Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything was ordinary.
 
The sky hung low and grey, but it didn’t rain. The city moved the way it always did, slow, loud, distracted. Students climbed into buses with their heads down, office workers flagged taxis without looking up from their phones and the sound of busy traffic welcoming the day.
 
Everything was normal. At least for most people.
 
Yeon Sieun sat in the back seat of a clean, white car, the kind of vehicle that always smelled slightly like plastic and faintly like money. His mother gripped the steering wheel with the kind of tension that made veins show. The road curved like it didn’t want to let them leave Seoul behind. But the mountains ahead didn’t care.
 
He stared out the window, not watching, not thinking, just—
 
not. 
 
That was easier.
 
His mother hadn’t said much since the meeting with Oh Jin-won assistant. Just the word program, and that stiff-lipped expression she wore when she was trying not to cry in public. She didn’t yell anymore. Neither did his father. They’d outsourced that job to school counselors or therapists.
 
He was being sent away for two months to ‘reflect’, ‘heal’, and — his personal favorite — ‘return to his normal self’. As if “normal” had ever been an option. As if there was a part of him left that hadn’t cracked. 
 
 
 
 
 
It started with Anh Suho.
 
That was the quiet truth Sieun didn’t say out loud, not even to himself. It started the moment  he saw Suho on that hospital bed. His skin bruised and abused, bandages all over his body. Telling the story of a smile that wasn’t there anymore.
 
He looked almost peaceful. Eyes closed, lips still, his body quiet beneath the maze of cables and blinking machines keeping him alive.
If the ambulance had been a minute late, would Suho still even be here? Lying there like something sacred, suspended in sleep, like an angel stuck between leaving and waiting. Waiting for Sieun to call for his name. 
 
Sieun remembered sitting next to him, speaking his name.
 
He’d said it once. Then again. Then louder.
 
Suho didn’t answer.
 
 
 
 
 
 
The days after blurred. Police reports, rumors, news headlines whispering “assemblyman family scandal.” But what everyone missed, what even the school tried to smooth over, was that it hadn’t been a random act. It had been Oh Beomseok.
 
Their friend. Or whatever Beomseok had pretended to be.
 
Sieun had never seen it coming. Suho hadn’t either. That was the problem with kindness, it made you blind to certain people.
 
Jealousy isn’t loud. It’s not fireworks. It’s a quiet build-up in the dark, like mold. And Beomseok had let it grow long enough to the point he paid to “teach Suho a lesson.” But they’d gone too far. And Sieun couldn’t let it pass by.
 
Sieun didn’t remember making the decision. He just saw rage. One day he was ignoring Suho’s texts. The next, Kang Woo young and Yeong bin were spitting blood on their classroom.
 
 
When his mother found out, she didn’t scream. She sat down across from him and asked, “Why?” Sieun had looked at her. That was all. No lies or defense. Just silence.
 
Later, he heard her talking with his father, first time in years. It ended with “I don’t care what that man says. He’s not going to prison.”
But then the paperwork began.
 
Beomseok’s father, of course, had a solution. A discreet, rehabilitative, character-rebuilding summer program to troubled kids — funded by private donors, naturally, and conveniently located far from the city. Where no one would ask questions. Where names meant nothing.
 
 
 
 
 
 
The car rattled as it left pavement for gravel. They were close now.
 
Sieun blinked slowly. Not from fatigue. From detachment. That was the real issue. Everyone wanted him to be angry, or scared, or ashamed. But all he felt was the still, metallic numbness of standing in a room after the bomb’s gone off.
 
He didn’t care about the program. Didn’t care about therapy, or progress, or whatever well-meaning adult would try to smile at him like they understood. He was going because it made life easier for his parents. For the school. For Beomseok’s dad.
 
Because Suho wasn’t waking up anytime soon.
 
 
“You’ll meet other kids” his mother said suddenly, pulling the car into the narrow gate. “Some are there for worse reasons. Just….” Her voice faltered. “Try not to fight anyone, okay?”
 
Sieun didn’t answer. He didn’t nod. But she parked anyway.
 
An older woman in khakis and a tucked-in polo shirt walked toward them with a clipboard and a too-wide smile. Behind her, a weird built school like building, surrounded by fences, stretched like a quiet threat, too many trees, too much open space, too far from anything that made sense.
 
Sieun opened the car door and stepped out.
 
And in that moment, just before the clipboard woman spoke, just before his mother reached to fix his collar, just before he became one more case to process,  he saw someone  standing near the entrance, smoking carelessly, looking at the pavement, bored and as if nothing was worth to be looked, while an older looking man standing beside them talked madly.
 
A boy in a black and red windbreaker.
 
Then, when the boy finally looked up,

He looked at him.
 
And smiled.
 
 

Chapter Text

After that weird  (if you could call that) interaction between Sieun and the unknown guy, who was being screamed at by a man in a suit. His face flushed, arms gesturing like a bad soap opera actor, but the boy was still looking at him.

He stood there, calm, eyes locked with his, smoking like the man’s voice didn’t touch him.
But then, he saw the guy gesturing—

 

1…

2…

3…

The boy broke the eye contact smiling, flicked the cigarette, watched it fall, then stepped past the man like he wasn’t even there at all. The man continued screaming and cursing the boy out, but he just continued walking towards the main entrance of the building, without looking back once.

Sieun let out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding and tried to focus on what the woman in front of him was saying.

“Phones will be kept in the front office and returned at the end of the program,” she said, smiling like that was a reasonable thing to say. “Classes begin at 8:00 a.m. sharp, basic curriculum, with an emphasis on self-discipline. No absences unless medically cleared.”

Yeon Sieun blinked once.

He stood beside his mother in front of the building. The paint had that washed-out, too-clean look, like it had been reapplied too many times to cover something underneath.

“There’s supervised outdoor labor three afternoons a week. Mostly gardening, trash pickup, some light repairs to the grounds. It’s good for the boys. Keeps them grounded.”

Sieun didn’t respond. Neither did his mother.

The woman smiled anyway, a bright, toothy thing that looked like it had been glued on. She had the vibe of someone who — almost — tried to look comforting, He looked at the laminated badge with the name Ms. Kang printed in cheerful blue.

“There’s also group and individual therapy. Three times a week, no exceptions. Extra ones available by request. We take emotional accountability very seriously here.”

Sieun said nothing.

Ms. Kang’s smile didn’t falter. “And of course, there’s the buddy system. No one walks alone between dorms and buildings. It’s for safety. And for support. Troubled boys heal better with company.”

Troubled boys. She kept saying that like it was a diagnosis, not a judgment.

“There are about 50 students enrolled this session, separated by ages and grade.” she continued, tapping her clipboard. “Each dorm houses two. You’ll be in Room 202…”

She flipped to another page. Then Sieun saw a quick, almost unnoticed, twitch in Ms. Kang eye.

“…With Keum Seongje.”

The name didn’t register.

His mother finally spoke, her voice low. “He doesn’t know anyone here. That’s a good thing.”

Ms. Kang nodded sympathetically. “Most of our boys don’t. Fresh environment, clean slate. Sometimes, a little space from the city helps the healing begin.” 

Sieun looked around. There was a line of pine trees in the distance, a gravel field behind the dorm building, and a row of cracked basketball courts with no nets.

It didn’t feel like healing.

It felt like exile.

When the Ms. Kang finished talking, his mother hugged him. Awkwardly. Not tight, not soft. The way someone hugs a person they used to love more easily.

“Two months” she said into his hair. “Just two months.” She looked at him and grabbed his shoulders “Be careful, okay? Don’t let anyone get to you.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t flinch either.

She let go.

And then she left.

Sieun followed Ms. Kang into the dorms. The halls smelled like detergent and wood polish. There was a loud voice echoing somewhere around the stairwell— low, angry, male.

Ms. Kang glanced toward the noise but didn’t stop walking. She gestured him forward, her tone light.

“We’ll get your ID badge and class schedule after orientation. The room should be ready, your roommate arrived earlier.”

As they turned a corner, they passed by the boy from earlier, standing, just outside the side door. Black windbreaker. Looking up with his head on the wall. Inhaling the air as if seeking for relief. He was tall. Long hair. Thin-framed glasses. Big hands with bruised knuckles. Lean frame. Sharp jaw. 

Ms. Kang didn’t stop. “Seongje,” she said lightly. “Come inside now.”

He then fell into step behind them, hands in his pockets, close enough that Sieun could hear the quiet drag of his footsteps.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did Sieun.

They walked like that, one woman talking, one boy listening, the other just watching from a few feet back. But close enough to Sieun feel the staring in his back.

Ms. Kang kept her words directed toward Sieun. “I know it all feels overwhelming. But the boys who do well here and really commit—some of them say it’s the best thing that ever happened to them.”

Sieun resisted the urge to look back.

“You’ll get used to the routine,” she went on. “Lights out at ten. Shared bathroom on each floor. Weekly evaluations. As long as you stay respectful, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Behind them, Seongje’s steps were still slow. Measured. Like he didn’t need to keep up.

Like he already knew where he was going.

Room 202 looked like every other room on the floor: two beds, two desks, two drawers. The beds were unmade, stiff white sheets folded at the end like a hotel that had given up halfway.

Ms. Kang smiled at the doorway. “Well, here we are. Get settled in. Dinner’s at six sharp in the cafeteria. No phones, but you’ll have supervised computer access twice a week.”

Sieun nodded, then stepped inside and dropped his bag.

Across the room, Seongje walked to the other bed and sat down without a word.

Ms. Kang nodded, as if satisfied. “If either of you needs anything, just ask.” He bowed then she left.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Sieun unpacked slowly. Not because he was organizing, but because movement gave him something to do. He placed his notebooks, study books, pens, clothes and the basic things, into the desk drawer. The air in the room was stuffy, stale with whatever institutional air freshener they used to hide that fifty boys were crammed into this building for the summer.

Behind him, he could feel the boy staring.

When he finally turned, Seongje was lying back on his mattress, arms behind his head, watching him like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.

No smile. But his glare said something, like interest.

“You don’t talk much” Seongje said eventually.

Sieun ignored him.

“You one of those mute types, or are you just rude?”

Still nothing.

Which clearly started to annoy the hell out of Seongje.

“I get it,” Seongje said. “You’re the mysterious type. Real silent. Makes the girls go crazy, huh?”

Sieun zipped his bag and shoved it under the bed.

“Are you always this annoying?” he asked flatly, not looking at him.

Seongje smiled then. Crooked. Lazy. “Only when I’m fucking bored.”

Figures.

Sieun sat on his bed and leaned back on his hands, keeping his eyes on the window. Maybe he should pick one of his books and start studying—

“Room 202,” Seongje said suddenly. “Second floor. Middle of the hall. No cameras in this part.”

“Why do you know that?”

“Why don’t you?”

Sieun looked at him.

Long pause.

There was something in the way Seongje stared that wasn’t just boredom. He didn’t blink much. His eyes moved slowly, like they were studying layers. Like he was looking for something beneath Sieun’s skin.

“What’s your name” Seongje asked. Rigid.

The smaller boy hesitated, but sighed and replied “Yeon Sieun.”

“Aren’t you the one who beat the shit out of two kids in the middle of their school.”

That made Sieun turn fully toward him.

“I heard one of them couldn’t swallow for a week,” Seongje added, tone casual. “The other can’t fight anymore in the MMA. Very impressive, newbie, I gotta admit”

“Don’t talk like you know me.”

“Don’t act like you’re hard to figure out.”

Sieun stood up.

So did Seongje.

There was a significant height difference. They looked at each other. Sieun was quiet but lean, like a blade kept hidden in a sleeve, Seongje was open, unbothered, the kind of person who enjoyed getting under your skin just to see what would happen.

Sieun’s voice was low. “You want a fight?”

Seongje tilted his head. “Would you hit me first, or wait until I put someone you know in a hospital bed?”

Sieun’s hand curled into a fist before he could stop it.

The air between them shifted.

“Ohhh…there they are,” he said softly, moving forward. “Those eyes.”

Sieun stared back, jaw tight.

“Yeah. You got murder in them,” Seongje added, almost admiring. “I like that.”

“You talk too much,” Sieun muttered.

“And you don’t talk enough. See how that makes us perfect?”

Sieun’s breath came sharp and uneven. A dozen different ways to break the other boy’s face flashed through his mind like instinct.

But then—

Seongje started laughing. This time, it wasn’t lazy. It was sharp.
He stepped back just an inch. Not retreating. Just enough to say ‘not yet’.

“Relax,” he said. “Roommates shouldn’t fight on day one.”

Sieun stared at him, chest rising slowly.

And for the first time, he understood what kind of person he was stuck with.

Not just another delinquent. Not just a bored, angry boy with too much time and too few consequences.

But someone who smiled while dangling the knife.

And liked to watch you flinch.

Seongje moved toward the door without warning, slow and casual, like the conversation hadn’t meant anything. His hand hovered over the handle, then stopped.

He turned just slightly, voice low.

“You have the kind of face that begs for a punch.”

Sieun didn’t look up, but his body stilled. Hands clenched tight at his sides, knuckles flushed pale.

Seongje grinned to himself. Then, quieter, almost like a secret,

“Just my type.” 

The rest of the day passed in a fog of concrete and clipped instructions. After the meeting with his roommate, Ms. Kang called him in the the wall-mounted room service phone, telling him to go to the side building meeting room.

Sieun sat through orientation in a stuffy, fluorescent-lit room with six other new arrivals. A staff member, an older man, probably on his 40’s, medium sized, tanned because of the mountain sun and a strong tobacco smell— handed out paper folders full of rules and schedules. His voice was flat, almost bored, like this was just another part-time job.

“In case Ms. Kang didn’t told you, you’ll have to wake up at six every morning. Showers first, then group class at 8. After that, task rotation: kitchen work, maintenance, laundry, or outdoor labor. You’ll be assigned weekly.”

Someone asked what ‘outdoor labor’ meant. The man didn’t answer.

“Three therapy sessions a week,” he continued. “One group, two individual. Don’t skip, don’t mouth off. Lights out at ten. Phones were already confiscated. You’ll get supervised calls to family once a week.” 

The phrase ‘supervised calls’ clung in Sieun’s head like a hook.

“No smoking. No fighting. No skipping. If I see any of you rascals doing any of that—“ he suddenly stopped, then sighed and continued “Any questions?”

No one raised a hand.

“Good. Ya’ll need to learn fast. Or you’ll hate it here.”

The hallways all looked the same, long, blank, echoing. Pale walls. Scratchy brown floor that smelled faintly of mildew. Cameras in every corner.

Sieun didn’t see Seongje again.

Not in the new-comers schedule meeting.

Not when a teacher-type woman with short hair handed him a booklet labeled ‘SELF-REGULATION THROUGH STRUCTURE’.

Not even when they were told to line up in pairs for dinner.

It was weird.

He should’ve felt relief. But something about that guy’s absence made the building feel… wronger.

Still, Sieun kept quiet. Observed. Memorized faces.

The boys in the hallway were all bigger than him. Some older, some younger, but all loud. A few pushed each other like they thought they were gangsters, laughing with too much teeth. One had a buzzcut and a face full of acne scars. Another wore an overcoat in the middle of July and spat on the floor when no one was watching. Two of them had matching tattoos — fake, probably — on the sides of their necks.

Sieun scanned them without expression. One, two, maybe five of them looked like they could fight. The rest were just noise.

And then someone nudged him.

“You’re new right?”

Sieun turned.

The guy next to him was tall, well-built, and looked like he is already used to all of this. His hair was shaved short on the sides, messy on top, like he’d done it himself with cheap paper scissors. His eyes were sharp, a little amused. Sieun remembers seeing him at the schedule meeting earlier.

“I’m Kang Jinwoo” he said, sticking out his hand. “You look like someone dumped you here by mistake.” 

Sieun blinked. Didn’t shake it.

Jinwoo didn’t seem to mind. “That’s alright. Some of the guys talk too much anyway.”

The line started moving.

Sieun followed, quiet.

“You should watch out for Room 303” jinwoo said as they walked. “I heard that they’re real psychos. And don’t sit at the far-right table in the cafeteria. That’s the tattoo twins and their little fan club. They don’t like when people sit near them.”

Sieun kept his gaze forward. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you like when people sit near you?”

Jinwoo grinned. “Yeah, I’m not much of an asshole.” 

The cafeteria looked like a prison mess hall from a bad movie. Long metal tables. Grey trays. Windows too small to crawl through.

Noise hit all at once, scraping chairs, shouting, a few barks of laughter that didn’t sound right.

Sieun picked the table closest to the far wall. Not too exposed. Not too isolated.

Jinwoo followed him like a shadow and kept talking, mostly to himself, about the different things he heard from the other guys, now focusing on the staff and which ones had tempers. “Don’t piss off Mr. Kwon. They said he pretends he’s chill, but he’ll assign you to trash duty every day for a month. There’s a rumour that he made a kid scrub toilets with a toothbrush last summer.”

Sieun tuned him out halfway through the sentence.

He didn’t want friends. He didn’t want alliances. He wanted to survive eight weeks and go back home to—

To what?

To silence?

To Suho in a hospital bed?

His hands tensed.

He stared down at his tray. Mashed potatoes, a slice of meat that didn’t look like beef, a watery soup of something he couldn’t decipher and green beans that looked boiled to death.

He didn’t want to touch any of it.

And then, mid-thought, he felt it.

Eyes on him.

He looked up.

And across the cafeteria, sitting like he’d been there the whole time, was Seongje. Surrounded by random thugs who talked more than what they could think.

Seongje with the same slouched posture. 

Same bored grin.

Same unsettling calm.

Their eyes locked — for a second too long — and Seongje raised his metallic cup in a mock toast.

Sieun didn’t move.

Jinwoo followed his gaze. “You know that guy?”

“Roommate” he said calmly.

But his jaw was tight.

Because Seongje wasn’t looking away.

But the stare-down didn’t last long.

Sieun dropped his eyes back to the tray and stabbed a green bean with his chopsticks.

Seongje had that kind of face, the type that looked like it was always daring you to do something about it. And maybe Sieun used to rise to things like that. A month ago, he would’ve had a smart response or a silent glare that meant try me.

Now?

He didn’t have anything left to waste.

Still, something about the way Seongje looked at him, it wasn’t teasing. It was clinical. Like Sieun was a problem he wanted to solve by taking it apart piece by piece.

Jinwoo leaned over.

“Really? I’m sorry dude but that guy gives me bad vibes,” he muttered. “Looks like the type to bite someone in a fight.”

Sieun didn’t respond.

He already knew what type Seongje was.

The worst one, the kind that wasn’t scared.

After dinner, they were sent back to their rooms. No free time, no small talk.

The hallway back to the dorms buzzed with quiet movement. Feet shuffling on cheap carpet, someone whistling off-key, low murmurs between boys who’d known each other from past stints. Some of them walked like they owned the place. Some kept their heads down.

He noticed everything. The cameras, the corners with no line of sight, the staff members who looked too young to care or too old to bother.

They passed by a window. Outside, the sky was heavy with dusk. The trees beyond the wire fence swayed like they knew something.

Back in Room 202, the light above the beds flickered once before holding steady.

The air was warm and stale, and the vent in the ceiling made a soft rattling sound that felt too rhythmic to be random.

Sieun sat on the edge of his mattress, finally alone, and unlaced his shoes like he was in a stranger’s house. He stared at the floor for a long time, half expecting Seongje to burst in again with some comment or that weird grin.

But the room stayed quiet.

A small mercy.

He lay back on the bed, and let his eyes drift to the ceiling.

This was fine. He could do eight weeks.

He could be no one here.

Just a number on a door.

Until the knock.

Not a loud one, just two quick taps, soft, like a private signal.

Sieun sat up fast.

The door creaked open.

And of course it was him.

Seongje strolled in like he’d lived there for months. No eye contact. Just a lazy stretch and a yawn as he dropped a wrinkled piece of paper on his bed and flopped down like a cat that owned the place.

Sieun didn’t say anything. Just noticed the strong cigarette smell…’how?’

Seongje didn’t look over.

Then, after a beat,

“Did you miss me?”

Sieun stared at the ceiling again.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You were looking at me in the cafeteria.”

“I was looking at a wall with a rat problem.”

Seongje smirked to himself, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling like they were sharing the same thoughts.

A minute passed.

“You didn’t eat” Seongje said, voice low. “Don’t like mashed potatoes?”

“Don’t like being here.”

“You think I do?”

Sieun glanced over.

Seongje was still smirking, but there was something off behind it. Something tired.

“I don’t think about you at all” Sieun said.

“You should.”

Another beat of silence.

Sieun laid back again, closed his eyes.

“You talk too much.”

“You listen too much” Seongje muttered. “That’s even worse.”

And then, the overhead light flickered again.

Once.

Twice.

Then it went out.

Silence.

Sieun opened one eye. The room was cast in darkness now, only a thin beam of hallway light under the door giving them shape.

“You think this place breaks people?” Seongje said in the dark.

Sieun didn’t answer.

“It doesn’t,” he continued. “It just shows what was already cracked.”

There was a smile in his voice. It wasn’t loud. Neither mocking. It was…knowing.

Sieun exhaled through his nose. Rolled over, back to him.

“Good” he murmured.

“Why?”

“So when you fall apart,” he said, already half-asleep “you can’t blame anyone but yourself.”

Chapter Text

The morning started with an alarm. Shrill. Not loud, but enough to cut through sleep like a blade against paper.

Sieun blinked up at the ceiling.

Room 202 was barely lit, sunlight squeezing through the bars of the high window, casting dusty gold lines across the floor. The walls were blank cement, the bed hard, the pillow thin. This wasn’t a place made for comfort. It was made to strip things away.

He didn’t move right away. Just laid there, eyes open, body still. For a second, he thought about Suho.

Not Suho in the hospital, tubes down his throat, skin too pale. But Suho before. The version that laughed with his whole chest. Who pushed Sieun’s books off his desk just to annoy him. Who never got into fights without needing a reason but always found a reason to win.

That Suho was gone now, maybe forever.

Sieun closed his eyes for a heartbeat.

Then something moved.

The other bed creaked. Footsteps padded across the floor. Seongje, he remembered.

He hadn’t said nothing to him after last night’s exchange. Hadn’t looked at him again. But he’d felt his presence. Like heat from a fire just out of reach, something you didn’t want to touch but couldn’t ignore.

Sieun sat up. His feet hit the floor, cold and unwelcoming.

“You gonna’ shower, roommate?” Seongje’s voice came from across the room. Low. Mocking. Sleepy. Like they were old friends waking up for school.

Sieun didn’t answer.

“Your loss.” Seongje muttered, grabbing a towel and slinging it over his shoulder as he headed towards the hall.

Left alone, Sieun stood slowly. Dressed in the same grey uniform. Folded the corners of his blanket just to keep his hands busy. He didn’t plan on talking today. He didn’t plan on much. Just survive the schedule. Breathe. Stay invisible.

But as he stepped into the hallway, it became clear, invisibility wasn’t an option here.

The building was waking up with a kind of military precision. Doors opened at once, lines formed without orders. Boys shuffled through the corridors like they’d been programmed.

The staff, some men in navy jackets and plain faces, stood like statues at intersections, watching. Always watching.

A clipboard woman (different from the one who greeted him yesterday) stood at the end of the hall, calling out assignments. Her voice was loud, unhurried, and void of emotion.

“Room 202— Yeon Sieun. You’re assigned to Groundskeeping, Rotation A.” 

He didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t ask.

He joined the others heading outside, feeling the air shift from stale indoor breath to the crisp chill of morning.

The canteen was colder in the earlier hours, the industrial lights harsh and overcompensating for the small windows that showed nothing. Sieun grabbed a tray and sat alone again, though not for long.

“Morning” said a voice from behind.

Sieun looked up.

It was the boy from yesterday. Jinwoo. Room 208.

Jinwoo dropped his tray with a casual clatter and sat down across from him, biting into a slice of toast like he hadn’t been on the edge of a warning speech the day before.

“I figured you’d sit in the farthest corner of the room like a vampire,” Jinwoo said between chews. “Was half-expecting a black cloak.”

“I’m not in the mood.” Sieun muttered.

“Yeah, you look like a mood,” Jinwoo replied joking. “But you’re in my table now. So you either talk to me, or you get haunted.”

Sieun narrowed his eyes. “Do you always talk this much?”

“Meh, sometimes. I just like to think it’s part of my personality.”

Jinwoo sipped on a small carton of milk like it was a cocktail. “You make a decent mystery, though. Quiet guy, doesn’t talk, stole from some people on the outside. Then gets stuck with the worst roommate in the building. What a combo.”

“I didn’t stole from anyone” Sieun said.

Jinwoo raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Fight then?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really.” He shrugged “It’s more fun if it’s a secret.”

Sieun picked at the crust of his toast.

“Why are you even talking to me?” he asked eventually.

Jinwoo shrugged. “You’re the only one who doesn’t try to impress anyone. The others are all fake wannabe gangsters or actual idiots. And you just look like the most normal one.”

Sieun didn’t respond. That silence stretched too long, and eventually, Jinwoo continued.

“Anyway. You’ll see soon enough. Morning classes are next. This really is hell, but with plastic chairs.”

Jinwoo laughed again. Light, careless, just a little too loud, and for a split second, it hit Sieun like a wrong note in a familiar song. He knew that Jinwoo wasn’t that much of a bad person, but something about the way he tilted his head when he smiled, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, even the way he walked, relaxed but alert, like he’d been through things and decided not to show it. It was just like Suho. Or close enough to make Sieun’s stomach twist in a way he didn’t have the words for. But it wasn’t Suho. Jinwoo talked more. He didn’t hold his silence like it meant something. He didn’t observe— he performed.

That made it worse somehow. Like Sieun had been given a broken mirror and told to be grateful it still showed a face.

After breakfast, they were divided into groups for the academic block. Apparently, the facility thought it could still simulate a kind of school day, even though most of the boys clearly hadn’t touched a book in months.

The classroom Sieun was assigned to was too small for fifteen boys and a full-sized whiteboard. The desks were almost child-sized. It smelled like disinfectant and boy sweat. A clock ticked loud above the board, louder than the teacher’s voice.

Sieun sat in the back, taking notes. Maybe studying would ease his mind.
 
“Everyone opens to page sixteen. You’ll be working in pairs.” the teacher said without emotion.

Groans. One paper ball thrown. No one cared.

Jinwoo ended up beside him again.

“They keep pretending we’ll magically go back to school after this,” he whispered, pulling his book over like a napkin at a bad diner. “That we’ll suddenly become citizens.”

Sieun stared at the equations on the page. His brain registered the shapes but not the meaning.

He wasn’t here to become anything.

He was here to disappear for two months.

Jinwoo leaned closer. “Keum Seongje doesn’t go to class.”

Sieun glanced up.

“What?”

“Your roommate. He doesn’t show. They don’t even mark him absent. Weird, right?”

Before Sieun could respond, a kid at the front threw a pencil at another’s head, and the room descended into chaos. The teacher didn’t stop it. Just sighed and waited until the noise died again.

Sieun didn’t spoke the rest of the lessons.

The lunch hall smelled like steamed rice and metal trays, too sterile to be comforting and too humid to be clean. He stood at the edge of the line with his tray, eyes scanning the room.

There were about fifty boys here. Maybe more. Most sat in groups, some loud, some barely speaking, others just wolfing down food like it might get taken away. The tables weren’t assigned, but they might as well have been. Sieun could see it in the way no one strayed from their circle. Invisible lines drawn with glances and posture.

He recognized a few faces from the shared bathroom. A few more from class. Most looked older than him. Taller. Harder. Not just in a muscle-bound way, but also in the way concrete looked after too many steps.

He sat near the edge of the room, back to the wall out of habit. Across from him sat Jinwoo, holding a spoon and smiling like it was nothing.

“Did you notice the seating yet?” Jinwoo asked, casually flicking rice onto a piece of kimchi.

Sieun didn’t answer at first. His eyes drifted again. He saw it now. The way certain boys sat closest to the exits. The way others took the middle seats without hesitation. And a whole corner that was oddly quiet, where smaller or quieter boys sat together, some still wearing nervous expressions like they’d just arrived yesterday.

“First floor’s mostly the younger ones” Jinwoo said, low. “Kids who cried too much. Fought their moms. Or just got dumped here for being…soft.”

Sieun turned his head.

“Second floor is the average crew,” Jinwoo continued. “Some wannabe tough guys. Some real ones. Mostly kids who messed up just enough to land here, but not enough to be watched too closely.”

Sieun raised an eyebrow. “And the third floor?”

Jinwoo smirked. “The ones you don’t mess with. Oldest guys. The ones with real pull. Some of them have been here before. Some should probably be in juvie. They get the top floor like it’s some kind of throne room. Staff lets them roam more. As long as they don’t make a mess where it’s visible.”

Sieun looked back toward the corner, where the biggest table held a group of loud, laughing boys. One of them leaned back like he owned the place, feet on the bench across from him. Another was flicking bits of bread at a kid who didn’t dare look up.

“They just let it happen?” Sieun asked.

“As long as there’s no blood, yeah” Jinwoo said, chewing. “It’s all about pretending things are working. They like obedient boys, or ones who act like it.”

Sieun sat with that for a moment, letting the pieces arrange themselves in his head.

“But Seongje’s on the second floor.” he said aloud, more to himself than anyone.

Jinwoo froze for half a second. Then went back to eating. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

That got a laugh, but it wasn’t amused. It was short, sharp, and dropped fast.

“Good question” Jinwoo muttered.

Sieun didn’t press. He just glanced toward the table in the back, half-expecting to see Seongje holding court.

But he wasn’t there.

Of course not.

He showed up late, without a tray, like he didn’t need to eat or follow any schedule. Walked through the center of the cafeteria like he owned the air around him. Every group fell quiet, for just a breath, when he passed.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance at anyone.

Until his eyes flicked toward Sieun.

And just for a second— so fast it could’ve been imagination —he smirked.

Then he was gone again, disappearing down the corridor that led to the back wing.

Jinwoo watched it too, shaking his head.

“See?” he said under his breath. “Told you. No one knows what floor that guy belongs to.”

Sieun finally turned his head, eyeing Jinwoo with mild suspicion.

“…How do you know all this? You got here the same day I did.”

Jinwoo grinned, still chewing a mouthful of rice. He swallowed before answering, voice low but casual.

“Yeah, but I listen. People talk. A lot.” He tapped the side of his head. “Most of them don’t even realize they’re giving stuff away. Just need to sit close enough.”

Sieun raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here a day.”

“One very long, informative day,” Jinwoo replied, wagging his spoon like a teacher. “You’d be surprised what you can pick up between morning class and bathroom breaks.”

Sieun looked unimpressed.

Jinwoo leaned closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I heard half of this floor’s dirt while taking a piss. I swear. Boys talk like the urinals got no ears.”

Sieun gave him a sideways glance.

“…You eavesdrop while peeing?”

“Only with one ear,” Jinwoo said, grinning. “I’m not an animal.”

That got the faintest twitch of Sieun’s mouth, something between disbelief and the ghost of a smile.

The therapy room had no windows. That’s the first thing Sieun notices when entering the room.

It had a row of metal chairs arranged in a half-circle, a clock that didn’t tick, and a woman  with eyes too tired for her age.

He sat near the edge, arms crossed, still.

The counselor began. “This is a safe space. We talk. We share. We don’t judge.”

She might as well have said nothing.

“Let’s start simple. What do you think brought you all here? Not what the file says. Not what your parents think. You.” She pointed to a boy close to Sieun ”Why are you here?”

The boy with heavy eyelids and bruised knuckles responded “I set one fire and suddenly everyone thinks I’m a fucking arsonist. It’s not fucking fair. It was just one.”

Another boy, taller, laughed. “Dude that’s not that bad. I got sent here ‘cause I stole my homeroom teacher’s car and just drove it for like 5 minutes“

“It was more than 5 minutes, idiot” said a third.

“Shut up.”

Laughter. Then silence.

Suddenly the door opened.

Seongje walked in like it was his stage. No apologies. No explanation. He didn’t even sit in the circle. He grabbed a chair and turned it backward, arms slung over the backrest, facing them like he was the facilitator now.

The counselor didn’t stop him.

“Late as always, Mr. Keum.” she said.

Seongje smiled. “Better late than absent.”

Sieun didn’t look at him. But he felt it, the way his presence altered the air in the room, like someone had dropped a flame into a pool of gas and was just waiting to light a match.

The therapist then proceeded by asking some other boys the reason they got sent here and when they were halfway through the session, seated in a rough circle on mismatched chairs, one of the boys— stocky, trying hard to look older than he was —let out a dramatic sigh.

“This whole stupid group therapy stuff is just court-mandated babysitting,” he muttered under his breath. “All this talkin’ shit doesn’t do anything.”

The counselor didn’t react, but Seongje did.

He twisted his chair to face the boy fully, draping one arm lazily across the back of the seat. His voice was light, amused.

“You say that like it’s your first time in here. That’s cute.” He snorted “Wanna’ look tough in front of the younger guys huh?”

The boy glanced over, sneering. “And you talk like you think you’re smarter than everyone.”

“I don’t think it,” Seongje said, smiling with too many teeth. “I know it.”

The tension in the room shifted, subtle but heavy. A few of the others looked down. One boy coughed to break the silence.

Seongje’s voice didn’t raise, but it tightened, sharper now.

“What, you thought if you rolled your eyes hard enough and kept your arms crossed, people would forget you cried on the first day?”

The boy’s face flushed immediately.

Seongje leaned in, all faux-curiosity and poison.

“Didn’t you say your girl broke up with you ‘cause you kicked her dog? That’s not even villainous, man. That’s pathetic.”

“Fuck this,” he muttered, louder than before. “I’m not sitting here while this smug bastard runs his mouth like he’s hot shit.”

Seongje, who looked already bored of all of this, turned his head towards the entrance of the room. “Then leave, genius. The door’s not locked.”

“You think you’re so untouchable,” the boy snapped, rising to his feet. “I’ll show you that you’re not, fucker.”

A few others flinched. Someone mumbled, “Shit…”

The guy stalked over, posture puffed-up and boiling, face red. Seongje didn’t move. Not even a blink.

“Cmon’, keep talking.” the boy growled, standing right in front of him now. “See what happens.”

Sieun noticed it. Something changed in Seongje’s expression, not fear nor irritation. His eyes got darker and that sharp smile spread like a razor peeling open skin.

Then, fast— before the other boy could even think to swing —Seongje stood, grabbed his wrist, and twisted.

Not dramatically, but enough to be uncomfortable for the eyes.

There was a sickening pop, followed by a hurtful groan.

The boy dropped to one knee.

Seongje leaned close, like they were sharing a secret.

“If you talk to me like that again, I’ll make sure it’s the full arm next time. I don’t like when pieces of shit like you look at me.”

The whole room had frozen. Even the air seemed to stop moving.

But what came next was even stranger.

The therapist, spoke up in the same gentle tone she’d been using all session. “Boys. That’s enough.” She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t even look alarmed.

The boy hissed in pain, scrambling back, cradling his wrist. Seongje released him and sat back down, smooth and relaxed like nothing had happened.

No punishment. No alarm button. No call for backup.

Just silence and that same smile flickering at the corners of Seongje’s mouth.

Sieun, finally, turned his head to look at him.

Seongje was already watching him. Like expecting a reaction.

And It was how quiet it was afterward. How normal everyone tried to act. As if that hadn’t just happened right in front of them.

As if Seongje hadn’t nearly dislocated someone’s wrist and smiled while doing it.

And the therapist…she hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t even stood up. Just calmly told them to stop, like she’d seen it before. Like it didn’t matter.

Like she expected it.

Sieun stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

This place was wrong. Not in the loud, obvious way he’d expected. Not in the cheap beds or the forced group sessions or the peeling paint in the hallways.

It was wrong in the way it let things slide.

In the way Seongje got away with things.

In the way everyone kept pretending it was all just part of the process.

Sieun didn’t believe in ‘process’ He believed in patterns. And this? This was starting to look like one.

“Well, would anyone else like to share more?” the woman asked.

Silence. Then, from the right side of the room.

“I had to come here because I threw a desk at my teacher.”

The speaker was a boy with hair dyed poorly at the tips, probably done before he arrived. He smiled like it was a joke.

“Why did you throw it?” she asked, gently.

“She called me dumb. Said I had ‘anger issues.’” He leaned back. “Guess she was right.”

Another boy snorted. “My uncle says these programs are for pussies.”

“Yeah, that’s probably why you’re here” someone else muttered.

More laughs. Low, bitter, more real now.

Sieun wondered what that said about him.

Then the counselor said, “Yeon Sieun.” His body reacted before his mind did. He tensed.“I’m told this is your first session,” she continued. “Would you like to share anything?”

His throat went dry. It wasn’t fear. It was the sense of exposure, of being cracked open in a room full of jackals. His brain scrambled for a way out, but there was none.

“I have nothing to say.” he answered flatly.

“You can share anything you’re comfortable with” she offered, voice soft, like coaxing an injured animal.

“I’m not comfortable” he said.

Someone let out a breathy laugh. Maybe Seongje. Maybe not.

The counselor nodded like she knew he was going to respond that.

Then, without warning, Seongje spoke.

“You know, I thought you’d have a cooler voice.”

Sieun turned his head. Slowly.

Seongje grinned.

“You’re all cold eyes and permanent frown, but when you talk it’s just….sad. Kind of disappointing.”

“Keum Seongje,” she warned.

“What? It’s therapy. I’m sharing. That’s what we do, right?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We all talk about our feelings. How sad we are. How nobody understands us. How much we suffer.” He dramatically sighed “I mean, this is like…premium trauma bonding time.”

“What…..” someone mumbled. Not Sieun. One of the quieter boys.

But Seongje ignored it all. His eyes didn’t leave Sieun’s.

“Or maybe you just don’t have anything left in you,” he added. “Not sadness. Not anger. Not guilt.”

The therapist glanced toward them but didn’t interrupt, curious now. The room was watching.

Sieun stared at him, unspeaking. And for a moment, something passed between them—silent, electric, nearly violent. Not a spark. A tension cable stretching between two cliffs, daring one of them to make the first move.

But before Sieun could say something,  the counselor broke it. “Ok, that’s enough for today. I’ll see you next session everyone”

Chairs scraped the floor as boys stood. Seongje stood last.

He passed Sieun slowly on the way out.

And just as he walked behind him, he leaned low, voice a murmur only for him.

“Careful,” he whispered. “Next time it can be your wrist instead, you interesting lil’ fucker”

Sieun’s jaw clenched. Fists tightened. 

But he didn’t turn around.

The sun was still out, but it didn’t feel like afternoon. The air in the courtyard was dry, full of dust and the heavy stink of heat radiating off concrete. No music. No talking. Just the low rhythm of brooms scraping the pavement, shovels hitting dirt, and the occasional bark from a staff member reminding them to “keep pace.”

Sieun stood on the edge of the gardening team (though calling it a team was generous). The tools were dull, the tasks vague, and the boys treated everything like it was beneath them. His job, apparently, was weeding the side beds next to the courtyard fence. No gloves. Just hands, a rusted trowel, and the occasional reminder from an older boy to “watch where you put your knees.”

He didn’t respond to any of them. Didn’t speak. Not because he was afraid, but because silence was the only armor he had left. It kept things at bay. Kept himself at bay.

His fingers hurt. His back ached. He hadn’t done physical labor like this before. Suho used to tease him for his low stamina and soft hands. Something about how Sieun “held pencils like scalpels.” The memory stabbed him in the chest, fast and silent, like it always did.

He pulled a root too hard and the trowel slipped— cutting into his palm.

“Shit.”

It wasn’t deep, but blood welled up instantly.

“Need a band-aid, princess?”

The voice came from behind him. Sieun turned. A boy stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, with a buzzcut and a nasty-looking smirk.

Name tag: Do Gitae.

He wasn’t one of the ones Sieun had seen at therapy. Which meant either he skipped it or didn’t have to go today like Jinwoo.

Sieun didn’t say a word. He just stood and wiped his hand on his pants, calm and blank as ever.

Gitae’s grin widened. “Oh, come on. Don’t be shy. You’re the pretty little one in 202, right? Heard you don’t talk much. Is that true?”

He stepped forward. Way too close.

Sieun didn’t flinch. He just stared at him, face unreadable. If this was intimidation, it wasn’t working, he’d been stared down by worse.

But Gitae wasn’t trying to scare him.

Not exactly.

He leaned in just enough to make it uncomfortable. “Bet’ you got sent here for crying too much. Or maybe you slapped someone. Real hard-core stuff huh.”

Sieun’s fists curled.

Gitae noticed. “Aw. Look at that. You do have a temper.”

Then another voice,

“Geez, Gitae. Not even three days in and you’re already picking out your favorite chew toy?”

Sieun didn’t even have to turn. The shift in the air gave it away, the way people went quiet, the way even Gitae turned before answering.

Seongje walked across the gravel with the kind of casual menace you only see in people who’ve stopped pretending to be civilized. His uniform was half-untucked. One hand in his pocket. The other holding a candy bar he clearly stole from somewhere.

“Didn’t know you were into underdogs, Gitae,” he said, smiling. “But I guess everyone’s got a type.”

Gitae narrowed his eyes. “You got a problem?”

“Plenty,” Seongje said. He took a bite of his candy, chewed slowly, then added, “And one of them is standing right in front of me now.” 

There was a pause.

A long, bristling silence.

Gitae didn’t move. Not forward, not back. Just stood there, tight-jawed and clearly furious, but beneath that, hesitating.

And Seongje saw it.

He grinned.

“You got a shit temper, man.” His voice lost the fake politeness. It dipped into something darker. “And not even the entertaining kind. It’s the kind that just makes everyone tired of you.”

It was strange, the way the tension pivoted.

Gitae’s lip curled. “You think you’re better than everyone else because the staff lets you do whatever the fuck you want?”

Seongje blinked, mock-surprised. “They let me?” He glanced around like he was discovering something new. “Oh, is that what it is? Shit. I thought it was just because I’m charming.”

Gitae looked ready to throw a punch, but didn’t.

Because Seongje stepped forward. Just one step. No threat in his posture, no tension in his shoulders. But something in his eyes had teeth.

And Gitae flinched and stepped back. Just enough.

That was all Seongje needed.

“Thought so.”

Gitae looked at the ground. “You’re fucked in the head.”

“Aren’t we all?” Seongje smiled, and for a second, it looked like maybe he’d lunge, just to see what would happen.

But instead, he turned to Sieun.

His tone shifted. Not to something kinder, just more focused.

“You okay?” he asked.

Sieun didn’t respond. He didn’t need saving. And he sure as hell didn’t want it from him. But Seongje took that silence for something else entirely.

“Told you,” he said, with a half-smile. “Interesting.”

Gitae spit on the ground between them. “You two deserve each other.” Then started to walk off.

Only after he was gone did Seongje move closer, eyes lazily tracing Sieun’s posture, his face, his still-bleeding palm.

“You really are just made of cracks, huh?”

Sieun narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

“You should bandage that,” he said, ignoring the other’s question, nodding at Sieun’s hand. “Wouldn’t want it to get infected. We need those hands, right? For defending your delicate honor.”

Sieun said nothing.

But as Seongje turned back and disappeared toward the staff building, a thought slipped in under his defenses,

‘Why did the staff let him talk like that?

Why did Gitae back off so easily?

Why didn’t anyone say anything to him?’

And why, when he smiled like that, did it feel less like joy and more like a warning?

By the time Sieun returned to the dormitory, the sky had dimmed into a dull, purplish haze, neither light nor dark, like the world had paused somewhere between days. His palms still burned faintly, and a weak bandage was wrapped tight around the worst cut, slapped on by a nurse who hadn’t even looked him in the eye.

Dinner had been uneventful. More cafeteria trays, the murmur of fake thugs laughing too loud at jokes no one else found funny. Seongje didn’t sit with him, but Sieun felt his presence anyway, like a shadow cast too long, always at the corner of his awareness.

Now, the halls were quieter. Not silent— never silent. There was always the hum of lights, the echo of someone’s footsteps, the clink of metal somewhere far off, like the building itself refused to sleep.

After going to the bathroom, Sieun pushed open the door to 202. Inside, the window illuminated the room, it smelled faintly of cigarettes and mint. Seongje wasn’t there.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t.

But he still paused, staring at the unmade bed across the room, the open drawer, the lopsided curtain that hadn’t been fixed since they got there. Little signs of someone who refused structure. Or maybe didn’t believe it mattered.

He changed into his sleep clothes slowly, with his back to the door. The motion of pulling his shirt over his shoulders felt heavier than it should’ve. His muscles ached, not just from the labor, but from something deeper, something coiled and festering in his chest.

He sat on the bed, eyes fixed on a crack in the paint on the opposite wall. It reminded him of something. A hospital ceiling, maybe. The night Suho nearly died.

Back then, he hadn’t slept for two days. Just sat beside the bed, listening to the beeping of the machines, watching Suho’s chest rise and fall as if the world depended on it.

Sometimes it felt like it had.

A sound snapped him out of the memory.

The door creaked.

Seongje entered like he’d just come from a party. Hair windblown. Strong Cigarette. Shirt slightly damp, as if he’d been outside.

No one was supposed to leave the dorms after lights out.

“Why were you out?” Sieun asked dryly.

Seongje blinked, then smirked. “You jealous?”

Sieun didn’t respond.

Seongje threw himself onto his bed, arms behind his head, gazing at the ceiling like he was trying to find patterns in it.

Silence. Until,

“You’re quieter than usual” he said. “Rough day?”

Sieun turned his body to the other side. “Go to sleep.”

A moment passed. Then another. Then the soft shuffle of movement.

But instead of silence, Seongje kept talking.

“You should be more careful. Gitae is not smart enough to play pretend, you know. If he wanted to hit you, he would’ve.”

Sieun exhaled slowly. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” A pause. “But you look good when you’re angry.”

“Get therapy.”

Seongje laughed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cruel. It was quiet and real, and somehow that made it worse.

“Already do,” he said. “Three times a week. It’s in the rules, remember?”

“Yeah, but the rules don’t seem to apply to you, do they? No classes. No chores. Come and go whenever you want. You act like this place is a hotel.”

Seongje raised his eyebrows, mock-impressed. “Aw. You’ve been keeping tabs on me. That’s cute.”

Sieun didn’t answer.

But Seongje’s smirk faded just slightly. Something quieter settled into the space between them. Not softer. Just heavier.

Sieun rolled over to face the wall. He didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to hear his voice slithering into his brain like it belonged there.

But the silence didn’t last.

“I used to wonder what made people snap,” Seongje said softly, like he was talking to the ceiling. “Turns out it’s not that complicated. It’s just silence. Loneliness. Watching someone you care about get crushed while everyone else calls it a lesson.”

Sieun froze.

He didn’t know if it was a coincidence. Or a knife.

He didn’t ask.

But in the dark, he heard Seongje shift again, then murmur,

“You’ll crack too, Sieun. You’re already getting there.”

A pause. Just long enough to breathe.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there when it happens.”

And then, like nothing had been said, Seongje rolled over and went still.

Sieun stared at the wall for a long time, eyes wide open.

He wasn’t scared.

That’s what he told himself.

But it was getting harder to tell the difference between fear and whatever Seongje was putting inside him.

He rolled over again, looking at the ceiling now. Still couldn’t sleep.

But he dreamed anyway.

Of wires and white sheets. Of blood on concrete. Of Seongje’s smile lingering behind every locked door in this place.

And somewhere, beneath all of that, Suho’s voice.

Calling his name.

Chapter Text

It started with sound.

It wasn’t loud, just the gentle scrape of shoes on linoleum, echoing down a long, empty corridor that Sieun didn’t remember entering. The world around him felt dim, submerged in the kind of twilight that never turns into morning. The lights above blinked in and out, humming softly, like they were tired.

Lockers stretched down the walls, old, dented things, painted a sickly gray-green. Most were slightly open. All of them breathing. Slow, hollow creaks like whispers.

He was walking. Or drifting. He couldn’t tell. His limbs didn’t feel quite attached to him.

The silence around him was thick, like cotton shoved in his ears. But underneath it, something pulsed. A heartbeat. Maybe his own. Or maybe the corridor’s.

Then he saw him.

At the far end of the hall — Suho.

Still. Facing him.

Sieun froze. The air seemed to collapse in on itself. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. It was Suho, unmistakably. Even in this washed-out, colorless place, the shape of him was so familiar it hurt. His red shirt, the open summer uniform, the slight slouch in his posture, the hands at his sides — open, waiting.

“Suho….”

It barely left his lips. The word felt foreign in his mouth. Like saying it might shatter something.

But Suho didn’t smile. Didn’t move.

His face was blurry, like someone had smudged him with their thumb.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

The words didn’t match the lips. They fell from the space between them. Flat, delayed, and wrong.

Sieun stepped forward. “I did. I tried—”

But the hallway stretched. The space between them grew longer, more impossible with each step. The floor bent under his weight like rubber, soft and wrong.

Suho stayed where he was, still and waiting. But his features kept slipping, one second clear, the next warped. And in the silence, something cracked open behind him.

A locker door.

Then another.

And another.

Until all of them slammed shut at once, like a thousand fists.

The sound hit Sieun like a blow. He staggered, hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut.

When he opened them again—

Suho was gone.

And Seongje stood in his place.

He looked…normal. But only at first.

Too still. Too calm. Like a photograph of a person, not the person themselves. His smile was soft, but his eyes held no kindness. His gaze was locked on Sieun. Hungry, knowing.

“Always too late.” he murmured.

Then the lights above burst, one by one, plunging the hallway into darkness.

Sieun tried to move, to crawl back, but the floor was melting now, dragging him down like tar. His hands sank into it, sticky and hot, burning his skin. Seongje stepped closer, but the more he approached, the more his features distorted, his face split, warped, eyes multiplying, teeth stretching across his cheeks like cracks in a mask.

Then,

He woke with a choked breath.

The ceiling above him was real. Plain. Solid. The quiet hum of the old air unit near the window grounded him.

But his heart felt wrong. Too fast.

He sat up slowly, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

The dorm room was quiet, faintly blue in the early predawn.

And Seongje’s bed…was empty.

Untouched, even.

Sieun stared at it for a long moment, feeling the weight of something nameless on his chest. Not fear exactly. Not anger. A pressure. Familiar. Inescapable.

He swung his legs over the bed and sat there, elbows on his knees, still catching up to the fact that he was awake.

Suho’s voice still echoed in his head.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

And no matter how many times he told himself it was just a dream, something inside him answered back,

I did.
I did.
I did. But it was already too late.

The clock on the nightstand read 4:43 AM.

Too early. But Sieun knew sleep wouldn’t come again.

He slipped into some casual clothing quietly, not bothering to match one another. The fabric still held the smell of soap from his home laundry, but beneath it, faintly, something institutional, sterile. The kind of scent that clung to places like this.

Outside the room, the hallway was drowned in half-darkness. Cold air seeped from the ventilation grates like breath. He padded past the closed doors of other boys’ rooms, feet barely making a sound against the dull, polished concrete floor.

The main bathroom was at the end of the hall.

A windowless square of flickering lights and damp tile.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the muggy space.

Low ceilings. Rows of stalls. Two cracked mirrors above rust-stained sinks. The smell, metallic, bleach, and mildew.

Someone had left one of the showers running. A thin line of steam curled along the ceiling, making everything feel closer, heavier.

Sieun walked to the last sink and turned the faucet. Cold water sputtered out, icy against his skin. He let it run over his wrists for a moment— his pulse was still racing. He needed to breathe, needed to wash the dream off of him like it was something physical.

Somewhere near the showers, voices.

Muffled at first. Then rising.

“—I told you not to fucking talk back to me.”

It wasn’t yelling. But it was edged. Controlled, like someone who wanted to keep it quiet but couldn’t stop the heat from leaking through.

Another voice followed. Softer. Shaking.

“I didn’t— I didn’t say anything—”

A wet thud. Not quite a hit, but something hitting something. A body against tile.

Sieun froze, water still running over his fingers.

“Think you’re clever now, huh? Talking shit about me to that idiot therapist like you’re a fucking victim?”

More silence. Then a quiet, choked breath. Like someone was trying very hard not to cry.

“If you say one more word about me, I’ll snap your teeth on the floor. Got it?”

Sieun turned off the faucet. Slowly. Deliberately. His shoulders were stiff.

Then, his reflection caught something behind him. Movement.

He looked up.

Sieun recognised one of them, tall, dark-haired, room 205. He was dragging the other boy by the collar out from behind the corner of the shower stalls. The smaller one, probably no older than fourteen, looked dazed. Face blotchy, one cheek already red.

He didn’t say a word.

The taller boy noticed him then.

Their eyes met.

The hallway’s silence seemed to crawl into the bathroom.

For a beat, no one moved. The water kept dripping. The lights buzzed overhead.

Sieun calmly grabbed the towel from the counter, dried his hands, and walked past them, close enough to hear the taller boy’s breath hitch.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

But he caught it anyway. A single muttered line as he passed, under the boy’s breath,

“…shouldn’t have let him go up a floor.”

That was it. But it stuck in his head like a thorn.

A few seconds later, Sieun was back in the hallway, walking faster now. His skin was cold despite the wet heat of the bathroom. His stomach turned, but not out of fear. Something else.

So there were rules. But they didn’t apply to everyone.
And people got away with things, if they were clever (or scary) enough.

Back in Room 202, the bed across from his was still empty.

He dressed his uniform slowly, methodically. Let his hands move on autopilot. His brain was still processing what he’d heard. Still chewing on the quiet violence in the bathroom.

The boy hadn’t screamed.

He knew better.

At 5:59 AM, the lock clicked in the hallway.

Then came the soft clack of heels against tile.

Sieun stood still in the middle of the room as Ms. Kang passed by, clipboard in hand. Her white blouse immaculate. Hair pinned up. She glanced into every room, one after the other, peering through narrow slits between the door and the frame.

She didn’t knock. She didn’t speak. She just confirmed (visually) that each room on the second floor was occupied.

When her shadow crossed the doorway of Room 202, she paused.

Her eyes lingered just a second too long.

Sieun didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Then she continued walking, her footsteps fading away down the hall.

He didn’t know if she noticed the empty bed.
Or if she noticed it and simply didn’t care.

Either way, she didn’t say a word.

At 6:20, Sieun left the building.

The cold morning air bit against his skin. Gray skies pressed down on the roofs of the dorms. Somewhere distant, someone was already raking leaves. The scent of burned trees drifted from the mess hall.

“Good morning, early bird.” 

Jinwoo appeared behind him while walking out of the dormitory. The gravel crunched under their shoes, the silence of the early hour wrapping around them like fog. The sky was still bruised with the last traces of night, pale blue just beginning to break at the horizon.

Jinwoo shoved his hands in his pockets. “You always up this early, or did the haunted dorm beds get to you?” 

Sieun didn’t laugh. Just that blank, unreadable stare he gave at everything. But he didn’t push Jinwoo away either. Instead he responded “Good morning…” 

They passed the utility shed, the broken vending machine that still somehow had power, and the skeletal outline of the fence beyond the trees.

“Place is creepy early in the morning,” Jinwoo said, yawning. “But something about it it’s kinda’ comforting, maybe is the silence, you know. Being away from the big city.”

“You talk a lot for someone who likes silence.”

“Exactly. I fill the space.” He laughed then paused and glanced sideways. “You sleep okay?”

Sieun looked up to Jinwoo. Who was zipping up his hoodie, his hair still damp from a shower, a few drops of water running down his neck “Yeah,” he said, not meaning it. “How about you?”

“Not really. My roommate never shuts up” he said casually. “It’s really weird, I think he sleep-talks. Screams sometimes.”

Sieun glanced at him but didn’t answer.

Jinwoo didn’t need encouragement.

“Nice guy when awake. But at night? Whole other story.” He grinned, rubbing his eyes. “I think he dreamed about drowning once. Scared the shit out of me.”

Sieun didn’t laugh. But he kept walking, and Jinwoo followed.

They walked for a while in silence. The sun hadn’t fully broken through the clouds yet. Looking at the cast in shades of gray-blue, the world looking drained and too still.

Then Jinwoo suddenly talked “Yesterday, I asked him to tell me more about here. He said some weird things, though. About…people here.”

A pause.

Sieun didn’t answer, but Jinwoo could tell he was listening.

“He’s been here before” Jinwoo said, quieter now. “Last summer. Said nothing’s really changed, except that now they’ve put even worse people in.” He glanced sideways at Sieun. “He warned me about one guy specifically.”

Another pause.

“You can guess who.”

Sieun didn’t need to guess.

“He told me ‘Don’t talk to him. Don’t look at him. Don’t even breathe too loud if he’s around.’” Jinwoo chuckled under his breath, but it wasn’t amused. “Apparently there’s a rule. An unofficial one. If you stare too long, he counts in his head. Three seconds. After that, he’ll do something.”

Sieun finally looked at him, remembering his first encounter with Seongje.“Three seconds?”

“Yeah. Three seconds. Crazy right? My roommate swears he saw it happen. Says a dude on the third floor once made a joke at him during lunch and Seongje cracked his jaw. No warning, no yelling. Just boom.” Jinwoo made a quick snapping motion with his hands.

Jinwoo then smirked. “There’s a whole mythology around that guy. Half the kids here think he’s untouchable. The other half think he’s just a rumour in a body. My roommate said last year Seongje was on the third floor. Same room all summer. Never got written up. Never got punished. Nobody messed with him.”

‘But he’s not even on the third floor anymore.’ Sieun thought.

“I know,” Jinwoo said. Like reading his mind “Him going down to second floor is the the weirdest part. Some say it’s punishment. Others say it’s protection for someone else. Or that he asked for it.” he signed “All the third-floor psychos, the real unhinged ones, even they steer clear of him unless is him calling them. And yet he’s in our floor. Our hallway.” He laughed again, uneasy. “Room 202. Kinda’ poetic if you think about it.”

Sieun didn’t respond. His expression didn’t change, but something subtle tightened at the edges. He remembered the silence last night. The strange calm Seongje always wore like a second skin. The way Gitae backed down without being told to. The way no one, none of the adults, had even looked twice at Seongje walking in past lights-out.

“Honestly,” Jinwoo added, “he gives me psycho vibes. Your roommate, no offense.”

“No offense taken.”

They kept walking. The cafeteria building loomed ahead, already lit from the inside, steam rising faintly through the vents.

Jinwoo kicked a pebble down the gravel path.
“But hey,” he said. “If you ever do end up fighting him, blink fast. That’s my advice.”

Sieun didn’t answer. But his mind wasn’t still.

He was replaying each interaction with Seongje. That lazy smirk. The way he spoke to the staff, like he was mocking the whole system just by existing inside it. The absence of fear in his eyes. The total refusal to fit.

He hadn’t hit Sieun. Hadn’t shoved him. Hadn’t raised his voice.

But that didn’t make him safe. Not at all.

It made him worse.

Sieun remembered school. The way bullies moved in groups, but the worst ones never had to lift a finger. Power wasn’t about shouting. It was quiet. Waiting. Watching.

If Seongje was so feared, so dangerous, then why hadn’t he done anything?

The morning passed.

Quietly. Mechanically.

Sieun didn’t register the exact order of events. Just that breakfast had been bland, the chairs too cold, and Jinwoo too talkative for the hour. He half-listened. Nodded when it felt right. The hum of the cafeteria, the scrape of trays, someone muttering across the room. It all slipped in and out of focus like a bad signal.

The walk to class felt shorter than usual. Or maybe he was just getting used to the layout. His body moved faster than his thoughts.

Inside the classroom, time stalled again.

The staff called it a ‘restorative education module.’ But really, it was just worksheets. Paragraphs to fill. Moral scenarios to dissect. What would you do if you saw someone steal? Why is honesty important in a group setting?

Sieun circled answers like he was preparing for an exam that had already failed him.

The boy to his left was asleep. Another spent the whole hour clicking his pen until someone finally took it and broke it in half.

Nobody reacted.

By the second period, Sieun stopped pretending to care about the handouts. He copied down the date. Drew a faint box around it. Watched the minute hand crawl.

There was no talking. Not unless a staff member asked a direct question, and even then the answers were recycled. What did we learn about respect? What did we learn about impulse control?

We learned that nobody meant any of it.

At some point, the bell rang. It wasn’t a real bell, just a buzzer, dull and low like a warning hum. Everyone stood, stretched, shuffled out.

Sieun followed, eyes unfocused, jaw set.

No one had bothered him that morning. No one had touched him. No staff called his name.

But somehow, his shoulders were still tense. His fists still ached from clenching.

It wasn’t peace. Just quiet.

And quiet, in a place like this, always meant something was waiting.

He stepped outside into the late morning air. The sun was warm now. Too warm for how stiff everything felt.

Afternoon work detail would start soon.

After lunch, the sun hung high, bleached and unsparing. The kind of sky that made everything beneath it look small, insignificant, like the world was being examined under a microscope. Shadows fell short and dark across the courtyard, and the boys moved in tired clusters, the silence between them filled only with the gravel crunch of worn-out sneakers.

Sieun didn’t speak. Jinwoo gave him a short nod as they reached the split in the path behind the main building. “Good luck,” he muttered, already peeling off toward the greenhouse for his assigned duty.

Sieun veered left, heading for a rusted metal sign that read “YARD DEBRIS – CLEARING ZONE 2.”

The area was rough terrain, half weeds, half cracked cement, scattered with old buckets, broken rakes, and one overturned wheelbarrow with something unidentifiable growing out of it. It was far enough behind the dorms that no staff member would wander by unless called.

He bent down to grab the bucket when he stumbles at someone behind him. It wasn’t hard, but it was deliberate.

Sieun stood, slowly.

“Watch where you go fucker” said the guy who he stumbled at. 

The name tag: Lee Hyunwoo, 302

He was bigger, broader, a short bang that exposed his forehead and a jaw that looked like it had been clenched since birth. 

Two boys flanked him — Kim Eunseo and Eunbyul, 303 — twins, tattoos on the neck, chewing gum, performing hardness like a routine they practiced in front of a mirror. Sieun remembers seeing them yesterday at the canteen.

Sieun just stared.

“You deaf, pretty boy?” The guy asked. “Or just stupid?”

Sieun didn’t blink.

“Yo” one of the twins grinned. “He just straight-up ignored you, Hyun.”

“That’s rude” the other added, still chewing. “We don’t like rude people.”

Sieun turned his back to them and picked up a rake.

Wrong move.

Hyunwoo stepped forward and knocked the rake from his hands. “You think you’re better than me, huh?”

Silence. But not fear.

Just that low heat again, rising behind Sieun’s chest like something ancient.

“If you think you’re all that,” Hyunwoo continued “Let’s have a lil’ chat then.” 

Sieun didn’t follow them because he was scared.

He followed because something in him wanted the excuse.

Behind the building was a narrow gravel alley where weeds grew between chunks of broken tile. A collapsed wooden fence half-covered a concrete wall. No eyes. No cameras. Only ghosts.

The second they were out of sight, Hyunwoo turned.

“You wanna act like a bitch? Fine. Let’s see how tough you are when no one’s watching.”

He saw one twin circled to the right, chewing like he was bored.

The other one cracked his knuckles and muttered “He’s Seongje’s new roommate. Thinks that makes him special.”

Hyunwoo’s face twitched at that. “Oh? You friends with him?”

Sieun didn’t answer.

His silence wasn’t a defense. It was a fuse.

”Guess that’s a no then.” 

Hyunwoo smiled and launched the first punch.

It was telegraphed. Sloppy.

Sieun easily ducked it, felt the wind of it slice past his ear. His body moved before thought caught up weeks of buried violence curling to the surface like smoke.

He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.

He just saw red.

His hand closed around a rusted pipe segment that lay half-hidden beneath an old trash bin.

Heavy, cold, familiar.

He swung.

A scream came sharp and immediate. The metal met Hyunwoo’s side with a dull, hollow thud. The older boy doubled over, coughing hard, spitting. 

The twins didn’t hesitate.

Eunseo lunged. Sieun twisted, caught him by the arm, and threw him sideways into the wall. The kid’s shoulder cracked against the concrete with a yell, and he dropped like wet laundry.

The other grabbed him from behind, tried to wrestle him into a headlock.

Sieun bent his knees, shifted his weight, and drove his elbow backwards into ribs.

Once.

Twice.

The grip loosened, he turned and smashed the pipe across the boy’s forearm. The boy screamed, went down.

Breath heaving.

Red clouding the edges of his vision.

Then Hyunwoo came back.

Rage in his eyes. Blood smeared across his cheek. His whole body was a punch waiting to land.

But Sieun was already moving.

He dropped the pipe, closed the distance, and brought his head down, fast and brutal, into Hyunwoo’s nose.

It cracked. Loud and wet.

Hyunwoo dropped to his knees with a loud “FUCK—“

Sieun didn’t stop.

He grabbed Hyunwoo by the front of the shirt, slammed him against the floor, and punched him. Once. Twice. A third time.

Fists. Skin. Bone.

It all blurred.

By the time he stepped back, his knuckles were scraped raw. Blood slicked the rusted pipe, the gravel, his sleeves. The other two were on the ground, moaning, barely moving.

Sieun stood over them.

Shaking.

Breathing like an engine.

Not because he was afraid.

But because it wasn’t enough.

That darkness, the slow-burn fury that had nested in his chest since that day, since the call from the hospital telling Suho’s situation, his world went sideways, it wasn’t satisfied.

It wanted more.

And stopped.

Smoke. The soft burn of Marlboro.

He turned.

Seongje was standing ten feet away, half-shadowed by the the building, lighting a cigarette like he’d just wandered into a movie scene and was wondering how it’d end. Jacket open, wind teasing the fabric, and his expression was unreadable, but his eyes were focused.

Right on Sieun.

He took a drag and exhaled slow. “Didn’t peg you for a hothead, honey”

Sieun frowned but didn’t say anything. His pulse was still slamming against his eardrums.

The blood on his hands was warm. Sticky.

“You swing like someone who’s been waiting a long time,” Seongje added. “You’re a lot more fun than you look.”

Sieun walked slowly, scraper hanging from his hand. The boys behind him were groaning, one barely moving.

He didn’t look at them.

He looked at Seongje.

And for the first time, he saw something real in the other boy’s face. Not amusement, not cruelty.

Recognition.

Like watching someone else finally speak the same silent language.

Seongje smiled around the cigarette.

“I’m getting even more excited.”

Then he turned and walked away, smoke trailing behind him like a ghost that wouldn’t leave.

Sieun didn’t move for a long time.

He just stood there, hands still shaking, surrounded by blood and gravel, breathing like the air was thicker now. He didn’t feel victorious. He didn’t even feel angry anymore.

He felt… awake.

Sieun crouched by the pile of broken wood and dirt, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped the grime and blood from his knuckles on the worn fabric of his pants. The sting beneath the scratches was sharp, but it grounded him, reminding him that he was still here, still alive, still fighting.

Around him, the yard buzzed with a cautious silence. The usual murmurs and jeers that filled the air earlier had dimmed to whispers. Curious, cautious and wary. He could feel their eyes on him, slicing through the heat of the afternoon sun like blades. Yet no one stepped forward to challenge or confront him again. Not yet.

A bitter taste settled in his mouth. This wasn’t victory, not really. It was a warning shot, an accident waiting to explode. The kind of fight that shifted something invisible but heavy in the air.

Sieun stood slowly, muscles aching, every movement raw and slow. The cracked concrete underfoot seemed sharper, the shadows longer and darker. He gathered his tools without haste, carefully stacking the battered rake against the fence. His breath came steady but tight, as if the fight had drained something deeper than just his energy.

Inside, the dorm felt heavier, the stale air thick with silence. Sieun didn’t answer when a few boys glanced his way, some with envy, some with grudging respect, others with barely concealed resentment. He didn’t want their looks. He didn’t want their words.

He slipped into the shared bathroom alone, the harsh lights humming overhead. The air was colder than it should be, the showers lined in a row like cold metal sentinels. The faint drip of leaking pipes echoed through the hollow space.

Stripping off his bloodied shirt, and the thin bandage from the day before, he turned the shower knob, and hot water surged out, washing over him like a brief promise of relief. The warmth soothed the aches, but the weight in his chest didn’t lift. 

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the flow and the way the water traced patterns down his skin, cleansing without judgment.

But his mind refused to quiet.

He thought of the three boys. Their sneering faces, the calculated way they’d tried to intimidate him. Their reasons were clear now, disrespect for not answering their calls, for not fitting into their fragile pecking order. Yet it was deeper. It was about control. About who was allowed to exist without fear here.

And then there was Seongje.

That ghostly figure who watched everything with a crooked smile, who didn’t follow rules but somehow owned them all.

Sieun shivered despite the heat, the thought twisting inside him like a thorn.

He stayed under the water until the warmth turned tepid, then stepped out slowly, droplets tracing cold paths down his skin. Toweling off, he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror. A face bruised but unbroken, eyes unreadable and deep eye bags that told the story of endless sleepless nights.

He dressed quickly and padded back to his room, the hallway dim and empty. The silence was thick, almost suffocating.

Dinner was already underway in the dining hall, the distant sounds of chatter and clinking dishes echoing faintly through the walls. But Sieun didn’t want it, not tonight.

He slipped inside his room and closed the door with a quiet click.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his mind racing with fragments, fragments of fights, whispers, rules, and threats. The truth about this place was settling around him like dust, heavy and unavoidable.

Sieun then laid down, closed eyes. Hoping that  he could fall sleep.

But he didn’t need to.

Because beneath all the noise, all the fear and tension, a fierce pulse beat steady inside him. One he had to learn how to control, or else be consumed by.

The sun bled out over the horizon, the rooftop swallowed in the bruised orange of dusk. Concrete cracked underfoot, dust stirring in the air as Seongje sat with brutal weight pressing down on Hyunwoo’s back. Hyunwoo was laid down, shoulders hunched and trembling just enough to show the fear beneath the fatigue. The skin on his palms and face scraped raw against the coarse surface, but he didn’t dare move.

Nearby, the twins, completely bruised, down on the pavement like statues, eyes flicking nervously between Hyunwoo and the ground. The silence stretched long and thick, a dense fog of something unsaid, something too dangerous to voice.

Seongje dragged deeply on his cigarette, the embers glowing like a slow burn in the gathering dark. He exhaled, smoke curling and twisting like a serpent before fading into the air.

His voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Fucking idiots,” voice low and rough, like gravel sliding down a slope “Can’t even follow one fucking rule.” 

He took a long drag, exhaling a haze of smoke that curled upward like a warning. His eyes scanned the rooftop, not really seeing the beaten men beneath him.

“No one fuckin’ touches my shit. Not here. Not ever.” He rocked slightly on Hyunwoo’s back, the weight a quiet reminder.

The words weren’t loud, but they carried a cold promise wrapped in a threat. Nothing explicit, but the weight of it settled heavy in the air.

Seongje inhaled again, smoke curling around his lips like a dark secret. Then, his gaze drifted down to the three, bodies broken but stubborn, still trying to cling to pride they’d already lost.

A slow, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, something almost like interest, or hunger. 

“Finally,” he breathed out, the word drawn slow, smoke curling with it. “Something fucking entertaining in this shit hole.”

His gaze wasn’t on them anymore. Not really. It drifted, somewhere past the broken fence line and the rusted stairwell, farther than the eye could see.

“You’re all fuckers, you know?” he added absently, almost amused. “But I’ll give you this, watching him like that?”

A crooked grin cracked its way across his face.

“Helped the eyes. Real fuckin’ soothing.”

A long silence followed, but it wasn’t peace. It was a weight.
 
He tapped the cigarette ash off onto Hyunwoo’s shoulder without looking. Shifting off his back, leaving the broken and beaten behind him.

Without looking back, he whispered, barely audible—

“We’ll see what he’s really made of.”

Without another word, he melted into the growing shadows, leaving only the faint scent of smoke and blood behind.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed fast. Faster than Sieun expected. Not because anything was happening, but because nothing was.

No one said anything about the fight. Not in passing, not in whispers, only in glances that lingered long enough to mean something. And that silence, it wasn’t ignorance or avoidance. It was fear.

Sieun felt it like static on his skin, like that weightless pressure in a room just before a storm. But he noticed the way some boys shifted when he passed. How their eyes snapped away a second too late. How Hyunwoo and the twins reappeared at meals and in work rotations, faces bruised beyond what Sieun remembered doing. Beyond what he thought was even possible in a single fight. One had a split lip so deep it looked like a second mouth. Another had stitches in the back of his scalp.

He didn’t ask questions.

Not because he didn’t want answers, but because asking meant inviting something closer. And he’d learned the hard way that some things, once invited, didn’t leave.

Instead, Sieun buried himself in routine.

He woke up early, always alone. Seongje’s bed empty more often than not. No trace of when he left, no indication of where he went. Just the faintest scent of smoke that clung to the curtain rod and wouldn’t wash out.

Sieun showered before most of the others. The bathroom, always dim and humming with mildew, was at least quiet when he got there early. He dressed. Walked to breakfast. Found Jinwoo already waiting most days, usually playing with the edge of a napkin or talking to one of the second-floor boys with too many teeth and too little sense.

They never mentioned the fight.

But he saw the glare that Jinwoo gave him when he saw him the day after. He smiled, laughed, chatted like usual. As if he hadn’t heard what everyone else clearly had. As if he didn’t know that three upper-floor boys had been sent back to their rooms with black eyes and a collective limp. But the worry on his eyes told him the opposite. Sieun wanted to believe that he just didn’t want to know. Or maybe that he knew too much to talk about it. 

But it was Jinwoo, in the short time they knew each other, it was obvious that the boy was aware of everything. And if he didn’t know about it, he would found a way to find out about it.

But even with that, their conversations stayed light. With jokes about the food. Rumours about a boy who got caught trying to fake a seizure to escape a therapy session. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. Sometimes they just sat, watching the plastic trays of powdered eggs and grey oatmeal pass like clockwork.

Then came the classes: Math or history first, behavioural theory after, and then ‘reformation group’ discussions before lunch. Hours of sitting upright, hands folded, listening to lectures about empathy, choices, and ‘responsibility for action’ from instructors who spoke like old motivational videos.

After lunch, they split.

Jinwoo went to the kitchen team. Sieun handled groundskeeping. He raked the same patch of gravel. Swept the same concrete steps. Picked weeds that never stayed dead. The work was forceful but still easy, mindless. Good for letting time slip by without meaning anything.

Dinner came. More meaningless conversations. More tasteless food. Then back to the dorms.

Seongje was never there.

Sometimes Sieun caught glimpses of him. A figure by the fence line, leaning against the brick with a cigarette half-smoked. Once, he saw him laughing with one of the staff members. Another time, coming down the stairs with one of the third-floor guys, bruised knuckles and silent.

But they didn’t speak. Not once. Not after the fight. And strangely, Sieun was fine with it.

He liked the quiet. Liked not having to decode whatever strange hierarchy pulsed beneath this place. Liked not having to wonder if Seongje would explode or joke or stare through him like he was some kind of enigma to solve with violence.

Still…. even silence had a shape. And Seongje’s absence took up space. A shape Sieun couldn’t quite ignore.

Something was watching. Even when nothing moved.

It was Saturday. Weekends here meant a (barely) break from the rigid schedule. An extra hour of sleep, a little less surveillance. And, for those who wanted it, an hour to either use the ancient computers lab or make a monitored call home.

Sieun didn’t want either. The idea of sitting in front of a screen under flickering lights or holding a cracked phone receiver while someone listened in didn’t exactly feel like relief. But letting the hour pass without doing anything felt worse, like letting them win, somehow. So he stood in line. Quiet. Blank-faced. And when it was his turn, he gave the name of the only person it made sense to call.

His mother.

The phone was heavy in his hand, yellowed plastic, worn smooth by hundreds of anxious fingers. The staff member at the desk nodded once, clicked something on their clipboard, and turned away just enough to pretend this wasn’t being recorded.

He sat down slowly, pressing the receiver to his ear. It rang once. Then twice. Then—

“Hello?”

Her voice was flat. Cautious. Like she hadn’t expected him to actually call.

“Yeah. It’s me.” Sieun said.

A pause.

“Sieun…are you okay?”

He could hear her trying not to sound guilty. It didn’t work. The silence stretched long enough to make it awkward.

“I’m fine.” he said. “It’s whatever.”

Another pause.

“Are they treating you well?”

“Well enough.”

“Sieun.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to act like this.”

He stared at the wall. Someone had etched a name into the metal beside the desk. Half scratched out.

“You sent me here. What do you want me to act like?”

A longer silence.

“I didn’t know what else to do. After what happened —”

“Yeah, I remember. I was there.”

“Sieun…”

He leaned back slightly, the receiver warming against his cheek. “I’m not getting into trouble. I’m eating. Sleeping. Whatever you want to hear, just imagine I said it.”

“I want to hear the truth.”

“No, you don’t.”

It wasn’t angry. Just tired.

She didn’t argue.

Eventually, she said, quieter now, “I just wanted you to be somewhere safe.”

‘Yeah. Me too.’ Sieun thought, but couldn’t bring himself to voice it.

Neither of them said anything after that. The silence between them wasn’t the worst part. It was how used to it he was.

When the staff tapped the edge of the desk, a signal that his time was up, he didn’t wait.

“Bye mom I need to go.”

“Sieun—”

But he’d already hung up.

The chair creaked as he stood, the weight of the room resettling on his shoulders like it never left.

The chair creaked as he stood, the weight of the room settling back onto his shoulders like an old coat he never took off. As he stepped out into the hall, the sharp, too-clean air hit him, and without meaning to, his mind drifted back to his last therapy session, buried somewhere in the middle of the week like a bruise he hadn’t bothered to touch.

It came without warning, just his name called by Ms. Kang, followed by a long walk to a room colder and too white, like even the air had been sanitised. Ms. Cha, the same from the group therapy, was already waiting, pen poised like a weapon, her smile rehearsed. She asked questions, one after another, steady, deliberate. About his habits, his thoughts, his childhood. All in that calm, coaxing tone that was supposed to sound kind but didn’t. Sieun answered them quietly, giving just enough to pass. Not rude. Not defensive. But closed off, like someone who knew exactly how much to reveal without ever handing anything over.

She kept trying, nudging at his history, waiting for something raw to show. When she asked about his family, he said little. Just that they were “around.” And technically, they were, just not in any of the ways that mattered. His father was more of a presence than a person, orbiting his life in silent. His mother had been absent so long he’d listened to her more on the video classes than on their phone calls. He has been alone since before he even had the words to name it.

But he didn’t say that out loud. He just stared past her, expression smooth as glass, and answered with things she could write down without understanding.

Besides the call with his mother that morning, Sieun had assumed the day would unfold like the others, steady, quiet, forgettable. The kind of Saturday that passed without leaving any marks behind. He had already made loose plans with Jinwoo to kill time in the study room, a hollow excuse for a library tucked between two staff offices, its shelves half-filled with outdated textbooks and thin paperbacks that smelled like dust and bleach.

It was a habit they’d fallen into. Not a friendship exactly, just a rhythm. Jinwoo always pretending not to care where they went, Sieun pretending he hadn’t already decided.

He walked the hallway like usual, eyes lowered just enough to avoid eye contact but high enough to catch anything dangerous. Nothing was ever quiet here, not truly, but there was a dullness to the air today. The kind that wrapped around your shoulders like wet cloth. Bleached floors. Low fluorescent hum. The faint smell of whatever passed for lunch in the cafeteria bleeding from under the kitchen doors.

He didn’t expect anything to be different.

His hand touched the door to Room 202, mind already elsewhere, how long he’d tolerate the scratchy desk chair in the study room, whether Jinwoo would bring up the twins today, if the kid with the cast on his wrist would still be posted near the vending machines like a lost dog.

But the moment the door swung open, everything paused.

Seongje was there.

Sprawled across his bed, eyes open, barely, tracking the ceiling as if waiting for it to move first. But then Seongje turned his head lazily toward him, one arm behind his head, the other draped across his stomach like he had all the time in the world.

“Took you long enough.”

Sieun blinked once, then walked inside without replying. He picked one of his notebooks on the desk and sat down stiffly.

Seongje didn’t move at first. He just watched him, dark half-lidded eyes, smirk in place. Flicking over every little gesture, like he’d been waiting.

“What, no welcome back? I thought we were past the silent treatment phase.”

Sieun didn’t turn. “You weren’t here.”

“Oh, I was around. Maybe not at your beck and call, but I kept an eye out. Thought maybe you’d bother to do the same.”

Sieun opened the drawer beside him. “I didn’t notice.”

“Liar.” The word was sharp, but not angry. Amused. “You noticed. You always do.”

Sieun said nothing.

“I had some things to handle” Seongje said after a moment, voice dipping lower. Still light, but no longer just teasing. “Business. You know how it is. Had to put out some fires.”

Sieun didn’t know how it is. Didn’t ask. Didn’t care.

“Didn’t realize you were management.”

That earned a soft laugh. Barely audible. But it lingered. A slow, amused exhale that filled the room more than it should have.

“Well, someone’s gotta keep the gears turning in this place” Seongje said. “And I figured you’d be fine without me for a while. Looked like you found yourself a nice company.”

Sieun paused mid-motion.

He didn’t have to ask what Seongje meant. He already knew.

Seongje sat up straighter now, stretching his arms above his head, shirt riding slightly as he did. “You and that little mutt have been busy anyway. What’s his name again? Jinwook? Junwoo? He’s like a dog. Follows you around, eats your scraps, stares up at you like you invented gravity.”

Sieun turned to face him now. Slowly. Coldly. “Are you keeping tabs on me?”

“Who knows” Seongje said, leaning back on his palms. “It’s hard not to notice when my roommate suddenly has a shadow. Following him everywhere.”

Sieun’s jaw tightened. “You’re crazy.”

Seongje tilted his head, smiling. “Maybe I am. Didn’t realize I’d have to fight a stray one for your attention.””

Sieun looked back at his desk. “If you want attention, go bark somewhere else.”

“Ouch.” Seongje leaned back against the wall now. “You’ve got bite lately. Almost makes me wonder if you also missed me.”

Sieun’s tone didn’t change. “You’re not that hard to forget.”

That made Seongje laugh. Quietly, bitterly. “Cold. Even now.”

Seongje stood. Walked slowly across the room, each step calculated, deliberate. Sieun didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but he was watching, tense beneath the stillness.

The air in the room had shifted. Like a line had been drawn and no one knew which side they were on yet.

He reached out before Sieun could stop him. Fingers brushing Sieun’s cheekbone. Soft at first, tracing just beneath his eye, down along the edge of his bottom lip.

Sieun jerked back instinctively, but not fast enough.

“Don’t touch me” he said, low, dangerous.

Seongje grinned at that. “Cute.” His hand hovered in the air for a second longer, like he was testing how far he could push. Then he let it fall, stepping closer instead of away.

“You act like you don’t feel anything.” he murmured. “Like nothing gets in. But that twitch? That’s something .”

“You’re mistaking disgust for emotion.” Sieun snapped, voice still calm, but colder now.

“Oh, come on” Seongje whispered, leaning in, his breath brushing Sieun’s skin. “You didn’t miss me at all?”

“No.” Sieun said.

The word landed heavy.

Seongje didn’t smile this time. He just stood there for a moment. Studying him.

His hand rose again, slower this time, less teasing. His fingers brushing the air near Sieun’s chin. Not touching yet, just hovering close. Almost testing gravity.

Sieun pulled away. Sharper now. The chair creaked under him as he stood.

“I’m not your toy.”

“No.” Seongje smiled then said quietly. “You’re not.”

Something dark flickered in his eyes. Jealousy. Frustration. Something hungrier than either.

Then, all at once, he stepped back. The tension snapped like a string pulled too tight.

“Go play with your puppy,” he said, turning toward the door. “Maybe he likes it when you pretend you don’t care.”

The door clicked shut behind him, soft but final.

Sieun stood in the stillness he left behind. His pulse loud in his ears. The scent of smoke still hung in the air, faint and clinging like static.

He didn’t sit back down.

He didn’t move at all. Just exhaled.

Seongje stepped out of Room 202 without looking back. The door clicked softly behind him, almost polite. He slid his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants, thumbs hooking along the seams, and started walking. No sound but the slow, deliberate fall of his shoes against the linoleum floor.

He needed a cigarette. Not for the nicotine, not even for the ritual. Just something to do with his hands. Something to chase the aftertaste of that conversation.

Sieun had looked at him like he was a trap door. Like at any moment he might fall through. And for once, Seongje didn’t want him to.

Not yet.

He turned the corner, already replaying the way Sieun’s eyes flicked when he touched his face. Not startled. Just restrained. Like there was a storm under his soft skin he hadn’t named yet.

That’s when he saw him. Another figure moving at the end of the corridor.

The light caught first. Pale arms. Messy hair. Sport shoes slapping softly against the floor. Room 208’s door was just closing behind him.

The dog.

They were about the same height. Almost same build. But the energy was different. Jinwoo carried himself like someone used to hearing footsteps behind him, light, quiet, always a little too alert. He was walking toward Room 202, eyes on the floor.

Trying to pretend he didn’t notice him.

Didn’t work.

Jinwoo glanced up. Just for a second too long.

Seongje stopped walking and tilted his head, voice low and half-lazy. “Yo.”

Jinwoo froze. A pause. Then a careful nod. “Yes…?”

“Where you going?”

“Just— nowhere.”

“Nowhere, huh.” Seongje took a step forward, then another, until they stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the corridor. The air between them tightened. “Then let’s have a smoke”

The offer was casual. The tone wasn’t.

Jinwoo hesitated.

It wasn’t a long pause. Just enough to say everything he wasn’t saying.

Seongje watched it happen. That little war behind the eyes . ‘Say no and risk whatever comes with it, say yes and wonder why you’re still breathing next time’. Classic loser logic.

Jinwoo gave a small nod. “Sure.”

Seongje didn’t wait, already turning toward the stairwell at the end of the hallway.

Jinwoo followed.

They didn’t speak as they walked. The lights flickered once above them, humming faintly. The stairwell door groaned open on rusted hinges, and Seongje led the way up, shoes echoing on concrete steps.

One floor. Then two.

Jinwoo didn’t ask where they were going.

He knew.

And when Seongje pushed open the heavy door to the rooftop, the wind hit them like something alive.

Seongje lit his cigarette in silence, then offered Jinwoo one.

He didn’t light it right away.

Didn’t matter.

Seongje was already leaning against the ledge, eyes cast out over the landscape, but his attention was still on the boy beside him.

Jinwoo stood a few steps away from the ledge, cigarette untouched in his hand. He didn’t bring it to his lips. Just held it like a prop, fingers tight around it, knuckles pale.

Seongje smoked slowly, face against the wind. The smoke curled around his head, catching the strong sunlight in grey tendrils.

He took a long drag, exhaled through his nose, the smoke curling like ghost fingers. “You’re real quiet when it’s just us. But I hear you talk plenty when you think no one’s listening.”

Jinwoo glanced sideways. “What do you mean?”

“You know what i mean.” Seongje smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You and Sieun. Real cozy lately.”

“Look” Jinwoo muttered. “I don’t care about whatever this is. I just think that—” Jinwoo opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That if this is because I’m close with—”

Wrong answer.

Seongje’s fist cracked across his jaw before the sentence finished. Jinwoo stumbled sideways, one hand going to his face, but he barely had time to react before the next punch landed square in his stomach.

He bent forward. Seongje grabbed him by the hair, yanked him down, and slammed his knee into his chest.

There was no sound at first. Just a dull, wet crunch. Then Jinwoo choked, gasping for air that wouldn’t come fast enough.

Seongje didn’t let go.

“Fucking smartass,” Seongje hissed, voice flat and almost bored. “You think I give a shit about what you’re thinking? You think you can stand next to me and run your mouth?”

Jinwoo tried to pull away, arm flailing, but Seongje caught it and bent his head back.

“You follow people like a fucking dog” Seongje said low into his ear, “but you talk like a rat. That’s not a good combo.”

Jinwoo groaned, breathless.

“You think you’re close to him?” he asked, low. Not shouting. Just enough to be heard over the wind. “Think you can just walk around smiling, putting your nose where you can’t?”

Jinwoo tried to push him off. A flailing elbow caught Seongje’s ribs, weak and desperate.

It earned him a punch to the ribs that made his body fold.

Seongje let him drop.

Jinwoo hit the ground hard. He coughed, curling into himself. Seongje kicked him in the side once, then again, fast and hard.

“If you wanna get near him again,” Seongje said, crouching beside him, voice quiet “You’ll have to crawl to do it.”

He didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t want one. This wasn’t about conversation. It was about control.

He stood again, lit a second cigarette from the stub of the first.

Watched Jinwoo try, and fail, to pull himself upright.

He’d live. That wasn’t the point.

The point was when Sieun saw Jinwoo’s face. Eyes bruised, lip busted, walking like his ribs were cracked. Seongje wanted to see what Sieun would do.

Would he care?

Would he pretend not to?

Would he come asking questions?

And most of all—

Would he finally look at Seongje like he should have from the beginning?

He didn’t smile as he turned toward the stairs.

He didn’t need to.

The message was already written, and Jinwoo was going to carry it for him.

With every limp step he took.

Sieun sat on the edge of his bed, the room dim except for the low spill of dusk light bleeding through the curtains. His book was open in his lap, some worn paperback someone had left in the study room last week. He hadn’t touched the pages in ten minutes.

His eyes didn’t move across the words. His fingers weren’t turning anything.

He was waiting.

Jinwoo was supposed to meet him after his laundry chores. Same as usual. They were going to hit the study room, maybe skim through the shitty magazines stacked in the corner, maybe just sit there not speaking. The routine had formed quietly, comfortably, without discussion.

But now it was 45 minutes past when Jinwoo should’ve shown up, and the silence in Room 202 felt off . It wasn’t just the quiet. It was the way the clock ticked like it wanted to be heard. The way the hallway outside sounded too empty. The way Seongje hadn’t come back either.

Sieun stared at the door. His grip on the book tightened.

He didn’t like this feeling.

He wasn’t someone who panicked. But this wasn’t panic.

It was premonition .

He stood up.

Didn’t bother straightening the bed. Didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t already assuming the worst.

His feet moved without hesitation down the hall. He passed the staircase, ignoring the murmur of boys heading toward the common room. Walked with sharp steps through the dormitory corridor and into the study room. The lights buzzed overhead. The cracked chairs and lopsided desks were empty.

No Jinwoo.

Sieun scanned once. Twice.

The tightening in his chest wasn’t worry. Not yet.

It was a knowing.

Something wasn’t right.

He left the study room and began walking again. Methodically, like he was on patrol. Down one hallway. Across to the rec room. Back through the lower dorms, glancing briefly into every doorway, every open door. No sign. Not even an echo of footsteps. The sun that was strong had started to dip below the hills. Shadows began bled against the floor like bruises.

And then—

He saw him.

At the far end of the corridor, near the turn toward the infirmary wing, Jinwoo was limping. Not walking. Not stumbling. Just…. dragging.

One arm outstretched against the wall, leaving a faint smear behind, sweat, or blood, or both. His head was bowed low, breath labored like each inhale was sharpened glass.

For a second, everything inside Sieun stopped.

Like the hallway tilted sideways and dropped him into a void.

He didn’t remember moving.

Only that suddenly, he was running.

Past the flickering light. Past the warnings in his head.

Straight towards Jinwoo.

Jinwoo didn’t even look up when Sieun reached him. He was too focused on staying upright. His shoulder scraping the wall, knees barely holding. His cheek was red and swollen. His lower lip had split open and begun to crust, the color too dark to be fresh. There was a smear of blood at the corner of his eye, and his right sleeve was torn halfway down, hanging off like someone had tried to rip it off entirely.

“Jinwoo.” Sieun said, voice low, but sharp.

No response.

He took another step forward, grasped Jinwoo’s elbow, and the boy flinched hard like an animal that had forgotten what kindness felt like. That moment told Sieun more than any explanation could’ve. Someone didn’t just hit him. They destroyed him.

It wasn’t a fight.

It was punishment.

Sieun held him tighter, guiding him slowly down the hall, past a set of empty chairs and a vending machine that buzzed like it was about to short out. The air tasted like bleach and metal.

“I’m fine” Jinwoo rasped suddenly, voice hoarse and wrong.

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine ” he said again, quieter now, like it mattered that someone believed it.

Sieun didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything else, just kept walking with him, every step heavier than the last.

They reached the infirmary door.

Sieun knocked once.

Twice.

The nurse, a tired-looking woman with eyes that always looked elsewhere, opened the door halfway. She didn’t ask questions. Just let them in and gestured wordlessly to the cot by the window.

Jinwoo sat, and Sieun stood beside him, staring at the blood drying at his temple.

The nurse disappeared behind the curtain, gathering supplies.

“You don’t have to stay” Jinwoo murmured, barely above a whisper.

Sieun didn’t move.

The silence swelled between them. Dense. Breathing.

And under it, the question that hadn’t been asked yet:

Who did this?

But Sieun already knew.

He didn’t need Jinwoo to say it.

He could feel the smoke clinging to Jinwoo’s collar. That faint, bitter scent of tobacco that didn’t belong to him. The same kind that still clung to his room. To his curtain rod. To Seongje.

Something behind Sieun’s ribs twisted.

He looked out the infirmary window, eyes narrowed at the light.

He didn’t know what bothered him more.

That Seongje had done it.

Or that he had done it without saying a single word to Sieun.

Not a threat. Not a warning.

Just violence.

Just silence.

Like it was a gift. A very sick one.

Sieun sat in the infirmary chair for longer than he should have, the fluorescent lights above humming like flies circling something rotting. Jinwoo had fallen asleep — if you could call it that — after the nurse numbed the worst of the bruises and stitched a split just beneath his eye. He was breathing fine now. Still, shallow. But fine.

It didn’t help.

Sieun stared at the blood-stained gauze tossed into the trash bin by the cot, and something inside him turned. Not panic. Not guilt. Not even grief.

It was anger. But not the kind that snapped and burned out fast.

This was something deeper. Older. Like dried blood cracking under skin that never healed right.

He thought he’d left it behind. The part of himself that lost control. That hunted the boys who hurt Suho like an animal. That didn’t stop until hands were broken and jaws wouldn’t close right again.

But now—

It was back.

He hadn’t seen it coming. That was what made it worse. He should have noticed. Jinwoo was always where he said he’d be. Always on time. Always humming something under his breath when they met outside the cafeteria. If he wasn’t in the study room by now—

Something had already happened.

And Sieun had felt it. He’d felt it in the pit of his stomach long before he found Jinwoo clinging to the wall like a dying branch. He’d known.

But he ignored it.

He let himself believe that monotony meant safety.

And Seongje had known that too.

It wasn’t random.

It was a message.

Not to Jinwoo.

To him.

He stared at the bruise blooming on Jinwoo’s neck one last time, then stood. Quietly, carefully, like movement itself might betray him.

Then he turned.

And walked out.

The hallway was colder than usual, lit only by the security light near the stairwell. Every step echoed too loud, but he didn’t stop. He wasn’t trying to sneak. Wasn’t trying to think.

He was done thinking.

He passed the study room. Passed the laundry. Passed the staff office without even glancing at the door.

The air smelled like something scorched.

Not just smoke.

Intent.

His fists clenched without thinking.

Jinwoo’s blood had dried under his fingernails. That copper edge still lingered on his skin, like the air didn’t want him to forget.

He turned the corner past the second-floor common room and caught sight of the stairwell ahead, just as someone else came into view from the opposite end.

Seongje.

Of course.

Like always, he moved like he wasn’t walking at all. Just existing. Like the hallway had bent to make space for him.

And he looked…unbothered. Hands in his pockets. Head slightly tilted. That loose, unreadable expression on his face like he’d been pulled out of a dream and hadn’t decided yet whether this was still part of it.

They stopped at the same time.

A long stretch of quiet filled the space between them.

No sound. No words. Just the buzz of an old lightbulb overhead stuttering once, then going steady again.

Sieun didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t look away either.

Neither did Seongje.

Their eyes locked. Neither inviting nor resisting. Just that tight coil under the skin where the threat hadn’t landed yet, but it would.

Seongje blinked once. The corner of his mouth twitched, not a smirk, not exactly. but close. The kind of expression that made you wonder if he was amused or sharpening something behind his teeth.

And still, Sieun didn’t stop walking.

Not fast. Not aggressive.

But enough to close the distance.

When they were only a few feet apart, the tension turned almost physical, like the hallway itself had narrowed to contain them both. The light blinked again, casting half of Seongje’s face into a dark shadow.

Sieun’s voice came out deep, steady, coiled like wire.

“You did that to him.”

A pause.

Then Seongje tilted his head slightly.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It throbbed.

Sieun’s jaw tightened.

And in that moment, the stillness broke, not with movement, not with a shout. But with the raw, simple fact that neither one of them was backing down.

Not this time.

The stairwell loomed just beside them. The hallway around them stretched empty. And the air between them was charged with something sharp, something wordless, something about to detonate.

And Sieun thought, as his fingers curled tighter—

This time, I’ll make sure he bleeds.

Chapter Text

“To be too conscious is an illness. A real thorough-going illness.”

There were days when Sieun couldn’t tell if he was awake or dreaming. Not because the lines blurred, but because it didn’t matter. There was no difference anymore. The air always felt the same either way, thin, heavy but sharp like broken glass too dull to cut. The light was always too bright or not enough. The hours were endless, but not in the way that felt vast. Just repeated. A copy of a copy of a copy. A cycle that didn’t even pretend to go forward.

His life had always been like that. A loop without rhythm. He’d never really belonged anywhere, and he’d stopped expecting to. School had been just another shape to disappear inside. He drifted through hallways, conversations, classes, exams.Always there, but not fully. Like fog inside a glass jar. Contained, shapeless, quiet. People liked to say that boys like him were sad. But that wasn’t the word. He wasn’t sad. He just was. And in his own way, he’d learned to live with it.

There was a part of him that felt older than he was. Born tired. Born distant. And inside that distance, something raw lived. Something unspeakable. The kind of feeling that never had a name. The kind people inherited like curses, quiet, invisible, permanent. The kind of secret you were born with and died with, and maybe never knew the shape of until it was already too late.

He often felt caught between things. Between heaven and hell. Between noise and silence. Between being and not. A purgatory made of flesh and bones. Of forced smiles and steel doors. His body moved, but his soul didn’t. It stayed in one place, cracked and motionless. Fractured like ice above water.

He thought of Suho and Beomseok. Not in full pictures, but in feelings. That brief, foreign warmth of being seen. The way a voice could sound when it didn’t want anything from you. Friendship was a strange, almost terrifying comfort. It was soft. It was unearned. And it was something he hadn’t realized he needed until it had already been taken. With Suho, he had come the closest to remembering what it meant to be alive and not just functioning. When it all ended, when the world tilted and Suho stopped moving, something inside Sieun had stopped too. Just….stopped.

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. But he knew what he didn’t want. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want lectures. And he didn’t want to be someone else’s project. Everyone here talked about change like it was holy. Like becoming something new was a kind of redemption. But what if he didn’t want to be new? What if he just wanted to understand who he already was?

In one of the classes, a teacher had quoted Dostoevsky. Something about how real pain wasn’t physical, but knowing you’re wrong, and still not being able to change. He wrote that man enjoys pain. That he clings to it. That it is the only thing that proves he is alive. Sieun thinks about that more than he should. If pain is proof of life, then maybe he was worth existing. That stuck with him. Maybe too much. Because Sieun didn’t know if he was wrong. He didn’t know if he was broken. He only knew that he felt like he was trapped inside himself, and there was no key.

And still, he didn’t scream.

Because this was his life. The quiet. The distance. The cage with no door. The half-sleep. He didn’t fight it anymore. But some part of him still burned low, like a wick with no fire. Waiting for something that felt like truth.

Or maybe just waiting to burn out completely.

And they stood still.

Just like that.

Facing each other in the narrow corridor, where the lights buzzed like dying insects. The space between them wasn’t much, barely a few paces. But it felt longer than memory, tighter than breath. The air had that charged kind of silence, the kind that came before a siren or after a slap.

Sieun’s eyes didn’t move. They didn’t need to. He had nothing left to say that wasn’t already folded into the tension threading through his spine.

Seongje stood in front of him, arms slack at his sides, like he was waiting. Not surprised. Not amused. Just waiting.

The light hit him from behind, casting his face in uneven shadows. His lip was healing wrong. His collar askew. He looked like he’d stepped out of someone else’s nightmare and decided to linger.

Then Sieun turned.

Not with a flinch or a word. Just pivoted on his heel, silent as a fuse. And started walking up.

Seongje followed.

Of course he did.

There was no hurry in it. No theatrics. Just two boys climbing a stairwell like they were on their way to confess or to kill something. The building around them didn’t breathe. It just loomed.

The rooftop door creaked open like it was opening into a dream, or a grave.

The dusk air struck him like an open palm, cool and sharp, tinged with the bitter scent of tar, pine, and something faintly metallic carried on the wind. The rooftop stretched out in a plain of cracked concrete, bordered by rusted fencing that barely separated them from the open sky.

He walked without urgency, sleeves tugged gently by the breeze, until he reached the edge.

The yard, silent and empty. The mountains, so close yet so far

A jagged silhouette of dark peaks, their shapes softened by distance and the falling light. They stood like ancient sentinels, unmoved and unreachable, dyed purple-blue by the horizon. The clouds above them had begun to dissolve into a bruised orange haze, painting the distant ridgelines in hues that felt too beautiful for where he stood

Sieun didn’t move. He only stared.

As if the mountains could offer him something the people here couldn’t.

Something like quiet. Or clarity. Or escape.

The wind blew again, colder this time.

And behind him, the door creaked open.

Silence again. The kind that bruises.

Seongje’s footsteps were soft on the gravel. Measured. But not hesitant.

“You finally gonna’ say something?” he asked, voice stripped of performance. Not casual. Not angry. Just real. 

Sieun stood with his back to him, hands slack at his sides. He stared out over the rooftops like they had answers.

Seongje picked up a cigarette, lighted and waited.

And then, Sieun spoke.

“You hurt him.”

Three words. Calm. But they cracked something.

“Who?” Seongje asked. But he knew. Of course he knew.

Sieun turned, slowly this time. Face unreadable. But his eyes were glass shards.

“Don’t pretend.”

Seongje’s mouth curved up, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t pretend. That’s your thing.”

A beat passed. Two.

Then, quietly, like he was saying something sacred “You really care about that little shit?”

Sieun didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.The look in his eyes was louder than anything he could say.

Seongje took a step forward.

The wind shifted. The sky over them faded toward darker shades.

“You dragged me up here,” he said. “Now what?”

Sieun’s hands didn’t move. But something in him did. A shift beneath the skin. The kind that meant something was breaking open.

And in the distance, the lights of the facility blinked.

As if they, too, were waiting.

Sieun’s breath rattled, ragged. Something ancient and alive flickered under his skin.

Sieun struck first. No warning, no words. His fist, knuckles wrapped in sweat-damp gauze, collided with Seongje’s jaw with the sound of wet cloth smacking against flesh. Seongje staggered, not out of weakness but from sheer surprise. His lashes fluttered, and for a moment, his face slackened in confusion. Then, almost imperceptibly, his mouth curled into something unholy.

A grin.

He responded without hesitation, moving with the ease of someone who had memorized the shape of violence. His fist drove into Sieun’s ribs, not wild but deliberate, and the impact left a blooming ache behind Sieun’s sternum. The pain sharpened his focus, brought his breath to the edge of a hiss.

“Dumb fuck” Seongje muttered. His voice was thick, warped by the blow he’d just taken.

He followed with a knee aimed at Sieun’s gut, but Sieun had already bent inward, hands low. He caught the motion, coiled his torso, and drove forward. One hand tore the cigarette from Seongje’s lips, the other shoved against his chest. The cigarette was ground beneath Sieun’s heel like a symbol extinguished. Seongje didn’t move. His eyes lit with a fire that didn’t belong to boys their age.

“There he is.” Seongje said “Knew you had it in you. Took you long enough.”

They circled each other now. There was no referee, no rules, no sound except the shallow echo of breath and the distant buzz of insects.

Sieun’s vision blurred, narrowing to a tunnel of memory. He did not see Seongje. He saw Suho. Suho with blood trickling from his hairline. Suho motionless in a hospital bed. The stillness of that room, so quiet, so sterile, that it had felt like the end of time itself.

And now, the chaos of the present demanded blood as compensation.

Seongje stepped inside his radius. Not like a fighter, but like a dancer. There was art in how he moved, a kind of perverse grace. He flicked invisible ash from the ghost of the cigarette, and then his fists followed. Jab. Cross. Another punch, fluid and rhythmic. Sieun’s head snapped sideways. His lip split. He tasted copper, but he did not fall. Not even a step back.

Pain, he thought, was no longer an adversary. It was a language he understood fluently.

Sieun retaliated with a sudden twist, one hand grabbing Seongje’s shoulder to anchor him in place. The other slammed upward under Seongje’s jaw. The angle was imperfect, but the sound was satisfying. Seongje’s pupils dilated. He didn’t cry out. He smiled with the same wildness Sieun had seen in wild dogs cornered by hunger.

Seongje laughed. Not loudly, but enough to fill the space between them with a deeper kind of violence. “Come on, hit me harder” he said, his voice trailing behind that grin like smoke behind fire.

His fist connected behind Sieun’s ear. The strike was brutal, efficient. Stars burst across Sieun’s vision. He fell against instinct, knees unsteady. His body almost crumpled.

But almost was not enough.

Sieun lashed out with a kick to Seongje’s knee, hitting bone. Then, pivoting forward, he grabbed beneath Seongje’s arm and yanked him off balance. They slammed into the fence together. It groaned under the sudden weight. One rusted rail bent outward with a shriek of metal fatigue.

Breath ragged, Sieun raised his gauze-wrapped hand and swung it like a flail. It struck Seongje’s face once. Then again. A third time. The gauze peeled back on one knuckle, revealing skin underneath raw and bright.

Seongje staggered, retreating two steps. His hair clung to his forehead, tangled with grime. His expression broke momentarily, as if he had forgotten which part he was playing.

Spitting blood or ash— Sieun couldn’t tell which —Seongje straightened and smiled. His teeth were stained red. He looked like a saint reborn as a butcher.

“Good” he rasped “Really good.”

He lunged again. This time not with a punch but a jab of his knuckles, calculated and narrow. Sieun turned into it, almost caught it, but Seongje was already behind him. A knee drove into Sieun’s spine.

His breath fled his body like a startled animal.

The world stopped. For one breath. For one count.

One.

Two.

Three.

He turned.

His fist sank into Seongje’s side. Once. Then again. The ribs gave beneath his knuckles, not with a break but with a buckle. A shift. The body collapsing inward.

Sieun felt no satisfaction. Only momentum.

He struck with the kind of clarity that lives only in fever. His arms moved on instinct, each motion a ghost of past fights, each impact an echo of every silent scream he’d never voiced. He thought of all the things he had never said to Suho. The hospital visits. The beeping machines. The memory of blood, still fresh in his lungs. And now Jinwoo, punished for nothing.

Seongje staggered back into the fence. His lips parted, more pant than snarl now. His expression was twisted.Not with fear, not quite. It was something stranger.

Excitement. Panic. Awe.

There was no referee. No bell. No end.

Only the rusted sky above them and the shared certainty that one of them would not walk away the same.

Sieun moved forward through the cooling air, the last light of day bleeding out along the spine of the jagged mountains. Behind them, the sky looked like torn paper, streaked with ash and gold. The gauze in his pocket had unraveled sometime earlier, but he no longer noticed. His fingers brushed against something else. Small, cylindrical, cold. A pen. Black plastic, metal tip. Taken without thought, stolen from the infirmary like a secret.

He hadn’t meant to keep it.

But now it was in his hand.

Ahead, Seongje stood unmoving, a torn figure against the quiet chaos of dusk. His shirt hung ripped and open, clinging to dried blood. His cigarette, half-crushed, remained unlit beside him as if even fire had chosen to stay away from him tonight.

Their eyes met.

No words.

The silence was almost sacred.

Then again, Sieun thought of everything. The way stilllness followed Suho’s absence like shadow. The way everything changed after. His own mother’s silence in the car. The promise that all would be well if he came here. The weight of it. The weight of being.

And now here he was, with a pen in his hand and nowhere left to place his grief but Seongje’s body

Sieun struck first

A straight punch to the jaw. It sent a tremor up through his wrist into the bones of his arm. He tasted metal in his mouth, though it wasn’t his blood yet.

Seongje reeled, but his eyes lit up, as if a door had opened inside him and something terrible and holy had stepped through.

He responded fast. A hit to Sieun’s ribs, so deep it felt like breath had fled permanently from his lungs. But Sieun didn’t back off. The pen was already in his hand. His grip tightened, not a tactical choice nor reasoned,just necessity, raw and unfiltered.

He drove it downward, not towards the shoulder like instinct suggested, but low. A decision made in the flash of a second and the fullness of everything he’d ever lost.

The pen pierced Seongje’s foot.

Not a fatal wound. But intimate. Symbolic. A grounding, to hold him there.

There was a grotesque crunch of cartilage and tendon. Seongje’s roar cracked the dusk. His knees gave, one leg buckling beneath the weight of his body, yet he didn’t fall. He staggered, caught himself against the wall, and smiled through clenched teeth.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even pain.

It was recognition.

“You’re finally awake” he breathed, voice guttural, broken.

Sieun said nothing. His mind was silent, but not empty. He was beyond words now. Beyond categories like hate or fear. Everything felt too wide, too loud. The sky above them was collapsing in slow motion.

Seongje’s mind, in contrast, was clear.

He felt the pain like a bell, sharp, ringing, almost sacred in how clean it was. Pain had always been a compass. It pointed inward. It revealed truth.

‘So this is how it feels when he looks at me without turning away.’

There was no pretending anymore. No masks. No casual cruelty to dodge behind.

He wanted to laugh, and he did— quiet, breathless, almost reverent.

‘He finally sees me.’

Every punch that followed was an embrace of clarity. Seongje struck Sieun’s throat with open-knuckled force, and Sieun retaliated like a man possessed. The pen came again, slicing flesh along Seongje’s arm, dancing in crimson arcs. Each drop of blood between them was a sentence in a language only they could read.

And Seongje understood it. This was love, warped and wordless.

Sieun was crying before he noticed. His face felt hot, wet. The tears weren’t from pity, nor fear, nor even rage. They came from that hollow place, where memory lives and never grows old. He saw Suho’s eyes again, not in pain but in that last moment before everything fell apart. He saw himself reflected there, small, unmade.

And he thought ‘If I kill him, will I finally be quiet inside?’

But Seongje wouldn’t die easily. Even bleeding, even limping, even laughing— he remained.

Sieun ripped the pen free from Seongje’s arm, and Seongje collapsed back onto the rooftop, gasping. His fingers clutched the wound like it mattered, but his eyes stayed locked on Sieun’s face.

Blood had begun to soak through the rooftop pavement. The mountains behind them looked carved from iron.

Seongje could only think one thing ‘It hurts. But this is the kind of pain I’ve waited for. Not punishment. Not discipline. Not therapy. Just real contact.’

The boy above him was trembling. Not from weakness. From too much feeling.

He smiled up at him.

“Good..” he whispered. “Finally….real.”

Sieun said nothing. His face was wet. He dropped the pen. It clattered between them.

He grabbed Seongje by the collar and pulled him upright, as if proximity could force meaning. Their chests touched, blood mingling, breath harsh between them.

The sky around them fell into night.

Sieun pressed Seongje’s head back, almost gently, tears sliding onto the boy’s chest. He didn’t understand how something so violent could leave him feeling more fragile than before.

“Why can’t I find peace?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Why does everything still hurt?”

And quietly, almost without breath “Why can’t you let me go?”

Seongje looked at him through half-open eyes. His grin softened into something closer to sorrow. He reached up, fingers trembling, and wiped one of the tears from Sieun’s cheek.

“Because,” he murmured, eyes shining “There’s no peace here, Sieun. Just this. Just us.”

It wasn’t a confession. It was a fact. A truth carved from bone.

They stayed like that.

Not victorious nor defeated.

Just there. Two bodies held together by trauma, mystery and unfinished thoughts, with blood between them and life below.

The sky finally broke open into full darkness.

Sieun didn’t move.

Because maybe peace was never given.
Maybe it had to be carved. And maybe it left scars in the shape of someone you couldn’t forget.

The shadows had long since blurred into one another, dusk folding in on itself, and in that stillness, Sieun remained where he was, knees aching, breath sharp and uneven, body trembling with the toll of what had just happened.

Seongje didn’t move beneath him.

The grin was gone.

Now he was just…still.

His chest rose. Shallow. Slow.

Sieun stared down at him, hand still clenched around the broken chain, Seongje’s necklace, warm with the heat of his skin and speckled with red. It didn’t matter whose blood it was anymore.

He should’ve left him.

It would’ve made sense.

Let him rot up here. Let him feel the quiet ache of being forgotten, the way Sieun had for most of his life. Let him get swallowed by the dark.

But his body didn’t move the way logic did.

He sat back, breath still heaving. Looked at the skyline beyond the railing, where the mountains bled into the edge of the horizon, dusk smearing them in colors too soft for a night like this.

Then he looked down again.

Seongje was taller. Heavier. Stronger. And yet, right now, he looked young, somehow more boy than monster. Lips parted. Hair wet with sweat. Bruises blooming like ink across his face and collarbone.

“Seongje” Sieun called, voice hoarse. No answer.

He leaned in closer. Still breathing. Asleep.

No. Not asleep.

Unconscious.

Sieun ran a hand through his hair, the ache in his arm flaring. His entire body was pulsing with dull pain, like he’d been rebuilt with wires instead of nerves. But he couldn’t leave him. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t.

So he stood. Slowly. Painfully.

Every limb protested.

He bent clumsily and pulled Seongje up. One of his arms over his own shoulders. Seongje’s weight slumped against him like a dying star. Dead weight. Too much. But Sieun gritted his teeth and forced his legs to move.

Each step down the stairs was its own punishment.

The hallways were empty. The dorms locked down. No one saw them. Or if they did, they didn’t dare interrupt.

By the time he reached the infirmary wing, Seongje’s breath was shallow against his collarbone. Sweat and blood and something else clung to both of them, like heat from a long-dead fire.

The nurse looked up.

She froze.

Sieun didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, shaking under Seongje’s weight, face smeared with blood, shirt torn and crusted. There was blood on his neck, his lip, one eyebrow split open.

“….he needs help.” Sieun said finally, voice dull. “Now.”

She didn’t ask questions.

She ran. Called for another staff member.

And Sieun half-dragged, half-lifted Seongje onto the infirmary bed. His arm slipped off Sieun’s shoulder and hit the mattress like a dead branch. His eyes fluttered open for half a second, then shut again.

Sieun stepped back.

Watched the nurse move quickly. Gloves, gauze, antiseptic. Her assistant rushed in behind, murmuring something, but Sieun wasn’t listening anymore.

His own knees buckled without warning. The nurse motioned for him to sit, but he’d already collapsed onto the second bed. His hands hung limp at his sides.

Someone pressed something cold against his forehead.

He didn’t react.

Because, for the first time in a long time—

There was no dream.

No blood in the corridors. No voices screaming. No memories clawing their way to the surface like rot beneath tile.

Just quiet.

Not peace, exactly.

But the closest thing he’d felt in months.

His eyes shut

And the silence took him.

Seongje was eight.

Or nine. The years blurred together, devoured by repetition. Pain had a way of making time bleed. It didn’t arrive as a narrative. Not a clean memory. Just fragments. Sensations. Static. The sound of a belt sliding through loops. The smell of aftershave and sweat. The quiet click of the door being locked from the inside.

Then came the sting.

His knees hitting the tile. His teeth slamming into his tongue. Blood, bleach, and metal, always those three. The house was spotless, polished like a lie, but the violence was embedded in the grout, in the corners where the mop didn’t reach.

“Look at me.”

The voice was never loud. That would’ve almost been better. But his father didn’t scream. He didn’t need to. His voice was calm. Measured. Professional, like everything else about him. That restraint was what made it worse. As if the violence wasn’t born of emotion, but logic.

He didn’t look. That was his only power. His refusal.

The first blow came fast. Clinical. The sound more sickening than the impact. Not a slap. Not a punch. Just force, like a judge delivering a verdict. His chin hit the floor. His ribs ached. His heartbeat started sounding like footsteps in his ears.

“Look at me when I speak to you, Seongje.”

The second strike was slower. Less precise. It came from frustration, not control. From a crack in the mask. Seongje bit down on his tongue this time, and copper flooded his mouth. He held it there. Let it sit.

He didn’t cry. Crying was for kids who still believed someone might save them. There was no one coming.

No one ever came

Later, when he was ten, the bruises got easier to hide. His body learned where to fold, how to fall, what flinches to avoid. That was when his mother started using new words. Softer ones. To clean it up.

“He’s only hard on you because he loves you” she whispered once, pressing a cold compress to the swelling around his eye. “He’s trying to raise you into someone strong.”

He wanted to laugh. But his jaw hurt too much.

The truth settled like oil in his chest.

She wasn’t trying to comfort him. She was trying to excuse herself.

By eleven, he had stopped asking questions. Stopped looking at either of them during dinner. Stopped reacting to the violence. His father would strike him across the back or the mouth, and Seongje wouldn’t flinch. Just take it. Like a statue. The more still he became, the angrier the man got. The anger turned inward. It fermented. Became something thicker, darker.

He waited.

And on his fourteenth birthday, it broke.

It was after a late-night party. He hadn’t even wanted to go. But he stayed out just long enough to piss his father off. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not.

He got home at midnight, smelling like cigarette smoke and stale beer. He wasn’t drunk. He was done.

His father was already waiting by the kitchen island, his tie loosened, eyes gleaming like headlights before a collision.

“You think you’re grown?” he asked.

Seongje didn’t answer.

The first hit came hard. Familiar. But something was different this time. Not the pain. Not the motion. Him.

He didn’t fall. He stood still, blinking. Silent.

And then, for the first time in his life, he moved first.

A punch.

Sharp. Clean. Fast.

His father stumbled. Surprised. Not by the strength, but by the audacity.

It didn’t stop there.

Years of stored rage, of clenched jaws and swallowed screams, came pouring out. His fists moved before thought could catch up. His knuckles collided with cheekbone. With ribs. With the same chest that used to rise and fall above him like a stormcloud. Now it caved.

There was no scream. Just breath. Fast and wild.

When he stopped, the room was wreckage. Broken glass. A toppled chair. Blood dripping from his own hands like red ink.

His father groaned on the floor, one eye already swelling shut. And across the room, his mother stood like a ghost, her nightgown soaked with tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She just whispered: “What have you done?”

And the next day, without looking him in the eye, she called her brother.

A man who ran a summer camp for boys with “discipline issues”.

By the end of the week, Seongje was gone.

The camp was not a camp. It was a holding pen. A slow, mechanical purgatory for rebel children rich enough to be hidden instead of helped.

The first summer was brutal.

Boys with split lips and worse intentions. Staff who smiled too widely. Counselors who enforced “discipline” with zip ties and silence.

Seongje didn’t adapt.

He fought.

Anyone who looked too long. Who whispered his name. Who touched his stuff. He left a trail of bruises by midsummer. They tried restraining him once. He kicked one of the instructors. Drew blood.

But they didn’t expel him. Of course not.

They needed to look like they were reforming him.

The second year, everything changed.

That was when Ms. Kang approached him.

She wasn’t like the others. She walked straight up to him one morning after drills, clipboard in one hand, the other hand tucked in her coat like she was already bored.

“You keep the others in line” she said, casually flipping pages covered in bruises and initials. “That’s useful.”

He didn’t speak. He just stared, dirt still under his fingernails from yesterday’s dig.

She glanced at him. Her gaze wasn’t maternal. It was transactional.

“Their parents aren’t paying for truth” she said. “They’re paying for peace and plausible deniability. You keep the chaos down, and you can do what you want. I’ll make sure of it.”

That was when he understood.

It wasn’t a camp. It was a business.

And he was part of the product.

After that, things got easier. No one stopped him when he skipped classes or therapy. When he smoked behind the doorm building. When he slammed a boy’s head into the sink for mouthing off. The staff just nodded. Marked it down as correctional adjustment. Ms. Kang made sure his file stayed clean.

His uncle started handing him cash at the end of each summer. Quietly. No envelope. No receipt.

“For your help.” he’d say.

Seongje didn’t ask. He took the money. Bought shoes. Electronics. Silence.

Back in the city, the violence didn’t stop. It just changed shape.

He kept fighting, on purpose, at first. Street corners, alleyways, underpasses where the light didn’t reach. He didn’t care who it was. Older kids, drunk men, students who looked at him the wrong way. He wanted it. The rush. The spark behind his eyes. The idea of consequence.

It was the only thing that made him feel anything.

His mother was never home. She stopped pretending sometime around his fifteenth birthday. Her texts grew shorter, her calls more infrequent. “Working late.” “Out of town.” “Be safe.” Words drained of all weight. She liked to imagine he was doing fine, that he’d healed, that her part was over.

His father didn’t even pretend.

Business trips grew longer. Then indefinite. Weeks passed without a single voice in the apartment. No door creaks. No footsteps. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant noise of traffic outside.

The silence should’ve been a relief.

But it wasn’t.

It was empty. Sterile. A kind of void that made him feel less human, not more free.

So eventually, he stopped waiting for someone to come back.

He moved out.

No dramatic argument. No legal fallout. Just absence. A quiet shift in location. His name on a lease for a one-room flat in a concrete high-rise with a broken buzzer and neighbors who didn’t ask questions.

No one stopped him. No one noticed.

He paid for it with summer money, his cut from the camp, handed over in cash every August like hush money. Blood money. Enough to cover rent and ramen. Enough to stay invisible.

And that was fine.

He didn’t need warmth. Or company. Or conversation.

He just needed space to breathe.

And a reason to keep his fists sharp.

This summer was supposed to be his last.

He’d aged out. Ms. Kang said he could “graduate” after August. His uncle was still yelling about something that morning, pacing like a man afraid the floor might rise to meet him. Seongje was outside, smoking like he had all the time in the world.

Then— movement.

A white car. Polished. Not tinted. Not hiding.

A boy stepped out.

And something shifted.

He saw him before anyone else did. Small. Too silent. Hands shoved in his pockets like they were hiding something, not keeping warm.

There was something wrong in the boy’s eyes. Not dangerous. Just hollow.

Like someone had taken a part of him and never given it back.

Seongje didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He just stared. 

Seongje had heard the whispers. That one of the new kids had cracked Kang Wooyoung’s leg. That he hadn’t flinched during intake. That he didn’t speak unless forced.

And something in Seongje smiled.

He wasn’t supposed to be on the second floor anymore. The third floor was where they sent the wild ones now. The noise.

But last year, he’d broken too many jaws up there. Sent two boys to the infirmary within the first week. They gave up and let him go where he wanted.

So when they asked if he minded having a roommate, someone new, someone with a reputation—

He said yes before they finished the question.

It wasn’t curiosity, it wasn’t strategy.

It was recognition.

Like hearing a scream that matched your own.

Or staring into eyes that weren’t afraid of you.

Not because they were brave.

But because they’d already lived through worse.

The first thing Seongje felt was the ache.

Not sharp. Not sudden. Just….everywhere. A deep, bruised soreness that lived inside his bones. He tried to move, but his limbs resisted, heavy and slow like he’d been poured full of cement.

His eyes opened to the soft blur of the window sunlight.

White ceiling. Peeling paint. The antiseptic sting of rubbing alcohol and something vaguely floral, cheap soap, maybe. The infirmary. He knew the smell by now

His mouth tasted like metal and medicine.

He blinked slowly, once, twice, letting the pieces fall back into place.

The fight.

The rooftop.

The blood.

Sieun.

He turned his head, sluggish, the stiffness in his neck blooming as he did.

And there, on the bed beside him, was Sieun.

Lying on his side, one arm draped loosely over his stomach. A thin blanket thrown carelessly across his legs. His hair was damp, sweat-drenched, tangled. There was a split on his lower lip and dark bruises painting the skin along his jaw and throat. He looked asleep. Or maybe unconscious. Or maybe something in between.

Even like this, even bloodied — he looked…. beautiful. 

His face in a way that made something in Seongje’s chest go tight.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stared, throat dry, as the silence in the room wrapped around both of them like cotton.

The sound of the fan hummed faintly from the corner. Somewhere in the distance, a door opened and closed. Footsteps passed, then faded.

Seongje kept staring.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t think about getting up.

He just let the stillness hold.

Let the pain settle.

Let himself stay.

Next to him, Sieun didn’t stir.

But somehow, it was the first time in a long while, Seongje didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

He surfaced slowly, not from sleep but from something denser, like sinking mud or dark water. There was no clean border between unconsciousness and awareness, only the slow reassembly of sensation. Pain, dull and drumming, as if someone were tapping inside his bones. Then came breath, shallow, measured, reminding him that his body was bruised, and that even breathing had become a conscious choice.

Seongje closed his eyes for a moment.

He listened.

To the soft, clinical shuffle of something metallic.A tray being moved, or a clipboard adjusted. He could smell antiseptic in the air, the sharp, sterile kind that always made his stomach curl, not because it was unpleasant, but because it meant something had already gone wrong.

Eventually, he blinked.

The ceiling stared back, white, cracked slightly near the corner, as if even this room, so clean, so carefully maintained, had its quiet fractures. There was a fan in the far window, spinning lazily. Its low drone reminded him of something distant, something like city noise or summer heat against glass.

He turned his head slowly again. Everything hurt.

And there, just a few feet away, laid Sieun.

Still. Paler than usual. A tangle of hair and bruises. He wasn’t asleep anymore, but he also wasn’t fully present. His chest rose and fell in that careful rhythm people used when their bodies were still half in survival mode. One arm was curled loosely at his torso, the other draped off the bed, fingers twitching.

For a moment, Seongje didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

There was a strange quiet between them, not tense, but heavy. Like the aftermath of a scream no one heard. Their bodies were wreckage now, stiff and aching, skin mottled with fingerprints and swelling. But the violence was over. What lingered was not the fight, but the absence of it.

He continued to stare at Sieun.

And then let his head fall back against the pillow.

He didn’t know what this was. Not forgiveness. Not exactly understanding. But something in the architecture between them had tilted just enough to alter the light.

He was still thinking about that when the door opened.

The nurse entered like she’d been summoned not by duty, but by time. She didn’t rush. She moved like someone who had seen this play out too many times before to flinch at the blood or the bruises.

She glanced at them both with an expression that hovered somewhere between disapproval and resignation.

“You’re both lucky,” she said plainly. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve broken something important.”

Her voice wasn’t cruel. Just tired. Not the kind of tired that came from overwork, but from bearing witness. The exhaustion of patching boys back together when everyone else was content to tear them apart.

She walked to the counter, checked a clipboard, and moved a tray into place. Gauze. Scissors. Alcohol wipes. The little instruments of repair.

“You’ll need to move slow,” she added, without looking up. “No stairs if you can help it. Keep breathing deep, even if it hurts. It’ll help the bruising settle faster.”

Still, they said nothing.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was earned.

She turned toward Seongje now, her tone shifting slightly.

“You were out longer. Took a harder hit to the ribs, and your shoulder’s going to feel like hell for a few days. But more importantly, your arm and foot was open. Dirty. We had to give you an emergency tetanus injection while you were out. You’ll be sore. Probably feverish tonight. That’s normal.”

He nodded once. Barely. A movement more in the eyes than the body.

“Otherwise,” she continued, “you’re both cleared to return to your dorm. Carefully. No heroics.”

She walked toward the door, then paused with her hand on the frame.

“Ah— right. Seongje.”

He looked at her. Not fully, just enough.

“Ms. Kang wants to speak with you. After you get settled.”

A quiet beat passed.

“Alright.”

It was a shrug more than a word. His tone didn’t suggest defiance or submission. Just disinterest. Or maybe the emotional version of scar tissue.

The nurse gave a short nod and disappeared down the hall.

The door clicked shut, leaving only the fan and the silence.

Sieun stirred first.

Slow, like someone not sure whether to reenter his own body. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing only once, jaw clenched. The cut on his lip had reopened slightly, just enough to catch the light.

Seongje followed. He rose with effort, joints stiff and aching, the tetanus shot already throbbing beneath the skin of his upper arm.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

But something in the room had changed. The silence was no longer about avoidance. It felt companionable. Or something close to it.

They stepped out into the hallway.

The light out there was brutal, raw, unfiltered, falling through the grimy upper windows like sunlight had decided to abandon subtlety. It hit their faces with a clarity that made everything feel too exposed. The walls were dull grey. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and dust.

And then, after several long paces of limping quiet, Seongje broke it.

“So….”

His voice was softer than usual. No edge, no challenge.

“That was fun.”

Sieun turned his head just slightly, eyes narrowed “You’re insufferable”

Seongje grinned, a ghost of mischief flickering behind the bruises.

“You didn’t hold back” he said. “That’s rare.”

“I didn’t have to hold back. You’re not made of glass.”

“Flattered” Seongje replied. “Most people assume I am, right before they throw a chair at me.” He joked

There was the briefest twitch at the corner of Sieun’s mouth. Not a smile. But not not a smile, either.

“You always talk like this after getting the shit kicked out of you?” Sieun asked, voice low.

Seongje shrugged, wincing slightly at the motion. “Only when it was worth it.”

They walked on.

Their steps were slow, labored. Two shadows moving side by side down a corridor that had seen more pain than healing. Neither of them asked why the other stayed quiet, or why they hadn’t picked up the fight again once the bleeding stopped.

They didn’t need to.

Because something in the blood and the stillness, in the teeth-gritted punches and the hands that didn’t tremble. It had changed the shape of what was between them.

They weren’t friends. Not yet.

But they weren’t strangers anymore either.

And somehow, that was more terrifying.

And more comforting.

Than either of them wanted to admit.

The door to Room 202 looked exactly as it had the day they arrived.

Unremarkable. Unassuming. A faded number plaque screwed slightly crooked into the door’s center, like even it couldn’t be bothered to stand straight. The hallway around them was hushed, the rest of the boys presumably scattered across morning rotations, classes, chores, therapy circles that promised transformation but delivered control.

The silence stretched. Not awkward. Just there. Present.

Sieun stepped forward first, reaching for the handle with a slow, deliberate movement. His knuckles were still scraped raw. The blood had dried into the lines of his skin like something etched.

He opened the door without ceremony.

The room greeted them with that same dry, sun-warmed stillness. Two beds. Two desks. A single window cracked open to let in the sound of rustling trees and the faint shout of a distant whistle. Everything was the same. The beds unmade. The air faintly stale. His duffel bag still slumped against the desk leg like it hadn’t noticed he was gone.

But everything inside felt different now.

Sieun crossed the threshold without a word and sat on the edge of his bed. Slowly. Controlled. Like his body still hadn’t decided how much it wanted to hurt. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes cast downward, watching the floor as if it might reveal some secret he hadn’t thought to ask for.

Seongje followed.

He shut the door behind them with a quiet click and leaned against it for a moment, one shoulder pressed into the cool wood. He looked around the room, not like he was checking for anything, just…. noticing. Feeling how the walls seemed to hold their breath.

No screaming now. No fists. No laughter either.

Just two boys and the dull ache of aftermath.

He pushed off the door eventually and dropped onto his bed with a sharp breath through his nose. He didn’t lie down, he couldn’t. His ribs wouldn’t let him. Instead, he sat upright, back against the wall, arms crossed over his stomach like he was shielding something he couldn’t name.

Sieun didn’t say anything at first.

Neither did Seongje.

But the quiet didn’t stretch as far as it used to. It didn’t feel like barbed wire anymore. Just distance. Carefully respected.

Seongje turned his head, watching Sieun’s profile in the low light.

After a minute, he spoke. His voice was quieter than usual. Not soft. Just worn out.

“You always fight like that?”

Sieun didn’t respond right away. He adjusted the way his hands rested between his knees. His fingers looked tight around each other, knuckles pale.

“Only when I mean it.”

Seongje nodded slowly. “Good.”

That earned him a sidelong glance.

“You?” Sieun asked.

“I fight when I’m bored,” Seongje said simply. “When nothing else works. When I want to see if the world will finally hit back the right way.”

Sieun stared at him a long moment. Not judgmental. Just curious.

“You think I was the right way?”

“Closer than most.”

Another quiet stretch passed.

Outside, a bird called once, then went still. Someone shouted in the courtyard beyond the dorms, far away, like a scene from a movie playing in another room.

Sieun looked toward the window but didn’t move.

“Does it make you feel better?” he said.

Seongje leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Sometimes. Not after tho.”

He cracked one eye open.

“But it numbs things. That’s enough.”

Sieun looked back at him. His eyes were clear, but tired. Like he hadn’t rested in weeks, even before the infirmary. There was something unguarded in him now, not softness, but absence. Like the wall hadn’t been taken down, just stepped away from.

“I thought you liked it” he said. “The fighting.”

“I do” Seongje said. “It’s simple. I know who I am in a fight.”

Sieun blinked slowly.

“And outside of one?”

Seongje was quiet for a long time.

Then he said “I don’t think there’s an outside.”

There was a silent pause.

The quiet felt different now.

It wasn’t a barrier. It was a shape. Something you could sit inside.

Seongje reached down, picked at the gauze taped around his knuckles. The blood had dried beneath it. His hands looked wrecked. Functional, but wrecked.

“I’m not used to anyone swinging back” he said after a while. “Most people either flinch or fold.”

“Then maybe you hang out with the wrong people.”

Seongje grinned, faint and feral. “Well. Not anymore, I guess.”

He met Sieun’s gaze again. And this time, there was no mockery there. Just a calm kind of interest. The way someone watches a fire after it’s stopped roaring.

“You’re not what I expected.” He added.

Sieun tilted his head. “What did you expect?”

“Someone broken.”

Sieun’s voice came quietly. “I am.”

Seongje didn’t flinch. “Yeah” he said “Me too.”

Not a confession. Not a connection, not in the usual way.

But something sat between them now. That dark mirror feeling, like looking at someone and seeing the shape of your own silence staring back.

Seongje had leaned back against the wall again, legs stretched in front of him, one knee bent. He looked like someone who was waiting for the next catastrophe to announce itself, bored in the stillness between battles. There was always that coiled readiness under his skin, like if you blinked wrong he might spring up just to see if you’d flinch.

Sieun sat across from him, still hunched slightly on the edge of his bed, bruised and bandaged, but sharper now in presence. More awake. Like something in him had snapped into focus. His arms rested across his thighs, fingers steepled, but his gaze didn’t move from Seongje, not for minutes.

Eventually, he spoke.

Not loud. Not accusing. Just cutting through the air like a scalpel through gauze.

“Why did you beat up Jinwoo?”

Seongje’s eyes flicked to him.

No smirk this time. No laugh.

“I don’t like his face,” he said flatly. Then added, with a shrug, “He talks too much.”

Sieun didn’t blink. “He was just trying to help me.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t like that?”

“No.” Seongje said. “I didn’t”

Sieun leaned back slightly, jaw tightening. “So you hurt people when they get too close?”

Seongje laughed once, a low thing from the back of his throat. “You make it sound so fucking sentimental.”

But Sieun didn’t smile.

The silence that followed was different. Dense. Like a question without punctuation.

Seongje watched him for a moment, really watched him.

The way Sieun’s mouth drew tight when he was angry, but not enough to snap. The way he sat, balanced forward like a chess player with too many games going in his head. The quiet in him wasn’t passive. It was investigative. He was always studying, always turning the world over in his hands like a broken machine he intended to fix.

And that, more than anything, made Seongje restless.

Because he didn’t want to be understood.

But a part of him… maybe a small, jagged part… wanted Sieun to try.

“You’re different” Seongje muttered, almost to himself.

Sieun frowned. “What?”

“You don’t scare easy. You don’t beg, and you don’t flatter. You just…look.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No” Seongje said, voice dropping. “It’s interesting.”

There was a pause.

Then, a shift.

Sieun sat up straighter, something darker in his posture now. Like he was stepping forward inside himself.

“I’ve been thinking about this place,” he said. “Since the first night.”

“Oh?” Seongje tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Here we go.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“I’m not.”

Sieun ignored the interruption, gaze narrowing. “The way it’s structured. The way they talk to us. Pretending it’s all about control and reform and second chances. But it isn’t. It’s….containment. Performance.”

Seongje was watching him now. Quietly. Still. Like a predator watching someone walk into their own trap, but with the faintest trace of admiration.

Sieun continued.

“The therapy sessions don’t lead anywhere. The punishments are too quiet. The staff watches more than they act. The kids who scream get isolated, but the ones who hurt others, who know how to make others shut up, get rewarded.”

He let the silence stretch before finishing “And you’re always at the center of it.”

The air stilled.

Not in fear. In awareness.

Sieun didn’t accuse him like someone delivering justice. He said it like someone naming a pattern. A truth without fire.

Seongje’s voice was casual when it came, but under it was something sharper.

“So what’s your theory, genius?”

Sieun’s reply came without hesitation.

“I think this camp is a front. Not a rehab center. A control system for rich families who want to bury the parts of their children that don’t behave.”

He leaned in slightly.

“I think Ms. Kang and whoever is in charge don’t care who we are. They just care that we leave quieter.”

Another breath.

“And I think you’re part of that system.Whether you meant to be or not.”

Seongje didn’t react. Not in the way someone guilty would. No flinch. No outrage.

Just a long exhale, and a glance at the ceiling, like someone considering the artistry of storm clouds.

“You’ve been thinking way too much” he said finally.

“I’ve been watching” Sieun corrected. “And you’re not exactly hard to read.”

“Oh, I am” Seongje said. “You’re just one of the few who bothers.”

Sieun didn’t smile. His voice dropped a little lower.

“There’s still time to get out of whatever this is. Before it eats you.”

That silence again.

Sharp this time.

But Seongje didn’t take the bait. He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes boring into Sieun’s like he was trying to memorize something he wasn’t ready to admit he cared about.

“You know,” he said, almost softly, “you sound crazy when you talk like that.”

Sieun held his gaze.

“Then say I’m wrong.”

Seongje didn’t.

He just smiled. Wide and vague and dangerous.

“You’re smart. And a little fuckin’ insane. But smart.”

Sieun leaned back, letting out a long, quiet breath. “I’ll take that as confirmation.”

“Nope. Take it as a compliment. The only one I give.”

Another silence followed,but this one wasn’t cold.

It was something like mutual respect. Or a ceasefire.

Or maybe, just maybe, the quiet before something bigger.

Seongje stared at him a little too long.

There was a pull now. Something magnetic and slow and dangerous. The more Sieun looked at him, the more Seongje felt the ground tilt. He didn’t understand it, not fully. But he wanted to. And that, more than anything, scared him.

Because wanting meant weakness.

And weakness wasn’t allowed.

Not in this place.
Not in his world.

But still, he stayed in that silence with Sieun. Choosing not to lie. Choosing not to laugh.

Just watching. Listening. Noticing. 

Then the silence didn’t end, exactly. It…transformed.It stretched between them like something lived-in now, less like barbed wire and more like a long hallway with no doors.Or the beginning of a contract neither of them had the words to draft.

Sieun leaned back against the wall now, not to rest, but to think.

His gaze had drifted to the ceiling, but his focus was internal. Turning everything over, again and again. Trying to connect the fragments. Seongje’s violence. The camp’s silence. Ms. Kang’s artificial calm. The way the boys here either became quieter or more feral, like there was no middle ground allowed.

And Seongje.

Always watching.

Always just behind the violence. Or ahead of it.

Sieun didn’t hate him. Not anymore.

He wasn’t even sure he ever had.

It would have been easier, though.

Because now that he saw it, really saw it, he couldn’t look away. The bruises, the silence, the way Seongje looked at the world like it had already failed him and somehow he was still in debt. That wasn’t just cruelty. That wasn’t just chaos.

That was damage.

Sieun knew what that looked like. Knew how it moved, how it hid behind arrogance and control.

But what unsettled him more was that Seongje didn’t seem to want to be saved.

And that made him harder to predict.

Beside him, Seongje shifted.

He hadn’t moved in a while. Not much,but his posture changed now. More relaxed, strangely. Like whatever edge he usually kept up around others had lowered by half.

And he kept glancing over.

Not in challenge nor in suspicion.

But In curiosity. In fascination.

Sieun could feel it, even without looking directly at him. That presence like a heat at the edge of the room. And when he finally turned his head again, their eyes met.

Seongje didn’t look away.

He held the stare.

“I think I liked you better when you weren’t here” Sieun muttered.

Seongje smirked. “No, you didn’t.”

He was right.

Sieun didn’t respond. Just let the truth hang between them.

The light faded further. Their silhouettes against the wall stretched and folded in on themselves. From outside, the routine sounds of the facility drifted in, distant footsteps, someone calling roll, a short metallic clatter like a dropped tray.

Seongje stood up first.

Not abruptly. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to leave the moment, but had simply decided to move through it. He walked slowly to the window, leaned one shoulder against the wall beside it. Lit a cigarette without asking. The lighter flicked once, then again. Then flame.

Sieun didn’t scold him.

He just said “You’ll get us caught.”

“Not if you don’t tell, sweetheart” Seongje replied, smoke curling from his mouth like a quiet dare.

Another silence.

Then—

“You ever think about what happens after this place?” Sieun asked.

Seongje turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded.

“No” he said. “I already know.”

“And?”

“I go back to an apartment that doesn’t belong to anyone. Spend the rest of the year with people who don’t ask questions. Burn through whatever money my uncle left on the table.”

He paused. Exhaled smoke.

“And wait for next year.”

Sieun watched him carefully. “You don’t want anything else?”

Seongje didn’t answer for a while.

“You don’t get to want things when you know they’ll just be used against you.”

That stopped Sieun for a moment.

Because he knew what that meant.

Not from books or from pity. From experience.

“I think you’re wrong” he said finally.

Seongje turned his head again. “About what?”

“About being beyond saving.”

There was no sarcasm in Sieun’s voice. No performance. Just certainty.

Seongje stared at him. Hard. Long. As if waiting for a crack to show.

It didn’t.

And that scared him.

Because he was used to being feared. Hated. Resisted.

But Sieun wasn’t giving him any of that.

Just this unnerving, quiet belief.

And that belief burned more than any punch he’d taken.

He looked away first.

Tapped ash out the window.

“You’re an idiot” he said.

“Maybe” Sieun said. “But I’m still right.”

Another stretch of quiet.

This one was thinner. More fragile.

Like a truce held together by two tired hands and a bruised conscience.

Finally, Seongje turned back toward the room. The cigarette now just a thin coil of smoke trailing into nothing.

“You really think I’m involved in this place?” he asked.

“I think you were,” Sieun said. “I think you still might be.”

He paused.

“But I don’t think you have to be.”

Seongje blinked. “That easy, huh?”

“No,” Sieun said softly. “Not easy. Just…still possible.”

That hung in the air.

For a long time.

Then, quietly, Seongje gave the faintest nod. Not of agreement. But of acknowledgment.

“Smart ass” he said. “And fucking crazy.”

Sieun leaned back again, eyes drifting closed.

“I’ve been called worse.”

He didn’t move for a moment. His hand lingered on the windowsill. His ribs ached. His shoulder stung where the shot had gone in. Every breath still had to navigate through bruises. But none of it seemed to matter now.

There was something electric in the air between them. Not sharp like violence. Not soft like peace. Just charged.

He turned, slowly.

Sieun hadn’t moved from the bed. His arms were crossed loosely over his lap, posture wary but not closed off. His face, usually blank or guarded,held something different now. A mix of exhaustion and strange clarity. Like someone who’d finally found the right word for something they’d carried unnamed for years.

Seongje’s eyes tracked him. He looked at him the way people stare at things they don’t understand but can’t stop circling. Like a riddle. Like a warning label that makes you want to open the box anyway.

His steps were slow, deliberate. Pain tightened his frame, but he didn’t flinch. He walked like pain was normal. Like it was the tax he always paid for being in motion.

He stopped in front of Sieun.

Too close.

And Sieun didn’t move away.

Seongje stood there for a breath. Then another. Studying him. Not his bruises. Not the busted lip or the shadows under his eyes.

Just him.

Then he reached out— slowly, not with force —and touched the underside of Sieun’s chin with two fingers.

Lifted it.

Sieun’s head tilted back slightly. His eyes met Seongje’s without blinking. Not defiant. Just steady. The air between them tightened, as if the walls were leaning in to listen.

“If you’re really right,” Seongje said softly, voice low and edged with something unreadable, “then what’s the plan?”

His thumb ghosted across Sieun’s jaw, deliberate, testing.

“You can’t do shit about how this place works.”

His words weren’t mocking. They weren’t dismissive.

They were… curious.

Hungry.

Sieun didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t answer immediately.

Because he understood, with strange clarity, that this moment was a test. Not of courage. But of belief.

Seongje wanted to see if he actually had one.

A belief.

A plan.

A spine.

And Sieun, still staring straight into him, responded without flinching.

“I’m not here to save everyone” he said.

Seongje raised a brow. “That so?”

“I’m not stupid” Sieun continued. “I can’t take down the program. I can’t expose the whole operation. They’d bury it before I got the second word out.”

He shifted slightly. Seongje’s fingers dropped back to his side, but he didn’t move away.

“But I can make the right people afraid. I can make them doubt. I can make sure someone knows.”

A pause.

“And I can make sure I don’t leave this place smaller than I was when I arrived.”

Seongje stared at him.

His expression didn’t change, but something behind it did. Like a wall that didn’t collapse, but started to crack.

“You think words matter here?” he asked. “You think fear is enough?”

“No,” Sieun said. “But it’s a start.”

Another long silence.

The light shifted, warming the bruises on both their faces into something almost mythic. Like war paint worn too long. Like scars that hadn’t decided what story to tell yet.

“You’re a lunatic,” Seongje said finally.

Sieun nodded, but didn’t respond.

“And you think I’m involved?”

“I know you’re involved.”

Seongje tilted his head.

“And you’re still talking to me?”

Sieun’s voice came quieter this time. Not out of fear, but from something heavier.

“I don’t think you want to be involved anymore.”

That stopped him.

He hated how accurate it felt. How much weight that sentence carried.

And how much he didn’t want to deny it.

His hand dropped, finally, and he took a single step back.

Not retreating— recalibrating.

The room felt full now. Too full. Like they’d said something that couldn’t be unsaid, and it was going to stay here, pressed into the floorboards.

Seongje cracked his neck, jaw tight.

“You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“Already did,” Sieun said.

“Again.”

“I know.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

Sieun didn’t hesitate. “Better than playing dead.”

Seongje stared at him for a long moment, then let out a low, dry laugh. It wasn’t amused,it was exhausted. Disbelieving. Maybe even impressed.

“You’re either the bravest person I’ve ever met” he said “or the most suicidal.”

“Maybe both.”

Their eyes met again. No fear in either. Just understanding.

Then Sieun said, almost offhandedly “Didn’t know you actually needed those glasses.”

Seongje glanced over, blinking slowly.

“I do”

Sieun raised an eyebrow. “Then that’s unfortunate.”

“What is?”

“That I broke them.”

There was no apology in his tone, just an observation. But it wasn’t cruel.

Seongje rolled his jaw and winced slightly. “You’re lucky I have a spare.”

“Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it” Sieun replied.

A pause.

Then “So you actually can’t see without them?”

“Not well, no.” Seongje turned away, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Things go kind of soft at a distance. Faces blur. Like ghosts.”

Sieun tilted his head. “That explains a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Like how you missed when you tried to punch me in the stomach but hit my hip instead.”

Seongje huffed out a dry, painful laugh. “Please. I was aiming for your spine.”

“You were aiming blind.”

There was a beat of quiet. long enough for both of them to recognize the absurdity, the closeness that wasn’t supposed to be there. Not after what they did to each other.

Seongje moved toward the desk and pulled open a drawer with a grimace. From inside, he took out a second pair of glasses, scratched but intact, and slipped them on. They fit crookedly on his bruised face.

Sieun looked at him for a moment.

“You look worse with them” he said, maybe lying.

“Good” Seongje replied. “Keeps the myth alive.”

“Next time you break something,” he continued “make sure I don’t need it.”

He didn’t reply.

Then— a knock at the door.

Two quick raps.

And then one of the staff’s voice, muffled but sharp through the wood, “Let’s go, boys. Ms. Kang wants a word with you, Seongje.”

Seongje didn’t move at first.

He stared at the door.

Then at Sieun.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked stiffly across the room. His hand hovered on the knob.

“You coming?” he asked without looking back.

Sieun nodded. “Yeah.”

They left the room side by side.

Not as enemies. Not as friends.

As something else.

Two variables in a question about to be answered.

The hallway felt longer than usual.

Sieun walked with measured steps, the kind that had to account for pain he didn’t want to show. Behind him, Seongje peeled off toward the staff building without a word. Just a glance, a flick of the eyes like punctuation on an unfinished sentence. Then he was gone, swallowed by a corridor lined with security glass and institutional silence.

Sieun stood there for a second, letting the absence settle.

It felt like stepping out of something larger than a conversation. Like stepping out of a current he hadn’t known was dragging him until he stood still.

He turned.

And started walking toward the canteen.

Each footfall echoed a little too much. The echo wasn’t physical, it was memory, bruised into the soles of his feet, his chest, his hands. The fight from the day before had settled into his bones like old rain. It didn’t sting now. It weighed.

The double doors to the cafeteria loomed ahead, wide and clinical, the kind that always looked like they should belong to a hospital or a prison, not a place where kids were supposed to “recover.”

He pushed them open.

The sound inside hit him immediately.

Or rather, the lack of it.

The usual dull murmur of trays clattering and chairs scraping was quieter today. Too quiet. Like someone had pressed a damp towel against the noise.

Heads turned.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

But in waves. Slow. Intentional.

Sieun stepped inside and felt it:the scrutiny. Not awe. Not even fear. Just attention. The heavy kind. The kind that said his name had already been spoken five, ten, twenty times this morning when he wasn’t in the room.

The one who fought Seongje.

The one who didn’t break.

He walked past the first few tables, eyes burning into his back. Some of them didn’t even pretend to look away. Others whispered behind their palms, like their voices could hide inside their fingers.

Sieun didn’t return any of it. He kept his posture even, his face unreadable. He was used to stares. They didn’t scare him.

But they did something else.

They confirmed things.

He wasn’t invisible anymore.

And in this place, that was dangerous.

He scanned the room, pretending not to care. His gaze moved past familiar shapes, some with bruises half-hidden by sleeves or guilt. Until finally—

Jinwoo.

Tucked into a corner, head bent low over a tray of rice and boiled meat. His wrist was still bandaged. His expression hard to read from this angle. He wasn’t eating. Just picking at the food like it was something abstract and offensive.

Sieun walked toward him.

Some boys shifted in their seats to watch. One kid half-rose like he might say something, then thought better of it.

When Sieun reached the table, he didn’t ask. He just sat. Across from Jinwoo.

The tray in front of him untouched. The space between them quiet.

Jinwoo looked up after a moment.

Their eyes met.

Not like a reunion.

More like a recalibration.

Sieun broke the silence first.

“You’re still here.”

Jinwoo let out a dry breath. “Ms. Kang said I wasn’t fit for labor duty. Lucky me.”

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Jinwoo blinked once, slowly.

“You’re asking me?”

Sieun glanced back up.

Jinwoo let out a breath. It wasn’t a laugh. Just air. Tired. Tense.

“You’re the one who almost went off the roof yesterday.”

Sieun didn’t respond.

Because he didn’t know how to. Because anything he said would feel inadequate, or worse— dishonest.

Jinwoo leaned back slightly in his chair, the motion stiff. His left hand hovered just above his ribs, where the bruises were probably deepest. His right wrist was still wrapped, but not in the same clinic-tightness it had yesterday. Sloppy now. As if he didn’t care whether it healed.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “I really thought I could hold my own, it’s not like it was my first fight...”

Sieun looked at him.

“I didn’t expect to win” Jinwoo went on, “but I thought— I don’t know. I could at least get a hit in. But he just…made it look like I was in the way.”

Sieun didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say You weren’t in the way, but that would sound like pity. And Jinwoo didn’t want pity. Not from him.

“I’m sorry” Sieun said instead.

“For what?”

“For being the reason he went after you.”

Jinwoo let the words sit there. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh. He just looked at Sieun like he was trying to see through the apology to whatever was beneath it.

Sieun kept his voice low.

“I didn’t know he was going to do it.”

“I know.”

“But he did it anyway.”

“Yeah.”

The space between their words kept collapsing.

Jinwoo picked up his spoon again, stirring at his tray with no intention of eating.

His voice was hoarse. Not resentful, not weak, just used up.

Sieun nodded once, looked down at his tray, the pale reflection of fluorescent lights warping his face in the metal.

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“I know” Jinwoo said. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Sieun looked up again. Their eyes locked.

Jinwoo’s eyes were still tired, but steady. He didn’t look like he blamed him. But he also didn’t look like he trusted him.

“Did he say anything?” Sieun asked quietly. “After?”

“…..No, he just walked away.”

A pause.

Jinwoo’s fingers tensed slightly around his spoon.

“You’re playing with something that doesn’t know how to stop. You know that, right?”

Sieun nodded. “I know.”

“And you still want to figure it out?”

“Someone has to.”

The silence between them now wasn’t angry. It was grief-colored, like something had already broken and neither of them were ready to name what.

Jinwoo looked down again. His spoon stayed motionless.

“Just don’t let him drag you under” he muttered. “Whatever you think you see in him— just don’t mistake it for a reason to drown.”

Sieun didn’t ask what he meant. He knew. Or at least he was starting to understand.

Because he wasn’t sure how to explain it either, the way his anger didn’t quite reach the place it was supposed to. The way it dulled against the memory of Seongje’s bloodied smile, his broken breath, the strange tenderness of his hand wiping tears that shouldn’t have fallen. The way Sieun had hated him in one moment, and then understood him in the next. Or thought he had.

Sieun didn’t answer. 

And that, for now, was the closest they’d get to peace.

The room stayed quiet and they continued to eat. 

The hallway leading to the staff wing was colder than the rest of the building. Always had been. The floors were freshly waxed, the lighting clinical and distant. Seongje’s footsteps echoed with every step, his shoulder brushing the wall once, not out of clumsiness, but out of dull exhaustion.

He didn’t knock.

He just opened the office door and stepped inside.

Ms. Kang looked up from her desk, her smile already in place. It wasn’t warm. It never had been. It was the kind of smile people wore in family portraits when they’d rehearsed what happiness looked like.

“You’re late” she said, gently.

“I came straight here.”

She didn’t press the point. Just gestured to the chair across from her.

Seongje sat down with a grunt. His body protested every motion, but he didn’t let it show. He never did, not around her.

She folded her hands over a slim manila folder.Probably his, or someone else’s, and regarded him like a parent watching a dog track mud onto white carpet.

“So,” she said lightly, “care to explain what’s going on this summer?”

Seongje tilted his head. “You’ll have to be more specific, Ms. Kang.”

Her eyes narrowed just enough to pierce.

“I’ve been hearing a lot of noise.”

“Camp’s full of guys. Noise happens.”

She didn’t blink.

“Not the usual kind. This is talk. Gossip. Stories. Whispers from the first floor, and now the second. And guess what the loudest one is?”

Seongje stared at her.

“That you lost.”

A pause.

Then, softly, he laughed.

Not out of amusement. Just air leaking from a tire.

Ms. Kang didn’t smile.

“You were sent back here for one job, Seongje. Like every year.”

“I remember.”

“Then remind me, why am I listening to them instead of watching them behave?”

He leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Because you made them think they had something to say.”

She raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You started bringing in softer ones” he said, voice flat. “Boys who care about justice. About rules. The kind who whisper instead of punch. They talk. That’s what they do.”

“And you were supposed to keep them quiet.”

“I did. For four years.”

“And this year?”

He didn’t answer.

She watched him for a moment, then opened the folder in front of her.

“Do you know what parents pay for?” she said, flipping through a few pages. “Not discipline. Not education. Not change. They pay for proof that their sons can be managed. That this place turns monsters into something palatable.”

He stayed still.

“Whether it actually works or not,” she continued, “is irrelevant. They want results. Clean reports. Letters. Progress sheets.”

Her fingers tapped a page absently.

“And if their precious boys start writing home saying that the camp’s enforcer got taken down in a fight…”

Her voice trailed off, but the message landed.

Seongje’s jaw tightened.

“I didn’t lose” he said quietly.

“No?”

“I just didn’t want to kill him.”

Ms. Kang tilted her head, almost approving.

“Then why is everyone talking like you did?”

He didn’t answer.

She stood, slowly. Walked around the desk until she was beside him, one hand on the back of his chair.

“You know what makes this place run, Seongje?”

She leaned down near his ear, her voice silk-wrapped steel.

“Fear. Not friendship. Not sympathy. Certainly not whatever you think you’re doing with him.”

He looked up at her, just enough to meet her eyes. Her smile was gone now. Just the bones of it left.

“Next time you fight—” she said, “win. Or at least make it look like you did.”

Then she stepped back.

The silence stretched.

Seongje stood slowly, every motion aching—but deliberate.

“You want the noise gone?” he asked.

Ms. Kang nodded.

“Then stop pretending it’s not a cage. And let me treat it like one.”

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Good” she said.

He turned and left without waiting to be dismissed.

The afternoon air tasted like old sweat and dust.

Sieun stood outside the canteen for a long time after Jinwoo left, the metal door shut behind him and the hallway strangely empty. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was expectant. Like something was watching from the corners of the ceiling, waiting to see what he’d do next.

He didn’t go looking for Seongje.

He didn’t go back to their room either.

Instead, he wandered. Not out of aimlessness— Sieun was never aimless —but because he wasn’t ready to be still. The ache in his body slowed him down, but it didn’t stop him. He walked with care, breath shallow against the tight pull in his ribs, one hand occasionally brushing the wall for balance when he thought no one was looking.

He passed a few kids in the hallway. They stepped aside quickly.

Some looked at him and dropped their eyes just as fast. Others held the gaze a second longer, curious or impressed or waiting for something to change again. Sieun ignored them all.

There was no labor posted for him today. The staff must have decided a near-rooftop brawl earned him a temporary exemption.

Still, he found himself outside the supply shed anyway. The door was locked. The dust on the windows blurred the inside into a dull gray smear.

It wasn’t about the work.

It was the routine. The rhythm of motion. He needed something to keep the day from tipping further sideways.

But there was nothing to hold onto.

Eventually, he circled back toward the dorms, the sun dragging itself slowly down the sky, pulling heat with it. His skin felt too tight. The air too quiet.

When he reached the second floor, the door to their room was cracked open.

Inside, the light was dim. The smell of antiseptic had faded under a layer of cigarette smoke and something else— blood and laundry and breath.

Then he saw him.

Seongje. Shirtless.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, one arm resting loosely over his knee, his back curved slightly forward. The bandages were clean and white across his torso, but the bruises blooming underneath were deep, like ink spilled under skin. Some purple. Some yellowing. Some shaped like history.

His spine was sharp. His shoulders broad. And despite the way he sat, still and half-bent, his body looked coiled. Built not for beauty but for violence.

The spare pair of glasses sat crookedly on his face.

And for just a second— just a breath, Sieun forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t mean to stare.

But he did.

Because Seongje’s muscles were flexing even when sitting, and there was something about his size, bigger than most guys their age, that strong presence, that unapologetic exposure, that made Sieun feel like he was the one naked.

He caught himself quickly. Looked away.

But heat had already crept into his neck. Quiet. Invisible. Treacherous.

Seongje didn’t look up.

“She thinks I’m slipping” he said.

Sieun shut the door behind him with a quiet click.

He didn’t ask who she was. He already knew.

“Is she wrong?” he asked, trying to sound unaffected.

Seongje exhaled, his voice a low vibration. “Depends on what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Sieun moved to his own bed but didn’t sit. Not yet. Not while the air still pressed so heavy between them.

“She wanted me to keep the place quiet,” Seongje said. “Told me the talking’s gotten louder. That I’m not shutting them up like I used to.”

Sieun said nothing.

“She mentioned the rumor,” Seongje added. “About you beating me.”

Sieun crossed his arms, but not tightly.

“She wasn’t mad I fought,” Seongje continued. “She was mad it didn’t look like I won.”

A pause.

Sieun’s voice was quieter when he finally replied. “So win next time.”

That earned him a short laugh. Dry. Half-bitter.

“You think that’s the problem? That I lost?”

Sieun’s eyes flicked to Seongje’s ribs. The bruises. The bandages.

“No” he said. “I think the problem is you don’t know if you wanted to win.”

That made Seongje look up.

And when his gaze locked onto Sieun’s, something in the air pulled tighter.

“She thinks you’re making me soft” Seongje said.

“I doubt anyone would call you soft.”

“Not soft like weak” he murmured. “Soft like…slower. Like I’m thinking too much.”

“Maybe you should.”

The room held its breath.

Then, slowly, Seongje stood.

The motion was smooth but heavy, every inch of his body bruised or wrapped. Still, he moved like a loaded weapon. Taller than Sieun by half a head now, close enough that the difference became visceral.

He didn’t put a shirt on.

He didn’t step back.

He moved forward until he was standing directly in front of Sieun, just enough distance for the tension to have a shape, a heat, a pulse.

Sieun’s hands curled at his sides. He didn’t back away. But he was aware of every inch between them. Every inch of exposed skin. Every breath.

Sieun didn’t move.

He should have. He should’ve said something cold. Stepped back. Shut the whole thing down with a look.

But he didn’t.

Because his breath had already hitched in his chest, and something slow and traitorous had stirred low in his stomach.

Seongje tilted his head, his gaze dropping.

Not to the bruises.

To Sieun’s mouth.

The air between them snapped into something tighter, quieter.

And then, without warning, Seongje leaned in.

Not a kiss.

Not really.

Just a touch.

The barest brush of his lip against Sieun’s lower one. Not pressure. Not possession. Just proximity. Heat. A suggestion that could be mistaken for mistake,if not for the fact that it lingered just half a second too long.

Sieun’s entire body stilled. Not in fear.

In a kind of stunned, burning alertness.

And then Seongje pulled back just enough to speak. His voice was low. Dry.

“If you’re really right about all this” Seongje said quietly, “What should we do, you and me huh?”

Sieun’s lips parted. But no answer came at first.

The question was loaded. Not with strategy. Not with solutions.

But with something rawer.

Sieun could still feel the ghost of Seongje’s mouth on his lip. And underneath it— confusion. Anger. Shame. Curiosity. Electricity.

His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were too loud.

He should’ve pushed him away.

He should’ve done something.

But all he did was stare back and say—

Sieun forced his voice steady. “I’m still thinking.”

Seongje’s thumb then brushed briefly along his jaw. Not enough to be possessive.

Just enough to be remembered.

“Then what?” he asked again, low and close.

“I’ll keep watching” Sieun said. “Waiting. And when the machine slips, I’ll be there.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Seongje’s fingers lingered, then slowly dropped away.

But the space between them didn’t go back to normal.

It never would.

“You scare me sometimes” Seongje murmured.

Sieun blinked. “Why?”

“Because I think I finally met someone who doesn’t need anyone.”

Sieun didn’t reply.

Because he wasn’t sure what was happening.

And if this was also the beginning of something far more dangerous than either of them could name.

The moment between them didn’t break.It… shifted. Like glass that didn’t shatter but bent, distorted everything behind it.

Seongje pulled back, just barely, and studied Sieun’s face like he was waiting for a punchline. Or maybe waiting to be punched.

But Sieun said nothing.

And maybe that was worse.

Finally, Seongje huffed through his nose and stepped back, dragging a hand across his face. His ribs winced with the movement, but he didn’t complain. He just scratched the back of his neck, turned, and muttered “Shit, everything hurts.”

He crossed the room in long, uneven strides, lowering himself onto his bed with a sharp exhale, like he’d been waiting for that moment all day.

Which he probably had.

Sprawled out now, one arm over his eyes, he added, almost lazily. “You know, if I ever wake up and don’t feel like my spine’s been rearranged by a brick wall, I think I’ll have an identity crisis.”

Sieun still stood near the door. Watching him.

Watching the absurdity of this boy, the way he could touch him one moment like it meant something and then laugh about his own pain the next like they were just classmates killing time after school.

“And don’t make me laugh” Seongje grunted. “It hurts to exist.”

Sieun said nothing.

But something in him relaxed.

He turned toward the window and let the heavy light sink over his skin, the air still tight with tension, but also quieter.

For now.

Elsewhere.

Jinwoo sat beneath the rusted fire escape behind the south wing of the dorms, where the sun barely reached and the shadows stretched long. The concrete beneath him was cracked, spiderwebbed with age and water damage, and colder than it had any right to be this late in the day. His back rested against the rough wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. One arm looped around them loosely, the other hanging slack beside him like it didn’t know what to do anymore.

His chest ached.

Dull, sharp, deep, he couldn’t tell. The pain had changed shape since the rooftop. At first it was fear, pulsing and animal, but now it was more like pressure. A slow, simmering presence that lived in the bone.

But that wasn’t what kept him from moving.

It was something else.

Something harder to name.

There was weight pressing behind his eyes. Not tears, he was long past the point of crying. He hadn’t cried in years, not even when the incident happened. Not when the car ride to this camp stretched on without anyone there to say goodbye. Not when they took his phone and smiled too tightly, like they were saving him.

Now, it wasn’t grief in his throat. It was heat.

A pressure building at the base of his skull. The kind that felt like if he opened his mouth too fast, he might spit out teeth and venom and something that didn’t sound like him.

He’d done everything right.

That was the thing.

He kept his voice even when they tested him. Sat through the orientation talks. Listened during therapy. Nodded when the counselors said he had “potential”, as if they knew him. He didn’t lash out when the older boys shoved him. He even let Seongje beat him bloody without saying a single thing afterward. Took it. Endured it. Like that was supposed to earn him safety.

But it didn’t.

It never had.

He was still the one with bruises. Still the one looking over his shoulder. Still the one sitting here in the dark like a kicked dog waiting for another boot.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t even sure who he was angry at.

Seongje? For attacking him like it meant nothing?

Sieun? For stepping in too late and saying too little?

Or himself? Because deep down, he wasn’t surprised?

Because this wasn’t new?

His jaw locked as he stared at the dirt between his shoes. The same questions circled again and again in his head. Why had they sent him here? Was it really just because of that one night? That one mistake? It hadn’t even been that bad, at least not compared to what he’d seen others do. The kid was still walking. Talking. His parents had money, they could fix a broken nose.

But Jinwoo had been the one blamed.

Not because he was violent.

But because he wasn’t obedient.

Because when they cornered him about it, he didn’t apologize fast enough.

Didn’t cry like he was supposed to.

Didn’t beg.

They’d called it ‘behavioral instability.’ His mother said it was “just for the summer.” His father hadn’t said anything at all.

And now he was here.

And the longer he sat in this camp, surrounded by boys who spoke in fists and staff who watched with still smiles, the more he realized something:

This wasn’t a place for change.

It was a place to bury things.

Reputation.

Scandal.

Kids.

He pressed his fingers against his eyes until stars bloomed behind the lids.

He wasn’t afraid anymore.

Not in the way he had been.

The fear had dried up, boiled down into something tighter. Denser. Like flint waiting for the right strike.

And then, without sound, a shadow cut across the cracked cement.

Jinwoo opened his eyes.

The counselor aide stood in front of him —expression unreadable, arms crossed over her clipboard.

“Ms. Kang wants to see you” she said.

No warmth. No explanation.

Just a summons.

Jinwoo didn’t move at first.

His jaw clenched, lips tight, something sour resting on his tongue.

Then, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet.

The motion hurt more than he let on, but he didn’t show it.

The aide turned to lead him back toward the building.

Jinwoo followed,but at the threshold, just before stepping inside, he paused.

The orange sun slanted across his face, catching the edge of his jaw and the dull shine in his eyes.

And for a moment, there was nothing soft left in him.

No more confusion. No more hope.

Just something sharpening.

Waiting to be used.

Chapter Text

“But is it not a form of torture to have to play against yourself?”

There was a moment, just before dawn, where everything felt suspended. As if the world held its breath and forgot to exhale.

Sieun laid in that stillness for a long time. Not asleep. Not fully awake. Just…. drifting. The early morning light pressed against the edges of the curtains, gentle but uninvited, painting the walls in cold silver. He could hear birds distantly, the wind brushing dry leaves against the concrete. The distant cough of someone from a lower dorm room. Life, stirring without his permission.

His body ached.

Deep, layered aches, like the violence from the days before had nested inside his ribs and made a home there. But it wasn’t unbearable. No sharp edges, no blood in his throat. Just the dull throb of something that had happened and couldn’t be taken back.

Still, what struck him most was not the pain.

It was the calm.

After all of it, after fists, the fire, the falling and the mess of Seongje’s laughter rising through bloodied teeth, he felt… steadier. Not whole nor better. But like the noise inside him had paused, giving him space to think. To breathe.

To remember.

Because the thing that kept returning wasn’t the bruises, it wasn’t the rooftop. Or even the silence that followed. It was that moment, quiet and strange and maddening, when Seongje had leaned in too close and let his lip brush against Sieun’s.

Not quite a kiss.

But close enough that the air between them had shifted into something Sieun didn’t have words for.

And the worse of all, he hadn’t pulled away.

He could’ve. Should’ve. Could’ve shoved him back, should’ve rolled his eyes, said something sharp and clean to restore the line between them.

But he didn’t.

He had stood there like the breath had been punched from his lungs, not by violence, but by proximity. By the heat of someone who shouldn’t be allowed that close, saying things that sounded like mockery but felt like the edge of a question.

The ghost of Seongje’s breath still lingered on his skin.

Even now.

Sieun exhaled slowly and sat up, pushing the thoughts back where they belonged. This wasn’t the time to unravel whatever that had been. He had classes. Routine. Things that made sense.

The room was dim and warm with sleep. Seongje was still in bed, half-draped in the sheets, the bruises across his torso a patchwork map of everything they didn’t say aloud. His arm laid over his stomach, rising and falling with slow, deep breaths. For a moment, Sieun watched the rhythm of his chest, the tension in his jaw even in sleep. He looked less dangerous like this.

Less like something feral.

And more like something left behind.

Sieun stood carefully, pulling on his shirt with practiced ease, trying not to wince at the way his shoulder still screamed when he moved too fast. The rest of the camp would be waking up soon. He preferred to get out before the noise started, before he had to make eye contact with anyone.

But just as he reached for his books, a voice caught behind him.

Rough.

Low.

Heavy with sleep and something else.

“Fuck….you up already?”

Sieun stilled.

The voice wasn’t mocking. Not exactly. It was quiet and tired. There was a different weight to it, like the words had been dragged through half a dream before reaching him.

He turned.

Seongje hadn’t moved much. Just shifted enough to watch him. His hair was a mess. Eyes lidded. Voice still worn out and slow in a way that made Sieun’s skin feel too tight. There was something unfair about how easily he could sound like that, lazy and amused and yet sharp beneath it all, like the edge of a blade hidden in smoke.

Sieun answered before he could overthink it.

“I’m not like you.”

Seongje’s smile curled half-heartedly across his face.

“Tragic.”

“I actually have to go to class” Sieun added, picking up his bag.

And that, strangely, made Seongje pause.

Not for long. Just a second. But something in his gaze shifted. Not cold. Not biting. Thoughtful, maybe tense.

Sieun didn’t catch it immediately, but it was there.

Seongje said nothing— but it was all over his face. In the quiet furrow of his brow. In the way he suddenly sat up straighter, abs tensing beneath the bruises, as if the thought of Sieun going out to meet him had rooted itself deep in his chest like a splinter.

He hated it.

Not because he thought Jinwoo was a threat. But because he wasn’t, and still Sieun would go back to him. Tend him. Look at him with that same calm softness he gave books and quiet mornings and all the things Seongje couldn’t seem to become.

It was stupid.

Possessive.

But it was there.

That quiet, sick twist of wanting.

So Seongje spoke before the thought could fester“I’m going too.”

Sieun stopped mid-step.

“What?”

“To class.”

“You don’t go to class.”

“I do now.”

Sieun turned to face him fully, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why?”

Seongje’s smirk returned, though this one felt heavier. Less about charm. More about deflection.

“I just feel like it.”

Seongje swung his legs off the bed with a groan that was half theatrical, half honest. His body was covered in yesterday’s bruises, but he moved like he didn’t feel any of them,or refused to let them matter.

He stretched, slow and deliberate, hands behind his neck, spine cracking audibly as he stood. Still shirtless. Still unhurried. The morning light caught on the curve of his back, the old scars along his side, the shadows that collected under each rib like fingerprints. Sieun didn’t stare, but he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

And he hated that he did.

He turned away as Seongje began to dress, pulling on a fitted black t-shirt instead of the usual regulation grey. It wasn’t standard, and maybe that was the point. The fabric clung just enough to remind you he wasn’t built like the others, lean and sharp in all the ways that made Sieun hesitate. The color suited him, made his skin look paler, made his eyes seem darker. Then came the windbreaker. One of the loud ones, always slightly too bright, like it wanted to be noticed. It should’ve clashed, but somehow it didn’t. Somehow, it looked like it had always belonged to him. Like everything he wore adapted to him, not the other way around.

They didn’t speak again for several minutes.

Sieun finished dressing in silence, folding the stiff corners of his collar as if they could help press his thoughts back into order. But the tension remained under his skin like static, small, invisible sparks that refused to ground themselves. Behind him, Seongje moved slowly, dragging his hands through his hair, stretching like he hadn’t been half-dead the day before.

The absurdity of it got to Sieun. How someone could go from brutal one day to easy the next. From cracking a rib to cracking a smile. From cornering him on a rooftop to brushing his lip across Sieun’s with a touch so light it still haunted his mouth.

He didn’t want to think about that part.

He didn’t want to think about the heat it sent crawling down his spine.

Instead, he grabbed his toothbrush and nodded toward the hallway.

Seongje followed without question. In the bathroom, the mirror was fogged with the steam of too many boys rushing through their routines, their voices echoing in casual complaints. The smell of cheap soap, toothpaste, and the faint edge of sweat clung to the tiled walls like rot.

Sieun didn’t look at anyone else.

He went to the sink. Began brushing.

Next to him, Seongje mirrored the action, only with less care, more laziness, like he was performing it for someone else. He spat, rinsed, then leaned on the sink with both hands and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes drifted,not to his bruises, not to his reflection, but sideways.

To Sieun.

“You know” he said, voice still low, still rasped by sleep, “I don’t hate mornings when they start like this.”

Sieun didn’t answer.

“Us. Side by side. Domestic.” Seongje grinned, turning toward him. “I could get used to this.”

Sieun spit into the sink, rinsed his mouth, and finally met his eyes in the mirror.

“You’re exhausting” he muttered.

“You say that like you’re not flattered.”

“I say that because you talk like we’ve known each other longer than a week.”

“Time’s fake, you know” Seongje said, drying his hands on a paper towel. “Pain accelerates bonding.”

Sieun dried his hands without responding. His reflection looked tired. Not defeated— never that —but worn in a way he couldn’t hide. Beneath his collarbone, a bruise curved like a fingerprint. It throbbed when he breathed too deep.

They walked to the cafeteria together.

The hallway air was humid and loud with the scrape of shoes and murmured conversation. The moment they stepped into view, a ripple passed through the crowd. Not loud. Not overt. But present. Heads turned. Voices dropped.

Sieun caught it all in the corner of his vision.

And he hated it.

He hated the way this place operated on rumor and threat, on eyes and whispers. He hated the way their silence from yesterday was now repackaged into myth.

Because of course they were a spectacle. Of course the quiet boy and the bruised wolf walking together like nothing had happened would draw attention. And of course, Seongje loved it.

He didn’t just walk, he prowled. Shoulders loose, steps confident, expression unreadable. He let his elbow brush Sieun’s more than once, subtle but deliberate, like they were already familiar enough not to flinch. He wasn’t just reclaiming the narrative.

He was rewriting it.

When they entered the cafeteria, the noise softened for a beat, then resumed, more fragmented, more directed. Boys stared openly now, nudging one another. Some looked amused. Others looked vaguely afraid. A few wore smirks that suggested they were already crafting new versions of what had happened between the two of them.

Sieun scanned the room until his eyes landed on Jinwoo.

He was alone. Slouched at the end of one of the long tables, food untouched, eyes low. The swelling on his cheek had gone down, but a yellowing bruise remained. His shirt was too crisp, pressed to the point of overcompensation. Like he was trying to act as if nothing had happened.

Sieun headed toward him without speaking.

He didn’t owe anyone explanations.

He didn’t owe Seongje attention either.

But the shadow that followed him across the room made it feel otherwise.

When he reached the table, he slid into the bench across from Jinwoo.

Jinwoo looked up immediately. His eyes flickered with something unreadable. Surprise?Confusion? Maybe even hope, but it dimmed fast when he saw who else arrived behind Sieun.

Seongje.

He didn’t hesitate.

He sat beside Sieun like it was already decided. Close. Too close. Their knees touched under the table. His thigh pressed lightly against Sieun’s. It wasn’t accidental.

He didn’t look at Jinwoo at first.

He let the silence settle.

Then, with a lazy smile, he leaned back in his seat and let out a short laugh, quiet, amused, effortless.

“Oh” he said finally, turning to Jinwoo like he’d just noticed him. “Your face doesn’t look as bad today.”

There was a pause.
Then a smirk.

“Can you walk already?”

Jinwoo’s jaw clenched.

The air around the table thinned.

Sieun didn’t look at either of them. He focused on unwrapping the stale plastic around the bread on his tray.

The room kept moving. Voices kept talking. Forks scraped against plastic. But the space between the three of them had changed.

Seongje picked at the corner of his tray like he had no intention of eating. His eyes flicked between the two boys at the table, first to Jinwoo’s still-bruised cheek, then to Sieun’s expression, which remained maddeningly unreadable. Calm, like glass. Or distance. It made Seongje want to shatter something, if only to prove there was still heat under the surface.

“You two look like you’re at a funeral” he said, drawing out the words like smoke. “Did someone die while I was out?”

Sieun ignored him. Didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, he turned to Jinwoo and said, in that same soft, direct voice that always carried weight because it was used so sparingly“Good morning.”

It wasn’t warm. But it was genuine.

Jinwoo blinked, caught off guard. “Uh— yeah. Morning.”

There was an awkward beat of silence, then Jinwoo quickly added, “You— you look better today. I mean. Compared to….”

He trailed off, mercifully, before completing the sentence neither of them needed to hear.

Sieun gave a small nod. “So do you.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

Except Seongje leaned in, mouth still curved in that smug, sharp smile, the one that never reached his eyes. “Wow. You two gonna start holding hands next?”

He was halfway to another jab when Sieun, without even turning his head, reached under the table and pinched Seongje’s thigh. Hard.

Seongje choked on a curse, biting it back with a low hiss through his teeth.

“Ow—fuck—”

Sieun calmly picked up a spoonful of something grey and unappetizing from his tray. “Shut up.”

There was a second of stunned quiet.

Then Seongje barked a laugh, more impressed than offended. “Okay, I see. That’s how we’re playing then.”

Jinwoo, meanwhile, was watching the two of them like they’d slipped into a different language entirely. His eyes narrowed. Not angry. But assessing. And beneath that confusion, something was tightening in him, something quieter than hate, but more corrosive than confusion.

Because whatever was happening between Seongje and Sieun, it wasn’t simple.

And if Jinwoo was honest, it bothered him.

He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe it was the way Sieun talked casually with the other. Or the way his shoulders relaxed, not much, but enough to notice, when he looked at him. Or maybe it was the bruises across Seongje’s throat and chest, the ones everyone whispered about but no one really asked about, and the way he sat so close to Sieun like he belonged there.

Jinwoo didn’t understand it. But he understood competition.

So he turned to Sieun, tilting his head just slightly, and offered a small smile that was too soft, too carefully measured.

“You shouldn’t sit by the window in class” he said.

Sieun looked at him, eyebrow faintly raised.

“Sun glare’s awful during Lit. You won’t be able to read without squinting.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Jinwoo added“I can switch with you, if you want. My seat’s better.”

It was nothing.

But it wasn’t.

And the smirk on Seongje’s mouth vanished like someone had snapped a rubber band against his skin.

He turned to Jinwoo with a lazy tilt of his head. “You always so eager to rearrange the world for Sieun, or is today special?”

Jinwoo didn’t take the bait. He looked back at him, calm and steady.

“I’m just being polite.”

Seongje’s voice dipped lower. “Mhm. That’s what they call it now?”

Sieun sighed quietly, deep, almost philosophical in its fatigue, and interjected flatly “Both of you. Shut up.”

Neither replied.

But beneath the table, Seongje’s knee pressed just slightly harder against Sieun’s leg, grounding himself in the only way he knew how: proximity, pressure, presence.

And across from them, Jinwoo leaned forward on his elbows, studying them both.

Something in his expression had changed.

Gone was the dazed look of someone recovering from injury.

In its place was something clearer.

Like he’d decided that if he couldn’t stop whatever this was, he was going to pull at it. Slowly. Carefully. Until it unraveled.

By the time they left the cafeteria, the sun had climbed high enough to bleach the sky to a blinding white. It beat down on the cracked concrete walkways like it had something to prove. The summer heat in this place was a different kind of punishment. So thick, weighty, sticking to skin and clothing like another layer of obligation.

Sieun walked a few steps ahead, bag slung low over one shoulder, eyes half-lidded but alert. He didn’t speak. He never did on the walk to class. Routine was sacred to him, those precious, measured minutes between breakfast and the bell, where his mind could settle into something else, even if the camp felt designed to kill focus. Designed to kill everything.

But today, he wasn’t alone.

Behind him, just slightly to the left, Seongje walked like he belonged there. Like this was normal. Like nothing about what he was doing was strange or unprecedented.

And that was precisely what made it so loud.

Sieun could feel the glances again. Boys lingering by the lockers. Lounging under the sad excuse for shade by the hedges. Watching. Whispering. The same boys who’d whispered about him before were now watching the way Seongje walked just a little too close, the way he matched Sieun’s pace without effort.

Sieun didn’t look at him.

He didn’t have to.

He could feel the smug heat of Seongje’s presence beside him like sunlight aimed through a magnifying glass.

They reached the door to the first class. Literature. Monday mornings meant Mr. Yoon, a thin man who wore oversized glasses and always looked like he was one minute away from a panic attack. The kind of teacher who had long ago decided not to ask questions he didn’t want the answers to.

Students were already filing in.

Sieun stepped through the door, eyes automatically seeking the row near the back, third from the end, right beside the window. It was his usual spot. Jinwoo normally took the seat next to it, a quiet arrangement that had never been discussed but had been understood.

He was halfway to his desk when he felt it.

A shift.

Motion.

A presence moving faster than expected.

Seongje.

Without hesitation, without looking at Sieun or asking permission or even pretending to be subtle, he cut across the classroom in two long strides and dropped into the seat next to Sieun’s usual spot. Legs wide. Posture relaxed. Arms folded across his chest like he was daring someone to comment.

The entire room paused.

Students who had already slouched into the safety of their desks straightened. A whisper rippled like electricity through the rows.

Someone muttered “No way.…”

Even the professor, halfway through writing something on the board, turned around slowly, chalk still in hand, a faint dust cloud rising from where he’d stopped mid-word.

His gaze landed on Seongje.

Then on Sieun.

Then back again.

“Mr. Keum,” he said slowly, as if trying to remember if this was a dream. “You’re….in class today?”

Seongje didn’t flinch. He didn’t smirk, either, he just nodded once, calm as water.

“Felt like it” he said.

Mr. Yoon blinked behind his glasses. “I see.…”

Sieun walked the remaining steps to his seat, sat down without speaking, and took out his notebook with deliberate calmness. He didn’t look at Seongje. Not directly. But his pulse was faster than it should’ve been. He hated how easily Seongje occupied space. How naturally he made it seem like he belonged in Sieun’s orbit. Like he’d been there all along.

Jinwoo entered the classroom five seconds later.

He stopped in the doorway.

Stared.

Eyes locked on the pair already seated together.Sieun unreadable, Seongje looking like he’d just claimed territory without lifting a finger.

For a moment, Jinwoo didn’t move.

Then his jaw tightened.

He walked to the opposite end of the row and took a seat two desks away. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at either of them.

But his hands didn’t stop clenching.

And Mr. Yoon, recovering slowly, turned back to the board and resumed writing like the classroom hadn’t just tilted off its axis.

Then his voice, thin and tired, rose from the front of the classroom.

“Today we’re touching briefly on behavioral doubles and mirroring in literature” he said, adjusting his glasses. “There’s a short novel by Stefan Zweig, The Royal Game. A psychological study more than a plot-driven story. Anyone read it?”

Silence.

Of course not.

Mr. Yoon didn’t wait.

He walked toward the whiteboard, writing the title in crooked, unhurried letters. “It’s about a man locked in solitary confinement under a fascist regime. No books, no human contact. Nothing but the walls and the slow erosion of self. Until, by chance, he steals a book.”

He turned.

“And it’s a chess manual.”

A pause. His eyes scanned the classroom, looking for engagement he wouldn’t find.

“He reads it. Memorizes the games. Begins replaying them in his mind. Eventually, he invents an opponent. Begins playing against himself. First for practice. Then for survival. But over time….” He clicked his pen once. Then again. “The opponent he invents starts winning.”

That got a few glances.

“Zweig uses it to show what happens when the mind turns on itself. When you split yourself to endure something unbearable,and the part you create becomes stronger than the part you were trying to preserve.”

He paced slowly now, the cadence of a man more interested in hearing himself than being heard.

He turned back to the board. “Some call it a metaphor for trauma. Some call it madness. Some say the protagonist doesn’t survive it. Or maybe he does. It depends on whether you think self-destruction is survivable.You see this type of story more than you think, characters split between instinct and reason, self and shadow. The reflection that looks back not to comfort, but to confront.” He then recited,

“For nothing on earth is so unbearable for man as to be completely isolated, to be cut off from every relationship, deprived of all stimuli, left utterly alone.”

Sieun hadn’t planned to listen.

But the words hit like gravel against glass.

Because that was what it felt like, wasn’t it?

The splitting. The doubling.

Because what Mr. Yoon described wasn’t just literature.

It felt like memory.

Not his own, exactly, but something close. Something adjacent. Like looking through warped glass and recognizing a shape that shouldn’t be familiar and somehow is. The man in the cell, building a version of himself just to survive the silence, that wasn’t fiction. That was what Sieun had done every day since Suho’s body hit the pavement. Since the blood didn’t stop pooling. Since he stopped knowing what he was supposed to feel.You split yourself, not because you want to— but because the pain leaves you no other option.

Because your real self can’t breathe with the guilt.

So you invent another one.

One who doesn’t flinch. One who stops crying. One who reads and stays quiet and thinks a few steps ahead, because if you can’t outrun the grief, at least you can outsmart it.

The slow undoing of the walls you build in your head just to stay functional. Just to endure. And then someone appears, too similar, too different, and suddenly you’re not playing against silence anymore. You’re playing against a version of yourself you never wanted to meet.

Seongje.

Not a mirror, exactly.

More like an echo, distorted, louder, less restrained. Like if Sieun had made one different choice years ago, that’s who he could’ve become. Or still could. There was something terrifying about recognizing your worst parts in someone else. Something magnetic, too. The way a fire draws the eyes even as it burns the room down.

Sieun didn’t like the comparison. It felt dangerous. Too easy. Too poetic. But the truth curled behind it like smoke. There was something of him in Seongje. And something of Seongje in him.

Not mirror images, no. More like negative space. The same shape, defined by what was missing. And the most disturbing thing wasn’t the recognition.

It was the comfort of it.

The sense that being seen — really seen — by someone as broken as him didn’t hurt. Not like it should.

He thought of the fight.

The rooftop.

The blood on Seongje’s face.

The hand that caught him before he fell.

The almost—

He forced himself back into the room.

His pen hovered over the margin of the page. Blank. Like language had fled his brain.

Mr. Yoon continued. “We’ll explore the idea of psychological splitting next week. But keep in mind, literary mirrors don’t always offer reflection. Sometimes they offer prophecy.”

Sieun looked down at his notes and saw nothing but empty lines.

A crack in the ink.

And for the first time that morning, he felt the cold trace of fear run along his spine.Not from Seongje, not from Jinwoo.

From himself.

Because he wasn’t sure which version of him was winning anymore.

The moment stretched.

Mr. Yoon moved on, started scribbling something about Joseph Campbell and the “Hero’s Journey” but Sieun wasn’t listening anymore. The room was fading again, edges losing their shape, his notebook a blur of unlined space. A low hum ran beneath everything, not quite sound, not quite silence.

In his mind, the image from The Royal Game remained vivid.

A man in isolation. Playing against himself until he lost track of who was real.

He was spiraling deeper into that thought when something touched his sleeve.

Too gentle to be a shove. Too close to be accidental.

He blinked and looked to the boy beside him, still in the seat no one thought he’d occupy, leaning forward with a slouch that looked lazy but wasn’t. He had his chin propped on one hand now, elbow on the desk, and he was watching Sieun not like someone waiting for attention, but like someone who already had it and was wondering what he could do with it.

Then—“I’m pretty sure this teacher’s on a slow descent into existential collapse,” Seongje muttered under his breath. “He talks like he wants to get buried with a stack of Nietzsche quotes and a soju bottle.”

Sieun blinked again, disoriented.

“What?”

Seongje’s grin widened. “I said, he sounds like Sartre if Sartre had seasonal depression and no one to drink with”

Sieun stared at him.

Deadpan. 

‘How does he even know all of that?’

But some small part of him wanted to laugh. And that annoyed him more than the comment.

“You’re unbelievable” he muttered, turning back to his notes.

But he couldn’t focus now.

Not fully.

Because Seongje didn’t back off. If anything, he leaned a little closer, like gravity itself was off-kilter whenever he was around Sieun. And his leg,just barely, tapped against Sieun’s under the desk again.

No apology. No acknowledgment.

Just contact.

A quiet claim.

Sieun didn’t flinch this time.

But he did feel his ears warm a little again, and cursed his own body for responding.

He tried to return to the page, to underline a phrase. But it was useless now. The words looked foreign. The line between the invented self and the bleeding edge of the real world was smudging again.

The hour inched forward.

The teacher's voice blurred into white noise, swallowed by the heat thickening between the walls and the low buzz of a malfunctioning ceiling fan. The scent of dust and overused textbooks filled the room like a stale memory no one wanted to name. A few boys had already stopped pretending to take notes. Heads rested on palms, eyelids drooping, posture melting into chairs.

But not Sieun.

He was still upright, still taking notes with mechanical precision, even if the lines were starting to curve slightly from fatigue. He focused harder when his control frayed. That was the rule.

And Seongje was watching it happen.

Watching him.

He’d given up pretending to care about the lecture ten minutes ago. No pen, no paper. Just him in the seat too close to Sieun’s, his body humming with a mixture of impatience and something quieter, something hungrier.

He’d said three more things since the Sartre comment.

None of them earned more than a glance.

That annoyed him.

No— that wasn’t the word.

It itched. Under the skin. Like rejection, except it wasn’t real rejection, because he could feel that Sieun was still aware of him. Hyperaware, maybe. The way people are aware of open fires. Or predators.

Still, Seongje wanted more.

Wanted him to look.

So he tried again. Tapping his fingers a little louder. Bouncing his knee closer to Sieun’s.Then eventually he said“You know this guy’s never actually read half the books he talks about?”

No response.

“Do you think Mr. Yoon would explode if I asked a question about Kafka’s body horror right now?”

Sieun’s lips didn’t move.

The page turned. Neatly. Efficiently.

Seongje exhaled through his nose, a near-silent laugh. Sieun was cold in the exact way that drew people like moths. Distant without trying to be cruel. Focused in a way that made you want to disrupt him, just to prove he wasn’t made of glass.

So Seongje leaned closer, testing limits now, dragging his chair half an inch toward him, no screech of metal, just a soft slide, deliberate. The space between them narrowed. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to press into the periphery of Sieun’s focus.

Still, Sieun didn’t look at him.

He underlined a sentence. Highlighted a phrase.

So Seongje went quiet.

For a moment, Sieun thought that was the end of it. A rare moment of surrender.

It wasn’t.

And so, without warning, he leaned closer.

Much closer.

His mouth just near the curve of Sieun’s ear now, too close to be casual, too quiet to be overheard. The kind of proximity that required intention.

His breath brushed against skin when he said, slow and low,

“You always bite your lip when you’re concentrating?”

Sieun didn’t react at first.

But Seongje saw it.

The way his hand twitched, the pen pausing mid-word. The faint tightening of the jaw. And then—

Color. Rising along the ridge of his ear, blooming under his skin like a heat rash or a secret.

He didn’t know if it was anger or something else.

Maybe both.

That was when Seongje smiled.

Not wide. Not gloating.

Just soft. Sharp. Knowing.

He pulled back only half an inch, voice still low enough to skim just under the surface of decency.

“You always get this serious when you’re trying to ignore me. It’s kind of adorable.”

Sieun finally turned his head, sharply, whether to glare or tell him off or maybe just to make the tension stop.

But Seongje was already leaning back in his chair like he’d done nothing. Elbows on the desk. Looking perfectly content.

From two desks away, he had been pretending to work, his pencil moving in tight mechanical loops over an untouched page. But his eyes had never left the two of them. Jinwoo caught the lean. The proximity. The blush. The way Sieun’s hand tightened around his pen like he was holding back the urge to stab something. He watched the interaction unfold like someone watching a candle too close to the curtain. But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

But something in his expression shifted.

Not curiosity. Not confusion. Something else.

Calculation.

The bell rang like a blade across glass.

A distant clang against institutional quiet, just loud enough to signal transition, never enough to feel like change.

The class slowly stirred to life. Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled. Boys moved like they were still underwater.

Sieun exhaled, shoulders straightening.

He placed his pen down with deliberate care, like the act of tidying might recalibrate something inside him. His notebook was clean, too clean. The lines he’d drawn this morning were precise, but the thoughts had blurred somewhere mid-lecture, his handwriting trailing off into empty space when Mr. Yoon began talking about doubles. And madness. And fractured identities clawing at themselves in locked rooms.

He’d spent the rest of the hour half-hearing the lecture and half-listening to the hum of his own thoughts, cut sharp again and again by the sound of him. The boy who couldn’t sit still. The one beside him.

Seongje hadn’t stopped trying to talk. Whispering ridiculous things, making side comments, brushing too close. And now, as the class emptied around them, Sieun could feel that proximity all over again, heat, pressure, something unspoken in the way the space between them failed to divide.

“You’re gonna pretend I didn’t make you blush earlier?” Seongje asked under his breath as they stood.

Sieun gave him a look so deadpan it could’ve been carved in stone.

“That was the heat” he said flatly.

Seongje smirked. “Sure it was.”

He stretched his arms lazily overhead, shirt riding just slightly up his abdomen as he yawned. Not accidental. Not necessary. Just enough to test what would— or wouldn’t —earn a reaction.

Sieun didn’t give him one.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the hallway. Footsteps light, posture composed, gaze forward.

But he knew Seongje would follow.

And he did. Half a step behind, like a shadow trying too hard to catch the sun.

“You know, for someone who almost kissed me yesterday, you’re surprisingly cold” Seongje said, voice low enough that only Sieun could hear.

Sieun stopped for a second mid-stride, then resumed walking as if he hadn’t.

“That’s your version of flirting?” he muttered.

“Not really” Seongje replied easily. “That’s my version of remembering.”

They turned the corner toward the corridor that led to the cafeteria when another voice called out.

“Sieun.”

He turned.

Jinwoo stood there near the stairwell, rigid, composed, distant. He wasn’t looking at Seongje. Only at him.

“I won’t be at lunch today” he said simply.

That was it.

No apology. No excuse. Just the announcement.

Sieun blinked.

Something about the sentence left a hollow beat behind it. Not disappointment, exactly. Just…confusion. Dislocation. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t that.

And he didn’t ask why. That wasn’t the kind of place this was, and it wasn’t the kind of relationship they had.

So he just nodded.

“Alright” he said.

“I’ll see you later then.” Jinwoo nodded back, then disappeared down the stairwell without looking at either of them again.

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh?” Seongje said, blinking theatrically. “Is it my birthday and no one told me? No puppy-boy at lunch? Just you and me?”

Sieun didn’t answer.

He began walking again.

“Come on” Seongje said with mock innocence, keeping pace. “You can’t pretend you’re not relieved. You were starting to look like a mother with two toddlers.”

“I was starting to look like someone who needs earplugs” Sieun muttered.

“You love it.”

“No, I tolerate it.”

“That’s basically love in this place.”

They arrived at the cafeteria. The familiar scent of institutional food hit them first, lukewarm rice, over-steamed vegetables, that strange, sour trace of something meant to resemble meat. The fluorescent lights hummed above with disinterest.

Sieun picked up his tray and began loading it with mechanical precision: rice, broth, something that looked like tofu but felt like rubber.

Seongje hovered beside him the entire time, speaking like they were having a private joke the room wasn’t invited to.

“You gonna’ sit at your usual spot?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna’ eat like you’re calculating murder?”

“No. Just watching my sodium.”

“You’re cute when you’re condescending.”

Sieun paused. Looked up at him.

“Are you really going to follow me around like this?”

Seongje didn’t even pretend to be insulted.

He stepped just a little closer, like closing space was the answer to every question.

“I don’t know” he said casually. “Are you going to keep letting me?”

Sieun stared at him for a long second.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in frustration, but in something quieter. Something like assessment.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the far table.

And Seongje followed.

Again.

The rest of the day passed in strange, unremarkable stillness.

Strange, because after what had happened, what they’d done to each other, the blood, the bruises, the tension thick enough to bite into, Sieun expected more edge. More lingering aftermath. A look from a counselor, a pointed question, a punishment.

But it didn’t come.

They were given easy work assignments. Lighter lifting, less group interaction. No drills. Ms. Kang’s shadow hung somewhere far beyond their corridor, and the staff kept their distance. almost like someone had quietly issued an order to leave the two of them alone.

So they moved through the day like ghosts in bruised skin.

Sieun attended his chores. Seongje didn’t. Not again.

But he was there, always. Leaning against walls during Sieun’s breaks, showing up outside the library without needing anything from there, watching him with a gaze that pretended to be casual but carried weight like iron filings in water. Unspoken. Pulled.

He didn’t say much.

But what he did say stuck like splinters.

Around afternoon, as Sieun sat reading near the south wing shade, Seongje appeared with a drink he definitely wasn’t allowed to have.

“It’s peach,” he said, handing it over like a peace offering. “You look like someone who hasn’t tasted sugar since your birth.”

Sieun didn’t take it at first.

“You bribed someone for this.”

“Obviously.”

He eventually drank it.

Later, as they walked across the gravel path toward the small indoor gym (not to use it, just to look like they might), Seongje glanced over with a lazy grin.

“So what do you call this thing we’re doing now?”

Sieun looked at him, deadpan. “What thing?”

“You know. The part where you pretend I’m annoying and I pretend I’m not.”

Sieun didn’t answer.

Which, of course, only made Seongje chuckle.

It went like that for hours. Sparse conversation. A few moments of strange calm. Then some stupid comment from Seongje designed to provoke. And Sieun, to his own frustration, found that it wasn’t as irritating as it should be. He could ignore it, but it was like trying to ignore the low hum of a fridge at night. only quiet until you noticed it, and then impossible to unhear.

No one mentioned Jinwoo. No one even saw him.

Dinner came and went. They sat beside each other in the cafeteria again, and this time, no one whispered. No one even looked surprised. As if the silence between them had somehow become visible, and the rest of the boys instinctively steered clear of it.

By 9:30 pm, the lights in the halls were dimming. The echo of trays and water dispensers had faded. Doors clicked closed.

The dormitory exhaled from the day and collapsed 

Sieun sat on the edge of his bed, pulling his towel from the metal rack, toothbrush already clutched in hand. His body still ached, but the sharp pain had dulled into something manageable. His ribs still tugged with every deep breath, but nothing screamed anymore. Only a quiet, constant reminder that he was healing from something that he’s not sure that should have happened.

The bathroom light from the hallway flickered once, then steadied.

He stood, adjusting the towel over his shoulder, and turned slightly—

Just as the door opened.

Seongje entered, smelling faintly of outside. Of smoke and cold night air and something sharp beneath it, metal, maybe, or the idea of danger more than the thing itself.

His skin was still flushed from the evening’s chill. Hair a little messy. Eyes a little too alert for the hour.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just closed the door behind him and tossed his lighter into the tray by the window.

Sieun didn’t move. He watched him from the corner of his eye, toothbrush loose in his grip.

“You’re back late” he said finally.

Seongje shrugged, unbothered. “The moon looked lonely.”

Sieun snorted once, very faintly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only for you.”

There was a beat of silence.

Sieun turned away, fingers adjusting the towel again.

“I’m gonna shower.”

Seongje leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Try not to miss me too much.”

Sieun didn’t respond nor looked back as he stepped into the hallway light.

But something in him burned warmer than the water he was about to stand under. 

The bathroom was empty when Sieun entered.

Steam already rose from the far showerhead, thin, ghostlike. The mirrors along the tiled wall were streaked and half-fogged, lit by a dim overhead bulb that buzzed faintly with tired electricity. His towel hung on the hook beside him. The others were still folded in the corner. Everyone else had either showered earlier or were dragging out curfew in whispered corners of the dorm.

He liked it this way.

Quiet. Solitary. The only space in this place where the walls didn’t echo back someone else’s noise.

Sieun peeled off his clothes without rush, wincing only slightly when the cotton dragged across the bruising still ripening on his side. His ribs ached in protest. His shoulder pulled tight. But there was something strangely grounding in the ache, it reminded him he was still here. Still occupying space. Still alive.

He stepped under the hot water, letting it slice down over him, blunt and fast. The temperature stung for the first few seconds. Then it settled. His muscles unwound, slightly. The room blurred.

For a moment, he let go of thought entirely.

Until—

A sound.

Light. Footsteps against tile.

Then a voice, casual, low “Didn’t expect the water to still be running.”

The voice deep. Familiar.

Too familiar.

Sieun didn’t need to look to know who it was.

His jaw clenched. Quietly. His stomach turned. Sieun turned sharply, water dripping from his hair into his eyes.

Seongje stood in the entryway, already shirtless, a towel slung over one shoulder, his eyes unreadable in the steam-hazed light.

Sieun blinked, stunned for a second too long.

“What are you doing here?”

Seongje raised a brow. “Showering?”

“There are six other stalls.”

“And this one’s already warm.”

Sieun stared.

He wasn’t sure what caught him more off guard, the words or the way Seongje looked saying them. 

He stood just a few feet beyond the open threshold of the shower area, towel in hand, his hair slightly damp, naked. His body was lean but solid. shoulders broad, arms marked with old and new bruises, the casual strength of someone who never had to prove it.

The other boy’s body was carved in a way that wasn’t soft. Muscled, lean, but not gym-refined. It was the kind of strength that came from living inside violence. From surviving it. From meeting it, again and again, and walking away each time harder than before.

There was a scar just below his ribs. Faint. Long-healed. Another beneath his collarbone. He still had the bandages from the stabbing, just not as bloody.

Sieun’s eyes flickered downward before he could stop himself. 

Sieun looked too long.

And Seongje noticed.

His grin wasn’t smug. It was quieter than that. Almost curious.

“You’re staring” he said. ‘Asshole’

Sieun turned back under the water.

“You walked in on me in the middle of a shower. What did you expect me to do?”

“Run screaming, probably” Seongje said, stepping into the next stall.

His voice was still too close.

Sieun could feel him even when they weren’t touching.

He turned back under the water. But the heat didn’t distract him anymore. Every nerve had reoriented. Every drop against his skin now felt secondary to the fact that there was another presence in the room. And it wasn’t just anyone.

It was him.

Seongje moved past him, slowly, unhurried, and took the next stall, separated by only a shoulder-width divider. His towel landed on the bench with a soft thud. Then came the sound of water starting again, another stream pouring down, mixing with Sieun’s in the rhythm of something disturbingly domestic.

Sieun didn’t mean to glance over again.

But he did.

And Seongje was already looking at him.

Steam ghosted off his shoulders. His eyes were darker in that environment, under the haze, under the low light. Focused. Like hunger reined in by something colder, something calculating.

He tried to ignore it.

He really did.

But ignoring Seongje was like ignoring the scent of smoke in a locked room.

Eventually, it fills your lungs.

“You always tense up like this when someone talks to you in the shower?” Seongje’s voice was low, lazy. “Or just when it’s me?”

Sieun turned his face into the stream of water, letting it rush over him.

“Just when someone invades my personal space,” Sieun said, trying to keep his voice steady. He didn’t sound convincing.

“I’m not  touching you.”

“You don’t need to.”

There was a pause. Only steam between them.

Then Seongje spoke again, quiet this time. Quieter than he’d been all day.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

Sieun stilled.

Even the water seemed to hush for a moment.

“About what?” he asked eventually, though he already knew.

“Yesterday,” Seongje said. “When you got close. When we almost.…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But he didn’t have to.

The silence swelled with what wasn’t said.

“You didn’t kiss me” Sieun said. Flat, but not unfeeling.

The words hit like a spark in a dark room.

Sieun tensed, eyes narrowing.

“I wanted to.”

Sieun’s hand curled slightly against the tile.

There was a long pause. Longer than made sense.

 “And I still do.”

Sieun’s throat went dry. He took a breath and turned the water down, the pressure falling to a gentle hiss. The steam remained, but thinner now, like a veil lifting.

He stepped back from the spray, reaching for the handle, the motion instinctive, he needed the heat off, something to break this pressure — but before he could turn the knob, he felt it.

Not contact. Just presence.

Seongje was closer now. Leaning slightly around the edge of the divider.

Close enough to see the water running down Sieun’s back. Close enough for Sieun to see every shadow under his jaw. Every flicker of something held just barely in restraint. He felt exposed.

“Don’t” Sieun said, voice too soft.

“Don’t what?”

“Someone can come in.”

Seongje didn’t touch him.

But his voice dropped lower.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Sieun hated that he didn’t have an answer ready.

He hated how warm his face felt under the water, how his hands suddenly couldn’t stay still. He didn’t want to want anything here. Not with him. Not now. Not in this place where want was always used like a weapon.

“We’re not supposed to do this, someone might—” Sieun said. His voice was steadier than he expected. But it didn’t sound like a warning. More like a reminder. A weak one.

Seongje smirked. “Then stop me.”

Sieun didn’t move. That was all the invitation Seongje needed.

His mouth was on him a second later, not careful, just sure. The kiss was the kind that didn’t waste time pretending to be something else. Hungry. Fast. A little reckless. Lips crashing into each other like they were trying to erase the space between thoughts. Their teeth knocked slightly, but neither pulled back.

Seongje’s hands found him quickly. One slid behind Sieun’s neck, fingers digging just hard enough to make him tilt his head, to hold him there. The other dropped to his waist, dragging him closer until they were chest to chest, breath mingling in the heat.

Sieun’s hand went to Seongje’s wrist instinctively, not to pull it away, but to anchor himself, like the way you grab a doorframe in an earthquake. He kissed back because it felt easier than pulling away. Because for once, his body didn’t feel numb. And he hated that it was Seongje who made it that way.

“Fuck, you taste like soap” Seongje laughed against his mouth, breathless. Then he kissed him again, rougher. “And something bitter. Like you’re still trying not to like this.”

His hand slid up Sieun’s side, over his ribs, fingers pressing into skin like he was testing its realness. He didn’t rush. He just touched him like someone who’d spent a long time imagining that exact moment and now wanted to take his time ruining it.

Sieun turned his face to the side, needing a second. His chest rose, and fell like he’d run a mile.

“You think this means something?” he asked quietly. “That kissing me is going to fix your shit?”

Seongje didn’t answer right away. His lips hovered just under Sieun’s jaw, warm breath ghosting over skin. Then he pressed a kiss there, softer this time. Almost careful.

“No” he said. “But it helps.”

He kissed him again before Sieun could reply, this time slower, deeper, like they had nowhere else to be. His tongue slid against Sieun’s, his hand on the back of his neck holding him in place, thumb rubbing slow circles behind his ear. His other hand dipped lower, gripping Sieun’s hip like he was afraid he’d vanish if he let go.

Sieun gasped— quiet, but real. Seongje swallowed the sound.

“Your face says that you hate this” Seongje whispered against his lips. “But you’re still here.”

Sieun didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His thoughts felt waterlogged, sluggish. He was angry— at Seongje, at himself, at how easy it was to melt into someone he swore he would never trust. But the way Seongje kissed….it wasn’t romantic. It was possessive. Like he was trying to brand him with his mouth. And for some reason, Sieun let him.

His hands slid up Seongje’s chest, not to push him off, but to feel the way his heart pounded through his skin. He hated how much he liked knowing it wasn’t just him.

Sieun’s mind shouted a thousand things. Go back to your side. What are you doing? Someone could walk in. This is insane. This is dangerous. This is—

Their lips broke apart for a breath.Both of them panting now, faces close. Steam curled around their shoulders. Seongje’s forehead rested against Sieun’s, and for a second, the kiss stopped, but the intensity didn’t.

“Are you gonna pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow?” Seongje asked, voice low, eyes locked on him.

Sieun met his gaze. “Depends If you stop acting like a fucking sociopath.”

Seongje grinned. “No promises.”

Then he kissed him again, like he didn’t need a promise. Like he didn’t need anything at all, except this.

Their mouths moved slower now, but no less hungry. Not the kind of hunger that came from want, this wasn’t about desire. It was about pressure. About the way things snap when they’ve been held in too long. It felt less like a kiss, more like a confession made in the language of friction and heat.

Seongje’s hand slipped down just enough to feel the line of his waist, fingers splaying wide like he was trying to feel everything at once.

Sieun stiffened for a second. His back hit the tile. Cold. Jarring. He blinked hard, trying to breathe through the fog building behind his eyes.

What the hell was he doing?

His body said one thing-- leaning in, lips parted, skin begging for more. But his brain—

No. His brain had left the room a long time ago.

Still, some part of him — whatever quiet, logical part was left, muttered this is not real affection. This is not love. Not comfort. Just desperation, dressed in steam and sweat and a mouth that won’t stop talking.

And maybe that was why he didn’t stop it.

Maybe he needed it too. The numbness had been too deep lately. Like trying to scream underwater.

And Seongje? Seongje didn’t ask for anything he wasn’t willing to take. At least he was honest about that.

Sieun tilted his head and kissed back harder, teeth grazing Seongje’s lower lip. Not on purpose. It just happened. But Seongje groaned into his mouth, low and rough like it had been dragged from the bottom of his lungs.

“Fuck..Sieun, you’re making me crazy” he whispered, breath ragged. “You don’t kiss like someone who hates me.”

Sieun opened his eyes. They were barely an inch apart. His lips were swollen. His pulse roared in his ears.

“You don’t kiss like someone who knows what they want” he said, flat. It came out colder than he meant it.

Seongje paused— but only for a second. Then he laughed. Quiet. Dangerous.

“You’re wrong” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of Sieun’s mouth. “I know exactly what I want.”

His hand slipped higher, brushing the skin just under Sieun’s ribs. Not groping. Just touching. Like he wanted to memorize it. The rise and fall of someone who was still breathing in front of him. Someone who hadn’t left. Someone who hadn’t died.

His lips trailed down Sieun’s jaw. Down his neck. Not slow and sensual— needy. The way someone clings to the taste of something they’re afraid will be gone in the next second.

Sieun’s eyes fluttered closed.

He should have stopped this. He could stop this. But his hands were still gripping Seongje’s shoulders. Still pulling him closer. Every inhale filled with Seongje’s breath, his skin, the scent of body wash, the cigarette smell that never left him and something colder beneath it, like iron and smoke and the sharpness of something broken.

“You’re insane” Sieun said, voice low, hoarse. Not quite angry. Not quite anything.

“Yeah” Seongje murmured against his throat, lips brushing every syllable. “But you’re not running either.”

His fingers tangled in Sieun’s waist again, gripping it like he might rip it off or hold it together, he didn’t seem to know which. Their hips brushed, both of them hard. Sieun could feel Seongje’s cock brushing against his, and that flash of contact made both of them tense. It was too much. Too close. Not enough.

Sieun’s breath hitched again. His hand pushed lightly at Seongje’s chest.Not forcefully, just enough to create a few inches of space. Enough to breathe again.

“We’re not doing this here” he said.

Seongje looked down, his eyes darker now. Dilated. His lip was slightly red where Sieun had bitten it.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to let you use me as a distraction.” Sieun’s voice was cold, but his fingers were still resting on Seongje’s chest. He didn’t pull them back.

Seongje’s jaw tightened. He looked like he was about to argue— but then, something shifted in his face. Not softness. Just resignation. He stepped back a little. The water still beat down on both of them, washing the heat off their skin but not out of their blood.

He nodded once. “Fine.”

But the look in his eyes said it wasn’t over.

He moved toward the door, pausing with his back to Sieun. His towel now clung to every scar, every muscle, like a second skin peeling away from someone made of damage and hunger.

“I wasn’t using you,” Seongje said without turning around. “You’re just the only thing in this place that makes me feel like I’m not fucking dying.”

Then he left.

And Sieun was alone again, water pouring down over him like it could erase what just happened. But it couldn’t. Not from his body. Not from his mouth. Not from that place in his chest that still felt tight with something he didn’t want to name.

Not yet.

“Madness comes not in a storm, but in small, patient drips.”

Chapter Text

The air in the hallway felt colder than it should have.

Or maybe it was just the water drying on his back, still clinging under the collar of his hoodie. Maybe it was the contrast between that humid, suffocating space, and the strange vacuum of now.

Sieun walked in silence.

His steps were even, purposeful. Like he wasn’t unraveling.

As if he wasn’t still tasting him.

Every inhale was betrayal. The smell of the hall, disinfectant and dust, was nothing compared to the imprint still burned into his senses, the heat, skin, that fleeting, dizzying press of lips and teeth and want.

He hadn’t spoken a word when he left the bathroom.

His hands were still shaking, though he hid them in the sleeves of his hoodie. His mouth felt raw, like it had said too much without speaking.

When he finally reached the dorm door, he stared at it longer than he should have.

Something in him almost turned around. Not because he wanted to go back, but because he didn’t know what version of himself was about to walk into that room. The one from before….didn’t fit anymore.

Eventually, he opened the door.

The room was dull, empty. Seongje wasn’t back yet. Probably outside, smoking, like they hadn’t just—

No. Don’t.

Sieun closed the door quietly and leaned against it for a second.

His chest clenched. Fell.

The weight wasn’t in his lungs. It was in his throat.

‘You could’ve stopped it. You should’ve stopped it.’

But he didn’t.

And that, more than anything, was what twisted like wire beneath his skin. Not the fact that Seongje had kissed and marked him. Not that he’d kissed back. But that there’d been a moment, half a breath, where he wanted it. Not just physically. Not just curiosity.

He’d wanted to feel something.

That scared him more than anything else.

He changed into his sleep clothes mechanically. Avoided looking in the mirror. Climbed into bed like someone stepping into a hard, slow, cautious, already preparing for impact.

He pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes. Not to sleep. Just to shut something out.

It didn’t work.

His mind wouldn’t quiet.

Every second of it kept replaying, frame by frame, like a slow-burn film stuck on loop. The way Seongje’s hands had moved, too confident. The way his mouth knew exactly when to slow down. The way Sieun’s body had reacted, leaning in, just enough.

It wasn’t the first time Seongje had gotten too close. He liked testing limits. That was his language. Bruises, smirks, tension held like a knife by the blade. But this….tonight, it wasn’t a test.

And the part he couldn’t stop thinking about: the look in Seongje’s eyes, right before the end.

Like he’d found something he hadn’t expected.

And wasn’t going to let go.

The door creaked.

Sieun stilled.

He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t shift. Just steadied his breath into something slow, something believable. He’d done this before, when he was younger, pretending to sleep so his father wouldn’t talk to him, pretending silence could be a shield. The muscle memory never left.

The scent hit him first. Smoke, intoxicating and warm.

Then the steps.

Slower. Thoughtful. Not the usual loud, careless gait Seongje wore during the day.

He felt it before he heard it.

That gaze. Heavy. Direct.

Lingering.

He laid still.

A second passed. Then another.

Then a low whisper, soft, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard

“You’re really driving me fucking insane.”

No amusement. No bite.

Just honesty. Or something close to it.

And when he expected Seongje to continue, he heard the bed on the other side creaking, and then silence fell again, this time heavier than before. Within minutes, Seongje’s breathing evened out, deep and calm.

But Sieun didn’t sleep.

Couldn’t.

Not when something inside him had shifted. Split.

He stared into the dark until the window began to bleed with a soft orange.

5:46 a.m the clock said.

The day had already began.

It was the kind of morning that felt like it had held its breath all night, as if even time had been waiting to see what would happen next.

Sieun hadn’t moved all night.

He’d laid there, flat on his back, eyes burning against the ceiling.

The phantom memory of Seongje’s breath against his neck.

From the way it had almost gone further.

From the way he had almost let it.

His stomach was still twisted in a knot that wouldn’t come undone. His thoughts were knives, stabbing endlessly. He didn’t know if it was guilt or desire or fear, but whatever it was, it had teeth, and it was sinking deeper.

He moved carefully. Every motion quiet. Uniform, shoes, a glance toward the door.

‘Just get out. Just breathe somewhere else.’

He was three steps from the handle when the voice came.

“That’s it?”

Sieun froze.

“Not even a word?” Seongje’s voice was quiet. Lower than usual. Rough from sleep but not sleepy. It had a grain to ii, like gravel under bare feet.

Sieun turned, slowly.

Seongje was sitting up now. Hair a mess, bruises like watercolor across his torso, gaze fixed on him with something unreadable behind it.

“I didn’t think you were the fuck boy type” he blurted.

Sieun folded his arms. “I’m not.”

“Then what would you call this huh?” Seongje stood now, one step at a time, not fast, but each one closing distance like a slow tide “You walk out like nothing happened, like you didn’t kiss me back, like we didn’t almost fuc—”

“Stop.”

The word came out colder than Sieun intended.

“It didn’t mean anything.” He continued.

A pause.

Then a faint laugh. Low. Bitter.

“Bullshit.” Seongje stepped in close enough that Sieun had to tilt his chin slightly to look up at him. “I’ve been kissed before. I know that wasn’t nothing.”

Sieun looked away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

His hand caught Sieun’s wrist. Hard. 

Sieun tried to pull away, but he tensed, jaw locking.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, voice quieter now, more tired than defensive. “Is this just some new game for you?”

That made Seongje’s expression shift. Not anger, something colder. More direct.

“You think this is a fucking game to me?” he murmured. “You think I look at you like this because I don’t have nothing better to do?”

He moved again, now closer, but not enough to touch. Not fully.

“I already told you” Seongje said, voice soft, but too steady. “You’re interesting enough to be worthy of my attention. And I—”

He stopped. His hand slid to Sieun’s waist, cautiously, like testing how far the boundary could stretch.

“I can’t stop thinking about you” he finished. “It’s not a game. And it’s not going away just because you want to”

Sieun looked at him now. Really looked.

And hated what he felt, that confusing flicker of heat, yes— but also anticipation. Like something inside him expected something from the other.

He should’ve walked away.

But he didn’t.

So Seongje leaned in.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t like last night. Not hungry. Not desperate.

But slow. Sure. Intentional.

A kiss that said ‘this wasn’t over’.

Sieun didn’t move. His fingers curled lightly at his sides, breath trapped in his throat. He was stunned, not by the kiss itself, but by how quiet the world felt inside it.

When Seongje pulled back, he didn’t go far.

Their foreheads touching. His hand still rested at Sieun’s waist like it had always belonged there.

And then he gave the faintest smirk.

“I’ll see you in class babe” he said, gave him a little peck and stepped away.

Just like that.

He tugged on a wrinkled shirt, raked a hand through his hair, grabbed his glasses and quickly putted on his shoes from the floor.

Sieun didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe until the door closed behind him.

And even then, he didn’t know whether he wanted to scream, or follow him.

Time passed in a strange rhythm.

A week, give or take. Hard to tell in a place where every day bled into the next, the same concrete walls, same steel schedules, same tasteless food and recycled authority. 

They still had assigned duties, but the instructors had given them both lighter work, claiming concern over their injuries, though everyone knew it was because of the fight. The infamous one.

Rumors died fast here, but this one had stretched further than most. And yet no one dared bring it up again in front of them. Not when they entered the canteen or when they walked to class side by side.

Not when Seongje had his hand ghosting behind Sieun’s back, a silent declaration of possession he never put into words.

And something had shifted, not in the program, not in the routine, but in them.

He could only feel it, like gravity had been adjusted, like his body remembered something before his mind could process it. His eyes always seemed to find Seongje’s without meaning to. A stray glance. A crooked smile from across the hall. The drag of footsteps behind him, always steady, always close.

They didn’t speak about what they were doing.

But they kept doing it.

Seongje still followed him. Claimed it was part of the ‘buddy method’ some fake behavioral structure that no one actually did. Sieun had rolled his eyes the first time he said it, but he still didn’t stop him.

Because truthfully, he didn’t want to be alone. Not anymore.

And especially not at night.

That’s when it happened most often, the quiet hours, when the dorms were still, the walls too thin, and the lights too dim. Their make-out sessions had become ritual. Unspoken, drawn-out, and always incomplete. In the bathroom, under the muted echo of the showers. Before bed, with their breath too close, their hands too confident. 

They never went further.

Not really.

It always stopped short of something irreversible. Sometimes because Seongje paused, saying that ‘he couldn’t stop himself if they continued’. Sometimes because Sieun said no. Sometimes because neither of them could admit how far they actually wanted to go.

And yet, Sieun would lie awake for hours after. Shirt clinging to skin. Breathing uneven. The imprint of hands still burning at his hips. Pretending not to feel it didn’t make it go away.

He told himself he hated it.

That was his whole survival strategy, emotional coldness. Intellectual distance. He told himself he didn’t like it.

But the truth was uglier. He did.

And he hated how badly he wanted it again.

It wasn’t just the heat or the salivating kisses. It was the way Seongje looked at him when he thought Sieun wasn’t paying attention. Not like an object, not like a conquest. Like a habit. A fixation. A tether.

Like Sieun had become something he needed to stay calm.

And maybe, in some twisted way, it was mutual.

He liked feeling wanted.

It made him feel less….empty.

Even if it scared him.

Even if he couldn’t name what it was turning into.

They had started talking more, about nothing mostly. Stupid jokes. Mocking observations. Strange dreams. Seongje didn’t offer much about himself, but his presence had changed. He wasn’t as idiotic. He wasn’t as arrogant. He was still unpredictable, but always attuned to Sieun, like he was listening even when he didn’t look like it.

He remembered one night of that week. It was late, past lights-out, long after the hallway had gone silent.

Sieun was on his bed, one leg bent, reading a borrowed copy of ‘No Longer Human’. The corners were worn out, the book cover cracked. He’d read it before, but tonight he wasn’t reading so much as hiding behind the act of it.

Across the room, Seongje sat cross-legged on his own mattress, tossing a balled-up sock into the air and catching it lazily.

“Why do you always read depressing books?” he asked after the long silence.

Sieun didn’t look up. “Because cheerful books are dishonest”

“That’s sad, even for you.”

“I’m being honest.”

Seongje snorted. “Well, I’m gonna write a book one day” he said, leaning back against the wall, grinning “Title is gonna be ‘I Went to a Reform Camp and All I Got Was Horny for My Roommate.’ Bestseller. Maybe a trilogy.”

Sieun paused on the same sentence he’d been re-reading for ten minutes.

Then slowly, reluctantly, a tiny curve tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It barely registered as a smile.

But it was there.

And Seongje saw it.

He froze.

Literally stopped mid-sentence, wide-eyed like someone had just hit him with a brick.

“You just smiled” he said, voice too loud for how quiet the night had been. “Holy shit— wait. Did I break you?”

Sieun tried to hide it. Looked back down at the page. “I wasn’t smiling.”

“You smiled,” Seongje repeated, awe creeping into his voice. “You— you have teeth. You have cheek muscles. I’m witnessing a fucking miracle.”

Sieun shook his head, half-buried in the book, but his fingers trembled slightly on the page. He hadn’t smiled like that in months. Not since suho—

He stopped the thought.

But Seongje was still staring at him. Like he couldn’t believe what he saw.

“I’m gonna be thinking about that for the rest of my life” he muttered.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“No. Seriously.” He leaned forward now, his voice lower. “You don’t get it. You’ve been walking around like your soul’s rotting out your spine. I thought you were incapable.”

Sieun didn’t answer. And the silence between them stretched.

Then, softly, Seongje pleaded “Do it again.”

Sieun looked up.

And Seongje moved.

Abruptly. Hungrily, with a certainty that knocked the air out of the room.

He crossed the space between them in three steps, stood in front of Sieun’s bed, and just looked at him.

That smile had vanished by now. But something in Sieun’s face remained open, unguarded in a way it hadn’t been before. A crack in the shell.

Seongje reached out, tentative, and brushed a thumb along the edge of Sieun’s jaw. Not to pull or to take. Just to feel.

“Don’t look at me like that if you don’t want me to kiss you” he said, voice lowering.

Sieun didn’t answer.

Didn’t smile again.

But he didn’t say no either.

So Seongje leaned in, cautious, and kissed him.

The kiss was soft, almost reverent.

Gentle at first, like a question asked in silence.
Warmth shared in the space between two breaths, where walls falter and something unspoken slips through. A moment suspended, brief and endless all at once.

When he pulled back, he whispered

“Your smile is beautiful”

And moments like those made Sieun feel safer than he wanted to admit.

Sometimes it terrified him.

But even with their new weird relationship (if you could call it that), things were strangely normal. Or at least, they looked that way on the surface.

Classes went on. Group sessions remained the same charade. Meals were bland and mechanical. The days passed.

But quiet always meant something else was building underneath.

And Sieun felt it.

Especially when he noticed Jinwoo’s absence.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not like someone disappeared. He was still there, technically. Showed up to class, finished his chores, but Sieun didn’t see him anymore. Not in the spaces between. Not during lunch or diner. Not in the way that it was before.

Something was pulling Jinwoo away. Of that he was sure.

And that made Sieun uneasy.

Seongje mentioned it once, while they were walking together, when he noticed Sieun’s glare at the space.

“You looking for someone?”

Seongje said not even looking up from his juice box.

“Don’t worry, he’s around. Saw him with a few of the other assholes yesterday near the sheds.” He continued.

“He didn’t say anything to me.” 

Seongje shrugged and smirked.

“Maybe he’s not your puppy anymore.”

That earned him a sharp glance.

But Sieun didn’t argue. Not aloud.

Still, he kept watching.

When he did catch a glimpse of Jinwoo from across a room, the boy looked worser. Or maybe it was just the lighting. Maybe it was the way he didn’t hold eye contact anymore. Maybe it was the faint bruise around his mouth, as if he wanted to say something and couldn’t.

Seongje noticed him still looking ant him, asighed and said, almost offhand.

“Don’t overthink it. Kid’s probably just a fucker trying to play tough.”

But something about that didn’t sit right.

Sieun knew how to read silences. And Jinwoo’s were growing louder.

That afternoon, after chores and before the start of the evening prep hour, Sieun stepped outside alone.

He found Jinwoo behind the south rec fence, near the same crooked tree where some of the kids snuck snacks or smoked in secret. But Jinwoo wasn’t doing either. He was just sitting on the ground, elbows on his knees, hoodie pulled up even though the air was thick with late-day heat. Looking like he is imprisoned inside his own mind.

Sieun stood for a moment before approaching. Watching. Not quite sure what he expected to find.

He walked over slowly.

“Jinwoo.”

The boy looked up, eyes shadowed by the tree. He didn’t speak right away.

Sieun sat next to him without being asked. Not close. Not far either. Just where it didn’t feel forced.

“Didn’t think you still remembered I existed” Jinwoo said eventually, his voice low but not unfriendly. Tired more than anything.

Sieun glanced up at him. “You’ve been hard to find.”

“Not really” Jinwoo cracked his knuckles one by one. “Just not where you’re looking.”

Sieun nodded slowly, absorbing that. He looked out over the empty rec yard. A few boys were laughing near the basketball court. Everything else was still.

“I noticed you’ve been different” he said after a while.

Jinwoo gave a short laugh. “Yeah. Guess getting your face smashed in does that.”

Sieun’s gaze dropped for a second. His voice stayed level. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No?” Jinwoo’s tone sharpened. “Seemed pretty deliberate from where I was lying.”

Silence stretched between them.

Sieun didn’t flinch. “I didn’t want it to happen.”

Jinwoo picked at the thread of his sleeve. “You already told me that”

That stung more than it should have, but Sieun didn’t react to it. Not visibly. He let the air between them settle, let the words land.

Then he asked, simply “Are you okay?”

Jinwoo blinked, as if he hadn’t expected that.

He looked away again “Yes.”

“You don’t seem like it.”

Jinwoo sighed, then leaned his head back against the fence. His voice was quieter now. “What do you want, Sieun?”

Sieun hesitated, then said “I just want to know what’s going on.”

Jinwoo didn’t look at him.

“Did you know she asked about you.”

“….Ms. Kang?”

A slow nod.

Sieun’s fingers curled slightly on his knee. “When?”

“Few days ago. Called me in. Said she wanted to check in” A pause. “But all her questions were about you and your roomate. About what you two are doing.”

Sieun felt the knot in his stomach pull tighter.

“What did you say?”

Jinwoo looked at him for the first time. Not angrily. But with something obscured in his eyes. Maybe disappointment.

“Not much. But I didn’t lie either.”

Sieun didn’t speak. His face emotionless.

After a moment, Jinwoo said, softer now “You shouldn’t trust her. You know that, right?”

“I don’t.”

“But you’re still acting like everything’s normal.”

Sieun looked up at the blue sky. “If I act like it’s not, I’ll get sent somewhere worse.”

“Maybe” Jinwoo said with a dry laugh. “Or maybe you’ll get caught in something you didn’t start.”

Sieun glanced at him.

Jinwoo didn’t continue.

He stood instead. Brushed the dirt off his pants.

Before walking away, he said, without turning around “This isn’t personal Sieun, I just need to think about my safety first” He paused “just….be careful.”

Then he left.

And Sieun sat there, alone again, thinking of Ms. Kang’s glares. Of Seongje’s lips. Of Jinwoo’s words.

And that strange, pressing quiet the camp had settled into lately, like the whole place was breathing in before the exhale.

Something was coming.

After the weird conversation between him and Jinwoo, Sieun moved through the back paths of the camp like he was tracing a map only he could see, his shoes crunching on the freshly cut grass, hand trailing along the rust-stained edge of the maintenance building.

And inside him, thoughts churned.

No more distractions. No Seongje’s smirks. No Jinwoo’s silence. Just the rising tide of what he couldn’t stop thinking about.

‘What is this place, really?’

A rehabilitation camp. That’s what they called it. A place to ‘reform boys like him’. But reform meant control. It meant money. It meant keeping appearances clean enough for donors, parents and bureaucrats with tired eyes.

Sieun knew how power worked. You didn’t need a degree in psychology to see that the kids who got beat up were never the ones from the cleanest families. That those with powerful fathers and worn-down mothers ended up here in silence. Paper trails erased. Payments made.

But that wasn’t all.

He had been wondering, almost obsessively, if maybe this place wasn’t just failing on purpose. Maybe it was designed this way. Not a broken machine, but a working one. A factory of failure disguised as a correctional facility.

He had already seen too many injuries covered up. Too many teachers who looked the other way. Too many boys who gotten quiet out of nowhere. 

And then there was Ms. Kang.

She didn’t run this place like a helper. She ran it like a business.

Recruitment. Suppression. Incentives.

Seongje had been one of her first tools. Of that, Sieun was sure now. He kept the chaos hidden. Controlled the loud ones. Beat silence into the places it didn’t belong. Everything in exchange for a careless, responsibility-free summer. 

But something was changing.

Sieun felt it in the way the staff had gone quieter lately. In how Mr. Yoon’s eyes lingered on him during lectures. In how Jinwoo had been pulled aside.

‘They’re watching again.’

And yet, even with all that suspicion, he still couldn’t figure out the endgame.

Was it just money?

Or was there something worse?

He reached the hallway that led into the south wing, the corridor that housed two empty classrooms and the staff archives. Most of the boys didn’t come this way. But Sieun liked the quiet. The absence of eyes.

He was halfway through the door when the loudspeakers crackled to life overhead.

The camp used them sparingly, usually for lunch schedules or weather warnings.

But this time, the voice was calm.

Too calm.

“All residents are to report to the auditorium for an emergency assembly. Attendance is mandatory. Anyone not present within fifteen minutes will be escorted by staff.”

A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought—

“Effective immediately, dorm rotations have been suspended. Counseling sessions will be reassigned. Until further notice, everyone is under review.”

The announcement clicked off.

Sieun stopped moving.

His pulse didn’t quicken, but his spine did something strange. A kind of alertness.

‘Under review’

It wasn’t a warning. It was a message.

This wasn’t about weather. Or food. Or routine.

Something had changed.

And suddenly, every theory Sieun had started to feel less like a quiet, paranoid fantasy, and more like a guess that was getting too close to the truth.

The walk to the auditorium felt like a narrowing tunnel. The camp had gone quiet in a new kind of way, not empty nor serene, but alert. Watching. Like the buildings themselves knew something was wrong.

Sieun moved steadily through the main corridor, footsteps light, careful, measured. Groups of boys passed him in murmuring clusters, heads ducked, voices hushed in brittle laughter that didn’t sound real. The kind of sound people made when they were trying not to be afraid.

He didn’t join them.

He kept walking, eyes scanning. Looking not for direction, but for confirmation. For a sign that what he’d been thinking wasn’t just paranoia dressed up as pattern recognition.

The hallway split, the auditorium doors yawning ahead like a mouth.

That’s when he saw him, Jinwoo, halfway up the entrance steps. Alone.

Hood up, posture tense, moving with that purposeful stillness that didn’t match his usual shuffle. He didn’t look around. Didn’t glance back.

Sieun watched him disappear through the doors and felt a flicker of unease in his chest.

He’d intended to say something. Ask him what he knew. But now wasn’t the time. Or maybe Jinwoo wouldn’t answer. Not anymore.

He turned back.

And then, behind him, footsteps.

Unhurried. Heavy.

Sieun didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Still, he turned.

Seongje was walking towards him, hands in his pockets, the usual slight smirk nowhere to be seen. His orange windbreaker clung to him in the heat, collar loose, his eyes sharp and unfocused like he was watching three things at once.

They stopped a few feet apart.

Neither of them spoke.

Then Seongje gave a small shrug. “Don’t ask.”

Sieun furrowed his eyebrows.

Seongje’s voice was quiet. “I also don’t know what this is. I’ve been coming here for years. And this? Never happened.”

His tone didn’t carry panic. But it wasn’t calm either.

He was unsettled.

And if Seongje was unsettled, something was definitely wrong.

Sieun studied him for a second. “You think it’s about us?”

Seongje gave a small laugh, joyless. “It’s always about someone. Doesn’t matter who.”

They walked in together.

The auditorium was already half full. The air felt heavy. Conditioned too low. Manufactured quiet.

Boys whispered to each other in fragments. Names. Guesses. Some smiled too wide. Others didn’t smile at all.

Seongje dropped into a seat near the back and sprawled out like it was nothing, but his eyes never stopped moving.

Sieun sat beside him, upright. Still.

His gaze moved from row to row. Counting faces. Watching posture. Looking for something, he didn’t even know what. An absence, maybe. A misalignment.

And then he saw Jinwoo, already seated a few rows ahead.

Straight-backed. Hands on his knees. Looking forward like he’d already knew what was coming.

He didn’t turn around.

Didn’t glance their way.

Sieun’s fingers twitched slightly on the armrest.

“Something’s off” he muttered.

Seongje didn’t look at him. Just exhaled through his nose. “Yeah...”

And then the lights above dimmed a little, just enough to shift the mood.

The door clicked behind them, and all the noise, the whispering, the jokes, the shifting in chairs, flattened in instinct.

Sieun turned his gaze toward the side of the stage.

The footsteps were quiet.

Then the figure emerged from behind the curtain like a shadow stepping into light.

Ms. Kang.

Hair tied back. Black slacks. Blazer too dark for the heat. Clipboard in hand, as always, though she barely looked at it. She didn’t need to.

She already knew what she was going to say.

She walked slowly across the stage with the precision of someone who had already imagined this scene a hundred times. She stopped center stage, not at the podium, just in front of it. No microphone. No height advantage.

But the silence made her taller than anyone.

Sieun could feel Seongje shift beside him, just slightly. A tightening of posture. Not exactly fear, something closer to tension with memory behind it.

Ms. Kang’s voice was calm. Of course it was.

Like someone who could slice you open and tell you it was for your own good.

“Thank you all for arriving so quickly. I won’t take up your time, though I suggest you give me your attention.”

She let that linger a moment before continuing.

“This camp was built on a principle, silence produces clarity. Some of you have forgotten that.”

Sieun’s heart slowed instead of sped up. The kind of dread that didn’t scream, but sank, like weight into water.

She paced, slowly.

“Some of you have begun whispering. Inventing. Making noise. That ends now.”

Sieun’s eyes narrowed.

He could feel the boys around him bristling. Some shifted in their seats. Others froze.

“As of this evening, we will be entering a containment phase.”

She held up a sheet of paper, thicker than usual. Laminated.

“You’ll find this posted in each dormitory by curfew tonight. These are your updated rules. All prior guidelines are void.”

Sieun’s spine stiffened. Even Seongje turned his head slightly.

Ms. Kang began to read.

“Rule One: Curfew is now 7:30 p.m. All students must be inside dorms by this time. Doors will lock automatically. Exiting without clearance is a Category 2 violation.”

“Rule Two: Hall movement between rooms is restricted. You will remain in your assigned sleeping quarters. Bathroom access after curfew is scheduled and escorted.”

A low murmur passed through the front rows. She ignored it.

“Rule Three: Everyone is subject to random search. Daily checks will be enforced by new supervisory staff.”

That caught attention.

Sieun saw it in the sudden way the room stopped again.

New staff.

“Rule Four: Verbal altercations, refusal to comply, or conspiratorial behavior will result in detainment. A new isolation wing has been reinstated for behavioral study.”

This was not therapy. It was detainment. Study.

She lowered the paper. Folded it calmly.

“This camp has been entrusted with your rehabilitation. You have failed to meet us halfway.” She stared at Sieun and Seongje now “So now, we meet you on your level.”

Then, quietly, with no emphasis “New guards will arrive tomorrow. They are not therapists. They are not teachers.”

“They are trained to make you listen.”

The words were said so plainly that it took a moment for the room to process them.

Sieun’s heart beat once. Then again, faster. Cold sweat rose at the back of his neck.

Seongje exhaled sharply through his nose. Quietly, under his breath

“Huh, now this is unexpected. Feels kinda’ personal”

Sieun agreed but didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

This wasn’t about silence.
It was about control.
Hard. Clinical. Permanent.

Ms. Kang’s final words were almost tender.

“This is not punishment. This is the only way you leave here changed.”

Ms. Kang smiled. Barely. It wasn’t warm. It was the smile you use when you’ve already won.

“Dismissed.”

And just like that, she turned and walked off stage.

No questions. No clarifications. No room for interpretation.

Only the sound of the exit door shutting behind her.

The room didn’t move at first.

Then slowly, the shuffle of chairs. Feet scraping against concrete. Murmurs that didn’t dare rise above whispers.

Sieun stayed seated a moment longer.

Jinwoo was already gone.

Seongje leaned over slightly. “She’s scared” he said softly.

Sieun turned to him.

Seongje was watching the empty stage. “You don’t change the rules unless you think someone’s getting too close.”

Sieun didn’t answer.

But something in his throat burned like agreement.

Because whatever this camp had been before, it wasn’t the same anymore.

And something had just been set in motion.

The door clicked behind them with a quiet finality, the kind that felt heavier than wood and hinges.

Sieun stood still for a second, letting the silence settle before stepping further in.

Seongje was already sitting on his bed, gaze distant in a way that didn’t suit him.

No smirk. No laugh. Just thoughts.

Sieun took a seat on the edge of his own bed, elbows on knees, eyes scanning the room like it might start changing under his gaze.

For once, Seongje didn’t speak first.

That silence lingered.

Until Sieun broke it.

“You’re quiet.”

Seongje gave a soft exhale, barely a laugh, more like air escaping something cracked.

“You’d think she’d at least said something to me” he muttered. “After all I’ve done. You’d think she’d warn me, or pull me aside or— fuck, this is weird”

Sieun didn’t respond right away. He could see the tension in Seongje’s shoulders. Recalibration or something predatory reworking its environment.

“Maybe this was the warning” Sieun said finally.

Seongje’s eyes met his, deep and tired.

“‘Warning.’ That shit felt more like a funeral.”

He leaned back, fingers dragging through his hair.

“You notice how she said ‘containment phase’? Like we’re a biohazard lab accident.”

Sieun nodded. His hands were steepled now, knuckles pressed to his lips.

“No more group therapy. Locked rooms. Scheduled bathroom visits.”

“They’re isolating us.”

“Disabling alliances” Seongje added.

“Which means they don’t know what else to do.”

That pulled the first actual smirk from Seongje in an hour. Faint. Shadowed.

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“It’s not. It just means we’re running out of time.”

Seongje stood abruptly, pacing a bit now, bare feet quiet on cold tile.

“They’re bringing in new staff. Fucking Guards. That’s not even a metaphor anymore. They’re giving up the lie.”

“The lie kept people quiet…” Sieun said thoughtfully “This… this is going to make people panic.”

“And panicked people talk. Or start fights. Or try to run.”

“Exactly.”

They both went quiet again.

“We need a plan” Sieun said at last.

Seongje snorted.

“And what? You want me to crawl through the air vents with a spoon between my teeth like in a prison break movie?”

“You’d get stuck in the first duct” Sieun said dryly.

Seongje grinned a little. He ran a hand down his ribs, pressing lightly against a (now almost healed) bruise.

“Seriously though” he said. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably not.”

“Hah, fucker” Seongje said, leaning against the wall, watching Sieun now. “I’m saying that we’re too visible.”

Sieun’s eyes flicked up.

“You and me. Whatever the fuck this is.” He continued ”The looks. The whispers. That fight with Jinwoo. The almost-kisses in the hallway. The actual kiss—”

Sieun glared. Ears slightly pinker.

“They noticed” Seongje said, shrugging. “Ms. Kang’s not subtle when she’s scared.”

Sieun sat back, thinking. His mind was a wheel again, mechanical, endless.

“It’s mostly your fault” he said. “All we need to do is not react. No more nighttime…. whatever. We’re already too deep in each other’s orbit.”

“You make it sound sooo romantic” Seongje said.

“It’s not. It’s tactical.”

“Tactical huh” Seongje echoed. He smirked. “Then should I tactically kiss you right now, or—?”

Sieun threw a pillow at him.

It missed.

But for a second, the air lightened.

And then Seongje’s voice shifted.

“What do we do if someone breaks? If someone fucks up our lil’ plan before we can even do anything?”

Sieun answered without blinking.

“Then we’ll have to be faster.”

They both looked at the window, grated, reinforced glass. The kind you see in hospitals. Or holding cells.

Sieun turned back to Seongje, voice steady.

“We survive it. Together or not. But we survive it”

And that was the first time Seongje didn’t make a joke.

Sieun stood up towards the window. He watched the courtyard below, all fences and cameras. His arms were crossed. His shoulders tense. There was something briefly furious in his quietude.

“You ever think about what we’re actually doing here?” he said, without turning around.

Seongje raised a brow, mildly amused.

“You mean the charming daily routine of emotional repression and scheduled manual labor?”

Sieun let out a dry breath.

“You joke like you’re not scared.”

Seongje stepped closer.

“I’m not scared of them.”

“Then what?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His voice came low, quiet.

“Of what happens when you stop being scared, and start enjoying the wreckage.”

That made Sieun turn around. His eyes met Seongje’s. Still calm, but darker now. Measured.

“Do you think this place can collapse on its own?”

“No” Seongje responded. “I truly think if you want it gone, you have to burn it.”

The words were flippant, but something behind them wasn’t.

Sieun studied him.

“But you’re already part of it.”

“Not in the way you think.”

Seongje’s eyes fixed on him, sinful now.

“If I’m not part of the machine, I’ll break it. That’s always been the deal.”

He took a step closer. Then another. The distance between them narrowed until Sieun could hear the shift of his breath. Too calm for what was beneath the surface.

“You think you’re the only one planning?” Seongje asked, voice low. “You’re smart, yeah. But you don’t know everything.”

Sieun didn’t answer. His jaw was set, but his fingers had curled slightly at his sides.

“You want to burn the place down?” Seongje said, almost whispering now. “Then don’t just survive it.”

“Destroy it” he finished.

Their eyes locked.

The quiet became thick.

And then, without asking, without warning, Seongje pushed him by the waist and leaned in.

The kiss was rough. Shameless. The definition of profane.

It was full of unspoken things. Restraint. Frustration. Hunger. Something darker and more protective. Like a promise not yet made, and a threat already understood.

Sieun didn’t move, not at first. His mind jolted between thoughts, how close they were, how reckless this was, how no one had ever touched him like that without trying to hurt something.

But Seongje wasn’t hurting him.

He was holding his face like it meant something.

When he pulled back, barely an inch, their eyes staring at each other’s soul. A shared breath passed between them. Warm. Strange. Real.

“You’re not alone in this” Seongje said.

“I didn’t ask you to be involved.”

“You don’t need to.”

He let go slowly. Then he turned toward his bed, like the conversation hadn’t turned into a definitive attachment.

“Sleep while you can princess, you’ll need it” he said over his shoulder.

He laid down, arm over his face like a shield from the ceiling light.

Sieun stayed standing.

His heartbeat was still climbing. But not from fear.

From something else entirely.

He looked toward the window again.

And he couldn’t stop the thought that he may had done a deal with the devil.

That night, the air inside the camp pressed in like a last breath. The lights went out as usual. The beds creaked as boys shifted in restless imitation of sleep. But beneath the skin of routine, something had twisted, subtle, but irreversible. It was in the silence between footsteps, in the distant echo of keys turning twice in new locks. The world hadn’t erupted. It had just tilted slightly, and that tilt would be enough.

Sieun already laid still, his thoughts a maze without end. The echo of lips that hadn’t asked for permission still lingered on his skin like warmth that hadn’t quite faded. Seongje was already breathing slow beside him, like none of it mattered. Like all of it did. And somewhere deeper in the building, someone else sat awake, eyes open in the dark, waiting for an answer that would never come freely. The camp had closed its mouth around them. What came next would be quiet. Controlled. Precise.

There would be no alarms. No public declarations. Only the sound of things being rearranged beneath the surface, and the growing knowledge that nothing was accomplished meant to be fixed here.

“The soul is healed by being with the youth.”
And yet, Sieun thought, some places are built to break the soul before it ever learns how to mend.

Chapter Text

The hallway went on endlessly.

Not just in length, but in time. In weight. In memory. A corridor that felt like a thought you couldn’t shake, repeating, warping, echoing. But somehow familiar.

The floor was cold, freezing his naked feet against it. The walls were concrete, but breathed faintly like lungs. And above, the lights burned in static bursts, like they were short-circuiting everything that was shadowing them.

Sieun stood in the middle of it all.

And ahead, Seongje was on his knees.

His hands were limp at his sides, shoulders slack, as if something had already been drained from him. But his eyes were open. Wide.

He wasn’t trying to fight.

He was looking straight at Sieun.

Behind him, arms taut and unmoving, stood Jinwoo. His fingers dug into Seongje’s throat, pale from pressure, unshaking in their grip. His face was unreadable.

A face that truly believed it was doing the right thing.

Sieun’s chest tightened. He moved forward, or tried to— but his legs were locked. Like they didn’t remember how to take him anywhere. His voice caught in his throat. It should’ve been a scream. But it died before breath.

He looked back at Seongje. Their eyes met again. This time, Seongje blinked.

Slowly.

His lips parted as if to say something, but no sound came. His skin was turning pale, unnatural, shadowed blue around his jaw. And in his gaze, there was something terrifying.

A quiet resignation.

Like he wasn’t surprised. Like he’d known this was coming all along.

No. No, no, no—

Sieun fought the paralysis. One step. Two. The floor pulled against him, viscous and unreal. He reached forward, and the distance stretched. His arms dragged behind his intent like he was underwater.

But suddenly, a whisper behind him.

Soft footsteps. Almost elegant.

He turned, heart dropping, already sensing who it was.

Beomseok.

He was dressed as neatly as always. School uniform buttoned up to the throat. He had a faint, not cruel but weirdly calm smile on.

“You’re good at watching,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “But you never move in time, do you? You want to save people. You just never get there fast enough.”

Sieun opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came. His throat felt sewn shut.

Beomseok tilted his head.

“The truth is, if you ever did save someone, you wouldn’t know what to do with them.”

And then, he walked past. Towards a door that hadn’t been there. A blank white rectangle at the end of the hall. He stepped through it without looking back. The door closed. No sound.

Sieun turned around again— and gasped.

Seongje was gasping too. But for breath.

Jinwoo’s fingers were tightening, his knuckles ghost-white. Seongje’s lips parted, his tongue struggling against the absence of air. His eyes rolled, just slightly, and for the first time—

Sieun saw terror there.

Real fear. Not the kind he’d ever seen on Seongje’s face before. Not the boy who never flinched.

This wasn’t rage or fight.

This was helplessness.

And that broke something in Sieun.

“Stop” he rasped, barely audible, but it was the first word he’d managed.

He ran.

He didn’t care about the floor’s resistance, or the collapsing hall, or the low light that now screamed above them like warning sirens. He reached for Seongje, arms out—

Too late.

A hand gripped his wrist.

It felt familiar.

He turned, and there was Suho.

But this wasn’t the Suho of memory. It was the version from Sieun’s guilt. Bruised, pale, calm-eyed.

“You think you’re meant to protect them” Suho said gently. “But deep down, you always fail them at the moment it matters.”

“You don’t have to wonder anymore, Sieun. You were never the one who saves. You’re the one who watches it happen.”

Sieun shook his head. “No—no— he’s not—”

“He’s already dying in your mind” Suho whispered. “The rest is just catching up.”

The lights blinked.

Then everything exploded into red and sound.

A wailing alarm. Something heavy slammed against wood.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Sieun’s body jolted upright.

For a second, he didn’t know where he was. His breath came in gasps. His eyes took too long to recognize the shape of the dorm room.

Another bang.

“Room 202, up. Now.”

A voice from outside. Sharp. A new voice. Not the usual dorm staff.

Beside him, Seongje groaned and turned in bed, dragging a hand across his face.

“What the fuck is happening?” he mumbled, voice scratchy. “Did we get drafted?”

Sieun didn’t answer.

His eyes were still on the door. Still seeing it as the white rectangle from the hallway. Still thinking about Beomseok words. Still hearing Suho’s voice beneath the alarm. Still seeing Seongje’s lifeless eyes.

The door reverberated one last time with the sound of boots retreating. Silence colored by the crimson blink of emergency lights and the shrill hum still fading from Sieun’s ears.

He hadn’t spoken since the moment he jolted up.

Across the room, Seongje sat upright now, one hand raking through his sleep-mussed hair. His blanket was half kicked off. He looked around slowly, eyes sweeping from the door to the window.

The door reverberated one last time with the sound of boots retreating. Then— silence again. Or rather, a silence colored by the crimson blink of emergency lights and the shrill hum still fading from Sieun’s ears.

He hadn’t spoken since the moment he jolted up.

“This some kind of military cosplay now?” he muttered, yawning. “Shit, I feel like I’m serving already.”

Sieun didn’t answer. He was sitting on his bed, shoulders hunched forward slightly. He still hadn’t shaken the residue of the dream, the staleness of the hallway, the pressure of Suho’s voice. His jaw clenched. It wasn’t the first time his dreams had clawed into something he didn’t want to name. But this one left an aftertaste.

That hallway again.

And Seongje’s face, turning pale, breath cut short.

Real fear.

It hadn’t been fiction. It had felt….almost like memory in reverse.

He told himself it was just a dream. Just another one in a series of strange, stress-induced nights. He was overthinking it. He always did.

But as Seongje stood, stretching, shirt riding up slightly over his torso, Sieun’s eyes didn’t move.

He stared.

Silent.

Still tense, his knuckles curled inwards against his knees.

Seongje caught the gaze after a moment. He froze mid-stretch, eyebrows rising slightly.

“….What?” he said, voice softer than before. A teasing bit tried to slip in. “You want a good morning kiss or something?”

He grinned slowly. Walked towards him, barefoot, shirtless, still not entirely awake but already playing up the act. “Just say the word, baby. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He bent slightly, face inches from Sieun’s. Their breaths mixed.

But just as he tilted his head forward—

The door opened.

A sudden slice of bright white light shattered the moment.

A tall man stood in the doorway. Not a counselor. Not dorm staff. His uniform was different. It was darker, more official. A walkie-talkie strapped to his chest, a laminated badge clipped to his belt, eyes trained on them with impassive, clinical focus.

“You have ten minutes” he said, voice clipped. “Use the restroom. After that, announcements. Assembly is mandatory.”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgment.

Just closed the door and walked away.

The light vanished again.

But not the tension.

Seongje stood frozen for a beat, then slowly turned his head towards the closed door. Something behind his usual laziness shifted. The amusement in his posture deflated slightly, replaced by the trace of something colder. He narrowed his eyes.

“That uniform.…” he murmured.

Sieun was still sitting where he was. His hands were finally moving, unwrapping the blanket from around him, moving like muscle memory, mechanical.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept thinking about the man’s voice. About Suho’s words from the dream. About the knot in his chest that hadn’t loosened.

Seongje looked at him again. Noticed something he couldn’t name.

“Yo.”

Sieun glanced up. Met his eyes.

“You okay?”

Sieun didn’t answer at first. He just nodded, too small to be believable.

Seongje didn’t move for a second. His hand was still halfway to Sieun’s cheek, the moment of flirtation caught mid-breath and already disintegrating. His body was still leaning slightly forward, the space between them lingering with heat, but his mind was already somewhere else.

”Did you see that guy?” he muttered, straightening up. He ran a hand through his hair, slower this time, thoughtful.

Sieun pulled the blanket off his legs and stood. “New staff” he said, voice quiet. Tired. Too tired for sarcasm.

“No shit it’s new staff” Seongje said, picking up his shirt and yanking it over his head. “But that wasn’t a counselor. That wasn’t even admin. That’s….” He frowned, looking toward the door again. “Private security or something. Government adjacent.”

Sieun moved toward the corner to grab his socks. His mind was still half in the hallway, memories of desperation and confront with himself. But now the echo warped. It didn’t feel like just a dream anymore. It felt like a premonition. A warning he didn’t want to name.

“They’re escalating…” he said, mostly to himself.

“Hm?”

Sieun didn’t answer. He was lost in thought again, arms folding across his chest like he was trying to hold something inside.

But Seongje wasn’t watching the door anymore.

He was watching Sieun.

And he was remembering the man’s eyes.

Not only at him. At Sieun.

That pause. That flicker. Barely half a second, but there was something in it. A measure. A study.

Like they knew something.

Like they’d already been told who he was.

And for some reason, it burned in Seongje’s chest in a way he couldn’t explain. Something that wasn’t quite anger, but close. Too close. Something hot and irrational.

‘Why was he looking at him like that?’

He scoffed and grabbed his shoes. “Guy looked at you like he was scanning for parts.”

Sieun turned his head. “What?”

Seongje bent down, tying his laces, but his mouth kept moving. “That fucker was looking straight at you. You didn’t even notice?”

Sieun frowned slightly. “He looked at both of us.”

“No. He looked at you. Like he’d already seen your file.”

There was silence for a few seconds. The only sound was fabric shifting, shoes hitting the ground.

Sieun eventually said, quietly “Maybe he has.”

That made Seongje stop.

He looked up.

The shadows under Sieun’s eyes looked deeper than usual. His lips were slightly parted like he was still holding a breath. Whatever he’d woken from, whatever was still coiled tight in his chest, it hadn’t left. And Seongje felt it again.

That strange, nervous impulse.

The need to stand between Sieun and something.

To push back against whatever gaze tried to touch him too long.

‘Why do I care?’ the thought floated by, but didn’t land.

“You’re not giving me a lot of peace of mind here” Seongje muttered, trying to lighten the tension. “First your staring. Then the staring from strangers. You want me to start beating up everyone?”

Sieun didn’t laugh.

Just looked at him.

And that, for some reason, was worse.

“You’re staring again” Seongje said. A soft smirk. “That was a kiss invitation, wasn’t it?”

He stepped forward again, slower this time. Less of a joke, more of a test. He reached out, fingers brushing Sieun’s face, tilting his chin slightly.

But before the gap between them closed—

The door opened again.

The same man stood there. No smile. No emotion.

“You now have seven minutes.”

And again, those eyes. Landing on Sieun. Lingering half a second longer than necessary. Not blinking.

Then gone.

The door shut again.

But something had shifted.

Seongje stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. His usual playfulness was still in his mouth, but his eyes weren’t smiling anymore.

“You ever get the feeling they’re watching just you?” he asked, softer now.

Sieun looked down at his socks. “I’ve had that feeling since I got here.”

A beat.

Then Seongje huffed, trying to shake the tension, said “Better get ready, then. Wouldn’t want to disappoint your new admirers.”

By the time they finished brushing their teeth, the hallway was already filled with half-awake tension. Doors were opening one by one, boys stepping out into the corridor, shirts half-tucked, hair wet, faces stretched with confusion and sleep. The emergency lights had stopped flashing, replaced now by a cold overhead brightness that made everything feel staged, like they were being filmed.

Sieun and Seongje emerged together, the bathroom door clicking softly behind them. Seongje was yawning as he scratched at the back of his head.

“Fuck….” he muttered. “They wake us up like there’s a fire drill and now we’re just….standing here? Like we’re waiting for God?”

Sieun didn’t answer.

He stood with his arms loosely beside his body, head tilted slightly forward as if listening already, even though no one had spoken yet.

The boys formed uneven lines along the hallway, backs straightening as footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Two figures emerged from the corner, one a man in a matching uniform to the one from earlier, stockier build, face obscured by a cap. And the other—

Ms. Kang.

Her heels were sharp against the tile, her hair pulled back so tightly it made her expression seem even more severe than usual. She stopped at the center of the corridor and turned to face them, hands clasped behind her back like a general about to speak.

But before anyone said a word, Sieun’s eyes flickered across the hall, and landed on Jinwoo.

He was already staring at them.

Not at Sieun.

At Seongje.

His arms were folded tightly across his chest, jaw tense. There was something in his eyes, like he was studying something dangerous.

Sieun frowned slightly.

He felt it before Seongje noticed.

But then he heard a soft scoff beside him.

“The fuck’s he looking at?”

Seongje didn’t turn his head, he didn’t need to. His voice dropped to a whisper that only Sieun could hear, pitched with irritation and something more primal.

“If that little shit stares at me for one more second, I swear I’ll crack the other side of his face.”

Sieun, still staring forward, gave a subtle side-beat to Seongje’s arm with the his elbow.

“Shut up” he whispered back. “Just listen.”

“Tsk” Seongje leaned his weight onto one leg, arms now loosely folded, but his eyes were still burning holes in Jinwoo’s skull. “Better not blink too slow…”

Sieun ignored him.

Focused instead on the way Ms. Kang stepped forward, clearing her throat once.

The man beside her remained silent. A clipboard in hand. Eyes sweeping the hallway like he was inventorying cattle.

Sieun didn’t like his stare.

Didn’t like the energy in the room. Didn’t like the stillness of the boys around him. How some of them looked eager, others already afraid. He didn’t like the way Jinwoo wasn’t looking at him.

He didn’t like the feeling in his chest.

Something was coming.

Something worse than curfews and drills.

Ms. Kang’s eyes continued to scan the corridor like a hawk surveying a field of still prey. The silence was absolute. Even the habitual shufflers and mutterers were quiet now. Something about the energy in the hallway made breathing feel too loud.

“Attention” Ms. Kang began, her voice crisp, without a trace of morning fog. “Some details were left out of yesterday’s announcement for clarity’s sake. Now that you’ve had the evening to process the changes, we’re implementing the full structure.”

She gestured once toward the man beside her.

“This is Mr. Yang Woomin. He will be overseeing the revised discipline system and new behavioral tier protocols. He’s a veteran corrections officer and specializes in youth reform units. You will be expected to follow his instructions as you would follow mine.”

Mr. Yang stepped forward.

His voice, when it came, was rough and harsh, like it had been trained in concrete hallways and echoing cell blocks.

“From this point forward, every room is responsible for maintaining its own performance record. That includes timeliness, order, discipline, and silence during non-social hours. Violations reflect on both roommates. Consequences will be shared. No exceptions.”

Sieun felt a chill coil at the base of his spine.

Mr. Yang’s eyes moved down the row with a kind of mechanical rhythm.

“Daily logs will be checked. Assigned work will be monitored directly. Anyone found wandering outside permitted zones without clearance will be written up. Three write-ups get you isolation. Five, and you’re moved to external supervision.”

A boy near the back. newer, maybe, no more than sixteen, raised his hand slowly.

“….Sir, if I may— why are things changing like this? We’ve never—”

“Quiet.”

The response came like a slap.

“You’re not here to ask questions” Mr. Yang said, stepping towards the boy. “You’re here to be fixed. We decide how that happens.”

The hallway was silent again. That kind of silence that prickled the skin.

Sieun’s eyes flicked to his right.

To Seongje.

He didn’t know what he expected. smugness, maybe, or boredom. But Seongje wasn’t smirking.

He was frowning.

Not with confusion exactly, but with something close. His brows were low, his eyes narrow. His weight shifted uneasily. Like something about all this wasn’t just unfamiliar, it was wrong.

That’s when Sieun understood.

Even he hadn’t known this was coming.

The man who’d always known the script…was suddenly reading it for the first time.

When the final instructions were given, work rotations by room, assignments more physical than usual, and threats phrased politely as ‘adjustment consequences’ Ms. Kang dismissed them with a brisk nod.

“Rooms 101 through 109, report to sanitary” Mr. Yang barked. “201 through 206, you’re in outside gardening, transport to Field Block One. Full detail. Move—” he continued.

Boys began to shuffle forward, feet heavy, backs straighter than before.

Sieun turned, automatically looking for Seongje to fall into step with him like usual.

But Seongje had stopped walking.

His hand flexed once at his side. Then he glanced toward Ms. Kang, still standing near the stairwell.

“I’ll catch up” Seongje said quietly, not looking at Sieun.

Sieun opened his mouth, just a little. Just enough to maybe say ‘what are you doing’, or ‘don’t’, or ‘wait’. But nothing came out.

And he didn’t know if it was because he trusted Seongje to handle it, or because he was afraid of what Ms. Kang might say.

So he nodded.

Just barely.

And walked towards the others.

Not knowing that for the first time since they’d met….he and Seongje were about to stop moving in sync.

The corridor outside the staff offices felt different now.

Cleaner, brighter, colder. Like the hospital wing of a place that wanted to pretend it still believed in recovery.

Ms. Kang stood near the filing cabinet, reviewing something on her clipboard with the indifference of someone whose morning had already gone exactly to plan. She didn’t flinch when she heard Seongje’s footsteps.

Didn’t even look up.

“You didn’t follow your group” she said plainly, not a question.

“I don’t take orders from strangers” Seongje muttered. “And I especially don’t take them without knowing what the fuck is going on.”

She folded her arms. “And you don’t have to know, Seongje. That’s the point.”

He stepped closer, closing the distance just enough to lower his voice without losing intensity. “Don’t give me that shit. You and I both know what this place is. I’ve kept it quiet for years. Done what you asked. Played the fucking enforcer.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him like she was still taking notes.

“I want to talk to my uncle.”

“No.”

The word dropped like a lock sliding into place.

“No?” Seongje echoed, voice confused now, but colder.

“You’ll talk to me” she said. “That’s how it works now.”

“That’s not how it ever worked.”

Ms. Kang’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

“Things are changing, Seongje. That’s the reality. Your uncle is….no longer overseeing the day-to-day operations. He’s not involved in this phase.”

“This phase?” he repeated.

Something ugly twisted in his head. This was turning into something structural. Something bigger.

“You don’t get to make that decision without telling me” he said, a little louder now. “You brought me into this. You made me a part of this bullshit. You don’t get to shut me out when it stops benefiting you.”

“You were never part of it” Ms. Kang said flatly. “You were a tool. An effective one, yes. But one that doesn’t get a seat at the table.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

Seongje didn’t flinch. But something in his face changed. Something deeper than anger. It was old. Maybe older than the camp. The memories of rejection, feeling out of place. 

“So,” she said. “Do we need to continue this conversation?”

“Yes” Seongje said flatly. “I want to know why he’s being watched.”

She blinked once, slow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

She let out a soft breath and placed the clipboard on the desk beside her. “Ah. Your roommate. Quiet. Studies too much. Doesn’t cry when he bleeds.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re more transparent than you think, Seongje.”

He crossed his arms. “Quit the bullshit. What do you want from him?”

Ms. Kang didn’t answer right away.

She walked a few steps toward the window, staring out across the dry yard where boys were being herded into their assigned areas like livestock. Then, as if she hadn’t heard him, she said quietly,

“We’ve had eyes on him since the first week.”

That caught him off guard. He didn’t expect her to admit it so directly.

“He is auiet,” she went on, “but not passive. He watches. Listens. Memorizes things. He asks questions in places where silence is policy. I’ve seen his type before. The kind who doesn’t start fires….but documents who lit the match.”

“And?” Seongje asked stiffly.

“And,” she said, turning to face him again, “you changed.”

He stared at her.

She said it without emphasis. Like it wasn’t a judgment, just a fact.

“You are no longer useful,” she added. “Once, you kept the loud ones afraid, the soft ones in line. You knew who to hit and when. And you didn’t ask questions.”

Her eyes scanned his face.

“But then he arrived. And something in you….bent.”

A pause.

“People like Sieun,” she said, voice low, “can make even dogs disobey. He makes people think they can get out.”

She took a step closer.

“That’s dangerous.”

Seongje didn’t answer. His jaw clenched. She was still speaking, but something had already started ringing in his ears.

“So here’s the truth” she said. “We don’t need you anymore.”

Her words came like frost.

“You’ve grown too soft to be feared. And too close to be trusted. We’ve moved on. We have staff now. Protocols. We don’t need you playing saviour for whatever reason.”

His voice, when it came, was low and sharp “So what do you want from me?”

She tilted her head.

“Nothing” she said.

Her mouth curled slightly. 

“Just finish tgissummer. Go back to your city. Pretend this never happened. That’s the deal I’m offering. You stay quiet. And we leave you alone.”

“And him?”

A beat.

She looked at him for a long time. The light from the hallway caught the corner of her eye, just enough to make her look carved from marble.

“He’ll either stay quiet” she said. “Or he won’t. But if he doesn’t, you won’t be able to save him.”

Then she turned.

“That’s all, Seongje.”

He stood there for a long moment after she walked away.

And smiled.

A feeling like a fuse had been lit somewhere far below his chest, and he wasn’t sure if it would burn out or detonate. Challenge.

Because the thing Ms. Kang never learned in all her years of cruelty was this,

There were monsters you could make.

And then there were monsters you couldn’t unmake.

And she’d just let the worst one go.

The classroom felt different.

The air hissed faintly from the ducts overhead, the way the walls seemed closer now. Tighter. Like they were inching in around the boys, quietly but certainly, as if they too had been re-trained to contain.

Sieun sat at his desk with a pen in hand and no intention of writing.

Instead, his eyes swept the room. Slowly. Intentionally.

One new camera above the whiteboard.

Another on the back wall.

Two new staff members outside the door, standing still but unmistakably alert. Like guards. Men with stone eyes and walkie-talkies clipped to their shoulders.

They were watching.

He didn’t just feel it, he knew it. That clinical, specific sort of attention that doesn’t look for answers, only reactions. Observation not for learning, but for containment.

And most of it was directed at him.

His fingers tightened around the pen.

They know, he thought.

Or they suspect.

It didn’t make sense, nothing overt had happened. Their routine had remained subtle. Their late-night moments sessions were hidden behind fogged glass and hushed breaths. But maybe it wasn’t about what had happened. Maybe it was just the pattern.

Two boys. Too close. Too quiet. Too often.

They weren’t stupid.

Sieun kept his eyes forward, trying not to fidget, trying not to let his shoulders rise too tightly. He had survived worse than this. He had lived his life like love meant nothing and silence meant being left alone. He could survive being watched.

But it was hard not to wonder what they were really watching for.

Or if the next step would be more than observation.

The professor’s voice broke through the static of his thoughts.

“—Camus called it ‘the absurd’. The unbearable contrast between a person’s desire for meaning and the indifference of the universe.”

Sieun blinked. Mr. Yoon stood at the front of the class, flipping slowly through a copy of ‘The Stranger’.

“Meursault, our protagonist, refuses to lie, even when lying would save him” the teacher said. “He accepts the world’s meaninglessness, and because of that, he becomes a threat. Not through violence. But through truth.”

Sieun swallowed.

“Sometimes,” Mr. Yoon continued “a person who refuses to play along can destabilize the whole system. Not because they attack it. But because they stand still when they’re expected to kneel.”

A few students yawned.

But not Sieun.

He stared at the book cover, lips pressed into a hard line.

‘Is that what I’m doing? Refusing to kneel?’

Maybe. But it didn’t feel brave. It just felt exhausting.

Then— the classroom door creaked open.

Everyone turned.

Sieun didn’t have to. He knew the rhythm of those footsteps before he saw them. He knew that slouch, that laziness disguised as confidence. The way the air shifted around him like it knew to make space.

Seongje walked in without looking at the professor.

He didn’t say anything.

Just moved down the aisle slowly, hands in his pockets, wearing that same relaxed smirk as if he were walking into a café and not a room choked with surveillance.

He sat down beside Sieun. Close. Their knees touching.

Then, a smile. Not cocky or aggressive. But like he knew something Sieun didn’t. Like this ‘them’ was still allowed, because he had decided it was.

Sieun didn’t smile back.

But he didn’t move away, either.

“You’re late Mr. Keum.” Mr. Yoon said mildly.

Seongje stretched his legs out under the desk. “But I’m still here, right? I don’t want to miss your depressing lectures teach’.”

A few boys snorted.

Mr. Yoon didn’t press it. He simply turned the page and read aloud again.

Mr. Yoon didn’t press further.

He only turned the page and read aloud, voice level and unhurried.

“I realized then that a man who had lived only one day could easily live for a hundred years in prison. He would have enough memories to keep him from being bored.”

The classroom was quiet.

Beside Seongje, Sieun sat unmoving, as if the words had tethered him in place.

He thought of the dream again, the corridors that had no end, the cold that didn’t feel like fear, but something older, more resigned. The kind of cold that got into your bones when no one was watching.

He thought of how time worked differently here. How days folded over each other until they lost their names.

And of the boy beside him—

Who, despite everything, had returned.

He thought how he’d never feared emptiness.

What unnerved him was its opposite, that the mind could be so full of memory, it no longer needed the outside world at all.

That you could live off a single day, if it had hurt badly enough.

Replay it. Distort it. Memorize the weight of it until it eclipsed the present.

Prison didn’t need bars if you had enough moments to relive.

And Sieun had more than one.

A hallway. A pair of fists. A breath that didn’t come.

The shape of Suho’s mouth, slack and red.

The sound of someone running— ‘him? someone else?’ —too late.

Beomseok’s voice.

He could survive a hundred years in this place, not because he was exactly strong—

but because he already had enough to keep him haunted.

Mr. Yoon’s finger traced another line in the margin, almost reverently.

“I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world.”

There was nothing indifferent about how he’d been sleeping. He woke in sweat. The echo of voices he couldn’t shut out haunted him, constantly.

Dreams returned in recursive loops, corridors that spiralled, bodies just out of reach, faces he failed to protect.

If anything, it felt like something inside him had been hidden long ago.

Not dead, preserved.

Too deep to thaw.

Yet—

He looked sideways. Briefly.

Seongje sat with one elbow propped lazily on the desk, chin in hand, his thumb brushing against his lower lip like he wasn’t even aware of it. His other hand had stolen half the space between them. It rested close, close enough to touch, if either of them had the nerve.

He was pretending to look bored. But his knee pressed against Sieun’s like a secret. Like a statement. Like a vow whispered in a language only they spoke.

Sieun inhaled slowly.

He wondered what Camus would say about a boy like Seongje.

A boy who laughed too loudly in the face of authority, who had grown up punished for existing, and who now chose to grin at the guards instead of run. A boy who kissed like he meant to burn everything down, then walked away like it hadn’t left a mark.

Seongje didn’t look invincible. But he acted like he had nothing to lose. And maybe that was worse.

“Why do you think Meursault is condemned?” Mr. Yoon asked.

A few boys shifted in their seats. One raised his hand and muttered something about the murder of his mother.

“Not only,” Mr. Yoon said. “He’s condemned not for what he did, but for how he did it. His lack of remorse. His refusal to perform grief.”

Sieun swallowed.

Remorse.

Performance.

He thought of the bruises on Jinwoo’s body. The look in Jinwoo’s eyes in the cafeteria last week, how quickly it had cooled into something harder. How Sieun still hadn’t asked the questions he should have.

He also hadn’t stopped Seongje. Not really.

What did that make him?

Another kind of observer?

Another Meursault?

His eyes flicked down to the page again, where he’d written nothing.

Seongje leaned in, low and slow.

Close enough that Sieun felt his breath against his temple as he whispered “You’re thinking too hard again.”

Sieun didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.

But something flickered in his chest.

A twitch. A hesitation. A contradiction.

He wanted to push Seongje’s hand away. And at the same time he wanted to hold it.

He wanted to believe he was just surviving. But that was a lie. He was choosing this. Not because it was smart. Or safe.

But because something about the boy beside him made the silence inside his chest feel less like a cage.

And more like a decision.

Mr. Yoon walked slowly along the front row, the heels of his shoes clicking softly against the floor. The book stayed open in one hand, fingers curled lightly over the pages like it belonged there.

“The tragedy,” he said “isn’t that Meursault dies. It’s that no one ever tried to understand why he lived the way he did.”

He paused there, letting it land.

“Camus doesn’t let us look away. He makes us uncomfortable. Because Meursault tells the truth, and it’s the kind of truth people punish you for saying out loud.”

Sieun leaned his cheek into the cool edge of his knuckles. He wasn’t just tired. His body felt dulled by something heavier than fatigue. A pressure that wrapped around his heart and whispered that even though nothing was happening right now, something would.

The quiet was never quiet for long here.

“You don’t need to like Meursault” Mr. Yoon added, voice calm, “but you do need to ask why everyone wanted him to pretend. That’s the question Camus leaves us with. What is society really afraid of. Murder? Or honesty?”

The bell didn’t ring. There were no longer traditional end markers. Instead, a silent guard from the hallway stepped into the frame of the door and nodded once.

That was the signal.

Books shut. Chairs scraped. A few of the boys stretched, others shuffled off in their usual hushed packs. No one lingered in the room unless they were told to.

Sieun stood slowly, slipping his notebook under his arm. The words Mr. Yoon said echoed in his head like a low hum.

‘What is society really afraid of?’

As he turned toward the hallway, he felt Seongje fall in beside him. He didn’t say anything, just walked close enough that their shoulders touched.

They didn’t speak on the way out. Not because they were upset. But because there was something about the silence now that didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt mutual. A language that didn’t need to be said.

At 1:12 p.m. the sky was bleached white with heat, though no sun could be seen directly, just a gray glare that made the atmosphere feel heavy.

The courtyard was quiet, quieter than ever.

There weren’t birds here. No trees either. Just hard-baked concrete and short-cut grass surrounded by fences that didn’t try to hide what they were. Barriers.

Sieun sat alone on a bench near the far side of the training field, where he could watch the  main building without being seen easily. Seongje had wandered off, saying something about needing to “stretch his legs” and disappearing toward the back of the building.

Sieun didn’t ask questions.

He had learned that in a place like this, people didn’t vanish for good. Just long enough for the walls to close in a little tighter.

His lunch sat untouched beside him at the canteen. The processed chicken, beige rice, and gelatinous green beans sweating over the metallic tray.

He hadn’t been hungry in days. Only wired. Like his body was preparing for something before his mind caught up.

Around him, boys walked in twos and threes, always under some kind of watch. Even the birds might’ve been replaced with surveillance drones and he wouldn’t have been surprised.

He wiped a faint line of sweat from his temple and leaned back.

The words from class wouldn’t leave him alone.

‘Not punished for murder. Punished for not pretending.’

He wondered who that made him.

And worse, who it made Seongje.

After a while Sieun walked towards the rusted wheelbarrow, hands picking up thin plastic gloves, sweat sticking his shirt to the center of his back. The humidity out here was stifling, an invisible weight that clung to the skin. They were told they were “gardening,” but nothing truly grew in this place. The soil was too shallow, the water rationed, the sun a lie behind gray heat.

“Try not to kill the basil” Seongje muttered after walking to him, dragging a trowel through the dirt like he was carving something violent. “Ms. Kang might cry.”

Sieun didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

After another full minute of Seongje kicking at the cracked bed of mulch, Sieun exhaled and turned to him, quietly saying, “It’s mint.”

Seongje looked over. Grinned.

“God. A nerd and a plant snob.”

But he didn’t push further. Not this time.

They worked in relative silence after that, just the occasional grunt when one of them knelt or stood too fast. Other boys were scattered in small pairs across the sectioned outdoor plots, each monitored by at least one uniformed staff member.

“Yo. I’m going for a smoke, don’t miss me too much.” Seongje told Sieun, who didn’t even look up at him.

Seongje didn’t wait for a reply and started walking to behind the maintenance wing. The cigarette in his mouth wasn’t lit yet. That didn’t matter. The lighter stayed tucked in his back pocket, untouched.

What he wanted was silence.

Not real silence, but the kind of false quiet where people let their guard down. Where men thought no one was listening.

They always talked, eventually. New staff were the worst at keeping secrets.  And Seongje knew that.

He moved past the back fence, to the end of a storage shed that hadn’t been used in years, its lock broken and one of its hinges rusted halfway off. He knew the voices would carry near the outer vents of the admin building, especially if the staff didn’t check their corners.

He didn’t even need to crouch. He just leaned against the wall and let the murmurs reach him, dragging slow fingers along the edge of the unlit cigarette.

“—the Kang woman said to keep our eyes open for Room 202. Especially the quiet one.”

“She say why?”

“Didn’t need to. Just called him ‘variable.’ Said we weren’t to interfere unless something got out of hand.”

”What the fuck does that even mean?”

There was a pause, followed by a dry laugh.

“And what about the other one?” He continued.

“You mean the crazy with glasses one? That’s Keum Seongje. He’s not a threat anymore. She said he used to run this place for her, kept the others scared into submission. But not since this summer. There is also a new one so—”

“Then what the fuck is he still doing here?”

Another beat of silence. The tone changed.

“She said if he stirs again, we let him burn himself out. Her words. She wants him to make a mess. Make an example of himself.”

“Huh. Cold.”

“Captain said that this is worse than it looks, and that some kids in here are actually lunatics.”

A crackle of boots shifting on gravel.

“202’s being watched. Kang thinks there’s something in him that doesn’t belong here.”

Seongje’s fingers curled tightly around the lighter he hadn’t yet touched.

He didn’t move.

The two staff members came into view a few seconds later, rounding the corner. Young men, both of them. Fit. Alert. Wearing the new charcoal-grey uniforms, a badge stitched into the chest that didn’t belong to any official agency.

Seongje stepped out in front of them without a word.

They stopped.

He kept his posture relaxed, head slightly tilted, cigarette still dangling from his mouth like it had grown there.

“Got a light?” he asked casually, voice deep but clear.

One of them immediately tensed, hand instinctively brushing the side of his thigh like a warning. The other recognized him a second later.

“Hey,” he said quickly, holding up a hand to the first one. “It’s him.”

The first man’s hand dropped. His expression changed.

“Oh. Right. You’re the Keum kid.”

Seongje smiled, though there was nothing soft about it.

The second man nodded, offered him a lighter. “Careful where you smoke. This wing’s off-limits.”

“Didn’t see a sign” Seongje said, lighting up. He handed the lighter back. “Thanks.”

They left without saying anything else, and he let them go, watching the stiff line of their shoulders as they turned the corner, walking like men with secrets to carry.

He leaned back against the wall again and let the smoke curl out between his teeth.

So that’s what this was.

Not about him anymore. Not really.

They had something else in mind. Someone else.

Sieun.

“‘The variable’” Seongje muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Of fucking course you are.”

There was no rush in him now. No anger, either. Just clarity. Cold and intact.

If they wanted him out of the picture, he’d find out why.

And if they thought he was finished, they’d forgotten who taught the wolves to keep their mouths shut.

He remembered what Kang had said. ‘You’ve changed’ like it was a weakness. Like it was disobedience. As doing what he was doing was the problem.

Maybe it was.

Maybe she was right.

But he knew she hadn’t said the whole truth. She hadn’t told him why she was watching Sieun so closely now. Why that new staff member this morning looked at him like he already belonged in some file, some plan. And that stare….It wasn’t just suspicion. It was targeted.

‘Sieun doesn’t even realize it yet’, he thought, flicking ash to the dirt. ‘He’s already in the middle of something.’

He took another drag off the cigarette, but the heat in his chest didn’t ease.

And it wasn’t fear. It was territorial. He didn’t want anyone watching Sieun. Not like that.

He didn’t know when it started, this possessive, magnetic pull, but it had him now. Worse than any drug or addiction.

Sieun didn’t even act like he wanted to be protected. But still, Seongje watched him. Constantly. Every glance. Every hesitation. Every unreadable look across the breakfast table. That boy had secrets buried under his skin like shrapnel, and Seongje wanted to dig them out just to know what he was made of.

And maybe, if he was honest, because it gave him an excuse to stay close.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking toward the east building where Sieun would be finishing up.

There was no more pretending.

If the new staff were testing the limits of control, then he would test theirs too. He’d get under their skin like they were getting under his.

And if they were watching Sieun now?

They’d have to watch him, too.

Because he wasn’t going anywhere.

Not until the summer burned down to ash.

He smoked the cigarette down to the filter before flicking it into the dirt and walking back toward the work area like nothing had happened.

The dirt was still kinda damp from the morning’s scheduled watering, the scent of wet soil clinging to the soles of Seongje’s shoes as he approached. The boys assigned to garden detail, if it could even be called that, were spread thin across the lot, none of them speaking. Just scratching at the mulch, moving stones, pretending they didn’t kill half of the plants.

Sieun was crouched near the edge of the herb row, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pair of gloves pulled tight over his small hands. His hair stuck to his forehead, but his posture remained upright, stubborn.

He didn’t look up when Seongje approached again, but Seongje knew he’d been heard.

“Mint’s still alive?” Seongje asked.

Sieun gave the faintest nod, not turning his head.

Seongje crouched down beside him, knees creaking slightly. His tone was lighter now, almost amused.

“You ever think we’re the ones being pruned?”

That got him a side-glance.

“Not funny.”

“Didn’t say it was a joke.”

Sieun’s brow furrowed slightly. “You went to smoke. You’ve been gone for almost half an hour.”

“New staff give slow light” Seongje said lazily, brushing dirt off his hand. “And they talk too much.”

That made Sieun look.

But Seongje only smiled.

“I told you, they’re watching you now” he added, low and serious. “More than usual.”

Sieun didn’t reply. He just returned to the already familiar soil, fingers steady.

But in his mind, the roots began to shift.

The sun had started its slow descent, cutting long shadows across the garden yard by late afternoon.  Boys moved in silence. Somewhere down the fence line, a shovel clanged against a pipe and no one acknowledged it.

Sieun brushed soil from his gloves, adjusting the rosemary stakes for the second time, not because they needed it, but because he couldn’t sit still. His thoughts had been grinding all day. About the dream. About the new guards. About Jinwoo’s retreat into silence and demise.

And about Seongje.

He was hyper-aware of him beside him, as usual. The faint warmth. The offhand mutters. The occasional stretch and exaggerated groan like they were doing construction, not moving mulch.

He thought about the way Seongje had stood close behind him earlier, leaning down just to make some stupid comment about soil texture, the scent of rosemary, his ‘delicate wrists.’

That was Seongje’s new hobby, apparently, annoying him gently.

At first, Sieun had bristled at it. Now, he tolerated it. Maybe even….expected it.

He didn’t want to examine that too closely.

“You know,” Seongje said suddenly, tossing a half-dead basil root into the compost bucket, “this place doesn’t deserve our effort.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’m serious. Look at this soil.” He picked some up, rubbing it between his fingers. “You could bury a body here and no one would notice.”

“Comforting.”

Seongje smirked, flicking the dirt aside. “They’re lucky I have good hands, though. For this kind of thing.”

Sieun raised an eyebrow briefly.

“I mean in general,” Seongje added, his voice dipping into a smug smirk. “Garden work. Violence. Touching people….”

Sieun turned to glare at him, but the blush was already rising.

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

Seongje tilted his head in a fake innocence. “I didn’t say I was planning anything. Just listing my strengths.”

Sieun muttered something under his breath and went back to fixing the irrigation line.

“Hey,” Seongje said, still crouched, “you have to agree with me that I’m good with small, fragile things. I haven’t broken you yet.”

“That’s a threat.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Anyways,” Seongje continued, breaking the silence “if we end up buried under this place, I hope someone remembers that I spent my last days working a fucking herb garden.”

Sieun raised his eyebrows but didn’t look at him. “You could’ve not come.”

“And miss watching you scowl into a row of oregano in the same hating way you look at me? Never. I mean, I kinda hope you don’t wish to kiss them like you do with me but—”

Sieun rolled his eyes, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Seongje grinned. “Was that a smile?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? I think I just saw a real, biological reaction. Should I call a doctor?”

Sieun tried not to laugh, but the way Seongje was half-leaning on the rake like it was a bar counter didn’t help.

“Damn, I really wished I had my phone to take a picture of this moment. ‘Hard working boyfriend getting his prize for the day’ would be the instagram caption.” 

“We are not boyfriends.” 

“Oh yeah I forgot you’re a fuck boy, breaking hearts like it’s nothing. You’re so cold, princess.” Seongje said dramatically, a hand on his chest. 

“You’re an idiot” Sieun muttered.

“Your idiot.”

Sieun turned, finally looking at him. “What?”

“I said I’m tired” Seongje deflected, already starting to walk back towards the dorm. “Come on, I’m starving.”

Sieun sighed but started to walk beside the taller one through the cracked cement paths, past the watchful eyes of staff and the thickening air of curfew. 

After washing their hands and a quick early dinner, they finally entered their room, Seongje flopped onto his bed like a dead animal, arms outstretched, jacket already off, sweat drying against his neck.

“You’re really not going to change out of that?”

“Why? I’m only going to wrinkle another shirt.”

Sieun sat down on his own bed, quiet.

Then, from across the room, Seongje’s voice softened. “Hey. You wanna know what Ms. Kang said?”

Sieun blinked, surprised by the shift in tone. “You talked to her?”

“I made her talk to me.”

Sieun leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“She said I’ve changed” Seongje said, studying the ceiling. “That I’m not useful anymore. That I’m not shutting people up like I used to.”

Sieun didn’t answer right away. “So what now?”

“I don’t know.” He rolled onto his side to face him. “She basically told me to keep my head down until the end of summer. That’s it.”

“Are you going to?”

Seongje’s expression twitched into something unreadable. “Do I look like the kind of person who takes retirement well?”

Sieun stared directly at his eyes.

Silence stretched between them again, deeper this time.

After a long pause, Seongje sat up, legs dangling from the bed. “Anyway. I’ve got a new plan.”

“Oh no.”

“No— hear me out” he said, grinning now. “We wait until after curfew. Go to the bathroom.”

Sieun gave him a flat look. “Why?”

“I need to show you something.”

“That’s vague.”

“It’s meant to be.”

Sieun narrowed his eyes. “Is this one of your weird ambushes or a real plan?”

“Why can’t it be both?”

Sieun groaned. “I’m not doing this if it’s another ploy to play with me.”

“Too late,” Seongje said, standing and stretching like a cat.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here we are. Roommates. Partners in suffering. Romantic right?”

He paused in front of his bed, hands in his pockets.

“You’ll come?” he asked, less smug now.

Sieun looked up. His voice was quiet. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Seongje nodded, then turned. “Because if I’m right, something’s coming.”

“What do you mean?”

But Seongje didn’t answer.

He just grinned, walked to the door, and added, “I’ll be in the hall after lights out, come before the doors lock. Don’t be caught.”

Then he left.

And Sieun sat there, pulse quiet but fast.

There was something in the way Seongje looked at him now. Like he was memorizing. Like he was preparing. And Sieun wasn’t sure whether that made him nervous….or ready.

He told himself, again, that this was still better than before.

But the sky outside was darkening already.

And the silence didn’t feel as empty anymore.

The hallway was nearly dark now, cast in that strange blue tint that made everything feel farther away, like walking through a dream. Or a memory. Or the kind of silence that followed a bad decision.

Sieun stepped out quietly, his socked feet soundless against the floor. Behind him, the heavy door eased shut with a soft click. He didn’t breathe until it latched.

The curfew lockdown system hadn’t started yet. He had maybe three, four minutes. Maybe less. Every step had to count.

Most of the hallway cameras had been updated last week, he noticed. Angled lower, blinking red. But here, in the middle stretch between the second-floor stairwell and the old storage closet, there was still a gap. The same one Seongje pointed out that first day.

At the time, it had felt like posturing. Now, it felt like a map.

Sieun didn’t let himself run, but he walked faster than he should. Every corner was a risk. Every window, a mirror. His nerves had gone taut again, and not because he feared being caught, but because he didn’t know why he was doing this so easily.

‘Because he said to meet him’, Sieun thought. ‘And I said yes.’

He turned into the east wing bathroom. It was technically under maintenance, Seongje had broken the paper towel dispenser last week during some tantrum he never apologized for. That meant no one used it anymore. No one except them.

The air inside was filled with echo. A weak yellow light flickered above one of the cracked mirrors, casting warped reflections across the sinks and walls. The scent of bleach and something older lingered, like mildew beneath cheap soap.

Sieun had barely taken two steps when a shadow pulled forward from behind the corner stall.

And suddenly—

Seongje’s hand was at his wrist.

And then on his waist.

And then Sieun was against the cold wall, breath gone and body catching up.

He didn’t have time to ask ‘why’, or ‘what’, or ‘is someone watching’, because Seongje kissed him like none of those things mattered.

Like he had waited all day. All week. Like the silence had grown unbearable.

There was no slow build. No pretense. Just heat and hands and the startling intimacy of being wanted that deeply, that hungrily.

For a moment, Sieun didn’t respond. His mind tried to hold onto rationality, tried to resist what it knew could burn them both. The feeling of Seongje’s tongues meeting his aggressively, making everything hotter.

But then he remembered the way the guards looked at him.

He remembered the new rules.

The silence in class.

The stare from that man that morning, and how Seongje noticed.

He remembered the dream.

And then he kissed back.

Sieun tried to speak after a while. The words were there, stacked behind his teeth like something essential. But the moment his mouth opened, Seongje’s lips were already on his neck, sucking and marking hungrily with little to no care.

Seongje’s fingers curled at the hem of his shirt like he might unravel him piece by piece if he could. Sieun let out a little moan at the sudden touch of the other’s fingers all over his body, but tried to hide it by biting his lip.

“Don’t hide it” Seongje whispered between kisses, his voice low and breath-warmed. “Don’t muffle the way you sound.”

Sieun tensed. “What—”

Sieun’s body was still pressed against the cold tiles wall. It had been barely four minutes since he stepped inside the bathroom, but already he felt stripped bare, not just by the way Seongje kissed him, but by the strange pressure of being seen even when no one else was in the room.

He tried again to speak. His voice came quiet, strained.

“….What is this?”

But the moment the words left his mouth, Seongje was on him again, hands firm at his waist, lips crushing his in a kiss that left no room for questions. There was a roughness to it now, not violent, but insistent. As if Seongje was trying to erase the space between them, undo every moment where Sieun had kept quiet or held still.

Sieun’s breath caught. He lifted a hand to push at Seongje’s shoulder, not out of fear, but out of confusion. Maybe uncertainty. The question remained unspoken between their mouths.

And then Seongje pulled back, just slightly, just enough for his breath to ghost against Sieun’s cheek, and whispered “I told you, don’t muffle it this time.”

Sieun stared at him. His eyes wide. His chest rising too fast.

“What?”

“Your voice,” Seongje said, teeth flashing faintly in the dim light. “You’re always so quiet. Even tho you sound so fucking good.”

The words sent something hot and humiliating down Sieun’s spine. He looked away immediately, heat rushing to his ears. “You’re insane.”

Seongje grinned. “Maybe. But I like the way you sound when you forget to pretend you don’t feel anything.”

Sieun didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

And then Seongje’s mouth was at his neck again, slower this time. Each breath against his skin was like a fuse being lit, methodical, not hurried. His lips grazed the spot just below Sieun’s ear, and Sieun shivered without meaning to. His hands clenched at his sides.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

And yet, the voice in his head that should’ve told him to pull away was silent, like always when he is with him.

Seongje’s lips brushed lower now, down his neck, across the curve of his collarbone, lingering like he was memorizing it. Sieun felt his knees weaken, not in some dramatic, romantic way, but in the raw, physiological shock of being wanted this much. Of being touched in a place that had only ever known violence and survival.

“They’ll hear…” Sieun whispered, finally finding breath.

Seongje’s voice came quiet but full of amusement. “I hope they do.”

Sieun’s eyes widened. “You’re trying to get caught?”

Seongje didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked up from Sieun’s skin to meet his eyes, unreadable in the low light.

“I’m making sure they hear what they should’ve been listening to all along.”

A silence passed between them. Thick. Charged.

And then the realization came.

The timing. The empty bathroom. The short hallway with no cameras. The way Seongje had kissed him like a performance just as much as a need.

This was planned.

Not the kiss, maybe not all of it, but the moment. The noise. It was bait. A declaration.

Sieun looked at him carefully now, more calculating than before. “Why?”

Seongje stepped back, only slightly, just enough space for the moment to stretch between them.

“Because they’ve been watching the wrong boy this whole time” he said. “And I’m done helping them do it.”

Sieun blinked. His pulse beat hard in his ears.

“…me?”

A beat passed.

And then Seongje gave a slow nod. “I don’t know what they think you’re going to do, but they’re scared of you. I saw it in that guy’s face this morning. He didn’t look at me like that.”

Sieun’s mouth felt dry. He leaned against the wall like it could hold him steady.

“And what did you think they’d do” he said softly, “if they hear us?”

A smirk flickered at the edge of Seongje’s mouth. “Whatever they do, I want to be part of it. With you.”

That made Sieun pause. The words weren’t romantic, not in any classic sense. But they somehow carried romance. Like a choice had been made, not for love, but for allegiance. For war.

Outside the bathroom, muffled voices echoed down the hallway. The rhythmic sound of boots on tile. The guards.

Seongje glanced toward the door. Then back to Sieun.

“If they’re going to come for you,” he said, quieter now, “they better know they’ll have to deal with me too.”

Sieun swallowed. The part of him that had always believed he was alone, unreachable, unworthy, didn’t know what to do with that.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he looked at Seongje’s face. Really looked. His eyes without his usual glasses. The small bruise near his jaw. His eyes dark, confident, but just tired enough to show something real underneath.

The sound of footsteps passed again. Then silence.

it was different now.

Not safety. Just the eye of the storm.

Seongje didn’t move. He just stood there, watching Sieun looking at the door like he was still trying to understand what he was made of, what he feared, what he craved, what he’d let himself want. There was something unspoken pulsing in the air between them, like heat rising from asphalt. Dense. Humid. Dangerous.

Then, not in some grand gesture. No smirk. No joke this time. Just a slow drop, Seongje knelt down.

Sieun’s breath caught in his throat.

“Let me take care of you,” Seongje said, voice deep and pleading. “—I’ll make you feel really good, I promise.”

Chapter Text

“Let me take care of you,” Seongje said, voice deep and pleading. ”—I’ll make you feel really good, I promise.”

Sieun just stared at him, like the words hadn’t been real, like maybe the heavy heat in Seongje’s tone was something his mind had invented. His breath snagged in his chest, and he felt an unfamiliar pulse in his temples, a pressure that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way Seongje’s gaze didn’t waver.

He didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

It was ridiculous the way the sound of his own breathing suddenly seemed loud enough to be heard outside the stall, the way his knees felt unsteady despite the narrow space. The camp had taught him to keep still, to guard every word and glance, but Seongje had a way of stepping right into that locked room inside his head and scattering everything.

He wanted to speak, ask what Seongje thought he was doing— if he’d lost his mind, punch him hard enough and get out of there —but his mouth opened without sound. And Seongje, watching him with that steady half smile, looked like he already knew the answer.

The air between them was thick with the faint tang of smoke clinging to Seongje’s clothes, the wet scent of the bathroom walls, the echo of footsteps somewhere down the hall. Somewhere outside, a guard’s voice barked something indistinct. But here, in the square of space that felt smaller than an exhale, the world was only Seongje on his knees in front of him.

Sieun’s back brushed the stall wall. His heartbeat was a taut wire, ready to snap.

Seongje’s hands found Sieun’s thighs first. Warm, solid grips that pressed just enough to anchor him. The heat of his palms teasing what was under the fabric, spreading upward like slow-burning fire. Sieun’s breath caught despite himself.

Seongje didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gaze was locked upward, steady and unblinking, a silent dare in the set of his jaw. Then, with the kind of patience that was more dangerous than haste, he began to lean forward, closing the small distance between them.

Sieun felt the faint brush of Seongje’s hair against him, the warm draft of his breath before anything else. Every sound outside, the occasional echo of a footstep, the creak of a floorboard, blurred into background noise, irrelevant compared to the focus tightening in this space.

Seongje’s fingers moved next, curling into the waistband of Sieun’s pants. The slow tug downward was unhurried but purposeful, the fabric giving way inch by inch.

Then his hands slid further, finding the softer edge of Sieun’s underwear, and that same deliberate motion repeated. The air between them thickened with unspoken intent, the faintest smirk tugging at Seongje’s lips as more of Sieun’s skin met the cool air of the stall.

Beneath the steady weight of Seongje’s stare, the moment felt stretched, drawn out to the point where Sieun wasn’t sure whether to pull away or give in entirely.

He moved slowly, running his nose lightly over the area, reaching Sieun’s V-line and giving it a strong hickey that made the smaller whimper. 

His erection was clearly visible through the blue underwear he was wearing. Seongje kissed his cock, still covered by the cloth, before finally pulling it out, causing Sieun’s member to jump up. 

Seongje’s mouth salivated at the sight. It wasn’t his first time seeing the other’s dick. But now, at the sight of the small length with the cutest pink tip, throbbing and all hard for him, he could only focus on how much he wanted to make Sieun feel good.

“Fuck… it’s so cute.” 

Sieun blushed even harder. All of this was just too overwhelming for him. But he managed to let out a mumbled “…shut up”

Seongje just gave a small laugh and, without warning, leaned in that final fraction, closing the last sliver of space before,

‘…fuck.’ 

Seongje would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous, he never actually had given someone a blowjob and the fear of doing something wrong consumed him. 

He took one quick glance at Sieun and at his cock again.

With his large, firm hands, he held the base of the penis firmly and began to masturbate him at a slow, torturous pace in Sieun’s eyes. Seongje brought his thumb up to the little head and spread the pre-cum, which was already coming out, making it easier to move back and forth.

With a little trepidation, Seongje brought his lips to the head, gave it a little kiss and then finally put it in his mouth, sucking it hard as if it were the tastiest lollipop in the world.

Wanting to tease Sieun even more, he put (almost all of it) into his mouth, sucking hard with a slow back-and-forth movements. 

Sieun, swamped with all the unfamiliar pleasure he was feeling, could only try to stop his mouth from betraying him with the back of his hand. But at the sudden feeling of more, he started unconditionally thrusting into the other’s mouth, causing him to choke when the Sieun’s cock hit the back of his throat. 

Seongje withdrew it from his mouth to take a breath before looking up at Sieun’s innocent, piteous, tear-filled eyes.

“Fuck, baby…You’re more rough than I thought." Seongje said hoarsely, before being surprised by having his hair grabbed tightly and being forced against the smaller’s cock again. 

Seongje quickly formed little creases in his cheeks so that Sieun’s dick could scrape against his inner mouth walls. His mouth was starting to hurt, but seeing the quiet boy totally surrendered to him was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Nghh—" 

Sieun could feel his climax getting closer and closer. His hand tightened on Seongje’s hair and in a one movement motion, he cummed deep in the other’s mouth.

Seongje ran his fingers through the side of his mouth and sucked on his fingers, to finish he left a shy kiss on Sieun’s member in such a pornographic way that even a thread of cum connected his lips to the cock.

Sieun was still catching his breath, head tipped back for a second before his gaze snapped to Seongje again. Who’ eyes were dark, almost wild, and the corner of his mouth curled like he was fighting the urge to eat him up whole.

He rose from his knees slowly, the movement slow, as though giving Sieun time to take in every inch of it. The moment he was within reach, Seongje’s hands shot out, gripping his jaw and pulling him in hard. Their mouths met in a kiss that was messy, urgent, less about sweetness and more about claiming.

Seongje made a low sound in his throat, something halfway between a growl and a groan, and pressed their foreheads together for just a second.

“Your turn, babe…” he rasped, voice rough, his fingers curling at Sieun’s waist.

“No…let’s stop this—” Sieun said, his voice low, his consciousness slowly coming back. Reminding him of what just happened and where they were.

Sieun’s breath hitched against Seongje’s mouth, his hand coming up between them as if to create some distance.

“Seongje—” his voice was sharp at first, then softened, “this is crazy. The guards probably heard…”

Seongje didn’t even slow. His lips found the side of Sieun’s neck, dragging heat across skin already flushed, his breath warm and unhurried as he pressed closer.

“Let them hear,” he murmured against him, the words melting into Sieun’s pulse. His hands slid to Sieun’s waist, guiding him back until the edge of the sink pressed against his hips.

Sieun tried to glare at him, but the effort faltered when Seongje’s mouth brushed that spot just below his jaw, slow and deliberate.

“Tell me,” Seongje whispered, his voice low, almost coaxing, “did I make you feel good?”

Sieun’s lips parted, but no words came. His throat tightened with something halfway between defiance and surrender. Finally, he just exhaled and said nothing at all.

That silence made Seongje smile against his skin, a quiet, dangerous kind of smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he affirmed, before pulling Sieun closer by the waist and leaning in again, his mouth finding the other’s with renewed intent.

Seongje’s hands slid down Sieun’s sides, not roughly, but with a confidence that made Sieun’s pulse spike. Without warning, he turned him, pressing lightly between his shoulder blades until he was facing the long mirror above the sinks.

The reflection hit Sieun like a slap. His hair was slightly mussed, cheeks flushed deep, the slope of his throat carrying the faint shadow of what could only be marks. The knowledge of it made heat crawl up his neck, not the pleasant kind.

“Are you insane?” he hissed, glaring at Seongje’s reflection instead of turning around. “If anyone sees—”

But Seongje was looking past his expression, past his words, drinking in every detail of how Sieun appeared in that mirror. He caught the tremor of indignation in him and only smiled. Not apologetic, not even repentant. Just amused. His gaze lowered to where the line of Sieun’s shirt ended and the curve of his ass began, and something unreadable blinked across his face.

Sieun noticed exactly where Seongje’s eyes had landed and scowled harder. “Don’t—”

A quiet laugh broke from Seongje’s chest. It wasn’t cruel, but it carried that unshakable arrogance that made Sieun’s irritation burn hotter. “You have no idea,” Seongje murmured under his breath, not loud enough for it to sound like a taunt, but heavy enough for Sieun to feel the weight of it.

The air between them shifted, blurring into something heavier. Seongje stepped closer, his presence filling the space behind Sieun, his breath brushing the side of his neck again. His hands moved with slowness, as though testing how far Sieun would let him go before he spoke up again. 

Sieun’s mind warred with itself, the voice telling him to put distance between them fought against the warmth that had pooled low in his body, the way every nerve felt tuned to Seongje’s hands. But when he felt the first gentle, testing pressure, his whole body tensed.

Seongje took his fingers to his own lips, sucking three of them until they were completely wet with saliva. He took one of them to the pink hole, pressing lightly until he finally penetrated it and watched the entrance swallow his finger. It was definitely one of the most erotic sights he had ever admired in his life.

It wasn’t pain exactly at first, more like a shock, a sharp awareness that made him instinctively try to pull forward, but Seongje’s hand at his hip kept him steady.

“Breathe,” Seongje’s voice came, low and almost too calm. “Just…breathe.”

Sieun’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the mirror in front of him. He didn’t want to see the faint wince that pulled at his features, but he couldn’t look away. It hurted. A slow, stretching ache that made his muscles tighten against the finger. But the worst part was knowing Seongje could see exactly how it showed on his face. 

His fingers dug into the porcelain edge of the sink. Every second felt longer than it should. Seongje moved with a frustrating patience, never rushing, murmuring something low, not quite words, just a sound meant to keep him there.

It wasn’t until the burn dulled slightly into something his body could accept that Sieun realized he’d been holding his breath. His exhale came shaky, and that seemed to be all Seongje needed to continue.

Sieun whispered hoarsely as he felt Seongje starting to go faster and faster with his finger. He could hear the wet noises of the taller one's finger being swallowed by his hole.

Through the glass, their eyes met. Sieun’s still sharp with annoyance, but tinged now with something unsteady. Seongje’s, by contrast, were hungry and certain, locked on him like this was exactly where he’d known they would end up.

Seongje’s hand lingered at Sieun’s hip, steady and firm, while the other lowered his head. The pressure built gradually, enough to make Sieun’s breath falter again. He fought the instinct to shift away, muscles taut beneath Seongje’s hold, but Seongje didn’t push too far all at once.

Instead, he worked in measured increments, letting Sieun adjust, waiting for the subtle signs, the slight unclenching of his fingers from the sink’s edge, the hitch in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“That’s it,” Seongje murmured, voice brushing his ear like a secret, while adding another finger “you’re doing amazing baby.”

Sieun hated the way the praise sent a fresh wave of heat to his face. It still burned— a deep, dragging stretch that made him close his eyes briefly against the mirror’s unforgiving reflection. But each time the ache began to crest toward too much, Seongje would pause, steady him with a palm against his lower back, and let the tension ebb before continuing.

Another finger, deeper now. Touching a specific point Sieun couldn’t quite understand. His breath caught again, jaw tightening. His knees stumbled slightly. His reflection betrayed everything. The faint pinch between his brows, the uneven rise of his chest. 

“Too much?” Seongje asked softly, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

Sieun’s lips parted, ready to snap back, but the words didn’t come. He gave the smallest shake of his head instead, hating the vulnerability of it.

Seongje’s smile in the glass was barely there, but it carried satisfaction. He added the fourth finger. Slowly, watching Sieun’s grip on the sink returning, knuckles paling. The burn sharpened before it dulled again, his body gradually yielding to the intrusion. But Seongje knew that this was necessary, he didn’t want the smaller’s first time to be more difficult than it was.

“Almost there,” Seongje said, the words low but certain. “Just a little more.”

The last stretch made Sieun’s teeth clench, but by the time it settled, there was a strange, tense quiet between them, the kind that hummed with what came next.

Through the mirror, Seongje studied him like a craftsman admiring the work before the real test began.

“Now,” he said quietly, his fingers curling possessively at Sieun’s waist, “you’re ready.”

Seongje’s fingers withdrew slowly, and Sieun felt the sudden emptiness like a jolt. He instinctively glanced back over his shoulder, breath still uneven, but Seongje’s gaze was fixed on him through the mirror.

“Spit on my hand,” Seongje said, voice deep, almost casual, as if it wasn’t a request at all.

Sieun frowned “What?”

“You heard me,” Seongje replied, stepping even closer until his presence was a wall of heat behind him. “If you don’t want it to hurt even more…trust me.”

The words settled like a weight in Sieun’s chest. He was still angry, at the marks on his neck, at the way Seongje always seemed to get what he wanted, but there was something in his tone that made defiance feel harder than compliance. 

Reluctantly, still glaring, Sieun lowered his head towards the hand (now in front of him), the sound of a slurp on the taller one’s hand echoed at the empty space. A reminder of where they were.

Seongje’s eyes never left his as he caught the motion of it in his palm. A second later, Sieun heard the muted shift of fabric, the sound of a zipper sliding, the faint brush of cloth as Seongje freed his own cock. Sieun didn’t need to look to know exactly what was happening, he’d seen it before. But knowing was one thing. Feeling was another.

The first touch was brief, something firm pressing against him, slicked with the saliva he’d just given. It was cold at first, then quickly warmed as Seongje lingered his entrance, testing the angle, letting Sieun feel the weight of what was coming.

Then, deliberately, Seongje began to push his penis forward.

The sensation ripped a sharp inhale from Sieun before he could stop it. It wasn’t like the fingers— this was broader, heavier, stretching him in a way that made his muscles seize up immediately. He bitten his bottom lip hard enough that he could feel a slight metallic taste and his hands gripped the sink’s edge so tightly the porcelain bit into his palms.

He knew Seongje’s was big. He’d seen it the first time they kissed. But the reality was different, ten times more overwhelming, a pressure that was somehow both blunt and unyielding, forcing him open inch by inch.

“—fuck—“

Sieun’s brows drew together in the mirror, the breath shuddering from his lungs in shallow bursts. His mind raced between panic and stubbornness. He didn’t want to admit it hurt, didn’t want to give Seongje that satisfaction, but the heat in his face betrayed every unspoken thought.

Behind him, Seongje closed his eyes as he felt his cock being chewed by the entrance that had welcomed him so well that he wondered if it was really real. His jaw was tight with focus, but his voice was steady.

“Fuck…breathe, Sieun. I’ve got you.”

The reassurance only made Sieun more aware of just how deeply Seongje was already inside, and that there was still more to come.

Seongje pressed forward with a steady, unyielding force until his cock was fully seated inside, the closeness absolute. Sieun’s breath caught, his chest tight as his body tried to reconcile the overwhelming stretch with the sheer heat pressing inside of him. 

Behind him, Seongje stayed still, his breathing sharp in Sieun’s ear.

“Can I move?” His voice was soft, carrying a bit of restraint that didn’t sound like it would last long.

Sieun didn’t answer right away. He was too busy trying to steady his breathing, his mind split between the urge to push him away and the reluctant need to adjust. Finally, after what felt like a full minute, he gave a small, quick nod.

“Good,” Seongje murmured, his hands splayed wide at one of Sieun’s bottom cheeks. “Just…relax.”

Sieun hated that he listened, but he forced his shoulders down, unclenching slightly. Behind him, Seongje was aware of every shift, every give in the tension, and in his mind one thought kept circling ‘tight. Almost impossibly so.’

When he finally pulled back, the movement was unhurried, enough for Sieun to feel every fraction of it, before pushing forward again. At first, the pace was measured, almost careful, each movement testing the limits of Sieun’s comfort. But it didn’t stay that way for long.

The rhythm built, the motions gaining force and speed until the carefulness blurred into something rawer, more instinctive.

Seongje began to increase the pace of his thrusts, jerking back and forth, slamming his balls into Sieun’ ass, causing the erotic sound to echo through the bathroom, along with the moans and groans from both of them, which were trying their best to keep quiet.

Seongje’s chest pressed flush against Sieun’s back now, his breath hot against the side of his neck. In one swift motion, his teeth found the slope of Sieun’s shoulder, biting just enough to draw a muffled sound from him.

Sieun’s head tipped forward on reflex, but Seongje’s hand slid up, fingers curling at his jaw to turn his face just enough for their mouths to meet. The kiss was harsh, claiming, and it swallowed whatever sound Sieun might have made. Their breathing mingled, humid and fast, and the space between them was slicked with heat.

The pace sharpened, each push now punctuated with a harder pull back. Seongje shifted slightly, adjusting the angle, and suddenly Sieun’s whole body tensed. His fingers curled white knuckled against the porcelain, breath stuttering into the kiss.

Seongje felt it immediately, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Is it here?” he asked, his voice a murmur laced with satisfaction.

Sieun’s eyes flashed in the mirror, a mix of frustration and something darker. “Shut the fuck up” he bit out, his voice unsteady.

Seongje’s smile widened just enough to be felt rather than seen. He didn’t answer, he just kept going, hitting that spot again, and again, each time with more precision, as if testing how far he could push Sieun before words failed him entirely.

“Ah fuck—" said Seongje, making sure he continued to hit the Sieun’s prostate repeatedly underneath him, which seemed to work because of his back arching towards Seongje. “—so fuckin’ tight—" 

The taller one now grabbed the younger man's waist with his other hand, forcing him down so that he could start thrusting at an animalistic speed.

“Seong—" Sieun groaned, warning himself after feeling that familiar crack below his belly, he knew it was coming.

Seongje then slowed down his thrusts from extremely fast to extremely slow, which made Sieun let out low, sly whimpers, wanting more speed in that pleasurable— but painful—moment. The other one, on the other hand, wanted to prolong that moment even more. He wanted to spend more time inside that boy who had taken away his sanity in such a short space of time.

The older man withdrew from the younger one, causing him discomfort as he felt empty for a few seconds. He was turned over so that he could see the immensity of Seongje’s glare, who was looking at him with such lust and desire, not too much unlike Sieun’s, now it was just them.

Sieun’s palms came up instinctively to push against his chest, more out of reflex than actual resistance, but Seongje only used the movement to bring them closer, crowding into his space until Sieun had to lean back against the cool of the sink.

Before Sieun could demand to know what he was doing, Seongje’s hands swept lower, catching under one thigh and lifting it without warning. Sieun’s balance shifted sharply, his hands grabbing at Seongje’s shoulders.

“What—?” The word barely left his lips before he felt the weight of Seongje pressing forward again, slotting against him with the same unyielding intent as before.

The change in angle threw him off, the stretch felt different now. His brows knit together, a flicker of confusion breaking through the flush on his face.

“What is this—?” he started, his voice tight.

Seongje didn’t answer in words. His eyes stayed locked on Sieun’s, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he pushed forward again, slow enough to make the point but hard enough to make Sieun’s breath catch.

The leg hooked around Seongje’s hip tightened involuntarily, pulling him closer. Sieun hated the way his body seemed to betray him, reacting without permission, but the new position left him feeling far more exposed, and far more aware of every movement Seongje made.

Seongje entered with unusual ease, he began to thrust at the same pace as before, slow but strong at the same time. The smaller’s mouth was open but no sound came out. Seongje was no different.

They couldn't look away from each other, they were like magnets, but they both didn't want to do it. Never in a million years. 

Seongje started to increase the speed of his thrusts, making Sieun deepen his nails on the taller’s back and throw his head sideways, leaving his neck exposed with free access for anyone who happened to be there at the time. And Seongje  wasted no time in leaving a few more wet kisses there, joining the red marks that he was proud to make.

He held Sieun's forgotten, pre-cum filled cock and began to massage the tip and stroke it fast. 

With a few more thrusts, Sieun cummed in three strong jets, dirtying both of their abdomens, clenching around Seongje, who cummed immediately afterwards inside the other.

The air in the bathroom was thick and humid, their ragged breathing mixing with the faint drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the room. Seongje’s chest was still pressed to Sieun’s, both of them struggling to catch their breath, the space between them so warm it almost hummed.

Sieun’s eyes stayed fixed on Seongje’s collar for a moment, unwilling to meet the gaze he knew would be there. His lips were still parted, and every inhale tasted faintly of heat and sweat. He hated how unsteady his knees felt.

Seongje, on the other hand, looked like he was savoring the moment. Steady breaths and that lingering half-smile curling at the corner of his mouth. His thumb brushed once along the line of Sieun’s jaw before he finally leaned in, claiming his mouth in one last kiss. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, it was romantic, a final mark before the moment shifted.

Then, without warning, Seongje bent and swept an arm under Sieun’s thighs, pulling him off balance and lifting him with ease. Sieun’s hands instinctively shot to Seongje’s shoulders, his voice a sharp mutter against his ear.

“Put me down.”

“Youd fall over” Seongje said simply, not breaking stride as he carried him across the tiled floor. The sound of water hitting tile filled the air when he twisted the shower handle. Warm steam rose quickly, curling around them and clinging to their skin.

Seongje stepped inside first, setting Sieun down gently under the spray. The heat of the water was a shock at first, washing over the flushed skin of his back and shoulders. Seongje followed, reaching for the soap, his movements unhurried but purposeful.

“You came inside,” Sieun said after a moment, his voice low but edged with irritation. He didn’t look at him, just let the water run down his face and hair. “It feels disgusting.”

Seongje’s laugh came softly, almost like he’d been expecting the complaint. “Probably,” he admitted, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hands moved over Sieun’s back in slow, steady strokes, rinsing away the evidence of their earlier closeness. “Guess that means you can beat me up tomorrow.”

Sieun shot him a sideways look but didn’t speak. The only sound was the hiss of water, the muted splatter against their skin, and Seongje’s quiet, caring touch. He worked all over Sieun’s body— not rough but not gentle either. Just like him.

The heat from the shower mixed with the residual warmth of their bodies, turning the space into something hazy and insulated from the rest of the world. Even Sieun’s irritation felt muffled here, dulled under the simple rhythm of being cared for.

When the soap was gone, Seongje reached past him for a towel, draping it over his shoulders before working it across his back and arms. He didn’t rush. He dried Sieun as though there was nothing outside the stall worth hurrying for.

It wasn’t until they stepped out and began pulling on their clothes that the sharpness of reality began to creep back in. The cold air outside the shower clung to their wet hair, and the faint sounds of the hallway beyond the bathroom doors was suddenly much louder.

Seongje dressed first, then moved to the door. He cracked it open just enough to peer out, his eyes scanning left, then right. His whole posture changed— shoulders low, movement controlled —like a predator deciding if it was safe to leave its cover.

“All clear” he said, though his voice stayed low. He glanced at Sieun, his expression tightening. “Come on.”

Sieun followed without a word, but the second they were in the hallway, Seongje’s hand was at the small of his back, pushing him forward. Their steps were light but quick, each one measured against the risk of being heard. The corridor stretched ahead of them, each overhead camera turning in its slow, mechanical sweep.

When the faint whir of one shifting directions reached their ears, Seongje yanked Sieun into the narrow shadow of a doorway. They stayed pressed there, close enough to hear each other’s breathing, until the sound passed. Then, in another burst of motion, they moved again.

They ducked behind a corner when a distant voice echoed down the hall, footsteps faint but approaching. Sieun felt his heartbeat in his throat, but Seongje’s hand stayed firm against his back, guiding him through the blind spots he clearly knew by memory.

By the time their dorm came into view, the adrenaline had seeped deep into Sieun’s muscles. The last stretch they covered in near silence, slipping inside and shutting the door with a muted click.

For a moment, they just stood there in the darkened room, the muffled quiet almost deafening after the tension of the hallway. Seongje’s smirk returned slowly, as if to remind Sieun exactly why they’d had to sneak back at all. Sieun just exhaled, long and tired, deciding that any fight could wait until morning.

Sieun just moved towards his bed and sat down, letting the mattress dip beneath his weight. That was when the sharp pull of pain bit into his lower back, quick and precise enough to make him freeze. His breath hitched before he could stop it.

The realisation washed over him slowly. He knew exactly why his muscles ached like that, why the tension had nested there. But he didn’t linger on it, didn’t dare to. Instead, he pushed the thought away, as if shoving it into the farthest drawer in his mind, and stretched out onto his side.

The darkness made it easier to pretend nothing had happened. To let the exhaustion, which had been pressing down on him all evening, start to win. Even though the clock on the side table whispered that it was almost three in the morning, he let his eyes begin to close.

A soft rustle of fabric made him open them again. Seongje was moving towards him, no hesitation in his steps, no question in his expression. He simply smiled, a small, knowing curve of his mouth, before lowering himself onto Sieun’s bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“…What are you doing?” Sieun asked, voice flat, though a bit of unease ran through it.

“Sleeping.” Seongje replied simply, already shifting to fit himself into the narrow space.

“This bed is small,” Sieun pointed out, the words landing somewhere between a protest and a plea. “Go to yours.”

But Seongje didn’t move. Instead, he stretched out fully behind Sieun, his knees brushing the back of Sieun’s legs. “I’m cold,” he murmured, and pressed his body against Sieun’s back.

“We are in the middle of summer.” Sieun said, his tone dry, but he didn’t move away.

Seongje ignored the comment entirely, his breath brushing Sieun’s ear before he leaned forward just enough to kiss his cheek, “Good night” he whispered.

Sieun opened his mouth to say something else, but the only thing he heard was the quiet, amused snort from Seongje, followed by the deepening rhythm of his breathing. He was already half-asleep, or pretending to be.

Sieun exhaled, the sound caught somewhere between annoyance and surrender. He closed his eyes again, mumbling a small, quiet, “I hate you” into the dark.

He didn’t hear it, didn’t catch the way Seongje’s lips curved faintly before he answered in a voice barely above a breath, “I love you too.”

The morning did not come gently. Instead, it burst forth like an alarmed beast, intrusive. The new buzz of the camp’s revised order cutting through the stale stillness as though it sought to fracture the fragile remnants of sleep itself. The piercing shrillness clawed at Sieun’s ears, dragging him unwillingly from the thin cocoon of darkness he’d wrapped around his aching body.

He laid still for a moment, senses dull but not mute, acutely aware of the persistent, sharp ache that throbbed across his lower back. It was a muted scream of pain, a reminder of the reckless night past, the consequences silently etched beneath his skin. Pain that was not just physical but symbolic. A scar inked in moments of reckless surrender and tender defiance.

‘I’ll really have to punch Seongje in the face later’, Sieun thought bitterly, swallowing the discomfort like a bitter pill. Not too hard, just a gentle reminder, enough to tease, but still a token of affection masquerading as retribution.

He shifted, the soft rustle of fabric barely audible in the room’s silence. The sweat still clung to his skin in the humid summer air, but beneath the light shirt, a new layer of armor awaited a thick sweatshirt with a high collar, deliberately chosen. He pulled it over his head, the zipper closing slowly, hiding the fading bruises and marks that were too conspicuous in this place where watchful eyes searched for weaknesses.

The oppressive weight of surveillance was something Sieun had grown to feel in his bones. 

A measured click. The heavy metal door swung open, breaking the fragile quiet.

One of the new guards stepped inside, methodical in his sweep. His gaze landed on Sieun, sharp and unwavering, moving with clinical precision over the obscured marks at his neck, lingering longer than polite protocol demanded.

Sieun met the gaze with calm indifference, refusing to give any hint of discomfort or fear. It was a game they played now, who could hold their stare longest without blinking first.

Before the tension could escalate, Seongje— already fully dressed on the other side of the room —broke the silence with a voice bright enough to slice through the room’s heaviness.

“Good morning.”

His smile was effortless, almost disarmingly cheerful. But beneath that grin was a calculated edge, a challenge thrown like a gauntlet.

The man blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected greeting. For a moment, there was a flicker of irritation, a subtle twitch of the jaw, but no reply came. The guard’s eyes swept the room one last time before he pivoted sharply and left, the door shutting with a definitive clang that echoed like a gauntlet hitting the ground.

Seongje exhaled a low whistle, the sound thick with amusement and caution. “They’re definitely not the most polite, huh” he said, eyes narrowing as he turned to Sieun.

Sieun felt a tightening in his chest, a knot forming beneath the surface of his calm exterior. The truth was undeniable now, this was more than casual oversight. They were the subjects of scrutiny, marked in ways both overt and subtle.

Seongje lit a cigarette, the small flare of flame a fragile beacon in the cold room, and inhaled deeply, the smoke curling like a silent defiance.

The weight of reality settled around him like a shroud, but he refused to show it. He wasn’t just a target, he was a participant, a player in a dangerous game that neither had fully understood yet.

As they moved together, steps syncing, the air felt charged, a quiet tension lingering between them.

Seongje’s grin widened, the carefree brightness returning as if the night’s shadows hadn’t followed him here. “So, how’s the body feeling?” he teased, nudging Sieun lightly with an elbow as they walked. “You look like you got run over by a truck, but in a sexy kind of way.”

Sieun side eyed him but replied. “My lower back feels like someone stomped on it,” he admitted quietly. “You owe me for this.”

Seongje chuckled, the sound rich and easy, like warmth spilling into the cold. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised with mock solemnity. “Later, I’m going to the infirmary. I’ll grab some ointment or something, make sure you don’t walk like a cripple tomorrow.”

Sieun’s gaze lingered on him, the mix of humor and care cutting through the day’s grim tension. For a moment, the world felt lighter, more bearable.

“Thanks” Sieun said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Seongje’s smile deepened, eyes bright. “Anything for you.” He blinked one eye.

The day continued to stretch thin and taut, every moment threaded with the same tension that hummed quietly beneath the surface of this place.

 Classes, once a refuge, now felt like a theater of observation, the voices of professors and classmates folding into a backdrop of uneasy silence. Eyes everywhere, and none of them kind or careless. Every sentence spoken, every laugh held just a little too long, felt like it might crack under the weight of those gazes.

Sieun had moved mechanically through the motions of the day. The rules had tightened again, shorter breaks, heavier work, and the ever-present cameras tracking their every move. The camp was becoming less a place of reform and more a cage.

Seongje had been a strange contrast, a flash of reckless life in the stifling routine. His bright gummy smile, the way his eyes glinted with a mix of mischief and something warmer whenever he managed to steal a moment. Bathroom breaks had become their stolen sanctuaries. There, he’d steal quick kisses of Sieun or press a hand lightly against his waist. Small acts of rebellion against the cold, harsh new order.

Everyone else watched them like they were anomalies, strangers in a strange land, subjects of quiet speculation. The whispered glances and sideways looks barely escaped Sieun’s notice. It was like living beneath a microscope, every shared smile or glance magnified, dissected.

By mid-afternoon, Sieun had been assigned his work in gardening again, the tasks grueling and the hours relentless. His hands moved automatically, muscles aching, mind drifting to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, Seongje’s plan to provoke the new staff would shake something loose. Shake up this place from the inside. But for now, all he could do was endure.

Finally, when the bell rang for the break, Sieun slipped away quietly, heading toward the bathroom to wash away the dust and grime that clung stubbornly to his skin. The cold water felt like a brief reprieve, running over his tired hands and face, cleansing but also grounding him to the moment.

He caught his own reflection in the mirror, dark circles beneath his eyes, lips slightly parted as if he were still holding his breath. The ache in his back pulsed again, sharp and sudden. His mind blinked to Seongje’s words, the promise, the hunger, the way he’d pulled him close.

A sudden sound broke the stillness, and Sieun’s breath caught.

“Sieun.”

The voice was deep, cautious, threaded with something almost hesitant. He turned slowly, heart thudding, and there in the doorway stood Jinwoo. His eyes scanned the bathroom quickly before settling on Sieun’s face, softening just a fraction but still guarded, as if he weighed whether to speak or stay silent.

The air between them thickened, heavy with the unspoken. Sieun’s thoughts tumbled, a chaotic swirl of surprise, suspicion, and a flicker of something else he couldn’t yet name.

Sieun met Jinwoo’s gaze, searching for answers, but found only questions mirrored back at him.

Sieun finished rinsing his hands, the cold water running smooth and clear over his skin, trying to wash away the grime and fatigue of the day. 

“We need to talk.” Jinwoo said, pulling Sieun’s attention fully.

Sieun’s mind scrambled, but the firmness behind the words brooked no refusal. Without another word, he followed.

They slipped away from the bustling corridors. The air grew thicker here..

Jinwoo’s gaze darted around before settling back on Sieun. His eyes held an edge now, sharp, wary, almost urgent.

“I heard something,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Something about you.”

Sieun’s heart thudded unevenly. “What do you mean?”

Jinwoo swallowed hard, the words slow, weighted. “About Seongje. About what he’s been saying. What he’s been doing.”

A cold hand seemed to grip Sieun’s spine. The name ‘Seongje’ suddenly felt heavier, laden with suspicion.

“What did you hear?” Sieun’s voice faltered, the room narrowing around him.

Jinwoo’s expression hardened. “He’s been talking to the guards. Saying he’s got you ‘on his feet.’ Like you’re completely under his control.”

Sieun blinked, disbelief washing over him in a cold wave. ‘No.’ The word echoed through his mind like a fragile mantra, desperately clung to. 

“But…” Jinwoo pressed on, “He said he could do whatever he wanted with you now. That you’re his. I saw the way the guards listened to him, like they believed it.”

Sieun’s breath hitched. The sun light out of the window darked, casting a shadow on his face. His thoughts tangled, twisting into knots of doubt and fear. The image of Seongje— the way he smiled at him in the quiet moments, the softness in his eyes —clashed violently with this bitter accusation.

‘Could he really be…?’

A jarring dissonance erupted inside him. Part of him screamed that it was a lie, a cruel joke played by someone with a grudge. But another, quieter part, the part desperate to protect itself, whispered that maybe this was the truth, that he had been blind all along.

Jinwoo’s voice cut through the storm. “I’m telling you because you need to be careful. Trust no one, especially not him.”

Sieun’s mind reeled. He felt as if the ground beneath him had shifted, leaving him unsteady, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The walls seemed to close in tighter, the air thickening with suspicion.

He wanted to argue, to deny, to cling to the fragile thread of trust he’d woven with Seongje, but the words caught in his throat.

‘What if Jinwoo’s right?’ The thought tasted bitter and dangerous.’

His gaze searched Jinwoo’s face for any sign of deceit, but all he found was cold resolve.

“Why tell me this now?” Sieun finally murmured, voice trembling.

“Because you’re vulnerable, Sieun. Because you don’t see the game they’re playing. And because if you keep trusting him blindly, you’ll be the one left broken. I care for you.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Jinwoo’s parting words lingered like a dark cloud as he turned and vanished down the corridor, leaving Sieun alone with the echoes of doubt.

Sieun leaned back against the cold wall, closing his eyes to block out the truth. His thoughts churned relentlessly, the warmth of Seongje’s touch now twisted into something threatening, a veil hiding something darker.

‘Who is he really?’

The question gnawed at him, fracturing the fragile peace he’d found. The night’s dreams, the stolen moments, the whispered promises, they all seemed to shimmer with a new, unsettling uncertainty.

His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as if to anchor himself. But the ache inside didn’t faded, it grew sharper, a wound hidden beneath the surface.

‘Seongje…or Jinwoo?’

The question haunted him as he leaned against the wall, fighting to steady the tremor in his hands.

And in that suffocating quiet, Sieun realized the fight was just beginning.

Sieun’s mind was a swirling storm, the heavy weight of Jinwoo’s words dragging at him like an anchor in turbulent waters.

 ‘Seongje isn’t really your friend’

The accusation echoed, dark and insistent, yet a stubborn part of Sieun refused to believe it outright. After all, Seongje’s laughter in the bathroom, his teasing hands, the warmth that had briefly chased away the cold, yesterday— that had felt real. So real. Still, doubt had planted its poisonous seed deep in his thoughts.

Walking back to their assigned work, Sieun kept his eyes cast down, trying to focus on the small tasks awaiting him, but his ears caught a murmur, Seongje’s voice, low but clear, speaking with one of the new guards near the back of a building. His heart quickened, and without thinking, he slowed his pace, pressing closer, careful to stay in the shadows.

“I’ve got him right where I want him.” Seongje replied to something he hadn’t listen, voice measured but firm. “Nothing to worry about.”

“You’re pushing it, but you know the orders.”

The guard replied, but his expression was unreadable, eyes looking to the camera above. Seongje glanced up briefly, then lowered his voice.

Sieun’s chest tightened. His mind raced, twisting those words into chains. ‘Was this proof? Was Seongje bragging about having control over him?’ The thought ignited a sharp flame of betrayal. Suddenly, the quiet warmth he had felt from Seongje’s presence was a cruel mask, hiding a cage.

His fists clenched. The anger that had simmered beneath the surface boiled over. ‘I’ll show him what it means to control me. Maybe I should have beaten him harder last time. Maybe I should burn this whole place down before they break me completely. Maybe—’

The sky seemed darker, colder. Every glance from the guards, every camera lens, felt like a spotlight on his shame. He imagined Seongje’s smile as nothing but a cruel joke, mocking, distant, a traitor’s grin.

Sieun’s hands trembled slightly as he wiped the dirt off on his shirt, the rough fabric scratching against his skin. The garden, once a small refuge from the relentless gaze of the camp, now felt like another trap, a place where his thoughts spiraled and tangled like the weeds he pulled with numb fingers.

He replayed the half heard conversation over and over, the words ringing sharp and cruel in his mind.

Seongje’s voice had sounded so casual, so confident.

‘I’ve got him right where I want him. Nothing to worry about.’

The guard’s reply was gruff, but there was a strange undertone to it, a hint of knowing, maybe even menace.

‘You’re pushing it, but you know the orders.’

Orders. Control. Possession. The phrase stuck in Sieun’s mind like a splinter. Right where I want him. ‘How many meanings did that have? Was Seongje really the friend— or whatever he was —he thought he was? Or was he the one being played?’

A cold weight settled in Sieun’s stomach, growing heavier with every breath. But he forced himself to silence. Not yet. Not before he understood more.

He bent to his task, his movements sharper, more aggressive than before, as if digging his frustration into the soil could bury the suspicion growing inside him.

Time slipped by, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the dormitory halls. When he finally stood up, tired and stiff, Sieun wiped his hands again, trying to wash away the feeling of unease that clung to him.

He didn’t wait for Seongje. Instead, he took the familiar path back to their shared room, each step measured, careful not to show the storm raging behind his eyes.

The quiet of the hallway pressed against him, heavier than usual. He caught the fleeting glances from guards stationed nearby. He wondered if they noticed the change in him, the flicker of doubt that had taken root.

Once inside the small room, the door clicked softly behind him. He sat down on his bed, the thin mattress offering little comfort.

Minutes later, the door opened again, and Seongje stepped in, an easy smile lighting up his face, a stark contrast to the heaviness inside Sieun.

“I brought something for you~” Seongje said, lifting a small plastic bag. “Ointment, bandages— had to lie to the nurse that my feet was fucked up, you’re welcome.”

His voice was light, warm, but there was a cautious edge beneath it, as if he sensed something was wrong but wasn’t sure what.

Sieun looked up slowly, meeting Seongje’s gaze with eyes narrowed, cold and sharp as broken glass.

The smile faltered immediately.

Seongje’s brow creased, the light in his eyes dimming as he registered the silent accusation in Sieun’s stare.

“Is…everything okay?” His voice softened, almost vulnerable now, stepping closer but still wary.

Sieun said nothing. The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes held a storm of hurt, confusion, and anger. Emotions too tangled for simple explanation.

The tension hung between them like a fragile thread, trembling but unbroken.

Seongje’s shoulders sagged slightly. He set the bag down carefully on the floor, as if afraid any sudden movement might shatter the uneasy peace.

“What—” he started, but Sieun shook his head, cutting him off without a word.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence was louder than any shout, heavier than any argument.

Sieun’s mind raced. Questions, doubts, fears swirling in a cyclone. ‘Was he just overthinking? Could this all be a misunderstanding?’ But the seeds of mistrust had been planted, watered by fragments of conversations and strange looks, and now they grew too wild to ignore.

Seongje, sensing the depth of the wound between them, swallowed hard and lowered his gaze, the smile gone.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, voice raw with something close to regret. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry.”

Sieun’s breath caught. The apology was unexpected, but it wasn’t enough.

He looked away, staring out the narrow window at the fading light. His chest tightened with a quiet ache.

All he could do was wait. And wonder if this fracture could ever be mended.

Seongje lingered in the doorway, his smile fading under the weight of Sieun’s icy stare. Confusion knitted his brows as he searched Sieun’s face for a clue, any sign of what had gone wrong.

“I don’t understand,” Seongje said quietly, stepping closer but careful not to invade the space Sieun was clearly trying to protect. “I didn’t do anything…I just wanted to help. I brought the ointment, the bandages—I thought…”

Sieun’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, sharp and unreadable, before sliding away like a shutter closing.

“Maybe that’s exactly the problem,” Sieun said, voice low and cutting through the quiet room like a blade. “Just act like you don’t know me.”

The words hit harder than any punch could. Seongje’s mouth opened, then closed, caught between disbelief and hurt. The room felt suddenly colder, shadows gathering in the corners like silent witnesses.

Without another word, Sieun turned his back and pulled the thin blanket over himself, folding into the bed as if trying to disappear beneath the weight of everything unsaid. His breath was steady but shallow, the exhaustion not just of his body, but of holding up walls that were starting to crack.

Seongje stood frozen for a moment, his hand twitching, wanting to reach out, to mend the fracture. But the barrier was there, firm and immovable.

“…Okay,” Seongje whispered finally, voice rough. “If that’s what you want.”

There was no response. Silence thickened the room.

Frustration surged like a fire inside Seongje’s chest, twisting into something sharp and bitter. How could Sieun shut him out like this, without even trying to say what was wrong? After everything, after the risks and the moments they’d shared…

Seongje’s jaw clenched, fists curling at his sides. His shoulders squared, a brittle resolve settling over him. He needed to punch someone. Anyone.

Without looking back, he stepped away from the bed, the scrape of his shoes against the floor louder than it should have been in the stillness.

He reached the door and hesitated for a second, hand on the handle, before pushing it open.

The cold corridor swallowed him whole as the door clicked shut behind him.

His breath hitched in his throat. Not just anger, but something darker, a raw ache fueled by rejection and confusion.

Seongje stormed down the hall, each step pounding with the echo of everything left unsaid.

‘You will pay Keum Seongje, for making me feel like this.’

‘You will pay Yeon Sieun, for making me feel like this.’

Chapter Text

The cafeteria was filled with low conversation, a bunch of different voices weaving a restless murmur beneath the clatter of trays and utensils. The smell of rice and boiled cabbage clung to the air, heavy and sour, refusing to be ignored. 

Jinwoo sat alone at the corner of a table, the seat across from him conspicuously empty, though he didn’t mind the silence. He rarely sought company these days, not unless it was useful.

His spoon idled in his hand as he pushed rice across the metal tray, shaping it absentmindedly into uneven lines. He wasn’t hungry, food didn’t interested him when his mind was working, and lately, his mind had been restless with thoughts. He wanted to see something break, and he already knew where to apply the pressure.

Not far from him sat Hyunwoo and the twins, hunched close together in their habitual knot, whispering so eagerly that their shoulders touched. Jinwoo wasn’t even trying to eavesdrop, but their voices, quick and tense, carried through the thin air between tables.

“—No, really, I swear I heard it!” one of the twins said, his words tumbling over themselves.

“They dragged him out last night. Five of them, and he still—”

“You’re lying. No one can take down five guards. That’s—”

Jinwoo let his gaze remain on his tray, but his ears sharpened. The rhythm of their whispers was too animated to ignore, too filled with the kind of fear and thrill that comes only when someone crosses a line no one else dares touch.

He tilted his head slightly, catching Hyunwoo’s gravel-rough voice cutting through the twins’ chatter,

“They’re saying he snapped. Beat them up until they couldn’t fucking stand. That’s why he’s gone.”

Jinwoo’s spoon stilled, the tip pressing into the rice until the grains broke apart. Slowly, he lifted his head, his dark eyes sliding toward their group.

“What happened?” Jinwoo asked, his voice flat, quiet, yet sharp enough to slice cleanly through their whispering.

The twins’ mouths snapped shut, their nervous glances darting between each other like trapped birds. Hyunwoo, however, didn’t look away. He met Jinwoo’s gaze head-on, measuring him, as though weighing whether or not to share.

“You don’t know?” Hyunwoo asked after a pause, his tone carrying both disbelief and challenge.

Jinwoo held his stare, unblinking. “Tell me.”

The silence stretched, the noise of the cafeteria swelling around their small bubble of stillness. Then Hyunwoo leaned back, folding his arms across his chest as if settling in to deliver a verdict.

“Keum Seongje,” he said, his lips curling faintly. “First one here to ever be sent to isolation. They say he beat up five guards, at once. Put three of them unconscious for two days.”

The words landed heavy in the space between them. The twins exchanged wide-eyed looks, whispering half formed sentences to each other again, but Jinwoo barely heard them.

Inside, his pulse gave a single, sharp throb of satisfaction.

So it was working.

He had been planting seeds carefully, weaving doubt into Sieun’s thoughts, pressing him towards suspicion, towards distance. All it had taken was the right words at the right time, a reminder that people like Seongje— violent, impulsive, arrogant —always revealed their true nature eventually. And now, as if fate itself had decided to help him, Seongje had gone and proved him right.

Isolation. The word itself was like a gift. There was no need for him to explain further to Sieun now, the program itself would do the explaining. Locked away, punished, reduced. Seongje would become exactly what Jinwoo had described. A brute dressed in thin civility, a boy who could snap at any moment.

Jinwoo’s lips curved faintly, though he kept the expression small, controlled, masked as neutrality. No one needed to see his satisfaction.

On the outside, he gave nothing away, his hand steady as he set the spoon down, his face composed. But inside, the thoughts moved like gears, steady and certain.

‘Sieun will see it now. He has to. He won’t be able to deny what’s in front of him. And when that denial crumbles…when he finally realizes who Seongje truly is…he’ll come to me. He’ll have no one else left to turn to.’

Jinwoo picked up his spoon again, finally taking a mouthful of rice, chewing slowly as Hyunwoo and the twins carried on whispering about the details of Seongje’s fight, how long it lasted, how many guards had to be called in, how brutal it had looked. Their words blurred into a background hum for him.

He wasn’t interested in the spectacle. He was interested in the aftermath.

And the aftermath, Jinwoo thought, was already beginning to unfold exactly as he wanted.

The day dragged like wet cloth. Every class blurred into the next, words on the board dissolving into chalk dust, sentences spoken by Mr. Yoon and the other instructors sliding past Sieun without anchoring. His pen moved when it had to, his head tilted down at the right times, but he wasn’t there. His body was in the seat, but his mind circled elsewhere, locked in a loop he couldn’t silence.

It had been two days since the bathroom. Two days since the sharp ache in his back, the suffocating closeness of another body against his. Two days since he’d told Seongje to act like he didn’t know him. And in those two days, Seongje had vanished. No glimpse of him in class, no shadow leaning against the hallway walls, no lazy grin waiting for him outside the canteen.

At first, Sieun had told himself it was typical. Seongje disappeared all the time, slipping away like smoke when it suited him, reappearing with the same casual arrogance, as though absence was a trick he could pull whenever he wanted. It was how he was, chaotic, unpredictable. If he started tracking his movements, he’d only wear himself down.

So Sieun tried not to think about it. He really tried. But trying not to think about Seongje was like trying not to breathe. The harder he shoved the thought away, the heavier it clawed its way back, pressing against the walls of his skull. 

His focus in class dissolved into the memory of Seongje’s voice in that stall, pleading, low, uncharacteristically raw. His concentration during work fractured under the weight of that last look Seongje had given him before everything collapsed into silence.

And then there was the other thing.

The betrayal Jinwoo had planted in his head.

Those words he couldn’t forget.

He didn’t want to believe them. He wanted to dismiss them as manipulation, as Jinwoo’s way of sinking claws into him. But the look in Jinwoo’s eyes when he’d said it, the steady conviction, the absence of hesitation, made it harder to dismiss. Lies were usually easy to spot. Hesitation, cracks in the mask, inconsistencies. But Jinwoo had spoken it as if it were fact, as if he were simply pointing out something Sieun had been too blind to see.

And after what Sieun heard coming out of Seongje’s own mouth…

‘Wasn’t that what made it dangerous?’

By the time the lunch bell rang, Sieun’s chest ached from holding too many thoughts at once. He pushed through the crowd, his head low, his tray untouched after the first few small bites. He needed air, needed space, and so when the final class ended, he didn’t walk with the others toward the courtyard or the canteen. He drifted toward the stairwell instead, mind blank, body moving out of sheer instinct.

It was there, on the second-floor landing, that he heard it.

Two boys leaned against the railing of the first floor, their voices unrestrained, carrying upward as if pulled by gravity. They weren’t trying to be discreet, maybe because the gossip was too sharp, too thrilling to keep quiet.

“—can you believe it? They actually threw him in isolation.”

“No way. That room’s just for show. They never use it.”

“I’m telling you, it’s true. He’s gone. Keum Seongje. First one to ever get it.”

The words caught Sieun mid-step, his grip tightening on the railing. He stood frozen, listening as their voices drifted further away, swallowed by the hallway hum.

Isolation. 

His chest tightened at the word.

He remembered the offhand way Seongje had once mentioned it, his voice carrying that careless mockery of someone too stubborn to admit he understood the rules of this place better than he let on. They say there’s an isolation room, but it’s just for show. They don’t actually use it. Why would they? Fear works better when the threat stays imaginary.

That was what he’d said. A rumor. A tool of control. Something whispered, not real.

And yet, here it was. The rumor given flesh. And Seongje was the one locked inside it.

Sieun felt his mind split in two directions at once. Part of him bristled with confusion, demanding logic, explanation. ‘Why him? Why now? What had he done to be dragged into something this severe? Even Seongje, with his recklessness, his violence barely contained under the surface, had he really gone so far as to warrant isolation?’

The other part of him whispered darker questions, questions laced with the words Jinwoo had planted like poison.

‘Was this what he meant? Was this proof of what Seongje really is?’

Sieun swallowed hard, forcing the thought away, but it lingered anyway, sour and insistent. He hated that Jinwoo’s voice had taken root inside him, hated that it echoed now when all he wanted was silence.

His legs moved before his thoughts could catch up, carrying him down the stairwell, out the door, into the hallway thick with passing people. His mind was buzzing, his heartbeat loud in his ears, the question hammering at him with every step,

‘Why would he be in isolation?’

The more he thought about it, the less it made sense. The more he wanted answers. And Sieun knew himself well enough to understand he wouldn’t let it go.

Halfway down the corridor, he heard it again. Two voices, deep and rough, coming from the intersection ahead. Guards. Their uniforms made them recognizable even from a distance, but it wasn’t their appearance that froze Sieun in place, it was their words.

“—the Keum kid’s locked down. You should’ve seen the mess, took five of us before he stopped swinging.”

“Idiot doesn’t know when to quit. Honestly, I’m glad they shut him in there. One less headache to deal with.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just about him. You heard what Ms. Kang said. He’s too close to that other one. Gotta separate them before it gets worse.”

A short laugh. “Yeah. That smart-mouth kid. Always looking at us like he’s above everything. Maybe this’ll scare him into line.”

Sieun’s breath stilled in his chest. He pressed back against the wall, hidden by shadow, his pulse rushing in his ears.

They were talking about him.

They meant him.

His thoughts tangled, some denial, some fury. The words scraped against his chest, forcing him to hear what he didn’t want to: Seongje, dragged into isolation not just because of his violence, but because of him. Because of the two of them. Because their connection had become too visible, too threatening.

He stood frozen until the guards’ footsteps receded, until the air felt breathable again. Then, slowly, carefully, he stepped out into the empty corridor.

His fists were clenched tight, nails biting into his palms. His body still ached, but the pain was swallowed by a new fire rising through him.

So this was what they were doing.

So this was the shape of the game.

They thought they could control him through Seongje.

They thought isolation would break him.

Sieun exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.

‘Fine,’ he thought. ‘I’ll find out what’s happening. And when I do, I’ll make sure this place burns from the inside out.’

‘No matter what I have to do.’

He turned on his heel and headed back toward the dorms, mind sharpened to a single point.

By the time he got to his room, it looked the same as it always did, but something about it felt thinner, gutted. Seongje’s bed was a mess of sheets that still held his shape, but the air above it was empty, hollow. No matter how messy or noisy Seongje had been, his absence struck like a void. Silence didn’t feel like relief anymore, it felt like absence turned into a weapon.

Sieun sat down on his bed, slowly, like his bones were filled with sand. His back still ached when he bent forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers pressing into his temples. 

He thought of the gossip that had followed him like static all day, the whispers about Seongje, the half-smirks, the lingering stares of people who seemed to know more than he did. Then Jinwoo’s voice intruded again. ‘He’s been talking to the guards. Saying he’s got you ‘on his feet.’ Like you’re completely under his control.’

He wanted to reject it, to carve it out of his head and throw it away. But Jinwoo hadn’t been the only one. The guards’ conversation in the hallway replayed in his ears now, word for word: Seongje “too close to the smart one,” Seongje shut away not just for violence but because of him.

They had taken him away because of him.

The thought didn’t scare him, it burned. Like something hot moving through his veins. Because beneath the confusion and hurt, beneath the questions about whether Seongje had betrayed him or not, one thing became undeniable, the program was playing them. Watching them. Using punishment as leverage.

He lifted his head slowly, staring at the ceiling to see the cameras buried in the corners. He knew where they were, invisible eyes set into the architecture of the camp. He pictured them recording his every movement, waiting for him to slip, to break, to show weakness.

He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

His thoughts shifted like tectonic plates, settling into a decision with the same inevitability as stone grinding into place. He wouldn’t go chasing rumors. He wouldn’t sit here waiting for scraps of information about what had happened to Seongje.

If he wanted answers, he would carve through to the source.

He would talk to Ms. Kang directly.

The realization landed with a kind of brutal clarity. For days, he’d been circling around shadows, dreams, stares, hints, and wonders. He was tired of it. He was tired of being watched, tired of being manipulated, tired of feeling like someone else’s experiment.

If Seongje was in isolation, he wanted to know why. He wanted to know what “too close” meant. He wanted to know what game Ms. Kang was running and why she thought she could decide the lines of it.

He lay back on his bed for a moment, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, letting the resolve solidify. His heartbeat slowed from frantic to steady. He didn’t know what he would say yet. He didn’t know how far he would push her. But he knew he would.

The thought of standing in front of her, of her cold, rehearsed smile, the way she looked at them like files on a desk, lit a fire in his chest. For once, he didn’t want to sit behind his walls and watch. He wanted to strike first.

The day outside was bleeding into dusk already. The camp was alive with the sounds of control, locks clicking, alarms whining, footsteps pacing in patterns designed to suffocate.

Sieun closed his eyes and inhaled. He let the rhythm of it fill him, then pressed it out with one thought, ‘Tomorrow. I’ll face her tomorrow.’

Tonight, he would let the silence fold around him. He would hold his anger close, let it sharpen instead of burn. And when the morning came, he would carry it straight into Ms. Kang’s office, set it down on her desk, and force her to look at him not as another name on her list, but as the boy she thought she could control, now staring her directly in the eye.

The isolation room was a coffin without a lid. A square of cement, stripped of color, stripped of sound, stripped of everything that could remind someone they were human.

Seongje had been thrown inside hours ago, or maybe it had been days. He couldn’t tell anymore. Time didn’t move in here. There was no clock. No window besides a small one on the door. No echo of other voices through the walls. Only his own pulse, stubbornly beating in his ears, and the faint crackle of his joints whenever he shifted.

He sat slouched against the wall, legs stretched out, wrists throbbing from the rope burns where they’d tied him earlier. His knuckles were a mess, split, swollen and crusted with dried blood. Some of it was his, but most of it wasn’t. 

Every time he flexed his hands, he felt the skin tug and sting, but he welcomed the pain. It was grounding. Proof that the night hadn’t been a fever dream, proof that the violence had really happened.

But the silence that followed, that was worse than any blow he had ever taken.

He tilted his head back until it knocked gently against the cold wall. He took his glasses off and closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. He didn’t dare. The second he tried, the words came back. Words stronger than fists, heavier than chains.

Act like you don’t know me.

Sieun’s voice. Sieun’s stare. He could see it as clearly as if the boy was standing in front of him now, lips pressed tight, eyes burning with something Seongje couldn’t name. 

He had walked into the room that evening carrying ointment, bandages, even managing a smile he hadn’t realized was on his face until it froze there. He wanted to take care of Sieun’s wounds, to sit with him quietly, to make things a little less harsh in this place that stripped them bare every day. And instead of a thanks, instead of even a nod, he got that stare. That wall of ice. And then the words, spoken low and final,

Act like you don’t know me.

It had gutted him. Left him standing there like a fool, silence swelling between them, his throat locked. He hadn’t fought back, hadn’t demanded an explanation, he’d only walked out, feeling his chest collapse inward like something vital had been torn away.

The more he thought about it, the more it twisted.

‘Why would Sieun, of all people, do this? Hadn’t he shown him something real? Hadn’t he finally— finally —given himself without fear?’

He didn’t understand. He hadn’t done anything wrong. At least, he thought he hadn’t. He had tried harder with Sieun than he’d ever tried with anyone in his life. No games, no masks, no false promises. For the first time, he had put everything he had on the table. He had loved someone. Genuinely. Fully. And it still wasn’t enough.

Maybe it had never been enough.

The more he tried to make sense of it, the further it slipped away, until all that was left was a hole in his chest. And that hole felt achingly familiar.

Because he’d felt it before.

A memory pushed up from the dark like a splinter, his mother’s face, blurred by time, separated only in fragments.

He must have been eight. It had been morning, she had been in a rare mood that day, her movements slow instead of frantic, her eyes not glazed from anxiety. She had reached out, brushing his hair away from his forehead with fingers that smelled faintly of soap.

“You’re handsome Seongje,” she had whispered, her voice low, almost affectionate. “Too handsome for your own good.”

At that age, he hadn’t known what to do with praise. Compliments were foreign currency in that house, words that usually hid a trap. He had sat stiffly, wide-eyed, afraid to breathe, afraid to break whatever strange softness had settled between them.

But then her fingers had gripped his chin, nails biting into his skin as she forced him to look at her. The softness cracked.

“But don’t be stupid,” she hissed, eyes sharp with a bitterness he couldn’t understand then. “Don’t think love means they’ll stay. They don’t. They never do. They’ll smile, they’ll tell you pretty things, and then one day— gone.”

He remembered the way her breath had smelled sour, the way her eyes glistened with something that might have been sorrow but looked more like poison.

She had laughed then, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all, and shoved him back with a hand that trembled. “So if someone tries to leave you, Seongje, don’t let them. Make them stay. No matter what. Because once they go, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

Even now, years later, the words stuck in his chest like glass. He hated them, hated her, hated that they had carved themselves into his bones so deeply that he couldn’t scrape them out. But they were true. They had always been true. Everyone left. Everyone always left.

And Sieun had just proved her right.

His hands clenched into fists until his wounds screamed. He pressed them against his thighs, eyes open now, burning in the dark.

‘Why would he do this?’ The question looped endlessly. ‘Why him? Why now, when I finally—when I—‘

He couldn’t even finish the thought. Couldn’t admit it fully, even to himself, though it pressed on his chest with suffocating weight. That he had loved Sieun. That he still did, even now, even after being cut off so suddenly and mercilessly.

Something snapped inside him that night, after he walked out of their shared room with his fists clenched and chest burning. He needed air, needed the bite of nicotine to steady him, so he climbed to the rooftop like always. 

But he wasn’t alone there.

Five unknown guards had been leaning against the railing, smoke curling from their mouths. Their laughter had been sharp, mean, the kind that always had a target. When they noticed him, they grinned.

“Well, well, look who’s here.”

”Ohhh, the infamous retired ’Mad Dog’”

“Pretty boy’s dog. Did your boyfriend send you up here to fetch his smoke?”

“Bet you bend real nice for him, don’t you, faggot?”

The words blurred together, a slurry of poison, but he had heard enough. He had felt his jaw tighten, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stared at them, silent.

And inside, he counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

They didn’t look away. They didn’t stop.

So he moved first.

His fist connected with the nearest face in a sound that was more crack than thud, teeth snapping together with a spray of blood. The guard collapsed, and before the others could react, Seongje was already on the second, driving his elbow into the man’s temple, spinning him into the railing. The third lunged, but Seongje ducked low, caught his midsection, and slammed him onto the ground so hard the breath left him in a wheeze.

The fourth shouted, swinging, but rage made Seongje fast. Too fast. He caught the punch, twisted the arm until it broke with a wet pop, then shoved him back screaming. The fifth barely raised his fists before Seongje’s knee drove into his stomach, doubling him over. He finished with his knuckles, hammering into the man’s face until bone split under the pressure, until the glow of the cigarette on the ground seemed to smear into red.

And still he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Each strike carried more than anger. It carried betrayal, humiliation, the raw wound Sieun had left in him. He beat until his hands were slick, until his own breath came ragged and animal.

By the time he realized he was screaming, the sound was already tearing his throat raw.

Boots thundered up the stairs. More guards swarmed, grabbing him by the arms, hauling him back. He fought them, twisting, snarling, but there were too many. Rope bit into his wrists again, tighter this time. Someone hit him in the ribs with a baton, but he barely felt it through the blaze of adrenaline.

They dragged him down the stairwell, through corridors he couldn’t identify, until a heavy metal door yawned open. He was shoved inside. The door slammed shut.

And now here he was.

Alone. In silence.

The rage had cooled into something heavier, something close to grief. His hands trembled as he pressed them against his knees, his breathing slowing into ragged pulls. The taste of blood was still in his mouth.

He stared at the dark wall in front of him, Sieun’s voice still echoing.

Act like you don’t know me.

And he realized, with a hollow ache, that maybe he simply couldn’t anymore.

The sound of the lock turning was the first real noise Seongje brought him back from his own thoughts. Metal on metal, breaking through the heavy stillness of the room. His head lifted slowly, eyes adjusting to the sliver of light that slipped in as the door cracked open.

A tray scraped against the floor. The guard didn’t step inside. He slid it in with the heel of his boot, the plate clattering faintly against the cement.

Rice, a lump of watery soup, something grayish that might have once been meat. The steam had already begun to die in the short walk down the hall. The smell made Seongje’s stomach tighten, but not with hunger, he couldn’t remember the last time food here had felt like anything but ash in his mouth.

The guard didn’t speak. Didn’t even glance at him properly, just kept his face turned slightly, as though the air inside the room might contaminate him if he breathed too deeply. He was already shifting his weight back to pull the door closed.

“Yo,”

The word rasped out of Seongje’s throat before he thought it through. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, dry, edged raw. The guard froze for half a second, then gave him a look over the small door window.

Seongje leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face half shadowed. “Cigarettes,” he said, his tone flat, demanding “Bring me cigarettes.”

The guard blinked, caught off guard by the demand. Then he let out a sharp laugh, not the amused kind but the dismissive kind, the one men used when they wanted to remind you of your place.

“You think this is a hotel?” His voice was rough, carrying just enough contempt to cover the unease in his expression. “You don’t get to ask for shit in here.”

Seongje’s mouth curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. He tilted his head, eyes catching the faint strip of hallway light. They glimmered darker than the room itself. “I’m not asking.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched. The guard shifted, clearly weighing whether it was worth mouthing off more, whether this boy in the shadows was bluffing or if the stories traveling down the corridors about what had happened on the rooftop were true.

The man’s jaw tightened. He pointed to the floor just beside the tray. “Eat your food.”

Then the door slammed shut again, and the lock slid back into place.

The room swallowed him in silence once more.

Seongje stared at the tray for a long while. The rice looked like glue, the soup thin as dishwater. He didn’t move to touch it. His hands were still raw, knuckles crusted with blood that hadn’t been properly cleaned. He flexed his fingers, watching them tremble faintly.

The craving hit him sharp, like a blade under his ribs. The need for smoke in his lungs, for something bitter to coat his tongue and distract him from the gnawing that wasn’t hunger but something far worse. Smoking had always been a way to steady himself, to anchor the spiraling. Without them, the silence pressed harder, the walls felt closer.

His eyes slid shut. He pictured the orange flare of a lighter, the taste of the first inhale, the release of exhale curling upward in the cold night air. He remembered Sieun’s disapproving glance the last time he had lit one near him. That slight frown, the unspoken judgment.

And still, he would have given anything to see even that now.

Anything, just to not be left alone in this silence. 

Sieun woke before the bell.

The room was still dipped in that thin gray light that comes just before morning properly arrives, when everything looks washed out and fragile, like the world hasn’t fully decided to exist yet. He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sound of the vents. 

He barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same looping images, Jinwoo’s face leaning towards him, voice steady, dropping those words like poison in his ear. Then Seongje’s smile, so oblivious, holding out that ointment as though nothing in the world had shifted. And then Seongje leaving, footsteps hard, the door shutting behind him.

Sieun exhaled, slow. He hated that his chest tightened at the memory. He hated that doubt lodged itself in him like splinters he couldn’t pull free.

He pushed himself upright, legs heavy as stone. His uniform was folded neatly at the edge of his bed. He dressed quietly, pulling the collar higher to cover the skin at his throat, fingers pausing there longer than they should have. 

Today, he told himself, he wouldn’t just sit in silence. He was going to talk to Ms. Kang. He needed to. Whatever was happening to Seongje, whatever the guards were whispering about, he had to drag it into the open.

He had almost tied his shoes when the heavy shuffle of boots echoed down the hall. Sieun stilled, spine straightening.

The door clanged. The lock scraped. Then it swung inwards with that practiced swiftness the guards always used, as though even opening a door was an act of domination.

The man on the other side was broad, his uniform pressed, cap sitting low over his eyes. He stood in the doorway and scanned the room, gaze skimming over Sieun like a scanner. For a second, Sieun thought of the guard from the other day, the one Seongje had smiled at. The memory made his chest burn.

“Up,” the guard said, his voice clipped, almost bored. “You’re wanted.”

Sieun blinked. His hand, still holding one untied shoelace, tightened slightly. “Wanted?”

The guard didn’t elaborate. Just tilted his chin toward the hallway. “Move.”

Sieun swallowed down the instinctive retort that rose in his throat. He tugged the lace tight, double-knotted it, and stood, his face expressionless. Inside, his thoughts were quick, jagged, ‘Was this about Seongje? Was this about him?’

As he stepped past the guard into the corridor, the hallway stretched ahead, slightly lit, lined with identical doors, each one holding its own secrets, its own silences.

Sieun’s mind replayed the decision he had already made this morning, he would confront Ms. Kang, face her directly. Now, it seemed, that decision wasn’t his alone to make. They were taking him to her anyway.

And the thought made something coil in his stomach, a mix of dread and grim readiness.

He walked, the guard’s shoes striking behind him, echoing loud against the walls. Each step felt like a countdown.

The walk down the administrative wing felt like stepping out of one world and into another. The dormitory wing carried the grime of boys pressed into monotony, of sneakers scuffing along concrete, of laughter strangled into whispers. Here though, the air smelled different, as though it was a complete different place. 

Sieun’s footsteps seemed louder than they should’ve been. He kept his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders drawn tight, trying to make himself smaller though he knew it didn’t matter. The guard walking a half step behind him carried no weapon in plain sight, but the weight of authority was heavy enough. He didn’t need to speak,his presence was a leash, and Sieun walked because there was no other option.

When they turned the corner, Ms. Kang’s office door came into view. Tall, white-painted wood, brass nameplate that caught the cold light: Director Kang, Seoul Behavioral Reformation Program.

The title still made Sieun’s stomach turn. He wondered if the plaque was there to reassure her, or them.

The guard rapped once, brisk, then pushed the door open without waiting. He motioned for Sieun to step closer. But before he could, the door opened wider from the inside. Someone was leaving.

A man emerged.

Not one of the guards or staff. He carried himself differently. No bulk of uniform, no sluggish heaviness in his stance. He wore a suit so neat it almost felt uncanny, dark fabric pressed without a wrinkle, shoes polished to a mirror sheen. His steps were measured, clicking against the floor with authority, not haste. His expression was unreadable, but his presence was not. The kind of presence that suggested he expected doors to open for him, and they did.

For a second Sieun saw only the surface. The suit, the hard line of his mouth, the dismissive air. But then their eyes brushed. Just brushed, because the man didn’t linger, didn’t look as if he cared to. Yet it was enough to leave something loose in Sieun’s memory.

It hit with a kind of violence.

The first day. The intake chaos. His body sore from the ride, his ears still ringing with the unfamiliarity of the place. And then that man, standing across from Seongje. His voice had carried over the entrance, words Sieun hadn’t caught but anger he couldn’t mistake. He had looked like someone claiming ownership, not just authority. Like someone entitled to raise his voice and expect the world to fold beneath it.

Now the fragments knit together.

It was him.

The same man.

The realization and confusion lodged cold in Sieun’s chest.

For one suspended moment, Sieun couldn’t look away. Their eyes locked, uncertain, the man’s practiced, impersonal. It was as if he were looking through Sieun rather than at him. There was no bit of recognition, no pause, only a calculated dismissal. Then the man turned his head, continued forward, and the guard beside him followed like a shadow. Their footsteps receded down the sterile hall until they were gone, swallowed by silence.

Sieun remained frozen in the doorway, pulse unsteady. Something about that look gnawed at him. Absolute indifference. As though Sieun were not worth even the effort of disdain.

He swallowed hard, forcing his breath back into rhythm. The memory replayed itself whether he wanted it to or not. The raised voice at Seongje, the assertiveness in his tone. 

‘What had it been about, that day? Why here again now? What business did he have with Ms. Kang that required no announcement, no warning?’

The thought hooked deep in his mind,

‘Does this have to do with Seongje being thrown into isolation?’

The guard behind him cleared his throat, the sound impatient. It startled Sieun out of his stillness. He stepped forward, into the office.

Inside, the world changed again.

Ms. Kang’s office was larger than he thought. The walls were pale, lined with neat bookshelves and framed certificates, every detail meant to project authority without warmth. The desk gleamed, paper stacks squared into perfect geometry, a single fountain pen resting across a leather folio. A faint fragrance lingered in the air. Not perfume, but something more neutral, clean, designed not to offend.

And behind the desk sat Ms. Kang.

Her posture was effortless, shoulders relaxed, hands folded on the desk, as though the world had bent into order exactly as she’d willed it. She looked up at him slowly, her eyes strong but her mouth curved in a faint, professional smile.

Sieun stood at the threshold, the afterimage of the suited man still vivid in his mind. It clung to him, restless, pressing against the silence. His instinct was to demand answers immediately, to let the words cut sharp as his suspicion, but his throat tightened. Because the truth was, he didn’t even know what question to start with.

Sieun could feel his pulse in his ears, in his throat, the pressure mounting with each second that Ms. Kang didn’t speak. She didn’t rush to fill the space, didn’t acknowledge his presence immediately beyond that polite, faint smile. It was calculated, an exercise of control. She was showing him that even here, in a room stripped of surveillance and witnesses, he was still on her terms.

“Yeon Sieun,” she said finally, voice smooth, unhurried. “How can I help you?.”

The words unsettled him. Not because of what she said, but how she said it. Casual, almost kind, as though she’d been expecting him.

His jaw tightened. “I need to talk to you.”

“Of course you do.” She gestured to the chair across from her desk. “Sit.”

He didn’t move at first. The memory of the suited man brushing past him still burned raw. He wanted to demand his name, his purpose, why he was here at all but he forced himself not to let his urgency show. That would be giving her ground.

Reluctantly, he stepped forward and sat. The chair was firm, too upright, designed to prevent comfort. He leaned back anyway, trying to carve a semblance of control from the small act.

Ms. Kang folded her hands together, resting them lightly on the desk. Her gaze never left his face. “So,” she said softly, “what is troubling you?”

The phrasing irritated him, the implication that this was nothing more than a small emotional flare, a mood she could soothe with words.

“I want to know where Keum Seongje is.” His voice was flat, low. “And why.”

Her expression didn’t change. Only the faintest curve of her lips shifted, as though she’d expected that exact question.

“Your roommate is fine,” she replied. “He’s being held in temporary isolation for disciplinary reasons. It’s not uncommon.”

“That room has never been used,” Sieun shot back. “Not once. And now suddenly he’s in there?”

Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as though appraising him. “You’ve been paying attention. That’s…impressive. Most boys here do not.”

“I’m not like most boys here.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, sharp as a blade. He regretted them immediately. He saw how her expression changed for a second, just faintly, with something close to satisfaction. As though he’d revealed exactly what she already knew.

She leaned forward, elbows resting gently on the desk. “That is true,” she said quietly. “You are not like the others. Which is why I’d advise you to be careful where your loyalties lie.”

Sieun felt his stomach knot. The air seemed heavier, as though the room itself was pressing against him.

He swallowed. “What does that mean?”

Her smile widened, not warm, but knowing. “It means that Keum Seongje has always been reckless. Self-destructive. That’s why he is where he is now. And you, Yeon Sieun…you have potential. Intelligence. Control. Do not let his chaos drag you down with him and turn you vulnerable. Do not trust him.”

There it was. The tension sharpened, twisting inside him.

He wanted to scream at her, to tell her she didn’t know anything about Seongje, that she had no right to sit there and dissect him like a specimen. But her words hooked into his doubts, the ones Jinwoo had planted, the ones he’d tried to bury.

A Reckless, self-destructive chaos.

Hadn’t he just seen Seongje vanish into isolation for beating guards senseless?

He clenched his fists in his lap, forcing his face into stillness. “You’re saying he deserved it.”

“I’m saying,” Ms. Kang said softly, “that some boys cannot be saved from themselves. And those who try to save them…are dragged down.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, bitter and suffocating.

Sieun’s chest tightened. He wanted to reject them outright, to throw them back in her face. But the memory of Seongje’s smile when he brought the ointment, the confusion in his eyes when Sieun had told him to act like they didn’t know each other— the memory of his own mistrust —stabbed at him.

He hated her for it. Hated how she was making him doubt, how she’d turned the room into a web where every word was another thread tightening around his throat.

But he didn’t let her see that. He forced his face blank, his voice cold.

“Then let me see him.”

Sieun’s demand ‘let me see him’ hung between them like a drawn blade.

For the first time since he’d stepped into her office, Ms. Kang leaned back, her posture loosening, almost languid. The faint smile remained, but her eyes sharpened, calculating.

“You’re very bold, Yeon Sieun,” she said, her voice calm, almost admiring. “Most boys wouldn’t dare to speak to me that way.”

“I’m not most boys,” he repeated, his tone flat, though inside his chest a tautness pulled at him like a knot.

“No,” she said softly. “You’re not.” She tapped a finger lightly against the surface of her desk, the sound small but sharp in the silence. “Which is precisely why you must learn the difference between courage and foolishness. Between loyalty and self-destruction.”

Sieun said nothing. His gaze didn’t waver, but his fists curled tighter in his lap.

Ms. Kang studied him for a long moment, as if measuring the weight of his silence. Then her voice dropped lower, silkier, with a deliberate edge.

“You’ve always been…clever. The kind of boy who looks beyond appearances. Detached, watchful, analytical. I read every line of your file before you came here.” Her lips curved, but there was no warmth in it. “You’ve been through so much. Your mother. Your father. The fights. The friends who…didn’t make it because of what you all went through together.”

Sieun’s body went still, as though she’d reached across the desk and struck him. His jaw ached from how tightly he ground his teeth.

But she only continued, her voice soft, coaxing, as if she were offering comfort instead of twisting the knife.

“And that boy,” she said, tilting her head slightly, as though searching for his name in the air. “Ahn Suho. Yes. That’s right. He’s still in the hospital, isn’t he? Comatose. A tragedy. But also an opportunity, Yeon Sieun.”

His heart thudded so violently he thought she might hear it. His vision wavered, the mention of Suho’s name dragging up a tide of memories he’d tried so hard to bury. Suho’s laughter, Suho’s unwavering loyalty, Suho.

Ms. Kang’s voice wove through the storm like a serpent.

“If you truly wanted to,” she said gently, “you could move on. You could start over. A boy like you— smart, disciplined, exceptional— if you only followed the rules, if you only stopped clinging to the chaos around you, you could leave all of that behind. The fighting. The pain. The weight of others’ mistakes. You could finally be free.”

Her words pressed against his chest like an invisible hand.

Move on.

Follow the rules.

Leave it behind.

It was everything people had been telling him since Suho was carried away in blood and silence. And yet, hearing it now, in this office, from her mouth, it felt different. More poisonous. As though she wasn’t offering him freedom at all, but chains forged from guilt and obedience.

Sieun forced himself to breathe evenly, though his nails dug into his palms.

“And what?” His voice was quiet, strained, but steady. “Simply forget?”

“Not forget,” she corrected softly, her gaze unwavering. “But accept. Understand that not everyone can be saved. Some boys…they’re destined to fall, no matter how desperately you try to hold them up. You already know this.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Keum Seongje is one of those boys.”

The air seemed to thicken.

Sieun’s throat burned with words he couldn’t form, with anger and grief that clawed against the inside of his chest. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she didn’t know anything about Seongje, about Suho, about him. But her voice wrapped around the raw places in him like a band, tightening, suffocating, making him question whether his resistance was defiance or denial.

He forced himself to meet her gaze, his voice low and hard.

“You think you know me,” he said. “But you don’t.”

For the first time, Ms. Kang’s smile thinned, just slightly. But her tone remained patient, almost maternal.

“I know enough, Yeon Sieun. Enough to see the choices laid before you. You can waste yourself trying to rescue a boy who cannot be rescued. Or you can rise above it. Prove yourself. Leave here with a future.”

Her words lingered in the air, heavy and poisonous, leaving Sieun’s heart hammering in his chest.

Ms. Kang’s eyes lingered on him, gauging the cracks she might have opened, before she leaned back in her chair. Her fingers drummed lightly on the desk, like a clock ticking closer to something inevitable.

“You can clearly see that some boys here are already getting better.”

Sieun’s brows furrowed before he could stop himself.

She tilted her head, studying the reaction. “Jinwoo, for instance. He’s quite…observant.” Her voice lowered, silk sliding over steel. “Unlike Keum Seongje, who struts through this camp as though he owns you. That he brags—‘I can make Yeon Sieun do anything. He’s already at my feet.’”

The words hit like shards of glass. Sieun didn’t move, but inside his chest something dark twisted. He’d heard Jinwoo say something almost identical only days ago. The memory crashed against him, Jinwoo’s voice low, serious, claiming he’d overheard Seongje himself saying it to the guards.

And now Ms. Kang was repeating the same phrasing, almost exact.

His blood ran cold.

She shouldn’t know that. 

It was supposed to be something only Jinwoo and him heard.

The realization came sharp, slicing through the haze of her manipulation. Either she had been told by Jinwoo, or she and Jinwoo were aligned in some way. Connected. Feeding each other the same poison, hoping he’d drink it.

He let none of this show on his face, but something inside him shifted. He would not let her twist him into believing her narrative.

His gaze drifted casually, as though bored. But every corner, every object, was a clue waiting to be used.

A porcelain cup with fresh coffee, still steaming. A file folder left half-closed on her desk with names scrawled in tidy handwriting. A set of polished pens lined too neatly, the kind that suggested obsession with control. And beside it all, a faint mark on the wood, someone had pressed their fist down there recently. Not hers.

Pieces. He collected them silently. Filed them away.

Then, calmly, he dropped the line.

“I told you, I need to see Seongje,” he said, his voice stripped of plead, layered instead with a tone of reluctant necessity. “Because if you don’t let me, you’ll have a bigger problem than him breaking rules.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. That was good, it meant she was listening.

So Sieun leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, as if confiding something he didn’t want the guards outside to hear. “He’s volatile, and you know it. If you keep him locked up without a voice he trusts, he’ll burn the place down the first chance he gets. He listens to me. No one else. Not even your staff. If you want him calm, if you want to keep control, then you need me in front of him.”

The excuse slid out smooth, as though it were the most reasonable argument in the world. A half-truth laced wth poison.

“You already know I’m right,” he pressed. “Because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have that man from before in and out of your office. You wouldn’t need the guards tailing him closer than anyone else. And you wouldn’t have men in suits walking out of here with your perfume still on their sleeves.”

Her quietness shifted, almost imperceptibly. Sieun caught it, like a hunter sensing the twitch of prey in tall grass.

He pressed on, lying with a cold clarity that even he almost believed. “I don’t care about him. He’s nothing to me outside these walls. But inside? He’s leverage. He’s dangerous. And you need me to keep him from making you look like you’ve lost control. So either you let me see him, or I let the others keep wondering why their so-called mad dog is locked away in some box.”

He sat back then, the mask of detachment firmly in place, even as his pulse clawed at his throat.

It was a perfect lie. Rational. Selfish. Something Ms. Kang could believe, because it wasn’t noble, wasn’t tender. It was pragmatic, brutal, exactly what she expected from a boy like him.

And hidden beneath it all, the real truth sat like a knife in his chest, that he didn’t care about leverage. He still cared about Seongje. About the way he’d left him broken in the dark. About needing to see him one more time before the crack between them split into something unfixable

For a long moment, Ms. Kang said nothing. The silence wasn’t empty,it was calculating. Sieun recognized it because he used it himself, the way predators and mathematicians both waited for variables to fall into place.

Her eyes didn’t blink as quickly now. They narrowed almost imperceptibly, her pupils tightening as though measuring his weight. Her smile. her constant, rehearsed, mechanical smile, had vanished, replaced with a flat neutrality that looked far more honest, and far more dangerous.

‘Good’ Sieun thought. That meant he’d struck the nerve he wanted.

He kept his gaze steady, calmly boring into her without hostility but without deference either. His mind catalogued the details of her shift. The faint tightening of her jawline, the way her left hand twitched once before resting on the desk again, the way she leaned back as if retreating, but not too far, just far enough to look as if she still owned the space.

‘She’s cornered’ he thought. ‘Not trapped, but caught off-guard. She wasn’t expecting me to speak her language.’

When she finally broke the silence, her voice was quieter, less performative. “You have a sharp tongue, Yeon Sieun. You remind me of someone I once worked with. She thought clever words and sharper eyes could outmaneuver an entire system.”

Sieun’s face didn’t move, but he registered the shift in her tone. Not derision nor yet trust, but an acknowledgment. A partial concession.

“You might be right,” she continued after a pause, folding her hands together in front of her. “Keum Seongje is…volatile. A liability, at times. And if you truly believe you can stabilize him, then maybe it would be unwise of me to refuse.”

She studied him as though trying to peel his skin away, trying to see what lay beneath his words. He could feel her searching for cracks, for any flicker of emotion that might betray his true intent. He offered none.

“I’ll allow it,” she said finally, almost reluctantly. “But you’ll see him under supervision. Do not mistake this for trust. This is only because I cannot afford more chaos.”

Internally, Sieun noted the way she phrased it. ‘Not because you are right. Not because you matter. Only because she could not afford chaos.’ It was exactly what he expected, and exactly what told him he had struck close to her fear.

He rose from his chair slowly, controlled, each motion precise. He bowed. Not a shallow nod, but a full, formal bow at the waist, the kind that forced her to see her own reflection in the gesture.

When he straightened, his eyes met hers with a cutting calm. “You don’t need to trust me, Ms. Kang,” he said evenly. “But one day you’ll regret underestimating me.”

The words were delivered without heat, without threat, just flat, like a statement of mathematical certainty.

For the first time since he’d entered, her mask faltered. Something rippled across her face, a flash of something like doubt, or irritation, or maybe fear of what she couldn’t quite read in him.

Sieun turned without waiting for a response and walked toward the door, his steps measured, unhurried. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Only then did Ms. Kang’s composure break. She exhaled harshly, the sound jagged, her hand curling into a fist on the desk. A quiet curse slipped from her lips, venomous and uncharacteristically raw.

“Fuck…” 

For the first time in years, someone had walked out of her office without leaving more broken than they entered.

And that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

The guard they’d assigned to escort him wasn’t one of the new hawks, the type with polished boots and restless suspicion that trailed like smoke. No, this one was familiar. Slow-moving, broad-bellied, the kind of man who carried out orders with the enthusiasm of a clerk stamping papers. His badge was tilted on his chest, his eyes heavy-lidded as if he’d been pulled from his nap to do this thankless task.

Sieun noted it immediately. The guard didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to listen. That was good. It meant that if he kept his words low and controlled, there would be no interference.

As they descended the stairwell towards the door no one talked about. The one that didn’t appear on schedules or maps.

He thought of Seongje again, like always. At their small moment that felt a lifetime away— laughing in stolen moments between classes, his hand grazing Sieun’s under the table, his smirk hiding more softness than he’d ever admit. Wet kisses and meaningless curses.

All of that made Sieun’s chest tightened. He wanted to hate him. He wanted to burn the bridge and salt the ground beneath it. But something deeper gnawed at him, something heavier than betrayal or pride. The words of Jinwoo still rang in his ears like a curse he couldn’t shake.

And yet— was that really Seongje? The boy who threw himself headlong into fights with anyone who looked at Sieun wrong, the boy who’d never known how to hide his impulses even when it endangered him? Could he really have conspired with guards, laughed at Sieun behind his back?

He didn’t believe Jinwoo completely. But he also couldn’t forget the sound of Seongje’s voice that day, speaking to one of the guards in a corner of the courtyard. He hadn’t heard everything, only fragments— and in the absence of context, his mind had written its own story.

That was the poison. The uncertainty. The not-knowing. The impulse.

And then, there was the man in the suit. The one leaving Ms. Kang’s office earlier that morning, with his heavy presence. 

‘Why was he here again? Why was he with Ms. Kang, like someone who belonged in the inner workings of this place? What connection did he have with Seongje?’

The questions outnumbered the certainties. They pressed at Sieun’s temples as he followed the guard deeper into the wing. His anger was still there, simmering, but it was no longer clean. It was tangled with curiosity, with suspicion, with the grim responsibility that if he didn’t look past his pride, he might lose sight of the real trap closing around them.

The guard finally stopped at a reinforced steel door, fumbling lazily with his keys before pushing it open. He didn’t bother with instructions or threats, just jerked his chin toward the inside. Clearly, he wanted this duty finished.

He yawned and leaned against the wall, muttering something about wasting his morning. He didn’t follow Sieun in, just unlocked the heavy door and stepped aside, leaving it ajar.

But Sieun didn’t cross the threshold right away. Something pulled him back, a sudden tightness in his chest, as if he couldn’t yet bear the weight of being inside that room with Seongje. Instead, he reached for the small rectangular hatch set into the steel, an inspection window barely large enough to see through. With a slow, steady hand, he slid it open.

Inside, Seongje stirred. At first only a tilt of the head, a shift of the shoulders. His eyes, heavy with sleeplessness and something darker, lifted toward the sudden line of light. And then he saw him.

For a moment neither spoke. They just stared, the silence stretching, thick with all the things unsaid, all the betrayals real and imagined, all the hurt clinging to them. 

But then, almost too quietly to hear, Seongje’s lips curved. Not into a smile, not quite, more like a habit he couldn’t kill. He leaned forward slightly, and muttered in his low, rough voice,

“…Oh. Is it lunch time already?”

Sieun felt his throat tighten. His instinct was to stay silent, to keep his walls intact. But the weight of Seongje’s gaze pulled something out of him. He didn’t smile, didn’t move closer, but his voice came through the small opening, steady and dry.

“Idiot.”

For a moment, the cell seemed to hold its breath. Two boys staring at each other through a sliver of steel, greeting each other in the only language they knew. Abrasion masking longing, insults standing in for affection.

And in that thin silence that followed, something unspoken passed between them. Unfinished, but alive.

The guard shifted impatiently behind Sieun, but Sieun didn’t move. He kept his eyes on the window, on the boy inside.

Two wounded animals in a cage, staring across an abyss neither of them understood yet.

Sieun’s heart twisted, but his face remained stone. He hadn’t come here to reconcile. He had come for answers. For the truth buried under the lies, the manipulations, the fragments overheard.

And though his love and his hate for Seongje warred endlessly inside him, his wonder, about what Seongje was hiding, burned brighter than both.