??????
At the club, Christmas night, the lights dimmed early. The last clients stumbled out with jackets half-buttoned and glitter in their hair.
Haneul sat at the edge of the bar, arms folded over himself, like cold didn’t belong to him.
Cha Yul approached without sound. He handed Haneul a scarf. Thick, dark grey wool. No tag. No brand. Handmade, maybe. Still warm from someone’s hands.
Haneul stared at it.
“It’s not payment,” Yul said. “It’s warmth.”
That was all. He turned. Walked away.
A moment later, Junseo tossed something wrapped in foil at his head.
Haneul caught it without flinching.
“Honey candy. Got extra from the lobby tray. Don’t get soft, ice prince.”
“I’ll throw this at your fucking eye.”
Junseo laughed. “Still prettier than you, fox.”
Haneul threw it anyway. Missed on purpose.
Later, when the lights shut down and the alley outside stank of beer and exhaust, Haneul curled on his side beneath the blanket in his apartment.
He didn’t wear the scarf. But he didn’t let go of it either.
His fingers stayed tangled in the yarn.
??????
That night, the dreams returned.
A man sat alone on a throne carved from scorched stone, high above something burning. Crimson robes clung wet to his arms. His hands—wide, heavy, blood and ash-covered—hung limp between his knees.
He didn’t speak. Not at first.
Just stared at his palms like they belonged to a god he didn’t remember worshipping.
Then his head tipped back.
And he reached.
Not forward. Not outward.
Up.
Like something was falling — like he was trying to catch it before it disappeared.
And when the word came, it was not a name. Not a call.
It was grief, shaped into sound.
“Sky,” he said.
Haneul bolted upright in bed.
