Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kim Dokja

In the middle of nowhere stood a penitentiary. A grey monolith carved into the emptiness. No cities nearby. No people. Just wind, dust, and the faint hum of dying power lines.

The lights inside flickered more than they shone. The walls were cracked and swollen with damp, harbouring rodents that scurried in the shadows and insects that crept in through unseen gaps. The air smelled faintly of rust and mold, a scent that clung to the skin no matter how many times you breathed out.

The west wing was different from the rest. It wasn’t for violent criminals or political prisoners. It was for the others . The ones whose minds didn’t move along the rails everyone else followed. Men and women locked away not because they couldn’t function, but because they functioned in ways the world found… dangerous.

Kim Dokja was one of them.

He sat in a cell padded wall to wall in sterile white. The softness pressed against his back, but it didn’t comfort him. If anything, the colour felt louder than the silence, a silence so complete it made his ears ring.

He had been sitting in the same corner for three days. Not because he was restrained, but because there was nowhere else to go. The bed was a slab. The toilet was metal. The single vent in the ceiling whispered stale air into the room.

He didn’t think he was crazy. He never had. But the world, in all its confident cruelty, had decided otherwise. They had written him into the category of “madman” without even asking for his side of the story.

And so he waited, knees drawn up to his chest, staring at the padded wall in front of him. 

Waiting for something.

Anything.

Because the worst part wasn’t the cell.

It was the thought that maybe… they were right.

“Eat your food.”

The voice was sharp, impatient. A guard’s bark meant to break the stillness. A metal tray scraped forward, shoved by the blunt end of a pole through the small slot at the bottom of the cell door.

Kim Dokja stared at it. The grey-brown sludge on the plate looked like it had been scraped off the floor of the kitchen. A thin film of oil reflected the weak light from above.

Once, on his first day here, he had tried to crawl through that slot. He’d thought, just for a moment, that if he dislocated his shoulder and turned his head at the right angle, he might be able to make it. It had ended with a bruise across his cheek and the sound of the guard laughing on the other side.

Now he just looked at the opening, the tray, the shadow of the guard’s boots beyond it. The food steamed faintly, the smell sour enough to turn his stomach.

“Not hungry,” he murmured, though he knew the guard didn’t care. In this place, refusing a meal was just another tick in the “crazy” column.

He didn’t touch it.

The guard’s footsteps retreated, leaving him alone again, with the food, with the silence, with the thought that maybe this was the real punishment: not the cell, not the confinement, but the slow, daily erosion of wanting anything at all.

Yoo Joonghyuk

“If you want to see him today, I’ll show you to him. Although…” Han Sooyoung’s lips curved, though it wasn’t a smile. “He’s not exactly in a good state.”

The first person Yoo Joonghyuk saw in this godforsaken penitentiary was her. 

Han Sooyoung.

The woman who had built this place brick by brick, rule by rule. The one who kept it running like a clock no one wanted to hear ticking.

She moved through the corridors like someone who knew every inch of them, but Yoo Joonghyuk noticed the way her eyes flicked away from certain cells, the faint crease between her brows. She might have created this place, but she didn’t enjoy it. 

Not anymore. 

They passed rows of barred doors. Inside, prisoners lived in shadows. Some shouted things in hoarse voices, pounding against the steel with pale fists. Others lay sprawled on bunks, staring at nothing. Most of them simply watched. Unblinking, following the pair with eyes that tracked like predators.

The air was heavy here. Stale. The kind of place where the sound of a footstep carried too far, echoing in the space between heartbeats. Being in a building filled with dangerous people was one thing; walking among them was another.

Then they passed through a set of reinforced doors, and the world changed.

The west wing.

White.

Not the faded grey of the rest of the penitentiary, this was clean, clinical, almost blinding. The walls, the floors, even the air felt sterile. The ceiling was a grid of bright lights that hummed faintly, glaring down with no mercy, revealing every speck of dust and flaw in the paint.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes narrowed against the glare. The west wing wasn’t meant to hold criminals in the traditional sense. It was a place for the other kind. People too dangerous for

the normal cells, not because of strength, but because of something far more unpredictable.

“Here,” Han Sooyoung said, her tone quieter now. “This is where he is.”

Han Sooyoung stopped in front of a reinforced observation room. A pane of what looked like glass stretched across the wall, but Yoo Joonghyuk knew it was a double-sided mirror.

Through it, he saw the man.

The prisoner sat in the corner of his padded cell, knees pulled up, back to the wall. The bright, clinical light left no shadows to soften the angles of his face. His clothes were standard issue, grey, shapeless. But his posture was still somehow deliberate, as if every inch of stillness had been chosen.

“He can’t see you,” Han Sooyoung said. “From his side, it’s a blank wall.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t answer. He took in the details: the faint tap of the man’s fingers against his knee, the way his gaze kept flicking to the slot at the bottom of the cell door.

It was then that Yoo Joonghyuk realised part of his own stance.

His shoes would be visible from that angle. Different from the guards’ heavy, scuffed boots. Cleaner. Lighter.

The prisoner’s eyes lingered there. Just for a moment.

They had never met. Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t even know his voice, only the fact that he was the reason he’d been called to this place. But in that brief pause, in the way the man stilled, there was a sense of quiet recognition, not of who he was, but of the fact that he was someone else .

Yoo Joonghyuk stayed where he was. Watching. Measuring. Wondering what kind of mind sat behind those steady, unreadable eyes.

“The staff live in a separate house behind the penitentiary,” Han Sooyoung said, leading him down a gravel path toward a looming silhouette in the dark. “But from tomorrow onwards, you’ll study Kim Dokja and report back to me.”

The building that emerged from the shadows was massive. A three-storey house that might once have been stately, before time and weather stripped the charm away. The paint on the shutters had peeled to reveal dull wood, and the windows glared like blind eyes in the moonlight.

Inside, it smelled faintly of dust and old books. The hallways were wide, lined with heavy doors and threadbare rugs. Somewhere above, the floorboards creaked under the weight of someone moving.

Han Sooyoung stopped at a door on the second floor and pushed it open. The room was plain but functional. A bed, a desk, a narrow wardrobe. The single window looked out over the stretch of barren land between the staff house and the penitentiary’s outer wall. Even from here, Yoo Joonghyuk could see the faint glow of the west wing’s lights against the night sky.

He set down his bag.

“You didn’t tell me the details,” he said.

Han Sooyoung’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t need the details. What you need is to observe him. Ask questions when you have to. Listen more than you speak. And write down everything.”

Yoo Joonghyuk regarded her for a moment, then asked, “And my role?”

Her answer was simple. “You’re his psychiatrist now.”

The word felt heavy. Yoo Joonghyuk was more than qualified, but because it meant that whatever was wrong with Kim Dokja wasn’t the kind of thing bars and guards could contain on their own.

Han Sooyoung left without another word, her footsteps fading down the corridor.

Yoo Joonghyuk sat on the bed, looking out at the distant glow of the penitentiary. Tomorrow, he would walk back into that building. Tomorrow, he would meet the man behind the glass.

Chapter Text

Kim Dokja

“Shower time.”

The words cut through the stillness like a knife.

Time was strange here. Slippery, distorted. Kim Dokja guessed it had been a day since his last shower, but it could just as easily have been three. In this place, the light never changed, the walls never changed, and neither did the silence.

One of the guards stepped in, her uniform a deep navy, a pistol holstered at her hip. The keys at her belt jingled as she crossed the padded cell. She didn’t speak again, only motioned for him to stand before snapping cold metal cuffs around his wrists.

He was always scheduled at a different hour from the other prisoners. For safety reasons , they claimed.

Kim Dokja wasn’t dangerous. And he wasn’t crazy. He swore he wasn’t.

The guard pulled him toward the door, but when it opened, he realised she wasn’t alone.

A man stood waiting in the hallway. Not in a uniform, but in a crisp button-down shirt and pressed slacks. His shoes were clean, black, polished.

The same shoes Kim Dokja had seen yesterday beneath the door.

“This is Yoo Joonghyuk,” the guard said. “Your psychiatrist.”

Kim Dokja’s gaze lingered on him. Tall, broad-shouldered, his expression unreadable. There was something unyielding about him, something that could be threatening, and yet, for reasons Kim Dokja couldn’t name, the sight of him didn’t make his chest tighten the way the guards did.

The guard tugged him forward again. He stumbled into step, the cuffs biting lightly into his wrists. Yoo Joonghyuk followed them without a word, his footsteps steady and even against the concrete floor.

The showers were at the far end of the wing. The corridor smelled faintly of bleach, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Kim Dokja kept his head down, watching those same black shoes shadow his every step.

The showers were a tiled room that smelled faintly of damp and industrial soap. The echo of their footsteps bounced off the walls, too loud in the emptiness. No one else was here — just the guard, Yoo Joonghyuk, and him.

The guard unlocked his cuffs long enough for him to strip, then replaced them immediately. Standard procedure, though he’d long since stopped being embarrassed by it.

The water sputtered from the overhead pipe, running cold at first before grudgingly warming. Kim Dokja stepped under it, letting it soak his hair.

He glanced sideways.

Yoo Joonghyuk stood near the entrance, hands in his pockets, posture straight, eyes fixed on him. He wasn’t watching like a guard, ready to strike or restrain, but like someone cataloguing details. Observing.

Kim Dokja tilted his head slightly, speaking over the hiss of the water. “So, you’re the psychiatrist.”

No answer.

“Do you usually follow people to the shower,” he said, “or am I special?”

Still nothing. The man’s gaze didn’t waver.

Kim Dokja smiled faintly, not because he found it funny, but because silence was an answer of its own. If this Yoo Joonghyuk thought he could stand there without being tested, he was wrong.

He let the water run over his face, then said, “If you’re here to figure out what’s wrong with me… you’ll be disappointed.”

A beat of quiet. Then, at last, Yoo Joonghyuk spoke. His voice was deep, steady. “That’s what they all say.”

Kim Dokja looked at him through the curtain of water, the faint hum of challenge sparking between them.

After that single sentence, Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t speak again.

He simply stayed where he was, leaning a shoulder against the wall, watching. Not with the hostility of the guards, not with the nervous glances of medical staff, but with a stillness that was heavier than any threat.

Kim Dokja waited for more. A follow-up question. A hint of curiosity. Even an insult. But none came.

The water hissed around him, steam curling in the cold air. He could hear every droplet hitting the tile, every small shift of his own movements. The silence between them began to stretch, long enough for him to start feeling it in his chest.

He hated that.

“Usually,” Kim Dokja said, running his fingers through his wet hair, “people in your position like to talk. Build trust. Make small jokes. Pretend they care.”

Nothing. Not even a flicker in those dark eyes.

Kim Dokja gave a short, dry laugh. “I guess you’re not here to make friends.”

Still, Yoo Joonghyuk stayed quiet.

By the time the guard cut the water and told him to step out, Kim Dokja realised he’d been doing all the talking. He didn’t like how that felt, as if the man had managed to pull something from him without ever asking for it.

As the cuffs clicked back around his wrists, he glanced at Yoo Joonghyuk again. The man’s expression hadn’t changed, but there was something there. A faint, unreadable knowing.

Kim Dokja looked away first.

They walked the west wing hallways once more. Kim Dokja, still damp from the shower, felt the water soaking into his only set of clothes, the same thin white shirt and loose white pants they had given him on his first day here. The fabric clung uncomfortably to his skin, cold in the artificially chilled air.

But the route they were taking wasn’t toward his cell. He knew the turns to his cell by heart, the exact number of steps, the corners where the light flickered, the faint hum of the vent in the ceiling above his door. This was different.

“Where are you taking me?” His voice came out hoarse, edged with suspicion. The cuffs bit against his wrists as he tugged against the guard’s grip.

She didn’t answer. Her pace didn’t falter, and her hand on his arm tightened, urging him forward down this unfamiliar corridor.

Unease coiled in his stomach. His body began to heat despite the cold, not from exertion, but from the prickle of fear running beneath his skin. His mind calculated distances, doors, possible exits, even as another part of him knew there was nowhere to run in this place.

Still, he forced himself to remember the route. Every corner. Every shadow. If he couldn’t get back on his own, he wanted to at least understand where he’d been taken.

Minutes later, they reached a wooden door at the very end of the hallway, strange in a place of metal and reinforced concrete.

The guard opened it, and he was pushed inside.

It wasn’t another cell. It was an office.

There was a desk at the far wall, two chairs facing each other, shelves lined with neatly ordered files. A faint scent of coffee clung to the air, out of place in the sterile white of the west wing.

The guard turned to leave, but a voice stopped her.

“I want his cuffs off.”

Kim Dokja turned. Yoo Joonghyuk stood near the desk, his presence filling the small space with quiet authority.

The guard frowned. “Sir, with all due respect… Kim Dokja is a high-profile criminal.”

“I know,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied evenly. “But this is part of my procedure.”

Her hesitation was obvious, but she followed the order. The metal loosened from his wrists, the weight of the cuffs gone but the red marks still warm against his skin. Kim Dokja rubbed at them automatically, not quite believing it.

The guard lingered just long enough to issue her warning. “You’ve got forty-five minutes,” she said, before stepping out and shutting the door behind her.

The sound of the latch clicking into place felt louder than it should have.

Kim Dokja was alone with him now.

Yoo Joonghyuk still didn’t speak.

Kim Dokja tracked every movement as the man crossed to the desk. He moved without hurry, without wasted motion, opening the drawer with a quiet precision that felt deliberate.

From inside, he drew out a thin folder, beige, worn at the edges.

Kim Dokja’s throat tightened. He didn’t need to see the label to know.

“Is that mine?” he asked. The words scraped out of his throat, rough from disuse.

No answer. Yoo Joonghyuk’s attention was on the file as he flipped it open, scanning the pages without expression. His eyes moved steadily from line to line, the silence stretching in the small office until Kim Dokja could hear the faint ticking of a clock somewhere behind him.

The psychiatrist closed the file after a moment and set it down neatly on the desk, sitting down. Then he looked at him.

Not a glance. A fixed, unwavering stare.

Kim Dokja shifted where he stood. The air between them felt heavier now, though nothing had changed. He had faced guards who shouted in his face, men who held weapons on him, and none of it had felt quite like this.

There was no threat in Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression. No mockery. Just a calm, dissecting kind of attention, as if he were studying something under glass.

Kim Dokja hated how his body reacted, the faint tremor in his fingers, the heat rising under his skin. It wasn’t fear exactly, but it was close enough to make him feel weak.

He looked away first.

The silence pressed in, thick enough that Kim Dokja could almost hear his own pulse. He kept his gaze fixed on a spot on the wall, anything to avoid those eyes.

Then Yoo Joonghyuk spoke.

“Why do you think you’re here?”

The question was soft, but it landed like a blow. Not why are you here , not what did you do , but why do you think . As if the truth didn’t matter half as much as whatever he believed it to be.

Kim Dokja’s mouth went dry.

He could have lied. He could have said nothing. He could have laughed it off. But every possible answer tasted wrong, felt like stepping into a trap he couldn’t yet see.

So he said nothing.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t push. He just leaned back in his chair, his eyes still on him, as if waiting to see how long the silence would hold before Kim Dokja broke it himself.

The ticking of the unseen clock filled the room again.

Kim Dokja tilted his head, letting a wry smile creep onto his lips.

“Because I needed a vacation?” he offered, his voice light, mocking, as if the whole thing were some bad joke.

For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t move. Then he closed the file with a deliberate snap.
“That’s not why.”

No hesitation. No room for argument.

Kim Dokja’s smile faltered. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

The words were calm, but they landed with the weight of a verdict. Yoo Joonghyuk leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, and for a moment Kim Dokja felt like prey under the steady eyes of something that didn’t need to chase to catch him.

Yoo Joonghyuk sighed, the low sound filling the office in a way that made Kim Dokja straighten instinctively.

The man pushed himself up from behind the desk and rounded it with unhurried steps, lowering himself into a single, worn leather armchair.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.

Kim Dokja glanced at the longer sofa opposite him before obeying, crossing the room slowly as if the floor might give way. The cushions dipped under his weight, and despite himself, he almost smiled at how soft it was compared to the slab of metal in his cell.

Then a small thud caught his attention, Yoo Joonghyuk sliding a phone across the low table between them. His finger hovered over a large red button on the screen.

“After me, state your full name,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, not bothering to explain. He pressed the button.

“Today is the eleventh of August. My name is Yoo Joonghyuk and I’m here with…”

The pause hung in the air.

“Kim Dokja,” he answered, his voice steady, though his throat felt dry.

“This is our first session at #### Penitentiary.”

The recorder kept running as Yoo Joonghyuk sat straighter, dark eyes fixed on him like a scalpel ready to cut.

“How has your experience here been so far? In this penitentiary?”

Kim Dokja leaned back slightly, eyes darting to the phone before returning to Yoo Joonghyuk.

Was he supposed to answer honestly? Was there even such a thing in a place like this?

His fingers curled against the fabric of the sofa, a phantom itch where the cuffs had been.

“Do you want the truth,” he asked lightly, “or the version you can actually put in a report?”

“Whatever you think.”

“Well…”

Kim Dokja let the word hang, rolling it over in his mind as if weighing how much to give away.

“The guards here treat me like shit,” he began, the bitterness already seeping into his tone. “I can’t make friends with the other prisoners because my schedule is different from theirs, apparently for safety reasons. I can’t even contact my family because the guards won’t let me.”

Across from him, Yoo Joonghyuk shifted slightly at that last part.

“Your family?”

“That’s right.” Kim Dokja leaned forward, unable to stop now that he’d started. “I’ve seen the other West wing prisoners call their loved ones. Why can’t I? Do they think that because apparently I’m crazy, I’m also heartless? What a joke…”

It struck him, somewhere between breath and heartbeat, that this was the most he’d spoken in four days. The words felt clumsy in his mouth, like muscles waking from disuse, but they kept spilling out. And then—

Yoo Joonghyuk’s face changed.

Not the stone-faced neutrality Kim Dokja had gotten used to in this place. No, this was something else, a flicker of confusion, then shock, the kind of reaction you only got when something had gone very, very wrong.

It made Kim Dokja falter.

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me,” Yoo Joonghyuk said finally, voice low but sharp.

“I’m not,” Kim Dokja replied quickly. “Honest. Say—” he nodded toward the phone on the table, “—with that thing, do you think you could let me contact my family now?”

For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk just stared at him. Then, as if weighed down by something heavy, he rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands, a pained expression crossing his face.

“Kim Dokja…” His voice was careful now, almost hesitant. “Your family is dead.”

The words didn’t land all at once.

Kim Dokja blinked. “What? Dead?”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look away.

“No,” Kim Dokja said again, more forcefully. “You’re lying.”

“Do you seriously not remember?” There was no cruelty in Yoo Joonghyuk’s tone, only a grim certainty. “The police caught you covered in blood. You had murdered your whole family.”

A sharp, metallic taste filled Kim Dokja’s mouth. His mind scrabbled for purchase, for some shred of memory to cling to, but all he found was a yawning blank, a darkness where something important should have been.

The sofa suddenly felt too soft, too deep, as if it were trying to swallow him.

He wanted to laugh it off, to accuse Yoo Joonghyuk of some twisted interrogation trick. But the look in the man’s eye,  that unshakable, suffocating truth, made the words lodge in his throat.

The words echoed in his head, too loud, too heavy. You had murdered your whole family.

Kim Dokja’s lips moved, but no sound came out. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry.

And then—

Something flickered in the dark behind his eyes.

A hallway. Narrow, familiar. The wallpaper a faded beige, peeling at the corners. He was standing in it barefoot. The floor was cold. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

He turned his head.

A hand, small, delicate, slid from his grasp and hit the floor with a soft, impossible finality. Fingers curled in on themselves like a closing flower.

The image snapped away before he could see the face.

Kim Dokja gasped, sucking in air as if he’d been underwater.

Yoo Joonghyuk hadn’t moved, but his eyes were locked on him, studying every twitch, every flicker of expression.

“I don’t—” Kim Dokja shook his head, hard, as if he could rattle the images loose. “That’s not— That didn’t happen.”

“Didn’t it?”

The question was so quiet it barely registered as sound, but it was enough to make the flicker return, not as a full memory, but as sensations.

The smell of iron.

The stickiness on his hands.

The unbearable silence of a house that should have been full of voices.

“No…” His voice cracked. He gripped the sides of the chair like it could anchor him to reality. 

“No, no, no—”

But the harder he denied it, the more the pieces pressed at the edges of his mind, ready to spill into something whole.

“No…”

The word tasted bitter. His voice sounded wrong in his own ears, muffled, like it came from far away.

Focus. You’re in the room. You’re sitting in front of him.

But then—

The sofa beneath him was gone. The air shifted. The hum of the penitentiary’s ventilation bled into something else, the faint whir of a ceiling fan.

He was standing. Or maybe kneeling.

The beige hallway again. Shadows pooled at the far end, swallowing the doorway. 

Something was in there, just out of sight. His breathing was ragged.

“Kim Dokja.”

The voice wasn’t Yoo Joonghyuk’s. It was lighter, familiar in a way that made his chest ache.

He turned his head.

The living room opened before him. The couch was overturned, cushions scattered like someone had been looking for something, or running. The faint smear of red across the fabric made his stomach twist.

“Kim Dokja!”

This time it was Yoo Joonghyuk. Louder. Closer. Pulling him back.

He blinked, and the couch was gone. The overturned room replaced by the sterile, grey-walled office. The table between them. The phone.

His hands were still gripping the chair, knuckles white.

“You zoned out,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, voice steady, but his eyes betrayed a sliver of unease. 

“What did you see?”

“I…” Kim Dokja’s voice faltered. He couldn’t decide if telling him would make it real.

And then, from somewhere deep in his memory, barely louder than a breath:

Why did you do it?

Kim Dokja’s whole body went cold.

Yoo Joonghyuk leaned forward.

“What did you see, Kim Dokja?”

The way he said his name made it feel like a test. Like there was a right answer, and if he got it wrong, something irreversible would happen.

“I didn’t… see anything.”

“That’s not true.”

Kim Dokja hated the certainty in his voice. Hated how it cut through him like he was being dissected under a microscope. “I said it’s nothing.”

“You froze,” Yoo Joonghyuk continued, eyes narrowing. “You looked like you were somewhere else. And when I called your name, you came back like—” He stopped himself. “Like you were afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Kim Dokja said too quickly. The words came out sharp, defensive. “I’m not the one playing games with people’s heads here.”

For the first time, Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression tightened into something close to irritation. “You think I’m playing games?”

“You’re sitting there with your neat little desk and your neat little phone, acting like you know everything about me,” Kim Dokja snapped, his voice climbing. “But you don’t. You don’t know anything.”

“Then tell me ,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, voice low but carrying an edge that made the air feel heavy. “Tell me what happened that night.”

The room felt smaller. The grey walls leaned in. Kim Dokja could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, fast and uneven.

He opened his mouth, to deny it, to throw something back, to do anything , but the words jammed in his throat.

Instead, what came out was a sound. A laugh, short and bitter, almost choking. “You want me to remember something that never happened.”

And then, as if on cue, that voice again. Soft, close, curling around his ear like a whisper from the dark:

Why did you do it?

Kim Dokja’s hands curled into fists on his knees.

“I didn’t,” he muttered. “I didn’t do anything.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s silence wasn’t neutral. It was deliberate. Heavy. The kind of silence that made Kim Dokja want to smash something just to break it.

“You don’t believe me,” Kim Dokja said. It wasn’t a question.

“I believe what I see,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied evenly.

Something in Kim Dokja snapped at that. He was on his feet before he even realized he’d moved. “And what exactly do you see , huh? A killer? A lunatic? Some broken toy you can poke at?”

Yoo Joonghyuk rose as well, slow, measured, like a predator making sure its prey didn’t bolt. He was taller up close, and that only made Kim Dokja’s pulse spike harder.

“I see someone who’s lying to me,” he said.

The words hit like a slap. Kim Dokja stepped forward, closing the space between them until his chest brushed Yoo Joonghyuk’s. “Then maybe you’re not looking hard enough.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t flinch, didn’t blink . His gaze locked onto Kim Dokja’s, cold and sharp, and then his hand shot out, fingers clamping around Kim Dokja’s wrist. It wasn’t crushing, but it was firm enough to send a shiver up his arm.

“Sit down,” Yoo Joonghyuk said quietly.

Kim Dokja yanked against the grip, once, twice, but the man’s hand didn’t budge. His breathing quickened, a heat curling in his gut that had nothing to do with fear. “Or what?”

The corner of Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a threat. He tightened his hold just enough to make his point.

For a second, neither of them moved. The only sound was their breathing, harsh in the still room.

Kim Dokja’s free hand twitched, tempted to shove him away. To do something . But instead, he stood there, pulse hammering, caught between the urge to fight and the inexplicable pull that kept him frozen under Yoo Joonghyuk’s stare.

Kim Dokja’s free hand lashed out, a sudden, sharp shove against Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest.

The force surprised him, more desperate than calculated.

But Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t stumble.

Instead, he spun around, closing the gap with deliberate calm, until Kim Dokja found himself pressed against the edge of the desk. The cool surface bit into his back through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s grip on his wrist tightened just enough to hold him steady, but his other hand came up, resting lightly on Kim Dokja’s shoulder. Steady, unyielding.

“Sit,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, voice low and firm, every syllable a command that brooked no argument.

Kim Dokja’s breath hitched. The room seemed to shrink around them, the faint hum of the ventilation lost beneath the pounding of his heart.

His mind screamed to push away, to break free. But his body was caught somewhere between resistance and something else he couldn’t name, an unwilling surrender to the weight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he let himself sink down onto the sofa.

Yoo Joonghyuk released his wrist, stepping back with a measured ease that made the tension linger like smoke.

Kim Dokja’s hands rested on his knees, trembling just slightly. The fight hadn’t left him, no, it was simmering beneath the surface. But something about the cold steadiness in Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes made him pause, wondering if the fight was worth it.

Chapter Text

Yoo Joonghyuk

The first session with Kim Dokja was far more difficult than Yoo Joonghyuk had anticipated. He had expected resistance, some defiance, but not the raw, volatile edge that simmered just beneath the surface.

Every question Yoo Joonghyuk asked was met with a flicker of anger, every silence felt heavy with unspoken challenge. When he pressed too hard, Kim Dokja’s composure shattered. His hand shot toward the phone on the table, nearly sending it crashing to the floor.

“Enough.” Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice was low but firm, a warning hanging in the room like a blade.

Kim Dokja snarled something under his breath, the tension rising until Yoo Joonghyuk had no choice but to call for backup. The guards arrived swiftly, their presence immediately diffusing the volatile energy. Kim Dokja struggled, but the cuffs went on early, cutting the session short by eighteen minutes.

Yoo Joonghyuk watched him go, his hands clenched into fists on the desk. His jaw was tight, but his eyes never wavered. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he muttered to himself.

Alone now, Yoo Joonghyuk leaned back, running a hand through his hair. The echo of Kim Dokja’s outburst lingered, but so did something else. A flicker of something unreadable. Trouble, yes. But maybe also a glimpse of something worth breaking through.

Pressing the red button on his cracked phone, Yoo Joonghyuk ended the voice recording and sent the file to Han Sooyoung. The click echoed faintly in the quiet room, a small but final punctuation to an exhausting session.

His curiosity tangled with a flicker of frustration and something deeper, a need to understand. Slowly, he packed his things from the sparse office, his movements methodical but weighed down by the weight of the day.

The sun was still high in the afternoon sky when he stepped outside the penitentiary’s walls, heading toward the large house where the staff and guards lived. The walk was short, but the exhaustion settled into his bones like a heavy cloak.

Once inside his room, Yoo Joonghyuk sank onto the edge of his bed, eyes immediately returning to the thick file on Kim Dokja that he’d already read more times than he could count today.

Kim Dokja didn’t remember killing his own family.

That simple fact gnawed at him. Yoo Joonghyuk had seen the case on the news before arriving at the penitentiary. Bloodied, cold, and brutal. The evidence was clear. Yet, here was Kim Dokja, denying it outright, with a mind that refused to unlock the memories.

What was wrong with Kim Dokja?

He rubbed his temple, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly. It was more than just a clinical puzzle now; it was personal. Somehow, beneath the layers of denial and rage, there was something else, something that Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t quite reach yet.

He needed answers.

But more than that, he needed to find a way to get Kim Dokja to trust him.

Because without that, none of this would matter.

The next day

“This is our second session at #### Penitentiary.”

Yoo Joonghyuk used every ounce of control to keep his voice steady, masking the faint tremor that threatened to slip through. Kim Dokja was with him again, following the same rigid routine for showers as before.

But something was different this time.

The man’s posture was heavier, his gaze unfocused. Dark smudges sat stubbornly beneath his eyes, and there was a dullness in his movements, as though each step was pulled from him rather than taken willingly. He looked more distraught, worn thin, as if some unseen weight had pressed on him all night and refused to let him rest.

Yoo Joonghyuk studied him quietly, his own expression neutral. A good psychiatrist knew when to speak and when to observe, and right now, the truth was in the silence between them. Kim Dokja’s shoulders seemed tighter. His jaw, clenched. His fingers, restless against the cuffs that now had to stay on during sessions.

Something had shifted since yesterday.

Whether it was because of their last session or something else entirely, Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t tell yet, but he intended to find out.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” Kim Dokja’s voice came out ragged, almost desperate, his fingers yanking at the hair at the back of his head as if the motion could anchor him.

Yoo Joonghyuk watched him in silence, unmoving from his seat. The man in front of him curled in on himself, folding into the corner of the sofa like someone trying to disappear entirely. Knees drawn tightly to his chest, forehead pressed against them, his breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts.

“I told you,” Kim Dokja muttered, the words muffled against his knees, “I didn’t kill them.”

The denial hung in the air, heavy and unsteady. Yoo Joonghyuk felt the instinct to challenge it, to pick apart the statement until there was nothing left, but something about the fragile way it was spoken made him hesitate. His eyes flicked briefly to the recorder on the table, the red light still blinking steadily, before returning to the trembling figure before him.

This wasn’t the look of a man plotting a lie. This was the look of someone cornered by his own reality, or by the lack of it. And Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t yet tell which was more dangerous.

Yoo Joonghyuk leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his gaze locked onto Kim Dokja’s hunched form.

“Then tell me what happened,” he said, his tone low but edged with steel. “From the start. No pauses. No evasions. Every detail.”

Kim Dokja didn’t lift his head.

“If you didn’t kill them, then someone else did,” Yoo Joonghyuk continued, his voice tightening, “and you were there. Covered in their blood. Do you have any idea what that looks like to the world? To me?”

Silence. Just the faint sound of Kim Dokja’s uneven breathing.

“Because right now,” Yoo Joonghyuk pressed, leaning even closer, “you’re asking me to believe you over everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve read, and everything I’ve been told. That’s a tall order, Kim Dokja.”

He waited. No answer. Just the slow, trembling movement of Kim Dokja’s shoulders.

“Look at me,” Yoo Joonghyuk ordered quietly.

Kim Dokja lifted his head at last, eyes bloodshot, a raw, unfiltered emotion flickering there. Fear, defiance, grief, Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t tell.

“I didn’t kill them,” Kim Dokja repeated, voice breaking.

For the first time, Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t sure if the sound in his own chest was skepticism, or doubt.

Yoo Joonghyuk studied him carefully, noting the subtle tells. How Kim Dokja’s eyes darted to empty spaces in the room as if searching for fragments, how his hands trembled slightly when he tried to form answers. Nothing about this was deliberate.

“Alright,” Yoo Joonghyuk said slowly, leaning back but keeping his gaze fixed. “If you don’t remember, then you don’t. I’m not going to accuse you of lying.”

Kim Dokja blinked, a flicker of relief passing over his face, though it was quickly swallowed by confusion.

“Then tell me what you do remember,” Yoo Joonghyuk prompted, voice calm but insistent. “Anything. Start wherever you can.”

Kim Dokja hesitated, struggling to piece together the fragments. “I… I don’t know. I remember waking up sometimes, seeing things… but nothing makes sense. There’s… a house. A hallway. My hands… I can’t…” His words trailed off, caught in the fog of memory.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t interrupt. He simply watched, noting every micro-expression, every hesitation. The gaps weren’t convenient, they were real. The terror and confusion in Kim Dokja’s eyes confirmed it.

“You’re not hiding anything from me,” Yoo Joonghyuk said quietly, almost to himself. “You just… can’t reach it yet.”

Kim Dokja’s shoulders slumped slightly, the tension easing just a fraction. For the first time, Yoo Joonghyuk realised the challenge wasn’t breaking through deceit, it was helping him find pieces of a past that had been violently erased from his mind.

Yoo Joonghyuk leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, keeping his tone steady, deliberate.

“Focus on one thing at a time,” he said. “Don’t try to remember everything at once. Just pick a single image, a single sensation. Describe it to me. Even if it seems meaningless.”

Kim Dokja’s brows furrowed, the furthest his eyes had moved from the floor since the session began. “A… a hallway,” he whispered. “Beige walls… peeling. Cold floor under my feet. I don’t know why, but I feel… something.”

“Good,” Yoo Joonghyuk encouraged quietly. “Focus on that feeling. Don’t judge it. Don’t push it away. Let it be.”

Kim Dokja shivered and pressed his hands to his knees. “It’s… heavy. Like it’s pressing down on me. I… I can’t see the end of it.”

“Then don’t,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, calm but insistent. “Just stay here, with the feeling. Observe it. Tell me everything your senses catch, the sounds, the smells, the textures.”

Kim Dokja hesitated, then began speaking in a low, fractured voice, naming each detail as it came. The exercise was slow, exhausting, but Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t interrupt. He simply guided, kept the rhythm steady, marking the cracks and gaps without judgment.

For the first time, Yoo Joonghyuk saw a glimmer of possibility in Kim Dokja’s eyes, a fragile bridge forming between the present and a past he could barely recall.

“This is the start,” Yoo Joonghyuk said softly, leaning back but never letting his gaze waver. 

“One piece at a time, Kim Dokja. We’ll find the rest together.”

And for the first time, Kim Dokja didn’t flinch at the promise.

Later that day

Yoo Joonghyuk sat at his desk in the small, dimly lit room assigned to him in the guards’ quarters, a fresh notebook open in front of him. The pen in his hand scratched steadily across the page, each word deliberate, his handwriting sharp and controlled.

From the fragments Kim Dokja had given him, from the way his confusion didn’t seem rehearsed, Yoo Joonghyuk had begun to form a working theory: Dissociative amnesia. A rare but documented disorder, where a person loses access to personal memories far beyond normal forgetfulness, with no physical injury or neurological cause to explain it. Often triggered by trauma so severe the mind walls it off to protect itself.

He wrote the definition down, underlining the phrase traumatic or stressful experience.

In his mind, images flickered. Kim Dokja curled in on himself on the sofa, voice trembling as he insisted he didn’t kill anyone. The way his eyes had darted, searching for an anchor he couldn’t find. It didn’t feel like an act. Not entirely.

Still, Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t ignore the other possibility, that Kim Dokja was playing him, the way manipulators sometimes played juries, guards, and doctors. But the gaps in his memory… the way they seemed to cause him genuine distress… They were difficult to fake.

He tapped the pen against the page, staring at the name Kim Dokja written at the top.

If his theory was correct, restoring those memories would be a slow, methodical process, and there was no guarantee that what came back wouldn’t destroy him all over again.

Yoo Joonghyuk set the pen down for a moment, leaning back in his chair. The theory was sound, but theory alone wouldn’t break through Kim Dokja’s walls. He needed a strategy, something that would keep the man engaged without pushing him into another volatile spiral.

Pushing too hard risked shutting him down entirely.

Going too soft would waste time they didn’t have.

He picked the pen back up and drew a line down the page, dividing it into two columns: 

Triggers and Anchors.

Triggers: Details, images, or sensations that could pull fragments of memory to the surface. The beige hallway. The smell of iron. The cold floor.

Anchors: Familiar, stabilising elements to keep Kim Dokja from breaking apart when those fragments surfaced. Grounding questions. Sensory focus exercises. His own voice, steady and controlled, as a tether.

The goal wasn’t to make Kim Dokja remember all at once, that would be reckless. It was to guide him through the fog without letting him fall into it completely.

He closed the notebook, tapping it once with his fingertips. Tomorrow’s session would begin with the hallway again, but this time, he would push a little further down that corridor in Kim Dokja’s mind. Not enough to reach the room at the end, but enough to make the door visible.

Yoo Joonghyuk exhaled slowly, already feeling the weight of tomorrow pressing in.

Chapter Text

Kim Dokja

Wake up.

Food.

Shower.

Psychiatrist.

The loop went on and on for Kim Dokja inside the penitentiary, unbroken, suffocating, eternal. Every day felt like the same page of a book he couldn’t stop reading.

“Cuffs off for today.”

The low voice of Yoo Joonghyuk cut through his fog of repetition, dragging him back into the present. Kim Dokja blinked, lifting his head from where he’d been staring at the floor. The guard, someone new again, froze mid-step, glancing at Yoo Joonghyuk with hesitation.

“But sir… it’s not recommended to have Kim Dokja uncuffed after… you know, your first session?” The guard’s tone was cautious, as though reminding him of an unspoken warning.

“Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied evenly, “but that was two days ago. This is our third session. I’m sure it should be fine.”

Kim Dokja’s eyebrows twitched at that. He hadn’t expected him to say that, especially not so casually.

The guard looked between them one more time before stepping closer. The key scraped faintly inside the lock, and then, click . The cuffs loosened around his wrists, falling away with a dull clink against the table. The sudden absence of their weight made his hands feel strangely light.

He rubbed at the tender skin, faint red marks wrapping his wrists like ghostly bracelets.

The guard lingered in the doorway for a beat too long, eyes fixed on him, before finally walking out. The heavy metal door shut with a loud thud , locking them in.

“Sit.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice carried that clipped authority that didn’t leave much room for discussion. Kim Dokja dropped onto the familiar soft couch opposite the armchair where Yoo Joonghyuk usually perched like a hawk.

Only… he didn’t sit.

Instead, Yoo Joonghyuk crossed the room to his desk, rifling through something.

“Looking through my files again?” Kim Dokja drawled, leaning back against the cushions, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re not a very good stalker.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t rise to the bait. Without a word, he pulled a small plastic bag from his desk drawer and brought it to the table between them.

Kim Dokja raised a brow. “What, you bring me homework?”

“I brought food,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, his tone flat, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. He pulled out a container, peeled off the lid, and steam curled into the air, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of chives, garlic, and seasoned pork.

Murim dumplings.

Kim Dokja blinked, thrown off balance for a second.

“Your favourite,” Yoo Joonghyuk added, glancing up at him with the faintest tilt of his head. “I would know… since I looked through your files.”

Kim Dokja stared at him, trying to decide if that was a joke or some strange form of provocation. The way Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression didn’t shift made it impossible to tell.

“Is this a test?” he asked cautiously.

“No test. Just food. There’s chicken broth, too.” Yoo Joonghyuk placed another container on the table, the rich, savoury smell filling the room.

Well, damn.

Kim Dokja hadn’t realised how long it had been since the smell of freshly cooked food had reached him without the staleness of the prison cafeteria clinging to it. His stomach betrayed him with a faint twist.

“Help yourself,” Yoo Joonghyuk said simply, leaning back in his chair as if studying him.

Kim Dokja’s fingers hovered over the container lid. This was… strange. Not unpleasant, just strange. In a place where every interaction was calculated, guarded, and often hostile, this felt almost disarmingly normal.

Kim Dokja hesitated only a moment longer before picking up the chopsticks tucked beside the container. The dumplings were still warm, steam ghosting into the air as he lifted one. He bit in cautiously.

The flavour hit him all at once, garlic and pork, soft dough giving way to the juicy filling. His jaw almost locked from how much he wanted to wolf the rest down immediately. He forced himself to chew slowly, aware of the way Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes were on him the entire time.

“…They’re good,” Kim Dokja muttered, trying for nonchalance but failing when his voice came out quieter than intended.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond, just leaned back further in his armchair, arms folded, his gaze unwavering. He looked less like a psychiatrist sharing a meal and more like a soldier on watch.

Kim Dokja ate another dumpling, then reached for the broth. The container was still hot, and he nearly hissed as the warmth spread through his hands. The rich smell filled his nose, making the dull ache in his stomach worse.

“Why?” he asked finally, staring into the soup rather than at Yoo Joonghyuk. “Why bring this?”

There was a pause, long enough for Kim Dokja to glance up. Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression was unreadable, his mouth a hard line.

“To remind you you’re human,” Yoo Joonghyuk said at last. “Not just a prisoner.”

The words caught Kim Dokja off guard. He opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again. There wasn’t much he could say without admitting how much the food meant to him. His throat felt tighter than it should have, and the broth sloshed slightly as he lifted the container to sip.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes flickered once to the movement, then back to Kim Dokja’s face. He didn’t say anything else.

The silence between them stretched, quiet, but not empty. Weighted. Kim Dokja could feel it pressing against his shoulders, settling in his chest with every swallow of broth.

The silence pressed down until Kim Dokja thought it might choke him. He set the broth aside, hands folded loosely in his lap, trying to look unaffected. His knee bounced once, betraying him.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened. He leaned in further, the weight of his presence filling the space between them until Kim Dokja felt cornered despite the open room.

“You keep saying you didn’t kill them.” Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice was quiet, deliberate, each word landing like a stone. “So tell me, who did?”

Kim Dokja froze.

The air shifted. His pulse leapt, thudding uncomfortably against his throat. He opened his mouth, closed it, forced a shaky laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted at last. His fingers dug into the couch cushion as though it might anchor him. “That’s the problem. I don’t know anything.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t back away. He watched the tremor ripple through Kim Dokja’s hands, the way his shoulders curled inwards, like a man trying to make himself smaller under the weight of his own missing memories.

“Look at me,” Yoo Joonghyuk demanded.

Kim Dokja hesitated, but the command was firm enough that his head lifted, eyes locking with Yoo Joonghyuk’s. For a moment, the world narrowed to nothing but the intensity in that stare. Unrelenting, burning, demanding answers Kim Dokja didn’t have.

“I can’t give you what you’re asking,” Kim Dokja whispered, voice breaking. “But I swear it wasn’t me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty this time. It was thick, charged, and almost suffocating.

Yoo Joonghyuk finally leaned back, but his gaze never softened. “Then prove it.”

“How?”

“You tell me,” Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice was calm, but it carried an unyielding edge, like a silent challenge.

“This is fucking useless,” Kim Dokja snapped, frustration cracking through his usually measured tone. His fists clenched in his lap, nails digging into his palms. His chest heaved as he tried to control the panic rising inside him.

“Tell me,” Yoo Joonghyuk repeated, voice unwavering, eyes locked on Kim Dokja, waiting.

“The voices!” Kim Dokja yelled, leaning forward, trembling slightly. His hands clawed at the couch as if grasping for some invisible thread to pull the memory into focus. The word left him hollow, barely capturing the sense of chaos gnawing at him.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, to sink into the fragments that floated just out of reach. “I remember… voices,” he said slowly, each word dragged from the depths of his mind. “Someone… talking to me. I could feel it. I could feel their presence. Close.”

Kim Dokja shivered at the memory, even though he wasn’t sure whether it was real or imagined. His fingers flexed nervously against the couch cushion. The image teased the edge of his mind: shadows shifting, murmurs twisting around him, warmth and fear colliding in his chest.

“I… I can’t see their faces,” he whispered, voice breaking. “But I know they were there. I felt them. Watching me… speaking to me… calling my name, maybe.”

The words hung heavy in the room. Kim Dokja’s chest tightened, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. The memory was a half-formed phantom, but the panic it carried was all too real.

“Were you in the house with the beige walls?” Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice was low, steady, like a tether thrown across the void of Kim Dokja’s memory.

Kim Dokja hesitated, brow furrowing. The words stirred something deep, something faintly familiar. “…Yes,” he said slowly, each syllable careful, cautious. “They were in my house…”

A shiver ran down his spine, the memory pulling at him like a thread he wasn’t sure he wanted to follow. He pressed his palms against his knees, as though holding himself together against the weight of what was rising.

“They… they were talking,” he whispered, voice small, almost lost. “I couldn’t see them clearly… but I could feel them. Moving around. Watching me. Telling me… things I don’t remember. I… I don’t know what they said.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t interrupt. He just leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed but patient. There was no judgment in it, no pressure, only a silent insistence for Kim Dokja to keep going, to stay with the memory instead of running from it.

Kim Dokja’s fingers dug into the couch fabric. The fear bubbled up in his chest, raw and unfiltered, but so did a strange, fragile clarity. He could feel the shape of the room, the beige walls pressing close, the cold floor under his feet, the voices drifting around him like smoke he could almost touch.

“I… I think they were angry,” he murmured, voice trembling. “And… scared, maybe. Or maybe that was me. I don’t know.”

The panic hovered at the edges of his mind, but Yoo Joonghyuk’s quiet presence kept it from swallowing him entirely. He realized, with a strange mixture of relief and terror, that he could hold onto this memory, even in fragments, without completely losing himself.

“The voices were telling me to…” Kim Dokja’s throat tightened, the words clawing out of him like they’d been buried too long.

If it was possible for Yoo Joonghyuk to lean in closer than he already was, he would have. His gaze was sharp, unblinking, a predator’s patience wrapped in the guise of a doctor. This unraveling, this raw edge of truth, was what Yoo Joonghyuk lived for. The mystery of a human mind laid bare.

Kim Dokja’s lips trembled as he forced the rest out. “The voices were telling me to… hold the… knife.”

The word scraped out of him like broken glass. His body locked, his fists shaking against his knees. Images rushed in too fast to stop. Beige walls, a table overturned, metal slick with red. His ears roared with phantom echoes, his heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out.

He folded in on himself, curling smaller, clawing at his sleeves. The air was too thin, the walls too tight, and the couch sank under his weight as though it would swallow him whole.

“Stop—stop—” he gasped, his voice cracking. “Not again, I can’t—”

And then, warmth. A hand. Firm, steady. Fingers brushed against his cheek before cupping it, holding him in place as if to stop him from falling away entirely.

“Kim Dokja.”

The name was spoken with a kind of gravity Kim Dokja wasn’t used to hearing from Yoo Joonghyuk. Not a command, not a clinical demand, something quieter. Something that anchored.

“Look at me.”

Kim Dokja blinked, the world stuttering back into fragments of light and sound. When his gaze finally steadied, he found Yoo Joonghyuk crouched right in front of him, close enough that his presence was impossible to ignore. The psychiatrist’s dark eyes didn’t waver, didn’t judge.

The thumb resting against Kim Dokja’s cheekbone traced the smallest, grounding press. 

“Breathe. You’re not there. You’re here. With me.”

The panic thinned, like smoke slipping through his fingers. His breaths still trembled, but they began to come slower, steadier, tethered by that touch and that voice.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand lingered as though he knew Kim Dokja needed it.

Later that day - Yoo Joonghyuk

The penitentiary was quiet, almost too quiet. Yoo Joonghyuk moved along the west wing hallways with the precision of a shadow, careful not to alert any guard still making rounds. The echoes of his boots were swallowed by the hum of fluorescent lights, leaving only the faint scent of disinfectant and cold metal.

Kim Dokja’s cell loomed ahead. He didn’t knock. He didn’t need to. He’d seen the way the man’s routine ran on loops, predictable in its rigidity. Tonight was different, though. After the session… After what had happened, Yoo Joonghyuk knew Dokja wouldn’t sleep well.

He crouched low by the slot at the bottom of the door, rolling a bottle of water forward. Then he leaned against the door. Kim Dokja wouldn’t be able to see him, but none of that mattered.

“…Yoo Joonghyuk?” The voice that came back was quiet, dry, strained. Tired.

“Yes. It’s me,” he replied softly, keeping his tone low so it wouldn’t carry through the hall.

“You’re not supposed to be here. You breaking rules now?” There was a soft chuckle in the words, though it sounded brittle, almost forced.

“I just thought I’d give you water. After today’s session,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, voice steady, careful. “Figured you could use it.”

Kim Dokja didn’t respond immediately. No sarcastic remark. No teasing. Just silence, thin, fragile, and heavy. Yoo Joonghyuk felt the tension in that silence like a physical weight pressing through the metal door.

“You… you didn’t have to,” Dokja said finally, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “I mean… nobody else would.”

“I know,” Yoo Joonghyuk said. “But I wanted to. That’s enough.”

Another pause. Then a soft shuffle, the sound of fingers brushing against the bottle as Dokja lifted it. “Thanks,” he murmured. The word was so small it almost disappeared in the hum of the hallway.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t move. He didn’t speak again, didn’t push. He just stayed there, leaning against the door, letting Kim Dokja take the moment for himself, grounding him silently from the other side of the barrier.

“…You think… I’m gonna be okay?” Kim Dokja’s voice wavered, almost breaking.

“You will be,” Yoo Joonghyuk said firmly, though gently. “Step by step. One day at a time. Just tonight, drink your water. Breathe. That’s all you need to do right now.”

The faint clink of the bottle being set down echoed softly. Yoo Joonghyuk waited, just long enough to hear Dokja settle back against the padded wall, breathing evening breaths slower, steadier.

Then, almost silently, Yoo Joonghyuk straightened, leaving the hallway empty but leaving a quiet reassurance lingering, a presence unseen but unmistakable.

The next day

Yoo Joonghyuk leaned back slightly in his chair, watching Kim Dokja devour the murim dumplings he had brought him again. The way he ate, fast, precise, almost desperate, made Yoo Joonghyuk’s lips twitch into a faint, amused smile.

“Is this going to be a daily thing?” Kim Dokja mumbled, a half-chewed dumpling caught mid-sentence.

“Y’know, buying me food just so you can watch me eat it?” he added, the words muffled but teasing.

Yoo Joonghyuk chuckled softly, letting a small smile slip through despite himself. “It can be, if you want,” he said, voice quiet but warm, watching the way Dokja’s eyes lit up at the idea.

Kim Dokja paused, dumpling halfway to his mouth, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “You’d really do that… just for me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Yoo Joonghyuk replied smoothly, tilting his head slightly, letting the statement hang between them. He observed the subtle tension in Dokja’s posture, the shoulders relaxing slightly, the fists unclenching, the faint exhale that wasn’t there a moment ago.

The room was quiet except for the occasional clink of chopsticks on the container. Yoo Joonghyuk took in the scene: Kim Dokja eating carefully, yet hungrily, while the younger man’s eyes occasionally flicked up, searching his expression, as if trying to gauge whether the offer was genuine.

“Don’t get used to it,” Yoo Joonghyuk added after a pause, voice calm, almost teasing, letting the light tension linger. “I might make you earn it tomorrow.”

Kim Dokja’s lips twitched into a small grin, almost shy, almost incredulous. “Earn it, huh? Guess I’ll try my best.”

Yoo Joonghyuk allowed himself another quiet smile, the kind that didn’t reach all the way to his eyes but softened the edge of his usual composure. Watching Kim Dokja like this, hungry, human, vulnerable, was… strangely satisfying.

Not that he’d admit it aloud.

Kim Dokja set down the last dumpling, wiping his hands on a napkin. He leaned back slightly, still catching his breath from eating too fast, eyes flicking toward Yoo Joonghyuk.

“You know,” Yoo Joonghyuk began, voice even but carrying the tiniest hint of teasing, “you eat like someone’s going to take it away at any second.”

Kim Dokja blinked, caught off guard, then shrugged. “It’s my favorite,” he mumbled, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. “What do you want me to do, savor it like it’s some fancy tea ceremony?”

“Maybe,” Yoo Joonghyuk said smoothly, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Or maybe just slow down so I can enjoy watching you eat without worrying you’ll choke.”

Kim Dokja groaned, leaning forward to pick up the empty container. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Maybe,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, his expression neutral, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly. “Or maybe I’m just observant.”

The younger man paused, looking at Yoo Joonghyuk, and for a moment the usual walls of sarcasm and distance fell away. “Observant, huh? That’s… one way to put it.”

Yoo Joonghyuk let the silence linger, letting Kim Dokja process the words. He watched as the other man’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension in his hands easing as he put the container aside.

“Tomorrow, I’ll bring something else,” Yoo Joonghyuk said quietly, almost matter-of-factly. “Something you like.”

Kim Dokja’s eyes widened for a brief second, then softened. “You really don’t have to… but… thanks.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond, just inclined his head once, a subtle acknowledgment. He let the small, unspoken bond settle between them, knowing words weren’t necessary for now.

“We can focus on something else for today,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, placing his phone on the table between them. The soft red recording light blinked steadily. He didn’t need to explain, Kim Dokja knew it was recording.

“Do you remember anything from your childhood? Maybe even your teenage years?” he asked, voice calm, measured.

Kim Dokja fidgeted slightly. “I was a good kid, I think. Always doing well in school… had heaps of friends,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Then his expression faltered. “But it was always about my parent’s reputation.”

The words made Yoo Joonghyuk pause. “Your parent’s reputation?” he asked, careful not to let the surprise show.

“Mhm,” Kim Dokja said, shrugging. “They wanted everyone to think we were the perfect family. Flawless. That kind of thing.” His hands tightened slightly in his lap.

Yoo Joonghyuk hesitated, weighing his next question. “Did they…” His voice softened. “Did they ever… hurt you?”

“No, no. At least not that I remember,” Kim Dokja replied quickly, shaking his head. Then he paused, eyes distant. “It’s weird. There are things I remember so clearly, but then… there are things I just don’t. I don’t even remember graduating high school. And that’s supposed to be a big deal. A significant life event. But it’s… gone.”

Yoo Joonghyuk studied the way Dokja’s fingers traced invisible patterns across his knees. The gaps weren’t just lapses, they were chasms. The kind that could hide trauma, or something more profound. His mind worked quickly, noting the subtle tremor in Dokja’s voice, the way his shoulders tensed whenever he mentioned family.

“You said it’s ‘weird,’” Yoo Joonghyuk said gently, letting his words hang in the quiet room. 

“Do you feel… confused? Or… lost?”

Kim Dokja swallowed, eyes flicking to the floor. “Both, I guess. Sometimes I feel like I’m… someone else. Like I should remember things that I don’t. And it’s not just school. There are people, events… even feelings I can’t grasp anymore.”

Yoo Joonghyuk remained silent for a moment, letting the words settle. His fingers tapped lightly against the arm of his chair, a steady rhythm that seemed to anchor the space. Then, quietly, he said, “That’s okay. That’s why we’re talking. Step by step. Even fragments help. Even if it feels… impossible.”

Kim Dokja exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease a fraction. Yoo Joonghyuk watched him carefully, noting the small signs, the unclenching of his fists, the slight relaxation of his shoulders, as he allowed himself to speak.

It wasn’t much yet. But it was a start.

Chapter Text

Yoo Joonghyuk

It was unusually sunny outside the penitentiary that morning, the kind of weather Yoo Joonghyuk rarely noticed, but today it stuck with him. Maybe because he had risen early, driving into town before work to pick up another container of Murim dumplings. Now, the warm food rested in his office drawer, waiting for Kim Dokja’s arrival.

He told himself it was practical. A way to make the sessions less like punishment and more like something to anticipate. If Kim Dokja associated their meetings with food instead of interrogation, then maybe, just maybe, he’d open up more willingly.

The day began with the same routine, guards escorting Kim Dokja through the narrow corridors, the shower block with its peeling tiles, the heavy cuffs clinking faintly with each step. Yoo Joonghyuk walked a pace behind, silent as always, watchful.

But when they left the showers and began the trek to his office, Yoo Joonghyuk frowned. The guard at the front, a woman he didn’t recognise, turned left instead of right. A small but deliberate detour.

“Where are we going?” Kim Dokja asked suddenly, his voice sharp, tugging slightly at his cuffs. His suspicion was immediate, and Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t miss the tension in his shoulders.

The guard didn’t even glance back. “We’re helping you,” she said flatly, her tone utterly devoid of expression.

Something about the answer unsettled Yoo Joonghyuk. His eyes narrowed as he studied the back of the guard’s head, his instincts prickling. This wasn’t part of his plan. This wasn’t routine. And in a place like this, any deviation from routine meant trouble.

The guard’s pace quickened when Kim Dokja began to resist, his cuffs rattling against the chains. Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze hardened, tracking every movement. Kim Dokja’s breathing grew uneven, a sign that panic was already beginning to set in.

They stopped at a door Yoo Joonghyuk had never been taken to before. His stomach tightened. This wasn’t procedure.

The moment they stepped inside, Yoo Joonghyuk was forced away from Kim Dokja. A partition slid closed, cutting him off. Kim Dokja struggled harder now, twisting against the guard’s grip, eyes darting to Yoo Joonghyuk. For one instant, their gazes locked.

Yoo Joonghyuk steadied his breath, forcing calm into his expression. He mouthed a single word through the closing gap. Breathe.

Kim Dokja froze, chest heaving, but he stilled, just enough.

“Hello,” a voice cut in behind him.

Yoo Joonghyuk turned sharply, his eyes narrowing.

“You must be Yoo Joonghyuk.” A woman in a pristine white lab coat stood before him, long blonde hair draped over one shoulder. She extended her hand with an easy smile. “Anna Croft. A pleasure to meet you.”

He didn’t take her hand. Instead, his gaze swept the room, cataloguing every detail. A lab—sterile and humming with machinery. White walls, overly bright lights, and at the far side, a massive one-way window. Beyond it, the adjacent chamber revealed itself: bare walls, clinical floors, and a single metal chair bolted to the center.

The sight made his stomach knot.

“It’s one-sided,” Anna said smoothly from behind him, as though reading his thoughts. “From Kim Dokja’s side, it’s just a mirror.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t answer. He kept his hands loose at his sides, but his jaw tightened. He had spent enough time in this penitentiary to know what these setups meant. Observation. Experimentation. Control.

And Kim Dokja had just been led straight into the middle of it.

“You’re probably wondering why we brought you here.” Anna Croft’s voice was cool, measured, as though she were introducing a lecture rather than overseeing what unfolded before them.

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on the figure through the glass, Kim Dokja, thrashing weakly as leather restraints were buckled around his wrists and ankles. The guards worked with efficient detachment, forcing him down into the chair as though he were no more than an object to be fixed in place.

Anna’s voice carried on behind him, unbothered. “We’re conducting electroconvulsive therapy. As you know, Kim Dokja is mentally ill. We figured we’d try it out. See if it helps.”

The words slid into Yoo Joonghyuk’s ears like shards of ice. Electroconvulsive therapy.  

Shock. They were going to run electricity through him. He could almost hear the faint hum of the machinery from the other room, sterile and merciless.

“He doesn’t need this,” Yoo Joonghyuk muttered, barely aware the words had left his mouth. His gaze refused to leave Kim Dokja, who was still fighting against the straps, his chest heaving, panic written into every twitch of muscle.

Anna clicked her tongue, unimpressed. “He might. And if things go worse, we’ve got nothing to lose. He’s got no family left, and he’s in jail.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Nothing to lose. The casual cruelty in her tone grated against him, every syllable gnawing at his patience. Did she really see Kim Dokja as expendable? As just another test subject?

On the other side of the glass, the last strap was tightened across Kim Dokja’s chest. His head turned sharply, as if searching for something, or someone, to anchor him. Yoo Joonghyuk pressed closer to the glass before he realised he was moving, his reflection overlapping with Kim Dokja’s distorted figure.

His pulse pounded against his ribs. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He had studied cases, he had read about procedures, but watching it forced on someone, on him , ignited something raw and protective in his chest.

“Doctor Yoo,” Anna said lightly, folding her arms. “Try not to get sentimental. You’re here as an observer. Nothing more.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t answer. His throat felt tight, words caught somewhere between fury and restraint. He stayed silent, but in his silence was a promise: if Kim Dokja’s life was treated as disposable, then Yoo Joonghyuk would not stand by quietly.

The doctors forced Kim Dokja’s head still, their gloved hands pressing firmly against his temples. His eyes darted frantically left to right, wild, searching, like an animal trapped in a cage. Every instinct screamed to run, but the restraints left him no escape.

Wires were pressed to his scalp, the cold metal against skin making him flinch. A flat, sterile beep echoed through the adjoining room, and then a screen flickered to life behind Yoo Joonghyuk. Thin lines of brain activity scrawled across it in bright, meaningless waves.

Anna Croft gestured toward the display, her voice carrying that same clinical detachment. 

“We can monitor his brain activity while we do the shocks. Cool, right?”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look. His jaw tightened, eyes locked instead on Kim Dokja’s trembling hands where the restraints cut into his skin. There was nothing cool about this. It was cruelty dressed up in science.

He heard Anna sigh, irritated by his silence, before she lifted a radio to her lips. “Commence the shocks.”

The words were casual, like ordering coffee.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest constricted. A surge of anger rose, nearly overwhelming his restraint. His nails dug into his palms as he took half a step closer to the glass, his reflection trembling against the sterile light.

Inside the chair, Kim Dokja jerked his head slightly, as though he could feel Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence through the mirror. His eyes flicked in the direction of the glass, locking briefly with Yoo Joonghyuk’s shadow.

For a moment, it felt as though the entire room stilled. Yoo Joonghyuk raised a hand against the glass, fingers splayed, an instinctive motion, as if to tell him: I’m here. Breathe. Hold on.

Then the switch clicked.

The hum of electricity filled the air, sharp and mechanical. Kim Dokja’s body arched violently against the straps, a muffled cry strangled in his throat as the current ripped through him.

Yoo Joonghyuk flinched despite himself, his throat burning. Every part of him screamed to storm into that room, to tear the wires off with his own hands. But his feet stayed rooted, powerless, forced to watch as the lines on the monitor spiked and Kim Dokja convulsed under the cold grip of science.

The shocks didn’t come in short bursts, they were continuous, merciless. Kim Dokja’s body convulsed again and again, jerking against the restraints until his wrists reddened beneath the cuffs. His throat was raw from the strangled cries that managed to slip past clenched teeth, filling the sterile room with a sound Yoo Joonghyuk knew he would never forget.

Anna Croft didn’t even flinch. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen behind her, pen scratching calmly across her clipboard as she noted the spikes of brain activity with each surge. To her, it wasn’t a person strapped into that chair. It was data.

“That’s enough.” The words left Yoo Joonghyuk low, sharp, spoken against the glass as if Kim Dokja could hear him through it. But his gaze was fixed on Anna. “Tell them to stop. He’s had enough.”

Without looking at him, she replied smoothly, “We only just started.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s teeth ground together. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Make them stop.”

That, finally, made her turn. She raised an elegant brow, her expression cool, almost amused. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”

The silence that followed cut through him like a blade. On the other side of the glass, Kim Dokja screamed, ragged, piercing, guttural. The kind of scream that tore itself out of a man’s body when pain became unbearable. Yoo Joonghyuk’s stomach twisted, his chest tightening like a vice.

His voice dropped lower, heavy with restrained fury. “This isn’t treatment. It’s torture.”

Anna’s lips curved into something faint, not quite a smile. “Sometimes pain is necessary to heal.”

Another wave of electricity surged, making Kim Dokja convulse violently, his head lolling to the side with a sound that scraped at every nerve in Yoo Joonghyuk’s body. His fingernails bit into his palms until his skin burned, but still he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Minutes passed, the screams fading into ragged gasps until silence pressed heavy against the glass. Yoo Joonghyuk realised then that the only sound in the room was his own shallow breathing. He turned, Anna Croft’s pen had stilled against her clipboard. For the first time, her expression faltered as she stared at the jagged lines flashing across the monitor.

“He’s seizing,” she said, calm as if announcing the weather. She lifted her radio. “Stop the shocks. We’ll start again tomorrow once he’s rested.”

Seizing?

The word thundered in Yoo Joonghyuk’s mind. His body moved before thought caught up. He tore out of the observation room, pushing past startled guards until he burst into the chamber itself.

“Sir, it’s not recommended to be in here while the patient is unstable,” one of the guards barked, trying to intercept him.

“Then let me help!” Yoo Joonghyuk snapped, voice cracking with urgency.

“We can’t do that.” The guard’s grip tightened on his arm, warning clear in his eyes.

For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk nearly fought his way through. His fists clenched, ready to break past them, but reason, or fear of making things worse, chained him still. Grinding his teeth, he forced himself to stop, to watch from where they held him back.

Kim Dokja lay slumped in the chair, twitching violently as the doctors swarmed around him. His head lolled forward, eyes squeezed shut, his chest stuttering with each uneven breath. For a horrifying second, Yoo Joonghyuk thought the man had stopped breathing altogether.

His heart hammered in his throat. Was that blood? A thin line glistening at the corner of Dokja’s mouth caught the fluorescent lights.

The doctors barked orders at each other, shining lights into his eyes, adjusting straps, injecting something into his veins. Slowly, agonisingly, Kim Dokja stirred, like a man dragged back from the depths of a nightmare. His eyelids fluttered open, unfocused, glassy. The light the doctor flashed before him barely drew a flicker of response.

But Yoo Joonghyuk saw it, the faintest twitch, a shadow of awareness struggling to resurface. Relief tangled painfully with rage in his chest.

Kim Dokja was alive. Barely, but alive.

And Yoo Joonghyuk had never felt more powerless in his life.

The Murim dumplings and the chicken broth, meant to be a comfort, a ritual, sat untouched on the small table between them. Steam had long since faded, leaving the food cold and uninviting, a quiet reminder of how long Yoo Joonghyuk had waited.

Across from him, Kim Dokja was slouched on the couch, head tipped slightly forward, eyes glazed as if staring at something far away. He hadn’t spoken a word since the guards deposited him here, hadn’t even spared his psychiatrist a glance.

Yoo Joonghyuk leaned back in his chair, his own hands folded tightly in his lap to keep from reaching out. He had requested the full hour session today, hoping, perhaps foolishly, that time would coax some kind of response from the man. Instead, the silence between them thickened, weighted with everything left unsaid.

“Can you at least tell me you’re okay?” Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice was softer than he intended, careful not to prod too harshly. It barely carried across the short distance between them.

But Kim Dokja didn’t move. Not even a flicker of recognition crossed his face.

Yoo Joonghyuk let the quiet settle again, though it gnawed at him. Every instinct told him to push, to demand an answer, to drag the truth out of Kim Dokja before it ate him alive. But that wasn’t what his patient needed, not now. So he waited.

His eyes drifted to the food again. He had gone out of his way that morning, driving across town to the only place that still made the dumplings Dokja seemed to tolerate, buying the broth on a whim to ease the man’s appetite. And now it sat there, cooling, useless.

It was a small thing, but Yoo Joonghyuk hated the sight of it. It reminded him how little he could do.

Finally, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready. But at least… let me know you’re here.” His gaze fixed on Kim Dokja’s half-hidden face, searching for the smallest crack in the wall of silence.

Still nothing.

But Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

In the midst of the suffocating quiet, a sound broke through, small, fragile, but unmistakable. A sob.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes snapped toward Kim Dokja. The man’s shoulders trembled, his breath coming in uneven hitches as he pressed his palms hard over his ears, fingers straining white from the pressure.

“Dokja.” The name left Yoo Joonghyuk before he realised it. He moved quickly, circling the low table to crouch directly in front of the man. He reached for his wrists, firm but careful, prying the hands away from his ears.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay.” The words felt inadequate, but they were all he had.

Up close, he could see the sheen of tears on Kim Dokja’s lashes, the tight line of his mouth trembling as though he were holding back more than just sound. Yoo Joonghyuk leaned closer, voice lowering into something almost pleading. “Talk to me.”

But Kim Dokja only shook his head, his jaw clamped so tightly it looked painful. His lips pressed together until the skin turned pale.

Yoo Joonghyuk frowned. Something was wrong.

Acting on instinct, he tried to coax Kim Dokja’s jaw open, his hand steady despite the resistance. When he finally managed it, his chest tightened at what he saw.

A jagged cut ran along the side of Kim Dokja’s tongue, deep enough that blood pooled at the corners of his mouth.

Yoo Joonghyuk froze for only a second before the realisation struck. He had bitten it, likely during the seizure earlier today.

His stomach churned. He should have noticed sooner.

“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath, reaching instinctively for tissues on the desk before pressing them gently into Kim Dokja’s hand. His own fingers hovered, torn between the need to help and the fear of pushing too hard.

“Don’t hold it in like this,” Yoo Joonghyuk said quietly, his voice rougher than before. “You’re only hurting yourself more.”

Yoo Joonghyuk stayed crouched in front of him, letting the silence stretch just enough for Kim Dokja to breathe. He kept his hand near the small pool of blood in case it spilled, ready to guide the tissues if needed, but never forcing him.

Kim Dokja’s fingers trembled against the tissue in his hand, but he didn’t pull away. His breathing slowed in tiny, uneven increments, and Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence became a quiet anchor.

“Just breathe,” he continued, lowering his forehead to meet Kim Dokja’s gaze, even though it was hazy and wet with tears. “Focus on the sound of my voice. That’s it. One breath at a time.”

The man’s shoulders shook less now, though the sobs still came in faint bursts. Yoo Joonghyuk let him cry, letting the tension bleed from the rigid body before him. He stayed still, allowing Kim Dokja to cling to something steady, something human.

The cold dumplings and chicken broth sat forgotten on the table, but Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t push them yet. That could wait. Right now, the only priority was keeping Kim Dokja tethered to the present, to someone who wasn’t going to let him fall apart alone.

Slowly, imperceptibly, Kim Dokja leaned a little into Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand. It was a tiny gesture, barely more than a quiver of trust, but it was enough. Yoo Joonghyuk exhaled softly, pressing a quiet reminder: he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

Kim Dokja

“You can’t take me!” Kim Dokja thrashed, his voice hoarse as the guards forced his arms into the straitjacket. The rough fabric bit into his skin, already bruised from too many restraints before.

Their hands were everywhere, on his shoulders, his wrists, shoving his head down. He tried to twist away, but the more he resisted, the tighter they pulled, like a pack of wolves dragging down prey.

“Keep still!” one barked, spitting the words against his ear.

Then came the crackle, sharp, vicious, and the surge of electricity ripping through his body. The taser bit into his side, and Kim Dokja’s knees buckled beneath him. His teeth ground together to stifle a scream, but a strangled sound still forced its way out.

Every nerve in his body buzzed with pain, his vision fracturing at the edges. The guards didn’t care, didn’t even flinch. They manhandled his limp frame upright again, strapping the buckles tighter across his chest until it was hard to breathe.

“Move,” another ordered coldly, dragging him forward by the arms.

Kim Dokja stumbled with them, his legs trembling, his heart slamming so violently against his ribs he thought it might burst. He knew where they were taking him. That room again. The one with the chair. The one with the glass.

His throat burned with words he couldn’t hold back: “Not again… please…”

But the hallway swallowed his voice whole, and the guards didn’t slow.

His tongue still burned from the wound he’d bitten into yesterday, the metallic sting lingering every time he swallowed. His stomach ached, hollow from refusing food, he hadn’t been able to eat without pain.

Kim Dokja glanced back over his shoulder, heart lurching with a flicker of hope. He expected to see a familiar figure trailing behind, steady and watchful as always. But the hallway was empty.

“Where is he?” His voice was cracked, barely more than a whisper. “Where’s Yoo Joonghyuk?”

The guards gave no answer. Their grips on his arms were firm, unyielding, dragging him down the sterile corridor as though his words were meaningless.

He pulled against them, forcing more strength into his voice. “Where is he?!”

The silence that followed was louder than any answer could have been.

His panic spiked. The thought of entering that room without Yoo Joonghyuk nearby sent a cold shiver down his spine. The straps, the wires, the screaming, his body remembered too well. He thrashed harder, twisting against the guards’ hands, even though his muscles screamed in protest.

A sharp crackle split the air, and the taser struck his side again. Pain ripped through him, his body jerking violently as the shock surged along every nerve. His knees buckled, and he crumpled, teeth clenching against the scream bubbling in his throat.

The guards didn’t pause. They lifted his limp frame back up like he weighed nothing, their expressions blank.

Kim Dokja’s head hung forward, breath ragged, but his thoughts clung desperately to one thing: If Yoo Joonghyuk isn’t here… no one will stop them.

Yoo Joonghyuk

Today, Yoo Joonghyuk had been reassigned. His duty was to oversee the general prisoners, those outside the west wing.

The change of scenery did little to ease him. If anything, it only deepened his distaste. The west wing, though suffocating, was at least sterile and orderly. But the rest of the penitentiary was chaos wrapped in filth. The floors were sticky with grime, the walls stained with years of neglect, and the stench of unwashed bodies clung to every corner.

The prisoners here followed the same monotonous routine as those in Kim Dokja’s section, showers, a meager breakfast in the cafeteria, and then empty hours to themselves. 

There was no open air, no glimpse of the outside world. Just recycled air and the hum of fluorescent lights.

Still, Yoo Joonghyuk’s thoughts refused to stay in this wing. They circled back, again and again, to the man he hadn’t seen since last night. The memory lingered: Kim Dokja’s silence, his hunched posture, the tremor in his hands.

“If your tongue still hurts, gurgle this water. You’re going to have to swallow it.”

Yoo Joonghyuk had whispered those words while sliding the small bottle through the slot at the bottom of Kim Dokja’s door. He shouldn’t have been there. But concern outweighed protocol.

A pale hand had reached out in response, fingers trembling as it seized the bottle and dragged it into the darkness beyond the door. Yoo Joonghyuk had watched the movement with a tight chest, jaw clenched. It was such a small gesture, but it meant Kim Dokja was still hanging on.

The halls had been suffocatingly quiet that night. No guards patrolling this section, no voices, only silence, the kind that made every sound feel heavier.

“Do you know what déjà vu is?” Kim Dokja’s voice had cracked through the stillness, hoarse and unsteady. Even though the steel door separated them, Yoo Joonghyuk could picture his face: lips cracked, eyes dulled with exhaustion, mouth twisted in pain.

“I’m aware,” Yoo Joonghyuk answered simply.

There was a pause, the sound of a faint swallow on the other side. Then Dokja’s voice again, weaker this time: “Earlier today when they…”

The words faltered, cut short by something he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say. But Yoo Joonghyuk understood without needing the explanation.

“It triggered it. The shocks.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand hovered just above the door, fingers flexing.

“Dokja, I think it’s best to save this for tomorrow’s session.” It broke him to say this, but he had no choice.

“Right… I’ll tell you tomorrow then.”

“Hey, pretty boy!”

The voice was coarse, mocking. Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze shifted toward the corner of the cafeteria, where three prisoners sat at one of the rusted metal tables. Prisoners 017, 022, and 015, the same group that always caused noise when he passed through.

He didn’t want to indulge them, but their persistent stares made it clear they wouldn’t stop until he did. With deliberate slowness, he crossed the room and stood before them.

“You’re that psychiatrist, right?” 022 asked, grinning wide enough to show the gaps in his teeth.

“Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied flatly.

The three of them burst out laughing, slapping the table like it was the funniest thing they’d heard all week. The sound grated against his ears. He waited, unmoving, until their laughter finally sputtered out.

Then, 022 leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Would you know anyone by the name of Kim Dokja?”

Yoo Joonghyuk froze. His spine stiffened, but his face betrayed nothing. The casual mask he wore didn’t slip, though his hands tightened at his sides.

“Why do you ask?” His tone was calm, clipped, an attempt to redirect, to dissuade.

But 022 only smirked wider. “Because there’s no way he’s not in the west wing after the shit he pulled when he arrived here. Haven’t seen him since, though.”

Something sharp twisted in Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest. He forced himself to hold back, to keep his voice level. “…What happened?”

The men exchanged looks, enjoying the tension they were pulling from him. Finally, 017 leaned back, folding his arms. “The bastard killed my roommate. Said the guy wouldn’t stop watching him. Took his eyes. Clean out.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He knew Kim Dokja had been violent before, dangerous when cornered, but this? It didn’t sound like the man he’d come to know in quiet moments, the man who flinched at touch, who curled in on himself in silence.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t, not without revealing too much. His stillness became its own answer, which only made the prisoners grin wider.

“Guess you do know him,” 015 said with a chuckle.

Their laughter rang again, low and cruel, but Yoo Joonghyuk barely heard it. His thoughts were already elsewhere, circling dangerously. He needed to know if what they said was true.

And if it was… what had they done to push Kim Dokja that far?

“We’re not coming out of this office until we’re ready!”

The slam of the door rattled the frame, but Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t care. The guards outside could mutter all they wanted. His fury was for them, for the administrators, for anyone who thought they could keep him in the dark. Another shock therapy session, done deliberately behind his back, because they knew he’d step in to stop it.

He turned, chest tight, toward the couch.

Kim Dokja sat slumped against the cushions, his head drooping as though the weight of his body was too much to hold. His eyes were open, but glazed over, unfocused, drifting somewhere far away from the present. He looked like a hollowed-out version of himself.

Yoo Joonghyuk crouched in front of him, his movements careful despite the anger still simmering in his veins. “Hey,” he said softly, patting Kim Dokja’s cheek, just enough to stir him. “Look at me. Do you know where you are?”

No response. Not at first.

He cupped Kim Dokja’s face fully now, his thumb brushing across clammy skin, silently praying, pleading, for a flicker of recognition. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, those dark eyes lifted to meet his.

And when they did, tears fell.

Silent and unbidden, they slipped down Kim Dokja’s cheeks and soaked into Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands. It was the first real sign of life he had shown since being dragged in.

“You weren’t there…” Kim Dokja’s whisper was raw, frayed, like it had been clawed out of him. His body trembled as though even speaking cost too much.

The words pierced deeper than Yoo Joonghyuk expected. Guilt twisted in his gut. He lowered himself onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“I know,” he admitted quietly, the honesty bitter on his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The room was filled only with the sound of Kim Dokja’s uneven breathing and the muffled noise of guards shifting outside the door.

Then, without thinking, Yoo Joonghyuk slipped an arm around him and pulled him closer. Kim Dokja stiffened for only a second before yielding, his body slack against the warmth. Yoo Joonghyuk guided him gently until the man’s head rested on his shoulder.

It felt fragile, like holding something broken that could shatter further if handled too roughly. But it was also grounding. For both of them.

Yoo Joonghyuk kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, even as he felt the damp heat of tears seeping through his shirt. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence was a promise, unspoken but steady: I’ll stay. I’ll protect you. Even if I have to fight all of them to do it.

Han Sooyoung

There was a frantic knock at her office door, barely giving her time to focus on the reports in front of her.

“Enter,” she called, her voice calm but carrying just enough authority for the person outside to comply.

The door swung open, and Yoo Joonghyuk stormed in like a whirlwind, eyes blazing with fury. She barely had time to process the sight before him.

“Are you making them do it?” he seethed, his words sharp as knives.

Han Sooyoung straightened, measuring the situation. She could see the kind of anger that wasn’t performative, it was deep, protective, and unyielding. She instinctively reached for the intercom on her desk, but hesitated. Calling her guards might escalate the situation.

“Yoo Joonghyuk… what are you talking about?” she asked cautiously, keeping her tone steady even as her pulse quickened.

He closed the distance in a few long strides and slammed his hands down on her desk, rattling the pens and papers. Han Sooyoung stiffened, weighing her options, stand her ground or step back.

“What is your problem?” she demanded, trying to assert control over the sudden chaos in her office.

“Are you making Anna Croft and her crew commence electroconvulsive therapy on Kim Dokja?!” Yoo Joonghyuk’s voice cracked with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

Han Sooyoung froze, her mind racing. She hadn’t authorised anything of the sort. Anna Croft and her team were conducting experiments, yes, but she had believed it was under controlled supervision, and she certainly hadn’t instructed shock therapy without her knowledge.

For a brief moment, she studied Yoo Joonghyuk. His eyes were locked on hers, unflinching, carrying the kind of intensity that made people think twice before lying. And she realised… he wasn’t exaggerating. He wasn’t angry for nothing.

Her mind went through the possible explanations. Miscommunication? Anna acting on her own initiative? Or something more reckless?

“I—I wasn’t aware of that,” she said carefully, keeping her voice even but firm. “Explain. Now.”

Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t lower his gaze. His chest heaved as he leaned closer, voice dropping, urgent. “They went through with it. Twice. You didn’t stop them. Kim Dokja, he could have been seriously hurt. You need to intervene.”

Han Sooyoung felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. The protective protocols she had thought were in place had failed, or been ignored. And Yoo Joonghyuk’s presence, his rage, made her realise that someone actually cared enough to step in.

She sat down abruptly, letting the weight of the situation settle in. “Fine,” she said slowly, choosing her words with precision. “I’ll deal with it. But you, don’t make this worse. Stand down, or you’ll make things chaotic in the west wing. Do you understand?”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulders tensed, but he only nodded slightly. Han Sooyoung leaned back, already plotting the next steps, her mind sharp despite the unexpected disruption. This was not over, and she knew it.