course. It’s no problem.”

The warmth of the apartment hit Hyunjin as he stepped inside—soft lighting, the faint scent of vanilla from a candle long extinguished, and the familiar safety of Felix’s presence.

He sank onto the couch while Felix moved to the kitchen and returned with two mugs of warm tea. Felix didn't press for answers. Just sat beside him, close but not crowding.

“It’s Jisung,” Hyunjin said after a while, staring at the untouched mug in his hands. “He’s alive. They found him.”

Felix’s breath hitched. “Oh my god.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly. “Minho left as soon as he found out. I understand why. I do. But I just… I knew the second he said it—everything would change.”

Felix laid a gentle hand on his arm. “That doesn’t make you a bad person, you know. For feeling that.”

Hyunjin’s eyes welled up. “It feels like it does.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Felix was good at that—being present without prying.

“I just needed to be somewhere that didn’t feel like waiting,” Hyunjin said softly. He blinked away his tears, finding a spot to stare at so he wouldn't burst into tears. His eyes settled on a framed photograph of Felix and his husband on their wedding day. Hyunjin burned with envy everytime he saw it.

“You can stay as long as you want.” Felix gave a small smile. “Jeongin’s not here anyway—he’s visiting some relatives out of town.”

Hyunjin nodded, his throat tight. He didn’t know what the next day would bring. But for now, he let himself lean against Felix’s shoulder, drawing warmth from the only thing that hadn’t shifted beneath him.

The hospital room was too quiet. Seungmin sat in the corner, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes fixed on the slow, steady rise and fall of Jisung’s chest beneath the hospital blanket. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound, and even that grated on his nerves after a while. He felt sick—nauseous from fatigue, from rage, from heartbreak—but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not again.

Jisung’s face looked softer in sleep, but it didn’t erase the bruises. The carved words. The damage beneath the skin that Seungmin couldn’t touch.

“Hey,” came a voice from the doorway.

Changbin entered quietly, a paper coffee cup in each hand. He passed one over.

“You need to go home,” Changbin said gently. “Shower. Sleep. Eat something.”

“I’m fine,” Seungmin replied, though the dark circles under his eyes said otherwise.

Changbin sat beside him. “I’ve got officers stationed outside the room. No one’s getting near him. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know,” Seungmin muttered. “But I need to be here, Detective Seo.”

Changbin snorted, “Don't ‘Detective Seo’ me.” He gave Seungmin a playful nudge and asked, “Hungry? I can get you something.”

Seungmin shook his head and they fell into silence again, the tension between them something familiar now—close and complicated. Seungmin stared at the floor, cup untouched. After a moment, Changbin reached out, brushing Seungmin’s knuckles with his fingers. It was small, fleeting, but grounding.

They slipped into a quiet corner of the hallway, away from the door, out of view of the other staff. Changbin leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Seungmin’s mouth. It was brief, almost hesitant, but it lingered just long enough to matter.

The sound of footsteps made them pull apart abruptly. A nurse passed by with a clipboard, glancing at them without comment. Still, the moment was broken.

Seungmin looked back toward Jisung’s room. “I’m not leaving,” he said, firmer now.

Changbin sighed. “You did what you could. There's not much you can do until he wakes.”

“Then I'll wait.” He took a sip of the coffee, cold already, but it gave his hands something to do.

The sound hit like a crash—metal against tile, a monitor alarm screeching to life, and the sharp clatter of something heavy tumbling to the floor. Seungmin jolted, heart hammering in his chest.

Then someone shouted his name,“Doctor Kim!” and all the fog in his brain vanished.

He was on his feet instantly, pushing open the door to Jisung’s room. What he saw made the air catch in his throat.

Jisung was no longer in bed. The wires from the heart monitor had been yanked out, the IV torn free, leaving faint splatters of blood on the pale sheets. The machine shrieked beside the bed, a garbled cry of disconnection and malfunction. And on the floor, in the farthest corner of the room, Jisung huddled like a wounded animal.

His knees were drawn tight to his chest. His arms wrapped around his head. His gown had slipped down one shoulder, exposing skin littered with scars—old ones, healed over in jagged ridges, and new ones, red and raw. His body trembled, shoulders twitching with each shuddering breath. His fingers curled tightly against his scalp, nails biting into his skin like he was trying to disappear into himself.

“Jisung,” Seungmin said softly, hands raised, not daring to step closer.

There was no recognition in Jisung’s eyes. He wasn’t looking at anyone. He was staring into space, lips moving rapidly. Whispering.

“No… no, please… I was good, I was good, I didn’t disobey, please…”

The words sliced through Seungmin’s chest.

Behind him, a nurse stepped forward, syringe in hand. “We can administer another sedative—”

“No.” Seungmin didn’t take his eyes off Jisung. “Wait.”

He crouched slightly, just enough to make himself smaller. His voice dropped to something low, steady, calming.

“Jisung,” he said again. “It’s me. Seungmin. You’re safe. You’re in a hospital. No one is going to hurt you.”

The whispering stopped. Jisung flinched, curling tighter for a second, then slowly—agonizingly—lifted his head. His eyes were wide, glassy with fear and confusion, pupils blown wide. His mouth opened like he meant to speak, but no sound came out.

Then, hoarse and broken, a single name cracked from his lips.

“Seung…min?”

The way he said it—like it was both a question and a plea—nearly brought Seungmin to his knees.

“Yes,” Seungmin said quietly, trying not to let his own voice break. “It’s me. You’re safe now. You’re not alone.”

Jisung didn’t move from the corner. But something in his face changed. The panic didn’t vanish—it couldn’t, not yet—but it softened, just slightly. His breathing slowed, his arms loosened around his head. His whole body sagged, exhausted and trembling.

He wasn’t grounded, not fully. But something had reached him.

Seungmin didn’t step forward. He didn’t close the distance. He knew not to.

He simply stayed there, crouched by the bed, not touching, not crowding. A quiet presence.

And Jisung, after a long silence, whispered the word back like it was something he’d barely dared to hope for.

“Safe.”

The light when Jisung woke again was soft and pale, filtering in through the sheer hospital curtain like a watercolor washed too thin. Morning, maybe. It painted the walls in quiet tones, a whisper of brightness instead of the harsh fluorescents he was used to. He blinked slowly, each flutter of his lashes bringing the world into focus a little more—soft edges, muted sound, a haze like sleep hadn’t fully let go yet.

For a moment, there was nothing. No fear. No pain. No recognition. Then it all came rushing back.

The beeping of a monitor, rhythmic and mechanical, sounded too close. There was the gentle hiss of air being pushed through tubing. Muffled footsteps passed beyond the closed door. The sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic filled his nose—alcohol, bleach, latex. It wasn’t the basement.

But it wasn’t home either. He didn’t know where he was.

The mattress under him was too soft, too clean, and his fingers clutched instinctively at the blanket—lightweight, warm and soft. He hadn't felt anything like this in a long, long time. There was no leash tightening around his throat. No collar biting into raw skin. No metallic crackle of a speaker springing to life with orders he didn’t dare ignore.

No mask. No Sir.

The realization didn’t crash over him like a wave. It leaked in slowly, creeping through the cracks of his mind like dampness seeping into old wood. Panic took shape in the shadows, curling around the base of his spine. He tucked his knees to his chest beneath the blanket, arms wrapped tight around them. He pressed his forehead to bone and tried to disappear.

The silence was unnerving. There were no commands, no punishments. Just the soft ambient buzz of hospital life beyond his door.

He’d been released. That was the only answer his mind could make sense of.

But why?

Bits of memory floated up like bubbles from deep water. Running through the forest, bare feet thudding over wet leaves. The screech of tires. A horn. Headlights. Voices. Then pain. Then black.

Why would Sir let him go? Unless... this was still part of it. Another layer. Another test. Yes, Sir was coming back. Jisung had to be a good pet until Sir came back.

That thought made him shudder. He didn’t know the rules anymore. Didn’t know what he was supposed to do or say. And the uncertainty—the space where commands used to be—was worse than the leash. It was worse than anything.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and every muscle in Jisung’s body locked tight. He froze, heart hammering beneath the thin hospital gown.

He didn’t answer. The door opened anyway.

The figure who entered was calm, careful. Not a threat. Not Sir. A face surfaced from a memory dulled by time and trauma—Seungmin. His name floated up like a paper lantern on still water.

Best friend. Or at least, that’s what the memory told him. But memories were unreliable now. They flickered like broken film, sometimes clear, sometimes warped, and more often than not, distant. Those memories belonged to someone else.

He shrank back instinctively, pushing himself closer to the pillows, spine pressing into the headboard as if the soft barrier could shield him. His wide eyes tracked Seungmin’s movements with animal wariness.

“Hey,” Seungmin said gently, staying near the door. “It’s just me.”

The words were soft, deliberate, meant to soothe but Jisung didn’t speak. He wanted to. His throat burned with the urge to ask questions—to reach for something that felt familiar. But he was paralyzed by uncertainty. By fear. By the conditioning that screamed at him not to trust, not to move, not to speak unless told.

Trust was dangerous. Trust got you punished. Trust made you forget what you were. And Jisung didn’t even know what he was anymore.

The room was still. No alarms, no chaos. Just the slow beep of the monitor to his right and the faint pull of oxygen from the cannula under his nose. The IV had been removed, leaving a small square of gauze taped to the bend of his arm. Even that made him flinch.

Seungmin eased into the chair beside the bed, not too close, careful with his presence. He held a notebook, but he didn’t open it. Didn’t write. Just waited. Then, with a low, steady voice, he began to speak.

“That machine,” he said, nodding toward the monitor, “is tracking your heart rate. You’re doing okay.”

Jisung’s eyes flicked to the machine. Watched the numbers flicker and pulse with each beat. He didn’t respond.

Seungmin continued, patient. “That one over there monitors your oxygen levels. When you were brought in, your lungs were weak and you were severely dehydrated. But you’re breathing fine now. No more IVs. Just air.”

Jisung remained still, but his gaze followed the movements, the words. His shoulders were tight beneath the blanket, muscles drawn and locked like he was bracing for something.

Seungmin didn’t push. He kept talking, explaining each wire, each machine. What they did. What they didn’t do. No threats. No expectations. Just information. Just presence.

Seungmin pulled the curtain slightly aside, stepping carefully into the dim hospital room. The air was filled with the quiet hum of machines, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, the low hiss of oxygen. Jisung lay curled on the bed, his frame small under the blankets, eyes wide but unfocused, flinching slightly at the soft creak of the floor under Seungmin’s steps.

“Hey,” Seungmin said gently, keeping his distance, hands visible. “Just me. Not going to touch you, okay?”

Jisung didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

Seungmin pulled a chair closer and sat down slowly. “I want to explain something to you,” he said. “About that IV.”

Jisung's gaze flicked down to his arm, where the line disappeared beneath a secured bit of gauze. His breathing changed—a little faster, a little sharper.

“It’s just to help your body,” Seungmin said, voice quiet. “You haven’t had real food in a long time. Your stomach isn’t ready for solids yet. The IV gives you what you need. Fluids. Electrolytes. Nutrients. Slowly, carefully. So your body can start healing.”

He waited. Jisung said nothing. But his hand twitched slightly.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Seungmin added. “Just rest. Let your body remember what safe feels like.”

The door opened again, quiet but deliberate. Jisung tensed immediately, breath catching in his throat. His body curled slightly under the thin blanket, muscles locking instinctively. The soft hiss of the oxygen tube seemed too loud in the silence. Seungmin didn’t move from his place beside the bed, but Jisung felt the shift in the room—the air thickening, the anticipation.

Two people entered. The first man was broad-shouldered, familiar in a distant, dreamlike way. Something about his walk, the sound of his voice—it stirred a memory buried deep beneath layers of conditioning and pain.

The second was a woman. Older. Quiet eyes. She smelled faintly of lavender and paperwork. Authority wrapped in calm.

Jisung’s eyes darted between them, fingers clenching in the sheets. His heart kicked up in his chest—not fear exactly, but unease. He didn’t like new people. New meant unpredictable. New meant danger.

The man stepped forward and crouched slightly to meet his gaze.

“Hey, Jisung,” he said softly. “It’s me. Changbin. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was friends with you and Minho back in the day.”

Jisung blinked. Changbin? He did remember. Changbin the… detective. Right.

There had been laughter, once. Fried chicken, greasy fingers, loud music in a too-small apartment. Safe things. Distant things.

His lips twitched, just slightly, before flattening again. No expression. No reaction. But inside, something shifted.

Changbin must’ve seen it, because his voice softened even more. “Okay. Good.”

He gestured toward the woman. “This is Dr. Shin Minju. She’s a psychiatrist. She’s just here to observe for now.”

The woman gave a small, respectful nod. Her presence didn’t threaten, but Jisung still watched her warily. Observing meant judging. Measuring. Deciding what was broken and what wasn’t.

Changbin took a step closer, but not too close. He was careful. Like he understood the rules without being told.

“I’m here to ask a few questions,” he said. “Nothing you have to answer right now if you don't want to. But if you can, that'll help us a lot.”

Changbin waited a moment longer, then crouched a little closer, “Do you know how long you were gone?”

Jisung narrowed eyes as contemplated the question. At first, he had wondered. Tried to guess the number of days. But there was no way of really knowing. At worst, he thought it might’ve been a year. Inside, he hoped he was wrong and it was just a few months.

Slowly, Jisung shook his head. He didn't know.

Changbin bit his lip and said carefully, “It's been three years and two months.”

Three years. Three… Jisung wanted to cry but crying meant punishment.

“Can you tell me anything about where you were kept?”

Jisung’s lips parted slightly. He took in a shallow breath. He wanted to answer. He really did. But the words refused to form.

His mind blurred when he tried to recall details. There had been stairs. Walls. White rooms. The basement. But no names. No landmarks. No windows to gauge distance or sun. Everything was too vague, too distorted. Years of isolation and conditioning had stripped his memory down to fragments.

“I…” he began, voice barely audible. It scraped out of his throat like it hadn’t been used in a decade. “Basement. Maybe.”

Changbin nodded gently. “Okay. That’s good. What else?”

Jisung’s eyes welled, but not with tears—just frustration. He clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. I don’t—no signs, no places. I never… I never saw…” He trailed off, shoulders curling in.

“That's alright,” Changbin reassured him. “What about the person who kept you?”

Jisung froze. His body trembled, a fine, involuntary shiver crawling down his spine. He knew that answer.

”Sir,” he whispered.

“Okay,” Changbin said softly. “Do you know his name? Did he ever show you his face?”

Jisung shook his head immediately. “No. Never. He wore a mask. Always.”

“What kind of mask?” Dr. Shin asked gently.

Jisung hesitated, then swallowed hard. “White. Carved. Pretty. Scary.”

Changbin exhaled slowly. “You’re doing really well, Jisung. This helps us. You’re helping. Do you remember the day it happened? The day you were taken?"

The shift in Jisung was immediate. His eyes clouded, his shoulders rising as if to shield himself from the memory—or the lack of one.

"No," he whispered. The word was broken, like it had been torn out of him. He shook his head slowly, once. "I don’t remember. I was outside. Then... nothing. Just the room. The rules.”

His eyes flicked to Seungmin. Seungmin watched from his chair, jaw tight.

"That’s okay," Changbin said gently. "We’ll work with what you can give us. That’s all we need."

Jisung didn’t answer. Before the silence could settle, a sharp noise broke through the hallway—raised voices, tense and escalating. The muffled sound of someone arguing with hospital staff.

Jisung flinched. Then froze. He knew that voice. Even through the thick wood and the haze in his mind, he recognized it.

Minho.

His chest tightened. Not with fear. Not with confusion. But something softer—something warm and nostalgic that spread through his ribs like sunlight. Memories, vivid and fragmented, flickered to life. Laughter in a shared kitchen. Hands brushing his hair out of his face. A whispered promise against his neck. Minho. They didn’t feel real—not anymore. They felt like scenes from a life he had watched instead of lived. But the emotion was real. The safety. The pull.

Seungmin stood up immediately. Changbin moved toward the door.

“I need to see him!” Minho’s voice barked from the other side, desperate now. “You don’t understand—he needs me.”

Changbin cracked the door, speaking low but firm. “You’re not cleared, Minho. We’ve been through this.”

Jisung’s voice broke through the room, quiet but certain. “I trust him.”

Everyone turned to look at him. His voice was barely audible, but steady. “Minho. I trust Minho.”

They finally let him in.

The hallway had never felt so long, every step loud in Minho’s ears. His chest felt too tight, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. He moved like he was underwater, slow and disoriented. When Seungmin met him just outside the door, his face was grim, jaw clenched tight.

“Don’t crowd him,” Seungmin warned, voice low. “And don’t touch him. He’s not comfortable with contact right now.”

Minho nodded once. He didn’t trust himself to speak. His throat burned with too many words that wouldn’t come out right.

The door opened with a soft click, and he stepped inside. It hit him all at once.

The smell of antiseptic. The hum of machines. The beeping of the monitor tracking each fragile heartbeat. The sharp white of the hospital sheets against pale skin.

Jisung was smaller than he remembered. So much smaller. He looked fragile, like a paper doll left out in the rain. His face was drawn and pale, cheeks hollowed, lips chapped. His hair grazed his shoulders, wild and chopped roughly at the ends as if it had been shorn off with a knife. There were healing cuts on his arms. Bandages. Bruises. Scars that hadn’t been there before. The oxygen line curled beneath his nose, whispering with every breath.

He looked like a stranger wearing Jisung’s bones.

Minho stood frozen in the doorway, chest collapsing inward with grief. He couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t prepared for this.

“Jisung,” he whispered. The name cracked as it passed his lips.

Jisung’s head turned slightly, eyes flicking toward the sound. Their eyes met.

That alone undid him.

Minho staggered forward and sank into the chair beside the bed. His hands trembled as he covered his face, the sob catching in his throat too raw to contain. A broken sound escaped him—half a cry, half a gasp. He wept, silently but deeply, every breath wrung from the hollow ache in his chest.

“I’m here,” he choked out when he could finally breathe. “I’m here, Sungie. I’m so sorry. Oh god, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

The guilt was overwhelming. It poured through him like poison.

He should’ve found him. He should’ve known. How many nights had he given up hope? How many mornings had he kissed Hyunjin in the garden and told himself it was okay to move on?

All this time, Jisung was alive. And he was broken.

Minho wanted to reach out. To take his hand. To brush his hair back, like he used to. To press his palm to his cheek and tell him everything was going to be okay.

But he didn’t.

He remembered Seungmin’s warning. And worse, he remembered the way Jisung had flinched when the nurse reached toward him earlier in the hallway.

So he sat still, hands clenched tightly in his lap, gripping the edge of the chair like it might keep him grounded. Jisung watched him. His expression didn’t change. His body didn’t move. But he didn’t look away. And that was everything.

Minho cried until his chest ached. Until his vision blurred. Until he could speak again.

“You came back to me,” Minho whispered. “You came back, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” He leaned forward just slightly, his voice softer now, “I’ll wait. However long it takes. I’ll wait, Jisung. I swear.”

Minho didn’t need to be touched. He just needed to be close.

The store smelled like leather and luxury, polished wood floors echoing under Hyunjin’s steps as he followed Felix through rows of designer racks. Bright lights glinted off glass cases filled with accessories that cost more than Hyunjin’s monthly rent. It was the kind of place he never dared enter alone—too refined, too intimidating. But Felix had insisted.

“You need a distraction,” Felix had said with a smile, looping their arms together. “Retail therapy works wonders. Trust me.”

So here they were.

Hyunjin ran his fingers along the edge of a silk shirt, the richness of the fabric making him swallow hard. “Felix, I can’t afford anything in here.”

Felix looked back at him, already holding two jackets in one arm and a pair of sunglasses he clearly had no intention of putting down. “Good thing I’m buying.”

Hyunjin stopped short. “No, you’re not.”

Felix grinned. “Too late. I already picked out a coat for you.”

“Felix—”

“Consider it a gift,” he said breezily. “Jeongin won’t mind.”

Hyunjin smiled weakly and didn’t answer. He didn’t want to think too hard about how Felix and Jeongin could afford this kind of lifestyle, not with Felix being an assistant in a shoe store and Jeongin just starting out in the police force. Hyunjin supposed it wasn’t his place to know.

They moved through another section of the store, passing by a rack of tailored coats and boots displayed like museum pieces. Hyunjin paused beside a long mirror, catching sight of himself and looking quickly away.

“Minho would like that one,” Felix said, nodding toward a sleek black overcoat.

Hyunjin’s chest tightened. “Minho doesn’t care what I wear.”

Felix glanced at him. “Hey. That’s not true.”

Hyunjin kept his eyes on the coat, fingers brushing the fabric. “I tell him I love him all the time, you know?” Felix didn’t interrupt. “But he’s never said it back.” Hyunjin’s voice was soft, almost lost under the music playing overhead. “Not once.” The silence stretched, heavy between them. “And now that Jisung’s back…” He trailed off, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don’t think he ever will.”

Felix moved closer and gently touched Hyunjin’s arm. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Hyunjin whispered. “I just… I wish I didn’t.”

Felix didn’t try to argue. He simply stood there with him, quiet and steady.

They didn’t say anything else as they wandered into the next aisle. Hyunjin pretended to admire a scarf while blinking back the sting in his eyes.

Then Felix said, gently, “You should go see him tonight.”

Hyunjin turned, startled. “What?”

“Minho,” Felix said. “You’re hurting, and he probably is too. Just… talk to him. Be there.”

Hyunjin hesitated. “What if he doesn’t want me there?”

Felix raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you let that stop you?”

Hyunjin gave a small, bitter laugh. “Since Jisung came back from the dead.”

Felix took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “So you show up anyway. You don’t have to fight for him—but you can remind him you’re still there. That he’s not the only one who’s hurting.” Hyunjin looked away, unsure. “You love him, right?”

“More than anything,” Hyunjin said.

“Then go.”

Hyunjin looked down at the coat Felix had handed him earlier. He ran his fingers over the hem and nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go.”

Minho stood in the hallway, pulling on a clean sweatshirt and reaching for his phone. The hospital bag he'd packed the night before—just a change of clothes and a few snacks in case Jisung wanted anything—waited near the front door. He checked the time again. If he left now, he could spend an hour or two at the hospital before visiting hours ended. The weight of that visit hung heavy on his shoulders, but it was a gravity he welcomed. Seeing Jisung—even in that fragile state—grounded him in a way nothing else could. As painful as it was, it reminded him Jisung was alive.

He was reaching for his keys when the doorbell rang. A brief jolt of surprise rippled through him—he wasn’t expecting anyone. For a second, he considered ignoring it. But something made him answer, and when he opened the door, his heart clenched.

Hyunjin stood there. His buzzed blonde hair caught the porch light in a soft halo, his eyes wide and hopeful, lips parted in a hesitant smile. He wore a crisp, fitted coat that framed his narrow frame, and his cologne lingered faintly in the cool air between them—familiar, comforting, and painfully out of place. He looked like he’d put effort into tonight—maybe too much effort, like he’d been planning this moment all afternoon.

“Hey,” Hyunjin said, voice gentle but unsure. “I thought maybe we could have dinner together tonight.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard. Guilt bloomed instantly in his chest, spreading like ink through water.

“I was just about to head to the hospital,” he said, trying to sound apologetic and not abrupt. “I haven’t really had much time with Jisung. I told Seungmin I’d go back tonight.”

He watched as Hyunjin’s face fell, the shift so subtle it would’ve been easy to miss—but Minho saw it. The way his shoulders lowered. The glimmer of light that faded from his eyes. He didn’t cry. He didn’t argue. But disappointment radiated from him in waves.

“Oh,” Hyunjin murmured. “Right. No, yeah. I get it.”

Minho stepped forward, closing some of the space between them. “Hyun, I didn’t know you were coming. If I had—”

“It’s okay,” Hyunjin interrupted, but his voice cracked slightly. He turned his face away, blinking quickly, and Minho’s chest ached at the sight.

Without thinking, Minho reached out, cupping Hyunjin’s cheek. His skin was warm under his palm, his jaw tense. He waited until Hyunjin met his eyes again.

“Hey,” Minho whispered. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

He leaned in and kissed him—slow, steady, not rushed or hungry. It was a gesture of reassurance, of familiarity. His hand slid to the back of Hyunjin’s neck, grounding them both in a moment that felt like it belonged to a different version of their lives.

When he pulled away, Hyunjin’s eyes shimmered, but he didn’t speak. Minho didn’t either. Because there was nothing else to say. He still cared for Hyunjin. Maybe he even loved him in his own way. But Jisung was back, and everything had changed.

Minho stood in the doorway for longer than he should have, hand on the knob, trying to quiet the chaos inside him. The hospital hallway behind him was still, muted in the early morning hush, but the room ahead hummed faintly with machines and filtered light. Jisung was asleep—curled tightly under the thin blanket, facing away from the door, his body small and tense even in unconsciousness. Minho could see the sharp rise of his shoulders with every breath, the bruises peeking from the collar of the hospital gown, the too-prominent lines of his spine. He looked like a child. Like a ghost of the boy Minho used to know.

He stepped in quietly. Jisung didn’t stir at first. Then Minho said it—soft, instinctive, a word he used a hundred times before the world had ended.

“Sweetheart, are you awake?”

The effect was immediate and gutting.

Jisung bolted upright in the bed, spine snapping straight, arms rigid at his sides like he was bracing for pain. “Yes, Sir,” he said without thinking, voice rough and thin with fear. His eyes were wide and unfocused, body trembling as if waiting for the blow that would follow.

Minho froze, breath catching. The room tilted beneath him. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Jisung’s expression flickered, his eyes struggling to make sense of the light, the bed, the man standing before him. Recognition dawned slowly.

Minho’s own heart cracked in two as Jisung’s posture faltered, the tension slowly bleeding out of his rigid frame. His hands dropped to his lap, shaking. He didn’t say anything, couldn’t seem to. He just stared at his knees like he didn’t deserve to look higher.

“I’m not him,” Minho said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not the one who did this to you.”

Jisung gave a small nod, slow and tentative. His mouth parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t summon the strength. Minho didn’t push. He just crossed the room and sank into the chair beside the bed, keeping his hands where Jisung could see them.

From beside the chair, he reached into a paper bag and carefully pulled out a folded bundle of clothes—familiar ones. A hoodie faded soft with years of use, a pair of jeans Jisung used to live in, a t-shirt with a cracked university logo. Minho held them in his lap like offerings.

“I brought these,” he said quietly. “They’re yours. From before.”

Jisung blinked down at them slowly. His gaze lingered.

“Mine?” he rasped, the words barely audible.

Minho’s throat tightened. “Yeah. Most of your things are still at your apartment. I still pay your rent every month. I guess I hoped… I hoped you'd come back.”

There was a flicker of something across Jisung’s face. A thread of warmth or pain—Minho couldn’t tell. But it was human. It was Jisung.

“You and I,” Jisung murmured. His voice was raw with disuse, gravel lining every word. “Moving in together?”

Minho swallowed hard. “Yeah. We were supposed to move in together after…”

“Wedding…” Jisung whispered, eyes far away now.

Minho nodded. “We had a date picked. Late spring. Lemon cheesecake, because chocolate made you sleepy and strawberry was too sweet and you wanted something unique.”

Jisung closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillows, breathing slowly. Minho watched the shape of him—still thin, still fragile—but somewhere beneath that was Jisung. His Jisung.

Minho didn’t cry. Not yet. But his hand shook on the arm of the chair.

“I missed you every day,” he said quietly, not expecting a reply.

But then, so softly he almost didn’t hear it, Jisung breathed, “Me too.” The machine beside him beeped, administering another dose of pain medication. Minho watched him drift into sleep.

Minho sat quietly in the chair by Jisung’s bedside, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on the slow, steady rise and fall of Jisung’s chest. His face was peaceful in sleep, slack with exhaustion, but Minho could still see the tension—carved deep into the lines around his mouth, the bruise-shadowed skin under his eyes. Even asleep, Jisung looked afraid to dream.

Minho didn’t move. He didn’t want to wake him. He just needed to be there, to see him breathe, to remind himself that this wasn’t a hallucination. Jisung was real. Alive. Just feet away.

Eventually, the door creaked open behind him, bursting the small bubble of peace he'd created with Jisung.

Seungmin stepped inside, clipboard in hand, followed closely by a nurse in soft pink scrubs. They nodded briefly at Minho.

“We’re going to try giving him something small to eat,” Seungmin said quietly. “Just a few bites. Soft food.”

Minho nodded and rose from the chair, stepping back as the nurse moved to disconnect some of the monitors. The beeping stopped, replaced by the faint hum of the overhead light and the quiet swish of fabric as Seungmin approached the bed.

“Jisung,” Seungmin said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to wake up, okay? We have food for you.”

Jisung’s eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first. Then they darted around the room. He sat up carefully, watching each of them like they were strangers. Like danger might spill from their mouths at any second.

The nurse stepped forward with the small tray. A shallow bowl of mashed potatoes. A plastic spoon. A glass of water.

Jisung’s eyes dropped to the bowl.

Then—without a word—he slid off the bed.

Minho froze. “Jisung?”

Jisung didn’t respond. He moved stiffly, limbs slow and jerky, and lowered himself to the floor on his hands and knees.

And then, he dragged the tray down with him.

The nurse gasped. Seungmin’s clipboard clattered to the table behind him.

Jisung nudged the bowl to the tile floor, braced himself, and bent forward—eating directly from it, lips pressed to the rim, just like he had in the basement. No spoon. No hands. No shame.

Minho’s heart shattered in his chest.

“Jisung—no, you don’t have to do that,” Seungmin said quickly, stepping forward.

But Jisung flinched at his voice, teeth clenching around a mouthful of potato like he’d done something wrong. Like punishment was coming.

Minho wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.

But instead, he sank to his knees beside Jisung and said, very softly, “You don’t have to eat like that anymore. You’re not there. You’re safe.”

Jisung didn’t lift his head. Didn’t speak. But the way his shoulders trembled said everything.

Minho stayed on his knees beside Jisung, heart lodged somewhere in his throat, breath held like even the smallest sound might shatter the moment. Jisung’s face was close to the floor, his jaw working slowly around another bite of the soft, cold potatoes. He was trembling, every line of his body tight like a coiled spring.

Then Jisung froze. He stopped eating, shoulders seizing.

Minho barely had time to react before Jisung recoiled from the bowl, pushed himself back on his knees, and dropped his head low. His hands braced on the tile, fingers splayed. He started to shake harder, small, gasping whimpers escaping his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I— I forgot. I didn’t mean to—”

Minho reached toward him instinctively, but Seungmin held up a hand, stopping him.

“I’m sorry for crying,” Jisung choked out. His voice cracked, hoarse and raw, as if even that apology hurt. “Please don’t— I’ll be better. I will. I promise.”

The tears came fast then, falling silently down his cheeks as he tried to curl in on himself. Minho felt his entire body splinter with helplessness.

“It’s okay,” Seungmin said gently. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jisung looked up—just briefly—and locked eyes with Seungmin, whose face had gone pale, shocked still. And then he said to Seungmin in a thin, frightened voice, “Yes, Sir. I’ll be good.”

Seungmin inhaled sharply, jaw going tight.

Minho couldn’t hold back anymore. He dropped beside Jisung fully, carefully placing a hand near but not on him.

“That’s Seungmin,” he said softly. “He’s your friend. He’s here to help. And I promise—no one here is ever going to hurt you again.”

Jisung didn’t answer. But this time, he didn’t flinch when Minho whispered his name.

The blinds were half-closed, letting in narrow slats of fading afternoon light that cut across the conference table. Seungmin sat stiffly, arms crossed, the clipboard on the table in front of him still blank. Beside him, Changbin leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming silently against the wood. Across from them, Minho looked tense but composed, eyes flicking between the two of them and the woman seated at the head of the table.

Dr. Shin Minju—psychiatrist, trauma specialist, calm in a way that made Seungmin feel even more on edge.

She folded her hands neatly on the table. “Jisung is stable,” she said. “Medically and emotionally, for now. But the hospital is only a temporary solution. It’s a controlled environment—predictable, safe. The longer he stays, the harder reintegration will be.”

Seungmin’s jaw tensed. “He’s not ready.”

“No,” Dr. Shin agreed. “But he needs to start. A supervised home setting. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can start forming new patterns.”

“But he lives alone,” Changbin said, frowning. “That’s not an option.”

“I know,” Dr. Shin replied. “Which is why we need to consider alternatives.”

Minho cleared his throat softly. “He can move in with me.”

Seungmin’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

Minho met his gaze evenly. “I'm the closest thing to family. And we were going to move in together anyway.” He stopped and swallowed, “Before all this.”

“Minho,” Seungmin said slowly, “you’re dating someone. That complicates everything.” How dare Minho suggest such a thing? What? He wanted Jisung to sleep in the same bed Minho used when he fucked some other man at night? Seungmin would rather get run over by a car than allow—

“I’ll figure it out,” Minho said. “This isn’t about Hyunjin. It’s about Jisung.”

“And what if he regresses?” Seungmin snapped. “What if being around you makes things worse? Familiarity can trigger trauma, not just soothe it.”

Changbin shifted uncomfortably. “I have to agree with Seungmin on this one. We can’t make this decision for Jisung. We don’t know what he wants.”

Dr. Shin nodded, calm as ever. “Which is why we should ask him.”

The room fell quiet. Minho sat back in his chair, expression unreadable.

Seungmin looked down at his clipboard, still blank. It was Jisung’s choice. But Seungmin couldn’t shake the uneasy weight gathering in his chest.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, but the room was otherwise quiet. Jisung sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands in his lap, his expression distant but alert. His eyes followed every movement, every shift in tone and voice—like someone always waiting for the rules to change.

Seungmin stood just inside the door, hands folded awkwardly in front of him. He didn’t sit. He couldn’t. Not yet.

Dr. Shin gave him a reassuring nod before stepping forward. “Jisung,” she said softly, crouching to his level, “we’ve been talking about what comes next. You’ve made a lot of progress. But the hospital can’t be your home forever.”

Jisung’s brows furrowed slightly.

“You need somewhere to stay,” she continued. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere comfortable. Somewhere you choose.”

Seungmin felt his throat tighten. He stepped forward, offering a smile he wasn’t sure reached his eyes. “You can stay with me,” he said, voice too fast, too eager. “My place is quiet. I’ve got a second bedroom. I can pick up whatever else you need.” Jisung looked at him, slow and silent. “I mean it,” Seungmin added quickly. “No pressure. I just— I want you somewhere I know you’ll be taken care of.”

Minho shifted beside the door. He hadn’t said anything yet.

Seungmin glanced at him, then back at Jisung. “It’s not that I don’t think Minho cares,” he said, the words edged with something harder, sharper. “But things are… complicated. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Jisung’s gaze drifted to Minho. Then, softly, hoarse and unsure, he whispered, “Minho.”

Minho stepped forward, eyes wide. “I’d like that too,” he said, gentle and measured. “But only if you do. I won’t push you.”

Seungmin’s heart sank, but he didn’t argue.

Dr. Shin looked between them all. “It’s your choice, Jisung. No one else’s.”

Jisung hesitated. A long beat of silence passed.

Then—he nodded once.

Toward Minho.

Seungmin looked away. Not because he didn’t understand.

But because he did.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, but the tension followed into the hallway like a shadow.

Seungmin didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, jaw tight, arms crossed, staring down the corridor as nurses passed quietly in the distance. Minho waited beside him, one hand braced against the wall, shoulders tense but still.

Then—finally—Seungmin turned.

“You’re really going to do this,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You’re really going to take him home without telling him about Hyunjin?”

Minho didn’t flinch. “He’s not ready.”

Seungmin’s mouth twisted. “He’s not ready? Or you’re not ready for him to know you moved on?”

Minho’s eyes darkened, but he stayed calm. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.” Seungmin stepped closer, poking him in the chest. “You were engaged. He went missing. And now he’s back, barely speaking, barely functioning—still calling strangers Sir—and you’re planning to let him move into a house where your boyfriend’s been living?”

“Hyunjin won’t be in his way,” Minho said, more firmly now. “He won’t be there. Not while Jisung’s healing.”

Seungmin laughed bitterly. “You think that’s going to fix it? You think you can compartmentalize your love life and this whole situation like they’re two different things?”

“I’m not hiding Hyunjin forever,” Minho snapped. “I’ll talk to him. Tonight. But I’m not throwing Jisung into a panic when he’s barely sleeping through the night.”

Seungmin stared at him for a long moment. “You should’ve told him in that room. Given him all the facts before he made his choice.”

Minho’s expression softened—just barely. “He didn’t choose me because I’m the easy option. He chose me because he feels safe with me. I’m not going to rip that away from him.”

Seungmin shook his head and turned away. “You better talk to Hyunjin,” he muttered. “Because if you don’t? This will get a hell of a lot worse.”

Minho stayed quiet, his arms crossed now, gaze lowered to the tile like he was trying to keep himself from saying something he’d regret.

Seungmin didn’t move. He just watched him for a long, quiet moment, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Then he stepped in close—too close. His voice dropped low, cold and steady.

“I mean it, Minho,” he said. “If you hurt him… if you even confuse him—I’ll make sure you regret it.” Minho looked up, startled, but Seungmin didn’t back down. “I’m not talking about awkward conversations or messy feelings,” Seungmin continued, his eyes hard. “I’m talking about what happens if he starts believing the only safe place he had left isn’t safe anymore. I’m talking about what happens if he spirals because you’re too afraid to be honest.”

Seungmin took a breath, then stepped back slightly. “You might’ve been the love of his life before,” he said. “But right now? He’s fragile. And he’s not your fiancé anymore. He’s a survivor. That comes first.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Minho alone in the silence.

Hyunjin smoothed down the front of his sheer black button-up and tilted his head in the mirror, inspecting the line of his jaw, the gloss on his lips, the faint shimmer of highlight dusted across his cheekbones. The shirt clung to him in all the right places, tucked into fitted slacks, collar left open to hint at skin. He looked good—he knew it. And tonight, he needed to.

Minho had called him out of the blue that afternoon, voice a little strained but gentle, “Come over for dinner? Just you and me.”

Hyunjin had said yes before Minho could finish the sentence.

By the time he arrived, the sky was deepening into a warm violet dusk. He bounced slightly on his heels at the door, a rush of nerves fluttering beneath the surface. The moment it opened, he didn't wait.

"Hey—" Minho started.

But Hyunjin surged forward and kissed him. Hard.

Minho caught him, stumbled back a step with a surprised laugh muffled against Hyunjin’s mouth. Hyunjin didn’t give him time to recover—he wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck, pressing their bodies together as the door fell shut behind them.

The hallway was dim and narrow, the walls close around them, but it didn’t matter. Minho's hands found his waist. Hyunjin deepened the kiss, fingers sliding up into Minho’s hair, tilting his head just so.

For a moment, it felt like everything was normal. Like nothing outside this house had changed.

Just the two of them, mouths moving like muscle memory, clothes rustling, breath catching, backs bumping into the walls as they laughed and kissed and kissed again.

Minho’s hands were warm. Hyunjin’s heart was racing. He thought, Maybe tonight is just for us.

The kitchen smelled warm and comforting—roasted garlic, hints of sesame oil, the quiet steam of something freshly stirred from the stovetop. Hyunjin stood for a moment just inside the door, watching Minho from behind. His boyfriend was moving around the stove with mechanical focus, plating food with precision, but without rhythm. Like he was forcing his body to go through the motions just to fill the silence.

Hyunjin didn’t speak at first. He just observed. The set of Minho’s shoulders looked tense, like every movement was a calculation. His hands, usually so confident in the kitchen, seemed cautious tonight—hesitant. The silence stretched too long to feel casual.

He stepped forward, placing a bottle of wine on the counter beside the plates. “Smells really good,” he said lightly, trying to break the ice without pushing.

Minho offered a faint smile over his shoulder. “It’s nothing special. Just something quick.”

Hyunjin shrugged, sliding into one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. “Doesn’t need to be special. I’m just glad to eat something that isn’t from a plastic container.”

Minho said nothing, placing a dish in front of him before sitting down across the table with his own. They both reached for their chopsticks. A few quiet clinks of porcelain and silverware followed.

The food really was good—soft rice, stir-fried vegetables, and tender slices of marinated chicken—but Hyunjin barely tasted it. He kept his gaze on Minho’s face, searching for something beneath the mask of composure. Every now and then, Minho’s eyes flicked toward him, then away, like he was checking the temperature of the room. Or waiting for something to break.

Hyunjin picked at his food. The quiet between them wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that buzzed under your skin and curled up behind your ribs.

He leaned forward a little, resting his elbow on the table. “Do you think I’m angry with you? Is that why you're so tense right now?”

Minho looked up, startled for a beat too long.

“I’m not angry, you know,” Hyunjin said, more softly now. “You’ve barely looked at me since I got here.”

Minho opened his mouth, then closed it again. His gaze dropped to his plate.

Hyunjin reached out and touched his hand gently, the warmth of his skin grounding. “I’m not mad. I know you’re overwhelmed. I know everything’s changed.”

Minho let out a shaky breath, but didn’t pull away. His thumb brushed absently against Hyunjin’s knuckles, like he needed the reassurance too.

“I keep thinking I should say something,” Minho murmured. “But I don’t know what.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Hyunjin said, his voice quiet but steady. “I know Jisung’s back. I know you care about him. I would never ask you to pretend that doesn’t matter.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he said them anyway.

Minho nodded slowly, eyes still downcast. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know,” Hyunjin replied, swallowing the ache rising in his throat. “But I’m here. I came back. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Minho met his eyes. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence shifted—less sharp now, less fragile. Just raw.

Hyunjin smiled, small and sad. “So stop looking at me like I’m going to disappear.”

Minho didn’t answer. But his fingers curled more tightly around Hyunjin’s, holding on.

The dishes sat forgotten on the table, the last bits of dinner going cold as Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, watching Minho with a slow smile. The tension between them had softened over the meal, and now that the food was out of the way, Hyunjin thought—hoped—that maybe they could fall back into something warm again. Familiar. Intimate.

He stood slowly, letting his fingers drag across the table’s edge, deliberate in every movement. His hand slid down to the hem of his shirt. With a smooth pull, he lifted it over his head, letting it drop behind him. The air was cool against his bare skin, but he welcomed it, craving the closeness. Craving Minho.

Minho looked up, surprised, just as Hyunjin stepped closer, fingertips brushing the waistband of his jeans. “What are you doing?” he asked, though his voice was quiet, uncertain.

Hyunjin gave a soft, coaxing smile. “Reminding you we’re still okay.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “That you still want me.”

But Minho stood abruptly, stepping back like the air between them had turned toxic. His reaction knocked the breath from Hyunjin’s lungs.

The silence stretched and Hyunjin stood half-undressed in the middle of the kitchen, skin flushed and mouth parted, not from desire now but confusion. “What’s wrong?”

Minho avoided his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck like he didn’t want to say it. “I didn’t invite you over tonight to… do this.”

Hyunjin’s stomach dropped. The words hit like a blow, cold and direct.

Minho continued, slowly. “I needed to talk to you about something. I didn’t know how else to say it.”

Something inside Hyunjin braced. He reached down to grab his shirt but didn’t pull it over his head yet. He clutched it to his chest, “Okay…”

“Jisung is going to move in,” Minho said.

The world shifted.

It was only a few words, but they cut clean and deep. Hyunjin felt his heart cave in on itself. He couldn’t speak for a moment—his mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“He can’t stay in the hospital forever,” Minho continued. “And he can’t live alone. This place… he was going to live here. Before.”

Hyunjin finally pulled the shirt over his head, fingers shaking slightly as he smoothed it down. “And me?”

Minho’s eyes dropped. “I haven’t told him about you. I don’t think he’s ready.”

It wasn’t the words that broke Hyunjin. It was the way Minho said them.

Like they were reasonable. Like they made sense. Like this wasn’t tearing something apart.

Inside, Hyunjin was crumbling. His chest ached with something sharp and awful—grief, jealousy, betrayal. He felt small. Disposable. Like a temporary fixture that needed to be cleared away now that the real thing had returned.

He clenched his jaw, nodding. “Right,” he said. His voice didn’t shake, but only because he willed it into stillness.

Minho added, gently, “Look, honey, I just need time.”

Hyunjin wanted to scream. To ask why Minho hadn’t said “I love you” when he had the chance. To ask why he was always the one making room, always the one being patient. But he didn’t.

Instead, he slipped on his shirt and picked up his coat. “I get it,” he said, lying through his teeth. He slipped it on, eyes dry, movements controlled even as his heart thrashed beneath his ribs.

“Hyunjin—”

“I’ll get out of your way,” he said with a faint smile, hollow and glassy. “Thanks for dinner.”

And before Minho could say anything else, Hyunjin walked out, holding himself together with the last fragile threads of his pride.

Hyunjin stepped out into the night without really knowing where he was going. He just needed to move—needed to put space between himself and Minho’s house before he said something he couldn’t take back.

The sky was bruised with thick clouds, the moon only a pale blur behind them. Streetlights flickered along the sidewalk, their glow dim and uneven, like tired eyes blinking against sleep. The hum of the town had long since quieted. No cars. No footsteps. Just the soft rustle of wind through bare branches and the wet scrape of his shoes on the pavement.

Then came the rain.

First a whisper, then a sudden shiver down the back of his neck as cold drops started to fall. Hyunjin pulled his coat tighter, ducking his head, the hood doing little to shield him. The rain smelled like metal and earth. Heavy and wrong. It clung to him like fingers.

He passed rows of dark houses, windows glowing faintly behind drawn curtains. Safe, warm places he didn’t belong to.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

The street narrowed as he turned the corner, cutting between a row of old buildings and an overgrown lot. The shadows there were thicker. Deeper. The rain pattered harder now, loud against the rusted fire escapes and the trash-strewn alley to his right. He tried not to look down it. But something shifted.

A shape. A flicker of movement. Hyunjin stopped walking. The back of his neck prickled. He glanced over his shoulder—nothing behind him. The wind pushed past him like a warning. His heart beat a little faster.

He walked again. Quicker now. Shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. But the street felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Then—another sound.

Not the rain. A scuff. A shuffle. Close.

Hyunjin turned sharply. But there was no one. He was alone. Wasn’t he?

He picked up his pace, footsteps echoing louder now, bouncing off brick walls and disappearing into the rain. His pulse thudded hard in his ears. He didn’t know if it was fear or anger or heartbreak anymore—just that something crawled under his skin, cold and watching.

A low hum cut through the rainfall—the steady growl of an engine and Hyunjin flinched as headlights spilled over him from behind, casting his elongated shadow across the sidewalk. He turned, hand instinctively raising to shield his eyes just as a dark car rolled up beside him and slowed to a stop. A police cruiser.

The window slid down with a soft mechanical whir.

“Hyunjin?” a familiar voice called out over the hiss of rain. “What are you doing out here?”

It was Jeongin, Felix’s husband. Even in the low light, Hyunjin could see the plaid shirt, the clean-cut edge of his jaw, the slight squint behind the windshield. His tone was casual, maybe a little surprised, but not concerned.

Hyunjin hesitated. He hadn’t seen Jeongin in days—not since Felix mentioned he was out of town visiting relatives. He looked tired but dry, warm inside the car, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel. The glow of the dash painted his features in sterile blue.

“Walking home,” Hyunjin called back, voice thin against the downpour. “Felix said you were still out of town.”

“I got back an hour ago,” Jeongin said. “Didn’t think I’d find you out here in the rain.”

Hyunjin said nothing, rain dripping from the tip of his nose.

Jeongin leaned over and pushed the door open. “Come on, get in. You’re soaked.”

Hyunjin hesitated again—but only for a second. It was cold, he was exhausted, and they were heading to the same place anyway. Felix’s apartment wasn’t far, but the shadows had started crawling again, and the weight of the night pressed too tightly on his shoulders.

He slipped inside the car, pulling the door shut with a thud. “Thanks,” he murmured.

Jeongin offered a small smile as he flicked the wipers into motion. “No problem.”

The cruiser glided down the quiet street, tires slick against the wet pavement. Inside, the heater hummed softly, warming the space between them as raindrops streaked down the windows. Hyunjin sat curled in his damp coat, hands pressed to the vent. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“You’re lucky I was driving by,” Jeongin said after a few moments. “You could’ve caught pneumonia out there.”

Hyunjin exhaled through a soft smile. “Would’ve saved me the trouble of feeling anything.”

Jeongin chuckled lightly, dimples flashing, “Fair. He tapped the steering wheel absently. “So, I guess you were with Minho. He lives around here, right?”

Hyunjin nodded once, “Yeah, we had dinner.”

“Was it good?” Jeongin smiled. Then, a beat later, “Or was it just… dinner?”

Hyunjin looked out the window. “Just dinner.”

Jeongin’s gaze flicked toward him and away again. “That's a shame,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Hyunjin turned slightly, catching the way Jeongin’s eyes lingered—not long, not obvious, just a brief glance down his figure before sliding back to the road. It could’ve been nothing. A trick of the streetlights. A coincidence. Still, Hyunjin felt his pulse tighten.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You and Felix okay?”

Jeongin made a noncommittal sound. “Yeah. He’s good. He keeps the place warm, you know?”

Hyunjin tried not to read into that. He told himself it was just a throwaway comment. Still, the silence after it stretched.

Jeongin drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, then said, “You ever notice how quiet the town gets when it rains? Like everyone’s gone home and locked the doors.”

“Kind of creepy,” Hyunjin said, forcing a small laugh.

Jeongin smiled. “You get used to it, I guess.”

The cruiser pulled up in front of Felix’s apartment. Jeongin shifted into park but didn’t immediately turn off the engine.

Hyunjin reached for the handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

Jeongin gave a small nod. “Anytime. Especially if you’re walking around looking like that.”

Hyunjin froze mid-motion. “Like what?”

Jeongin smiled again, vague and unreadable. “Just saying. You know, an outfit like that can attract the wrong attention. People might think you're… selling something.”

Hyunjin stared at him a second too long, then looked away. “Right.”

He stepped out without another word, pulling his coat tighter as the rain came down harder.

Jeongin followed close behind, “I like it though.”

Jisung was cold.

That was the first thing he remembered. The floor beneath him was damp, slick with something that clung to his skin. He’d been stripped, left on the bare concrete with no blanket, no pillow—just the overwhelming scent of bleach and iron. The lights above buzzed softly, too bright, too still. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t dim. It was always bright down there. Always watching.

His wrists were bruised from the zip ties. His throat was sore from screaming. He kept screaming anyway.

“Minho!” His voice cracked around the name, rising in a frantic wail that echoed uselessly off the walls. “Minho—please, help me! Someone! Anyone, help!”

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. Hours? A full day? There was no clock. No sun. Just the endless, mechanical hum of air through the vents and the soft crackle of a speaker in the corner, looping a message he refused to listen to.

Be still. Be silent. Obey.

The voice on the tape was heavily distorted, unnatural. It buzzed like static, neither man nor machine, reciting the same script over and over with perfect inflection. He hated it. He screamed over it. He thought if he could just be louder—just fight harder—someone would hear him.

Someone would come. Minho would come. But no one did.

Eventually, the door opened. There was no warning. Just a sudden, sharp mechanical click, and the edges of the room shifted. A figure stepped inside—tall, silent, wearing a smooth, bone-white mask carved with looping patterns like vines or veins. Its eyes were black hollows. Its mouth was nothing.

Jisung backed away immediately, palms scraping against the floor as he kicked himself into the corner, trembling. “Get away from me!” he shouted. “You can’t keep me here! He’ll come for me—Minho will come and you'll regret this, you fucking psycho!”

The man didn’t answer. He didn’t make a sound. He walked with slow, measured steps toward the far wall, where a set of hooks waited—neatly arranged in a way that suggested preparation, not impulse. He removed something from one of them—thin and coiled tight like a sleeping snake.

Jisung froze. The speaker continued to hum.

Be still. Be silent. Obey.

But he didn’t. He lunged forward, screamed again, fought with everything he had. His hands clawed at the slick concrete, trying to reach as far as the chains would allow—

The whip cracked through the air before it touched him. And when it landed—

He had no comparison.

His back exploded with pain, sharp and blinding. His lungs seized. The second blow came faster, and it knocked the air clean from his chest. His scream broke halfway, turning into a gasping sob as his body crumpled beneath it.

The pain was so immediate, so pure, it rewrote the world. Nothing existed but the fire peeling across his skin and the sound of the belt cutting through air again and again. His body bucked, legs kicking against the floor, trying to crawl away even as another blow slammed into his spine, and another.

Somewhere—somewhere distant—his thoughts caught on a cruel, flickering memory. Even Minho had never—

But he couldn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t hold onto it. The pain stole everything.

He sobbed, begged, pleaded. He said he’d be good. He said he was sorry. He said anything he could think of.

The man didn’t stop. Not until Jisung’s body gave out.

He collapsed on the floor in a heap, trembling, face pressed against the concrete. His bladder released without permission, warmth soaking beneath him as his body failed to obey even itself. He couldn’t feel his fingers. His legs had gone numb. He stared blankly at the drain in the center of the room as the speaker clicked off, its message complete.

In the silence that followed, the man finally stepped back.

And Jisung… Jisung drifted. Not into sleep. Not into unconsciousness. Just… away. Away from the pain. Away from the humiliation. Away from the knowledge that no one was coming. Not even Minho. Minho wasn't coming for him today.

But tomorrow, surely. Tomorrow Minho would come.

<

Jisung woke with a scream lodged in his throat.

His body jerked upright, sweat clinging to his skin, heart hammering so fast it drowned out the beep of the monitor. He didn’t know where he was. The light was wrong—too soft, too kind. The mattress gave beneath him in a way the concrete never had. There were no chains. No drain in the floor.

But the panic didn’t care. He scrambled backward, the blanket tangling around his legs as he flung himself toward the nearest corner. His breathing was ragged, shallow, a thousand thoughts spinning and collapsing in on themselves. His body hurt in places that memory hadn’t touched in years.

“Minho!” he gasped, voice raw from sleep and terror. “Minho—please come—”

His back hit the wall. He curled in on himself, knees drawn tight to his chest. The world around him spun, unfamiliar and too quiet. His skin crawled with remembered pain, and the phantom weight of the collar made his throat feel too tight.

Footsteps. He flinched.

The door creaked open and a voice—gentle, hesitant—cut through the static. “Jisung? Hey—hey, it’s just me.”

Seungmin.

Jisung blinked through tears, watching him step into the room slowly, hands raised slightly, like one would approach a cornered animal.

“You’re safe,” Seungmin said softly. “You’re in the hospital. You’re not there anymore. Okay?”

Jisung couldn’t speak. His mouth opened but no sound came. He shook his head in small, desperate motions, as if disagreeing with a truth he couldn’t bear to accept.

Seungmin knelt down, not close, just enough to be visible. “I’m going to sit,” he said, and did so. His back leaned against the same wall, a respectful space between them. He didn’t reach out. He didn’t move closer.

“Earlier,” Seungmin started, “when we spoke about where you’ll go after this.” He sighed, “You said… you wanted to be with Minho.” Jisung’s hands curled against his knees. “I just need to know,” Seungmin said, his voice careful, steady, “if that’s still what you want.”

Jisung’s lips parted, and after a moment, he gave a small nod. It was what he wanted.

Seungmin let out a quiet breath and looked down at his hands. “You know… back when you first told me about your engagement, I asked you the same thing.” His smile was faint, edged with something bitter. “You were glowing. So sure. But I still asked if you were sure you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.”

Jisung pressed his forehead to his knees, willing the shaking in his hands to stop. The air in the room felt too heavy, like it was pressing him into the floor. His throat burned from screaming, from dreaming, from the words he hadn’t said for years.

But these words came out, “I want Minho.”

Seungmin’s voice was sharper than before, “I know you do. That’s always been your problem.”

Jisung lifted his head slightly, startled by the coldness in his friend's tone. He didn’t understand.

“You want what’s bad for you,” Seungmin huffed out.

The words landed like a slap and Jisung’s body curled tighter. He didn’t cry. Not this time. But his chest ached with a deep, hollow shame. Everything Seungmin said had always meant something. Always mattered. Even now.

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said after a pause, his voice softer but still tense. “That was… that was cruel. I just—”

Jisung didn’t move. He kept his eyes on the floor. If he looked up, he wasn’t sure he could handle what he’d see on Seungmin’s face.

“I don’t know if Minho’s the right person to take care of you,” Seungmin went on. “Not after everything. Not after what you’ve been through. And not with everything that happened before.”

Jisung wanted to say that he didn’t care. That he wasn’t asking for perfect. That Minho’s voice still meant safety, even if it hurt sometimes. But he didn’t know how to say any of that. He didn’t have the words. Only the feeling.

So he said it again, because it was the only thing he had ever been sure of, “I want Minho.”

Chapter Text

The car smelled like cheap coffee and wet wool. Jeongin sat behind the wheel, tapping his fingers idly against the steering wheel as Changbin climbed into the passenger seat.

“Thanks, kid,” Changbin said, flashing a tired smile as he grabbed the steaming cup of coffee.

Jeongin's smile was wide and easy. “Of course, hyung. I know you can't function without your coffee.”

Changbin took a grateful sip, oblivious. Idiot.

Jeongin’s smile didn’t falter, but in his mind, he was laughing. It amazed him, honestly, how little effort it took. Just some spare change. That’s all it cost every morning. A cup of coffee, lukewarm and mediocre, and Changbin looked at him like he was some loyal junior, like he actually cared. Fucking pathetic.

Jeongin kept his eyes on the road, face pleasant, posture relaxed. He knew exactly what people thought when they looked at him. Nice. Polite. Hardworking. All it took was a small smile and the right tone. People loved being flattered. Loved thinking they mattered.

They never noticed what happened when they weren’t looking. Especially not Changbin. For the great detective Changbin claimed to be, he couldn't see what was in front of his own eyes.

“Busy day ahead,” Changbin said, oblivious to the contempt simmering next to him. “We’ll stop by the hospital first”

Jeongin nodded like he cared. “Sounds good, hyung. But is it really okay that I’m working this case with you?”

Changbin gave him a quick look, surprised. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Jeongin shrugged, offering a sheepish smile. “It’s just… it’s personal, right? Jisung’s case. You’re so close to him. To Minho. I’m not really—” He trailed off, as if embarrassed by his own question.

Changbin chuckled, shaking his head. “Jeongin, this isn’t Seoul. We don’t have a rotating squad of detectives to pick from. Small town like ours, there’s not much real police work day to day. You know that.”

Jeongin nodded, eyes back on the road, lips curling at the edges.

“This case is different, sure,” Changbin continued, “but honestly? I’d rather have someone I trust working it with me. Even if it’s just the boring legwork.”

Jeongin made a thoughtful noise, pretending to be touched. Trust. Funny, that.

One coffee a morning. A few “yes, hyung”s. That’s all it took to earn someone's trust around here.

“Of course,” Jeongin said, flashing his dimples, one hand loosely on the wheel. “I’m here to help.”

The car rumbled softly as they drove, wipers ticking a steady rhythm against the rain-smeared windshield. Jeongin tapped his fingers idly on the steering wheel, pretending to think.

“Hyung,” he said after a while, voice casual, “what’s Jisung really like? I mean, beyond what people say.”

Changbin turned slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

Jeongin offered a light smile. “Felix and I moved here after Jisung disappeared, remember? Everyone talks like they knew him. I’m just curious.”

Changbin’s expression softened. He leaned back in his seat, gaze drifting to the window as the town blurred past. “Jisung was… a lot,” he said, lips curling in a faint, reluctant smile. “Loud. Sharp. He had this energy that was just… magnetic. But his social battery drained pretty fast too. Even then, he tried to put others first.”

Changbin sounded so fond. You'd think he was in love with the guy or something. The thing is, the more people loved someone, the harder they fell when that person broke. And Jisung was broken, wasn't he?

“But you know,” Changbin added, “he had a habit of giving too much. Of seeing the best in people, even when he shouldn’t.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Jeongin said lightly.

Changbin’s jaw tensed. “It was.”

The wipers screeched once as they cleared the windshield, punctuating the stretch of silence that had settled after Changbin’s words. Jeongin kept his eyes on the road, posture relaxed, but he could feel Changbin watching Jisung’s ghost in his mind’s eye.

“He’s different now,” Changbin said quietly, voice tight. “Not just hurt. Traumatized. It’s not like before. He doesn’t fill a room anymore. He barely even looks up.”

Jeongin gave a soft hum, sympathetic but noncommittal. “It must be hard to see him like that.”

“It’s like someone rewired him,” Changbin continued, frowning out the window. “I know trauma changes people. I’m not stupid. But with Jisung… it’s not just what happened. It’s what they made him into.”

The weight in Changbin’s voice was real and heavy. Jeongin knew that kind of weight. He also knew how people like Changbin carried it—thinking they could hold the whole world together with their bare hands.

Jeongin took a slow sip of his coffee, letting the bitterness roll over his tongue. “Do you think he’ll come back from it? Be the same as before?”

Changbin’s fingers drummed anxiously on his thigh. “I don’t know. I want to believe he will. But the truth is… some people don’t come back. Not all the way.”

The radio crackled to life, abrupt and sharp against the hush of the car. Jeongin flicked his gaze to the dash as a voice came through, tight with urgency, “Unit Three, be advised— donestic disturbance reported in the west slum district. Possible assault in progress. Nearest unit, please respond.”

Changbin straightened immediately. “That’s us.”

Jeongin’s fingers drummed idly on the wheel. “Technically, yeah. But we’re en route to the hospital.”

“We’re five minutes out from the west slums,” Changbin said, already reaching for his radio. “We can swing by—”

Jeongin cut him off smoothly, tone light but firm. “Hyung, you should go to the hospital. You said yourself, you need to check in on Jisung. I can handle this.”

Changbin frowned. “Jeongin—”

“It’s a disturbance report. Probably a drunk or two going at it. You think we both need to show up for that?” Jeongin smiled, easy and disarming. “I’ll call for backup if it turns out to be anything serious. Promise.”

For a moment, Changbin hesitated. Jeongin could see the gears turning—duty warring with loyalty. Predictable. He almost admired how honest Changbin was. Almost.

“Fine,” Changbin relented. “But call me if it’s more than a noise complaint.”

“Of course.” Jeongin’s smile widened as he signaled, turning toward the slum district. “I’ll drop you off first.”

The hospital loomed ahead, rain-washed and gray against the morning sky. As they pulled up to the curb, Changbin grabbed his coffee, shooting Jeongin a last, wary look, “Be careful.”

Jeongin gave a small salute. “Always, hyung.”

He waited until Changbin had disappeared through the hospital’s sliding doors before his smile faded. Careful wasn’t exactly his style. But some things required a personal touch. As he turned the cruiser toward the slums, Jeongin’s expression settled into something sharper. Time to take care of business.

The slums were quiet, but not sleeping. They never really slept. The early morning fog blurred the edges of the crumbling buildings, softening the filth but not hiding it. The rain had turned the narrow alleys into rivers of sludge, cigarette butts and old syringes floating lazily toward the drains.

Jeongin pulled the cruiser to a stop without fanfare. No sirens. No lights. He didn’t need to announce himself.

A few yards ahead, the disturbance made itself known. A woman sat slumped against the wall beneath a flickering streetlamp. Her lip was split, one eye already swelling shut. Makeup streaked her cheeks, mixing with blood and rain. Her clothes were rumpled—tight skirt, torn stockings, heels kicked off somewhere behind her. She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, her expression a mask of practiced defiance.

Her lips twisted when she saw Jeongin, “You fucking kidding me? They sent you?”

Jeongin’s smile was sharp but pleasant. “Nice to see you again, ma’am. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

“Go fuck yourself,” she shot back.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned to the man standing beside her. In this small town, of course it was another familiar face. Cho Hajun shifted nervously from foot to foot. Expensive jacket, cheap aftershave. Hands stuffed in his pockets like that would make him look smaller. He didn't belong in this place.

He began pulling out a wallet, face pale. “Officer, look, it was a misunderstanding—”

Jeongin tsked softly. “A misunderstanding that left her face looking like that, Cho? This one’s a little worse than the last.”

There was a prior assault charge. Small fine. Quiet probation. He was the kind of man who thought his money would keep him safe. And most of the time, it did.

Jeongin gestured for Cho to follow him out of earshot. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Now, you and I both know this could get messy. Assault on a sex worker, second offense. Wouldn’t look good on your record. Might make its way to your wife this time.”

Cho flinched and Jeongin smiled wider, “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to hand me enough cash to make this whole shit show disappear. This bitch gets compensated. I get my time’s worth. You go home with your secrets intact.”

The man’s hands shook as he pulled out a thick wad of bills, shoving them into Jeongin’s palm with practiced shame. He didn’t ask how much. He knew better.

Jeongin didn’t count it. He didn’t need to.

The man was already retreating, head down, coat pulled tight against the rain. He wouldn’t make trouble. Not after tonight.

Without another word, Jeongin flicked his pen across a small notepad, scribbled something that would make this look like it never happened and turned his attention back to the woman slouched against the wall. She watched him through her good eye, lip curled, the cigarette now soggy between her fingers. The swelling on her cheekbone was already darkening, her knuckles scraped raw from where she'd tried to fight back.

“Of course you're letting him go,” she scoffed. “Always setting the bar low, aren't you, Yang?”

“And you, Miss Park, are going to tell dispatch this was a false alarm. A lovers’ quarrel. Nothing worth escalating.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a single crumpled bill. Five thousand won. Barely enough for bus fare and a convenience store snack.

With a small, mock-polite smile, he held it out to her, “A little something for your trouble,” he said.

The woman’s laugh was sharp, bitter, but exhausted. “You think that’ll even get me a pack of gum?”

He tilted his head, as if surprised. “Inflation’s a bitch, huh?”

She tried to grab the bill from his fingers. But he let it flutter to the ground, soaking instantly into a puddle, “Oops.”

Her teeth flashed, feral. “You bastard.”

Jeongin crouched down slightly, his voice lowering as the smile thinned into something colder. “Careful, Miss Park. You still need to feed that little boy of yours, don’t you? What was his name again—Jiyul?”

The blood drained from her face and Jeongin made an offer, “Tell you what. You do me a favor, right here, right now, and maybe I’ll make sure you go home with more than pocket change. Enough for groceries. Maybe even a doctor's visit.”

She spat near his shoes, trembling with rage. But she didn’t walk away. Because they both knew she couldn’t afford to. He didn’t wait for her answer as he turned back toward the cruiser, already knowing how it would end.

In this town, desperation was a currency. And Jeongin never paid more than he had to, but he always collected with interest.

The rain blurred everything. The alley shimmered with reflections — mud-smeared signs, puddles of oil-slick rainbow, cigarette butts floating like debris in the dark. The woman was kneeling now, soaked through, her hands planted against the filthy concrete, fingers splayed like claws. Her breath steamed in the cold air, sharp and uneven, but she kept her head down.

Jeongin leaned back against the cruiser, arms folded, watching her with detached amusement. His posture was relaxed, boots planted wide, like this was nothing more than an early morning chore. Because to him, it was.

“Be thorough,” he said mildly, as if asking her to polish his shoes. She did what was expected. Every movement was mechanical, practiced. He didn't moan when her mouth sucked his cock in. Didn't gasp. He just watched. Distant. As if inspecting a job well done. He didn't touch her, despite the urge to dig into her scalp and slam his cock into her throat.

When it was over, she pulled back quickly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the fury in her eyes dimmed only by exhaustion. She didn’t look at him when she spoke.

“Where’s the money?” Her voice was flat, stripped of any pretense.

Jeongin smiled, reaching casually into his pocket, fingers brushing over the roll of bills Cho had given him. Then he pulled his hand back out. Empty.

“Consider it community service,” he said lightly.

Her head snapped up. “You fucker! I want my money!”

He straightened his jacket, unaffected. “I did say maybe, didn't I? You know whoring around is jailable offense, don't you? Wouldn't want little Jiyul to have to visit you behind bars now, would we?”

The fury returned, crackling in the tension of her fists. But there was no fight left in her. He’d made sure of that.

Jeongin stepped back toward the cruiser, already turning away. “Get a real job.”

She shouted something after him, voice breaking with the effort, but he didn’t care enough to listen. The door slammed shut, cutting her off, sealing the quiet satisfaction of the moment inside the cruiser. He pulled away slowly, watching her figure shrink in the rearview mirror until she was nothing but another wet, nameless shape in the slums.

Jeongin had learned long ago how to take what he wanted without paying the price.

The hospital hallway smelled like old coffee and antiseptic. Changbin stood near the nurses’ station, watching through the wide glass windows as the discharge papers were signed, the last of Jisung’s charts reviewed. The sky outside was gray, the kind of dull morning that blurred into memory.

He should’ve felt relieved. But all he felt was tired.

Minho was in the room with Jisung, seated beside the bed, posture tight, like he didn’t know how to hold himself anymore. Changbin hadn’t said more than a handful of words to him that morning. Every glance was sharp, every breath between them strained.

Three years ago, they’d been best friends. Brothers, almost. Shared beers in the evening, argued over soccer scores, gone fishing on Sundays. They used to be a constant in each other’s lives.

But Jisung’s disappearance had changed everything. It had carved a canyon between them.

Changbin could still remember the first few months—the way Minho had torn through the town, searching, accusing, unraveling. He’d been desperate, reckless, unbearable in his grief. Changbin had tried to be there. Had tried to catch him before he fell too far. But Minho hadn’t wanted catching. He wanted control. He wanted something—someone—to blame.

And when the search had gone cold, when the town started whispering, Minho hadn’t looked to his friends for comfort. He’d buried himself in someone else. The thought curdled in Changbin’s stomach.

Minho’s way of dealing with Jisung’s absence had been selfish. Ugly. And now, the way he was handling Jisung’s reappearance wasn’t much better. Bringing him home like a lost pet, like nothing had shattered in between. Like love alone would be enough to patch the holes.

Changbin wasn’t sure if he envied that kind of blind hope, or resented it. He shifted his stance, arms crossed, as Minho glanced up through the glass. Their eyes met briefly. The weight of old friendship hung between them—frayed, brittle, barely holding.

No nods. No smiles. Just that quiet, mutual acknowledgment of what had been lost between them.

The doctor handed Minho the final papers. Beside him, Jisung sat hunched, small beneath the oversized hoodie Minho had brought him. His hands fidgeted with the hem, head low, body drawn in. A shadow of the boy Changbin used to know.

Something in Changbin cracked. He wanted to be angry at Minho. Wanted to tell him he was being reckless, that Jisung wasn’t ready, that none of them were ready. But the words stuck in his throat.

Minho had always been reckless when it came to love. And Changbin had always been the one left picking up the pieces.

As Jisung rose slowly from the bed, Minho’s hand hovered near his back—not quite touching, but close. Like even now, he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. Changbin looked away. It shouldn’t have been like this, but it was. And there was no going back.

He followed Minho outside and leaned against the low stone wall by the hospital entrance, arms crossed, trying to keep his thoughts from spiraling. The traffic was light, the streets damp with lingering rain, but his mind was louder than the city. He kept glancing toward the hospital doors, waiting for them to open, dreading what came next.

Minho was pacing again. Back and forth. Boots scuffing the wet concrete with sharp, uneven steps. His fists were buried in his jacket pockets, his jaw locked so tightly Changbin could see the muscle twitching.

“You’re wasting energy,” Changbin said quietly. “He’ll be out soon.”

Minho shot him a look, sharp enough to cut. “What do you want me to do, stand still while you all circle me like a suspect?”

Changbin exhaled, slow. He’d expected this. The anger. The blame. But it didn’t make it easier to hear.

“You are a suspect, Minho,” he said, keeping his tone flat. “That’s procedure.”

“That’s bullshit,” Minho hissed, stepping closer. “You really think I did this to him?”

Changbin held his ground. “I don’t know what to think. I want to believe you’re innocent,” he said, voice lower now. “God, Minho, I want to believe it so badly. But wanting doesn’t make it true. You know that.”

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line. The hurt in his eyes flickered, quickly masked by anger, “Jisung knows me. He would’ve said—”

“He doesn’t know enough to clear anyone,” Changbin interrupted. “You heard Seungmin. He’s confused. Conditioned. His mind isn’t giving us answers yet.” The words tasted bitter. Changbin hated saying them. Hated standing here with a friend who felt more like a stranger these days. “You think this is easy for me?” Changbin asked, stepping forward. “You think I want to stand here and question you? But I can’t let what I want get in the way of what I have to do.”

Minho’s shoulders rose, breath sharp, but he didn’t reply. Changbin looked at him—really looked. At the man who had once been family, now standing inches away, shaking with a rage born of grief, fear, and something dangerously close to guilt.

“I’m not here to crucify you,” Changbin said quietly. “But I can't protect you either.”

The hospital doors slid open with a soft mechanical hiss, breaking the moment. Minho’s head snapped toward the sound, his entire body tense. Changbin straightened, the familiar weight of duty settling over the ache of friendship.

Jisung emerged slowly, hood pulled low over his face, Minho hovering close but not quite touching him. He was so much smaller than Changbin remembered. Not physically—but in presence. Quieter. Folded in on himself. It hurt to see.

Minho’s hand hovered near Jisung’s back, fingers twitching as if he wanted to guide him, steady him, but didn’t dare. For a moment, Changbin’s anger softened. He could believe Minho wanted to help. But that wasn’t the same as knowing he hadn’t caused this.

“Jisung,” Changbin called gently, stepping toward them.

Jisung’s head snapped up, startled, but his gaze softened when he recognized him.

“Hey,” Changbin said, managing a smile. “I was thinking… maybe I’ll escort you to Minho’s place. Help you get settled. Make sure you’ve got what you need. No pressure.”

He didn’t look at Minho. This was about Jisung. But Jisung’s reaction was immediate. He shook his head, small and firm.

Changbin’s heart sank a little. “You sure? You don’t have to do this alone.”

Jisung glanced at Minho, something unreadable in his eyes, then back at Changbin. He nodded slowly, “I'm sure.”

The finality in his tone left no room for argument. Changbin nodded, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Alright. But if you need anything, you call me. Anytime.”

The cruiser rolled up just as Minho shifted to guide Jisung toward the car. Typical Jeongin—impeccable timing. Changbin felt a flicker of relief. If anyone could help steady the morning’s chaos, it was Jeongin. Dependable, sharp, polite to a fault. A good kid.

“Hey, hyung,” Jeongin greeted, stepping out, adjusting his jacket as the mist settled in his hair. His tone was smooth, respectful, just as Changbin had come to expect.

“All good?”

“All good,” Jeongin confirmed. “Neighbors heard raised voices, breaking glass. But it wasn't serious. You know how it goes.” His gaze shifted towards Minho who stood defensively in front of Jisung, as if Jeongin of all people would hurt him. “You must be Mr Lee and… Mr Han.” He peered behind Minho, eyes locked on Jisung, “Welcome home.” He extended his hand for a handshake. A sincere attempt at kindness.

But Jisung reacted like he'd been struck. His body recoiled, breath hitching sharp in his throat. His eyes went wide, wild, and he stumbled back into Minho’s side, flinching away from Jeongin.

“Easy, Sungie. You’re safe,” Minho said quickly, his voice dropping low, soothing. He shot Jeongin a seething look.

Changbin knew Minho probably didn't know Jeongin well. Their paths couldn't have crossed much before. He hovered close to Jisung, wary and protective.

Jeongin froze, blinking. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His hands lifted in a harmless gesture, stepping back a pace, his expression tinged with surprise and concern.

Changbin’s heart sank. He didn’t blame Jeongin. The kid had no way of knowing Jisung would react that way. He'd only given Jeongin a brief report but he needed to give him the case file so he really understood what they were dealing with.

“It’s alright, Jeongin,” Changbin said gently. “Give us a minute, yeah?”

Jeongin nodded immediately. “Of course, hyung. I’ll be by the cruiser.”

Minho was still murmuring to Jisung, his hand hovering near his back but never quite touching. His face was pale, jaw tight.

Changbin exhaled slowly. He hated this. Hated seeing Jisung this fragile. Hated that the world had made him flinch from kindness. He cast a glance toward Jeongin, who stood by the cruiser, hands loosely in his pockets, giving them space.

“He's just a kid,” Changbin defended his partner. “A good one. He's helping me with this case. So you'll probably be seeing more of him from now on.”

“Great,” Minho muttered. “Just what Jisung needs, right? Strangers all up in his personal space.”

Changbin sighed, “Minho…”

“I'm taking Jisung home,” Minho snapped. “And unless you have a warrant to be on my property, you're not welcome there.”

The car slowed to a gentle stop. Jisung blinked up at the house in front of him, watching as the windshield wipers ticked twice more before shutting off. It was a small, neat home—modest, quiet, with a patch of green out front and flower beds carefully maintained. The porch light was still on, even though the morning sun had started to filter through the clouds.

Minho stepped out first, walking around to open the passenger door. “We’re home,” he said softly.

Jisung didn’t move right away. Across the street, a black cruiser parked along the curb. He recognized it instantly. Inside, Changbin sat behind the wheel, that other Officer in the passenger seat beside him. They weren’t looking over, not exactly, but they were watching. Or waiting. Or guarding. Jisung wasn’t sure.

His stomach twisted. He remembered that Minho and Changbin used to be close. Best friends. Practically inseparable. Always laughing, teasing, showing up to everything together. Was the cold distance between them Jisung’s fault?

Minho stood patiently, hands at his sides, not touching. Not rushing.

Jisung glanced at the house again. The curtains were drawn neatly. There was a faint smell of rosemary and damp stone, like the garden had just been watered. It was too peaceful. Too soft. His body didn’t know what to do with soft and peaceful anymore.

He slid out of the car slowly, boots landing with a quiet scuff. The weight of the air felt heavier here. Denser. Like the quiet itself was waiting for him to misstep.

He stayed a pace behind Minho as they moved up the walk, careful not to take the lead. Careful not to look around too much. His eyes stayed low. His hands stayed still. He didn’t want to upset Minho.

He didn’t know the rules of this house, but he would learn them. Just like before. Just like always. Stay quiet. Stay small. Watch for cues. Be a good pet. That’s what mattered now.

He heard the cruiser door open faintly behind him, someone stepping out. Maybe Changbin. Maybe Jeongin. But Jisung didn’t turn to look. He wasn’t supposed to look unless he was told. He focused on the door in front of him. One step at a time.

The door opened with a soft click, and warm air wrapped around Jisung as he stepped inside. The house was quiet and clean. Everything was in its place.

Jisung hesitated in the entryway, dripping faint rain onto the mat. He didn’t move until Minho stepped past him, reaching for the light switch. Soft yellow filled the hallway.

The layout was familiar. He had never lived here but he’d visited before the engagement, had stayed over of course. He remembered the curve of the staircase, the scuff on the wall near the shoe rack. He remembered standing in this very doorway, holding a paper bag of takeaway, waiting for Minho to finish a phone call in the kitchen.

But now it felt like every surface was haunted by what might have been. Minho turned back toward him. “Come in. You’re home.”

Jisung stepped inside slowly, fingers curled tightly around the strap of his bag. It wasn’t home. But he didn’t say that.

Minho led him through the house, showing him where things were without pressing. The living room was simple—bookshelves, a coffee table, a soft gray couch with a folded blanket draped over the back. On the end table sat a photo frame turned ever so slightly toward the hallway. Jisung recognized it instantly.

It was from the fall fair. The year they got engaged. He looked away quickly.

The bedroom was at the end of the hall. Minho opened the door with careful hands, like he was afraid of startling him. “I set this up for you,” he said. “I know it’s not yours—but I tried to make it comfortable.”

Jisung stepped inside. The room was plain, warm-toned, but there were details tucked into the edges. A hoodie he remembered wearing once, folded on the chair. A familiar book on the nightstand. A pair of soft slippers that looked just like the kind he used to leave here. It was a stranger’s room dressed up in fragments of a life that had never quite happened.

He was supposed to move in here. After the wedding. But the wedding never happened. Life never happened.

He stood in the doorway for a long time, feeling like a visitor. A shadow stitched back into a world that had already moved on.

“I’ll give you some space,” Minho said quietly from behind him.

Jisung nodded. He didn’t look back.

He dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped in his lap, back straight. Waiting for instruction, without meaning to.

He was used to being told what to do. But Minho hadn’t told him anything yet.

So he stayed still. Silent. Trying not to disturb anything. Trying to be a good pet.

Minho sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded between his knees, his foot bouncing against the floor without rhythm. The house felt different with Jisung in it. Quieter somehow, like even the walls were holding their breath.

He glanced down the hall, where the bedroom door had closed softly behind Jisung. He hadn’t followed. He hadn’t wanted to crowd him. But now that he was sitting here—alone—he was spiraling. What was Jisung thinking? Was the room too much? Not enough? Did it feel wrong? Did he regret saying yes?

Minho scrubbed his hands over his face, then stood up too quickly and crossed the living room. He paused at the window, hesitating, then tugged the curtain just enough to peek outside. They were still there.

Across the street, Changbin leaned against the cruiser, arms folded, face unreadable. Jeongin stood a few feet away, talking quietly, gesturing toward something unseen. They looked casual. Unbothered. But they hadn’t left.

Minho’s jaw tightened. They didn’t trust him. Changbin had promised to back off, to give him space, but now here they were, parked like sentries, watching his front door like it might sprout claws. And Jeongin—he barely knew the guy. He hadn’t been around before. Didn’t know Jisung. Didn’t know Minho. All Minho knew about Jeongin was that he was dating Hyunjin’s friend, Felix. But there he was anyway, lingering outside like he had a right to be involved.

He picked up his phone, took a steadying breath, and tapped in the number for the local station. The line rang twice before someone picked up.

“Jungsan Police Department, Officer Moon speaking.”

“Yes, hi,” Minho said evenly. “I need to speak with whoever is in charge of supervising Chief Detective Seo Changbin.”

There was a pause. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Lee Minho. I live on Seoryeong Street. I believe your officers have been stationed outside my home for several hours without explanation.”

“One moment, please.”

The line went quiet—just the faint sound of hold music playing from a speaker far too old. Then a voice came on. Firmer. Older.

“This is Captain Joo.”

Minho straightened. “Hello, sir. My name is Lee Minho. I’m calling because I’ve had two of your officers—Detective Seo Changbin and Officer Yang Jeongin—parked outside my house for most of the evening.”

A long silence. Then, “You’re the civilian hosting the recovered victim. Han Jisung.”

Civilian? Minho rolled his eyes. He hated when they played dumb. They knew exactly who he was. “Yes, I'm his ex-fiancé,” Minho said. “He’s trying to recover from years of trauma. And he’s doing that while your officers sit outside my home like I’m a threat.”

“No one’s accused you of anything, Mr. Lee.”

“Maybe not directly,” Minho replied, keeping his voice even. “But sitting outside my house without saying a word to me? That’s harassment. And unless it ends soon, I’ll be filing a formal complaint.”

Captain Joo let out a slow breath. “I’ll look into it.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Minho said. “Because the person you’re protecting doesn’t need shadows outside his window tonight.”

He hung up before the conversation could stretch any longer. He stood there for a moment, phone in hand, heart beating faster than he’d like. Then he turned, quietly walked back to the window, and watched. Outside, Changbin looked down at his phone.

Minho backed away from the window and sat down again, clenching his fists into his knees. His chest ached with too many things—anger, anxiety, guilt. He hadn’t expected to feel so… exposed. So judged in his own house.

Jisung was finally home. This should have felt like a victory. But all Minho felt was watched.

Time passed in slow, anxious minutes. Minho sat on the couch, watching the clock on the wall move but not really registering the time. He kept telling himself to wait—to give Jisung space. That was what everyone had said. Be patient. Be gentle. Let him come to you.

But it had been too long. The house was silent. No footsteps. No creak of floorboards. No sound of drawers opening or bed springs shifting. He wanted to give Jisung space but…

Minho stood and climbed the stairs slowly, every step feeling louder than it should have. The hallway was dim, the bedroom door still closed. Untouched.

He knocked once, knuckles brushing softly against the wood. “Sungie?” No answer. He waited a beat longer, then knocked again, a little firmer. “Can I come in?” Still nothing.

His pulse kicked up. He opened the door carefully, bracing for—he didn’t know what. He just needed to see him. Make sure he was okay. The room was quiet. The curtains drawn. No movement.

Then his eyes landed on the far corner, just beside the dresser. Jisung was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. His head was down, resting against the wall. He looked so small, swallowed by the oversized hoodie and bandages wrapped around those god-awful tattoos that Minho was dreading seeing.

He stepped inside, gently closing the door behind him. “Sungie,” he said softly.

Jisung didn’t move. His eyes opened slowly, but he didn’t speak. He just looked up at Minho like he’d been waiting. Waiting for permission. Waiting for instruction. Waiting for something.

“You don’t have to sit on the floor,” Minho said quietly. “The bed’s right there.”

Jisung blinked once, then dropped his gaze again. Minho moved closer, slowly, crouching a few feet away. He didn’t reach for him. He didn’t touch him. He just sat, folding his legs beneath him.

“Are you… okay?” he asked, knowing how useless the question sounded the moment it left his mouth.

Jisung didn’t answer. But his shoulders hunched tighter, like he was bracing for something.

Minho swallowed hard. “You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said gently. “You don’t need to wait for me to… to order you around. You can get comfortable. You can rest.”

Jisung gave him nothing but silence. But Minho thought he saw it—the slightest shift in Jisung’s posture. A breath that didn’t catch in his throat. A flicker of something unnamable passing through his eyes.

It wasn’t trust. Not yet. But maybe it was the beginning of it.

For hours, Minho stayed crouched in the corner, just watching over him. Jisung hadn’t moved. Not once. His knees were still tucked to his chest, back pressed to the wall like he needed it to stay upright. His eyes kept drifting toward the bed but never settled there. Every time Minho mentioned it—softly, gently, trying not to startle him—Jisung would flinch. Barely. But enough to see it.

It wasn’t just hesitation. It was fear. Like he thought it was a test. Like he was waiting to be punished for wanting something soft.

Minho’s heart twisted painfully. He rubbed a hand over his face, breathing in slowly, then stood.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

Jisung’s gaze flicked up, startled, but Minho didn’t move toward him. He walked to the closet instead. He pulled out an extra blanket and then plucked the pillow off the bed.

He crouched again, not too close, and began laying them out—spreading the blanket flat across the carpet, setting up the pillow and adding another blanket on top for warmth. He worked in silence. Slowly. No sudden movements. No loud words. Just the quiet rhythm of someone making space.

When he was done, he sat back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs, “You can sleep here tonight. No pressure.”

Jisung’s eyes darted from the makeshift bed to Minho’s face. Something unreadable flickered there. Confusion. Caution. Maybe a bit of disbelief.

Minho stood up slowly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me. I'll leave the door open.” He hesitated at the doorway, turning to look at him one more time. “I don’t care where you sleep,” he said softly. “I just want you safe.”

Minho stood in the kitchen, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm mug of tea he hadn’t taken a sip of. He was too distracted—ears tuned to the faintest sound from upstairs, waiting for footsteps that never came. He hated how on edge he felt. Like a stranger in his own space.

His phone buzzed against the counter. He already knew it would be Hyunjin. Minho unlocked the screen and sighed.

Hyunjin|| I miss you

Three simple words, and somehow they made his chest ache. He stared at them for a long moment, thumb hovering.

Minho|| I miss you too

It was the truth. Complicated and messy, but still true.

Another message came in seconds later.

Hyunjin|| Can you come over? Just for a little while. I won’t keep you long.

Minho exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening around the phone. He glanced at the stairs. Jisung was upstairs—curled on a nest of blankets like an animal too afraid to take comfort from anything that looked too soft. He hadn’t said a word since they arrived. He hadn’t even laid down.

Minho’s chest pulled tight. He started typing again.

I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave him alone right now.

He hit send and waited. There was no typing bubble. No reply. Just the quiet screen and the weight of two lives pulling in opposite directions. Minho set the phone face down on the counter and leaned against the sink, staring out the window at the sky that was beginning to grow dark.

He hadn’t done anything wrong. But it didn’t feel like he’d done anything right, either.

The silence stretched around him, heavy and still. Minho stared at his phone for another moment, then turned it over again—screen down, shutting the world out.

He rubbed the back of his neck and moved toward the oven. The timer had long since gone off, its soft beep ignored during the lull of unanswered texts. He opened the door and was met with a wave of warm, savory air. The casserole had held its heat well—something soft, simple. The kind of food you didn’t have to chew much. Seungmin had already given him a meal plan for Jisung.

He grabbed a towel, pulled the dish out, and set it carefully on the counter. The heat fogged the edge of his glasses, and he took a slow breath, steadying his hands before reaching for two plates.

There was comfort in the task. Scooping the food, setting the portions just right. A drizzle of broth. A sprinkle of herbs. Something warm, familiar. Something human.

He set one plate aside, then grabbed a tray and a glass of water. Thought about tea. Decided it was too strong. Just water, for now. He stared at the tray for a moment.

This is where you need to be. The thought came quietly, but it stuck. Not across town. Not in someone else’s arms, no matter how much you miss him..

Minho lifted the tray and turned toward the stairs, moving slowly, careful not to spill. The weight of the food, the water, the moment—it felt heavy. But it also felt right.

Minho climbed the stairs slowly, one hand steadying the tray as he reached the top. The hallway was dim, but Jisung’s door was still open just the way he had left it. No sound came from inside. No movement.

He knocked softly against the frame with his knuckles. “Sungie?” he called, voice low. “I brought you something to eat.”

There was no answer, but he stepped in anyway. Jisung was still curled in the corner, knees tucked close, eyes glassy and distant. He blinked at the tray without reaction, just watched as Minho crossed the room and knelt down beside the makeshift bed.

Minho set the tray down slowly on the folded blanket, careful not to crowd him. “It’s soft,” he said gently. “Easy to eat. You should try.”

Jisung didn’t move for a few seconds. Then, like something had switched on inside him, he leaned forward abruptly. No hesitation, no sense of ritual. He went straight to the dish—mouth first.

Minho froze.

Jisung’s lips hit the plate, teeth scraping softly against ceramic as he took a bite like an animal. No fork. No hands. Just hunger and memory, tangled together.

Minho reached out instinctively. “Hey—hey,” he said, voice cracking more than he meant it to. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do that. Not here.”

Jisung jerked back slightly, eyes wide. Not in fear—just confusion, like he didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. Like he was waiting for punishment.

Minho kept his hand in the air a moment longer before slowly lowering it. He picked up the fork, his throat tightening.

“Let me,” he said gently. He shook his head, “I mean, can I?”

Jisung narrowed his eyes slightly but nodded. Minho scooped up a bite, blowing gently on it even though it wasn’t hot, and held it out. Jisung leaned forward carefully, lips parting as his lips took the food from the fork.

Minho watched the way his hands stayed in his lap, perfectly still. Like they weren’t his to use.

Minho kept feeding him, one bite at a time, heart breaking more with each. “You’re not doing anything wrong,” he reassured softly, more for himself than for Jisung. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And though Jisung didn’t say a word, he finished the whole plate—bite by quiet bite.

Felix moved over him slowly, the rhythm steady, thighs burning from the effort, but he didn’t stop. He liked being on top. He liked being seen. The stretch, the fullness, the soft slap of skin—all of it made him feel alive. And Jeongin beneath him, hands resting lightly on his hips, just watching, jaw tight and eyes fixed—Felix lived for that look.

So he gave him a show. He let himself moan. Open. Honest. Maybe too loud. His head tipped back as he sank down again, a soft, “Ah—fuck, yes,” spilling out of him before he could pull it back.

That’s when Jeongin's hands tightened, hard. “Stop,” he said flatly.

Felix froze, halfway through a bounce. Breathing heavy, skin flushed, sweat clinging to his back.

“What?”

Jeongin sat up slightly, voice sharp. “You sound like a fucking porn star.”

Felix blinked. The words hit like a slap—not loud, but undeniable. His cheeks burned hot. “I—what does that even mean?”

Jeongin gave a short, humorless laugh. “It means tone it down. You don’t have to be so… desperate.”

Felix stared at him. His chest rose and fell, suddenly too fast. “I wasn’t—”

“Do you think Hyunjin acts like that when Minho fucks him?”

The question landed like ice water. Felix flinched. Just barely. But Jeongin saw it. He always did.

“I don’t know,” Felix said quietly. “I… I'm not Hyunjin.”

“Exactly,” Jeongin muttered, reaching for the base of Felix’s spine to hold him still.

Felix looked down, suddenly painfully aware of how bare he was. How open. How small. The heat in his body had turned into something else—an ache that wasn’t just physical. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make it worse. He never did.

Jeongin’s grip tightened again—one hand on Felix’s hip, the other low on his back, pushing him down hard. “Go on,” he said, breathless now, the edge in his voice curling toward release.

Felix bit his lip and obeyed. His thighs ached, muscles trembling from holding pace, but he didn’t slow down. He rolled his hips exactly the way Jeongin liked. Not too fast. Not too needy. Just right.

He felt Jeongin start to shake beneath him, the tension winding tight, and then—

A low groan. Fingers digging into his skin. A sharp thrust upward and Jeongin came, hard, muttering Felix’s name like an afterthought.

Felix held still until the grip on his waist loosened. Then Jeongin leaned back against the pillows, chest rising and falling, satisfied.

“Good,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded. “You can get off now.”

Felix nodded silently, lifting himself off carefully. He winced at the emptiness that followed, at the ache that lingered unsolved between his legs. But he didn’t ask. Didn’t touch himself. He just reached for a towel, wiped himself off quickly, and stood.

Jeongin had already closed his eyes. Felix dressed in silence. Underwear. Loose shirt. The smell of garlic drifted faintly from the kitchen—dinner, still in the oven. He hadn’t set a timer. He hoped it wasn’t ruined.

“I’ll check the food,” he said quietly, not expecting a response.

And none came. He padded down the hall, bare feet quiet against the wood floor.

His body still pulsed with heat. But his hands were steady. Dinner wouldn’t cook itself.

The kitchen was warm, thick with the scent of garlic and roasted vegetables. Felix stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the simmering sauce with practiced ease. He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. Every movement was quiet, precise.

The doorbell rang. He turned the heat down and wiped his hands on a towel, heart tightening in that automatic, subtle way it did lately.

Hyunjin stood in the doorway, hair damp from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold. As always, he looked effortlessly elegant—high-neck sweater tucked into belted slacks, boots clean despite the weather. Even his exhaustion looked composed.

“Hey,” Hyunjin said, offering a small smile. “Jeongin texted. Said you wanted me to come by.”

Felix fought back a frown and forced a smile. He stepped aside to let him in. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

They moved into the kitchen, and Hyunjin leaned against the counter, unzipping his coat. “Smells amazing. I’m starving.”

Felix returned to the stove, stirring the sauce again, eyes on the pan. “Hope you like Minestrone soup.” Felix hoped it would be enough for three. He had no idea Hyunjin would show up.

It wasn’t Hyunjin’s fault. Not really. He’d never been anything but polite. Gentle. Charming. But ever since Jeongin started mentioning him more—offhand comments, little comparisons—Felix had started noticing things he didn’t want to notice.

How Jeongin’s gaze lingered on Hyunjin when he thought no one was watching. How he’d say, “Hyunjin would never say something like that,” or “Hyunjin always looks so perfect,” like Felix was some rumpled version of a better idea.

And now Hyunjin was in his kitchen, looking perfect, smelling like the expensive cologne Felix had bought him last month, smiling without knowing that Felix was gripping the spoon a little too tight.

“You’re really good at this,” Hyunjin said as he set the table. “You always seem so… put together.”

Felix gave a quiet laugh, arranging the napkins just right. “That’s the goal.”

Felix set the plates down gently, one after the other. The meal was simple but well-prepared—roasted garlic chicken, crisped potatoes, glazed carrots, and a light salad tossed with lemon and honey. The kind of dinner that took just enough effort to feel meaningful.

But Jeongin didn’t look twice at it. He was already leaning in toward Hyunjin, who dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin, casual and glowing.

“What have you been up to these days?” Jeongin asked, as if they hadn't seen Hyunjin just yesterday.

Hyunjin shrugged, “Nothing much. Just, you know… Trying to keep busy. Choosing some art pieces for the studio. Thinking about paint colors.”

“What studio?” Jeongin's brows lifted.

“Oh,” Hyunjin said between bites, “Minho bought me a studio.”

Felix blinked, but kept his face still as Jeongin's gaze slid toward him. “Did you know about this?” he asked Felix.

Felix gave a slight shrug, pretending to be nonchalant, “Hyunjin mentioned it.” He dropped his gaze, avoiding Jeongin's eyes.

Jeongin grew still. “What?”

Hyunjin smiled, genuine, but not bragging. Just pleased, as he should be with such a gift. “It’s small, but really nice. I need to decorate it and figure out the layout. Probably get mirrors installed. I haven’t even planned the classes yet.”

Jeongin laughed, shaking his head. “Wow. Well, since Minho's preoccupied, I guess I’m on studio duty.”

Felix felt his stomach tighten when Jeongin grinned at Hyunjin. “Seriously. Let me know what you need. Paint, tools—whatever. I’ve got you.”

Hyunjin gave a polite shake of the head, “I'm sure I'll manage but thanks for offering.”

Jeongin wouldn't let up. He leaned towards Hyunjin again, “What color are you thinking? White, maybe? Something peaceful. Maybe some blue.”

Felix chewed his food slowly, the taste suddenly dimmed. His shift that day had been hell. A woman had berated him for ten minutes because the limited edition sneakers she wanted were only stocked in men’s sizes. A heel display had collapsed mid-morning. He’d spent his break with his head against a cardboard box, trying not to cry from exhaustion.

Jeongin hadn’t asked how his day went. Hadn’t even glanced at him. He set his fork down gently and gathered the empty plates.

“I’ll make tea,” he said, voice light.

Neither of them answered. Jeongin was too busy trying to pry into Hyunjin’s life and Hyunjin was too busy trying to deflect Jeongin’s advances.

Felix moved to the kitchen, his hands steady even as something hollow pulsed behind his ribs. He stacked the plates carefully. Turned on the tap. Let the steam rise around his face like a shield.

When the tea was ready, Felix placed the mugs down with practiced care—one by one, silently, precisely. He could feel Jeongin’s eyes on him but kept his own low, focused on the tray like it might anchor him.

“Wait,” Jeongin said, brows pulling slightly. “Where’s the sugar?”

Felix blinked, heart stuttering. “Oh. I—I forgot. I’ll get it.”

He turned, already moving, but Jeongin clicked his tongue with that familiar edge. “Seriously, Felix? It’s always something.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cruel. But it hit like a slap.

Felix froze. His throat closed around something tight, something bitter. He stood there, facing the table, unmoving. His eyes burned.

He tried—he really tried—to breathe through it, to swallow the heat climbing into his face. But it broke anyway. A soft, humiliating sob that slipped out before he could catch it. He raised a hand to his mouth, but it was too late.

Hyunjin looked up sharply, startled, “Lix?”

Felix turned around, eyes wet, face flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, voice trembling. “It’s fine. I’ll just—”

Jeongin sighed, setting his cup down harder than necessary. “Jesus, Felix.”

Hyunjin opened his mouth to say something, but Jeongin was already waving a hand toward him, like offering an explanation. “He’s just… too sensitive,” he said to Hyunjin with a small, apologetic smile. “It’s not a big deal. He cries over everything.”

Felix’s breath hitched again and Hyunjin looked between them, quiet. Felix shook his head, eyes dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled again, voice barely there. “I didn’t mean to ruin dinner.”

The kitchen lights felt too bright. He stood by the counter, both palms pressed flat to the cold surface, head bowed between his shoulders. His cheeks were still wet, and he hadn’t tried to wipe them. His breath stuttered every few seconds—shaky, uneven—as if even now, his body wasn’t sure if it was safe to break down.

Behind him, the sound of quiet footsteps. He didn’t look up.

Hyunjin’s voice came gently from the doorway. “Hey, Lix.”

Felix flinched.

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin said softly, stepping closer. “That was… that wasn’t okay. What he said. What he… I mean, everything just wasn't okay.”

Felix shook his head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Hyunjin murmured. “You forgot sugar. He didn’t have to snap at you.”

Felix turned slightly, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “Please don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t make it a thing.”

Hyunjin hesitated, then leaned back against the edge of the counter beside him. “I’m not trying to make a scene. I just—Felix, that was cruel. You didn’t deserve that.”

Felix closed his eyes. His throat felt tight. He hated this—the pity, the truth of it.

“You can’t say stuff like that,” he said quietly. “If he hears you, he’ll… he’ll think I’m talking about him behind his back.”

“Because I’m calling him out for being an asshole?” Hyunjin’s voice rose slightly, incredulous.

Felix flinched again. “Please,” he said quickly, eyes darting toward the hallway. “Don’t be so loud.”

Hyunjin fell silent.

Felix stared down at the counter. “If I just stay quiet, it’ll blow over. It always does.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. “You shouldn’t have to shrink yourself to survive him. I… I didn't know it was like that with you and him.”

Felix didn’t respond. He just picked up the sugar bowl from the counter, holding it between both hands like something fragile, and said, “I should bring this back out.”

And he meant it. Because even now—even shaking, even humiliated—his first thought was making things right again.

Felix returned to the dining room with the sugar bowl in both hands, head lowered, heart thudding. Hyunjin followed after him, begrudgingly sitting down but casting a seething look at Jeongin.

Jeongin didn’t say anything. He just took a sip of his tea like the conversation had never happened. But when Hyunjin turned away to check his phone, Jeongin looked up. And Felix didn’t miss it. The look. Felix knew what it meant. Quick and sharp, buried beneath Jeongin’s usual mask of indifference. It was gone as fast as it came.

Felix’s chest tightened. He smiled when Hyunjin tried to make him laugh with a joke about candle-scented yoga mats. He cleared the plates after. Washed them carefully. Even dried each one and placed it back in the cupboard with trembling hands.

And all the while, he felt it. Jeongin watching him. Waiting.

By the time Hyunjin rose to leave, Felix’s hands had gone cold. He forced a smile, hugged him briefly, and thanked him for coming. Hyunjin looked like he wanted to say something more, but didn’t. He just squeezed Felix’s arm before walking to the door.

The second it shut, silence fell like a dropped curtain. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, hands folded tightly in front of him, staring at nothing. The silence in the house felt unnatural—thick and heavy, like it had weight. Like it knew what was coming too.

Then, he heard the footsteps behind him. Slow. Deliberate. He didn’t turn around. He heard the breath behind him first, then the hand in his hair—fingers twisting harshly at the roots, yanking his head back just enough to sting. Not enough to leave marks. Never enough for that.

“Was that fun for you?” Jeongin’s voice was low. Cold. “Crying like some helpless little thing in front of him?”

Felix’s lips parted, but no words came out. Jeongin tugged harder. “Answer me.”

“I’m sorry,” Felix whispered. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to embarrass me?” Jeongin snapped. “Didn’t mean to make me look like some fucking monster while Hyunjin played your savior?”

Felix flinched. “No. I swear I wasn’t—”

Jeongin let go suddenly, shoving him back a step—not with force, but with intent. Felix caught himself against the edge of the table, breath catching.

Jeongin stared at him for a long moment, jaw tight, chest rising and falling with quiet rage, “I give you everything, Felix. I support the lifestyle you dreamed of when you lived in the gutter. I keep your secrets, all of them. Even the nasty ones. Especially the nasty ones.” Felix felt nausea swirl dangerously in his gut. “And this is how you treat me, Felix?”

“I – I – I'm sorry—”

“I’m going for a run,” Jeongin said flatly, already walking to the door. “If you’re smart, you’ll clean up this place before I get back.”

He didn’t slam the door. He never did. But the silence left in his wake felt louder than any shout.

Felix stood still for a long time, the sting on his scalp throbbing dully beneath his fingertips. His knees were shaking, but he didn’t sit. He didn’t cry. He just turned slowly back toward the kitchen.

The blanket was too soft. It smelled clean, like detergent and warm fabric, not like bleach or mildew. The floor beneath him was carpeted—not cold concrete—and the air didn’t sting his lungs. But still, Jisung lay frozen, curled on his side with his knees drawn to his chest, clutching the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing anchoring him to the room.

Sleep hovered just out of reach, teasing him with the idea of rest but never taking hold. His body wouldn’t let it. Every time his eyes closed, something twitched awake inside him. Some old instinct. Some thread pulled taut by years of waiting for the wrong sound.

He stared into the dark, eyes half-lidded, barely blinking. The room wasn’t unfamiliar. He’d been here hours now, watched Minho set the blanket down, listened to the low murmur of reassurance. He knew he was in Minho’s house. Knew, logically, that no one else was here. That he wasn’t back there. But logic meant nothing to the animal-brain that still pulsed beneath his skin. The part of him that listened harder in silence. The part that kept him alive.

The sounds of the house were strange and endless. The creak of wood. The hum of the refrigerator. The whisper of pipes behind the wall. All of them harmless. All of them wrong.

Then he heard it. Footsteps. They were just above him.

His whole body went still. The footsteps were soft, but not silent. Slow. Measured. The same pacing rhythm he had memorized over years—countless nights pressed into the mattress on the basement floor, eyes wide in the dark, listening to Sir’s boots move across the boards above. One step. Then another. Then pause.

They weren’t heavy enough. Not quite the same. But the pattern was there.

The fear rose like a cold flood in his stomach, dragging his breath from his chest. His ears strained to follow the path—left, then back, then still again. His muscles ached from how tight he was holding himself, curled in a knot beneath the covers, too afraid to move, too afraid to be noticed.

He reminded himself it was Minho. It had to be. But that didn’t quiet the noise in his head.

He couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore now, but he still felt them. Still imagined the turn of a doorknob. The crackle of a voice through the speaker. The snap of gloves pulled tight.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to breathe. One inhale. Two. But it wasn’t working. It never worked.

The silence stretched on so long that Jisung’s heart began to fill it with noise. He couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore, but they lived beneath his skin now—pacing along the curve of his spine, echoing in his bones. He couldn’t stop listening. Every creak of the house became a threat. Every breath he took felt like it might give him away. He kept his arms wrapped tightly around himself under the blanket, his cheek pressed to the edge of the makeshift bed, and told himself again and again, this isn’t the basement. This isn’t the basement.

But it felt like it. It felt exactly like it.

The dread tightened in his chest like hands closing around his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force his mind somewhere else, somewhere quieter—but there was no safe place left inside him. And then—

It happened.

He felt the warmth spread before he registered what he’d done. There was no sound, just the awful heat of urine soaking through the blanket beneath him, trickling along the crease of his thighs and under the curve of his hips. It was instinct. Panic. The body’s betrayal in the face of imagined danger.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The shame washed over him in a wave, thick and suffocating. He curled tighter, breath shaking as hot tears spilled over his cheeks. He’d made a mess. He’d ruined the blanket Minho gave him. He wasn’t supposed to ruin things. He was supposed to be good.

The footsteps—real ones this time—approached from the hall. The creak of the floorboards. The soft sound of a hand brushing the door.

Then Minho’s voice drifted across to him quietly. “Sungie? Are you awake?”

Jisung choked on a sob and couldn’t answer.

Minho stepped inside, already crouching down with a look of concern. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I—I’m sorry,” Jisung whispered, voice shaking. “I made a mess. I didn’t mean to, I just— I was scared, and I heard—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. He wiped at his face with trembling hands, tears hot and fast and endless.

Minho paused for a split second, eyes flicking to the damp patch on the blanket. Then, instead of recoiling, he gently reached out and placed a warm hand near Jisung’s shoulder—close enough to offer comfort, but not touching him directly.

“Hey,” Minho said softly, “it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I heard footsteps,” Jisung said again, trying to explain. “Above us. I heard them walking. I thought— I thought he was coming back. I thought I was—” His voice broke into a sob, and he pressed his face into the crook of his elbow. “There were footsteps.”

Minho didn’t respond right away. Then, gently, he said, “Sungie… there’s nothing above us but the roof.”

The words settled in slowly, like a blanket being laid over broken glass. Just the roof? Right… Of course. Just the roof. He wasn't in the basement anymore. But he'd heard… He'd lost his mind, hadn't he? A part of him would always live down there in the basement.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shrinking further into the damp blanket, ashamed and lost.

Minho stood up slowly. “Let me run a bath for you and get some clean sheets. You don’t have to move yet. Just stay there, okay?”

Jisung nodded, eyes still squeezed shut. He was humiliated. He was terrified.

And still, he clung to the sound of Minho’s voice, steady and gentle, trying to pull him out of a place that didn’t exist anymore—but still wouldn’t let him go.

Minho’s footsteps faded down the hall, soft and steady. The bedroom door whispered shut behind him, and for a moment, Jisung was alone again.

The shame still sat heavy in his chest, mingling with the sharp, aching fear that hadn’t truly left. The wet patch beneath him was cooling now, clammy and miserable, but he didn’t shift. He didn’t even try to clean himself up. He just pressed his face against the pillow Minho had laid out for him and tried to focus on breathing.

Minho had said there was nothing above them but the roof. He wanted to believe that. He really did. But his body didn’t.

Because after less than a minute of silence, the sound came again. A faint creak. Then another.

The same slow, deliberate pacing he’d memorized over years. The same rhythm that made his heart seize and his stomach churn. It moved from one end of the ceiling to the other—soft, but distinct. It was too familiar. Too measured. Like someone was walking the perimeter above him, knowing exactly where to step to be heard.

Jisung’s eyes flew open. His hands gripped the edge of the blanket tightly, breath caught in his throat.

He strained to listen, every muscle taut, sweat slicking the back of his neck. The footsteps didn’t continue. They stopped suddenly, like the person—whatever it was—had paused mid-step. Listening back.

Waiting. Jisung didn’t dare move.

His brain scrambled for logic, for reason, for any explanation that would make this something ordinary. But it wasn’t. Not to him. His body was already slipping back into old reflexes—stillness, silence, submission. He hadn’t heard that sound since… Since before.

Tears threatened again, but he forced them down. Minho would be back soon. Minho would tell him it was just the pipes, or the roof settling, or some other lie he’d pretend to believe just to make it stop.

Until then, all he could do was lie still and pray Sir never opened the door.

The TV cast flickering light across the living room, illuminating the soft angles of the couch and the half-empty bowl of popcorn on the table. A sitcom was playing—one of those easy, background shows with too-loud laughter and predictable jokes. Changbin was relaxed, his arm draped behind Seungmin, one leg tucked under him, half-smiling at the screen.

Seungmin hadn’t heard a single word of the last five minutes. His eyes were on the TV, but his mind was in another house entirely.

Was Jisung sleeping? Had he eaten anything since the hospital? Was Minho being careful with him? Patient enough? He shifted slightly, arms folded tight over his chest, the same tension he’d carried since they let Jisung go was still wound deep in his shoulders.

“You’re a million miles away,” Changbin said quietly.

Seungmin blinked and glanced at him. “Sorry.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Changbin’s tone was gentle, not pushing, just offering.

Seungmin hesitated. His jaw clenched. “I keep thinking he’s not okay.”

“He’s with Minho,” Changbin replied, as if that was supposed to help.

Seungmin looked away, gaze falling to the flickering shadows on the wall. “That’s what worries me.”

Changbin was quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “He asked to go with Minho.”

Seungmin nodded slowly. “Because he thinks Minho’s safe. But he doesn’t know better.”

The TV continued to play in the background, laughter swelling, but it felt like it belonged to another world. Seungmin leaned his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, “I just keep seeing his face when he woke up. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to exist.”

Changbin shifted beside him, his hand resting lightly over Seungmin’s, “He’s not alone anymore.” Seungmin gave a noncommittal hum and Changbin’s voice broke through the static in his head, soft but deliberate, “He's back. That's all that matters, right?”

Seungmin blinked, jaw tightening. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, “I just don’t think it should’ve been Minho.” The words came out low, tight, pulled from somewhere deep. “It doesn’t feel right.”

There was a pause. Not a surprised one—just quiet. Familiar.

Then Changbin leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands folding together with that slow, thoughtful rhythm he always used when he didn’t want to push too hard. “Is this about what you said? Back then. When Jisung first disappeared.”

Seungmin didn’t move. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence said enough.

Changbin wasn’t asking because he’d forgotten. He was asking because he hadn’t. Because they’d had that conversation before—late, hushed, when everything was still fresh and chaotic, and hope hadn’t yet started to curdle into fear. When Seungmin had looked at him and said something that didn’t sound like an accusation, but came close. Something uncertain but urgent.

“I didn’t know anything for sure,” Seungmin murmured. “I still don’t. Jisung denied everything when I asked him back then. It's his instinct, you know? Protecting Minho.'”

“But you felt something,” Changbin said, not unkindly. “And you still do.”

Seungmin nodded once, slowly, his eyes locked on the flicker of a commercial break as if it might give him something to hold onto. “I just don’t know how to turn it off,” he said finally. “That feeling.”

He could hear Changbin breathe beside him, long and steady, “You don’t have to. But you also don’t get to make the decision for him. If he asked to go with Minho, if he trusts him… then we have to let that be real. Even if we’re scared.”

Seungmin said nothing. He leaned his head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might offer some clarity. But all it gave him was the echo of old doubts and unfinished thoughts—the ones he’d tried to forget and couldn’t, no matter how many years had passed.

He hadn’t had proof then. And he didn’t now. But the fear remained. Heavy. Muffled. Inescapable. And no one could take that from him, not even Changbin.

Neither of them had noticed when the episode ended. Seungmin sat curled against one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath him, the tension in his body long past exhaustion and moving into something heavier—something that lived in his chest and refused to budge. Changbin had shifted closer sometime during the second episode, his warmth familiar, comforting in theory. One of his hands now rested against Seungmin’s thigh, thumb moving in slow, lazy circles.

It wasn’t a surprise when Changbin leaned in. His lips brushed against Seungmin’s neck, soft and tentative, testing. His other hand slid up slowly beneath Seungmin’s hoodie, just enough to skim skin. The touch wasn’t demanding. It was quiet. Sweet. The kind of invitation that would’ve meant something on any other night.

But Seungmin barely reacted. His shoulders stayed tight. His breathing didn’t change. His mind was somewhere else entirely—curled up in a different house, beside someone else who might not have slept in days.

Changbin pulled back just slightly. “Hey,” he murmured. “Are you okay?”

Seungmin didn’t answer. He sat up straighter, brushing his hair out of his face, and reached for his phone on the coffee table. The screen lit up his face in pale blue. He stared at it for a moment, then opened a new message.

How is he?

He typed it quickly. Sent it before he could second-guess.

Minho’s reply came a minute later.

He’s asleep now. He was upset earlier. Thought he heard footsteps on the roof. Nothing up there, though. It's just in his head.

Seungmin read the message twice. Then again. His stomach dropped.

Of course Jisung would hear something like that. Of course the night wouldn’t be quiet. Not in his mind. Not in that body still trained to flinch at silence and ghosts. But, also, what if it was real?”

“He heard something on the roof,” Seungmin said aloud, voice flat.

Changbin frowned. “You think it’s real?”

“I don’t know,” Seungmin murmured. “But even if it isn’t—it’s real to him.” He stood, already pulling on his shoes he’d discarded earlier.

Changbin sat up behind him. “Seungmin, wait.”

“I’m going over.”

“Minho said he’s fine.”

“I want to see that for myself.”

Seungmin had his keys already in hand, when he turned to look back at Changbin—still sitting on the couch, legs sprawled, concern pulling faintly at his features. “Aren't you coming?”

Changbin hesitated. “To Minho’s?”

Seungmin nodded. “Just to check. Just to make sure Jisung’s okay. You're working his case, aren't you?”

Changbin leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t reach for his jacket. He just looked up at Seungmin with that same measured expression—the one he wore when he was thinking like a detective, not a boyfriend.

“Minho said he’s asleep,” Changbin said carefully. “There’s no sign of a break-in. No threat. Nothing actionable.”

Seungmin’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking you to make a report. Just come with me.”

Changbin sighed, “Seungmin… I can’t just show up at someone’s house in the middle of the night because your gut says something’s off.”

“It’s not my gut,” Seungmin snapped. “It’s Jisung. He’s barely holding it together. You didn’t see him like I did. You didn’t—”

“I get it,” Changbin interrupted, his tone low but firm. “I care about him too. But I’m not risking my job over something that isn’t on paper. I already had to hear an earful from Captain Joo today because of Minho. You know I’m already in line for promotion. One misstep, one complaint, and it’s over.”

There it was. The final crack.

Seungmin stared at him, a bitter laugh catching in his throat, “Right. Of course.”

“Seungmin—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, voice clipped. “It’s fine. I’ll go alone.”

The street was quiet when Seungmin pulled up to Minho’s house. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful, just unnerving—like the night itself was holding its breath.

Seungmin slowed, his hands tightening on the wheel the moment he saw the tall figure standing near the front gate, too still for someone just passing by. Then recognition hit.

Hyunjin.

He parked quickly, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. He stepped out of the car, eyes locked on the man across the street. Hyunjin hadn’t moved. He stood perfectly composed, arms crossed, coat neat against his frame, like he belonged here. Like he’d been invited.

Seungmin’s jaw clenched. He crossed the street in fast, angry strides. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Hyunjin looked up with a nervous smile, “Oh, hi, you're… Seungmin, right? I don't think we've ever been properly introduced.”

“What are you doing here?” Seungmin’s voice was low but sharp, slicing into the night. “It’s two in the morning and you’re standing outside Minho’s house while Jisung is inside trying to sleep.”

Hyunjin didn’t back down. “Minho invited me over.”

“Oh, did he? Tonight of all nights?”

“I just got here,” Hyunjin said, voice hardening now. “You act like I’ve been hiding in the bushes. I showed up because he asked me to come. He's my boyfriend — is it so surprising that he wants to see me?”

Seungmin scoffed. “Minho promised he wouldn't allow you to come by when Jisung was here.”

“Look, I know you and Jisung are friends or whatever,” Hyunjin stepped closer now, chin raised. “But you need to understand Jisung is his past. Minho’s doing him a favor by letting him stay here.”

Each word cut like a knife.

“A favor?” Seungmin repeated, voice going low and dangerous. “You think this is some temporary thing that'll blow over after a few days? It’s going to take years before Jisung is even ready to leave. So forget this little fling you had with Minho.”

They stared at each other, breath sharp in the cold until Hyunjin asked, “What if I can't forget?”

Chapter Text

The ringing dragged Minho out of sleep like being slowly pulled from underwater. He blinked against the grainy light of late morning, the rough couch cushion pressing into the side of his face. His neck ached, one arm pinned beneath him, and his legs were tangled in the thin blanket he’d thrown over himself sometime after dawn.

For a moment, he didn’t know what day it was. Then the buzzing started again—his phone, vibrating steadily against the cushion near his hip.

Minho groaned and sat up, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye socket as the world tilted, reorienting. The living room was too bright. His mouth was dry and his heart thudded a little harder than it should have.

He squinted at the screen — 11:47 AM. Fuck. He never slept this late.

The buzzing cut off, then started again almost immediately—same number, unfamiliar. He answered it before he could second-guess himself, “Hello?”

“Oh, Minho! I hope it’s not too early,” the woman’s voice chirped. “It’s Ms. Park. You did my kitchen lights, last spring? My sister just moved into a place, and we were hoping—”

“I’m not taking work right now,” he interrupted gently, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His voice came out hoarse. Not groggy, just drained.

There was a pause. “Oh… is everything alright?”

Minho let his eyes drift toward the hallway. The house was still quiet.

“Just taking time off,” he said. “Something personal.”

He could hear her smile, even through the hesitation. “Well, let me know if you’re back in business. My sister’s not in a rush.”

“Thanks,” he murmured. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

When he hung up, he didn’t move right away. He let the phone rest on his thigh and stared out across the room. A glass of water sat on the table. Half full. No condensation. He didn’t remember pouring it. He took a sip anyway.

The couch creaked as he stood. The blanket slipped off his legs and crumpled to the floor. He didn’t pick it up. Instead, he stretched slowly, the stiffness in his body not from sleep, but from something heavier. Something he’d been carrying for hours. Maybe longer.

Then the thought came, sudden and slicing. Jisung. Minho should have never left him alone for so long.

His body reacted before the panic could settle fully into place. He moved, fast, crossing the living room with long strides, his bare feet thudding dully against the hardwood as he headed for the hallway. He passed the guest bathroom. The door stood open. Lights off. Empty.

He turned toward the back bedroom. The one he’d set up carefully for Jisung. He’d made sure the bedding on the floor was clean and placed a glass of water on the nightstand just in case. He hadn’t wanted to overwhelm him. Hadn’t wanted to push.

The door was ajar. Just like he’d left it.

But something was wrong. He could feel it before he touched the handle. He pushed it open and stepped inside. His heart sank. There was no one in the room.

Minho’s chest tightened and he called out, softly at first, “Jisung?” Then louder, “Jisung!”

He crossed the room in three long steps and checked the closet, the space between the bed and the wall, even the bathroom again, flicking the light on just to be sure. He checked the laundry room, the pantry, even opened the back door to look out toward the yard.

Nothing. The whole house was too still. Too composed.

His breath came faster now, just slightly, just enough to sting at the edge of his lungs. He moved with more speed, checked again—every room, every corner—as if he’d somehow missed him the first time. But the answer was the same. Jisung was not here.

He hadn’t left a note. His shoes were still by the door. The glass of water on the nightstand still full. Everything exactly where it had been last night.

Except Jisung.

Minho stood in the bedroom doorway again, his hand pressed against the frame like he needed it to stay upright. The floor swayed beneath him but he pushed away from the wall and dashed outside, calling for Jisung.

The station was quiet as usual. Usually, Jeongin would already be there, cracking jokes, trying to lighten the mood. But he'd called in, said he was checking out some vandalism report. Changbin left him to it. Jeongin was still green. Still too eager to please, to do something good.

Changbin had been green once. Now any desire to do good came secondary to his growing ambition. Sure, he still wanted to help people and it still gave him immense satisfaction cuffing some asshole and bringing him in, but he was at a point in his life where he knew he needed to start climbing ladders. A big part of that was feeling like he had to prove himself worthy of Seungmin.

He sat at his desk, fingers drumming against the arm of his chair as he stared at the screen of his phone. He hadn’t been able to focus all morning—his mind kept drifting back to the night before.

He opened his messages again. The last one from Seungmin was just a single word: yeah.

Changbin hadn’t stayed at Seungmin’s last night. He knew Seungmin was pissed off at him for not going to check on Jisung and he knew they'd only argue if he stayed. So he’d grabbed his keys and driven home in silence, leaving Seungmin alone with whatever stubborn need had sent him to Jisung in the first place. But even from the quiet of his own apartment, Changbin hadn’t been able to let it go. He’d sent two more messages asking if Seungmin was okay, telling him to at least call if something was wrong.

But there were no replies. Just that one dismissive word. Yeah.

He swiped back to the thread and stared at the unanswered texts. The read receipts were on. Seungmin had seen them—but he wasn’t engaging.

Changbin rubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight. Seungmin shutting down like this wasn’t new, but it still stung every time. He could picture him now, pacing or sulking or curling up somewhere with his arms crossed, pretending nothing was wrong. But something was wrong. Something always felt wrong lately.

He had half a mind to just drive over and demand a conversation when the buzz of a desk phone snapped him back to the present. Across the room, Officer Woo picked up, her tone neutral at first, then sharp.

“What? Can you say that again?”

Changbin sat up straighter.

Officer Woo turned to him, covering the receiver. “An elderly couple just called in. They found someone in their basement. Says he broke in through the outside cellar door and fell asleep down there. They think he’s—” she squinted at the notes she was scribbling “—‘that boy from the news. The one who got found recently.’ I'm guessing they mean Han Jisung?”

Changbin’s blood went cold. “Give me the address,” he said, already standing.

The basement smelled like dust and old rain—like the kind of place that hadn’t been lived in, only used. Changbin stepped slowly down the creaking wooden stairs, the narrow beam of his flashlight cutting through the gloom. The bulb overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sickly orange light over the cluttered storage space.

Then he saw him. Jisung was huddled in the far corner, his knees pulled tight to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. His hoodie was too big, sleeves swallowed his hands. His face was pale, hair stuck to his temples with sweat. He looked like a ghost trying to fold in on himself.

“Jisung,” Changbin said softly, voice low and even.

Jisung didn’t move. His eyes were wide, unblinking. He looked at Changbin like he wasn’t sure if he was real.

“Hey. It’s okay. It’s just me. You're safe.”

Jisung blinked slowly. His breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling too fast. As Changbin moved a step closer, the light from his flashlight caught on something red. He lowered the beam.

Jisung’s bare feet were streaked with blood. Jagged cuts lined the soles—some fresh, others clotted with dirt. Tiny shards of gravel were embedded in his skin. His ankles were trembling, and even though he sat still, Changbin could see how much it hurt him just to exist like that.

“Shit,” Changbin muttered, crouching down but keeping distance between them. “Why, Jisung? Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving?”

“I didn’t — I — heard…” Jisung croaked out. His voice was paper-thin. “He was there.”

Changbin didn’t ask what he meant. He knew. The look in Jisung’s eyes told him everything.

“He was gonna take me back,” Jisung whispered. “I had to run.”

Changbin felt the weight of it settle like a stone in his chest, “You’re free, Jisung. You're free from that monster. He's not taking you back.”

Jisung didn’t respond. He just shivered and looked down at his bleeding feet.

“I think we should go back to the hospital,” Changbin said softly.

Jisung’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I don’t want the bed. It’s too soft. It’s not mine.”

“You don’t have to sleep in it,” Changbin reassured him. “But your feet—those need to be cleaned. Stitched maybe.” He saw the panic start to creep back in, and quickly added, “Just for a little while. I’ll stay with you.”

“I don’t want Minho to be mad,” Jisung murmured.

Changbin narrowed his eyes, “Why would he be mad?” Jisung remained silent. “I'll handle him,” he told Jisung. “I'm sure he’ll be more worried than anything.” But it was strange, wasn't it? Why hadn't Minho called to report Jisung was missing? Surely he knew?

Jisung hesitated, then slowly began to unfold himself. The movement was stiff and unsteady. He winced as he tried to put weight on his feet but didn’t complain. Not once.

Changbin took off his jacket and offered it. “Wrap this around you. It's cold outside.”

Jisung nodded and accepted it wordlessly. Changbin didn’t reach for him. He waited until Jisung took the first step on his own—shaky, slow, but willing. Then he followed him out of the dark.

The hallway lights buzzed quietly overhead, casting a sterile glow across the linoleum floors. Changbin sat in one of the waiting area chairs, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tightly. Through the window at the end of the corridor, morning sunlight filtered in pale and cold. It didn’t reach him.

Jisung was in the exam room. They were checking his feet, rehydrating him, running a few quick labs to make sure he hadn't developed another infection. He’d barely said a word during the ride back. Not even when Changbin offered to stay beside him.

Changbin headed toward the nurses’ station and caught the attention of the woman behind the desk. “Excuse me,” he said, offering a small smile. “Have you seen Dr. Kim today? I was hoping to talk to him.”

The nurse glanced down at her clipboard. “Dr. Kim? He’s not in today.”

Changbin blinked. “Not in…?”

“He called in this morning. Said he wasn’t feeling well and would be taking the day off.”

Changbin frowned. “Seungmin took the day off?”

The nurse nodded absently as she scribbled something. “First time in a while, I think.”

Changbin didn’t move right away. He stood there, feeling a tight knot of unease form low in his chest. Seungmin didn’t take days off. Not unless something was really wrong. He was the type who’d work through migraines, food poisoning, even a bad breakup.

“Did he say what was wrong?” Changbin asked.

She shook her head. “Just said he was unwell. He didn’t sound great over the phone.”

Changbin nodded slowly, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. He tried to remember the last time Seungmin had missed a shift. Tried to think if he’d said anything last night—something about not feeling right, or being off. Nothing came to mind.

“Thanks,” he said, already backing away.

The nurse barely looked up. “Hope he's alright”

Changbin stepped out into the hallway again, unease twisting in his stomach like a storm rolling in. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in the air. In the silence. And Seungmin’s silence was always the loudest of all.

Changbin walked back toward the exam room with heavy steps. The nurse’s words echoed in his mind. Called in sick… took the day off… didn’t sound great.

When he reached the room, the door was cracked open. Inside, Jisung was propped up on the bed, eyes dull but more alert than before. A nurse was removing the last of the gauze from his feet, murmuring something about antibiotics and rest. And sitting beside the bed, face drawn tight with concern was Minho.

Minho looked up the second he sensed someone in the doorway.

Changbin stepped in, jaw set, “Minho, can we talk out in the hallway?”

“Sure,” Minho glanced at Jisung, who stared blankly at the wall, his shoulders hunched. He followed Changbin out into the hallway, his voice low and cautious. “I came as soon as I heard. What happened?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Changbin said, crossing his arms. “What's going on, Minho?”

“I don’t know,” Minho shrugged, the face of innocence. It just pissed Changbin off even more. “We were sleeping. I guess I woke up late. I went to check on him but he was gone.”

“And you didn't think to report it?”

Minho scoffed, “I was looking for him! Driving around, checking the parks, the stores, the… the places he used to go to.” He ran his fingers through his hair, a sigh escaping his lips, “I knew how it would look to you people. You'd think I had something to do with it.”

Changbin gave him a long look. He didn't know what to say to his friend anymore. He wanted to believe Minho was innocent but things like this made it too hard to believe.

Changbin shook his head and walked back into the room, Minho on his heels. He looked directly at Jisung, “Jisung, did Minho hurt you?”

“What?” Minho asked from behind him, as if he had the right to be offended.

Jisung blinked slowly. His lips parted, then closed. He looked at Minho, then at Changbin. “No,” he said at last, voice small. “I wasn’t running from Minho.” He curled into himself. “It was… Sir.”

A silence settled in the room, heavy and uncomfortable. Minho’s expression crumbled.

Changbin exhaled. “I need to know what happened, Minho. Because if he ran in the middle of the night and ended up bloody in someone’s basement, I have to rule you out.”

“You think I had something to do with this?” Minho asked, his voice sharp now. “I was the one taking care of him. I fed him. I made a bed on the damn floor so he’d feel safe.”

“And that’s great,” Changbin snapped. “But I’ve still got a duty to make sure he’s not in danger. I told you, until Jisung can tell us everything clearly, no one is off the table.”

Minho shook his head slowly, a bitter smile curling at the edge of his lips. “You think I’m the monster he’s scared of?”

“I think you’re angry enough lately to make bad decisions. That’s all.”

Jisung flinched slightly at the raised voices. His hands clenched in the thin blanket.

That was enough. Changbin lowered his tone. “This isn’t helping,” he said more calmly. “I just want to know what set him off.”

Minho pressed a hand to his forehead. “He said he heard footsteps. Thought he was back in the basement. I told him it was just his mind playing tricks. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t. I don't even know.”

Changbin turned back to Jisung, softer now. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

But Jisung didn’t answer. He was staring out the window again, lips parted, lost somewhere far away.

Changbin lingered at the foot of the bed as the nurse left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her, “What did the doctor say?”

Minho didn’t look up right away. He ran a hand down his face, exhaling. “Vitals are fine. No serious injuries. They bandaged his feet again and gave him some electrolytes.” He paused, voice growing quieter, “The psychiatrist came in earlier.”

Changbin’s brows lifted. “Yeah?”

“She said the night terrors and confusion might get worse before they get better. She thinks keeping him hospitalized would only retraumatize him—he might start associating it with confinement.” Minho’s fingers drummed against the armrest. “But if we take him home, he needs to be stabilized.”

Changbin waited. “So?”

“So… they increased his dosage.”

There was a silence between them, the hum of medical machinery filling the space.

“That fast?” Changbin asked, crossing his arms.

“They didn’t have much of a choice.” Minho’s mouth tightened. “It’s either that or keep him locked up under fluorescent lights. She said we can’t do that to someone like him. Not after what he’s been through.”

Changbin nodded slowly, though concern still pulled at his features. “And the medication—will it help?”

“She thinks it’ll dull the panic. Help him stay grounded during the day. At night… it’s a gamble.”

Changbin looked at Jisung again. His frail frame. The distant look in his eyes. “And if the meds aren’t enough?”

Minho’s voice was hoarse. “Then we’ll find something else. But I’m not letting them put him back in a cage.”

For a moment, Changbin said nothing. Then he pulled up a chair and sat across from Minho, the two of them on opposite sides of a ghost they still couldn’t name.

Seungmin didn’t hear the buzzer at first. He was in the laundry room, sleeves rolled and chest damp, hunched over the utility sink as cold water trickled over his hands. The hoodie in the basin was dark and heavy, soaked through. He’d been scrubbing for what felt like hours, even though the clock said it had only been fifteen minutes. The blood had dried in patches, stubborn and dark, clinging to the seams. It stained the water pink, then clear, then pink again.

He paused to adjust the towel around his neck, wincing slightly as the frayed cotton brushed against a raw, shallow scratch just beneath his jawline. He hadn’t realized it was still tender. He told himself it was from one of the hedges outside—or maybe the cat, though he didn’t have one.

The intercom buzzed again, loud and sharp against the silence of the house. Seungmin flinched, more from nerves than surprise. He turned off the tap, watching the water swirl down the drain, tinged faintly with rust. He wiped his hands on the same towel and made his way to the front of the house, passing the curtained windows without glancing out. He didn’t want to know who it was. Not really. But he pressed the intercom button anyway.

“Yeah?” His voice was low, muted, like it had been scraped flat from inside.

“It’s me,” Changbin said. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Shit… Seungmin glanced at the phone on the counter, “I’m not feeling well,” he said. “Just a cold or something. You shouldn’t be here.”

“You could’ve said that earlier. I’ve been texting you, calling you...”

“I just…” Seungmin hesitated. “I didn’t have the energy.” It wasn't a lie, at least. He was drained.

“Come on,” Changbin tried again. “I brought soup. It’s still hot.”

Seungmin’s fingers grazed the edge of the doorframe. He could see his own reflection faintly in the glass—pale, hollow-eyed, with that small red line like a misplaced vein trailing from below his ear to the curve of his jaw. He tugged the hoodie collar higher to cover it.

“I don’t want you to catch anything,” he said.

There was a pause on the other end. Then, “I can leave it by the gate.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t open the door. He listened to the quiet rustle of the bag being placed gently down, the soft creak of the gate. Then Changbin’s voice, barely audible through the speaker.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

Seungmin stayed still, the weight of the blood-soaked hoodie still heavy in his chest even though it was now clean and dripping in the sink. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” Changbin said.

Seungmin stood there long after the footsteps faded. When he finally turned away, the scratch below his jaw stung again as the hoodie shifted, but he didn’t wince this time.

He went back to the laundry room and turned the water on. The basin filled slowly. The sleeves of the hoodie were clean. But they still felt like they were stained with something he couldn’t rinse out.

Minho led Jisung gently toward the couch, his hand firm but careful against the small of Jisung’s back. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the hallway clock. Outside, the afternoon sun pressed through the blinds, slanting golden bars across the living room floor.

Jisung moved slowly, like he was underwater—his pupils dilated, limbs loose and heavy. The medication was doing what the psychiatrist said it would. Calming. Leveling. Flattening. But it also made Jisung look far away, like whatever part of him Minho had once known was drifting behind thick glass.

Minho adjusted the throw pillows and eased him down onto the couch. “Just sit here for a bit, okay? I’ll get you something light to eat.”

Jisung didn’t respond. His gaze hovered somewhere past Minho’s shoulder, unfocused and soft. Minho let his hand fall away, ready to head to the kitchen.

But then he felt it. A touch. Fingers curling around his wrist. Slow. Hesitant. Like Jisung was reaching through a fog to find him.

Minho froze, staring down. Jisung’s eyes blinked up at him, lids heavy. He didn’t speak. His hand was trembling where it held Minho’s—his grip light, but unmistakable.

Minho’s chest tightened. This was the first time Jisung had touched him since he came back. The first time he’d initiated anything. He looked fragile, half-ghosted and drugged, but there was something raw in his face. A need. A quiet call for something he couldn’t name.

Minho sat down beside him again. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t speak.

He just stayed, letting Jisung’s fingers stay curled around his, like an anchor keeping both of them from drifting too far.

He squeezed back. Just once. Not enough to frighten. Enough to let Jisung know he was still here.

Jisung’s hand stayed wrapped around his, small and unsure, but undeniably real. For a moment, neither of them moved. Minho sat still, watching Jisung’s eyes slowly blink, watching the way his chest rose and fell in shallow, medicated breaths. The world outside the house felt miles away. All that existed was this moment—Jisung’s fragile grasp, and Minho’s overwhelming ache.

Then Jisung leaned in, “I missed you all the time.” His body tilted, soft and pliant, until his shoulder pressed against Minho’s. His head dropped, forehead brushing Minho’s jaw. He wasn’t asking for anything—not with words—but the quiet, trembling trust in that movement felt louder than a scream.

“I missed you too, baby,” Minho whispered.

His breath caught. His heart thundered, and before he could think, before he could remind himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t, Minho leaned in and kissed him.

Jisung’s lips were dry. Unmoving. He didn’t push forward. Didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull away either.

Minho’s eyes fluttered shut for a second too long. He could taste the grief between them. The years. The pain. The silence. He felt the heat coil low in his stomach, the instinct to deepen it, to pull Jisung closer, to lose himself in the familiar. But then he pulled back, sharply. His chest rose and fell in short, shaky breaths. His hand dropped from Jisung’s.

Jisung stared at him, dazed and Minho stood up. He paced away from the couch and dragged a hand down his face.

“What am I doing?” he whispered to himself. “What the fuck am I doing?”

He looked back at Jisung. His cheeks were flushed from the heat of the room. His pupils wide. His lips parted slightly, not from desire, but from confusion. From the weight of the medication, from the trauma still sitting behind his eyes like storm clouds waiting to break.

He wasn’t present. Not really. And Minho had fucking taken advantage of him. He swore under his breath and pressed a palm to his temple. He should never have let it happen. No matter how much he missed him, no matter how much Jisung used to be his—this wasn’t the Jisung he knew. This wasn’t about them.

He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind him. The moment it latched, he leaned back against the wood, his breath catching in his throat like it had been waiting to escape. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. He could still feel the ghost of Jisung’s hand in his, the way the he had leaned into him, soft and trusting, dazed from the meds. He could still taste that kiss—thoughtless, impulsive, wrong.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Then turned and punched the wall, knuckles first. The drywall gave slightly with the force, a sharp crack cutting through the silence. He didn’t cry out. Just stared down at his hand, watching the blood start to bead along the split skin.

Pain was easier to deal with than guilt. He moved to the sink and turned on the cold water. It hissed to life, spilling over his hand, and he watched the pink swirl drain away. His reflection in the mirror was a stranger—eyes shadowed, mouth drawn tight, the haunted look of a man walking a line he had no business being near.

He told himself it was an accident. That he hadn’t meant to kiss Jisung. But part of him had. That weak, twisted part that still remembered what it felt like to press Jisung down into the mattress, pliant and sleepy. The way his lashes would flutter. The way he’d whimper and sigh, letting Minho do whatever he wanted.

He gripped the edge of the sink and leaned forward, forehead nearly touching the mirror. His stomach turned. He opened the drawer to his right. There they were. The same bottle. Same label. Still half full.

He stared at them for a long time. He used to call them helpers. Jisung had known Minho would give them to him sometimes. Had said that it was okay. Had understood Minho needed it that way sometimes.

Minho loved Jisung, but there were times he hadn’t wanted Jisung’s mind—he’d wanted his body, relaxed and yielding. He liked how Jisung looked when he was barely awake, too far gone to resist, too quiet to say no.

The shame came in waves. He closed the drawer gently. He didn't get to be that man anymore. He rinsed his hand once more, turned off the tap, and dried the blood with the towel. Then he left the bathroom and went back to check on Jisung, hoping he hadn’t ruined everything already.

Jisung was still seated exactly where Minho had left him—on the couch, legs tucked beneath himself, eyes glassy and vacant. He hadn’t moved. Just sat there, silent and small, like a shadow trying not to be seen.

Minho stood in the doorway, watching him. He wanted to pretend this was normal. That helping Jisung bathe wasn’t some fragile ritual to keep him from unraveling. That he wasn’t terrified of breaking him further.

“Jisung,” he said softly. “You should have a bath. You’ll feel better, I think.”Jisung didn’t move. Minho tried again, inching forward, “Will you walk with me to the bathroom?”

Jisung’s eyes lifted at last, slowly, like it took effort just to track Minho’s voice. Then his lips parted, “I used to crawl for you.”

The words hit like a rock through glass. Minho didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breath stalled, caught in the ache that bloomed under his ribs. He said nothing—only crouched and held out his hand.

For a long second, Jisung didn’t take it.

Then, like some quiet decision had been made inside him, he slipped his fingers into Minho’s. Cold. Light. Obedient. Minho led him through the hall, not speaking. He walked ahead just enough to tug Jisung gently forward but stayed close enough to steady him. Jisung followed silently, feet shuffling, never meeting Minho’s gaze.

In the bathroom, Minho let go. He turned the taps and tested the water, adjusting until it was warm. Steam curled into the air, softening the sharp corners of the tiled room.

Jisung stood in place, waiting. Minho faced him again and reached for the hem of the hospital-issued sweater.

“I’ll help you get in, okay?” he said quietly.

No answer. He pulled the fabric up slowly, carefully. Jisung’s arms lifted automatically, lifeless. The sweater came off, revealing the bandages crisscrossing his torso.

Minho paused. Then he started unwinding them.

One loop. Then another. Then another. Until the word revealed itself in jagged, ruined flesh, PET. Ugly. Permanent. Carved with purpose.

Minho’s hands trembled, but he didn’t stop. He removed the last strip of gauze, then crouched to slip off Jisung’s pants. The bruises on his legs, the rope burns at his ankles, the scars—Minho saw all of it now. Laid bare. Proof of what had been done.

The tub filled behind him and he swallowed hard. Jisung didn’t resist as Minho guided him in. He stepped in with slow, jerky movements, limbs stiff like he’d forgotten how they worked. The water rose around him, enveloping his narrow frame.

Minho sat on the closed lid of the toilet and stared at his hands. Jisung didn’t speak again. But the word on his back— PET —sat between them like a ghost Minho had never buried.

Minho reached for the washcloth hanging beside the sink, folding it into his hand like a shield. His fingers were steady now, at least on the outside. Inside, he felt brittle. Cracked in places he couldn’t name.

He dipped the cloth into the warm water, then wrung it out with care. The bath was filled just enough to cover Jisung’s waist, steam curling gently over the surface. Jisung hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. He just sat there, knees pulled close, arms resting on the rim of the tub as if waiting for instructions.

Minho knelt beside the tub. “I’m going to wash your back,” he said softly. “Okay?”

Jisung didn’t answer. But he leaned forward. That was enough.

Minho pressed the cloth to Jisung’s shoulders, slow and careful. He wiped gently, running it across the ridges of his spine, over bruises and bones and old half-healed scars. The skin was sensitive—he could feel it in the way Jisung flinched sometimes, even if he didn’t make a sound.

The carved letters at his lower back stared up at him. Minho’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He cleaned around it delicately, never letting his hand linger too long.

He moved on to Jisung’s arms, working methodically from shoulder to wrist. There were faded lines around his biceps, dark impressions of where restraints had once held too tight for too long. Minho tried not to react, not to show how sick it made him to see. He didn’t want Jisung to flinch away.

He switched to the other arm. Dipped the cloth again. Rinsed it slowly over the pale skin.

Jisung hadn’t looked at him once. He was staring ahead at the tiles, as if bracing for something. As if this was part of a ritual he had learned to endure.

“I’m almost done,” Minho murmured.

He didn’t touch Jisung’s legs. He didn’t wash lower than the waist. He didn’t need to. There was a line even Minho wouldn’t cross, not like this, not when Jisung was barely here.

When the cloth returned to the water for the last time, Minho sat back on his heels and exhaled. His knees ached from the floor. His fingers were pruney from the water.

Minho reached for a towel, “I’m going to help you out, okay?”

Jisung blinked slowly, then shifted with a stiffness that made Minho’s chest ache.

He held the towel open and guided Jisung up, wrapping him tightly. Jisung didn’t lean in, but he didn’t pull away either. He let Minho press the towel around his shoulders, drying him off like he was something fragile and borrowed.

Once Jisung was dry, Minho didn’t dress him in anything new. He simply walked him back to the bedroom and let him curl up under the blanket in silence.

The world came in pieces. Sound, light, sensation—they didn’t arrive together. They staggered in one at a time, like guests at a funeral, too quiet and too late. At first, there was only the dull throb of his own pulse in his ears, the slow realization that his limbs felt detached, weighed down like someone had filled his veins with sand. His body didn’t ache, exactly. It just didn’t move right. Everything was slow. Everything was fog.

When Jisung opened his eyes, the light was soft. Not harsh like the strip bulbs in the basement, not glaring like headlights in the dark. It was warm. Muted. A lamp, maybe. Something domestic. Something kind. He was seated—he thought. Not lying on concrete. Not curled up on the basement floor. There were pillows behind him. A blanket over his lap. The smell of something buttery and warm floated through the air. His stomach reacted before his brain did. It clenched.

And then… Minho? He wasn’t sure if he’d said the name or only thought it. The figure sitting beside him blurred a little at the edges, but the sound of that voice was unmistakable. Gentle. Steady. Minho’s voice didn’t slice the air like Sir’s did. It wasn’t distorted or crackling through a speaker in the ceiling. It was close. Real.

“Jisung.” The word came soft, careful, like it might break if dropped too fast.

Minho held a fork in one hand. The plate rested on his thigh. He was feeding him.

Jisung stared at the fork for a second too long before opening his mouth. He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t lift his hands. Just let the bite pass his lips.

It was mashed potato. Warm. Creamy. No edges. It slid down his throat without chewing. He barely tasted it. But it was food. Real food. This had texture. Temperature. Kindness. It wouldn't make him sick.

Minho didn’t speak again right away. He didn’t ask questions or give orders. He just waited for Jisung to swallow before offering another bite. Every time the fork came close, Jisung opened his mouth like muscle memory, like he’d done this before—not here, not like this, but… something like it. Obedience. Quiet reward.

He didn’t meet Minho’s eyes. He couldn’t.

Each bite brought a quiet voice. “Good.” “Just one more.” “You’re doing great.” Praise used to come right before pain. Sir had taught him that. Kind words were the bait. The blow always followed.

A bit of potato stuck to the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, Minho reached forward and brushed it away with his thumb.

Jisung flinched so violently the fork clattered to the plate. His breath caught in his throat. He tensed, arms stiff, waiting—for what, he didn’t know. The back of a hand? A belt? A voice over the speaker telling him he’d failed again?

But Minho pulled away immediately. His voice was calm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

That was worse. The gentleness. The quiet. The absence of punishment. It didn’t make sense.

Jisung turned to look at him. Really looked.

Minho’s expression was nothing like Sir’s. It was drawn. Worried. A little heartbroken. The kind of face someone makes when they want to help but don’t know how.

Jisung’s lips parted. He wanted to say something—thank you, or sorry, or please don’t leave—but the words didn’t come. They felt too heavy for his tongue.

He whispered instead, “Am I good?” He needed to know.

Minho stilled. Then, carefully, like he understood everything that question meant, he nodded. “You’re doing really well.”

Jisung nodded too. Not because he believed it, but because he wanted Minho to believe he did. When the fork returned, he opened his mouth on his own. Not because he was hungry. But because that was what good pets did.

There was a long pause after the next bite. Jisung swallowed slowly, eyes unfocused, his head tilted slightly to the side. Then he blinked, lashes fluttering, and asked softly, “Do I live here now?”

Minho didn’t answer right away. Jisung didn’t look at him—he kept his gaze low, fixed somewhere around Minho’s wrist. The silence stretched between them like something fragile and suspended.

“Yes,” Minho said eventually, quiet and sure. “If you want to. For as long as you want to.”

Jisung nodded again. His fingers curled against the blanket in his lap.

“I’ll be good,” he whispered. “I won’t make trouble.”

Minho looked like he wanted to say something else—like there were a dozen things he could’ve said—but he just picked up the bowl again and scooped another bite.

Minho wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Jisung didn’t flinch at the touch this time. He was too far away. Too quiet inside himself.

His head tipped a little to the side, his voice barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator. “But…” His brow furrowed slightly. “We’re supposed to get married first.”

Jisung's fingers were fidgeting with the hem of the blanket, “You said we would live together after. After the wedding. Not before. It’s wrong to move in before.” His lips twisted into a faint frown, as if the timeline had slipped sideways and he couldn’t fit the pieces back together.

Minho was still watching him, the spoon forgotten in his hand.

“You promised,” Jisung added softly, blinking slowly. “There was going to be music. And a cake. I picked a suit. You did too.”

He sounded like he was describing a dream—one already crumbling around the edges. Minho reached out, gently brushing Jisung’s hair back from his face.

Jisung leaned into it without thinking. “You promised,” he said again, almost inaudible.

Minho swallowed hard. “I remember.”

But Jisung didn’t respond. His eyes were already drifting shut again. He drifted in and out of sleep, each time the line between the present and the past blurring just a little more. The room around him felt distant, as if it was made of fog. He wasn’t sure where he was, or what had happened. But the darkness in his mind, the pull of it, was something he couldn’t escape.

He was back in the basement. The cold was suffocating, but it wasn’t the chill of the room. No, this cold was deeper. It was inside him—gnawing, consuming. The walls were the same, a gray that matched his mind. The damp, the smell of old metal, the relentless buzzing of a fluorescent light somewhere far above.

Jisung knelt on the cold floor, the coarse carpet biting into his knees. The floor beneath him was wet. Sticky.

He could hear Sir moving behind him—slow, deliberate steps that seemed to echo in the confined space. His heart raced, the sound of it pounding in his ears. He had to stay still. Had to be obedient. If he was good, Sir would stop.

Jisung’s stomach twisted as Sir’s presence drew closer. His chest felt tight. His breath shallow. The air was thick with the same feeling of dread, the same weight of inevitability that had haunted him for so long.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want any of it. And yet, he was still there. Kneeling. Waiting.

The world darkened as Sir stepped forward, towering over him. Jisung’s eyes were locked to the ground. He couldn’t bring himself to look up. He couldn’t face what was coming.

The sound of fabric being pulled away, the whisper of something being undone, made Jisung’s whole body tense. The air shifted. He could feel it. Sir’s presence was everywhere, pressing down on him, suffocating him.

And then came the feeling—warm and sickening, as if it was part of him, part of the very world that had turned to ash around him. Jisung recoiled, but he couldn’t move. He was trapped in his own body, forced to stay still, to accept whatever came next.

The world blurred again and Jisung woke with a start, gasping for air, his body slick with sweat. His skin was clammy, and his chest hurt with the force of his breathing. His fingers were digging into the blanket, tight enough to hurt.

He was back in the bedroom at Minho’s, not in the basement. But the dream… the memory… still clung to him like a shadow.

His mind was still locked in that place, in that feeling, unable to break free. The cold wouldn't leave him.

“Jisung… hey, wake up.”

His eyes opened slowly, the light of the room filtering in like fog. For a moment, he didn’t recognize where he was. His heart was pounding, breath shallow, and he flinched away instinctively, his hands curling into the blanket.

“It’s me,” Minho said. His voice was calm, careful. “You were having a bad dream.”

Jisung blinked at him, struggling to stay in the present. The images of the basement clung to his mind like ash. He couldn’t shake the weight of it, the feeling of being back on that floor. His stomach turned.

“You’re safe,” Minho said gently. “It’s just me.”

Jisung nodded slowly, not trusting his voice. His throat felt raw.

Minho hesitated, then straightened. “I need to make some phone calls,” he said. “Just for work. I’ll be downstairs, okay? I won’t go far.”

Jisung’s fingers clutched the blanket tighter, but he nodded again. Minho reached into his pocket and placed something beside Jisung on the bed. A small bell. Silver. Simple.

“If you need anything,” Minho said softly, “just ring this. I’ll come right away.”

Jisung looked at the bell. It glinted dully in the light, and for a moment it reminded him too much of something else—of training, of punishment, of being summoned or dismissed. But Minho’s voice was kind, and there was no sharpness in his eyes. Still, Jisung didn’t touch it.

Minho lingered a second longer, then stepped back. “I’ll be right downstairs,” he repeated, then quietly left the room.

The silence that followed was loud. Jisung stared at the bell beside him, uncertain if it was a comfort or a trap. The bell sat on the nightstand, innocent and quiet, but its shape made Jisung’s throat close up. It caught a sliver of light from the window, glinting like a threat. His palms began to sweat.

He didn’t hear Minho anymore. Not his steps, not the rustle of movement below. Just the bell. Just that shape. And then, like a rope snapping taut in his memory, the sound came.

Ding.

Not from now. From before. His breath hitched. Sir had rung the bell.

That was how it always began. The ringing meant Jisung had to come. Crawl, naked and shaking, across the cold floor to wherever Sir waited. If he didn’t move fast enough, there were consequences. If he looked Sir in the eye, there were consequences. If he forgot to kneel first—if he forgot to thank him—there were consequences.

The bell didn’t offer help. It offered commands. Demands. Control.

He remembered it clearer than anything else—the bell ringing in the dark. Sharp and final. The sound sliced through the air like a whip. Jisung had learned quickly: one ring meant "come." Two meant "kneel." Three… he didn’t want to remember what three meant.

He remembered lying curled up in the corner of the basement once, silent tears sliding down his face, and the bell had rung. Again and again and again.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Sir had dragged him out by the hair that night. Back in the room, Jisung’s heart pounded like it was trying to escape his chest. He shoved the bell off the table with a sudden jerk, and it hit the floor with a clatter.

Ding.

The noise rang out, cruel and clear. He choked on a sob and scrambled backward, his hands trembling as he braced against the wall. He curled his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead to them, rocking slightly.

“No,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “No, no, no…”

Minho wasn’t Sir. But the bell still sounded like his.a And Jisung, sitting in the daylight with clean sheets and no restraints, still felt like the pet waiting to be punished.

He sat huddled against the wall, arms locked tight around his knees, the bell resting a few feet away where Minho had set it. Its chime had already faded, but the sound echoed in his head like it was stitched into the walls.

The memory slammed into him too fast. Too sharp. Jisung was wrong. He was confused. He'd gotten it all mixed up. The bell wasn’t from the basement. It was from before. Before the cage. Before the leash. Before he became a pet. Before Sir.

His throat constricted. Eyes burned.

It had been Minho. Minho had bought the bell—sleek, silver, cute. It was playful. Intimate. Part of the scene. That was the word Minho used — scene.

Sometimes it was soft—Minho feeding him fruit from his fingers, making him kneel on cushions while he whispered praise. Sometimes it wasn’t. There were rules. Posture. Protocol. Minho liked control. He liked watching Jisung submit, liked the way he flushed when he was called a good pet, good boy, good slut.

He liked how easy Jisung was to shape with the ring of a bell. And Jisung hadn't minded it back then. Loved the way Minho looked at him when he obeyed. Loved feeling owned.

That was the scariest part. Because the bell hadn’t scared him then. It had made him feel wanted. Needed.

Now it made him feel sick and he couldn't understand why. His fingers clenched in the fabric of his pants, nails biting skin. His memories were bleeding together—Minho’s touch, Minho’s voice, Minho’s commands—and Sir’s.

Different tones, different men. Same instincts. Same obedience. He stared at the bell again, blinking fast, breathing hard.

Minho had taught him to listen. Sir had forced him to obey.

The first thing Hyunjin noticed was the cold.

It wasn’t the type of cold that pricked the skin or numbed the fingers—it was deeper than that. It soaked through the concrete beneath him, wrapped around his limbs, and burrowed into his chest like something alive. He lay on his side, cheek pressed to the floor, skin tacky with sweat or something else—he couldn’t tell. When he opened his eyes, the light above him swayed faintly, casting slow-moving shadows across the walls. A single bulb, yellowed with age, flickered as it swung from its exposed wiring like a dying star.

He blinked, once, twice, forcing the blur from his vision. There was a sharp, pulsing ache behind his head and a sour taste at the back of his throat. His tongue was dry. His head felt foggy, like he was drunk, but worse—he couldn’t remember drinking anything, but something told him he hadn’t fallen asleep naturally.

As he slowly pushed himself upright, the full weight of confusion settled over him like a second skin. The room around him was small, windowless. Stone walls, patched in places with cement, stood damp and crumbling. In the middle of the floor, rust spread in jagged lines around a metal drain. There was only one door—metal, bolted, with no handle on this side.

Panic began to press its thumb to the back of his neck. His memories blurred and staggered as he searched for the last thing he could remember. Dinner with Minho. No, that wasn't it. A fight in the rain. Was that it? The taste of wine? When was that? Angry voices? A kiss? A flash of headlights maybe? A black void in the shape of a missing hour.

“Hello?” Hyunjin called out, his voice hoarse.

The red glow of a camera blinked in the corner of the room. Hyunjin saw it a second before the sound began. A speaker, unseen until that moment, hissed to life above him—followed by a voice. It was male. Low. Modulated. Detached in a way that felt more terrifying than rage.

“Hello, pet.”

Hyunjin flinched. The voice was too calm, like it belonged to someone rehearsing a line they’d spoken a hundred times. Not the voice of a man addressing a person, but one who was addressing property—something less than human.

“If you’re listening to this,” the voice continued, the words oddly enunciated, “then you’ve already begun the first stage. Disorientation. Fear. That’s normal.”

Hyunjin’s throat closed. He stood frozen in the middle of the room, trying not to breathe too loudly.

“I want you to know,” the speaker went on, “that I’ve done this before. And I’ve become good at it.”

There was a beat of silence, as if the speaker was allowing the words to sink in. The air in the room felt heavier now, like the very oxygen had been tainted with dread.

“You’ll find that time doesn’t matter down here,” the robotic voice said, colder now. “You’ll eat when I say. Sleep when I allow. Speak when spoken to. Any attempts at rebellion will be corrected.”

Hyunjin backed toward the wall instinctively. He hadn’t realized he’d started moving until his spine met stone. His chest rose and fell quickly now, panic flaring in every nerve.

“You’ve been chosen,” the voice said, almost fond, “because you’re beautiful. Soft. Easy to break in. I’ll turn you into the perfect pet.”

A harsh burst of static cut through the message. For a second, it sounded like another voice tried to come through. Then, silence again—just long enough for Hyunjin to wonder if it was over. But then:

“If you scream, no one will hear you. If you cry, I’ll enjoy it. You’ll be stripped of everything soon—your name, your pride, your vanity.”

Hyunjin’s hands were trembling. He looked down at himself—still dressed, except for his jacket and shoes. His socks were damp. His skin felt like it didn’t belong to him.

“You’re alone now,” the voice finished. “You belong to me.”

Click.

The tape ended. The speaker went dead.

And the silence that followed was worse than the voice had been. It stretched long and cold, unbroken, pressing into Hyunjin’s skull like a vice. He stood there, unable to move, unable to think beyond the thrum of blood in his ears.

He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who had him. But someone had gone to the trouble of preparing a message. A script. This wasn’t spontaneous.

The silence stretched only a moment longer before Hyunjin tried to move—and that’s when he felt it. A sharp tug against his ankle, sudden and metallic. A sound like chain links scraping concrete. He looked down.

His right leg was shackled. A thick iron cuff wrapped around his ankle, tight enough to bruise, connected by a short length of heavy chain to a bolt embedded in the wall. There was barely enough slack for him to stand and move a few feet in either direction. The realization hit him like a blow to the chest, shoving the air from his lungs.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no—”

He dropped to his knees, hands fumbling at the metal cuff, fingers shaking too badly to even test the lock. It was too thick, too strong to break.

“This isn’t real,” he breathed. “This—this is a mistake, a joke—”

But the chain was real. The cold bite of steel against his skin was real. The dried blood around the bolt in the wall, the faint scratches where someone else had once clawed—also real.

He scrambled to his feet and pulled at the chain with both hands. It didn’t budge. “LET ME OUT!” he screamed, voice breaking, bouncing off the walls and into nothing. His cry echoed back at him, thin and empty.

“I don’t know who you are,” he yelled, chest heaving. “But this is sick. You don’t get to do this to me! I’m not some toy—do you hear me?! I’m not some animal you can keep chained in a hole! You fucking let me out NOW!”

The only response was the faint hum of the light above him. Hyunjin sank back against the wall, adrenaline turning to nausea. His body trembled with the effort of screaming, and yet the room remained just as silent, just as sealed, as before. There was no response. No footsteps. No voice from the speaker.

The silence settled again, heavy and thick, wrapping around Hyunjin like a second set of chains. He leaned back against the cold concrete wall, his breath shallow and sharp in the darkened room. Every sound seemed magnified. The quiet drip of water from a pipe. The restless clink of the chain as he shifted. The frantic thud of his heart.

Then—he heard it. Footsteps.

Faint at first, almost like a memory. A single creak, then another. The unmistakable sound of someone walking slowly above him. Floorboards groaned under a steady weight, pacing back and forth, measured and deliberate. Hyunjin’s body went still, every nerve on fire. He strained to listen, tracking the movements—whoever it was wasn’t rushing. They were taking their time, like they knew he was listening. Like they wanted him to.

The steps stopped directly above him — and then the lights went out. Not a flicker. Not a warning. Just black.

A suffocating, all-consuming blackness swallowed the room, so complete it felt like it pressed against his eyes. Hyunjin’s breath caught in his throat. He reached out blindly, but his fingers found nothing but air and cold stone. He couldn’t see the walls. Couldn’t see the ceiling. Couldn’t see his own hands.

Panic swelled, rising in his chest like a tide. He twisted at the chain, clawed at the cuff around his ankle, but it was useless. He was trapped—blinded, bound, and helpless.

“Please,” he said, barely louder than a whisper now. “Please don’t do this.”

The footsteps resumed. Slowly. Deliberately. And Hyunjin realized—whoever they were, they weren’t leaving.

They were coming for him.

Chapter Text

The door at the top of the stairs opened with a mechanical groan, allowing a sliver of harsh light to slash across the darkness. It caught Hyunjin in the face like a spotlight, blinding him momentarily. Then, as quickly as it had come, the door slammed shut, plunging the basement into an even deeper black. The sound echoed off the concrete walls, final and cruel. His breath caught in his throat.

He had no idea how long he'd been down there. Time didn’t exist in the dark. It dripped instead, slow and viscous like cold oil sliding down his spine. The air was too still, too stale, and carried the faint scent of mold, rust, and old fear. Something about the silence before the sound of footsteps made his stomach clench.

They began slowly—each step deliberate, pressing down against the old wood with a creak that sounded louder than it should’ve. One… two… three. Hyunjin’s pulse surged with every footfall. His back pressed against the wall instinctively, searching for the solid comfort of it, but there was none. Only dread curling in his chest like smoke.

He tried to prepare himself. He didn’t know what for—only that something was coming. Something bad. Something worse than before.

The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs and Hyunjin stopped breathing. Then the overhead light snapped on with a violent flicker. It buzzed, casting a sickly white glow over the basement and making everything that had been imagined in the dark feel real again. Exposed. The chill in the air was suddenly nothing compared to the ice that slid through his veins at the sight of the figure standing across the room.

He was tall. Dressed in black from head to toe, no skin visible beneath the gloves, the boots, the fitted shirt and slacks. But it was the mask that froze Hyunjin where he crouched. Bone white, smooth as porcelain. The eye holes were empty, just gaping voids, and yet somehow they seemed to watch him. See everything.

The man didn’t move. Neither did Hyunjin.

The silence thickened until it pressed against his ears. A whimper slipped out before he could stop it, betraying him. His hands trembled where they gripped his knees. He didn’t dare speak. Didn’t dare ask who he was. Some part of him—some deep, terrified instinct—already knew.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t here to help. Not here to answer questions. Not here to be kind.

The man took a single step forward and Hyunjin flinched back so violently his spine slammed against the wall. He bit back a cry. He couldn’t take his eyes off the mask.

He tried to tell himself this was a dream. That he would wake up in his bed, sore and dazed but safe. That Minho would call. That Jeongin would tease him. That Felix would drag him to get coffee.

But this was not a dream. This was a cage. And the monster had finally come downstairs.

The figure remained still, like a statue carved from shadow and bone. Only the subtle rise and fall of his chest betrayed that he was even alive. That eyeless stare—hollow, infinite—pinned Hyunjin in place as if ropes had wrapped around his limbs. A chill slid down his spine like a wet finger tracing vertebrae. He didn’t know how long the silence stretched between them. Seconds. Centuries.

Then the speaker crackled to life. A sudden burst of static made Hyunjin flinch before the familiar voice spilled into the room, mechanical and disembodied. That same tape—chilling, practiced, flat in its delivery. Each word crawled over his skin like insects beneath his clothes.

"You're probably scared. That's normal. You'll learn not to be. You'll learn a lot of things down here."

Hyunjin’s eyes widened. His throat clenched. But he didn’t cry out. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

The masked man didn’t react to the voice. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough. His silence somehow more violent than words.

Hyunjin’s fists clenched. He could take him.

That lie blossomed in his chest like fire, hot and reckless. He’d been going to the gym, hadn’t he? Not as much lately, sure, but he was still strong. Still flexible. Yoga counted for something, didn’t it? His core was tight. His reflexes weren’t bad. And rage—that helped. Fear made your body move faster. Panic made you sharp.

He could put up a fight. He could throw a punch. Elbow the bastard in the face. Knock that fucking mask off and spit in the eyes behind it. He wasn’t helpless. He wasn’t like those girls in horror movies who tripped and begged. He was Hyunjin. He mattered.

He could fight. He would.

The man tilted his head ever so slightly. As if he knew. As if he could hear every thought passing like wildfire through Hyunjin’s mind.

Hyunjin tensed, his breath shallow. His muscles coiled, ready.

He would not be a victim. Not without trying.

“Come at me, you fucker,” Hyunjin spat, pushing himself up onto unsteady legs. The chain cuffed to his right ankle clattered against the cold concrete, loud and final. “Fucking come at me!”

His voice echoed off the walls—sharp, furious, defiant—but it felt too small in the vastness of the basement. Too human. Too breakable.

The man didn’t move. Hyunjin’s chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths. His fists were balled at his sides, his legs shaky but ready. He wanted the bastard to charge. Wanted to fight, to claw, to bleed if he had to. Anything to feel like he wasn’t just another frightened animal in a cage.

But the man didn’t move. Instead, the speaker behind him clicked again, and the mechanical voice resumed. Not with the same preamble as before—but with new words, crisp and clear, delivered like gospel.

"Your training has commenced. Kneel."

Hyunjin froze.

The rage in his veins was doused in an instant, not by fear but by something colder—confusion. It was the calmness of the voice. The authority. The way it didn’t shout or demand, didn’t threaten or curse. It just… instructed. Like a teacher telling a student where to stand. Like an owner issuing a command.

"Kneel."

The syllable echoed again, more distorted this time. Like the tape had been worn thin from repetition.

Hyunjin’s knees trembled—not with the urge to obey, but because the floor suddenly felt further away than it should have. His body remembered something he didn’t. A tightening in his chest, a curling of his fingers, the sensation of rough concrete biting into skin.

“No,” he whispered, not sure who he was answering.

He took a step back. The chain yanked tight, and he stumbled, nearly falling. The clink of metal against cement sounded louder now.

The figure still hadn’t moved. Not even a twitch.

But Hyunjin couldn’t tear his eyes away from that mask. From the void where the eyes should’ve been. It felt like being stared at by something ancient. Patient. Like he was already doing what the figure wanted just by standing there. Just by looking.

"Kneel." the voice repeated, slightly louder now. The tape clicked again. The same phrase played. Over and over. Like a chant. Like a prayer.

"Kneel."

"Kneel."

"Kneel."

Hyunjin’s breathing grew erratic. His chest hurt. He covered his ears, shut his eyes tight. But the voice kept playing.

The voice crackled again, as if it were considering him—assessing his worth, his compliance, his will, "Final warning. Kneel or starve."

The words landed like a slap, deliberate and slow. Hyunjin’s fists clenched tighter. He didn’t think—he reacted, pure heat driving his voice louder than before.

“Fuck you!” he spat, his throat raw, trembling with fury. “You think I’m scared of you? Fuck you!”

Still, the figure didn’t move. Not at first.

Then, slowly—too slowly—the man turned. Black boots pivoting on the stairs. The mask, faceless and gleaming in the low light, tilted once, like an artist inspecting a canvas. And then, without a word, he began ascending, step by heavy step.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened, “No—no, don’t you fucking leave!” Panic clawed up his chest like a scream already halfway out. “Get back here! Let me go!”

The footsteps didn’t stop.

“LET ME GO!”

The door at the top of the stairs shut with a heavy, mechanical click. The lock turning echoed through the chamber like a judge’s gavel. Final. Absolute.

The light snapped off and Hyunjin was plunged into darkness again, the kind that wrapped around his limbs and pressed against his ribs, threatening to squeeze the air from his lungs. His ears rang in the silence. His body shook with adrenaline and disbelief.

“GET BACK HERE!” he screamed, throwing himself at the nearest wall. His fists pounded against it, dull thuds against unyielding concrete. “You fucking coward! LET ME OUT!”

He kicked until his shin throbbed. Punched until his knuckles went numb.

The tape had stopped. The speaker was dead. The silence was worse.

Still chained. Still alone.

Hyunjin slumped to the floor, heart hammering, his breath ragged and uneven. He didn’t know how long he sat there. Minutes. Hours. Time didn’t exist in the dark.

He was starving already. And he hadn’t even missed a meal yet.

Minho’s eyes drooped, weighted by the kind of fatigue that settled in deep, far beyond the reach of caffeine. He took another sip of his coffee anyway, the mug cradled in his palms more for warmth than wakefulness. The taste was bitter, forgotten as soon as it passed his tongue. Across the room, the lights were dimmed—low enough to preserve the quiet, bright enough to see the shape of the man sleeping just a few feet away.

Jisung lay curled under a nest of blankets, tucked tightly into himself on the floor like he was trying to disappear. His breathing was even but shallow, the kind that spoke of tension buried deep in his chest. Even in sleep, he didn’t look peaceful. Every so often, he twitched. A jerk of the leg, a flick of the fingers, his mouth moving silently through half-dreamed words.

Minho caught pieces of them. Fragments. Sometimes his name. Sometimes—more often—something else.

Sir.

He flinched every time he heard it. Not because Jisung was saying it, but because of how naturally it left his lips. Like it had become a part of him. Like he didn’t even know it wasn’t real.

Minho pressed his back harder against the wall, the tension in his muscles refusing to ease. He didn’t dare move closer. Jisung had asked him to stay. Not to touch him. Just to stay. That was what Minho was doing. Sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, keeping watch, the cold seeping into his back where it met the plaster.

He watched the steady rhythm of Jisung’s chest, the way his fingers occasionally tightened in the blanket like he was holding on for dear life. He wanted to go to him. Soothe him. Offer some kind of comfort. But the space between them felt sacred now. Crossing it without permission would be a violation.

Jisung wasn’t a boy anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time. He was a man—a man who had been broken, reshaped, and survived in ways Minho couldn’t yet understand. And Minho had no right to assume what Jisung needed. All he could do was be present. Be still. Be safe.

His gaze lingered on the faint crease between Jisung’s brows, the way his lips parted slightly with every breath. He used to know every expression on that face. Used to know what every small change meant. But now, Minho couldn’t even tell if Jisung was having a dream or a memory.

He thought about the years that had passed. The time wasted. The chances missed. The guilt settled in his stomach like a stone.

He hadn’t saved him. Not really.

But he could stay. And watch. And wait. And hope that in time, Jisung would remember what it felt like to be safe. Even if it wasn’t in Minho’s arms. Even if it was just in Minho’s presence.

The faint chime of the doorbell echoed from downstairs, barely audible over the soft hum of appliances and the steady creak of the old house settling into the first whisper of dawn. Minho groaned softly, bracing one hand against the wall as he unfolded his aching legs and pushed himself off the floor. Every joint protested the movement. He had been sitting for hours, stiff-backed, motionless except for the occasional adjustment to stretch his shoulders or sip his cold coffee.

He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing back toward the still form nestled under layers of blankets on the floor. Jisung hadn't stirred. Good.

The steps creaked beneath his feet as he descended. He reached the front door and leaned in, peering through the peephole. What he saw on the other side made him blink.

"Seungmin?" he asked, opening the door with more force than he meant to. Cool air rushed in from the porch. "What are you doing here? It's four in the morning!"

Seungmin stood stiffly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes immediately flicking past Minho’s shoulder toward the hallway behind him. His gaze was sharp, assessing, as though expecting to see some kind of evidence of disaster.

"Just wanted to check on Jisung," he said. "Can I see him?"

Minho shifted, automatically angling his body to block the view inside. His hand tightened on the edge of the door. "He's fine," he replied, more curtly than intended. "He's asleep."

Seungmin's eyes dragged back to his face. There was a pause. His brows knit together in a subtle grimace. “You look terrible, you know.”

Minho’s jaw tensed. He exhaled sharply through his nose and began to close the door, fed up with the commentary, but Seungmin stepped forward, wedging the toe of his shoe into the narrowing gap.

“I can help,” Seungmin said, his voice lower now, more insistent. “I can help you take care of him.”

Minho stared at him, caught off guard. “I don’t need help,” he replied quickly. Too quickly.

“Yes, you do.” Seungmin’s tone was calm, but edged with something more biting underneath. “You need to sleep. Your hands are shaking. You’re barely standing upright. Just let me sit with him for a few hours. You can rest.”

Minho’s first instinct was to argue, to push back out of pride, out of the stubborn need to prove that he could do this. That Jisung didn’t need anyone but him. But his body betrayed him—his shoulders sagging, his vision blurring slightly from the weight behind his eyes. His exhaustion was undeniable, and worse, Seungmin could see it.

“I don’t need to be at work until later today,” Seungmin continued, softer now. “Let me do something. Please. He’s my best friend.”

The words hung between them for a moment. Minho hesitated, torn between guilt and practicality, between pride and the aching need for relief. Finally, he stepped back, just slightly, the edge of the door swinging open.

“Alright,” he muttered. “But don’t wake him.”

Seungmin nodded once, stepping quietly into the hallway, his footsteps muted against the wood floor. The door shut softly behind them, sealing the house back into its quiet tension.

"You can't do this forever, you know," Seungmin said, trailing a few steps behind Minho as they ascended the narrow staircase. His voice echoed slightly in the quiet house, soft but pointed. "I mean, you have a job, don’t you? Unless there’s some endless supply of money coming in that I don’t know about."

Minho let out a low click of his tongue in response, not bothering to glance over his shoulder. “I’ll manage,” he said, but the words were thin and hollow even to his own ears. The kind of thing you said to keep the conversation from tipping into something too real.

He wasn’t sure he would manage. Not really. His work as an electrician was freelance. Jobs came in when they came, and they didn’t wait around for him to get his life in order. No shows meant no income, and he hadn’t taken a single client call since Jisung had come back into his life. He couldn’t focus long enough to hold a wire steady, let alone climb into an attic with a toolbox and pretend everything was normal.

And the little nest egg he’d saved up over the years? That was long gone, spent on helping Hyunjin set up the yoga studio. A space filled with sun lamps and hardwood floors and incense bowls. A place he hadn’t stepped foot in since everything changed.

"I could help," Seungmin offered suddenly, voice more tentative this time.

Minho let out a dry snort. “You’re no better than me, Seungmin. You can’t take care of Jisung and be at the hospital all day.”

They reached the landing and Seungmin stopped, hand resting lightly against the wall. He waited for Minho to pause too, then turned to face him. His expression was unreadable and guarded, but not unkind.

"I was thinking about taking a break," Seungmin said quietly. "From the hospital. Just for a while.”

Minho looked at him, surprised.

“I had the day off yesterday,” Seungmin continued, eyes flickering toward the dark hallway leading to Jisung’s room. “And I realized how much I needed it. How… out of myself I’ve been lately. I could do with a few more days. Or a lot more. Maybe it’s time.”

The confession sat heavy between them. Seungmin wasn’t the kind of person who gave himself permission to rest. To hear him say it now meant he wasn’t just tired—he was worn through.

Minho didn’t know what to say. He stared at the other man for a long second, jaw tight, fingers curling slightly at his sides.

“I’ll think on it,” he said finally. And then he turned away before Seungmin could respond.

Felix slid the eggs from the frying pan onto the chipped ceramic plate with careful movements, the spatula trembling slightly in his hand. The scent of butter and yolk clung to the warm morning air, but it did nothing to settle the tight coil of nerves wound inside him. He set the plate on the counter with a soft clink, then glanced over at Jeongin.

“Hyunjin hasn’t been replying to my texts,” he said carefully, as if testing the words for danger before letting them loose.

Jeongin barely looked up from his newspaper, his eyes flicking toward Felix with detached disinterest. “I told you, didn’t I? Your little display over dinner probably made him uncomfortable.”

He folded the paper sharply and flung it across the counter with a heavy flick of his wrist. The sound was louder than it needed to be. Felix flinched, heart jumping at the sudden snap of movement. His throat tightened.

“But you couldn’t help your jealousy, could you?” Jeongin’s voice was too calm, too clipped, like every word was tucked in sharp edges.

Felix stepped forward instinctively, drawn like a moth toward the flame that had already scorched him too many times. “Baby,” he said softly, pleadingly. “Who wouldn’t be jealous, hm?”

He hesitated as he reached out, unsure if he’d be swatted away or scolded again. His fingers brushed Jeongin’s shoulders. He caught his breath when he felt the tension in Jeongin’s body, taut as a pulled wire. But Jeongin didn’t push him off. That was something. So he leaned in, fingers trembling as he gently kneaded the muscles under Jeongin’s shirt, desperate for forgiveness, for warmth, for some piece of affection he could cling to.

“I love you,” Felix whispered. The words tumbled out with a quiet urgency, soft and shaky like petals torn from a flower. “You’re my boyfriend. Of course I’d be jealous if…” He trailed off, heart hammering. He could feel the shift in the air. The wrong word would set it off.

“If what?” Jeongin asked, voice low, dangerous in its softness.

Felix didn’t dare speak the truth. If you kept throwing yourself on another man. If you talked more about Hyunjin than you do about me. If I feel like I’m never good enough. Instead, he smiled faintly, even though it didn’t reach his eyes. “If another man showed interest in you,” he murmured. Even as he said it, he hated how small his voice sounded. Like a child trying not to be punished for crying.

Jeongin scoffed, the sound dismissive but thankfully not explosive. Felix held his breath. The sharp sting of shame still clung to his skin, but he exhaled slowly when Jeongin didn’t snap. Instead, Jeongin leaned back slightly, and Felix, sensing a sliver of safety, moved closer. He looped his arms around Jeongin from behind, resting his chin lightly on Jeongin’s shoulder, cheek brushing the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Maybe,” Felix said quietly, barely more than a breath, “we should let Hyunjin rest for a while. You know, give him some space.”

His voice was careful, neutral, trying not to sound like he was pleading, though he was. Everything inside him twisted with apprehension. He didn’t want to see Hyunjin. He didn’t want to keep being the errand boy in his own relationship. But he didn’t know how to say no. Not without consequences.

Jeongin didn’t answer right away. He picked up the piece of toast from his plate and took a deliberate bite, chewing with slow, exaggerated calm. Felix felt the weight of each passing second like a stone pressing down on his spine. The silence stretched.

Then, finally, Jeongin spoke low, steady, “You’ll text Hyunjin before you go into work, and you'll go to his place after work. Check on him. Invite him to dinner tomorrow.”

Felix blinked. He waited for the rest of the sentence, for the part where Jeongin would ask him if that was okay, or thank him, or even explain. But it didn’t come. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command, like always.

Felix pressed his lips together and nodded against Jeongin’s shoulder. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll go.” His hands, still resting against Jeongin’s chest, curled in slightly, like he was trying to hold on to something solid before it slipped away again.

“Shouldn't you be going?” Jeongin asked, raising a brow.

Felix sat in his car, parked outside the strip mall where the shoe store waited behind smudged glass and flickering fluorescent lights. The morning was dull and gray, the kind that made everything feel too quiet. His shift hadn’t started yet. The parking lot was mostly empty, just a few cars scattered near the bakery and the dry cleaner’s.

He sat still with the engine off, keys in his lap and his phone in his hand.

How about coffee today? Hope you're doing ok.

His thumb hovered over the message. It was simple. Gentle. Non-intrusive. But even so, he hesitated. Hyunjin hadn’t read the last one. Or the one before that. Or the one Felix had sent late last night when the silence started to feel suffocating. Still, maybe this one would be different. He hit send.

The moment the message went through, a knot twisted tighter in his stomach. He stared at the screen for a second longer, waiting for that little read notification that never came. Then he locked the phone and leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling slowly.

It was just after nine when Jisung stirred beneath the blanket. The room was dim, morning light struggling to slip past the heavy curtains. Seungmin sat in the armchair across from him, a steaming mug of untouched coffee resting on the windowsill beside him, growing cold. He had been there for a few hours, not daring to make a sound. When Jisung finally blinked awake, his movements were sluggish, eyes slow to focus, lashes sticking together with sleep.

He didn’t flinch. That alone made Seungmin’s chest tighten. Jisung just stared at him—wide-eyed and pale, his skin waxy under the low light, mouth slightly parted as if the air around him was still too thick to breathe properly. The haze of medication was still heavy on him. It dulled the fear but not the exhaustion, not the hollow way he moved like something fragile kept alive by threads too thin to see.

Seungmin set the coffee aside and leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. He kept his voice soft. “Hey,” he said. “You’re safe.”

Jisung’s eyes flicked toward the voice, slow and glassy, but he didn’t answer. He curled in tighter, the blanket bunched around his shoulders like a shield. His gaze drifted around the room—at the walls, the dresser, the half-open door—searching for something that wasn’t there. Or maybe looking for someone who used to be.

Seungmin waited a moment longer before rising to kneel beside the bed. “Do you remember me?” he asked, even though he hated asking it. But today… there was something uncertain in the way he looked at Seungmin, something like recognition warped by fear and fog.

Jisung opened his mouth to say something but the words never left his lips. He only nodded.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Seungmin murmured. “You don’t have to talk. Just rest. I’ll be right here.”

And he stayed, watching the rise and fall of Jisung’s chest, the occasional twitch of his fingers beneath the blanket. Waiting for the moment Jisung would come back to him. Hoping it wouldn’t take too long.

When Jisung woke again, he was more alert. His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Where’s… Where’s Minho?”

Seungmin straightened at the sound, caught off guard by the first words Jisung had spoken all morning. He kept his voice steady. “He’s resting,” he said gently. “Would you like me to take you to him?”

Jisung immediately tensed. He sat up straighter, his back pressing hard against the wall behind him like he needed to feel something solid. His hands clutched the blanket tighter over his chest. “He won’t like that,” he mumbled.

Seungmin’s heart sank. It was the way he said it—not afraid exactly, but cautious, like someone who’d already learned the price of doing something wrong. Like the memory of correction had been etched into his skin.

Seungmin hated it. He hated that Jisung thought that way now, that somewhere deep in his mind he was still waiting for punishment. Still afraid of stepping out of line. He had seen too much, heard too much—but what crushed him most was that he couldn’t even tell Jisung he was wrong. Because every time he tried, Jisung turned quiet. Defensive. Protective of Minho in ways that made no sense after everything.

Still, Seungmin knew better than to argue. Jisung had always hated it when Seungmin and Minho fought. Even back then, before the disappearance, when things had already begun to unravel. So he let it go.

“For now,” Seungmin said, adjusting his tone, “why don’t I get you something to eat?” He kept his voice light. Casual. Like they weren’t both dancing over the ruins of something fragile.

Jisung blinked slowly, his lashes trembling. “Yes,” he murmured. “Please.”

“Why don’t you come down with me?” Seungmin suggested. “It’s warmer in the kitchen.”

Jisung blinked, processing that slowly. “I should stay here.”

“No,” Seungmin disagreed. “You don’t have to. Come sit while I cook. You don’t have to talk or do anything. Just sit, okay?”

He waited. After a long, tense moment, Jisung pulled the blanket tighter around himself and slowly began to rise. It was an effort, his movements stiff from sleeping on the floor, from medication, from fear. But he stood. Barefoot and quiet, watching Seungmin like he was still unsure if this was a test.

Seungmin offered his hand. Jisung didn’t take it, but after a pause, he nodded and followed. They descended the stairs together, one slow step at a time. Jisung didn’t say another word, but he didn’t resist either.

When they reached the kitchen, Seungmin pulled out a chair and patted it softly. “Here. Just sit. I’ll make something easy.”

Jisung sat down without a word. Seungmin turned toward the stove. His hands shook just slightly as he reached for the eggs. But he kept talking, his voice soft and steady and grounding, he hoped. Filling the silence.

Seungmin forcing himself to breathe evenly as the eggs cooked. The smell of butter filled the kitchen, warm and familiar, but it couldn’t quite soften the tension coiled in his shoulders.

Behind him, Jisung sat with his knees drawn up slightly, fingers picking at the hem of the oversized sweatshirt Minho had given him to wear. His hair was unbrushed, eyes still glassy from the medication, but there was something stubborn in his posture now, some flicker of clarity that had pierced the haze.

"How do you like it here?" Seungmin asked, voice careful. Measured. "With Minho, I mean. Has he been kind?"

There was a pause, too long. Seungmin glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch the way Jisung's face pinched slightly, brows knitting together like the question confused him. Or like it offended him.

"Jisung…" Seungmin began again, softer this time, but Jisung interrupted him.

"He's always been kind," Jisung said, a bit too sharply. There was something brittle in the way he said it—like a cracked plate held together by sheer will. "He's always loved me."

Seungmin bit down on the response that rose in his throat. He wanted to scoff. He wanted to slam the spatula on the counter and say, Loved you? He loved you so much he kept fucking Hyunjin while your face was still on missing person posters.

But Jisung was looking at him now. Earnest. Unsteady. Like he believed it.

So Seungmin only nodded, his jaw tight. "Right," he muttered. "Of course."

He plated the eggs in silence, the weight of everything unsaid heavy in the air between them. When he placed the plate in front of Jisung, he set it down more gently than he meant to, as if Jisung himself might crack under the wrong touch.

"Can you... I... the spoon is... I can't..." Jisung's voice faltered, thin as paper, before trailing off completely. His hands lay limp in his lap, and he lowered his gaze in shame, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"Of course," Seungmin said quickly, no hesitation in his tone. He pulled the chair out and sat down beside him, his movements soft and measured. He picked up the spoon with care, like it was something sacred. "It's alright to ask for help, Sung."

Jisung opened his mouth slightly, his lips trembling, and Seungmin gently brought the spoon to his mouth. He fed him slowly, patiently, watching the way Jisung’s throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes never quite lifting.

"You know," Seungmin said after a moment, voice hushed, "even before… you hated asking for help. You always pretended everything was fine. I wish you knew you could’ve come to me with anything." He dipped the spoon back into the eggs, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. "I would've listened. I still would. Always."

Jisung didn't respond right away, but his fingers curled around the edge of the table—gripping, holding on, like those words might be the only solid thing he had left.

Felix stood outside Hyunjin’s apartment, one hand gripping the strap of his shoulder bag, the other hovering over the doorknob. He had knocked twice already—softly, then louder—but there’d been no response. Now he tried the handle gently. It was locked.

He stepped back, unease starting to prickle at his skin. Hyunjin was always home around this time, especially in the mornings. They had their rhythm—text, meet, coffee or a walk, a little gossip, a lot of laughing. Even when Hyunjin wanted space, he would say so.

But this? This silence felt wrong.

Felix pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. Still no response to any of his texts. Not from this morning. Not from yesterday.

“Hyunjin…” he whispered, thumb hovering over the call button.

He hesitated, then pressed it. The phone rang once, twice—then jumped straight to voicemail. Felix’s stomach sank.

He glanced down the hallway, hoping for any sign of him—maybe he’d just stepped out to get groceries or meet a client. But the building was quiet. Still. Too still.

Something wasn’t right. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat and sent one more message.

Came by your place. Door’s locked. Let me know you're okay. Please.

He began pacing in tight, anxious circles. The phone felt heavy in his hand as he pressed Jeongin’s name. It rang only once before the line picked up.

"Hey, baby," Jeongin answered, his voice warm and relaxed—too relaxed. "You done with your shift?”

"Jeongin," Felix said quickly, glancing at the door again. "I’m at Hyunjin’s. He’s not here. The place is locked, and no one’s answering."

There was a pause, “He's not there?”

"Yeah. He’s not answering his phone either. I’ve called, I’ve texted—"

"Did he say he was going somewhere? Out of town, maybe?" Jeongin asked.

“He didn't,” Felix insisted ."I would've remembered if he did.” Felix was shaking now, his nerves fraying at the edges. "Something feels off."

Another beat of silence. Then Jeongin’s voice turned sharper, more focused. "Okay. Calm down. Call Minho. Ask if he knows where Hyunjin is."

Felix hesitated. He hated bothering Minho, especially with everything going on.

"Felix," Jeongin said, firmer now. "If you’re worried, you need to check. He’s probably just out of town."

Felix nodded slowly, even though Jeongin couldn’t see him. "Okay. I’ll call."

"Good boy," Jeongin murmured before hanging up.

Felix stood still for a second longer. Then he took a deep breath, thumb hovering over Minho’s contact.

Felix had never spent much time with Minho. In fact, they’d only spoken in passing—brief hellos exchanged at the front door when Felix dropped Hyunjin off, and once when he’d awkwardly bumped into Minho in the produce aisle of the grocery store. That had been a short conversation about avocados, of all things, and Minho had seemed polite, if distant.

At the beginning, when things with Hyunjin were still new and exciting, Felix had toyed with the idea of double dates—he and Jeongin, Hyunjin and Minho. Maybe a beach day or a dinner out. They could’ve had fun. They could’ve been friends, all of them. He’d gone so far as to get Minho’s number saved in his phone, just in case he wanted to personally extend an invitation.

He remembered mentioning the idea to Jeongin once. They’d been curled up on the couch, his head resting on Jeongin’s chest, and he’d said it like a wish—quiet, hopeful. But Jeongin had just laughed. Not kindly. Not even amused. He’d looked at Felix and asked flatly, “Are you stupid?”

That had been the end of it. And now here Felix was—staring at Minho’s name on his phone screen, thumb hovering over the call button, stomach twisting with unease. He pressed it.

“…Yeah?” Minho’s voice was rough, like he’d just woken up, and more than a little annoyed.

“Hey, uh… sorry,” Felix said quickly, breath fogging in the morning chill. “It’s Felix. I just— I was wondering… is Hyunjin with you?”

There was a pause. Then Minho exhaled hard, clearly frustrated. “What? No. Why would he be here?”

Felix hesitated. “I thought maybe he stopped by or—”

“He knows I’m taking care of Jisung now,” Minho cut in, sharper this time. “He has no reason to be here.”

Felix opened his mouth to explain, to say that Hyunjin wasn’t answering his texts, that he hadn’t been home, that something felt wrong—but Minho was already speaking again.

“Look, I’m busy,” he said flatly. “I’ve got enough to deal with right now. I don't know where Hyunjin is.”

“Minho, I just—please, I can’t find—”

But the line clicked dead before he could finish. Felix stared at his phone, the quiet ring of disconnection loud in his ears. Minho hadn’t listened. He hadn’t even let him finish the sentence.

Felix swallowed the knot rising in his throat, thumb trembling as he lowered the phone.

Felix stirred the stew absently, the scent of garlic and red pepper rising with the steam. The pot bubbled gently, but he wasn’t really paying attention to it. His mind was still looping the conversation with Minho, or lack of it—Minho’s clipped voice, the sharp dismissal, the abrupt end of the call.

The front door opened, and Jeongin stepped in, setting his bag down and toeing off his shoes.

Felix didn’t turn. “I called Minho,” he said softly.

There was a pause behind him, then Jeongin calmly asked, “And?”

“He didn’t listen. He said he didn't know where Hyunjin was. Then he hung up on me.”

Jeongin walked into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat down. His coat was still on. “That’s alright,” he said smoothly, folding his hands in front of him. “You’ll try again tomorrow.”

Felix finally turned to face him, spoon still in hand. “What do you mean?”

“Text Hyunjin again,” Jeongin said. “If he doesn’t reply, go to his apartment after your shift. If he still isn’t there… call Minho again. You know, rinse and repeat.”

Felix stared at him. “But why? Why are we—”

“Just do it, Lixie.” Jeongin’s gaze didn’t waver.

Felix didn’t move. Didn’t speak. And Jeongin didn’t explain. That's just how it was.

It was awkward. Even before Jisung went missing, it had always been awkward with Seungmin. There had never been anything but hostility and distrust in Seungmin’s eyes, and Minho had never been able to figure out why. Back then, he'd tried—he'd made an effort to be pleasant, to befriend him, at the very least. But Seungmin had kept him at arm’s length, stiff and cold every time they crossed paths.

Now, Minho understood the resentment. Now, after everything that had happened—after Jisung’s disappearance and Minho’s inability to do anything but spiral—he knew he deserved every ounce of Seungmin’s contempt. But back then? He still wasn’t sure what crime he’d committed to earn it.

They sat at the table, a bowl of stew set between the three of them. The silence wasn’t unbearable, just tense in the way that made Minho hyper-aware of every breath he took. When he’d woken, groggy and sore, he’d been surprised to find Jisung curled beside Seungmin on the living room couch, the TV humming low with some news program. Jisung had looked almost peaceful for a second, and though the hollowness still dulled his eyes, the tension in his shoulders had seemed lighter. It was something.

“I'm uh…” Minho cleared his throat. “I'm surprised you're still here. I thought you were going to the hospital.”

Seungmin shrugged, “Decided to take another day off.”

Minho raised his brows as he spooned stew into Jisung’s bowl, “How many days off do doctors get?”

Seungmin didn't answer, only shrugged. Minho inwardly sighed and began feeding him carefully. Jisung accepted each bite in silence, chewing slowly, obediently. Across the table, Seungmin’s gaze remained unreadable. His own food sat untouched, as if he didn’t trust the bowl Minho had filled—like Minho might have laced their lunch with poison.

Minho didn’t meet his eyes. He focused on Jisung instead, gently wiping the corner of his mouth when a bit of broth escaped his lips.

Then Seungmin cleared his throat. “Jisung,” he said casually. “I already told Minho this, but I’m taking some time off work.”

Minho’s head snapped up. He’d said he’d think about it. They weren’t anywhere near a decision yet.

“So,” Seungmin continued, ignoring him, “I was thinking I could help take care of you. While Minho goes back to work. Not a bad idea, right?”

“I don't—” Minho began, frustration rising, but Seungmin cut him off with a glance.

“What do you think, Jisung?” Seungmin asked again, softer this time, turning his full attention to Jisung.

Jisung blinked slowly between them, mouth half-open, stew cooling in front of him. His eyes shifted to Minho. There was a flicker of uncertainty in them, the kind that made Minho want to reach out and reassure him, tell him that it was alright, that he could say no if he wanted to. But Minho didn’t move. He kept his expression even, impassive, forcing himself to stay quiet.

If Jisung wanted Seungmin here—if having Seungmin around made him feel safer—then Minho wouldn’t stand in the way. No matter how much it grated. No matter how badly he wanted to keep Jisung all to himself.

And maybe… maybe it really wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Seungmin had a point. Minho needed to go back to work eventually. The longer he stayed home, the more calls he had to ignore, the more clients he risked losing. Money wasn’t flowing in the way it used to, and he’d already sunk so much into Hyunjin’s studio. The thought made his chest tighten, and he exhaled slowly through his nose.

Jisung looked down at his plate. He hadn’t answered. Minho's heart clenched.

He wasn’t in the right state of mind to make decisions. Not yet. Every moment seemed like a test for Jisung—each new sound or change in routine was another hurdle. Minho could see how hard he was trying, how much he wanted to be the person he used to be. But he wasn’t there. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

Minho didn’t say anything. Just reached for the stew pot and quietly offered another spoonful. Jisung opened his mouth, obedient and silent, and Minho fed him again, swallowing down the guilt that sat like a stone in his gut.

"Alright," Minho told Seungmin, his voice quiet but firm. "You can help, I guess."

Seungmin blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His expression softened with surprise, his eyes widening slightly, the beginning of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I... I'll get my things then."

Minho looked up sharply. "Wait, what?" His brow furrowed. "You’re not moving in, are you?"

Seungmin raised an eyebrow like Minho had asked the stupidest question imaginable. "Of course I am. It beats driving here from the other side of town every day."

Minho opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn’t expected that. He thought Seungmin would help out, maybe stay an hour or two, bring a meal, offer moral support—but moving in? That was a whole different kind of commitment. A whole different kind of intrusion. Especially in a house that already felt fragile and strained under the weight of everything unsaid between them.

Seungmin didn’t wait for a response. He turned back to his bowl and finally started eating. Like the matter was already decided. Like Minho had no say in it anymore.

Changbin felt the tension ease off his shoulders as he pulled into Seungmin’s driveway. The familiar sight of the modest white house brought a faint sense of calm, like muscle memory kicking in. The garage door rolled open with a low mechanical hum, allowing him to pull the car inside. He parked, shut off the engine, and grabbed the bottle of Seungmin’s favorite vodka from the passenger seat, along with a warm paper-wrapped package of garlic bread.

He hopped out, the chill of early evening brushing against his skin, and grinned when he spotted Seungmin standing near the foot of the stairs that led up into the kitchen. His arms were crossed, one foot tapping slightly against the concrete, his gaze pinned on the floor like it had done something to offend him.

“Hey,” Changbin said softly, stepping closer. He pressed a light kiss to Seungmin’s cheek. “I’m glad you called. I brought your favorite.”

Seungmin didn’t smile, not really. His lips curved just enough to acknowledge the gesture, but his eyes didn’t lift. Instead, he reached out and took Changbin’s hand, fingers curling tightly around his. Wordlessly, he led him up the stairs, the door creaking slightly as they entered the kitchen.

The warmth inside was welcome, but the atmosphere wasn’t. Something was wrong. The tension that had eased during the drive returned with full force, crawling up Changbin’s spine as he watched Seungmin move about the room. There was something in the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes, the subtle crease between his brows—silent signals only someone who knew him well would catch.

Changbin set the vodka and garlic bread down on the counter and turned toward him, “What happened?”

“I—I uhm…” Seungmin cleared his throat and looked away. “Let’s sit down?”

Changbin hesitated, but followed him into the living room. The air in the house felt thick with unspoken words, and the creak of the couch springs as they sat only emphasized how quiet everything had become. Dread crept into Changbin’s chest, a heavy, suffocating thing that settled between them like fog.

He noticed the foot of space Seungmin kept between them, the way his shoulders curled inward, protective. Defensive. It made Changbin’s stomach twist. This wasn’t how Seungmin acted with him. Even when they fought, Seungmin had always been straightforward—sharp, sometimes cruel, but never this careful.

Finally, Seungmin reached over and grabbed his hand, just as it was starting to drift away in confusion. The warmth of that small gesture steadied Changbin just long enough to brace himself.

“I’m taking some time off work,” Seungmin said abruptly. He kept his gaze low, fixed on their entwined fingers.

“You’re what?” Changbin blinked. It was the last thing he expected to hear. Seungmin—the most driven, focused, relentless person he knew—taking time off? “What happened?” he asked quickly, already leaning in. He cupped Seungmin’s face between both palms, searching his expression. “Tell me and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Seungmin snapped, pulling back. His voice sharpened, sudden and raw. “You’ll help me? You’ll finally take me seriously? I’ve been begging you for help since before Jisung disappeared. And all you’ve ever done is defend Minho, putting your friendship first!”

Changbin recoiled like he’d been slapped. “What are you talking about? Where is this coming from? You know Minho and I aren’t even speaking right now. If I was putting our friendship first, would that be the case?”

Seungmin scoffed, bitterness rising. “I told you about the bruises. I told you about the way Jisung looked. And you—you didn’t want to believe Minho was capable of that.” His voice cracked near the end, fury giving way to something more fragile. “You never wanted to believe it.”

Changbin sat back, stunned. “Seungmin…”

“You looked me in the face,” Seungmin went on, “and said Minho would never hurt him. And I believed you. I let it go. I told myself you knew him better than I did.” He let out a hollow laugh, then stared at the wall. “And now look at us. He’s got Jisung back and we’re all pretending he’s some fucking hero when he's probably the one who took Jisung in the first place!”

Changbin was quiet for a moment, the weight of Seungmin’s words pressing down on him. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to bridge the canyon that had opened up between them.

“Seungmin,” he said softly. “I want to help. Just… tell me how.”

Seungmin finally looked at him. There was exhaustion in his eyes—anger, too—but mostly it was heartbreak. “I don’t think you can,” he whispered. “I won't let him hurt Jisung again,” Seungmin declared, voice low but unwavering. “That’s why I’m—” he hesitated only for a second, “I’ll be moving in with them.”

Changbin stared at him as if he hadn't heard correctly. For a moment, it was like the air had been knocked from his lungs. Then the words landed—heavy, impossible—and his expression twisted in disbelief.

“You’ll be what?!” he shouted, rising to his feet in one swift, angry motion. “You can’t be serious, Seungmin! You can’t put your entire life on hold for Jisung!”

Seungmin didn’t flinch. He sat rooted on the couch, jaw set, fingers clenched in the fabric of his jeans. “Watch me,” he said simply.

“No,” Changbin snapped, pacing now, unable to contain the heat rising through his chest. “This—this isn’t healthy! You’re not his doctor. You’re not his keeper. You’re his friend, sure, but there has to be a line, Seungmin. You can’t just—just throw away your job, your life—”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” Seungmin interrupted sharply, standing now too, voice trembling from restraint. “I’m saving him.”

“From what? From Minho? You don’t even have proof Minho’s done anything wrong now.”

“I don’t need proof,” Seungmin hissed, eyes blazing. “I’ve seen what Jisung becomes around him. I’ve seen the way he flinches. The way he waits for permission to speak. You didn’t see him, Changbin. Not the way I did. You weren’t there the first time he tried to eat like a person and put the bowl on the floor like a dog.”

Changbin opened his mouth. Then closed it.

"And if Minho is dangerous," Seungmin said, voice low and level, "I'm banking on him doing something to me. Then at least I'll have proof."

The words hit like a slap—hard, cold, and unforgiving. Changbin stared at him, stunned. His mouth opened but no sound came out. That look in Seungmin’s eyes—sharp, steady, almost inviting harm—it wasn’t like him. Not the Seungmin Changbin knew. Not the one who stayed up reading medical journals, who kept granola bars in his glovebox for long shifts, who still flinched when the hospital alarms blared too loud.

“What the fuck are you saying?” Changbin finally managed. “That you’re going to… bait him? Into hurting you?”

“I’m saying,” Seungmin said, his tone eerily calm, “if that’s what it takes to protect Jisung, then yes.”

“You’re not a martyr, Seungmin!” Changbin snapped, stepping forward. “And this isn’t a goddamn experiment. You could get seriously hurt, worse than you already are, if I’m right.”

Seungmin turned away slightly, “Then maybe people will start believing me. Maybe that's what it takes.”

“Don’t,” Changbin said, his voice catching, softer now. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I've already made my decision,” Seungmin said with finality. “And you're not changing my mind.”