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Chapter Text

...Mirrors don't lie, unless the reflection is fake...

The night's damp breath mercilessly seeped in through the window Dunk had left ajar, as the city's neon lights performed a nervous dance on the wet asphalt. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were almost white. Every shadow in the mirror was like a reflection of the chilling breath he felt on his neck. His heart, like a wild bird fluttering in his chest, pumped fear into his veins with every beat. How am I going to get out of this? he thought desperately.

The name 'Style' on the phone screen flickered with a trembling light as he moistened his lips. It was answered on the third ring. The sleepy, soft voice from the other end was a stark contrast to the panic inside Dunk.

"Style... please, wake up." His voice was shaky and barely a whisper, as if even the darkness could hear him. "Something really bad has happened."

The roar of the car's engine mixed with Dunk's choked breathing. His eyes were on the road, but his mind was on the dark silhouettes chasing him. The weight of the threat, ready to appear at any corner, was crushing his shoulders. Beads of sweat trickled down his temple, leaving the salty taste of desperation on his lips.

Meanwhile, Style had just woken up from his sleep. It was almost two hours past midnight. When he looked at Fadel, he saw him sleeping soundly on his right side. When the phone rang, he had grumbled and turned to the other side.

"Dunk? What's wrong at this hour?" His voice was still laced with the warmth of sleep, but there was a thin layer of anxiety beneath it. It was rare for Dunk to call him in the middle of the night for a good reason.

The voice from the other end was a sharp mix of panic and desperation. "Style, I made a huge mistake. You know I was trying to stay out of trouble but... I did something stupid." Dunk's breathing was ragged, as if he was in a race against death.

Style's sleep instantly vanished, replaced by an icy fear. He sat up quickly in bed. His heart fluttered in his chest like a small, helpless bird. Fadel was still in a deep sleep, a peaceful unawareness on his face. God, what could have happened? he thought in horror. "What? What did you do again, Dunk?" His voice was now cut with a sharp fear. For a long time, he had tried to keep Dunk out of trouble, but his brother never seemed to learn. In the beginning, everything was simpler. He would get picked up by the police for small-time shoplifting. When Style got those humiliating calls, his heart would pound out of his chest. He remembered how many times he had fought with Fadel to pay those bails and pull Dunk out of those dark holes. Fadel's patience was tested every time, as he rightfully asked, "How much are we going to help this kid, Style? Doesn't he ever learn?" And every time, Style would bring up the deep, unshakable bond with his brother and somehow manage to convince Fadel.

Later, things had started to get out of control. The simple thefts gave way to riskier and more dangerous jobs, influenced by the shady circles Dunk had become involved with. One time, he got into a fight over a gambling debt, and Style had barely managed to calm things down. Another time, he got involved in small-time jobs with a drug trafficking group, and when Style found out, his world fell apart. At that time, Style had confronted Dunk, pleading and crying for hours, telling him he would do whatever it took to get him out of that swamp. Dunk had seemed regretful then and had made promises to his brother, but those promises often evaporated with the morning sun.

"They're... Someone's after me! I'm escaping in the car, but I think they've found me. I don't know what to do. You have to help me!" Dunk's voice echoed from a bottomless pit of desperation.

"Who are they, I don't understand anything!" Style whispered in a panic. He got out of bed and quickly slipped on his slippers, his heart pounding wildly. He looked around in a panic in the dim light of the room. Fadel was still in a deep sleep. Style hesitated for a moment. Should he wake him up and tell him everything? But Dunk's voice sounded so desperate that he couldn't afford to waste a single moment. As he went down the stairs, the silence of the house seemed to settle over him. Downstairs in the living room, everything was in its place, expensive paintings hung on the walls, fresh flowers sat in the crystal vase. This peaceful world was so far from the dangerous whirlpool Dunk was in, that Style felt guilty. As if his own comfortable and safe life was a betrayal of the darkness his brother was living in.

"The guys I shouldn't have messed with. Style!"

"You got involved with the mafia?" Style whispered into the phone, his voice a mixture of shock and horror. When there was no sound from the other end, he panicked, realizing his guess was not wrong. "What do you mean mafia? What did you get yourself into this time, Dunk?"

Dunk's shaky voice was heard from the other end of the phone. "Style, you wouldn't believe it if I told you. A few weeks ago... you know, things weren't going well at that bar. A guy came, he said 'easy money'. He offered me a 'job'. At first, I didn't exactly understand what it was."

"What kind of job, Dunk? What kind of job?" Style's voice had risen, it was no longer a whisper. He was worried about Fadel waking up, but what his brother was saying was chilling his blood.

Dunk paused on the phone, and Style could almost feel him grimacing. "A sum of money... they wanted me to take it as a trust. They wanted me to deliver it to someone else. In return, they'd give me good money. And I... in my desperation at the time, I accepted. But then I made a mistake. I don't know, Style! I lost my mind and betrayed myself and you... I stole the money. The money of the guys I shouldn't have messed with."

Style frowned in shock. "You stole it? Give it back! Why are you so stupid!"

Dunk's voice on the phone rose in anger. "I know, it was so stupid! But I wasn't thinking at the moment. I took the money. Then I felt guilty. I wanted to give it back. But it was too late. Because I lost all of it in gambling. So I got scared and ran."

"You ran?" Style's voice on the phone got even louder. "Did you think you could run from them? Dunk, this is the mafia! Are you watching a movie? They'll find you even at the other end of the world!"

Dunk's voice on the phone dropped in desperation. "I know... I know. But I was at a loss for what to do. You were the first person who came to mind. I thought you would help me."

Style took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the sofa. He was stuck between anger and anxiety. He was angry at his brother's stupidity, but he couldn't leave him alone in this situation. "So what now? Are they following you?" he asked into the phone anxiously.

From the other end of the phone, Dunk's voice let out a shaky breath. "I think so. I saw a couple of cars behind me as I was coming. I turned off the lights and went into the side streets but I'm not sure. They know these places well."

Style thought for a moment. Fadel was still asleep and he didn't know how he was going to talk to him about this. But the priority was Dunk. "Okay, listen to me. Don't stop. Keep driving. I'm leaving right now. Where should we meet?" he asked into the phone with a determined voice.

"At the old railroad bridge... on the outskirts of the city, that abandoned one. You know it, right?" Dunk's voice on the phone held a glimmer of hope.

"I know, okay. I'm coming. Don't stop, I'm coming Dunk, don't be scared..." Style hung up the phone. His hand trembled, and he narrowly avoided knocking over the glass of water on the nightstand. He returned to his room, put on the first dark-colored sweatshirt and comfortable pants he found. His mind was in a turmoil as he hastily put on his sneakers. He had to leave quietly without waking Fadel.

Style's heart was pounding as he silently walked towards the door, keys clutched in his hand. Just as he was about to open the door and step outside, a shadow appeared in front of it. Joong was a protector with an always watchful presence, silent and as if one with the shadows. He had been working with his husband for five years and was one of Fadel's most trusted men. Joong was not a talkative person. He did his job silently and followed orders without question. But in his deep eyes, there was a sparkle of intelligence that could sense everything. Style was used to Joong's presence, but getting caught like this, at this hour, could ruin his plans.

Joong, despite his large build, approached him with almost inaudible steps. His eyes, even in the dark, did not lose their sharpness. Fadel's trust in him was complete. He was a man who could sense danger beforehand, be tough and effective when needed, but always respectful and distant to the residents of the house. Style had always appreciated Joong's silence and distance, but now it made him even more nervous.

"Sir, is there a problem?" Joong's voice was deep but a whisper, blending into the night. There was no emotion on his face, just a look of curiosity.

Style cleared his throat and smiled slightly, trying to look as calm as possible. "Ah, Joong. You're still awake. I'm... well..." For a moment, he didn't know what to say. He needed to find a logical explanation quickly. "Fadel is a little unwell... I had to go to the pharmacy. I'm going to get a special sleeping pill." He forced himself not to let his voice tremble.

Joong's dark eyes briefly scanned Style's face. He showed no sign of suspicion, but it was hard to guess what he was thinking behind his calm gaze. "Unwell? You could have woken me up if you needed anything, Sir." There was no accusation or judgment in his voice, it was just like an exchange of information.

Style nodded slightly in a hurried manner. "No, no, it's nothing important. He just has a slight restlessness, can't sleep. I'll take care of it right away. You should get some rest too." He was silently praying that he wouldn't ask any more questions.

Joong looked at Style for another moment. Finally, he gave a barely noticeable nod. "Very well, Sir. Good night."

Style took a relieved breath. "Good night, Joong." He left the door quickly and walked towards the garage in the garden. His heart was still racing. He had gotten past Joong, but the man's silent, curious gaze continued to gnaw at him.

Without turning on the garage lights, he found the silhouette of his own car in the dark. His hands were trembling slightly as he took his keys out of his pocket. He opened the car door silently and got in. He tried not to hear the whisper-like hum the engine made when he started it. His eyes were constantly on the mansion's front door. He wasn't sure if Joong was watching him.

Finally, he slowly cracked open the garage door and drove the car out silently. He took a deep breath when he was on the street. He had gotten past Joong, but this encounter had cost him valuable time. He didn't know where Dunk was or what his situation was. He pressed the gas a little harder. As the luxurious and quiet streets quickly fell behind him, there was only one thought in his mind: to reach Dunk and help him.

After a fifteen-minute, fast, and at times panic-filled drive, Style arrived at the place where the ominous silhouette of the old railroad bridge appeared. In the pale moonlight, Dunk's familiar but now unsettlingly parked car stood out. The engine was off, and a tense silence reigned around it.

Style parked his own car on the side of the road, a little way from Dunk's. He listened carefully as he turned off the engine. Other than the hum of the night, the distant city noise, and the sound of a light breeze, nothing was heard. But even this silence did not reassure Style. On the contrary, it strengthened the feeling that something was about to happen.

When he got out of the car, the cold of the night shivered on his skin for a moment. The surroundings were deserted. The rusty rails and dilapidated buildings of the abandoned railroad track added a creepy atmosphere to the place. Style walked slowly towards his brother's car. His heart was beating with anxiety in his chest.

As he got closer to Dunk's car, he noticed a hunched silhouette in the driver's seat. He gently tapped on the window. A moment later, Dunk flinched and lifted his head. His face was pale and tired. A deep fear and exhaustion could be seen in his eyes. Style opened the door.

"Dunk?" His voice trembled with anxiety.

Dunk, as soon as he saw his brother, almost jumped on him. They hugged tightly. Style felt his brother's trembling body. The usual mischievous and careless Dunk was gone, replaced by a child shrunken with fear. Although he had tried to stand up for Dunk since their parents' passing years ago, he blamed himself for his brother getting further into the swamp each time. Dunk and Style were twins. No one looking from the outside could tell them apart, but life had shaped them in such a way that their personalities were the exact opposite of each other. Style was the smart one. He studied and improved himself, and then he met Fadel, a perfect man. Life had always been fair to him. On the other hand, Dunk was like an unlucky lottery ticket; as if an unlucky seal had been placed on him from birth and no matter what he did, he couldn't escape this dark fate. Despite being twins, life had dealt them completely different cards. While one was swimming in luxury and prosperity, the other was constantly fighting for survival. Although this contrast sometimes strained the bond between them, blood ties always prevailed. No matter how angry or disappointed Style was, he could never leave his brother completely alone. Deep down, he wished that Dunk would one day be as lucky as him. But it seemed that luck was not knocking on Dunk's door.

"Calm down, I'm here for you. We've always solved things together, haven't we, Dunk? We'll solve this one too." He rested his head on his brother's shoulder, stroking his back with soothing pats.

"I'm so sorry, Style." Dunk sniffled. "I won't do it again. I promise I'll listen to you."

Style sighed. He had heard these words so many times before. Maybe they could ask Fadel for help again. He would be very angry. So angry that he had once forbidden Style from even talking to Dunk. He absolutely would not allow him to come home. "One day he'll get you into trouble too," he would say. He was right, but Style couldn't just erase his parents' trust from his life; after all, he was his brother.

"We'll find a way. How much money did you take exactly..."

"A large amount," Dunk whispered, his voice filled with shame.

Style's hope instantly died. A large amount... This made the situation even more serious. "I'll still ask Fadel for help," he said, despite his hesitation. "Maybe he... he can find a way."

Dunk lifted his head quickly. "No! Don't tell Fadel! He'll kill me. And he'll be so angry at you. You're already always arguing because of me." Dunk's eyes filled with tears.

Style understood his brother's concern. Fadel's reaction was predictable. But what other option did they have? "What else can we do, Dunk? These guys are after you. You can't keep running from them."

They both fell into silence for a while. The darkness outside only deepened the despair inside them. Suddenly, the sound of a distant engine was heard. At first, it was a faint hum, but in seconds, it turned into a violent roar.

Style flinched and turned his head. From the dark end of the bridge, the headlights of a massive truck speeding towards them dazzled his eyes. The truck was swerving uncontrollably in its lane.

"Dunk, look out!" Style screamed in a panic.

Dunk had also noticed the truck. His eyes widened in horror. He tried to start the car, but it was too late. The massive vehicle crashed into Dunk's car with a terrifying sound. The impact sent the car spinning, the sound of tearing metal ripping through the night like a bitter scream. Although Style held on tightly to his seat, he was thrown back and forth by the violent jolt. He felt his head hit something, a sharp pain causing a momentary blackout in his mind.

The car, completely out of control, was dragged towards the barriers. Another crash was heard, this time more violent. Then, a terrifying feeling of emptiness... The car began to slide down from the edge of the bridge.

The air suddenly turned cold. The wind howled around the car. Below, the dark and eerily shining surface of the water was approaching. Dunk tried to open his eyes. He saw Style beside him, passed out. He must have hit his head very badly; almost his entire face was covered in blood. Since he was not wearing a seatbelt, he was thrown around inside the car like a lifeless doll.

The windows shattered with the impact. The car crashed into the water. A terrifying noise was followed by the shocking coldness of the icy water that covered everything. Dunk felt his breath being cut off for a moment. Water was quickly filling the car. He tried to reach Style in a panic, but everything was dark and chaotic. The pressure of the water was scratching his ears. The light from above was getting farther and farther away; the darkness and coldness surrounding them were like a deadly embrace.

Death enveloped Style in an icy embrace in the first second. The ruthless cold that filled his lungs swallowed his consciousness in an instant. But in that brief, sharp moment, the only image that appeared in his mind was Dunk. His brother's face filled with fear, his desperate whispers... Style was dying.

Maybe the unlucky lottery ticket smiled at him this time? Maybe life had given a breath to one of the twin brothers while taking the other?

The fact that he was the one who chose the unlucky ticket this time felt like a divine justice. Perhaps life was finally creating a balance for the unfortunate twin who had always remained in his shadow.

As his own light went out, the granting of one more breath to Dunk was his last, bitter joy before succumbing to death.

CHAPTER 1

...A person cannot escape their destiny; no matter which way the wind blows, isn't the leaf that is swept away from the same tree?...

The hurried footsteps echoing in the sterile hospital corridors were like a roaring storm in Fadel Kasemsan's ears. His face was ashen, and an indescribable horror and a ruthless battle of denial raged in his eyes. His world had been turned upside down by the short and painful phone call from the police. "A vehicle that fell from the bridge... Two people, but one body..." The rest was just meaningless noise.

In the chaos of the emergency room, a doctor approached with a sad expression on his face. "Mr. Kasemsan, I am so sorry for your loss. Unfortunately..." The doctor didn't need to continue. Fadel was crushed under the weight of those words.

The identification process had moved quickly. A body and a severely injured person had been pulled from the water. Both were the same age and had similar physical features to Style. The doctors had called Fadel for identification.

As Fadel stepped into the morgue, his legs were trembling. Lifting that sheet... It felt like he was opening the final act of his own life. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the sheet. Familiar facial features... It was Style. His heart broke into a thousand pieces.

The doctors watched him patiently. "Mr. Kasemsan, is this your husband?"

Fadel looked at the lifeless face for a while. The warmth, the intelligence in his eyes was gone. Was this his Style? Was the person ripped from his life, from his very soul, Style? He remembered their wedding vows as if it were yesterday. The vow he made while holding his hand. The vow to protect him with his life, no matter what, echoed in his ears. A large lump formed in his throat, and he found it difficult to swallow.

Style had a tattoo that distinguished him from Dunk. A small Japanese inscription hidden in his hair, just behind his ear. He was so impressed when he first learned its meaning. "Although the body is the same, the soul is unique." Style had this tattoo to emphasize how different they were as individuals despite being twins. Dunk had the opposite: "Although the soul is separate, the bond is one." Fadel slowly extended his hand, touching the cold and lifeless skin. His fingers slid towards the nape of Style's neck. He gently parted his hair... The tattoo was there.

"Although the body is the same, the soul is unique."

Although the body was icy cold, Fadel’s hands burned, and he pulled them back instantly. Style couldn't be dead. An unknown rage spread through his entire body like a poison. He couldn't accept it. The only love of his life couldn't leave this world without him knowing. This thought was a blunt knife stabbed right into the heart of logic and bitter reality. His breathing became shallow, but it took him a few seconds to get it under control. His jaw clenched. The person lying there should have been Dunk. The unlucky twin. A shadow who lived by clinging to Style throughout his life. A figure whose own existence faded under the bright light of his brother. The evil twin in the mirror. The complete opposite of Style's perfect reflection, a face full of cracks and darkness. A troublesome weed around a narcissus. An unwanted parasite that sucked the water from that delicate, beautiful flower, strangling it.

All the suppressed anger, jealousy, and contempt Fadel harbored towards Dunk now rose like a bitter flood. No matter how much Style tried, Dunk always somehow haunted their lives. His financial troubles, his illegal activities, his constant cries for help... All of it was always a burden on Style's shoulders. Fadel had warned Style about this countless times. "Don't be so lenient with him," he had said. "He will drag you down too." But Style, with his compassionate heart, had always defended his brother. "He's my twin, Fadel, how can I leave him alone?"

And now, that twin was living in Style's place. It was as if fate had played its cruelest game. It had taken the good one and left the bad one. Fadel's sense of justice was deeply shaken. This shouldn't have happened. Style deserved to live. With his brilliant mind, his warm heart, and his unique smile, he should have created so much more beauty in this world. And Dunk... Dunk was just a burden. A parasite. And now, that burden had stolen Fadel's most precious possession.

He clenched his fists, his fingernails leaving deep marks in his palms. This was injustice. This was an unforgivable loss. And there was only one person responsible. In that moment, Fadel felt an indescribable hatred for Dunk taking root inside him. He would avenge Style.

If Dunk had taken Style, he would not leave Dunk to Dunk.

"No," Fadel told the forensic doctor. "This is not my husband. It's his brother, Dunk."

Dunk's eyelids slowly fluttered open. As the whiteness and familiar hospital smell slowly seeped into his mind, he found it difficult to understand where he was. His head was throbbing, and he felt an indescribable fatigue in his body. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, which he could make out in the dim light for a while. Then he slowly turned his head. Sitting in a chair right next to his bed, he saw Fadel. Style's husband... He looked disheveled. His shirt was untucked, and he looked messy. Fadel's face was covered in shadows, but Dunk recognized those sharp features, that tense posture. Fadel's gaze was on Dunk. But in that gaze, there was no warmth, no concern. It had been replaced by an icy coldness and a deep silence.

Dunk swallowed. His throat was dry. "Fadel..." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Fadel did not react. He just continued to look into Dunk's eyes. That gaze had a weight that penetrated Dunk's bones. It was as if he was reading Dunk's soul, exposing his deepest fears.

Dunk moistened his lips. "What happened... I... Where am I?" His memory was blurry. The bridge... The car... The water... Style! The memories were dancing in his mind in fragments.

Fadel finally spoke. His voice was calm, but the dangerous tension beneath it made Dunk shiver. "You're in the hospital, 'Style'." Fadel's emphasis on Style's name gave Dunk a bad feeling.

Dunk frowned. "Style? I'm... Dunk."

"Not anymore," Fadel stood up.

Dunk frowned. He couldn't understand. His brain was no different than a cloud of dust. Memories, thoughts, and pains were all a tangled ball of yarn.

"Dunk is dead now. In the middle of the night... suddenly. It was an unfortunate accident." Fadel shook his head. A pained smile formed on his face.

"I... I don't understand. Fadel. Where is Style?"

At that moment, Fadel moved at lightning speed and gripped Dunk's jaw tightly. His fingers squeezed so hard that Dunk thought his teeth would break and his jaw would crack. The pain stabbed his brain like a sharp knife. Fadel's face came closer to Dunk's. His eyes... Those eyes were so terrifying that it was as if the glowing flames of hell were reflected in them. Dunk started trembling like a cornered dog, gasping for breath.

"You killed him."

Tears began to stream from Dunk's eyes. The pain was not just in his jaw but deep in his heart. But the deep hatred in Fadel's eyes was far beyond the physical pain. This was an unforgivable accusation. A curse he would carry for a lifetime.

"No, no, it can't be. Style can't be dead. Oh my god, I..." The tears kept flowing. He couldn't breathe. The dozens of gallons of water that had entered his lungs hadn't hurt this much. "I should have died," he whispered. His voice had also involuntarily flown away and abandoned him. Like a soulless body. A body with its other half gone. "Although the soul is separate, the bond is one."

"You are already dead, Dunk." Fadel pushed his face away. He was looking mercilessly at the other's crocodile tears.

"You are a prisoner who will now live in Style's body."

"You always wanted to be him, didn't you? You were always jealous of him. His life, his success, his friends, his husband..."

"No, no, I..."

"Well, this is an opportunity for you to pay your debt, Dunk. I will make you live hell on this earth. You will live his life. By my side. And every day, I will remind you how much I miss Style, how much it hurts me to look at your face. You will regret it every day, Dunk. You will wish to die every day."

"Remember, Dunk. You are a dead man living in Style's body now. And I will be your nightmare. And you will accept it willingly." Fadel's voice was sharp and ruthless. He would not allow Dunk to object or escape. This was his punishment. This was the price of taking Style from him.

Fadel's revenge would be ruthless and endless. Dunk, a ghost trapped in Style's body, would be tossed forever between Fadel's rage and longing.

If there truly was a destiny woven with invisible threads, Dunk felt that the nets had already wrapped around him. The only role left for him in this ruthless game was to submit. This was a punishment he had given himself. The guilt of stealing Style's life, Fadel's endless rage... These were the shackles he would carry for the rest of his life.

For Dunk, his own "self" had already ceased to exist in that car that fell from the bridge. Now, in Style's body, he was a stranger surrounded by his memories, his loved ones, and his enemies. If he was to be gone forever as Dunk, then so be it. He deserved it. While he had extinguished Style's bright life, his own existence had no meaning left. Maybe this new existence, with the pain he endured, would be a form of penance. Every second Fadel made him live would make him feel the weight of Style's loss even more, trapping him in the dark depths of his own guilt. All he could do was accept this new, painful fate and silently endure his punishment out of respect for Style's memory.

A memory from about fifteen years ago came to his mind. Style and Dunk were two children still in elementary school. The only thing people used to distinguish them was the glasses Style wore. One day, the candies at the market seemed very appealing to Dunk. They were a bit expensive. Those red and white cane-shaped candies. Last week, their father had said he would get them for the one who brought home a report card with all A's, so Style had won them. He had offered some to Dunk, but Dunk had refused the offer out of pride. That day, he put on Style's glasses and committed his first theft. Stealing in Style's identity felt easier; if he got caught, he wouldn't be the one to get scolded. And that's exactly what happened; he got caught one day.

The market employee reported the situation to Dunk's parents. When the incident came to light, his parents were very angry with Dunk both for stealing and for lying using Style's name. Style, on the other hand, was both surprised and saddened by his brother's behavior. Those candies became a source of shame that Dunk would not forget for a long time. He never ate them again and swore he would never use Style's name again.

That night, after everyone was asleep, Dunk turned to his brother lying beside him.

"You know, Style, sometimes I wish I could be as good and smart as you."

Style frowned slightly. "Why? You're a lot of fun and you're brave."

Dunk shrugged. "But I'm always getting into mischief. I'm constantly getting into trouble. Just like when I 'accidentally' took the candies from the market today..." Remembering the incident, Dunk hung his head with a guilty expression.

Style took a deep breath. His eyes drifted into the distance, as if a look of seeing the future appeared on his face. "You know what you have to do, Dunk? You have to be yourself. You have to learn from your own mistakes. Don't try to be like me. You are unique just the way you are. Our bodies may be the same, but the soul is unique." Then he got up from the bed and touched his lips to Dunk's warm forehead. He had been crying for hours and had just calmed down. "But remember, even if our souls are separate, our bond is connected forever."

"Forever?" Dunk's eyes lit up.

"Forever..."

Chapter Text

...Lies are a silk blanket spread over the truth; no matter how much they hide the ugliness underneath, they are destined to be blown away by a gust of wind...

A week had passed with dark clouds over Thailand. The vehicle that fell from that dark bridge and the silence that followed were like a nightmare that had settled over the Kasemsan Mansion. Fadel was in great sorrow after the unfortunate accident his husband, Style, had. Media members were constantly at the door, and friends and business partners offering their condolences were coming in and out of the mansion. Everything, as it appeared to the outside world, was the state of a worried man whose husband was seriously injured.

The Kasemsan Mansion, with the silence that had settled upon it, was also sharing its gloom with Joong. The walls seemed to have absorbed the pain, and a sadness had permeated every corner. For a week, the door to Style's bedroom had remained closed, and only whispered sounds were heard from inside, sometimes crying, sometimes screaming. It would start most nights around midnight. The doctors said he was experiencing psychological trauma from losing his brother. Despite this, Mr. Kasemsan preferred to go to work, leaving his husband. He would leave home early every morning and return late in the evening. A deep fatigue and a thoughtful expression dominated his face.

The other day, a small funeral ceremony had been held for Dunk. Fadel, contrary to expectations, had attended the ceremony and left a humble wreath that read "The Kasemsan Family." Joong found this behavior a bit strange, as he knew the coldness his boss harbored towards Dunk. According to the information given to the public, Style was still recovering from the effects of the accident and was resting in bed, so he couldn't attend the funeral. This explanation had, for now, fended off the questions of the press and curious neighbors.

"Why haven't last week's stock reports reached me yet? Inform accounting, and have them sent here immediately!" Mr. Kasemsan's voice thundered like a storm over the phone. His anger seemed to evaporate from his words, spreading all around. "Joong," he hissed, pointing at the liquor bottle on the table without taking his eyes off the phone, giving a directive with his head. "Pour me some liquor from there." and continued talking on the phone in a frustrated manner. "Damn, my head hurts so much. Luca, no one should use the funeral as an excuse. Business will continue as usual."

Joong silently poured a glass of whiskey and placed it on Fadel's table. They were in the mansion's study. "Mr. Kasemsan, I wouldn't want to bother you with such a matter at this time, but there is a problem." Joong said and watched Fadel down the whiskey in one go. The bags under his eyes were completely dark. It was as if he hadn't slept for days.

"At what time, Joong?" The fact that he asked this before getting back to work surprised Joong a little.

"While your husband is in mourning." Joong tried to choose his words carefully.

Mr. Kasemsan waved his hand impatiently in the air. "No one is in mourning. From now on, I don't want to hear anything about funerals or mourning."

"Yes, sir."

"What's the problem?"

"Sir, regarding the goods that crossed the border last week..."

"Are you going to tell me one by one? I don't have all day to listen to you, Joong."

"We encountered a problem with the delivery. We can't reach the shipyard official we had an agreement with, Signor Moretti. His phones are off, and no one has seen him at his office. Normally, he is very meticulous about these kinds of matters." Joong paused for a moment. "Also, the ship that was supposed to be loaded with the goods did not dock at the port at the planned time. The captain cannot be reached either." Joong's voice was filled with concern. "Considering the contents of the goods, this situation could pose a risk, sir."

"Am I supposed to deal with these too? Find Moretti. Shoot him in the head. I won't tolerate any leniency."

Joong nodded in agreement, bowing his head. "Of course, sir. I'll do what's necessary."

After Joong left the room, Fadel put his head in his hands, leaning over the table. He felt as if the oxygen in the room was suffocating him. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. The tears he held inside had become an ocean in his soul, but his exterior, like a scorched desert, yearned for moisture. He was a stranger at his own husband's funeral. As if he had a right to cry!

He got up to grab one of the whiskey bottles from the display cabinet. The amber-colored whiskey bottle was like the only companion for the days he had lost. It was as if the liquid inside was a magical potion that would soothe his pain, if only a little. The weight on his body seemed to be a reflection of his soul. He staggered towards the room where laughter once echoed, where dreams were made, the room Style and he had shared. When he quietly opened the door, he looked for Style even though he knew he wouldn't find him in the dim light, but he wasn't there. A snake was lying in his place. A snake trying to get into, innocent skin to hide its dirty skin.

Dunk was curled up in a fetal position on the bed, holding his own body tightly. His shoulders were trembling slightly. The pain of the loss had destroyed his strong posture, turning him into a vulnerable child. Style's absence had opened a deep wound not only in Fadel's soul but also in his twin brother's. These two beings, who once looked exactly alike, had now become two completely different silhouettes with the absence of one.

A bitter lump formed in Fadel's throat. This scene once again hit him with how great and irreversible the loss was.

"As if you have a right to mourn..." Fadel laughed. At that moment, Dunk lifted his head slightly.

"You don't want others to mourn because you don't. But he was my brother."

"And he was my husband!" Fadel's voice rose with anger, like a roar.

"What do you know!" Dunk's voice also rose, mixed with the pain and anger of his loss. "You were just married to him! I grew up in the same womb as him! I shared the same breath! You were a part of him, but I was him!"

Fadel's face tightened with anger. "What are you talking about?" He quickly moved close to Dunk and grabbed his arm roughly. "Come here!"

Dunk groaned in pain. "What are you doing, Fadel? Let go of my arm!"

Fadel ignored him. He pulled him up from the bed harshly. Dunk stumbled, his head spinning. His body still felt weak. Fadel dragged him to the large, full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

"Don't you dare compare yourself to him!" Fadel hissed, gripping Dunk's shoulders and turning him towards the mirror.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you? A parasite living in Style's empty body." He grabbed and squeezed Dunk's jaw tightly. "These lips, these eyes are just an empty illusion. They don't have his warmth, his intelligence, his unique soul. This is just a shell stained with your dirty existence."

Dunk was forced to look at his reflection in the mirror under the pressure of Fadel's cruel words and tightly clenched fingers. His eyes welled up. The face in front of him was familiar but at the same time foreign. Style's features, Style's eyes... But that expression was gone. That warmth, that sparkle of life had disappeared. It had been replaced by a deep sadness, guilt, and helplessness.

Tears began to stream down from his jaw, which Fadel was gripping. He couldn't bear to look at that empty gaze in the mirror anymore. This is me, he thought to himself. I'm in Style's face. But I'm not Style. I can never be. I don't want to be. Fadel's words echoed in his brain: An empty illusion... A stained shell... He was right. Even though he was carrying Style's body, he was empty inside. He could never bring back his joy, his love, his uniqueness.

The tears now turned into sobs. The "Style" in the mirror was writhing in pain. But this pain wasn't just physical. It was the pain of a regret that had seeped into the depths of his soul and would be carried for a lifetime. I wish, Dunk thought, as his heart broke into a thousand pieces. I wish I had acted differently that day. I wish I had died in Style's place. That familiar yet foreign face in the mirror would forever remind him of the life he had lost and the future he had stolen. And in front of that mirror, Dunk, a soul trapped in Style's empty body, would be crushed forever under the weight of his own guilt.

"Forever." Dunk whispered. Even Fadel didn't hear.

"Save your crocodile tears." Fadel pushed Dunk away. "Remember, Dunk, you killed Style. And I'll kill you..."

With that, Fadel left the room. Fadel had bought a two-person ticket to hell and had seated Dunk in the right-hand seat. As he dragged himself into his own darkness, he was determined to take the unlucky twin with him. There was no turning back from this journey, and nothing mattered to Fadel anymore. His only desire was to leave Dunk in the hell he had created forever. Along with himself.

Dunk knelt in front of the mirror. His reflection gave him an evil look. "You lied, Dunk. You said you wouldn't act like me again. You said you wouldn't stain my name with your dirty body again!"

"I can never be you, Style."

The expression on the reflection in the mirror hardened even more. "And you can't! Did you forget that I'm the smart one, the clever one? Everyone loved me. Even our own mother loved me the most. You were nothing but a troubled problem. I knew you were a thief, but I didn't expect this much. You stole my life, Dunk. You stole my body. You're just a thief. A soul thief."

"I'm sorry, Style..." Dunk hung his head.

His reflection in the mirror granted him a cruel smirk. "You're sorry? Is that what you're thinking now, Dunk? Where was this regret when you were stealing my life? When you were destroying my dreams, my future, my beautiful world with Fadel?" The eyes of the Style in the mirror shone with a hatred that pierced Dunk's soul. "You're just a coward, Dunk. You were a wretch who couldn't take responsibility for his own life and always took refuge in the shadows of others. And now you're trying to escape punishment by hiding in my body."

The voice of the Style in the mirror got even louder, echoing in the room like a scream. "I was the smart one! I was the one who was loved! I was the one who was supposed to live! And you... you were just a mistake! A surplus! And because of you, I'm gone now! Do you understand? I'm gone!"

Style calmly sat down, looking at Dunk with a disgusting smirk he had never seen on him before. "You took refuge in a lie, Dunk. Look into my eyes... This body will be your prison, Dunk. My memories, my loved ones, my unfinished dreams... They will all torture you. My absence will be the greatest punishment of your existence."

"I killed you." Style was right. "I should have been the one in that grave."

At that moment, Style's lips parted with affection. His hand rose as if he wanted to hold Dunk's cheek.

"Oh, baby, don't be sad. I saved a place for you too."

A mirror, in front of Dunk, was not just glass and silver; it was a door that opened to the deepest corridors of his soul. In it, on Style's stolen face, he saw the ugly figure of his own conscience. Those familiar features were no longer a reflection of love but a flawless portrait of suppressed guilt. It was a judge, a courtroom established, but there was no lawyer. There were only accusations and regrets. And worst of all, they were not baseless.

After his fight with Fadel, they didn't have any dialogue. It was as if they had made an unwritten agreement of silence. Fadel's ignoring Dunk's existence, the footsteps echoing in the rooms sounding like an accusation... This silence... was a few sizes too big for Dunk. Because now, it wasn't someone else but himself who was accusing him. Was there a more ruthless court in this world than conscience that could destroy and annihilate him?

A few days later, Dunk threw himself out of Style’s room at midnight. He had woken up from a bad nightmare, or maybe he was still in it, he wasn’t sure. His feet instinctively dragged him into the corridor. He walked by shuffling the soles of his bare feet on the carpet. When he felt movement in a room at the end of the corridor, he looked up. The light was on, and he could hear the sound of water. His feet involuntarily took him there. When he stood at the open doorway, he saw a man. He was shirtless and leaning over the sink, washing something. There were red stains on his wrists and on the shirt he was washing, and the running water had formed a pink puddle on it. Blood... Dunk held his breath.

“Are you... hurt?” Dunk asked, his voice coming out as a shaky whisper. The scene he was witnessing had shaken him to his core. Style's sudden and bloody death was still in front of his eyes. Now, the blood on the man and in the sink had re-traumatized that memory.

The man straightened up. When he turned, Dunk was met with a sharp-featured, surprised face. He was shirtless, and no wounds were visible on his muscular body. However, the red stains on his wrists and the blood in the sink were a contrast.

"You're bleeding?" Dunk repeated, his concern increasing. "Your wrists..."

“No, it's nothing important, Sir.” The man's voice was cold, distant, but it carried a warm expression. He was silent for a few uncomfortable, tense seconds. Even in that moment of uncomfortable silence, bright, fresh red drops continued to fall from the man's wrists onto the cream-colored, shiny marble floor.

"Are you sure?" Dunk asked, his voice tired but worried. He couldn't remember the man's name, but he vaguely recognized him as one of Fadel's bodyguards. Still, he knew almost nothing about him. But his current state had somehow created a desire to reach out to him. "Maybe you should see a doctor. Blood loss could be bad."

The dark-haired man leaned against the edge of the sink. His expressionlessness was still unbroken. "Thank you, Sir," he said in a mechanical voice. "But there is no need. This is just... a work accident.”

"Let me take a look, maybe I can help?" As Dunk took a step forward with his unbearable feeling of concern and helplessness, the man suddenly and unexpectedly stretched out a hand between them, creating an invisible but palpable barrier.

"There is no need to worry. I insist you return to your room." The man's voice was a bit sharper now.

"Just let me look?"

"I told you there's nothing to be afraid of. Because the blood... it's not mine." The man let out an uneasy sigh. It was obvious he didn't want to say it.

Dunk took a few steps back. He was scared, but it wasn't a new thing for him, so he kept his face steady. He knew that Fadel wasn't just a simple holding owner. Style hadn't told him because he didn't want to upset him.

Dunk looked directly into the man's eyes. "Did you kill someone?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly calm.

The man looked up in surprise. "Sir..."

Dunk smiled slightly, a pained expression appearing in his eyes. "Don't be afraid," he said, his voice a whisper. "I'm not in a position to accuse you." His own hands felt stained enough.

He returned to his room to leave the dark-haired man alone.

****

The next evening, as Thailand's soft western sun painted the stone walls of the mansion in a warm golden color, Dunk was still lost in the labyrinths of his thoughts, in the room filled with Style's memories. The door was lightly tapped. When he looked up, he saw Isabella, the kind and elderly maid who had been serving the mansion for a long time. He knew her because she had been bringing meals to his room since the day he arrived.

"Sir," Isabella said, bowing slightly with her usual respectful manner. "Mr. Kasemsan is waiting for you for dinner."

Dunk frowned. The ice between him and Fadel still hadn't melted. Eating together was the last thing he wanted to do right now. "I'm not hungry, Isabella, thank you."

Isabella smiled apologetically. "Sir, Mr. Kasemsan specifically asked for you... And... we have guests."

Dunk's curiosity was slightly piqued. Guests?

"Yes, sir," Isabella confirmed. "Important guests, they say." Then her voice dropped a little, as if whispering a secret. "He also said you should wear something nice."

Dunk thought for a moment. What was behind Fadel's sudden invitation? Who were the guests, and why did he want him to be there too? This situation only increased his unease.

"Alright, Isabella," Dunk said, letting out a weary breath. "I'll get ready." Isabella smiled contentedly and quietly left the room. Dunk, however, went to Style's wardrobe. As he considered what to wear, a mix of vague anxiety and curiosity swirled inside him. He had a feeling this dinner wouldn't be a simple get-together. He didn't want to wear his brother's clothes, but for some reason, a part of him refused to go against Fadel's orders. He wasn't sure if it was fear or some other emotion.

He felt a pang of sadness as he looked at the colorful clothes. At that moment, his reflection on the side crossed its arms. It was Style...

The reflection's gaze fell on a blue shirt in Dunk's hand.

"Why don't you try the red shirt?" the reflection in the mirror asked, with a hint of mockery in its eyes. "Or is your own taste that lacking?"

Dunk put the shirt back and took out a black jacket. This time, Style's gaze fell on the dark-colored jacket in Dunk's hand.

"That one? Seriously? Don't you think it's a bit... boring? But of course, it's perfect for reinforcing the 'grieving brother' image."

Dunk angrily put the jacket back on the hanger. He gave his reflection a sour look. "As if your choices were so flashy? You were always in the same tones." This was in the tone of a usual sibling argument. Just like they used to before Style died...

The reflection of Style in the mirror raised a finger accusingly. "At least I had a sense of style, Dunk." Dunk grumbled and tried to ignore him again. He angrily pulled a beige, baggy shirt from its hanger.

"Are you thinking of that beige shirt? Oh my God, you'll get completely lost in it. It's like you've put on an oversized shroud." Style started laughing, and it had an annoying melody.

"Believe me, you should wear the red one."

"Wear the red one!"

"Okay!" Dunk chose the red silk shirt. It was wine-colored, even a little like blood. Under the insistent gaze of Style in the mirror, it was as if he had made a pact. When he took the shirt in his hand, the cold silk touched his skin. It was as if Style's soul had seeped into every thread of the fabric. He brought it to his nose and smelled it. It smelled like Style.

After he put on the shirt, "Are you satisfied?" Dunk asked, turning to Style in the mirror.

"It's perfect. Now you look just like me."

Dunk's jaw dropped. He looked carefully at his reflection. The red silk shirt had indeed created an unexpected effect on him. His pale skin had come to life, and the dull expression in his eyes had been replaced by a faint sparkle. The shirt made his shoulders look straighter, as if it had erased all the fatigue that had built up inside him. But the most surprising thing was that the image in the mirror looked incredibly like Style. The same sharp features, the same determined expression... Was it just an illusion created by the clothes, or was Style's soul truly being reflected through this red silk?

"This... this is so strange," Dunk whispered, his voice containing both amazement and a slight horror. "You're just an illusion." He looked at Style in the mirror, frowning. "You're not Style! You're just my reflection."

"What if you're my reflection, Dunk..."

"This... this is illogical," Dunk stammered, but a seed of vague doubt had begun to grow inside him. The deep sadness in the eyes of the Style in the mirror, that familiar pain... Could these just be a reflection? Or were they his own eyes?

"Illogical?" whispered Style in the mirror, his voice now more intense. "What about that car accident, Dunk? Do you remember? Who was in the car? Who survived? Maybe your memory is playing tricks on you. Maybe you, in fact..." Style fell silent for a moment, his gaze wandering over Dunk's face. "Maybe you're not the one who took my place. Maybe I took yours."

"Stay away from me!" Dunk screamed, his voice trembling with panic and helplessness. This was impossible, this was a nightmare. His eyes darted wildly around the room, as if searching for a way out. On his right, he noticed a large, ceramic pot standing in front of the window. It contained the red geraniums that Style had loved so much.

At that moment, he stopped thinking logically. Adrenaline had enveloped his body. He quickly walked towards the pot, grabbed it without caring about its weight, and hurled it with all his might at the mirror. A loud noise erupted as the ceramic met the glass. As the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, the pot also broke, and the red soil spread across the floor along with the broken glass.

The shattered mirror now held thousands of broken reflections of Style. A different expression appeared in each one: surprise, anger, sadness... But from all of them, at the same time, a whisper-like voice rose.

"What if you're my reflection, Dunk..."
"What if you're my reflection, Dunk..."
"What if you're my reflection, Dunk..."

The whispers turned into a buzz in Dunk's ears. His eyes were fixed on the broken glass pieces. In each one, he saw a distorted reflection of his own face. Which one was real? Which one was the illusion? He was starting to doubt his own identity. Had he taken Style's place, or had Style taken his? The red geranium leaves looked like bloodstains on the broken glass and soil.

The smell of broken glass and damp soil that had spread through the room had not yet fully dispersed when the door opened in a rush. A few servants with worried faces rushed in. They looked in horror at the sharp glass shards on the floor, the red soil scattered from the overturned pot, and the empty, frameless space on the wall. They all flinched at the same time when they felt Dunk's shocked, empty gaze on them.

"Sir!"

Right behind the servants, the dark-haired man Dunk had seen washing the bloody shirt in the laundry room the night before also entered. Unlike the others, there was not the slightest sign of surprise on his face. It was as if he had been expecting such a scene. His compassionate gaze quickly scanned Dunk, then fell on the sharp pieces of the broken mirror glittering on the floor and the vibrant red geranium leaves scattered on the carpet. He sighed.

The oldest of the servants, with a look of deep concern on his face, approached Dunk. "Sir, what happened here? Are you all right?" he asked in a hurried voice.

Dunk stared blankly at them. His throat was constricted, he couldn't utter a single word.

"It broke..." he said quietly afterward.

The dark-haired man gave the servants a brief glance, and ordered, "Clean up the room." His voice was calm but authoritative. He quietly approached Dunk, trying not to startle him.

"Watch your feet and come this way, Sir," he said gently. "I will help you." He extended his hand. "Mr. Kasemsan and your guests are waiting for you downstairs." A slight concern was readable in his eyes, but Dunk knew he was trying to diffuse the tense atmosphere.

Dunk looked at the hand the man extended with hesitation. At that moment, the bloody water in the laundry room and the man's words, "that blood is not mine," replayed in his mind. But the man's current compassionate demeanor confused him. Still, it seemed like a better option than staying in his own room. He slowly reached out his hand and took the man's. The man's hand was warmer than expected, and he gripped it firmly, gently helping Dunk to his feet.

"Be careful," the dark-haired man murmured, looking at the broken glass pieces around Dunk. He slowly directed him toward the door. As they walked down the corridor, the man's hand was still supporting Dunk's arm. They silently descended the stairs.

When they got downstairs, a light murmur of conversation was heard from the dining room. The dark-haired man paused for a moment before directing Dunk to the room.

"Everything will be all right, Sir," he said, his voice still gentle.

At that moment, Dunk wondered what kind of bond this strange man had with his brother. Was this just ordinary understanding shown to a grieving person who had lost his brother, or was there a deeper connection between them? It was strange that Style had never talked about this man.

"Thank you... Mr..." Dunk stopped. He didn't know his name, but thankfully the man immediately interrupted.

“We talked about you just being able to call me Joong,” Joong said, gently releasing Dunk's arm. A faint smile appeared on his face. "Did you forget?"

"No, I just..."

"I know it's not my place, but I want to tell you something. This pain... it won't pass easily. Especially now... when the grief is fresh, memories can be both a comfort and a torment. Don't wear yourself out. Your brother wouldn't want to see you this distraught, would he?"

Joong's words touched the complex emotions within Dunk. He was both right and wrong. Remembering Style was painful, but at the same time, it seemed to be the only thing keeping him alive.

"But I can't forget him..." Dunk whispered, his voice filled with despair. "How can I forget him?"

Joong looked into Dunk's eyes. "No one expects you to forget him. Memories live in our hearts. But life also goes on. Constantly suffering is not the only way to keep your brother's memory alive. Maybe... you can also honor his memory by keeping the things he valued alive, by trying to make his dreams come true."

Joong paused for a moment, as if weighing his words. "Now... Mr. Kasemsan and the guests are waiting for you. Try to be strong in front of them. You told me before that Dunk was a strong person. Your brother would want you to be strong, wouldn't he?" Joong's last words sparked a thought in Dunk's mind. Style thought he was strong?

He took a deep breath. "You're right," Dunk said, his voice now more determined. "I should go."

Joong smiled slightly. "I'll accompany you."

When they entered the dining room, Fadel's gaze at the head of the long table instantly found Dunk. He had a tight smile on his face, but his eyes were fixed on the wine-colored silk shirt Dunk was wearing. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed.

Fadel's gaze lingered on the fabric and color of the shirt. For a moment, an instant Fadel thought Dunk hadn't noticed, his eyes carefully scanned the shirt's collar, as if looking for a stain.

"Style," Fadel said, the tense expression still on his face. "I wanted you to meet our guests." He turned his head towards the elegantly dressed couple across the table. "Ms. Elena Rossi and Mr. Alessandro Mancini."

Dunk slightly nodded his head, greeting the guests. He could feel their careful gazes on him as well. Dunk felt like a monkey in a circus show. All eyes in the room were on him. Everyone had imagined him looking messy and disheveled. A grieving twin.

Fadel leaned slightly towards Dunk, his voice a whisper, but it was sharp and commanding. "Sit down."

Dunk flinched and sat in the chair. Ms. Elena Rossi turned to Dunk with a gentle smile. "Dear Style, I'm so sorry for your loss. We were very saddened by your brother's passing." Mr. Alessandro Mancini next to her also nodded, offering his condolences. "A very sad loss."

Dunk thanked them in a hoarse voice. His pain was still fresh, and these kind words pierced his heart like an arrow.

"Yes, Dunk was a bit of a..." Fadel continued, as if talking about something completely normal, cutting the steak on his plate. "Useless. Whatever happened to him was his own fault. In the end... he found his own trouble, didn't he?" His eyes moved across Dunk's face with a mocking expression. "An unfortunate accident... but not at all surprising, of course." He put a piece of steak in his mouth, not taking his eyes off Dunk as he chewed.

Ms. Rossi and Mr. Mancini averted their eyes at Fadel's cold and cruel words. Mr. Mancini cleared his throat, while Ms. Rossi aimlessly poked her fork into the food on her plate. An icy silence filled the room.

Dunk's blood ran cold. Fadel's so casually, even accusingly, speaking about him made his stomach turn. His eyes fixed on the silver fork on the table. His fingers involuntarily tightened.

"I hope you enjoy your meal," Dunk said, his voice unexpectedly firm. The moment he tried to get up from his chair, Fadel's hand grabbed his arm with lightning speed and harshly pulled him back into his seat. Then he continued eating where he had left off.

He reached for one of the glasses and took a sip, narrowing his eyes. “Didn't you used to say that too? Oh, I can't remember what that word was? Ah, I remember. Yes. A trouble magnet..."

"A suitable word," Fadel murmured, taking another sip from his glass. His eyes lingered on the red shirt on Dunk for a brief moment. "Yes, he was exactly that. A trouble magnet. Isn't it strange? Some people can never get rid of trouble no matter how hard they try." He turned to Ms. Rossi and Mr. Mancini with a mocking smile. "Let's just say our family had some... colorful characters."

"My family," Dunk whispered. "It was never yours."

"We are a family. My dear." Fadel gripped Dunk's hand on the table so tightly that it felt as if his fingers were crushing his bones. In his eyes was not fake affection but a cold gleam of possession. His voice was so soft that the guests might have been deceived by the intimacy between them for a moment. But Dunk knew that the hand that seemed warm was actually like a shackle, one that would drag his soul into darkness forever.

Under the weight of Fadel's last words, Dunk couldn't take it anymore. He quickly pulled his hand away and got up from his chair in a rush, almost staggering. "Excuse me," he mumbled hastily, avoiding eye contact with the guests. Then he ran out of the dining room without even looking back.

Fadel didn't care about Dunk's sudden departure. He then slowly brought his hand to his mouth and gently wiped his lips with a napkin. A calm expression was on his face.

"Excuse me, Elena, Alessandro," Fadel said, standing up with a soft voice. "Style has been a little sensitive lately."

The guests smiled tensely and nodded in agreement with Fadel. Fadel slowly stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go have a word with him."

He walked out of the dining room with calm steps. He proceeded in the direction Dunk had gone. The calm expression on his face slowly disappeared, replaced by a dark anger.

When he entered the room, he saw Dunk. He was holding a piece of broken mirror to his throat with a trembling hand. The sharp edge of the glass had created a delicate line on his pale skin. His eyes were bloodshot, and a whirlpool of deep pain and hopelessness was swirling within them.

"I'm already dead, I know," Dunk whispered, his voice broken and helpless. "But at least my soul will find some peace, Fadel."

Fadel calmly looked at Dunk with his hands in his pockets. There was neither surprise nor panic on his face. Just a cold, commanding expression.

"No," Fadel said, his voice as flat and definitive as a command.

"Why!" Dunk cried, the piece of glass in his hand trembling a little more, and a thin drop of blood began to trickle from the line on his throat.

Fadel took a few steps towards Dunk. "Because I won't allow it. You took Style from me. Now this body you're in... do you think its rights are yours?" Fadel's voice turned into a mocking whisper. "This body is mine now."

"No... No..." Dunk whispered, staggering back and shaking his head in horror.

Fadel made his move without warning. With a swift motion, he snatched the piece of glass from Dunk's trembling hand and threw it into a dark corner of the room. Then he slowly approached and began to run his fingers over the fabric of the shiny red shirt Dunk was wearing. It was a caressing, almost affectionate touch.

"I got this for him for our anniversary," Fadel whispered, his voice now a hypnotic murmur. "You smell like him... you look like him..." His hand slowly slid towards Dunk's collar, his fingers gripping the silky fabric tightly. "Sometimes... you even talk like him." His eyes wandered over Dunk's face, as if he was searching for Style.

"Do you have any idea how much this enrages me?" Fadel pulled Dunk towards him with his fists clenched, their faces inches apart.

"But then I understand," Fadel hissed, a moment of pure hatred flashing in his eyes. "You're a flawless imitation... but a pathetic replica!" With that, he shoved Dunk hard and left the room without a single look back, slamming the door shut with a bang.

Yes, Dunk was just a poor imitation. When Style entered a room, he would draw all eyes to him, captivating everyone with his charisma. Dunk's presence was only felt when he was next to Style. Style's laughter was like the ringing of a bell, joyful and contagious. Dunk's was more like a low whisper, a sound rarely heard and quickly forgotten. Even in his movements, Style had a grace, a purpose. Dunk, on the other hand, was clumsy and flustered, as if he couldn't fully control his own body. Style was colorful, vibrant, full of life. Dunk was a pale copy, a fading image next to the original.

This was perhaps the source of Fadel's anger. In place of the perfect, unique Style, all he had was a pathetic imitation.

Dunk knelt on the floor, his head bowed. The dark blood trickling from his neck left an eerie trail on his pale skin, disappearing into his red shirt. Just then, the door opened, and Joong entered with worried eyes. Dunk's mind was clouded. Fadel... he sent him to make sure I hadn't done anything to myself, he thought with a bitter smile. But the expression in Joong's eyes was completely different.

As soon as Joong's eyes landed on Dunk's bleeding neck, the relief on his face instantly vanished, replaced by deep concern. He approached him with quick steps.

"Are you hurt?" Joong asked, just like the first time he had asked Dunk in the laundry room.

Dunk continued to stare blankly at the floor, not reacting. Joong leaned in closer, trying to carefully inspect Dunk's neck. He was trying to figure out the source of the blood and the severity of the wound.

"This needs a bandage," Joong said, his voice worried but calm. It was a natural reaction for someone who was constantly exposed to such injuries.

Dunk finally lifted his head. There was a deep sadness and fatigue in his eyes. "Don't be afraid," he said, not looking at Joong, his voice lifeless. "The blood... it's not mine."

Chapter Text

..Life is served on a golden platter for some, while others search for crumbs on a broken one. The table of destiny is not set fairly...

Joong didn't even hesitate despite Dunk's lifeless and strange answer. He looked at Dunk for a moment, then quietly stood up and quickly left the room. A short time later, he returned with a small, white first-aid kit in his hand. He silently knelt beside Dunk and began to carefully take out the sterile materials from the box. There was a practiced quickness in his hands, as if he did this all the time.

"This might sting a little," he said as he poured the antiseptic solution onto a cotton pad, his voice gentle. When he saw that Dunk didn't react, he continued.

"You seem experienced," the injured one asked, his eyes meeting Joong's for a moment.

Joong bowed his head and, focusing on the wound, gently dabbed the antiseptic cotton on Dunk's neck. "A little," he replied, pausing for a brief moment. A faint smile appeared when his eyes met Dunk's. "I've bandaged my own wounds many times." He added as he moved the cotton pad over the bleeding area, "You learn over time."

"What would you do when they were very deep? When they looked like they wouldn't heal?"

Joong paused for a moment as he moved the antiseptic cotton on Dunk's neck. Although his eyes were still focused on the wound, his voice was soft. "Sometimes," he whispered as if talking to himself, "even the most difficult wounds can heal... with the right care." He carefully placed a gauze pad over the wound. "The important thing is to stop the bleeding and prevent infection." As he unwrapped the bandage, he added, "Just like in life... even the deepest wounds will scab over in time." After sticking the bandage to Dunk's neck, he took his hands away and looked at his work for a moment. Then he slowly lifted his head and looked into Dunk's eyes. "It should be a little better now."

"Thank you," Dunk whispered. His voice was so light that Joong almost didn't hear it. Then, without turning his gaze to Joong, he asked, "Why are you so kind to me?" It was less of an interrogation and more of an expression of the astonishment that had built up inside him, and perhaps a curiosity born from a kindness he hadn't seen in a long time.

Joong scratched the back of his head, looking a little embarrassed as he averted his gaze. His lips parted slightly, and he struggled to choose his words. "I actually... I want to apologize." His voice was lower and more hesitant than usual.

Dunk slowly lifted his head and for the first time looked directly into Joong's eyes. A slight astonishment and incomprehension could be read on his face. "For what?" he asked, his voice still a whisper.

Joong took a deep breath, lowering his gaze to the floor. The memories of that day came to life in his mind. The coolness of the porch. "That day..." he began, his voice choked. "The day we met on the porch... if I hadn't let you go alone, maybe..." Joong's voice trembled, and words got stuck in his throat. He looked at Dunk again, with an expression filled with regret. "Maybe everything would have been different. Maybe... that wouldn't have happened." He swallowed. "I... I feel guilty, Style."

If there's anyone to blame, it's me, Joong, he thought to himself. I am the guilty one, I am the one who will pay the price... Unfortunately, they were at that moment where "what ifs" were meaningless. No amount of "what ifs" would bring Style back. Or Dunk, for that matter...

"Could you... leave me alone for a bit?" Dunk said, his eyes on the carpet. He didn't dare to look at Joong. How could he accept someone else's kindness when he was crushed under the weight of his own regret?

"Okay," Joong replied, his voice deep and containing a hint of sadness. He looked at Dunk for another moment, trying to read the hurt and helplessness on his face. Then he silently and slowly left the room. He gently closed the door, leaving Dunk alone with his own darkness.

So... Dunk thought. So Joong was the last person to see Style after Dunk.

Dunk smiled bitterly.

Fadel was so right to be angry!

He hadn't even allowed him to see him one last time...

*****

A few days later, a scent involuntarily drew Fadel's feet to Style's room. It intoxicated him. It shook him. It was late at night, and he had just gotten home. The fatigue was visible on his face, but suddenly his brain froze. He stopped thinking. He just wanted to follow the scent and find its source. Jasmine and vanilla... The pleasant notes were all over the corridor. When he entered the room, he quietly took a deep breath. The light was off, but a soft yellow glow spread from under the bathroom door. Memories exploded in his mind, and he closed his eyes, still standing in the middle of the room. He inhaled the scent over and over again. He remembered that Style always carried that scent. Especially after coming out of the bathroom, that light, sweet essence that emanated from his hair and skin... Once, Style had come to him after a shower, wearing a bathrobe, and as he dried his hair, he had smiled and whispered, "My favorite scent of yours, isn't it?" Fadel relived that moment in all its vividness. That smile, that whisper... It was as if Style was still here, filling the room with his unique scent.

Fadel's feet were itching to reach that familiar source. To touch his skin, to taste that scent, it was like taking a sip of the water of life and coming back to life. At that moment, he was not himself, he had cast logic aside. He just wanted to follow that sweet essence, to find it. His mind was overflowing with memories of Style. The happy days they spent together, his whispers, his laughter... It was as if Style's voice could be heard from inside: Fadel, can you hand me the towel? An imaginary whisper that filled his heart with hope for a moment and then twisted it with pain.

He quietly slipped into the bathroom. The dim light faintly illuminated the foggy glass of the shower cabin. And there, a silhouette appeared behind the glass. Fadel's breath caught. His heart started beating wildly. Style? His mind stopped for a moment. That familiar posture, those undefined features...

The person behind the foggy glass of the shower cabin suddenly flinched. He had noticed Fadel's silhouette in the darkness. His eyes widened, and an expression mixed with fear and surprise appeared on his face. It was Dunk.

At that moment, a lightning bolt struck Fadel's mind. Reality hit his face like a cruel slap. This wasn't Style. This... this was him. He staggered a step back in shock. His eyes were fixed on Dunk's fearful gaze. He didn't know what to do or what to say. Only a shocked and pained gasp escaped his throat.

"I... I..." Fadel stammered, unable to collect his thoughts. His face flushed in confusion. He couldn't take it anymore. He turned around and quickly left the room.

Leaving the room alone with the ghost of Style and the fearful gaze of Dunk.

****

Dunk sat on the edge of the bed, his knees slightly swaying, his gaze fixed on the red geraniums that had been revived with fresh soil on the nightstand in front of the window. A few days ago, the pot he had angrily thrown at the mirror had shattered into a thousand pieces. But today, as if nothing had happened, a servant had come and placed a brand new pot in the same spot. "You love them so much," they had said. Style loved them so much, Dunk thought with a deep bitterness. His heart was wrapped in a shame born from not knowing this. If he had known they belonged to Style, would he have ever done that?

A deep sense of guilt blossomed inside him. Since these vibrant red flowers were sparks from Style's soul, perhaps the only good thing he could do was to free them from the narrow confines of this pot. What was the point of making those delicate flowers live the same fate by trapping them in a pot while his own body was a prisoner in Style's body? He might not be able to save himself from this vortex, but he could always honor Style's free spirit.

He gently hugged the pot. The cool ceramic caressed his palms. He should plant them in the front yard, in the soil. There, they would flourish with the other flowers, and perhaps Style's soul would also take a breath in those vibrant reds. He walked out of the room with determined steps, carrying the pot towards the garden. Those red geraniums would no longer be a symbol of sadness, but perhaps of hope and freedom.

He went downstairs and walked towards the backyard. He chose that quiet corner where the white tulips bowed their delicate heads slightly, and the sun hadn't yet fully warmed the ground. He knelt down and began to carefully dig the soil with his hands. Every movement was like a ritual. This was not just an act of planting flowers; it was also an expression of his deep longing and guilt for Style.

After aerating the soil, he carefully took the red geraniums out of the pot. He was careful to gently separate their roots. Then he placed them in the small holes he had dug, right next to the white tulips. He lovingly covered them with soil. The white tulips... they were Dunk's favorite flowers. At least now, in this garden, they could be together, side by side, integrated with the soil. Dunk gently smoothed the soil and looked at them for a moment from where he was kneeling. Red and white... Side by side, they were silently keeping each other company.

Just then, he saw Joong entering through the garden gate. Joong slowly approached him.

"They look much better here," Joong said, thinking that the red geraniums formed a vibrant splash of color among the white tulips.

"I hope so," Dunk murmured, his eyes still on the soil.

Joong watched Dunk silently for a moment, then knelt beside him. "I've never seen you do gardening before," he said, with a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Dunk slightly shrugged his shoulders, without taking his eyes off the flowers. "Because I never had to before," he replied.

Joong paused for a moment, then asked hesitantly, "Did Dunk... like it?"

Dunk thought for a brief moment; he had never thought about this question about himself before, but then he said with a clear expression, "He didn't."

Joong smiled slightly. "He must have been like you then."

Dunk, with a bitter smile on his lips, replied, "I guess it was one of the few things we were alike in besides our faces."

Dunk slowly brushed the soil from his hands, raised his head, and looked at Joong. "Why are you here?" he asked. A question had been bothering him for a few days. Could there have been something between Style and Joong? He always felt Joong's eyes on him. No matter where he went, Joong seemed to appear. Style wouldn't cheat on Fadel, would he? He was the good one. He was the perfect one.

Joong was slightly surprised by the sudden, direct question. For a moment, he didn't know what to say. Then he averted his gaze from Dunk's eyes and looked at the flowers.

"I just... came," Joong mumbled, as if he was trying to convince himself, not Dunk. "I wanted to get some air." His eyes roamed over the red geraniums and white tulips. "This place... looks peaceful."

Joong's evasive gaze and vague answer only fueled Dunk's curiosity. He slowly leaned towards Joong. As the distance between them narrowed, he let the tip of his finger touch Joong's fingers, which were lightly stained with garden soil. At that moment, he felt Joong flinch slightly. Dunk fixed his gaze on Joong's eyes. He was searching for something there; a confession, a lie, or perhaps just the reflection of his own suspicions. After a few seconds of intense eye contact, he asked in a low, inquisitive voice, "You didn't come for me?"

Come on, Joong, give me something, Dunk thought. Give me something so I can understand that he was also a human who could make mistakes.

Though he flinched slightly at Dunk's touch, Joong tried to remain calm and took a step back. Focusing his eyes on Dunk's, "I did come for you," Joong said, his voice sounding as natural as possible. "I wanted to make sure you were all right. You've seemed a little... distracted lately."

Dunk sighed. Style's loyalty to Fadel was real... The more he thought about him, the more a strange feeling filled Dunk's heart, knowing that Style remained as flawless and pure as he was in his memories. He couldn't tell if it was joy, or a sadness that Style's goodness made his loss even more unbearable.

He had been looking for a secret affair but had found a loyal husband and a concerned bodyguard... He should be a little ashamed of himself...

****

As the evening twilight cast a dim light into the room, Dunk threw himself into Fadel's study. The heavy curtains were half-closed, and the faint light from outside danced among the shelves filled with books. A slight rustle was heard from the pages of the book Fadel was reading, caused by Dunk's sudden entry.

Without taking his eyes off the man, he said in a strong voice, "I want to go out."

Fadel, without looking up from his dark-rimmed glasses, marked his place on the line he was reading with his finger. "You're not a prisoner in this house," he said, his voice monotonous. A few seconds later, he took his eyes off the book and looked directly into Dunk's eyes. "You are simply... a prisoner in that body. The doors are open, the garden is wide... but the world is small. You can go wherever you want, Dunk, as long as you end up at my feet."

Fadel's words hung in the air. Dunk looked out the window at the darkening sky. Fadel was right. He was physically free. If he wanted to, he could walk out the door right now and get lost in the city crowd. But he knew that no matter where he went, he would carry that heavy burden with him, his regrets, his fears. The pain of Style's loss, his own guilt, the uncertainty about the future... These would follow him everywhere. Just like his shadow, they would never leave him, no matter how much he ran.

Fadel gently placed his book on the table and leaned slightly forward. His voice suddenly sharpened, and a dark expression appeared in his eyes. "Never forget this, Dunk," he said, emphasizing every word. "If any harm comes to that body... if Style's name is stained... the consequences won't be just for you." This was a warning about any future behavior Dunk might engage in. Dunk's old, exciting, and of course, troubled life could only bring a black stain to Style's name.

Dunk's face flushed with anger at Fadel's threatening words. "What else do I have left besides my life!" he cried out, his voice a mix of despair and anger. "If you want it, take that too!"

Fadel responded with a cruel smile. "Your life?" he said contemptuously. "Who cares about your life?" He laughed. "What good would it do me?"

"What do you want from me?" Dunk whispered.

Fadel was silent for a moment. His gaze slowly traveled over Dunk's face. It was as if he was examining and trying to read every detail. Then he slowly got to his feet. Dunk's heart raced with fear at Fadel's sudden movement.

Fadel slowly approached Dunk with his hands in his pockets. His steps were silent but determined. When he stopped right in front of him, he took his hands out of his pockets. He could feel Dunk's body tensing up. Fadel's hands rose with a gentle motion towards Dunk's neck. He slowly placed his fingers exactly where his hairline and tattoo met, at the beginning of his nape. That touch contained an unexpected gentleness, but the dark aura felt beneath it was still there. He was covering the one piece that distinguished Dunk from Style with his hands. So that he wouldn't see it. When that veil of mist was gone, the person in front of him was Style. This was the only way he could show him affection.

Fadel leaned over Dunk and, as he gently moved his fingers on Dunk's nape, he whispered in a low, inviting voice: "Since you're so eager to go out... get ready tomorrow night, my love. We're celebrating our wedding anniversary."

****

Dunk stepped onto the cold bathroom tiles with his bare feet. He wiped the fog from the mirror with his hand and looked at his own reflection. He was looking for Style. He needed him, even if he was a lie. Just then, he saw Style's reflection appear with a mocking smile. Style was pouting and rolling his eyes. Dunk let out a sigh of relief; he hadn't seen him for a long time after he had thrown the pot at him the other day.

"Oh, how romantic," Style's reflection squealed, his voice sharp and sarcastic. "Are you going to celebrate our wedding anniversary with my husband?" Style's reflection let out a laugh, his voice echoing on the surface of the glass.

"I don't want to go, but what else can I do. You should have been there. Not me," said Dunk, his voice a mixture of anger and despair.

Style's reflection shrugged. "You should get all dressed up. Wear red. He loves it."

"Why are you saying such cruel things?" Dunk said.

"Am I saying them? I thought I was just an illusion, aren't you the one talking? Aren't you thinking about my husband right now?"

"No!" Dunk cried out, angrily. "I would never do that to you."

The mocking expression on Style's reflection's face became more pronounced. "Ah, I see," he said, squinting his eyes with a knowing smile. "So you're thinking about the dark-skined one then, what was his name... Joong. What a nice name." He rolled his eyes. "And he's handsome too. I know your type, Dunk, you always liked the mysterious, troublesome kind. Your taste hasn't changed at all, you haven't learned your lesson."

Style's reflection tilted his head slightly, and a feigned look of sadness appeared on his face. "You're used to wanting what's forbidden. What a pity..." he said and theatrically brought his finger to the corner of his eye, wiping away an imaginary tear. "I almost felt sorry for you," he said. "It was almost a real tear, see."

"And yet you'd be so well-suited... A killer who kills people without questioning orders, and a monster who killed his own brother..." He pouted his lower lip. "Couple of the year."

Dunk exhaled in frustration at the baseless and unqualified accusations. Why couldn't he just be like Style? Why couldn't he be warm and kind like his brother? His reflection in the mirror always looked at him with hatred, always with mockery. Yet Dunk just wanted to feel that familiar warmth, that unconditional love, even for a moment. But even Style's ghost hated him.

"You were supposed to help me... I didn't call you for this." He wasn't even sure what he was expecting.

"Help you?" Style said, tilting his head. "Wasn't it enough that you exploited me when I was alive, and now you're taking advantage of my dead body... just like you're taking advantage of my husband?" Style's voice turned into a poisonous whisper. "Did you know I always thought you were in love with my husband? That you were jealous of me, that you wanted to be in my place, to have the love, the life that was offered to me..." He stopped for a brief moment to look at Dunk's shocked eyes. A satisfied smile settled on his face. "You're wearing my clothes... you're sleeping in my bed. Your next plan is... to take my husband, isn't it?"

"No, you don't think any of this! Stop thinking about it!" Dunk cried out, helplessly pressing his palms against the mirror. He was trying to call out to his own reflection amidst Style's cruel ghost. "Get out of my head..." Dunk pleaded, his voice turning into a shaky whisper.

The reflection in the mirror also slowly pressed its palms against Dunk's. As the coldness of the glass seeped into his skin, the reflection's touch was eerily lifeless. It felt as if an icy hand had touched his skin. Dunk flinched, he wanted to pull back, but Style's expressionless eyes seemed to have nailed him to the spot.

"Where would I go?" Style in the mirror giggled. "I just got here."

"Besides, what's with the pretense of being sad? You're living the life you always wanted. Enjoy it a little. Celebrate our wedding anniversary with my husband, attend fancy events, and sip expensive wines like a rich and 'happy' couple. Cheer up a little... It doesn't suit you, 'my love'."

"I was jealous of you," Dunk said, his voice trembling with the weight of his confession as he hung his head and broke the contact with his hands. "I was always jealous of you, Style. But not of your husband. You were born just a few minutes before me. Maybe life's first race between us was this, and I had lost before I was even born. It was as if fate begrudged me even that brief period of time. Those two minutes became the beginning of a chasm that could never be closed between us. Life mercilessly held me accountable for that tiny difference. The gap between us felt as if it had turned from minutes into years, even centuries. You were always ahead, and I could never catch up to you..."

It was as if Style was pre-reserved for all of life's beauty and ease. The moment he was born, it was as if the world began to look at him with a different light. Family love formed a natural aura around him, and Fadel's interest enveloped him with a completely different warmth. For Dunk, everything was a struggle, every step was an effort. Those few minutes had placed not only time between them, but destiny itself. While Style was born with the golden key of life, Dunk was like a stranger outside the door, with only his shadow falling inside. This was what Dunk was jealous of: Style's natural right, his undeniable place, the endless generosity that life had bestowed upon him.

"You lived your life, Style. And I got what was left of you... Because you took all the beautiful things, the ugliness was left for me. And I was blamed for it my whole life... I was declared guilty for the lack of a life that was never granted to me..."

Dunk's confession echoed in the humid air of the bathroom and then left a void. His words were as if a poisonous water that had been accumulating inside him for years had finally been released. And then, there was silence. Style's reflection slowly, as if a curtain of mist was dissipating, disappeared. The surface of the mirror was left with Dunk's own reflection.

Dunk looked at his own face in the mirror. Style's mocking smile was no longer there. There was only the flushed face of a tired and exhausted man who had been crying. Dunk reached out his hand towards the mirror again. When the cold glass touched the tips of his fingers, he felt as if he had touched the depths of his own soul. Style's shadow was no longer there. His hands were not there. There was only his own dark image.

And he couldn't decide which was worse...

*****

The scent of the car's leather seats mingled with the jasmine and exhaust fumes from outside. Fadel stared indifferently at the slowly passing view of the Chiang Mai hills. There was an indistinct expression on his lips, neither a full smile nor dissatisfaction. Dunk, who was sitting next to him, had his gaze fixed on his knees. Not even the elegant Italian cut suit he was wearing Style’s suit could ease his tension. In the front seat, Joong gripped the steering wheel in a professional silence, skillfully navigating the stony roads. A soft Italian melody could be heard from the radio, but even this music wasn't enough to break the tension between them. It was as if an invisible wall had been built inside the car.

Just then, a fuzzy static sound came from the radio, followed by a soft, melancholic piano melody. A few seconds later, a soulful female voice began to whisper the English lyrics.

“Like the summer sun” the singer whispered, her voice like a sad breeze. “ Your love burns within me…”

When Joong reached for the radio, "Don't touch it," Fadel said, his voice carrying an unexpected finality. "Let it play."

The song continued: “And it doesn't matter how much time passes... “My heart will always be with you..."

“Style loves this one,” Fadel said, placing a hand on Dunk's thigh.

Dunk flinched at Fadel's unexpected touch. The man's hand rested heavily on the thin fabric of the suit. Fadel did not pull his hand away from Dunk's thigh even as the last notes of the song hung in the air. It was as if that touch was a way of holding on to the past.

When the car slowly stopped in front of the iron-wrought gate of a chic and secluded restaurant with stone walls covered in ivy, Joong respectfully opened the back door for Dunk. When their eyes met, Dunk silently thanked Joong and got out of the car.

The interior of the restaurant was dim and inviting. Antique paintings hung on the stone walls, and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast a soft light, adding a warm atmosphere to the place. However, the striking thing was that there was no one inside. It was as if the entire restaurant had been prepared just for them.

The large, round table in the middle was covered with a white, ironed tablecloth. Silver candelabras, thin crystal glasses, and elegant porcelain plates were set on it. A low vase adorned with fresh seasonal flowers stood in the center. Everything had been carefully chosen and placed, creating a flawless ambiance for a romantic and special dinner.

Fadel, as soon as he entered, walked towards the table, pulled out his reserved chair, and sat down. Dunk hesitated for a moment by the door. The suit he was wearing carried the memory of Style, and being here on this special night only increased his sense of guilt. The fact that Fadel didn't pull a chair out for him made this situation even more pronounced. It was as if he was also implying that Dunk's place here was temporary and undeserved.

Dunk took a few steps and approached the table but remained standing. His head was bowed, and his hands were clasped in front of him. He felt a deep sense of regret and shame.

Fadel, lightly spinning one of the glasses on the table, spoke without raising his head. "Sit." His voice was flat and devoid of any emotion.

Dunk obediently carried out the order and slowly sat in his reserved chair. But even as he touched his chair, he deeply felt that this place actually belonged to Style. This luxurious and romantic dinner was not a celebration for him, but a funeral ceremony.

A short time later, accompanied by classical music, a waiter silently approached and served the carefully prepared Italian dishes to the table. The steaming appetizers filled the air with their appetizing aromas. Fadel, as soon as the service was finished, began to eat. Using his fork and knife with skill, he ate as if no one else was with him. Dunk, on the other hand, just stared blankly at the food on his plate. His appetite was gone.

Feeling thirsty, he reached for the wine glass on the table. Just as his fingers touched the glass, Fadel suddenly raised his head and gave Dunk a sharp look. His eyes were icy cold.

"Don't touch it," he said in a harsh voice. "This table wasn't prepared for you."

Dunk's hand was left in the air. His heart tightened. Fadel's cruel words once again slapped him in the face with how temporary and fake his place here was.

"Then... why am I here, Fadel?" Dunk asked, his voice shaky.

Fadel was silent for a moment, putting his fork down on his plate. His eyes were still on Dunk, but this time there was a touch of cruel sadness in his gaze. "A reminder," he answered with a cold expression. "A reminder of what I lost and what you can never be."

"You never accepted that he was gone, Fadel. I know this pain... is very difficult for you, but how much more will you make yourself suffer? By doing this, aren't you also disrespecting his memory?" He was still searching for traces of humanity in Fadel's eyes. Fadel said nothing. He just stared blankly.

Dunk's unexpected words had shaken Fadel deeply. The expression on his face was replaced by deep thought for a while. Without a single word to Dunk, he got up from his chair and walked outside.

That night, as Dunk sat silently at the table, Fadel was driving out of the city in the darkness of the car. Finally, he stopped on a small hill in front of a marble tombstone that shone under the moonlight. He took a bouquet of red flowers from the trunk and gently placed it on the soil of the grave. This was Style's eternal resting place, but it was engraved with Dunk's name...

"Happy anniversary, my love," he said quietly.

***

Dunk sat at the table for a while longer after Fadel left the restaurant. He finally couldn't take it anymore and got up. When he stepped outside, the cool night air brushed against his face. A little further on, he saw Joong standing next to a new car. The smoke from his cigarette rose like a thin line in the moonlight. He slowly walked towards Joong. When Joong noticed him, he slightly parted his lips, holding the cigarette. Dunk came to Joong's side and, without saying a word, held out his hand. Joong looked at his cigarette in surprise, then at Dunk's face. He hadn't expected this gesture. There was a determined expression in Dunk's eyes. After a moment of hesitation, Joong placed the lit cigarette between Dunk's outstretched fingers.

Dunk brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep breath of the familiar smoke. A breath from his old life... one that belonged to Dunk.

Then, Joong took another cigarette from the pack in his pocket and placed it between his own lips. A faint click of the lighter produced a shaky flame. That night, the smoke silently spread into the sky. A bridge of understanding, beyond words, had been built between Dunk and Joong. Just like the cigarette smoke, the tension and unfamiliarity between them slowly dissipated, replaced by a silent acceptance.

A killer who kills people without questioning orders, and a monster who killed his own brother...

We have one more thing in common, Dunk thought.

Chapter Text

...Every end is a new beginning, and every death is a new birth...

The scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the leather seats of Joong's car, soothing Dunk. After the cigarette incident, Dunk had wanted to take the wheel. Joong had calmly let him, moving to the passenger seat. The car's engine rumbled with a growl that competed with the chaos inside Dunk. The zigzags he drew on the asphalt seemed to mirror the complex thoughts in his mind. The darkness of the night was pierced by the city's bright lights. There was no music. Only the hum of the engine and the high-pitched sound of tires on the asphalt. Dunk felt as if he was lost in a labyrinth.

He gripped the steering wheel as if clinging to his old life. As the car sped through the city's crowded streets, Dunk saw Style's reflection in the windows of the passing stores. Style was everywhere, like a ghost. Dunk pressed harder on the gas. For a moment, the speed gave him the feeling of escaping from Style. In other words, from himself...

"Be careful, Style," Joong said, his voice calm. "Slow down a little."

Dunk ignored Joong. His eyes were locked on Style's silhouette that had appeared in the rearview mirror. Style was moving closer to Dunk inside the mirror. There was a demonic smile on his face.

"Faster!" Style whispered, his voice as cold as ice.

Dunk flinched when he heard Style's voice. Style was trying to prevent him from escaping. Dunk pressed even harder on the gas.

I have to run away from him! Dunk thought, his heart pounding fast. I can't let him catch up to me! By running away from Style, Dunk was running away from his own reality. But as long as Style existed as a ghost in his mind, how could Dunk escape him?

"Calm down," Joong said, his voice soothing. "You're putting yourself in danger."

Dunk was oblivious to Joong's voice. The car, swerving at a speed that rivaled his anger, was hurtling through the streets, out of control. As he dove into the narrow streets, his hands gripping the steering wheel turned white, and his eyes searched for Style's ghost.

Under the flickering light of the street lamps, when Style's silhouette appeared, the anger on Dunk's face sharpened even more. He slammed the gas all the way down. This time, he wouldn't stop. He would destroy Style's existence, which he had tainted with his own mind. It made him feel guilty and gave him pain. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare now.

As the car, like a death machine, moved towards Style, Dunk's eyes were locked on Style's ghost. Style, under the pale light of the street lamp, looked no different than a phantom. His expression seemed to be reading Dunk's soul.

Dunk didn't step on the brake. He made one last move to hit Style. But at that very moment, something stopped him. The car, with the painful screeching of its tires, came to a halt a few meters in front of Style.

Dunk took deep breaths and looked at Style. Style was standing under the street lamp, illuminated by the car's headlights, with a shocked expression, but then the expression turned into a bitter smile.

"You can't kill me twice, Dunk," Style said. "I'm already dead."

As Style disappeared into the darkness of the night like a cloud of mist, Dunk was left alone in his own hell inside the car.

Dunk took deep breaths and tightly gripped the steering wheel. His heart was still pounding fast. In the passenger seat, Joong remained silent. He was aware of the intense inner turmoil Dunk was experiencing. He didn't know what to say or how to offer support.

Dunk sat for a while longer in the silence dominated by the car's idling engine. Then he slowly turned his head towards Joong. There was a deep exhaustion and despair in his eyes. "Let's go," he whispered, his voice sounding weak.

Joong took over the driving on the road to the Kasemsan Estate. Dunk leaned his head to the right and watched outside, remaining silent the whole time... He was glad that Joong didn't burden him with words. He didn't bother him with questions or worried looks. He simply supported him with his presence.

As the car entered the garage driveway, the estate's magnificent gates silently closed behind them. After getting out of the car, Dunk's feet instinctively guided him to the back of the house, to the indoor pool. It was as if a magnet inside him, not his body, was pulling him towards the tranquility of the water. The high glass panels surrounding the pool invited the darkness of the night garden inside, creating a dim atmosphere.

Dunk approached the glass doors with heavy steps. As the coldness of the metal touched his fingertips, he slowly parted the doors. A slight smell of chlorine and a wave of warm humidity hit his face from inside. He gently unbuttoned his jacket, slipped it off his shoulders, and left it on the marble floor. Then, he unbuttoned his silky shirt with the same slowness. When the shirt fell next to the jacket, Dunk moved on to his pants. Now, he was as naked as the day he was born. Perhaps these were the last struggles of someone who wanted to be born again...

The moonlight, filtering through the glass panels, caressed Dunk's delicate, pure white skin. His long, graceful neck was slightly bowed. His narrow shoulders seemed to be carrying the day's fatigue. His slender waist and long legs had a statuesque beauty under the moonlight. He was like a pearl shining in a dark night. Every movement was slow, almost like a ritual. It was as if he wanted to cleanse himself of the chaos within him.

At that moment, a silhouette stood in the darkness outside. Joong had been watching Dunk's undressing and his slow progression towards the pool from behind the glass panels. There was a complex expression on his face; his face was calm, but curiosity and an indescribable admiration were mixed together.

Unaware of Joong's presence, Dunk came to the edge of the pool. He dipped his toes into the water, and the warmth of the water made his skin shiver. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and decided to let go of all the weight inside him at that moment. With a single, elegant motion, he let himself go into the void. His white body hit the surface of the pool with a single, silent splash. As the water foamed around him, Dunk was completely submerged.

The tranquility under the water had soothed the chaos in his mind, if only for a moment. At that moment, it was as if he had been born again. He existed only in the peace of the water, far from the noise of the outside world, from Style's ghost, and from Fadel's pain. Joong continued to watch him from behind the glass. Dunk's careless, almost self-punishing leap into the water, but at the same time, this fragile and beautiful sight of Dunk, was a deep touch to Joong's heart.

As Dunk slowly rose from the cool pool water, droplets glistened on his silky skin. The drops trickling down from his hair slid like pearls over his shoulders. The serenity of the water had, for a brief moment, calmed the chaos in his mind. The desperate expression on his face was replaced by one that was uncertain yet determined.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Joong. He was standing there, arms at his sides, watching him with an expressionless face. Joong's deep gaze roamed over Dunk's naked body, sparkling with every droplet of water. At that moment, the distance between them wasn't just the water; it was also a silence that had lasted for hours, unspoken words, and hidden secrets that separated them.

A lightning bolt struck Dunk's mind. Each time he surfaced, it was as if he was leaving another piece of his old self behind. In that water, he had struggled with Style's ghost, Fadel's pain, and his own guilt. Now, he was emerging from the water cleansed. This felt like a new birth for him. He would cling to whatever was left of the old Dunk. He would pursue whatever made him feel like himself, whatever made his heart beat differently. Otherwise, he would be tossed about and disappear in that cruel wind between Style and his own identity.

He moved toward the edge of the pool with slow, determined steps. As the water receded from his ankles to his knees, he rose in front of Joong in all his nakedness. There was no shame or shyness on his face. Only an acceptance and a challenge... He let Joong watch him. He could sense the meaning and the desire behind that gaze.

When he was completely out of the water, his wet skin shivered slightly, but his gaze never left Joong. He lightly swept his water-soaked hair back and his voice echoed in the humid atmosphere of the pool. "Did you come for me?"

"I came for you." The voice was simple and flat.

At that moment, the invisible wall between them collapsed. Dunk approached the other. As the distance between them closed, the desire in Joong's eyes shone like an unconcealable flame. When their bodies came this close for the first time, an electrified silence filled the space.

After the dark-Skined man's words, Dunk didn't hesitate for a moment. As if a volcano had erupted inside him, he lunged toward him. His lips latched onto Joong's with a wild hunger. This kiss was not a gentle closeness. On the contrary, it took his lips captive with a hurried, almost aggressive passion. As he plunged his tongue into Joong's mouth, he ran his hands through Joong's hair, his fingers disappearing in the dark strands.

This kiss was Dunk's attempt to hold on. It was as if he was trying to grasp a piece of his old self. In the past, when he wasn't afraid to lose control, he would react impulsively and thoughtlessly. This kiss was the same. He was taking refuge in Joong to escape a life that wasn't his, even for a moment.

For Joong, Style had been like a feather; he felt as though he could blow and he would fly away, but something felt heavy. Something had changed after the funeral. The Style he knew was no longer in front of him. There was someone more fragile, a wounded bird in need of healing and a hug. Joong had never been a good person, but he was overcome by a feeling for Style that he had never felt before. He had never looked at him that way before. Throughout his life, he had carried out orders and been involved in dark deeds. Love was a distant concept for him. But now, as he looked at this fragile body in his arms, a completely different world seemed to blossom inside him. He wanted to touch him, to feel him, to keep him safe.

"You're so beautiful," Joong whispered, his lips lingering on Dunk's wet shoulder for a brief moment.

Dunk gripped Joong's hair tighter, his brows furrowed breathlessly. His lips pressed against Joong's again, this time with an even more demanding kiss. "Don't speak," he murmured, silencing him between kisses.

He didn't want to accept a compliment directed at Style's body. What happened tonight should not be an act of betrayal staining Style's memory, but a conscious step Dunk was taking into his own swamp... or perhaps towards his own salvation...

****

It was well past midnight. The cool pool water had left his skin, replaced by a slight shiver. His hair had been gently dried by Joong's fingers, but on his body, the fresh sweat of those passionate moments could still be felt. As he walked toward his own room, his bare feet made silent steps on the marble floor. His shoes were in his hand, his jacket was hanging on his arm. That intimate moment by the pool had created a feeling of both guilt and a strange sense of freedom within him.

He slowly pushed open the door to his room. The dim light coming from inside faintly illuminated a silhouette sitting on the bed. Dunk's heart skipped a beat. There, on the bed, waiting for him, was Fadel. He was staring into space with an unreadable expression on his face. He was only missing the jacket from the elegant suit he had worn at dinner. His white shirt was still on, but it was untucked from his pants, and his collar was slightly open. His hair was a little messy. The faint smell of alcohol that permeated the air raised a question mark in Dunk's mind: Was he drunk? Or was this state a reflection of the deep sorrow and despair caused by Style's anniversary? Fadel's presence in the room only added to the confusion within Dunk. After the forbidden intimacy by the pool, this unexpected encounter with Fadel brought a tense silence with it.

"Fadel?" Dunk asked.

As if he had heard Dunk's voice, Fadel slowly raised his head. His eyes wandered over Dunk's face, as if he was trying to recognize him completely. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke in a slow, muffled voice. "Style... is that you?"

He supported himself by placing his hand on the edge of the bed. His eyes were still on Dunk, as if he was trying to distinguish him from a ghost. "Where have you been?" he asked, his voice sounding a little resentful. "I've been waiting for you."

"I'm, Dunk..."

"Liar!"

Fadel's face suddenly crumpled, and a pained expression appeared in his eyes. "Liar!" he repeated, his voice sounding more hurt this time. "Why are you lying to me? I know it's you, Style. Who else could it be?" He reached out his hand, his trembling fingers trying to grab Dunk's arm, but it was left in the air. Dunk was too far from him. Just like Style... "I missed you so much..."

Dunk didn't know what to do amidst Fadel's silent tears. He was just as wounded as Fadel and couldn't figure out how to respond to this pain. "Fadel," he whispered, his voice shaky. "I'm really Dunk. Style... Our Style is dead." Saying these words felt like a knife being plunged into his heart every time.

Fadel asked, "Dead?" "Then who are you? Why do you laugh like him? Why do you smell like him? Then why... why are you talking to me like this?" His eyes were examining every detail of Dunk's face, as if he was searching for evidence. "No, Style... you're not dead. You're just... just angry with me..." Tears began to trickle down again. "Forgive me, Style... Please, come back..."

*****

The night, between Fadel's tearful words and his own exhaustion, had left Dunk asleep in Style's bed. For a while, Dunk had watched him, seeing the pain on his face. A voice inside him had whispered a desire to support Fadel, but then the forbidden intimacy by the pool had come to mind. He felt confused, his conscience aching.

Finally, he couldn't bear it and carefully covered Fadel, then quietly left the room. He went downstairs and lay down on one of the large sofas in the living room. He wanted to be alone with his own identity, Style's memory, and that unexpected moment he had shared with Joong.

When Dunk slowly opened his eyes, he was met with a slight headache. The first light of morning filtered through the large windows of the living room, illuminating the room. But what caught his attention was not the light, but the sound of whispers coming from nearby. As he fully opened his eyes and looked around, he noticed a few servants gathered near the living room, talking in hushed tones.

"He slept in the living room?" one person whispered.

"Yes," the other replied, looking at Dunk with curious eyes.

"But last night... it was their wedding anniversary, wasn't it?" added another, a hint of confusion in their voice.

As Dunk heard their whispers, a wave of shame spread across his face. On the anniversary of Style's wedding, a day that should have been dedicated to mourning his brother, he had been with his bodyguard. This thought multiplied his feeling of guilt tenfold. By pursuing his own desires, he had disrespected Style's memory.

Just then, the whispering servants noticed Joong. Joong's authoritative presence was well-known in the estate. Avoiding eye contact, they began to move away from where they were with hurried and silent movements. In a few seconds, they scattered like chicks, disappearing in different directions.

Without crossing the threshold of the door, Joong's eyes locked directly onto Dunk's. Unspoken questions, unexpressed feelings, a silent dialogue was established between the two pairs of eyes. There was no accusation in Joong's gaze, nor was there complete understanding. There was only the weight of the secret they had shared that night and the new uncertainty brought by the morning.

When Dunk was the first to look away, Joong sighed and walked away with the sound of his heavy heels.

His stomach rumbled with hunger, but he knew that with the complex emotions he was struggling with, he wouldn't be able to swallow a single bite. He quietly went upstairs to the estate's wide front terrace. He leaned against the marble columns of the veranda and took a deep breath. The air was cool and humid, and the light scent of wet soil and newly bloomed flowers from the garden filled his nose. Dunk let his eyes wander over this peaceful view, but the storm inside him wouldn't subside. The events of the previous night were replaying in his mind again and again, and the regret and complex emotions were pulling him into a vortex.

At that moment, his gaze caught on the wide road in front of the veranda. Fadel's black, luxurious car was parked in front of the gate. And next to it, Joong was standing. He had a large, black suitcase in his hand. With calm and controlled movements, he placed the suitcase in the trunk of the car. When the trunk lid closed silently, Joong stood over the car for a moment, as if he was doing a final check. Then, without breaking his upright posture, he headed towards the estate.

As Dunk leaned against the marble railings of the veranda, lost in his thoughts, he heard light footsteps. When he turned his head, he saw a servant girl approaching with a silver tray and a steaming cup of tea on it. The young girl's face had a warm and worried expression.

"Sir," the young girl said, placing the tray on the small table next to him. "Some tea will do you good, won't it? You look pale."

Dunk smiled gently. "Thank you." He took a sip of the tea, the warmth soothing his throat. Then he asked with curiosity. "There seems to be some activity this morning. Joong just put a suitcase in Fadel's car. Is he going somewhere?"

The young girl looked at Dunk with surprise. "Oh, Sir Style, didn't you know?" she asked, stumbling over her words. "Mr. Fadel... um... Mr. Fadel said something about staying at the hunting lodge for a while. The preparations are for him."

"Ah... I see," Dunk said, forcing his gaze to stay on the tea. Maybe this would be good. For both Dunk and Fadel... He needed a little loneliness and space.

The fact that Fadel didn't stay in his room last night, that he spent the morning in the living room... And now Fadel's sudden departure to the hunting lodge... All of this was enough to get the estate's rumor mill going.

The servants would talk in their whispers about how Style and Fadel's relationship was on the rocks, and maybe their marriage was on the brink.

It was almost noon after Dunk took a warm shower and was drying his hair with slow movements in his room. The scent of soap and steam from the bathroom still lingered in the air. His body was relaxed, but his mind was still tired. Fadel was already gone. The house had somehow become quieter in his absence. Perhaps this was a side effect of the relief Dunk felt.

At that moment, his door was lightly knocked on. Without waiting for a response, Joong's face appeared in the gap. "Are you available?" His eyes gently roamed over Dunk's body, which was only covered by a silk bathrobe, for a few seconds.

"Yes?" Dunk answered, his voice slightly shaky. He didn't know what to say. He held his lips in a tense line inside his mouth.

Joong entered the room and quietly closed the door behind him. After an uncomfortable pause. "I wanted to talk about last night," he said. His voice was in his usual controlled tone, but a vague heaviness could be felt within it.

Dunk's heart sped up. Last night... Joong's touches, that hurried kiss on his lips...

"I'm listening," Dunk answered, trying to make his voice sound as calm as possible. He didn't take his eyes off Joong's face.

Joong took a few more steps, getting closer to Dunk. His eyes were locked onto Dunk's eyes. "I... I'm not sorry for what happened last night," he finally said, his voice softer than expected. "But..." He paused for a moment, as if he was having a hard time choosing his words. "But I'm not sure if it was right for you."

Dunk took a deep breath at Joong's words. "No," he whispered, his voice more determined than expected. "It wasn't right. Last night... was a mistake." He averted his eyes from Joong's and looked down at the floor. The warmth of those moments by the pool was now replaced by a cold regret.

"A mistake?"

Dunk nodded, his eyes still on the floor. "Yes, it was a mistake. For me... and for both of us..." His voice trembled, and he was having a hard time finding his words. "Dunk's pain is still very fresh, and I... I had a fight with my husband." He winced, as if the poison of the lie he had just told had bitten his tongue. "It was just... a moment of emptiness. Your... your attention... made me feel good for that moment, but..." He took a deep breath. "But it wasn't right. It won't happen again."

Joong stood there for a moment in silence at Dunk's definite and regretful words. The soft expression on his face disappeared, replaced by a hard-to-understand sadness. His eyes were fixed on Dunk's downward gaze. "I understand," he finally whispered, his voice reflecting an acceptance mixed with disappointment. "I'll leave you alone."

He turned around and walked towards the door with silent steps. He paused for a moment as his hand reached for the doorknob, as if he wanted to say something again, but then he gave up...

Chapter Text

Dunk had spent the last few nights in an unusual peace. Neither Fadel's heavy footsteps echoed in the corridors, nor did the whispers from the mirrors envelop his mind. Style's ghost even seemed to have vanished... as if everyone had left him to his own devices.

At first, this silence had felt like a reward. He could breathe. The room seemed wider, his bed softer, the ceiling farther away. But with time, this emptiness began to turn into a void rather than a relief. The mirrors no longer spoke to him. It was as if Style was mad at him...

But today, Dunk couldn't sleep; he tossed and turned in his bed. Sleep wouldn't even visit the edges of his mind. A deep restlessness stirred within...

As the silence began to consume him, something went wrong. A sudden creak from the downstairs floorboards sliced through the silence of the house like a knife. Immediately after, echoing sounds like doors being opened and closed quickly rose. A muffled dragging sound from the floor, followed by what sounded like suppressed groans... there was panic, hurry, and distress.

Dunk's heart suddenly raced. He hastily threw on a thick cardigan and started to walk down the corridor barefoot.

The sight took his breath away.

Two bodyguards were holding Joong by the arms, practically trying to keep him on his feet as they dragged him inside. Joong's head was bowed, his eyes half-closed, and there were dried bloodstains on the sides of his lips. His black shirt had turned almost burgundy with the blood that was seeping down from the right side of his abdomen. He seemed to be standing, but his consciousness was one step away from collapsing.

Dunk involuntarily lunged a few steps forward. His feet seemed to be moving independently of his will. His eyes were wide, and a slight paleness had spread across his face.

"Joong?! What happened to him?!"

His voice trembled with the worry that was knotted in his throat. The pounding of his heart hammered in his ears.

One of the bodyguards reflexively stepped between them. He stood in front of Dunk, blocking his path, but even in this movement, there was a professional measure.

"Please, sir. There's no need to panic. Everything is under control," he said, his voice calm but clear. Every word seemed memorized; as if these kinds of crises were just a routine procedure for them.

But Dunk seemed not to have heard what he said. His entire attention was locked on the blood seeping from Joong's body, his head on the verge of dropping, and his pale skin. His breathing quickened. "How can this be 'under control'? He's losing blood!" he yelled, his eyes filled not with tears, but with fear.

"This is serious! You have to take him to the hospital immediately!"

After a moment, his hands frantically reached for the phone. As he moved toward the landline in the living room, the sleeve of his cardigan slipped slightly, and his bare wrist was trembling. His fingers reached for the receiver.

"I'm calling an ambulance!"

At that moment, the bodyguard appeared behind him in a single step. He placed his hand on Dunk's wrist in a gentle yet firm way, stopping him. This movement was elegant but decisive. "Sir..." he said, his voice a little more serious this time, a little more cautionary. Then he took a step back, leaving an appropriate distance between them. "Please. There's really no need. This... is a familiar situation." His eyes shifted to the blood on the floor, then back to Dunk. "We've been through these kinds of... difficult nights with him before." In those words, there was a dark, suppressed reality spilling from the past, and it quietly stung Dunk's soul.

Dunk involuntarily stopped where he was. It was as if nothing would change even if he resisted for another moment. Because in that house, everything was already predetermined. His gaze fell on Joong once more. They were dragging him toward an unknown room in the back of the mansion. Something he couldn't identify knotted in Dunk's throat. He felt something slowly breaking inside him. This wasn't just panic; it was the very quiet, very belated feeling of caring for someone...

*******

Fadel's gaze was lost in the fire gently burning in the fireplace, filled with a deep longing. The flames twisted and rose like cheerful memories called from the past, crackling and dancing as if whispering a sad song, leaving golden reflections on the high and dark rafters of the ceiling. The warm orange of the fire softened Fadel's sharp facial features for a moment, as if trying to erase the merciless marks of time, but it wasn't powerful enough to cover the deep, unclosable emptiness in his eyes. His mind wasn't in this room, in this time. Maybe he was far away, or maybe years ago, stuck in a broken recording of a happy night that had once sown seeds of joy in his heart.

The melancholic crackling of the fire was touched by a sound that mingled with the gentle whisper of the wind. It was neither a full sound nor a trick of the mind. But it was deeply familiar. It was like that safe breath that had once warmed his soul, a refuge even in the darkest moments.

It was as if a very light, almost unnoticeable breeze had passed behind him. But with that familiar feeling, Fadel flinched and turned. He looked at the sad emptiness of the room. There was no one... only shadows, the misleading shapes created by the dancing flames...

Then, a very faint, almost inaudible sound coming from the kitchen completed that familiar note. It wasn't harsh, but like a soft melody... like the arrival of someone who didn't fully touch the ground, but rather glided. And then, that faint phantom began to become clearer.

Style appeared. The ghost of a memory... as if he had glided through the mists of time. Style's ghostly appearance was not just a memory; it was a reality Fadel was still trying to keep alive in his mind. This wasn't just mourning a love; it was a man who had lost the meaning of life at some point, suspended in emptiness...

Style was wearing that soft, cream-colored sweater he loved so much, with comfortable, baggy house pants underneath. He walked past him with a steaming, fragrant mug of coffee in his hand, as if it were any other day. He sat in his own comfortable armchair directly across from the fireplace. Right across from Fadel... He tucked one foot under him and stretched the other toward the fireplace, as if he were cold. He placed the white ceramic mug on his knees, and the steam gently hit his face. This was a memory made flesh and bone. It was as if Fadel's mind was stuck on a broken record.

"It's cold in here," he said then, his voice as light as a whisper, as if sharing a secret only Fadel could hear. "But this silence is beautiful." He fixed his eyes on Fadel's. That familiar, deep gaze... "I can stay here forever. Always with you. I'm not going anywhere." His words were like the echo of those happy nights. But this was both a promise and a lie: because Fadel knew he was no longer there. But what Fadel still believed, perhaps, was only this.

Something inside Fadel broke with an indescribable pain, as if his heart was splitting into a thousand pieces, but his facial muscles were rigid. He was trying not to show the slightest sign of emotion. He held his breath. Because the slightest movement would break this fragile moment. If he made a sound, that familiar breath would disappear. Everything would fall apart, and the elegant and delicate veil of the past would be torn. That veil, which had tried to protect him from the merciless winds of time, was now like a transparent piece of tulle that was gradually fading away. Style's ghost was trembling like the dancing flames of the fire, as if it would turn to ash and disappear into the void of eternity at any moment.

"I'm sorry..." a broken sound escaped his mouth, almost too quiet to be heard.

Just then, the phone on the table vibrated. Along with the melody, Style dissolved into the notes. He was gone now... Fadel sighed and simply turned his head. It was not a sudden and frantic movement; it was a calm one. When he saw the name on the screen, there was not the slightest change in his face. Not a single eyebrow movement, not a single facial expression...

It was as if he had known this call was coming.

He touched the screen with his finger and brought the receiver to his ear.

He didn't start talking. He didn't feel the need to. The other side completed the silence.

"Sir. The job is done." The voice from the other end was clear, a familiar tone. Every word was carefully chosen, under control. But Fadel remained silent. His silence was the kind that forced the person on the other end to speak. He waited. After a few seconds of silence, the voice continued, this time more cautiously.

"But... we have a small problem. Mr. Joong... is injured."

"Is he okay?" he asked a single, short, and sharp question, devoid of any unnecessary words. His voice was as expressionless as the other objects in the room.

"It's a small stab wound. Not very serious." The voice on the other end was trying to downplay the situation as much as possible.

"How did it happen?"

The voice on the other end took a short breath. He was prepared for this question, but he still had to choose his words carefully. "It seems there was someone who had infiltrated the delivery point beforehand. The information was correct, but they didn't account for not being alone inside. He thought the area was clear... but someone was hiding. He was attacked a few minutes after he entered. It's not in a vital area....In the abdominal cavity, it's not deep but he lost some blood."

Fadel didn't even raise an eyebrow. "Joong is a careful person," he said. This was not a question; it was more of a reminder of a fact. It was also an implication: This was not the kind of mistake he would make.

"He seemed a little distracted..." This was the bodyguard's own assessment. It was as if he couldn't reconcile it either.

"Okay. Provide the necessary intervention." Fadel's command was short, clear, and undisputed. The matter was closed along with the phone call.

His eyes returned to the armchair where Style had sat years ago, where he had laughed and told him cheerful things, but which now stood in a bitter emptiness.

...and Fadel, at that moment, realized that the emptiness of that armchair was a void he could never fill for the rest of his life...

*****

Dunk, tossing and turning in his bed, couldn't get any sleep all night. His mind was filled with Joong's injured state and his own harsh words. His conscience was like a stone weighing down his chest. As the hours went by, his feet seemed to move on their own, trying to pull him down the corridor, toward the guest room where Joong was staying.

In the early hours of the morning, he couldn't bear it anymore. He quietly got out of his bed and tiptoed out of the room. He hesitated for a moment when he got to Joong's door. What if he disturbed him? What if he didn't want to see him? But the unbearable worry and guilt inside him were more powerful. He slowly pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The room was still dark, only the first pale light of dawn filtering through the window faintly illuminated Joong's bed. Joong was lying on his back, his face pale and calm. He must have heard Dunk's footsteps because he slowly opened his eyes. Upon seeing Dunk, he tried to sit up slightly. Noticing the pained expression on his face, Dunk quickly approached him and gently touched his shoulder, trying to get him to lie down again. "No, don't get up," he whispered with worry. "You should rest."

A deep silence filled the room. For a while, they just looked at each other. Finally, as if to break that silence, Dunk asked with a slight tremor in his voice: "Are you okay?" Then, contrary to his harsh attitude from the day before, he added sincerely: "I was worried about you."

A complex expression appeared on Joong's face. Both surprise and a slight softening could be sensed in his eyes. Dunk's worried words had touched a place deep in his heart. While the pain of rejection and disappointment was still fresh, Dunk's unexpected concern had lit a small spark of hope inside him. But still, the events of the previous night and Dunk's decisive attitude remained fresh in his mind. So, he could only give a short answer, his voice still tired and bitter: "I'm okay..."

Dunk didn't know what to say to Joong's short and bitter answer. The worry inside him still hadn't subsided, but he was also hesitant to bother Joong any further. It was strange for him to be standing here now after his rejection. For a moment, he silently looked at Joong, then sighed slightly. "Then..." he murmured, averting his eyes from Joong's face. "I'll leave you alone to rest." His voice was like a farewell, with a bitterness and something left unfinished inside it. He turned around and slowly headed toward the door.

As Dunk reached for the doorknob, Joong's tired but clear voice was heard: "If you're going to leave, then why did you come?"

Dunk's steps came to a halt. His shoulders tightened slightly. This question was like an arrow that had hit his heart. He didn't know what to answer. It was as if his decisive rejection last night had pointed to a cliff, and now he was caught between turning back and jumping off that cliff. He still had his eyes fixed on the door, not daring to turn to Joong. Joong's question mercilessly brought the complex emotions within him to the surface. Was it worry that had brought him here? Or was it regret?

Dunk, struggling with the words knotted in his throat, knew Joong was waiting for him in his bed. He was waiting... for an answer, an explanation, or maybe just a confession.

"If you don't have the courage to leave completely," Joong said with the broken voice from his injury. "Then find a reason to stay..."

He guessed this was something he had to find first. So he quietly left the room.

*****

Fadel rose from his armchair with heavy steps, as if carrying an invisible burden, and walked toward the top of the wooden staircase leading to the hunting lodge's cellar. Each step’s faint creak further emphasized the room's silence.

When he reached the dark mouth of the cellar, he paused for a moment, then slowly and quietly began to descend the worn-out stairs. The groaning sounds of the old wood on each step mingled with muffled cries coming from below: "Help! My God, someone help me! I'm begging you!"

Ignoring these desperate pleas, Fadel continued to descend with heavy, determined steps, his hands casually in his pockets. As the "tock, tock" of his footsteps on the stairs grew louder, the groaning and pleading from below increased proportionally. When he reached the last step, he was met with a terrifying sight.

On the cold, damp concrete floor, a man sat chained to the wall. His body was covered in bruises and dried bloodstains. His hair was matted together, his face was swollen and unrecognizable. Upon seeing Fadel, his eyes widened in terror, and he began to scream frantically: "You! Why are you keeping me here? I just followed your orders! You got what you wanted! Dunk is dead! Why am I here? What do you want from me?" The man's voice trembled with panic and fear, and he was out of breath.

In the dim light, Fadel looked like a menacing silhouette. There was not the slightest sign of emotion on his face; only an icy coldness could be read. He approached the man with calm steps and spoke with a sharp expression: "You made a mistake."

The man panicked even more. "A mistake? What mistake? You told me to follow the car!" The man thought for a few seconds, considering the possibilities of making a mistake, but there were none.

"You told me to crash into the car! And I did what you wanted! I don't understand!"

Fadel ignored the man's desperate struggles and turned to the side. There, various torture instruments were hanging on the wall. Rusty irons, sharp knives, toothed pliers, and many other terrifying tools... As Fadel walked toward these tools, he carefully put on the black, leather gloves he took out of his pocket. As his fingers got used to the softness of the gloves, his eyes wandered among the tools. As if an artist were choosing his brushes, he carefully and thoughtfully selected a torture instrument. In his hand, he held a thin, long iron rod that shimmered. He weighed the tool, feeling the cold metal between his fingers, and then he slowly, with determined steps, approached the desperate man.

He stood directly in front of him, the shadows making his facial features even harsher.

"You killed the wrong person," Fadel said.

"Who?! What are you talking about?" the man yelled, with a mix of pain and fear.

Fadel said with a mocking expression, "Apparently..." and then, as his gaze evolved into a darker emotion, he continued... "yourself."

Chapter Text

A week passed silently in the heavy atmosphere of the mansion. Joong, after the first difficult days spent in his bed, slowly started to recover. While the scar settled on his skin as a permanent reminder, his physical strength was returning day by day. After spending the first few days reading books and doing light exercises in his room, as the weeks went on, he began to take short walks in the mansion's garden. Even though the paleness on his face had gradually given way to a healthy color, the deep, thoughtful expression in his eyes still hadn't disappeared. The tension between him and Dunk was still palpable; their encounters were short and distant, and they avoided talking. Joong preferred to be alone with his complex emotions, focusing on getting stronger both physically and emotionally.

It was on one of those days that Joong encountered Dunk. He noticed Dunk sitting on a bench in the garden, watching the falling leaves, and Joong's steps slowed. Dunk also lifted his head slightly and looked at him. Joong waited silently for a brief moment. Maybe he was waiting for Dunk to say something, or perhaps he was searching for any detail he could see in his eyes, but in return, he was met with silence... Then he shook his head slightly, as if accepting that this encounter was a coincidence. He was just about to continue on his way when Dunk's voice was heard.

"I'm glad to see you're well," Dunk said, his voice calm but carrying a hint of relief. He still looked a little guilty.

Joong remained still in response to Dunk's words. "Thank you," he said, his voice formal and distant. After this short interaction, as if not wanting to prolong it, he turned his back and quickened his steps to continue on his way. The rustling of the autumn leaves tried to cover the silence of his retreating figure.

However, Dunk didn't stay put. With an impulse, he started to follow Joong. He caught up to him after a few steps and gently grabbed his arm. "Joong," he said again, his voice this time more determined and pleading, "don't be like this."

As Dunk grabbed his arm, Joong's steps halted once more. He slightly turned his head to look at Dunk. There was neither anger nor resentment on his face, only a tired and accepting expression could be read. "Like what?" he asked, his voice calm but searching for meaning.

"Like this," Dunk explained, his eyes wandering over Joong's face. "I just... I want things to be like they used to be." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Like friends..."

A faint flicker of anger sparked on Joong's face, but this anger wasn't deep; it was more an expression of disappointment and exhaustion. "No," he said, his voice clear and firm. "You just want me to be your loyal servant again. Someone who will fill the voids when you're alone... neither so far away nor so close..."

In his opinion, Dunk wasn't actually looking to form a real bond, but merely a "companion" who would quiet the silence echoing in the mansion's empty corridors and would stay within the boundaries he set. He didn't want a very close, intimate relationship, nor did he want to be completely alienated. It was as if he was searching for a "servant-friend" figure he could keep under control, find by his side when he needed him, but without having to make an emotional investment.

"I... I didn't want to hurt anyone," Dunk said, his eyes filled with tears. Somehow, he had found himself hurting everyone around him again. In that moment of being Dunk, the ugliness of his old life came to the surface. The sentences Style had told him countless times echoed in his ears. Won't you ever learn, Dunk!

Joong's conscience ached, but he didn't see a hand reaching out for him, so he waited silently.

"I messed everything up again," Dunk said. "I ruined everything." Tears involuntarily streamed down his delicate cheeks. Behind those tears, there was not only regret, but also a habit. Dunk would collapse in the same way every time: an escape, a breakdown, followed by the same looks and sentences. Just like the countless nights years ago when he had fallen into the same mistakes and cried in front of Style... He felt as if he was trapped in a never-ending cycle.

Joong reached out and wanted to wipe them away, but he couldn't. And the most painful thing was that Dunk's pain wasn't for Joong, but still mostly for himself.

"Mr. Fadel is returning tonight..." Joong said. "He will comfort you." The words seemed cold, almost indifferent. But underneath, there was a silent disappointment, an unspoken reproach, a suppressed jealousy. And this time, it was Joong who left first.

*****

Dunk’s shoulders slumped, feeling the exhaustion to his bones. His steps had dragged him to Style’s room, that space now buried in silence. He sank not onto the edge of the bed, but to its very foot, onto the cold carpet. He pulled his knees tightly to his chest, resting his head on them. The hardness and coldness of the carpet made the turmoil inside him even more pronounced. Across from him, Style’s colossal wardrobe, with its shining mirror, watched him like a dark eye. A moment later, that familiar silhouette appeared in the mirror. Style…

Style was reflected in the mirror with that same characteristic, unnerving casualness. One hand was propped on his chin, the other leg was thrown over his knee. A mocking smile was on his lips, a smile that seemed to harbor an anger that had finally emerged after years of accumulated patience.

“Wow,” Style said, his voice filled with a stinging sarcasm. “On the floor again? But I see there’s no one left to pick you up this time, is there?”

Not even Dunk’s eyelids twitched. He was so tired that he had no resistance left even against Style’s mockery. He only whispered the deep longing inside him: “I just… I miss you so much.”

Style tilted his head slightly, and his smile became as cruel as a blade’s edge.

“Me? Really? Or do you miss that last fool who believed in you unconditionally?”

Style shifted his relaxed position inside the mirror. He lowered his foot to the floor and leaned his body forward. His reflection on the mirror’s surface was so vivid and realistic that it seemed to have stepped out of Dunk’s mind and become flesh and bone. He shrugged his shoulder slightly, and behind the mockery in his gaze, a hurt curiosity appeared.

“Do you miss me, Dunk?” he asked, his voice lower this time, but every word burned inside like an ember. “Or do you miss the only person you thought could still love you no matter what? Don’t forget, I was the last person to forgive you. And you… you killed me too.”

Dunk’s throat painfully constricted, as if an invisible hand were squeezing it. This last sentence was like a dagger plunged right into the center of his heart. But still, he didn’t lift his head from the floor, not daring to look at that judging mirror. Because the silhouette there was not just a memory, a reflection of guilt, but also a concrete expression of righteousness. Style’s voice was like the voice of his conscience.

Style sighed deeply. The image inside the mirror looked as if it was kneeling, getting even closer to Dunk. “Does everything come to your mind when you’re alone?” he asked, his voice filled with a bitter knowingness.

“Does the longing start when Joong keeps his distance from you? Does this feeling of guilt overwhelm you before Fadel returns?”

He placed a mask of fake compassion on his face, but his eyes still held that sarcastic glint. “I see you’re still waiting for someone to complete you. But how many times did I tell you, do you remember?” He paused for a moment, waiting for Dunk’s reaction. Then, his voice echoed in a clearer, harsher tone:

“To be loved, you must first love someone, Dunk.”

“I want to love Joong.” This was a confession, little more than a whisper. “But your absence gets in the way of my existence…”

Style let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh… am I to blame again? You dragged me out of my grave and put me between you two. Now you’re even blaming me for not loving. Unbelievable, Dunk.”

“What do you want me to do!” Dunk screamed, but Style couldn’t give him the answer because he didn’t know it himself…

Because no one had ever shown him how to love anyone.

And in that dark room, buried in the coldness of the carpet, Dunk was truly alone for the first time. Even Style’s ghost was gone now. Joong’s distant footsteps had long since faded from his ears. But the most terrifying thing was that Fadel’s shadow no longer fell upon him either. No scolding, no cold gaze, no painful silence… there was nothing.

And it was in this very absence that the deepest truth within Dunk came to light:

He had learned to exist within pain. Fadel’s punishments made his sins transparent, made his burdens visible, and gave him order. If he was guilty, he deserved a punishment. If he paid his debt, maybe one day he would also deserve to be forgiven…

But now, the sin was not voiced, and the punishment was not tangible. No one was judging him. And no one was coming to save him. For the first time, Dunk could neither take refuge in someone’s anger nor in someone’s compassion. Even Fadel’s punishment now felt like a luxury, because that punishment, at the very least, made him feel that he existed.

But now he was alone…

A real, honest, inescapable loneliness…

Perhaps this silence would not be a punishment for Dunk, but a purification he needed for the first time, because for him, the real problem hadn’t started when Style died, but when Dunk was born…

*******

The kitchen, compared to the other gloomy corners of the mansion, was brighter and livelier. The servants were quietly working among themselves. In a corner, at the large wooden table, Joong was sitting alone, busy with the plate in front of him. One of the servants had brought him a simple, carefully prepared meal. Joong’s face had a tired but serene expression.

Dunk paused for a moment at the doorway. Joong’s resentment toward him was still hanging in the air. But right now, there was no one else he could go to. Taking a deep breath, he walked inside.

He took a few steps, trying not to attract Joong’s attention. But Joong, as if he had sensed his presence, lifted his head.

Breaking the silence, Dunk spoke with a trembling whisper: "I know... you're mad at me." He paused for a moment, waiting for Joong's reaction. "But... I didn't know who else to go to."

He swallowed, his eyes wandering desperately over Joong’s face. “Will you… will you take me to my brother’s grave?”

Joong was taken aback for a moment by Dunk’s unexpected and sorrowful request. He swallowed the mouthful of food in his throat with difficulty, his gaze lingering for a brief moment on Dunk’s desperate eyes. Then he slowly nodded his head. He was accepting. It seemed pointless to resist any longer or to try to express it with words.

He left his last mouthful on the plate, and the faint sound of his chair scraping as he got up broke the silence in the kitchen. Without a single word to Dunk, he headed outside. Dunk also followed him in silence.

As they set off, there was only the hum of the engine and the sound of the wind outside in the car. Both of them were silent, their gazes fixed on the road ahead. As the magnificent structure of the mansion gradually shrunk behind them, the sorrowful colors of autumn seeped through the window. The yellowing leaves of the trees fell on the road as if they were the faded memories of the past.

As the car moved on the narrow road that curved up the hill, the scenery slowly changed. The hazy view of the valley below was replaced by a clearer sky and wind-swept pastures as they climbed higher. The air was cool and damp; the nature outside seemed to reflect the sorrow inside Dunk.

The silence inside the car was heavy, as if words were stuck in their throats. Joong’s face still held that distant and thoughtful expression. Dunk, on the other hand, was watching the outside from the window, and memories of Style were racing each other in his mind. The journey was not just a physical movement from one place to another; it was also an internal journey for both of them. Facing the past, coping with losses, and perhaps taking uncertain steps toward the future… The car’s climb up the hill was like a metaphor for this silent and sorrowful journey.

When they reached the top, the car slowed down and stopped on a dirt ground. When the engine’s sound stopped, a sorrowful silence fell over the area. Joong had preferred to stay in the car.

Dunk quietly opened the car door and stepped outside. The cool wind of autumn caressed his face. He shivered slightly despite the thin sweater he was wearing. His feet slowly moved over the dried grass and fallen leaves. The desolate atmosphere of the cemetery deepened the sorrow inside him.

After a few steps, he stopped in front of a small grave surrounded by iron railings. He bent down and looked at the tombstone. On the stone, there was a name carved in black letters: Dunk Natachai.

His eyes lingered on the name for a long time. His own name… His brother’s grave bore his own name.

Dunk caressed the letters of his own name carved on the cold marble. His fingers slowly wandered over the surface that felt both familiar and foreign. The wind howled in the desolation of the hill, sweeping the dry leaves at its base. He took a deep breath, but the cool air that filled his lungs couldn’t soothe the pain inside him.

“It… took a long time to get here,” he whispered, his voice mingling with the howling of the wind. He was having difficulty choosing his words; an indescribable lump was in his throat. “I… I miss you so much, you know?” His eyes were fixed on the tombstone. “I know, I… I wasn’t a good brother to you. I couldn’t protect you. I’m even… I’m even carrying your name now. And you’re carrying mine…”

He fell silent, and swallowed. A single tear streamed down his pale cheek and mixed with the soil of the grave. “Everything could have been so different. If… if I…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Regret was burning his throat.

“Joong… he’s here too,” he continued, turning his gaze toward where Joong was waiting in the car. “He brought me here. He’s mad at me… and he’s right. I… I mess everything up.” He turned back to the tombstone. “I hope… I hope you can forgive me. One day… one day I’ll be a better person. A person worthy of your… your name.”

The wind intensified, and it swept Dunk’s hair. He stood silently at the head of the grave for a while longer, as if he was trying to hear the whispers of his brother’s soul. Then he slowly bent down, touched the tombstone, and whispered gently: "I realized that I didn't say these words to you much when you were alive.... I love you, Brother."

*******
After their silent and sorrowful journey up the hill, they returned to the mansion, and the heavy atmosphere of the living room fell upon them. In the dim light, the silhouette of Fadel sitting alone at the end of the long, solid dining table was striking. His head was bowed, as if he was carrying the weight of an invisible world on his shoulders. On the surface of the table, a shiny piece of metal, a pistol, contrasted with the darkness of the ebony wood. Right next to it, a bottle half full of amber-colored whiskey and an empty glass were like silent witnesses to the current tension.

When Dunk and Joong stepped into the living room, they were met with this unexpected and eerie sight. The sorrow inside Dunk was replaced by a sudden tension. The worry that appeared on Joong's face was a sign of how dangerous the environment could be. Fadel, with a dignified movement, lifted his head. His eyes were dark and unreadable, as if he was lost in deep thought. His gaze slowly wandered over Dunk's face and, when it settled, his voice was as light as a whisper, but it found a terrifying echo in the silence of the room: "Where were you?"

Dunk's throat went dry. His heart started to beat fast. "I... I visited my brother," he murmured, his voice trembling and uncertain. At that moment, he couldn't guess what Fadel's reaction would be.

There was no sign of emotion on Fadel's face. It was as if he hadn't heard Dunk's answer. Gently, as if it were a routine movement, he reached for the gun on the table. The moment he felt the cold metal between his fingers, the fear inside Dunk increased even more. Fadel, with a slow and deliberate movement, lifted the gun and pointed it directly at Dunk's chest. Dunk's breath caught. His eyes were locked in terror on the deadly object in Fadel's hand. His legs began to tremble, and his mouth was dry.

Joong moved in a split second. He slowly stepped forward from behind Dunk. The worry in his eyes was replaced by determination. With a swift and agile movement, he pulled out his own gun from his waist. The black metal shined in the dim light. The barrel of Joong's gun pointed toward Fadel's chest without hesitation. "Sir," Joong said, his voice clear, determined, and more authoritative than ever, "put your gun down."

Fadel was taken aback by Joong's sudden and unexpected move. Even with a gun pointed at him, the first expression that appeared on his face was shock. His eyes left Dunk and focused on Joong's face. "Are you... are you pointing a gun at your boss, Joong?" he whispered, his voice still calm but with a palpable disappointment and surprise underneath.

Joong's gun didn't move an inch. His eyes were looking into Fadel's with determination. "Sir," he repeated, his voice more emphatic this time, "you're drunk. You don't know what you're doing. I don't want you to do something you'll regret." A deadly silence reigned in the living room. The cold, metallic shine of the two guns reflected off each other in the dim light as if they were challenging each other. Dunk, in terror, was looking from one to the other, frozen, not knowing what to do...

Chapter Text

Joong slowly lowered his gun and began to walk toward Fadel with determined steps. One of his hands was still on the trigger, while his empty hand was raised, ready to act again at any moment. He was focused on Fadel's face, which was tense with anger.

Joong took one more cautious step. "Sir." He paused for a brief moment, looking into Fadel's eyes as he continued: "Once you asked me... if an event should happen where I would have to choose between you and your husband, you wanted me to save your husband. You told me then that family comes before everything." Joong's voice softened a little, but his resolve remained the same. "I am still carrying out your orders, Sir. You are about to make a mistake in your anger. Please... put your gun down. I don't want you to do something you'll regret once this anger passes."

Fadel's facial features tightened with rage. A dark shadow appeared in his eyes. "Style..." he hissed, his voice trembling with bitterness and anger. He whispered the name and the anger on his face slowly dissipated, replaced by a deep sorrow. The shoulders of the powerful man slumped slightly. The gun was still in his fingers, shining menacingly, but Fadel's attention was somewhere else entirely, lost in painful memories of the past...

Fadel seemed crushed under the weight of Joong's words. The sorrow in his eyes had overcome his rage. Slowly, as if he were putting down a very heavy burden, he placed the gun on the table. The slight click of the metal hitting the wood broke the tense silence of the living room for a moment. However, the barrel of the gun was still pointed at Dunk, as if to signal that the threat had not fully passed.

Then, with a slow and laborious movement, Fadel stood up. There was a noticeable heaviness in his body. He stopped when he came next to Joong and squeezed his shoulder harshly. He looked into Joong's eyes for a brief moment, an expression that was hard to read on his face. Then he leaned in and whispered into Joong's ear, his voice coming from deep within and carrying a sorrowful acceptance: "You're too late, Joong..."

Without saying anything else, Fadel began to walk away from the living room with heavy steps. His back was turned to them, every movement reflecting fatigue and exhaustion. He headed toward the stairs and climbed each step slowly, as if leaving his entire weight on them. The atmosphere of the living room was relieved as his figure slowly disappeared upward...

As Fadel slowly walked away from the living room, the shock on Dunk's face began to slowly dissipate. It was replaced by anger and an incomprehensible ambition. Leaving Joong alone in the living room, he quickly followed Fadel toward the stairs.

Fadel had entered Style's room. From the doorway, Dunk saw him sitting on the floor. His back was against the bed, but his gaze was on the ground. In his hand, he was holding Style's silk robe. He was gently holding the fabric, as if trying to breathe in its scent. His fragile state at that moment seemed to quell Dunk's anger for a second, but the cold metal of the gun was still in his mind.

He pushed the door open harshly and rushed in. "If you're going to pull a gun on me," he yelled, his voice trembling with anger, "have the guts to pull the trigger! Next time... next time, shoot me!"

Fadel slowly lifted his head. His face had a tired and exhausted expression. "Get out," he said in a calm voice.

"No!" Dunk insisted.

Fadel slowly straightened up. His face was calm, but beneath this stillness, a cracking storm was brewing. His eyes were locked on Dunk's; a boiling rage was about to drown in them. "If you're so eager to die…" he whispered. His voice was so low that the words didn't vibrate in the ear, but directly on the skin.

Suddenly, almost like a shadow, he lunged toward Dunk. He grabbed his neck, tightly. Dunk’s back slammed against the mirror, the glass trembled but didn’t break. Fadel’s fingers were as tight as iron; Dunk’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, and his body trembled. First, he tried to push Fadel away with his hands, his nails digging into his skin, but the pressure didn't lessen by a millimeter. Then... his hands slowly fell to his sides.

An emptiness took hold of him. A quiet, dark acceptance. He didn’t close his eyes, but… something inside him, perhaps the futility of resistance, completely took him over. Perhaps… he just wanted to stop. From the mirror he was leaning against, it was as if Style was hugging him, pulling him in… Come join me…

Fadel looked at his face. It was a face that wasn't fighting, that was silent, that even looked peaceful. The glint in his eyes had given way to a bitterness he couldn't comprehend, replacing the anger. His hand was still on his throat, but it was just resting there now, more like a connection than a threat.

Fadel was looking at him. But the face he was looking at… suddenly changed.

Dunk’s eyes, at that moment, reminded him of something. No… not something. Someone.

Those eyes… that look… they were the eyes of the man he had once loved and lost. Style’s. That surrender, that fragility… it was exactly the same. In that moment, time stopped for Fadel. Reality was replaced by the past. His hands were still on Dunk’s throat, but his mind was somewhere else now. In another time.

He swallowed. The pressure of his fingers slowly released. Something changed on his face; it was no longer anger, but grief. In the midst of the illusion, Dunk’s face transformed into Style’s. And Fadel… he couldn't resist his heart in that moment.

He leaned in. He pressed his lips to Dunk’s. With a mixture of violence and longing. There was no love in that kiss. It was the kiss of a mourning. Of loving a ghost. Of still searching for a piece of life within a death. They were the last lines of an unfinished story. A farewell he couldn’t embrace...

Dunk stood motionless. His breath was gone, and his heart was a chaotic mess. But in that kiss, he could feel another name being whispered.

Style…

The kiss ended as quickly as it began. Fadel’s lips were still trembling. His eyes were looking into the void, but what he saw was neither Dunk nor the room he was in. For a brief moment... just for a moment, he had loved his ghost. But now reality had returned.

And that reality was cruel.

The person in front of him wasn't Style. He never would be. The face before his eyes had just taken on a role that didn’t belong to him. And this gave birth to a new anger within Fadel. This time not at Dunk, but at himself. At this weakness. This vulnerability. This betrayal...

He suddenly pulled back. He was out of breath. Then, with a sudden, determined movement, he grabbed Dunk’s arm.

“Get out,” he said. His voice was muffled and fragile, but it was a command. “Get out. Of this room. Now.”

Before Dunk could understand what was happening, Fadel began to drag him. His steps were harsh, and the rage in his chest was growing again. Dunk didn't resist. He had no strength to resist. The weight of that kiss still rested upon his soul.

Fadel pulled him into the hallway. His steps, echoing in the silence of the night, were as heavy and resounding as anger. With a final shove, he flung Dunk into the hallway. Dunk barely managed to regain his balance, stumbling against the wall.

Fadel stopped for a moment, and their eyes met. But there was nothing familiar in that look anymore. No compassion, no desire, no anger… only a closure. A cold, distant, irreversible end.

And the door slammed shut with a harsh sound…

Joong was waiting anxiously in the hallway. The sudden noises from Style's room and Fadel's angry demeanor had given him the feeling that he might have to rush in at any moment. When the door slammed shut with a harsh noise, Joong quickly ran to Dunk's side.

Dunk's body was leaning against the wall, but his soul was no longer there. It was as if his existence had been pulled out of his skin. From the outside, he looked like a thin leaf trembling on a windless day. His fingers were slightly clenched, and he was almost transparent in the golden light of the pale corridor. Every breath he took carried a sense of breaking, and every blink carried a sense of emptiness.

Joong was scared when he saw him in this state. It was as if Dunk wasn't alive. Something inside him wasn't just broken, it was shattered, in a way that could never be put back together. When Joong touched his shoulders, Dunk was still like a statue; cold, motionless, frozen. But inside… inside, he was burning.

Joong grabbed his shoulders with worry. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice frantic. When he received no answer from Dunk, Joong shook him gently.

Dunk's eyes slowly focused on Joong's face. He was looking with an empty, meaningless gaze. Then his lips slightly parted, and a whisper was heard: "Kill him."

"What…" Joong was taken aback.

"I want you to kill him. Can you do this for me?"

In that moment, something stirred inside Joong.

A doubt.

A thought.

A crack.

This man… wasn't Style.

His eyes slowly widened. A shiver spread through his entire body, as if he was frozen in place by the magnitude of what he had just realized. Every detail he had ignored for a while now underlined a single truth. His demeanor, the way he spoke, his gaze... Yes, his face was the same, and so was his voice. But the soul he carried was different.

Joong was certain now.

This person giving him a death order was a stranger with Style's face.

He was Dunk. Style's brother and the person Joong had fallen in love with...

Joong couldn't replied.

*****
Fadel had sought refuge in his study with the first light of dawn the next morning. As he closed the heavy oak door behind him, even the dim and familiar atmosphere of the room wasn't enough to soothe the turmoil within him. He stood in front of the window, staring blankly at the morning dew outside. The disarray of scattered documents and an empty whiskey bottle on his desk was a mirror of his inner world.

As the hours passed, Fadel’s thoughts grew darker. Joong’s loyalty... He had always been the man he trusted the most. So what did it mean now, for him to go so far as to point a gun at his boss?

He had spent about an hour thinking in front of the window when the door to his study was lightly knocked on. Fadel snapped out of his thoughts and muttered, "Come in," his voice tired and exhausted. The door opened and in came a bodyguard, as always in his flawless black suit, his face wearing an expressionless mask. This was a man who had been with Fadel for years, known for his silence and sharp observational skills.

"Sir, you called for me," the bodyguard said, slightly bowing his head.

Fadel left the window and slowly walked toward his desk. Without sitting down, he stared intently at the bodyguard. His voice was low but held the tone of a definite command. "Joong. I want information about him." He paused for a moment, carefully choosing his words. "When I don't give him any tasks... is he at the mansion or outside, who is he with... I want to be informed of his every move, every contact, instantly."

There wasn't the slightest sign of surprise on the bodyguard's face. These kinds of covert missions were part of their routine work. "As you command, Sir," he simply replied.

Fadel picked up the empty whiskey glass from the desk, turning it between his fingers. "It will be a secret," he emphasized, his voice lowering even more. "You will not arouse the slightest suspicion in Joong or anyone else. Report his every step to me in the finest detail—who he talks to, where he goes, how long he stays... Do you understand?" His eyes were dark and piercing, and his voice held both a sense of worry and the fear of losing control.

"Completely, Sir. I will provide you with regular reports on Mr. Joong's every activity," the bodyguard confirmed, bowing his head respectfully.

Fadel placed the glass back on the desk. "And... Style," he added then, his voice more vague and thoughtful this time. "Keep an eye on him from a distance as well. Not as detailed as Joong, but I want to know where he is and who he meets with. If he exhibits any unusual behavior, inform me immediately."

His bodyguard carefully memorized both of Fadel's commands. "I have received your orders, Sir. I am initiating the necessary surveillance immediately."

Fadel nodded slightly. "You may go now," he said, his voice once again filled with the weight of exhaustion. The bodyguard silently backed out of the study. The heavy door closed behind him, leaving Fadel alone with his solitude and suspicions.

On the desk, an elegant, gold-colored letter caught Fadel's attention. It was sealed with a red wax stamp. He picked it up and opened it. It was an invitation to a charity gala, and a note was added at the bottom. A masquerade ball. "With our respects to the Kasemsan family, we would be delighted to see you and your Husband, Mr. Fadel Kasemsan and Mr. Style Kasemsan, among us."

He walked to the window with the invitation in his hand.

****

A few days later, Dunk found a large, elegant box on his bed. The box stood conspicuously in the middle of the bed. When he slowly opened the lid, he saw a dark, elegantly tailored suit folded inside. Next to the suit was a showy, gold-colored mask that only left his eyes and nose uncovered. Right beneath the mask was a small, elegant card. When he took the card, he saw the name "Style Kasemsan" written on it. Dunk's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Just then, the door was lightly knocked on, and a servant entered. He was carrying two more boxes. It was clear they were shoe boxes. The servant approached Dunk with a polite smile. "Sir," he said, placing the boxes on the floor, "Mr. Fadel said you needed to get ready for an event tonight. These shoes..." The servant opened the boxes, showing the shiny leather shoes of different styles inside. "Which one would you prefer?"

Dunk was utterly confused. "What... what is this?" he asked in bewilderment. "What event is this?"

The servant shrugged. "I don't know the details, sir. Mr. Fadel just said that you need to be elegant for tonight and that these items were prepared for you." The servant pointed to the box on Dunk's bed. "When you've chosen your shoes, I can help you get dressed."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dunk stated clearly.

A slight astonishment appeared on the servant's face. "Sir, Mr. Fadel's order..." he reminded him hesitantly.

A mocking expression formed on Dunk's face. "He can go wherever he wants, without me," he repeated.

"Tell him thank you, but I'll be staying here tonight." His determination was clear in his voice. After what had happened, even the idea of being at one of Fadel's events was unsettling, especially with a preparation that included Style's name.

The servant hesitated for a moment in the face of Dunk's determined attitude. But he also knew how definite Fadel's orders could be. He cleared his throat lightly. "Sir," he said, his voice respectful but insistent, "Mr. Fadel... specifically said that you must be ready by seven o'clock tonight and that Mr. Joong will be waiting downstairs with the car to take you to the event." The servant was gently reminding Dunk that his decision conflicted with Fadel's instructions.

"Is he coming too?"

Dunk's question caused a brief hesitation in the servant's expression. He bowed his head slightly. "Yes, Sir," he replied. "Mr. Joong will also be at tonight's event."

"Why?"

The servant hesitated for a brief moment in the face of Dunk's unexpected question. His gaze wandered around the room in surprise for a moment. He quickly composed himself and continued with a professional expression, "Ah, Sir... Mr. Joong's attendance is also part of Mr. Fadel's security protocol in public places. You should know this."

Dunk stood in front of the mirror in his flawless, midnight-blue tuxedo. The gold-colored mask he held in his hand hadn't yet hidden his face; as it hung between his fingers, it seemed to reflect the complicated feelings within him. Curiosity, anxiety, and a hard-to-describe unease... The expressions on his face were storms that were being suppressed beneath his flawlessly prepared appearance. Thanks to the meticulous hands of the servant, everything was in its place; his hair was neat, his tie sat around his neck with a single perfect knot. But the uncertainty within Dunk was too deep for even the most expensive fabrics to cover.

When he decided he was ready, he left the room with heavy steps. He walked through the dim lights of the corridor and headed for the grand staircase. Every step made him feel the hesitation he carried inside a little more. When he went down the stairs, a black, magnificent Rolls Royce was waiting for him at the mansion's entrance. The polished surface of the car shined like it had been sprinkled with stardust under the night lamps.

Fadel was sitting in the back seat of the car. It was semi-dark inside; his face was lost among the shadows, but it was impossible not to recognize that silhouette. Even in his silence, a threat was hidden.

Right next to the car, Joong was standing, his shoulders straight, his face expressionless but alert. As Dunk descended the last step of the stairs, Joong’s gaze locked onto him. They met eyes for a brief moment. There was a subtle tension on Joong's face; but underneath it, you could feel a coolness that seemed to say, "Everything is under control." Without knowing what this night would bring, Dunk's gaze reflected the curiosity that was growing inside him. Joong, in turn, responded with an attentiveness that was trying to figure out what he was thinking.

When their gazes broke, Joong, with a dignified movement, opened the back door of the Rolls Royce. He slightly bowed his head and motioned with his hand for him to go inside.

As the Rolls Royce left its place with a soft motion, the silence inside became even more noticeable. The hum of the tires on the stone road was as regular as a heartbeat. Not a single word was spoken inside the car until Fadel slowly turned toward Dunk.

His gaze noticed that Dunk was still holding the gold mask in his hand. He leaned in slightly, coming closer to him from within the shadows. At that moment, Dunk’s body tensed up in a way he hadn't realized. Everything inside the car was too silent. Too close.

Fadel’s hand suddenly reached for Dunk’s thigh. Slowly but with determination. His fingers slid heavily over the expensive fabric. It was a possessive, dominating, and overly personal touch. Dunk’s breath caught for a moment; his eyes were fixed ahead, but he couldn’t escape. Fadel’s touch spread through his skin like a threat.

Then Fadel came even closer. His lips were as close as a breath to Dunk’s ear. And he whispered.

“Tonight… you will wear one more mask,” he said in a low voice, almost caressingly. “An invisible one. It will be in your eyes. In your posture, in your smile… the mask of a happy, loyal spouse…”

Dunk was silent, like a monument to Fadel’s whisper. The anger and fear that had built up inside him were not yet organized enough to be put into words. His eyes were still fixed on the road outside, and the discomfort created by Fadel's touch was spreading throughout his entire body.

Fadel seemed displeased with Dunk’s lack of reaction. His hand suddenly reached for Dunk’s chin. His fingers grabbed his jaw harshly and turned his face toward him mercilessly. Dunk’s head was shaken, and his gaze was forced to meet Fadel's dark eyes.

“Look at me when I’m talking,” Fadel said, his voice filled with authority. The pressure on his jaw was so intense that Dunk's teeth clenched together. As Fadel’s fingers held Dunk’s chin in a vise-like grip, there was only one thing in his eyes: a deep, unsuppressed anger. But the target of this anger wasn’t only Dunk, perhaps it was himself most of all. What he did that night… that kiss was the echo of a weakness. And Fadel despised his weaknesses. Now, the silence on Dunk’s face reminded him of everything. That was why he was so harsh. That was why his voice was so sharp, his touch so merciless. Because for Fadel, this wasn’t a punishment, it was a correction.

When Joong braked harshly at a red light, Fadel’s hand slowly pulled away from Dunk. As they met eyes in the rearview mirror, a few seconds of silence sharpened the air. When the car lurched forward slightly, the gold-colored mask Dunk had been holding in his lap had slipped and fallen to the floor. The light clatter of the metal briefly broke the tense silence inside the car.

Fadel gave the fallen mask an indifferent look, then through the rearview mirror, he looked into Joong’s eyes. "Joong," he said, his voice calm but with a palpable threat beneath it, "be careful. Sometimes even a small carelessness... can cause masks to fall."

When the grand doors of the ballroom slowly opened, the light inside practically exploded onto them. The crystal chandeliers were shining like stars on the ceiling of the ballroom, and the reflections on the marble floor, combined with the sparkling dresses, created a dazzling tableau. Fine, elegant curtains were waving between the columns that surrounded the walls of the ballroom, and the air was heavy with a sweet perfume and suppressed secrets. The heavy, giant mirrors on the walls made the already large ballroom look even bigger, almost infinite. The light was reflecting from the crystal chandeliers and multiplying in these mirrors, leaving an illusion in every corner.

Fadel, with his usual calm and possessive demeanor, grabbed Dunk’s waist and slowly guided him inside. Both of their masks were on their faces now; Dunk’s was gold, and Fadel’s was a larger, matching gold-colored mask. They blended into the crowd with slow but self-assured steps.

Fadel greeted acquaintances one by one. He bowed his head slightly to some, and responded with short sentences to others. Each of them smiled when they saw them, bowing respectfully to Fadel and giving Dunk careful but unfamiliar looks. Whispers had already started to spread under their breath. But Fadel's posture forced these whispers into silence.

A little farther into the ballroom, a gold-framed table was waiting for them. Fadel, without saying anything, headed toward the table where they were seated. Then with an elegant movement, he pulled out Dunk's chair. As he invited him to sit, he slightly bowed his head; this movement, when looked at from the outside, was a graceful gesture belonging to a gentleman, but Dunk knew that inside, it was still a command.

When Dunk sat down, a few guests approached the table. One of them, a thin man with a gray mask, approached with a slight hint of sarcasm. He spoke as if a secret was hidden at the corner of his lips:

"Style... you've finally returned to us." His words were heavy, but his tone was polished. "The nights were a little colorless without you."

Dunk didn't say a word. Silence was what this role required. A fake spouse, a fake peace... But he put a small, elegant smile on his face. Neither too warm nor distant. The secure smile of a happy spouse. The show had begun.

Then, a movement caught his attention. A little farther into the ballroom, on the edge of the crowd, a black-masked silhouette standing in the shadow of a column… Joong.

He was just standing there. He wasn't getting a drink, nor was he talking to anyone. He had his hands clasped behind his back, surveying the ballroom. But Dunk realized that his eyes weren't only watching the crowd, but watching him.

Joong's mask was expressionless. But his gaze said it all. Dunk didn't turn his head. But inside, he stirred.

And Fadel, as if nothing had happened, whispered while taking a sip from the glass next to him: "We started well, didn't we?"

In the middle of the ballroom, the melody of the string instruments was slowly rising. The violins were trembling like suppressed emotions; the cellos were coming from as deep as a silent past. The lights were breaking and shining in the crystals hanging from the ceiling, and everything felt as if it was being lived within a dream drawn with gold. The masks were now for suppressing emotions rather than for hiding faces; because tonight, no one was in their own identity.

Fadel had been sitting silently at his table for a while. As he ran his fingers over the edge of his champagne glass, his eyes were watching the movement of the ballroom, but his mind was fixed on a single point. Then, as if he had made a decision, he quietly got up from his seat. He clasped his hands behind his back, took a step, then approached the chair where Dunk was sitting. It was close enough not to be drowned out by the noise of the crowd, but distant enough from the surroundings.

He held out his hand. "Let's dance." The sentence came out of Fadel's lips with a soft elegance. But Dunk immediately noticed the cold command that lay beneath that elegance. He lifted his head, and when his eyes met Fadel's, no light shone in that gaze. Only accumulated, silent resistance… and perhaps a patience that was about to break.

"You can't force me to do this," he said, his voice low but not trembling. He was suppressing his anger, but he was still protecting his dignity.

Fadel, as if he had been expecting this answer, slightly bowed his head. His smile was polite, but his words were as sharp as a dagger.

"I'm not forcing you. I'm just reminding you."

Dunk’s fingers involuntarily formed a fist on his knees. He took a deep breath and held out his hand.

But still, he whispered, without being able to escape the dull glint in Fadel's eyes: "Why are you doing this?"

"Isn't it hard enough for you too? To look happy?"

Fadel's eyes narrowed. A momentary break, then he quickly took refuge behind an expression that had recomposed itself. But his voice was so carefully adjusted that not a single word was wasted.

“Oh, come on,” he said, heading toward the dance floor, walking alongside Dunk.

"This shouldn't be hard for you. Did you forget? How talented you are at deceiving people?"

Dunk gritted his teeth behind his mask. Even though his steps looked obedient, a rebellion was sparking inside him. When they took their places on the dance floor, Fadel touched his waist gently, but possessively.

"I... I didn't deceive anyone," Dunk said. The tremor in his voice resembled a shame mixed with anger. He had whispered those words without knowing whether he was saying them to himself or to Fadel.

Fadel bowed his head, his eyes meeting Dunk's. There was a thin line of judgment in his pupils.

“You’re too modest for someone who stole another’s life,” he said calmly.

Dunk didn't avert his eyes. His breathing was unsteady, but he didn't back down.

"Can't you see my regret?" he asked, a pleading tone appearing in his voice for a moment.

The smile was no longer on Fadel’s face. "Regret," he said, rolling the word slowly,

"doesn't deny the existence of a crime."

At that moment, the music was spinning them. Their steps looked like harmony and balance to the observers around them. But within that harmony, there was a silence that was about to break, a suppressed scream, and hundreds of unsaid words. At that moment, Dunk was only dancing with his body; his soul had already been left alone on that dance floor.

Just then, they were passing in front of the enormous, gold-framed mirrors on the edge of the dance floor. With an unexpected movement, Fadel gently leaned Dunk backward. Dunk's back was almost bending, and as his head fell backward, his eyes were dazzled by the sparkle of the ballroom reflected in the mirror. But then, from among that sparkle, a reflection appeared in the mirror.

That reflection... was Style.

The brief silhouette reflected in the mirror belonged to Style in every way—from the lines on his face and his smile, to the slight lift of his shoulders. It was as if time had stopped and Dunk, beyond the mirror, saw the joyful, lively Style dancing. His laughter seemed to echo, and the warm expression in his eyes warmed his soul.

At that very moment, the lips of the Style figure in the mirror parted. That cheerful, familiar voice seemed to whisper directly into Dunk's mind: "Are you having fun?"

Dunk's eyes were still locked on the reflection in the mirror. The image was so vivid, so real, that the voice he heard sounded not like a distant echo but as if it were right next to him. A lump formed in his throat, and his breath caught.

Fadel quickly pulled Dunk toward him. As he re-synced to the rhythm of the dance, his gaze caught Dunk's dazed and bewildered expression. Just then, Dunk felt a slight shiver on the back of his neck, as if an invisible hand had touched him gently. When he turned his head quickly, a face with a gold-colored mask similar to his own appeared in the crowd. The eyes behind the mask were familiar, carrying a warm and inviting glint.

"This place is so beautiful," the masked figure whispered, his voice filled with joy, "almost like my wedding day..." That voice... that tone... it was Style. But it was impossible. Style was gone. This was just a cruel game his mind was playing on him. The depth of his loss was making him walk a fine line between fantasy and reality. In that moment, the glow of the ballroom dimmed, the music turned into a hum. It was as if everything around him was blurring, and only that familiar voice and face were becoming clearer.

They were still spinning on the dance floor. Fadel’s hand was tightly gripping his waist, and their steps were in a mechanical harmony. But Dunk's eyes couldn't break away from that familiar figure that was haunting his mind. It was dancing joyfully, hopping among the masked people in the crowd. His laughter seemed to echo, and he was dancing like a ghost, surrounded by the light beams that scattered as his joyful body twirled. He wasn't touching anyone, nor was he meeting anyone's eyes. He was just spinning and hopping around himself, shimmering with an indescribable happiness. Dunk was as if frozen in Fadel's arms.

Style, as if he had noticed Dunk, paused for a moment. His eyes behind the mask shone piercingly. "Did you also have fun kissing my husband yesterday?"

Dunk's body tensed. Fadel's hand on his waist tightened, as if he had felt his sudden reaction.

The ghost of Style drifted away like a shadow in the crowd. Dunk's lips parted, as if a whisper of an explanation, a plea, wanted to come out of his throat. He wanted to shout "Wait!" but his voice was lost in the turmoil within himself. He tried to break free from Fadel's arms to catch up with that familiar figure, running toward the crowd. He bumped into masked bodies, without even having time to apologize. His eyes were only searching for that gold-colored mask.

Style paused for a moment in the crowd, and a vague smile appeared behind his mask. Then he moved again, as if teasing Dunk, and reappeared a little farther ahead. Dunk's heart was swinging between hope and hopelessness.

Finally, that familiar silhouette appeared at the top of the grand staircase leading to the upper floors. Style paused for a moment and waved down to Dunk. That joyful wave deepened the pain inside Dunk even more. "Wait!" he shouted again, his voice more desperate this time, but Style had already disappeared.

Dunk quickly climbed the stairs. His eyes were searching for the room Style had entered. Finally, at the end of the corridor, he saw a room with a bright red ribbon stretched in front of its door. The ribbon was screaming that entry was forbidden. When he looked through the crack in the door, he saw Style sitting on the sill of the large window at the end of the room. As the curtains flew violently in the wind, his feet were dangling into the void, and he had that familiar, sorrowful smile on his face.

"Style, don't do it!" Dunk cried, his voice trembling with panic and terror.

Style slightly tilted his head. "Then come and save me," he whispered, his voice like the hum of the wind.

Dunk, without hesitation, put one leg over the red ribbon. He was about to take another step inside when a strong hand grabbed his arm tightly.

"Dunk!" Joong's voice, filled with worry, echoed.

Dunk was shaken by that familiar voice. The Style sitting on the window sill was gone. The red ribbon was gone. The legs dangling into the void below... were his own legs. His feet were far from the cold, hard ground. His heart was beating wildly, as if it was about to break out of his chest. Joong was holding him tightly, pulling him back from the edge of an abyss. In that moment, Dunk realized with terror: it wasn't Style who was about to jump off the window; it was himself.

He realized how much he was lost inside while looking for himself outside. While trying to find Style, he was actually walking toward his own end. Everything he had suppressed until that moment—guilt, regret, his inability to forgive himself—had erupted from where it had accumulated. He was ready to fall. Maybe he had even already jumped unwillingly; his soul had gone ahead, and his body was all that was left behind.

Joong's hand that was holding him wasn't just a physical salvation, but also an escape from the darkness of his mind. Dunk clung tightly to Joong's arm with his trembling hands, as if trying to hold onto life...

That night, no one saw what had happened at the edge of the window. The music kept playing, the crystals kept breaking the light, and people kept playing their roles. But on the floor above, a bare reality was left breathless.

Dunk trembled in Joong's arms as he was pulled back. The window was still open, the wind was still touching his skin, but he no longer wanted to be outside; he wanted to stay inside.

Because someone had called him back... to life...

And the hand that was holding him wasn't going to let go, no matter what...

When Joong put Dunk down on the floor, he acted as if he was holding a piece of rare porcelain in his hands. Fragile, full of cracks, and sensitive enough to shatter with the slightest touch. His palms were still trembling. He was ready to fall to his knees, his breath caught in his throat, as he looked at Dunk’s pale face. The terror in his eyes was not only from the moment he had just witnessed but from the weight of a death he had almost witnessed. The body he had pulled out of the darkness was still in his arms, but his soul… it was still somewhere else, as if in a sleep prone to falling.

"Dunk," he whispered again.

His voice was fragile. Maybe for the first time, Joong's voice sounded truly human. A voice stripped of his cold, walled, and distant identity… almost pleading.

"Why did you do this?"

There was no accusation in that question. Only fear… only that indescribable pain that squeezed his chest when he was on the verge of losing him. Joong was searching for the traces of an imaginary abyss on Dunk’s face. His eyes were wandering, as if trying to catch something, searching for answers in the broken reflections of a cracked mirror.

Dunk lifted his head. When he met the bare fear that was burning in Joong’s eyes, he was filled with the bewilderment of a traveler who had lost his way in the mists inside him. His mind was still hazy. The scene he had just lived—the high window, the void below, Style's smiling silhouette… it was all as real as a dream, but also as fragile as reality.

Suddenly, with a muffled urge from within, he whispered, "Do you... do you know me?" Even as he said it, he couldn't believe his own sentence.

Joong’s eyes widened. Surprise briefly enveloped his expression. The slight furrowing of his brows, the involuntary parting of his lips... it was as if it was whispering to Dunk that the answer had already been given. But this surprise passed in a moment, replaced by that deep, unsuppressed fear again.

"Yes, Dunk," he said. His voice was clearer now. More emphatic. As if he was determined to pull Dunk out of that hazy labyrinth in his mind by his arm. "I know you. But is that what’s important now? You almost… killed yourself!" The last sentence split the air like a cry.

Dunk averted his gaze. Joong's eyes were seeing him too clearly. And there was nothing Dunk feared more than being seen right now. He lowered his eyes to the floor. The polished, marble ground gave off his silhouette as a trembling reflection. He mumbled in a muffled voice: "I... I wasn't... I just... wanted to get some air."

A lie...

A lie as broken as its utterance, as unconvincing, and one that couldn't even touch himself.

Joong slowly shook his head. There was a bitter smile in his eyes; half-hearted, cut off, and fallen.

"Did you really think I'd believe that?"

Dunk lifted his head. His eyes were no longer empty; there was something mixed and complicated in them.

"How long have you... known? That it's... me?" Time seemed to tremble with that sentence. Because now, there were no masks, no roles.

Joong took a deep breath. He locked his eyes on Dunk's. As if trying to look inside, to find the truth. "Since the moment you told me to kill your husband." The answer was short, but definite. "You'd have to be an idiot not to understand."

"Why is Fadel doing this to you? Why are you allowing this punishment?" Joong asked.

Dunk averted his gaze. Those sharp questions hurt the deep wounds inside him. He mumbled in a muffled voice: "I have no other choice."

Joong's voice suddenly rose with a tremor. The anxiety in his heart turned into anger on his tongue; because sometimes love wants to shake the person it loves. To wake them up, to grab them by the shoulders and shake them, to fight for them to breathe... it all comes from the same impulse.

"There's always another way!" he said, his voice at that moment was not just a protest, but a cry.

"Look at you! Can there be a logical explanation for this... for what you're doing, Dunk?"

Joong's eyes didn't leave Dunk. He wasn't examining his body, but his collapse. The stoop in his posture, the twitching of his eyelids, the way his hands, though saved from the void, still seemed to hang in the air. This was the fall of a human being, but a silent, carefully constructed fall that no one had noticed.

Dunk bowed his head. It was as if not Joong's words, but his gaze had burned inside him. Something was knotted in his throat, but he didn't swallow. Because sometimes words were too big to be suppressed by swallowing.

"I had no other choice," he said. There was that deep weariness of someone who was used to surrender in his voice. This sentence was not a search for justification, but the echo of an acceptance.

"Sometimes... the darkness you're in is so deep that you don't see another way out. You consent to your own destruction. Because it feels like anything else would hurt you more."

Joong's lips tightened. He swallowed. "And you think you deserve that hurt?"

His sentence turned around Dunk like a key trying to untangle a thick, rusty chain.

"You're letting yourself do this because you don't want to be forgiven. Because you've identified with your own wounds. If they were to go away, who would be left behind?"

Dunk was shaken by these words. Joong’s words had touched the most silent corner of his subconscious. Yes... who would be left behind?

He had gotten used to living in the shadow of guilt for so long. That shadow was no longer a burden on his back; it was a part of his identity. And now someone had come and was trying to lift that shadow. But Dunk was afraid of stepping into the light. Because in the light, there wasn't just the possibility of forgiveness... there was also the responsibility of deserving it.

Joong took a deep breath. His hands were still on Dunk’s arms. "If you stay silent, that man will swallow you. In this state, with the life he's dragging you into… you will eventually become nothing but a reflection. A shadow of the person Fadel wants to see you as." His voice was calmer now but just as resolute.

"But I saw the real Dunk. Not the man standing at the edge of that window. The person still breathing a step behind him, the one who still wants to survive..." At that moment, Joong did something. It was a silent, sudden, but incredibly gentle movement. He held out his hand. Slowly, carefully... he touched the golden mask on Dunk’s face. Dunk's head wanted to pull back for a moment. His fingers reflexively went to the edge of the mask to hold it in place. But then... he stopped. His eyes closed. He took a deep breath. And... he let go.

Joong gently took off the mask. In his hand, he now held a representation of the role Dunk had been playing, the burden he had been carrying, the self he had been hiding. That mask was shining like a piece of armor in the glow of the ballroom; but now, in Joong's hand, it was only a weight.

When Dunk’s face was revealed, nothing was said at first. His eyes were moist. His face was tired, full of lines. But there was a beauty in that weariness. A reality.

"I saw the real Dunk," he said again. The sentence was the same, but this time it was without the mask. This time, Joong was saying those words to Dunk's bare face, when he had no place left to run. That word was no longer just a consolation, but a declaration of truth.

Joong moved closer. There was only a breath's distance between them. "I saw the truths you were hiding under those eyes. Your trembling hands, what you said while you were silent… But despite all of this, you are so beautiful…"

"Being broken doesn't make you any less, Dunk. And I can't say that someone like you... doesn't deserve to shine today just because you stayed in the dark in the past." He paused for a moment and continued. "Don't think you've lost your light just because you have cracks; sometimes that's where the light seeps through the most."

Dunk’s eyes filled with these words. But these tears were not tears of defeat, but tears of being heard for the first time, of truly being seen for the first time. They silently trickled down his cheeks. He didn't lift his hands to wipe them away. Because this time, he wasn't ashamed.

Joong took one last step. As the distance closed, he took Dunk's head between his two palms with a gentle but determined movement. His fingers lightly stroked Dunk's cheeks, and his eyes locked onto the deepest parts of his eyes.

“And about the question you asked me the last night…”Joong said. “My answer is… No.”

“I won’t kill him. But I will save you.”

Chapter Text

Dunk, following Joong's sincere words, lost himself in his eyes for another moment. This acceptance, spreading through his heart like a warm touch, reminded him of something he hadn't felt in a long time: being valued. But this feeling was quickly overshadowed by the weight of his complex situation. Fadel was waiting for him, and he knew the night wasn't over.

He slowly pulled his hands away from Joong's. "I have to go," he whispered, his voice still trembling, but a new spark of determination ignited within him. He gave Joong a brief look, an expression filled with gratitude and a hint of farewell. "I'll come to your room tonight," he said. The brief moment he spent with Joong had awakened a part of him he had forgotten for years. The acceptance and understanding he felt in that moment had lightened the heavy burden he had been carrying, if only a little. But the reality wasn't as soft as Joong's warmth. Fadel was waiting, and this masked game was not yet over.

"I'll be waiting," Joong said, his voice firm and reassuring. This single word was a beacon of hope for Dunk, a branch to hold on to.

Dunk returned to the ballroom, his trembling hands placing the gold mask back on his face. The coldness of the thin metal was a sign of his return to reality. Fadel was sitting at the table, his shoulders slightly stooped, his gaze blankly focused on a champagne glass. Dunk quietly sat beside him. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, turning to the few other guests at the table. "I went to the restroom." No one made a sound, not even Fadel. He didn't look at Dunk, but it was clear he was deep in thought as he slowly swirled the champagne in his glass.

From that moment on, a more peaceful aura was felt around Dunk. That brief contact with Joong seemed to have untied a knot inside him. Fadel also noticed this change. When a stylish woman sitting next to Dunk commented on how impressive his mask and outfit were, Dunk quietly thanked her and even took a small sip of his own champagne. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel completely alone in that crowd. Later, he subtly raised his champagne glass towards Joong, who was waiting in the shadow of a pillar a little further in the hall. It was a small, silent greeting between them. Fadel's sharp eyes did not miss this moment either.

The evening passed in that way, tense but seemingly normal. The ride home was silent. As they sat in the luxurious seats of the Rolls Royce, Fadel stared out thoughtfully. Dunk, on the other hand, was rehearsing the conversation he would have with Joong that night in his mind. A few times, when their eyes met in the rearview mirror, Dunk suppressed a bitter smile and turned his head to the right. When the journey ended and he entered his room, he immediately changed his clothes. He wanted to get rid of the elegant but foreign clothes that weren't his, that Fadel had chosen for him. Getting back into his comfortable and familiar clothes felt like it would bring a little peace to his soul.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw Style sitting cross-legged on the bed. That familiar, relaxed demeanor... It was as if the horror of a moment ago had never happened. But Dunk pretended not to see him. He averted his eyes from his reflection in the mirror, headed to his closet, grabbed the comfortable pajamas he had chosen earlier, and quickly put them on. Getting rid of those elegant but foreign clothes felt like shedding a weight from his soul.

As he buttoned up his pajama top, Style's mocking voice was heard. "What's wrong, are we not speaking?"

Dunk replied with his back to him. "I'm not talking to you," he said.

Style slid towards the edge of the bed, his voice softening. "Come on, Dunk, we don't hold grudges against each other. No matter what, we're brothers." His voice seemed to remind him of a habit that had lasted for years.

Dunk's eyes were fixed on the mirror. "You tried to kill me!"

Style shrugged, with no sign of remorse on his face. "You killed me too, so aren't we even?"

Dunk's silence didn't stop Style. He began to sway gently on the edge of the bed, his ghostly feet leaving a faint mark on the carpet. "Besides, you're technically still alive. It doesn't count," he added, as if trying to solve their 'small' disagreement with a mathematical equation. Then his eyes suddenly lit up, and he leaned towards Dunk with a knowing smile. "By the way," he whispered, "that handsome bodyguard... Joong. He looked very interested in you. What's the deal?"

Style's sudden change of subject and his reference to Joong caught Dunk off guard. Although he gave a dirty look to his reflection in the mirror, a slight blush appeared on his face. "He's just doing his job," he snapped back at him.

"Oh my God, Dunk..." he said, his voice filled with half laughter, half pity. "Did you really forget how to flirt?"

Dunk rolled his eyes, but the involuntary tremor that appeared at the corner of his lips could not be hidden. He wasn't angry, at least not completely. Maybe he felt a little embarrassed, a little caught. But he was determined not to break down his walls.

Style had noticed this. And this gave him more room to play. "I hope," he said slowly, his voice spreading through the room like a sinister touch, "you're not going to him in those ugly, baggy pajamas." He tilted his head to the side, narrowed his eyes, and chuckled dramatically. "There must still be some things in my closet. Open it, you'll find something sexy."

Dunk put his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes. He sighed, a weary but patient breath.

"Stop being ridiculous. You're making me feel bad."

These words were more of a warning than a plea. But Style's laughter only deepened. He leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and continued to talk while watching the ceiling:

"Ah, but my dear brother... Isn't that my job? To come and ruin you the moment you feel good. I'm loyal to my mission."

Dunk's patience suddenly ran out. He grabbed the pillow from the chair, clenched his teeth, and without saying a word, threw it onto the bed, over Style. As the pillow spun in the air, a strange silence fell over the room for a moment, and as the pillow landed on the bed, Style disappeared as if he had never been there. The pillow landed on the empty sheets. All that was left in front of Dunk was a neatly made, empty bed.

He didn't know why, but when Dunk looked back at the mirror, he didn't like what he was wearing. The gray cotton pajamas suddenly felt too ordinary, too... safe. He grumbled, opened the closet door, and began rummaging through the drawers. His fingers caught on a satin texture and stopped. It was a black, elegant, but distinctly provocative pajama set. He hesitated for a moment but then, with a silent sigh, he took it and began to put it on.

Dunk took a deep breath. He slowly stood up, moving with a silence that was almost ghostly. As he opened the door, he was careful not to make a sound. Stepping into the hallway, his heart beat a little faster than it should. He walked on his tiptoes, hugging the walls as if to disappear into the shadows.

Joong’s room was downstairs, at the end of the corridor. No light was seeping from under the door, yet Dunk somehow knew he was awake. When he stopped in front of the door, his hand hovered in the air for a moment. Hesitation… maybe he should turn back. But then a sound came from inside. A soft, almost whispered sound. Perhaps it was just a murmur from a dream, but to Dunk, it felt like an invitation.

He took another deep breath. Then he gently knocked on the door. The door silently creaked open, as if it had been waiting for him. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, with light hitting the floor like a soft crescent moon only from the base of the lamp. Joong was sitting on his bed, his back against the headboard, his eyes on Dunk. There was warmth in his gaze, but also a careful silence.

Dunk stood in the doorway for a moment. The satin fabric on him rustled lightly; his posture in the shadows seemed not like a stranger’s but like a confession.

Joong slowly straightened up, his voice barely a whisper. "Come in," he said.

And Dunk, leaving the night's heavy weight behind, stepped inside. As the door closed, the house's silence enveloped him once more, but this time, the storm inside him was a little less noisy.

Dunk entered the room with hesitant steps. Each step dragged a contradiction behind it. After the door closed, it was just the two of them; two people, a night, and the weight of unspoken words.

Joong moved a little closer to the edge of the bed. The gray t-shirt he was wearing hung loosely from his shoulder, his hair was messy, as if he hadn't slept for hours. But his face didn't show fatigue; it carried a patience reserved just for Dunk.

Dunk sat on the edge of the bed without saying a word. His eyes were on the floor. The satin fabric slid lightly over his knees. He clasped his fingers together, not as if he didn't know what to do, but as if he didn't dare to do it.

Joong looked at the fragile figure sitting next to him for a long time. He was listening not to what Dunk was saying, but to what he was not.

"I'm a little late," Dunk said in a muffled voice.

Joong bowed his head, smiling slightly. "It's okay. You're here."

They didn't speak for a while. The silence in the room just expanded. The darkness of the night enclosed them both within the same boundary. When Dunk turned his head, his eyes met Joong's. In that moment, there was no defense left on his face. A broken courage, a suppressed need, a desire for contact that had been silent for too long...

Joong didn't say anything, his face bearing an expression of deep understanding and patience. He just held out his hand. He didn't touch him, he just kept it close, like a tree offering a branch to take shelter after a storm, as if waiting for Dunk's decision. In that moment, the glitter of the ballroom, Style's mocking words, Fadel's dark shadow... all of it faded away. All that was left was Joong's outstretched hand and the endless turmoil inside Dunk. Part of him wanted to return to that familiar pain, that voluntary captivity. The other part felt an unbearable desire to take refuge in this unknown, warm, and safe harbor that Joong was offering.

Dunk took a deep breath, as if to exhale all the pessimism from his lungs. He slowly took the hand. His fingers wrapped around Joong's warm and firm ones. At the moment of that touch, it was as if an invisible burden he had been carrying for years had lightened. He closed his eyes. In that moment, Joong's presence was like a sanctuary, a solace he had been seeking for so long.

Joong's voice was soft, almost inaudible, as if he was whispering the most precious secret. "You're here." These two words meant so much to Dunk. That he was safe, that he wasn't alone, that he finally belonged somewhere...

Dunk bowed his head. His shoulders were still tense, his mind filled with Fadel's possible reactions. "We have to be careful, Joong. If Fadel..." Joong saw the fear, the anxiety, the wall of danger hidden in those words very clearly. But he didn't crash into that wall. He didn't try to tear it down. He just squeezed Dunk's hand a little more, his fingers gently stroking the bones of Dunk's delicate hand. With his other hand, he slowly, almost with the touch of a feather, pulled up the sleeve of the satin pajamas. He ran his fingers over his bare wrist. That warm touch caused a slight shiver on Dunk's skin. His heart began to beat faster.

Joong's touch moved slowly up from his wrist. His fingers found the sensitive points where Dunk's pulse was beating, and lingered there for a moment. Then, his whisper deepened even more, as if speaking to the most remote corners of his soul. "I don't want to hear another man's name from your lips tonight."

Dunk opened his eyes. The expression on Joong's face was intense and full of desire. In that moment, the attraction between them was much stronger than Style's ghostly presence or Fadel's dark threat. The affection, desire, and protective instinct Dunk saw in Joong's eyes brought out the feelings he had suppressed for a long time.

Without letting go of Dunk's hand, Joong stroked his face with his other hand. His thumb lightly traced Dunk's lips. Dunk's lips parted involuntarily. Joong's gaze fell to his lips, stayed there for a moment, and then rose to Dunk's eyes again.

He slowly leaned in, his breath touching Dunk's lips. "I want to touch you, Dunk," he whispered, his voice filled with a trembling desire. "I want to belong to you. I want you to belong to me, and no one else."

Dunk's heart was pounding in his chest. He couldn't answer, he just closed his eyes again. This was a moment he had longed for for a long time but was afraid to even admit to himself. Joong's closeness awakened both a sense of peace and an uncontrollable desire in him. This was not like the first time. It was about loving slowly, without haste. It was not a battle born of anger but a making of love.

As if he had received Dunk's silent approval, Joong slowly pressed his lips to his. It was a gentle kiss, like a discovery, a new introduction. As their lips met, the tension within both of them slowly began to dissolve. How different this felt from the first time? How special it felt when Style wasn't there, or when other masks and voices were absent, when this intimacy was just for two.

The kiss deepened. As Joong gently moved his lips over Dunk's, one hand still held Dunk's tightly, while the other slowly moved from Dunk's cheek to his neck. Dunk wrapped his arms around Joong's waist, pulling himself closer to him. In that moment, he had forgotten all his fears, all his worries. He was only focused on Joong's warmth, his touch.

Joong gently ended the kiss. He rested his forehead against Dunk's. Their breaths mingled. "I will be good for you," Joong whispered, his voice full of a deep devotion. "I will give you everything you deserve."

Dunk opened his eyes again. The love and affection he saw in Joong's eyes were enough to dispel all the darkness within him. He smiled slightly and nodded. "I know," he whispered back.

Joong gently took Dunk in his arms and slowly laid him down on the bed. That night, the ballroom's masks had fallen, and the true emotions behind the darkness were revealed. Two broken souls were finding solace and love in each other. Fadel's threat was still there, but for that moment, they only belonged to each other. Dunk lay on the bed while Joong's gaze gently moved across his face. He stroked Dunk's cheek with movements as careful as if he were a flower that could break. "Relax," he whispered, his voice as soft as the night. Dunk closed his eyes, trying to focus on the warmth Joong's touch left on his skin.

It was long past midnight, and while the world was slowing down in its own cycle, time in this room seemed to have stopped.

When Joong looked at Dunk, he carried not only desire but also a patient admiration. He watched his every move, his every breath, and noticed the strength hidden within the courage he silently accepted. For the first time, Dunk felt whole in Joong’s gaze. Incomplete, wounded, but still desired. Loved with his flaws...

Joong’s body moved closer to Dunk's, the distance between them wasn't just physical. In that moment, two people were carrying the weight of a shared past, unspoken feelings, and untouched desires. Joong, without needing any words, leaned in and placed a light kiss on Dunk’s lips. The contact was so brief, so soft, that it was almost as if he hadn't touched him at all compared to the effect it had on Dunk’s heart.

Joong then pulled his head back, his eyes moving across Dunk’s face. “We have all night,” he said, his voice like the whisper of a soft promise. “Let’s savor every moment.” His fingers moved towards the buttons of Dunk’s pajamas. Each button was undone carefully, slowly, as if unveiling a sacred relic. As the fabric was pulled away from Dunk’s body, Joong’s eyes deepened with each newly revealed spot. Dunk’s skin shone with a pale but warm glow in the moonlight. In that moment, Dunk felt completely visible for the first time in Joong’s gaze. It was a nakedness born not of shame, but of being understood.

Joong left a kiss on Dunk's chest over the opened pajamas. His lips lingered on his skin for a moment, and a shiver went through Dunk. As Joong’s warm breath traced a path on his skin, the inner storm in Dunk calmed down. Joong’s love was a patient, unhurried, respectful touch.

The top of the pajamas slid from his shoulders and disappeared silently on the bed. Dunk, seeing the admiration in Joong’s eyes, turned his head for a moment, but he didn’t run away. On the contrary, he found a place for himself in that gaze for the first time. Joong whispered: "You are so beautiful."

Dunk smiled slightly. This was different from the broken, silent, but fast night he had experienced in the past. This night, even the darkness felt warm. He ran his fingers through Joong’s hair, and a sense of belonging echoed in his fingertips as he moved through his soft locks. Joong leaned in to kiss Dunk’s lips again. This time the kiss was deep. Slow, but carrying a suppressed longing. When their tongues touched, the bond between them had taken an undeniable form.

In the short pause between their kisses, Joong whispered: “Let me touch you.”

Dunk opened his eyes. In that gaze, the pain of the past, the fear of the future, and the security of the present all came together. He nodded his head slightly in consent. No words were needed. Everything had already been said in that moment.

Joong slid the pajama bottoms off Dunk’s hips, his eyes slowly examining every detail of Dunk. He was actually not just admiring his body, but also the war within him. He settled between Dunk's knees before taking off his own t-shirt. He took a deep breath, burying himself in the light, familiar scent of Dunk's skin.

As he pulled up his t-shirt, his own body was opening up to Dunk. His sculpted abdominal lines appeared with a statuesque gleam in the moonlight, and a look of admiration mixed with desire flashed in Dunk’s eyes. When the knife wound also winked at him with a slight redness, his fingers unconsciously reached for Joong’s scar.

Joong slowly lifted one of Dunk’s legs. Dunk responded with a broken breath coming from his lips, his eyes half-closed. His leg wrapped around Joong’s waist; as their bodies locked together like magnets, their lips were in a hurry to find each other this time. Their kissing deepened. Now not just their lips, but their whole bodies were seeking each other.

Joong’s voice was heard as a muffled murmur between the kisses he left on Dunk’s neck: “I need you, Dunk.”

Dunk didn't say anything. His eyes were filled with tears, his breath was cut short, but with a complete acceptance inside, he nodded. Joong quickly took him on top of himself. When Dunk settled on Joong’s lap, it was as if an invisible line had been crossed between them. They met eyes. This time there was no timidity in their gaze, but an open desire. Joong’s fingers moved from top to bottom on Dunk’s back, leaving a trail. He was slow and careful; with every muscle movement, every twitch, he was listening to the reaction he was getting.

Dunk bit his lips lightly, his breath hitting Joong's neck and dying out. One hand reached for Joong’s hair, slowly passing his fingers through it. Joong lowered his head, leaving a kiss on Dunk’s collarbone. The touches that followed that kiss had now completely erased the boundaries between them. Joong shaped his body around Dunk like a sanctuary. His every touch, every transfer of weight, was like a part of a ritual. Without force, with patience, but with passion...

Time expanded in that moment, and space narrowed. Now there were only the warm points where their bodies touched and the feelings overflowing from within them. Joong, as he wrapped his arms around Dunk's waist and pulled him closer, Dunk buried his head in his neck. Their breaths mingled. Their bodies met in a closeness that words could not carry.

Joong pressed him back against himself with one move, then slowly carried his body up and, grabbing Dunk from underneath, laid him on his back. Now Dunk was lying on his back on the bed, and Joong was leaning over him. "You're trembling," Joong said. The white figure was trembling like a bird on the sheets that were almost as white as his own skin.

"Because... this feels real," he said, his voice low but sincere. "And that scares me a little."

Joong ran a hand over a part of his waist, pulling him even closer. "Don't be afraid," he said, slowly. "It's just us tonight."

As Joong's lips roamed over Dunk's neck, Dunk closed his eyes for a moment. The turmoil inside him seemed to be dissolving in Joong's touches. But then a thought, coming from the depths of his mind, stuck to his tongue. His hand reached for Joong's cheek, he gently lifted his head and looked into his eyes.

"You..." he said in a low voice, as if holding his breath. "You never looked at... Style like this before, did you?"

Joong's gaze froze for a moment, but then he slowly shook his head. His eyes were still locked with Dunk's. "Never," he said. His voice was firm, soft, but clear.

"I knew Style but... I always felt you. I actually noticed every moment you weren't him." Dunk's eyes shone slightly, and an indescribable ache ran through his chest. "Your name was Style, I think... but..." His words seemed to disappear as his lips got closer to Dunk's. "You were never just him. I always... heard you inside somewhere. As if you were silent, but wanted to get out."

"You found me..." Dunk whispered.

Joong paused for a moment. That sentence, in one single line, laid all of Dunk's defenses and his entire past out in front of him. No words had ever been so naked, so open before that. When Joong saw that fragile trust in his eyes, he simply pulled him back to himself. As his arms wrapped around Dunk, he answered with his skin instead of words.

"And now I won't lose you," Joong said, slowly.

****

The following days, the house's blind spots became their sanctuary. Joong never went directly to Dunk’s room, but when everyone was asleep, he would stop at the last step of the attic stairs and announce his presence with two light taps. The moment Dunk opened the door, their bodies would speak. In that small laundry room, in that narrow space no one ever went to, Joong’s breath echoed in the darkness as he leaned Dunk against the washing machine. They didn't make a sound their fingers, lips, and breaths just rested against each other. One day, at the end of the servant's corridor, in an unused old closet room, Joong leaned Dunk against the wall; there was no light, no time, just the shirt buttons he was gripping. In the back greenhouse, which faced the garden but was invisible from the outside, Joong hugged him from behind as Dunk rested his forehead against the foggy windows; he didn't say a word, just closed his eyes and buried his face in his hair. Every touch of theirs seemed to tremble with the fear that "this could be the last." During the day, they didn't speak or even look at each other. But when night fell, and Joong's hand gently touched Dunk’s wrist, Dunk closed his eyes and surrendered to him. Every touch was buried in the silence. Because their love shouldn't be seen, it should only be felt.

One night, the old library of the mansion was silent; the lights were low, the books seemed to have fallen asleep. As Dunk walked like a shadow between the shelves, he suddenly felt Joong's presence behind him. Without a sound, Joong existed behind him with just his breath. In that narrow space between him and the shelf, he gently leaned Dunk's back against the bookcase. Joong’s lips landed just below his throat, on an unspoken word. When he wrapped his arm around Dunk's waist, Dunk's eyes closed. There was only fabric between them, but even that was enough to feel his nakedness. They didn't kiss for long, because they had no time. They just merged their breaths. When Joong rested his forehead on Dunk’s, neither of them thought about the night nor the morning. But the morning came. Silence reigned in the corridors, the staff had already taken their places. When Dunk came from the right and Joong from the left, they met in the middle of the path. They didn't make eye contact. But as they passed each other, Joong's fingers lightly touched the palm of Dunk's hand as he walked. Not a pause, not a facial expression. Just that one-second contact... It called the night back into Dunk's chest. It was like a fingertip, a whisper saying, "I'm here." At that moment, everyone continued to walk. But the two of them… stood still inside for a second.

However, the happiness did not last long. It was as if a sudden silence fell right in the middle of the most beautiful melody. The next day, the usual hum of the mansion was replaced by an unsettling, chilling quiet. The air grew heavy, and the sky seemed to turn gray. Joong was nowhere to be seen. Dunk waited for midnight as he always did. His heart pounded in his chest with a mixed rhythm of hope and anxiety. He hoped to hear that familiar, two light taps on the last step of the attic stairs. That secret signal was the silent invitation to their meetings, their forbidden love. But the silence continued. As the hour hand moved slowly, Dunk's hope also waned.

The door did not stir. Under the night’s dark blanket, the familiar shadows remained motionless as usual. Not even the slightest sound of breath was heard. Yet, just last night, in that narrow space, Joong's warm breath was a whisper on his neck. An hour passed, then another. Time flowed with a cruel slowness. But no one came. The ghostly figure waiting at the top of those stairs did not appear.

When morning came, Dunk opened his eyes in a daze of sleepiness. Deep down, out of habit, he expected Joong to have entered the room. His silent entry into the room was like a ray of hope that appeared with the first light of dawn. That familiar silhouette gently seeping in from the edge of the curtain... But when he turned his head, it was empty...

The window was open, a light spring breeze was making the ends of the tulle curtain dance. But that warm, secure hand that gently held the curtain, protecting them from the outside world, was gone. Joong’s presence in this room was now just a faint ghost; it only remained as that indescribable feeling he had left in his heart, the warm touch of his skin had been withdrawn, his whispers had been drowned out.

First, he went up to the attic. The creaking of the stairs echoed like a bitter song of his loneliness. He went to that narrow windowsill no one ever visited. The secluded, special place where Joong would sit with his knees pulled to his chest. He wasn't there. Even the imaginary warmth he had left in that corner seemed to have flown away with the morning's coolness.

Then he went down to the garden. His feet left wet marks on the grass. He walked behind the greenhouse. That damp, green world, that sacred space where they breathed and fell silent together, where words were not needed. No trace. It was as if the earth had swallowed even his footprints, had forgotten him. Even the ghost of the secret kisses they had left there had been erased.

He returned to the library. He walked between the high, dusty shelves. He ran his fingers over the rough spines of the old volumes. He put his hand between the books, as if searching for his fingerprint, as if that magical touch was still hidden somewhere there. Emptiness. There was only cold leather and hard cardboard under his hand. Even the heavy smell of the books no longer felt familiar to him.

He wandered through every corner of the house until noon. In every long corridor, in every dim room, he unconsciously searched for Joong. He waited for someone to notice him, to stop his strange, heartfelt anxiety, to say something about Joong. But everyone was normal. The servants bowed their heads, silently continuing with their work with expressionless seriousness on their faces. No one's face showed a single doubt, the slightest curiosity about Joong's absence. It was as if Joong had never existed in this house.

In the dining room, Fadel was sitting alone. On the table with the white, ironed tablecloth, his daily newspaper lay next to the porcelain cup. As he carefully folded the newspaper, he slowly raised his head. His eyes met Dunk’s. He looked so long and blankly that in that momentary, terrifying gaze, it crossed Dunk's mind for a moment: He knows. He knows everything. But Fadel said nothing. He turned his head and returned to his steaming, bitter-smelling coffee.

****

It was long past midnight. As the house's deep sleep swallowed the sound of bare feet echoing in the dim corridors, Dunk was going up the narrow attic stairs.

A hand suddenly covered his mouth. Not cold, but surprisingly warm skin. Familiar. Very familiar.

When he turned around... Joong was there. His eyes were tired, deep lines were visible. There were traces of the night, sleeplessness, timelessness around him. It was as if he had returned from a long and difficult journey. But the expression on his face... was calm, as if nothing had happened. As if only a few hours had passed, not a few days. As if Dunk hadn't collapsed in that absence, hadn't been shattered every night, hadn't woken up with hope every morning.

And Dunk... the moment he saw that image, everything he had been holding inside was released. That tight knot loosened, that invisible wall crumbled. Tears streamed from his eyes. He neither suppressed them nor tried to hide them. All those silent screams, that accumulated longing, that indescribable fear, began to flow from his eyes that night. His sobs mingled with the silence. "You..." he said, his voice trembling, his throat tight. "Where were you..."

Joong slightly bowed his head. He approached him silently, his hand still stroking Dunk's cheek. With his other hand, he gently wiped away Dunk's flowing tears, then slowly touched his lips. He didn't want him to speak. Perhaps he didn't want that moment to be contaminated with words. Perhaps he just wanted to tell him everything with his presence, with his touch. Dunk was holding his breath, his heart fluttering like a bird in his chest. But that kiss... that soft, longing touch, took all his breath away. It was as if all the air in his lungs was emptied, and in its place, only the warmth of Joong's presence was filled.

Joong's hands roamed over his face. His thumbs stroked his cheeks, wiping away the flowing tears. He knew he was crying, he must have known. But he still hadn't said anything. He was just looking at him with those tired but loving eyes. Finally, Dunk's hands gathered on Joong's chest. He gripped the fabric of his t-shirt tightly. He didn't suppress the questions inside him, but he also didn't want to break the magic of that moment. Still, that silent waiting did not silence his question.

Joong turned his head to the side, and spoke with his muffled, tired, but still familiar voice. "Fadel sent me. There was an urgent matter, out of town. I had to solve it."

When their kisses separated, Dunk looked deeply into Joong's eyes. In that tired but loving gaze, he seemed to see his own worries, his own fears. He parted his lips slightly, and his voice came out in a trembling whisper. "Will it always be like this?" he asked. "Will I wait, knowing whether you'll come back every time you go on a mission?” His eyes filled with tears again, and his voice trembled with pain. "What if something happens to you? What if you can't come back?" In that moment, the unbearable fear he had experienced in Joong's absence had come alive inside him again. The thought that the man he loved could slip away from his hands at any moment wounded his soul deeply.

He took a deep breath, as if trying to bring some order to the complex emotions within him. "These... these things don't always happen like this," he continued, his eyes leaving Dunk's and moving towards the dark ceiling. "This mission... was different. It was urgent and had to be kept a secret. Normally, I would have been able to communicate or at least tell you where I was going."

"Can't you tell me?" Dunk asked, his voice no different from a whisper. The curiosity and anxiety within him had become unbearable.

Joong placed a warm, long kiss on Dunk's forehead. His lips stayed on his skin for a moment longer. "It's better you don't know..." he whispered, his voice filled with a deep love and protective instinct.

"Joong," Dunk said in a panic, his eyes wide. "What if Fadel found out? What if he does something to you?" The thought alone filled him with fear.

Joong’s hands cupped Dunk’s cheeks, and he looked into his eyes with determination. "I'm not the important one, Dunk. You are. I'll protect you no matter the cost."

Dunk's lips trembled. "I... I gave up on myself a long time ago, Joong..." His voice was filled with helplessness. "If something happens to you because of me now..."

Joong pressed his finger against Dunk's lips, silencing him. There was deep devotion and love in his eyes. "Nothing will happen, Dunk," he whispered, his voice firm and reassuring. "I promise."

-----3 Days Ago------

The sun was about to set. The sky was washed in rusty gold and crimson tones, as if from an old master's brush. In the distance, the last rays of light shimmered over the sea.

Joong stood in front of the pale yellow walls of a remote hotel. In his hand, he tightly gripped the silenced gun he kept like a dark secret. His face was expressionless, like a statue carved from marble. He knew what his mission was. Fadel's order was clear. Traitors must die...

The door to the hotel room was slightly ajar, like an inviting whisper. Joong pushed the door open silently without a hint of hesitation. A heavy, damp smell of mildew immediately filled his nose. It was as if the room had not been aired for a long time, like the smell of a trapped desperation. The curtains were tightly drawn, as if longing for daylight. The room was dim and weary, as if the events that took place within it had seeped into its walls. Inside, a man sat on the edge of a messy bed, holding a half full, amber colored whiskey bottle, not lifting his head as if he hadn't noticed Joong's entry. His shoulders were slumped, his gaze fixed on the floor. It was as if he knew Joong was coming. As if he had been waiting for a long time.

Joong closed the door behind him with the same silence. The mechanical sound of the lock created a momentary echo in the room's heavy atmosphere. He slowly approached the man, taking care not to let his steps be heard. Every muscle was on alert, ready for even the slightest movement. The man was still sitting in the same way, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed.

He slowly raised the bottle, brought it to his lips, and took a long sip. The liquid passing down his throat broke the room's silence for a brief moment. Then he slowly turned his head and looked at Joong. There was neither fear nor a desire to escape in his eyes. Only a deep weariness and acceptance could be read.

“So the day has come,” he said, his voice broken but surprisingly calm. The words poured slowly from his mouth, as if he was weighing the gravity of each one. “Judgment day...”

Joong did not utter a single word. The man's calmness was very different from the panic and resistance he had expected. This man did not seem like someone who would run or fight. This man... was waiting to die.

"Why did you run, Alfredo?" Joong asked, his voice like a low whisper in the room's dimness. "Fadel declared you a traitor."

The man laughed bitterly. It was a dry, muffled, weary laugh. It was as if months of regret and helplessness had come together. "Am I a traitor? I just followed orders! I arranged the car. That 'accident'... But I didn't know who was in it..." His eyes focused on Joong's face with an expression full of regret. "Style's death was not planned..."

Joong’s fingers tightened on the gun. Something stirred inside him. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

The man tilted his head to the side, and a bitter smile appeared on his face. "He didn't tell you anything, did he? That boy, Dunk was the real target... he is now being held in Fadel's hands like a punishment. He is being kept alive but not living..." His voice turned into a whisper. "Fadel's true desire was death. Now he is just... delaying it."

Alfredo took a deep breath, without taking his eyes off Joong's face. "Kill me now," he said, his voice now completely exhausted. "If you don't kill me, someone else will anyway. I'm tired of running. Of constantly watching my back, of suspecting every shadow... It's over. I can't take it anymore."

Joong slumped into a chair by the table... The silenced gun in his hand was a dull gleam in the dim light, but he was in no hurry to pull the trigger. Every word that came from Alfredo's mouth was like a ringing bell in his mind. "Style's death was not planned... he targeted Dunk..." These sentences were pulling back a curtain of a dark secret, and the scene behind the curtain only multiplied the questions within Joong. Without taking his eyes off Alfredo's pale face for a moment, he sat silently for a while, breathing in the heavy, mildewed air.

Then, Joong's voice came like a low but clear whisper, tearing through the room's silence: "Why Dunk?" This question was not just an expression of curiosity, but also of a deep search for meaning.

Alfredo opened his eyes with a weary sigh and threw a blank gaze toward the ceiling. "Because Dunk..." he said, his voice now more of a whisper, as if revealing a secret hidden in the deepest parts. "...was a mistake that should not have existed."

Joong's features sharpened, his muscles tensed. This simple yet striking statement once again revealed the dark truth about Fadel.

Alfredo lowered his gaze from the ceiling and turned it to Joong. In his eyes was the weariness and wisdom of a man who had lived for many years in Fadel's dark world. "In Fadel's order, everything is in its place," he continued, his voice firm and cold. "Who is loved when, who is discarded—everything is meticulously planned. Like a chessboard. Every piece has a place, a purpose."

A bitter smile appeared on his lips. "But Dunk? He... Dunk was a piece that belonged to no one. Unlike Style, he had an untameable energy. He was rebellious. Unpredictable, not following the rules... He was dangerous. And perhaps he was endangering Style, his only soft side in this world."

Joong leaned forward slightly with Alfredo's words. His curiosity was mixing with his anxiety. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice a little louder.

Alfredo rolled his eyes, as if not understanding this truth was a sign of Joong's naivety. His voice carried the certainty of a man who had spent years around Fadel and had memorized his way of thinking. "Dunk was like a virus in Fadel's eyes. A parasite that needed to be exterminated in his meticulously built 'perfect' world. Style's shadow... but the dirty one in Fadel's eyes. The one that could get out of control, that could turn everything upside down."

Alfredo paused for a moment, trying to read the expression on Joong's face. Then, his voice dropped even lower as he continued. "Fadel built his power with perfection. He wants everything to be as it should be. And Dunk's existence... was threatening his fake, fragile order. He was like a stain."

Alfredo took one last deep breath, as if exhaling all the secrets with this breath. "Fadel doesn't like mistakes, Joong. He doesn't ignore them, he doesn't forgive them. He corrects them. Or... buries them." His eyes shifted to the gun in Joong's hand. "Just like he will bury me."

Fadel's system, woven with perfection, required every individual to have a place, a limit, and a function. Style was a silent but shiny cog in this machine; Dunk was a rusty nail a coincidence that could ruin everything at any moment. Killing him was like erasing a single stain that ruined a painting. But fate changed Fadel's plan. The wrong person died, and the right one survived. And now... Fadel still wants to kill him. But not immediately. Dunk’s death is no longer an end it’s an extended correction process. Keeping him alive, breaking him down step by step, erasing his identity and pride, extinguishing that spark of rebellion in his eyes... this is how Fadel was writing the real punishment. Death was now a salvation, and living was a form of execution in his hands. Every day, every step, he was emptying Dunk from the inside out without shedding his blood. Because Fadel was one of those who preferred to carry out even his revenge with a delicate touch over time. And in his eyes, Dunk's living... was just a part of a slowed down end...

“I wish Dunk had died,” Alfredo said, and while the words were still in the air, Joong, still sitting in his chair, quickly raised his hand. No prior warning, no change in expression... His eyes were fixed, his fingers on the cold trigger. Suddenly, a whisper like bang from the silenced gun pierced the room’s deadly silence. The bullet lodged in Alfredo’s forehead almost invisibly, his eyes froze for a moment, then the upper part of his body was thrown backward and he fell onto the bed on his back. When his head hit the white of the pillow, the thin line of blood spreading from his forehead opened like a red flower on the cotton fabric. Everything was silent, but the spreading of the blood... was so heavy, so distinct, that it was as if time itself was watching it. Joong did not tilt his head even a millimeter, with his hand still holding the gun resting on his knee. His eyes were watching that stain expand. Every drop was like an atonement for a sentence that belittled Dunk's survival...

This was not the execution of a traitor, but a carefully prepared observation area. Joong’s loyalty was being tested not in unquestioning executions, but in moments of questioning. What he was truly observing when he threw Alfredo in front of him was Joong's limits. Because for Fadel, it was important to know his enemies, but measuring how far those who seemed like friends remained loyal... was the key to survival.

Fadel was a very smart man, but there was something he had forgotten. Bullets kill people, but some truths kill loyalty...

****
Fadel was sitting in the high backed, velvet covered armchair in front of the ornate fireplace. He slowly took a sip of coffee from the delicate porcelain cup in his hand; the brief, fleeting curve of satisfaction that appeared at the corner of his lips immediately vanished. Then he slowly lifted his head and watched Joong’s silent entry into the living room.

Joong’s steps were controlled and silent, shaped by years of discipline. His feet made almost no sound on the expensive rug. But Fadel was one of those men who could hear even the slightest hesitation, the most secret pulse beat behind this controlled silence.

"Welcome," Fadel said, his voice in harmony with the tranquil atmosphere of the living room, as if he were starting an ordinary afternoon chat. His voice was calm, every word carefully chosen, measured. "Alfredo didn't make your job difficult, did he?” then he paused for a moment and a small sneer appeared on his lips. “He liked to talk. More than he should...”

Joong bowed slightly in front of Fadel, the expression on his face as stony as a mask carved from marble. "No, sir. Everything went as planned." His voice was equally controlled and expressionless.

Fadel did not take his dark eyes off Joong for a moment. His long, thin fingers slowly traced the warm handle of the cup, then he calmly took another small sip of his coffee. That sip lasted a long time, as if he was weighing a thought. "Excellent," he said, drawing out the word a little too long, as if searching for other meanings beneath it. Then, just like the tense silence a master painter creates while calculating where to place the final brushstroke, he left a short but meaningful pause. "Some things… resolving on their own has always been a relief to me."

Joong did not move. Not a single muscle twitched, nor was there the slightest change in his gaze. He said nothing. But at that moment, Fadel's sharp eyes settled deep into his. He wasn't shouting or questioning. But Joong felt an invisible scale there, behind those deep and dark eyes. As if even the most secret corners of his soul were being measured, weighed, and judged with just a glance.

Fadel smiled slowly. This smile was not warm; on the contrary, it shone on his lips like a thin layer of ice. He placed the cup on the antique side table next to him; the slight touch of the porcelain on the wood echoed in the living room, then he spoke slowly, as if underlining every word: "Alfredo was one of the men I trusted the most. Just like you.." His gaze never wavered, it was as if it was fixed on Joong’s eyes. “I loved him, but you know men like Alfredo... are either the most trustworthy... or the last traitors to be discovered.”

Joong’s hands were clasped behind his back with an imperceptible tension. His posture did not shift even a millimeter; he maintained that perfect soldier's stance.

Fadel leaned back, sinking into the soft cushions of the armchair. While the fireplace continued to crackle, in contrast to the tranquil atmosphere of the room, he tilted his head slightly to the side. There was an ambiguous expression in his eyes. “But it's good to trust men like you, Joong. You know what's needed, you don't talk too much, you return on time.” After a short pause, he added with that icy smile on his face: "And... you don't question too much.”

The sentence echoed in the silent and heavy atmosphere of the grand living room. Joong’s eyes clashed with Fadel’s for a moment. In that brief moment of contact, the tension in the air became palpable. This was not an open threat. It was not a direct order. But it was most certainly both. It was a veiled warning, spoken in a polite tone, but with a deep meaning beneath it.

"My only beloved servant..."

Chapter Text

-----6 Years Ago----

Fadel arrived at the hotel late that evening. No one noticed his arrival; he had no intention of being noticed. The invitation had come weeks earlier, but he had remained undecided about attending. A last minute business dinner cancellation, a few free hours, and his assistant's sentence, "It would be good for you to make an appearance," found him there. The moment he stepped into the hall, a suffocating atmosphere filled him along with a wave of warmth. Trays of drinks circulated, and young people chattered excitedly. It was a night filled with brilliant, university-related conversations. Everyone was talking, but no one was listening. Fadel stood in the corner of the room, not even taking a sip of his drink, simply watching. His eyes couldn't find a place to rest, his ears couldn't catch a single voice. He checked his watch. "Twenty minutes. Stay for twenty minutes, then leave," he told himself. But he couldn't.

Because he noticed someone...

The person was walking alone through the crowd. With a notebook in his hand, he wore a white formal shirt neither flashy nor careless. His sleeves were rolled up to his wrists, and his gaze seemed lost in deep thought. He wore glasses, but the lenses were clear; he seemed to be watching things carefully, but without judgment. He simply moved through the crowd; seen but not hiding. He didn't speak, didn't try to explain himself. But as Fadel's eyes began to follow him, he noticed: everyone else around him had turned into a blur. His eyes saw only him. It was as if the lights in the hall had dimmed, and the sounds had faded away. The young man, without realizing it, left a trail of silence everywhere he passed.

Fadel turned his head with an attention that didn't feel his own. Without marking the spot where the young man stood, he placed it in a corner of his mind. At that moment, he knew nothing about him. Not his name, not why he was there. But a very strange feeling came over him. As if, even without hearing a single sentence from that person, he knew that one day he would be changed by a sentence spoken by him. And this idea... settled inside him like a strange blend of peace and fear. He didn't check his watch again. He forgot to leave. Because now the crowd felt a little more meaningful. At least one person... was truly there.

Just then, he heard a voice from behind him. "Your car is ready, sir," someone said. It was his assistant, who had said he would bring the car after checking his watch. Fadel didn't turn his head right away. He didn't answer either. His eyes were still fixed on the front. Then, softly, he asked over his shoulder: "The student who just passed in front of me?... The one with glasses."

His assistant paused for a moment. "With glasses... yes. One of the students. One of the organizers of this event. He had a strange name...His name is Style. I don't remember his last name. But he also participates in the talks."

Fadel fell into a very brief silence. Then, without doing anything, he just stood there.
"Cancel the car," he said quietly. "I'll stay a little longer."

As time passed, the crowd in the hall thinned. Some speakers left, and student groups broke into smaller clusters. Presentations, awards, thank yous... it was all just a formality now. But Fadel still hadn't moved from his spot. He still held an undrunk drink in his hand, and unspoken sentences on his lips. As everyone slowly left, something new had just arrived within him. Not a thought, but a feeling. A light but persistent, inescapable curiosity.

His eyes searched for him through the crowd. As if he was standing on a shore somewhere.. At one point, he got up. With slow steps, as if finding a needless reason, he began to wander around. He glanced at the posters on the walls, stopped by the brochure table. Student lists, name tags, program schedules... he looked carefully. And he finally found it. A small, crumpled name tag: "Style Natachai - Economics / Senior Year"

The writing seemed faded, but to Fadel, it was far too meaningful. He didn't pick up the card. But he looked at it for a few seconds. And then he simply thought to himself:

"One day... if this name appears on a file in front of me, I will stop."

At the end of the night, outside the hotel, his assistant had the car ready again. As Fadel got into the front seat, he looked out the window. It had started to rain. Transparent curves on the glass distorted the soft lights.

After that night, nothing was exactly the same. For Fadel, this may not have been a major change; his life didn't change direction, his business plans weren't overturned. But the direction of his attention changed. Every time a new invitation arrived, especially university-related ones, his eyes involuntarily drifted to the details. He examined the "Speakers" section for a little longer. "Participants," "networking sessions," "student presentations"... headings he used to only glance at, now he read line by line. He attended some events, and was just a listener at others. He was sure he wasn't missing anything by not going to some places, but he carried a possibility within him everywhere he went. Because he thought that the young man who had passed by him in that hall once, who hadn't explained himself with a single word, might one day reappear. This wasn't an exaggeration; it was just a trace, but it wouldn't fade.

Weeks and months passed. Fadel pretended to forget some nights. He might have even forgotten. But then at an event... as his eyes wandered through the hall, his gaze stopped at a movement in the crowd. The months that had passed change bodies, but some things don't. The same clarity behind the glasses, the slight slump in the shoulders, the careful steps that passed through the crowd without a fuss. Fadel knew who the person in front of him was, but he didn't want to look without being sure. And then, they met. There was no greeting, no name. Just a gaze. The young man... looked straight at him from behind his glasses. And then he smiled very slightly. Unexaggerated. Soft. Sincere but unhurried. Something moved on Fadel's face, but he himself didn't even notice what it was. They didn't speak at that moment. But there was no need to. The gaze was like the continuation of a night that had been left unfinished years ago.

At another event, again in the middle of a standing crowd, he came up to Fadel while he was alone. This time there was no hesitation, neither in his body nor in his voice. A shy smile had been replaced by a more simple but more self-assured posture. He didn't have a notebook. He didn't say anything he hadn't memorized. He just approached and spoke in a tone almost close to a whisper, but clearly:

"When are you going to ask me out for coffee?"

His eyes were sparkling. At the edge of his words was a game, and beneath it was a seriousness. The first thing that crossed Fadel's mind was: "If he had asked this question months ago, I couldn't have answered." But now... it didn't feel like time had stopped. Time had passed. And this sentence, coming from within that past, left a warmth in Fadel's throat. He smiled. He really smiled.

"Today," he said simply.

Almost a year passed in silence; but every day multiplied within them like an echo. Fadel slowly fell in love with Style, without even realizing it. With his hands, the way he would look away when he spoke, the brief moment he would pause before touching his coffee in the mornings. With the silence that curled up beside him at night, with the face that looked out the window in the mornings that was unlike anyone else's. When Style laughed, the world seemed to slow down, as if someone had turned down the noise and only the two of them remained inside. In the beginning, Fadel tried to understand this love; not to hold it, but to know it. But in time, as he got to know it, he realized he didn't want to let it go. Style was also happy, there was no doubt. Waking up next to him every morning felt good; his face looked rested now. He wasn't afraid to look into Fadel's eyes. But Fadel's heart sank deeper every day. The thought that Style could get lost in a stranger's eyes made him shiver. He had even started to feel uncomfortable with someone else hearing his voice, or even his laugh being shared in a conversation. As his love grew, simply counting the things he loved was not enough; the desire to protect what he had quietly seeped inside him. This wasn't jealousy. This was a fear, the fear of losing him. Style still looked happy. But Fadel had begun to understand that this love was not just an emotion, but a form of existence. A possessiveness that went beyond loving... slow, careful, but inevitable.

Fadel never forgot that night.

Style was sitting in front of the mirror. The drops dripping from his hair clung to the edge of the towel, and he was gently drying his hair with his fingers. The warm steam from the shower still lingered in the room.

"You're doing it again..." Style said, looking at Fadel in the mirror, who was sitting on the bed with a deep expression, watching him.

"Doing what?" A corner of Fadel's lips curved.

"Looking." Style's cheeks flushed.

"I will always look at you."

"I wonder what you think about when you always look at me like that." Fadel quietly approached. He didn't fail to take in Style's scent as he placed a small kiss on his shoulder. His own breath mixed with the warmth of his skin. "You'll never know..."

"What are you thinking?" Style whined a little childishly, and when no answer came while Fadel's lips still lingered on his shoulder, he grumbled.

"Okay, don't tell me..." Style laughed softly. He put the towel aside, swept his hair back, and looked at Fadel.
"At least answer the question I asked you the other day... What is the one place in this world you want to go to the most?"

Fadel raised his eyebrows. "I don't know." He was honest; he really didn't know. He had traveled to countless countries and seas up until now. There wasn't a place that made him happy, a city he wanted to return to.

Style tilted his head to the side, showing that smile of his. "No, I'm serious. A place you would mark on a map. Just one."

Seeing the insistence in his eyes, Fadel fell silent. Then, instead of answering, he asked:
"What about you? What would be the place you would mark?"

Style thought for a bit, biting his lip. Then he said in a whisper:
"The Caribbean. I've always wanted to see it. The sea, the island, the wind... Just imagining that blueness makes me happy."

When Fadel heard this answer, he smiled. He ran his hands through Style's hair and turned his face towards him.
"The Caribbean, huh? Who said you could go that far away from me?"

This made Style giggle. "You silly... Where would I go without you..."

Fadel lightly touched his lips, looking into his eyes. "Then let's go. Tomorrow..."

After a moment of surprise, Style covered his face with his hands, laughing. "You're crazy!" he said.

And at that moment, Fadel understood; the place in the world he wanted to go to the most was not written on any map. That place was only next to Style.

All that happened... six years later, Fadel was sitting at his desk, a man who had lost everything. The room was filled with silence; there was only him amidst the empty bottles, half-finished papers, and the pale light of unextinguished lamps. His hands were trembling. He reached for the photographs scattered in front of him.

The Caribbean… The sea, the white sand, the rustling of the wind… It was all there. The photographs had been taken by Style's hands; the shots had that unique clarity that came from seeing the world through his eyes. They still seemed to carry the salt of the sea and the coolness of the wind.

Fadel took a single photo from the scattered pile. He looked at it for a long time. The photo had been taken on the deck of a yacht. Style was leaning against the railing. His hair was tousled by the wind, and light glinted on the lenses of his glasses. On his lips was that soft, sincere, world-silencing smile directed at Fadel.

He looked so happy there.

Fadel’s eyes began to sting. He stroked the edge of the photo with his thumb, as if he could hear the wind of that day from where he touched. But there was only the coldness of the paper.

And at that moment, Fadel understood: The Caribbean was not a place. The Caribbean was hidden in Style's smile. That smile was now frozen on paper; for the rest of his life, that was the one place he could never reach.

Then… the door opened again. This time the door didn't creak, it wasn't knocked on. It opened like a wind. Fadel didn’t lift his head, because he knew what it was. He knew and he was waiting. Someone with bare feet and tousled hair stepped into the room. He was wearing a thin shirt; it was almost transparent, the sleeves were loose, and his body was as light as a dream. His steps seemed to glide without touching the floor, but Fadel could feel the weight of every step.

Style… He was an image ripped from time, one that could only exist in Fadel’s nights. But he was so real that all the dust in the room seemed to move aside to make way for him. There was no coldness of death on his skin, but the blurriness of a dream. His eyes didn’t look into Fadel's; they seemed to look into those innocent times that had passed through him. Style approached without speaking. Not to the desk, not to the evil around him, but only to Fadel. And like a wind, like a shadow, he sat on his lap. His shoulders leaned against Fadel’s chest. His arms didn’t wrap around his neck; he simply embraced him with his presence. He tilted his head slightly to the side, leaning toward his ear. “What is the one place in the world you want to go to the most, Fadel?” he said. His voice was like an echo, like a sentence once spoken and still hanging on the wall.

And then Fadel, almost with compassion, almost with love, whispered, bringing his lips close to the apparition. “Next to you,” he said. “Just... next to you.”

"Then come..."

"I will. Very soon..."

*****

A huge bowl of fresh grapes sat on the shiny marble island. Dunk, as if nothing had happened, picked one up, rolled it between his fingers, and then put it in his mouth. He looked around, and when he couldn’t see Joong, he called out to a servant in a half indifferent voice, as if starting a perfectly normal morning conversation.
“Have you seen Joong?”

The servant hesitated briefly as he arranged coffee cups on a tray. Then, with a slight look of surprise, he replied:
“Sir… I believe he must be making the necessary arrangements for your Caribbean vacation.”

The grape Dunk was chewing got caught in his throat. For a moment, his breath was held, and his eyes watered with a cough. He reached for a glass with a shake, taking a sip of water. The words that forced themselves from his lips were harsh:
“What… what Caribbean trip?”

The servant froze. He averted his gaze as he put the tray on the table. Then he whispered in a timid but clear tone:
“Mr. Fadel announced it this morning, sir. Didn't you hear?”

“Where did this come from?”

The servant clasped his hands in front of him. A nervous expression appeared on his face; he seemed to be trying to gather his words in a panic of having said something wrong.
“I have no information, sir…” he said in a low, respectful voice. “I only heard Mr. Fadel’s instructions this morning. I don't know anything more.”

Dunk grabbed the edge of the kitchen island. A half-eaten grape was still on his fingertip. But the lump in his throat no longer came from the fruit, but from the heavy suspicion that had settled inside him.

He didn't speak for a while; he only tried to hold himself together with deep, heavy breaths. Then he saw no reason to hide his anger.

He stormed out of the kitchen. The marble floor echoed under his hard steps; with each step, his patience cracked a little more. Just then, he saw the silhouette descending the wide stairs. Fadel. He was wearing a dark suit that screamed confidence even in the dim light of the morning.

Dunk's breath caught in his chest. His fists clenched involuntarily. And finally, unable to suppress his voice, he burst out:
“What is this now? Is this a new game?”

Fadel raised his head, stopping halfway down the stairs. There was a calmness on his face veiled with ridicule; in his eyes, as always, that unreadable, shadowy gaze. He didn't answer. He just watched him, like a silent challenge.

Dunk’s voice grew even harsher. Every word was like a crack echoing in the stairwell:
“I'm not going anywhere! Did you hear me? Not the Caribbean, not anywhere else… You can’t drag me anywhere.”

A corner of Fadel’s lips curved very slightly.

That narcissistic bastard… The thought passed through Dunk’s mind, but he didn’t say it.

No matter how much Dunk objected, he found himself in the Caribbean. First, they took a long journey on a private jet arranged by Fadel; when he looked down from the plane’s window, the endless blue sea seemed to merge with the sky. After landing, it was a short car ride, and they finally arrived at the port. A gigantic mega-yacht was waiting for them there; its jet black hull was gleaming, and with its tiered decks, it rose like a small palace. Against his will, Dunk stepped aboard and found himself on the deck. At least Joong was with them. Of course, along with a dozen of Fadel’s bodyguards, ship's crew, and chefs. He didn't understand why all this trouble was being taken, but it didn't feel peaceful at all.

Fadel, with determined steps, slowly approached Dunk. Without a single word, as if it were a natural right, he placed his hand on Dunk’s waist. It was a light yet firm touch that contained a certain direction—a perfectly dosed display of possession. It was the most polite yet most effective way to control Dunk’s body and turn him in the direction he wanted.
Dunk froze for a moment, a reflexive reaction. That sudden contact caused an icy shiver on his skin. Then, slowly, with a mechanical obedience, he turned his steps in his direction. His body was moving forward with Fadel’s light pressure, but his mind was still back with Joong, who was tying the boat to the yacht.

“Don't scowl,” Fadel said, his voice as calm as the night sea but as if filled with hidden, dangerous waves. He had sensed Dunk’s tension. “Sirena’s order… devours those who respond with unease.” This was not just a warning but also a reminder of the rules of this luxurious and controlled world. He was prodding Dunk, who didn't fit into this world, as if he were a guide. Style was used to it; there were even times when he had been photographed on this yacht in Maldives and a few other tourist countries for social media.

Dunk turned his head slightly but did not look at Fadel. As he continued to walk, Dunk noticed that Fadel's hand was still on his waist. His hand was neither squeezing nor pulling away. It just rested there. It was like a possessive, a reminder of his weight. It didn't pull. But it didn't let go either.

“I’m sorry,” Dunk said, his voice soft but internally prickly. He was trying to hide the discomfort he felt from that touch. “I guess… I chose the wrong season to get into the vacation mood.”

Fadel gave a short, dry laugh, but it was not with joy; rather, it was with cold calculation, as if with the satisfaction of seeing a complex equation reach the right solution. “You need to learn to be content with what you have,” he said. “Just as I have with you.”

When the massive wooden door leading to the interior of the yacht silently opened by an invisible hand, a sweet and intense perfume, the slightly sour scent of aged wine, and the distinct, rich smell of polished dark wood wafted inside. As Dunk stepped through that uninviting opening, Fadel’s hand finally slid from his waist. But that warmth… that brief contact felt as if it had left a permanent mark, a hard to forget sensation, under his skin.

When Dunk entered his room, the refined scent that had seeped into Sirena’s interior immediately settled on him: polished wood, sea salt, and the cleanliness of minty tones… Dunk flinched at the sound of the door closing behind him, and before he could turn around, Joong quickly pulled him into his arms; that hug filled the emptiness inside him with an unexpected force, as if everything had fallen into place for a moment. Dunk rested his head on his chest, closing his eyes, but just as that warmth was beginning to sink into his skin, Joong’s voice came, low and as sharp as a line: “I missed you so much.” The sentence had been uttered at the moment their skin was still touching. They hadn't seen each other for a few days. Joong had been busy making the necessary arrangements for the Caribbean.

Joong stroked Dunk's hair without breaking the embrace. "We have to be careful, Dunk," he whispered, his voice carrying a tone of worry. "I don't know what Fadel is planning, but something is wrong." His eyes scanned Dunk's face, a deep instinct to protect him shining in his worried gaze.

“Did he figure us out?” Dunk asked, his voice a whisper, but a panic echoed within it; he moved even closer to Joong’s chest, as if wanting to escape the weight of the words.

Joong paused for a moment, then lowered his head and spoke even closer to Dunk's ear. "He might have…" he said, his voice carrying a dry tension. "…but I don't like his silence."

That sentence hung in the room like a vibration. Because Fadel’s silence was not like the calm before a storm. It was more like… a chess master, who had set up the game, gleefully waiting for the final move. There was no rush in that wait; because he carried the patience of someone who knew from the start who would win.

Dunk's shoulders trembled involuntarily. The breath he took was deep, but it didn't fully fill his lungs.

“Does he want to separate us?” he asked, without looking away.

“I wouldn’t say that. It’s more like he’s allowing it…”

“Allowing what?”

“I don’t know what's on his mind, but it’s not good. Still, no matter what, I'll protect you."

But something inside Dunk was still unmoved. Joong’s promise to protect him was beautiful, touching… but it was also dangerous. Because that sentence was less of a promise of protection and more of a prelude to a farewell. It was as if Joong was ready to sacrifice himself.

“You'll protect me…” Dunk said, his voice like a hazy echo. “But what about yourself?”

Joong didn’t lift his head. He kept his eyes rested on Dunk's shoulder for a while. He didn’t answer right away. The silence was an answer. Dunk realized that Joong was constantly putting himself forward like a shield. And this love, like a warm yet sharp lump, knotted in his throat.

Dunk pulled back slightly, taking Joong’s face in his hands. He looked into his eyes where fatigue, darkness, and love were intertwined. "The way for us to stay together isn't just to defend me, Joong," he said, his voice carrying a trembling but firm depth. "You have to protect yourself too. Because… I can’t lose you too."

Dunk's fingers were still on Joong’s face; his thumb gently traced one of the lines of fatigue on his cheek, while his eyes locked with his with deep and unshakeable determination. His voice came out low but like a sentence without a roof direct, vulnerable, and sincere: “Give me your word, Joong.”

Joong's eyebrows furrowed almost imperceptibly. Dunk’s voice continued, not trembling, but with that tone that held a lifetime of loss: “If one day… you have to choose between me and yourself… you will choose yourself.”

Joong looked at him without blinking. It was as if that moment froze. The air in the room suddenly grew heavy, the walls felt closer, and the breath became quieter. Dunk continued, his voice almost a whisper but the words were like knives: “I… I can’t bear to lose another person I love.”