And once—once—for looking at him like that. Like he mattered.
"Fucking weirdo," Haneul muttered at no one, kicking a soda can into the gutter. "Suit was too tight anyway."
By the time he reached the door to his tiny apartment, the anger had soured into something heavier. Thicker. It clung to him like wet smoke.
His apartment door looked worse than usual. The paint was peeling around the hinges, and the taped-up mail slot flapped faintly in the wind like a broken tongue. Two notices were stapled just above the handle—one printed in red, the other sun-faded and curling.
Eviction, again. He didn’t bother reading the dates.
Just ripped the top page loose, crumpled it, and shoved it into the overflowing crack between the door and frame, like patching a sinking ship with spit and thread.
He wrestled with the key, cursed again, then kicked the door until it groaned open. Inside, it was cold. The radiator hadn’t turned on. The silence was louder than the city.
Hedropped his coat on the floor. Left one boot in the entryway. The other fell somewhere in the dark.
No dinner.
No shower.
Just gravity.
Haneul collapsed onto the mattress with a grunt, face-first, half-on, half-off, like he’d been thrown there by the weight of the night. His braid curled against his neck like a question mark. The poem still laid under the pillow—creased, faded, waiting.
And sleep came fast. It yanked him under like deep water, pulling at the frayed edges of his mind with no kindness.
And in that darkness, something pulsed.
Not pain. Not memory or fear, but a flicker. A core of magic. Red, radiant, burning hot, slow-beating like a heart.
And eyes. Crimson-golden eyes—watching him from the dark.
Unmoving.
Unflinching.
Warm.
??????
Chapter 7 — The Fire That Stayed Lit
The elevator opened in silence.
Hours later, long after the boardroom had emptied of smoke and perfume, Seungho stepped into his penthouse and the lights rose automatically, gold along the marble, soft against the glass walls. Seoul sprawled beneath him like a field of dying embers. He loosened his tie with two fingers, precise, automatic, as if each motion might keep the world from shifting again.
He set his phone on the counter. The other hand found his pocket.
Half a mooncake.
Wrapped in its crumpled foil, faintly warm still, smelling of sweet bean and smoke.
He stared at it a moment too long before laying it down beside the whiskey decanter. He didn’t know why he’d pocketed it, only that throwing it away felt wrong.
He should shower. He should sleep. He should not be standing here remembering the way a boy in a fox mask had looked at him like a challenge carved into flesh.
He poured a drink instead. The tumbler felt small in his hand, dwarfed by the span of his fingers; even the decanter seemed too delicate, glass clicking nervously against his knuckles. He straightened without thinking—shoulders filling the reflection that reached almost to the ceiling, the city glittering at his back.
The burn hit his throat, clean and bright, but it didn’t touch the heat behind his ribs. His reflection in the window stared back—six feet three of impeccable tailoring, lines too sharp for comfort, and eyes that looked as if someone had lit a forge behind them. Seoul sprawled beneath his silhouette like a map pinned under a hand too large to fit anywhere.
