“They think it was random.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I know.”
Haneul’s fists curled. His nails dug into his own palm so hard it hurt. Good.
“He was wearing flower stickers.”
“I know.”
“Theybeat him until he stopped moving?”
Yul didn’t answer. That was the answer.
Yul put a hand on his shoulder. “You need—”
“I need his fucking address.”
The silence rang.
Yul’s hand dropped. He knew who Haneul was talking about without asking.
“I don’t know it,” he lied. “Why would I—”
But Haneul was already moving. Shoving open drawers, slamming them shut. Paper flying. Receipts, old shift schedules, an envelope marked “contract.”
Yul didn’t stop him.
Maybe because grief turns people feral.
Or maybe because he saw something in Haneul’s face—wild and wet and unmade—that made him afraid to interrupt.
When Haneul found the folded notepad with Jaewan’s handwriting—one number circled in red pen—he didn’t even ask. Just bolted.
A sound clawed its way out of Haneul’s throat—too sharp to be a sob, too soft to be a scream. He turned, staggered to the back hallway. The dressing rooms. The place where Junseo always hung his scarf on the light switch. It was still there. Pale purple, ridiculous, soft.
He touched it like it might burn him. Then he ran.
Not out the main door. Not through the floor.
Through the back.
Cha Yuldidn’t stop him. He stood at the mouth of the hallway, hands clenched, and watched the boy vanish barefoot into the cold.
He sent one message.
YUL→ JAEWAN: He’s gone. Walked out without shoes. I think he’s going to your guy.
JAEWAN → YUL: Shit. I’ll call him.
YUL→ JAEWAN: Don’t. Let them find each other. Or don’t. Either way… I can’t hold this kid together.
JAEWAN → YUL: Nobody can. That’s the problem.
??????
Haneul stormed out of the club. Into the frostbitten wind. No coat. No wallet. No phone.
