He didn’t run.
He walked.
Through the district. Past drunks and delivery men, the scent of fried chicken and piss and cheap cologne. The buildings got cleaner the closer he got. Shinier. But none of it mattered.
It was February. The Hangang Festival was still going—lanterns strung like constellations across the riverbank. Children’s laughter spilled into the street. Couples walked arm-in-arm with hot drinks and pink cheeks.
Haneul passed them like a ghost.
His legs hurt. His lungs burned. His socks were soaked. But he didn’t stop.
He walked until thestreets changed. Until the sky cleared. Until the gold glow of wealth pressed in around him like an accusation.
The building stood like a cathedral. Glass and silence. A fortress.
He stepped inside.
Security eyed him. He said nothing. They didn’t stop him.
He took the elevator. All the way up to the penthouse, he buzzed nothing.
No lights. No answer.
He leaned against the cold stone wall and slid down, knees pulled to chest, fists trembling. The fox mask still hung at his hip like a weapon.
Then the elevator dinged behind him.
He turned.
Seungho stepped out.
He was stunning in a black formal coat, tailored to his frame, shadows caught in the lines of his jaw. On his arm: Hye-jin. Dressed in gold silk. Hair curled, heels clicking, laughing.
Until she saw Haneul.
The three of them froze.
Haneul’s mouth opened. No words came.
He looked down. His boots were filthy. His braid a mess. His lip still split from the sickness.
He looked like something left behind.
“Shit,” he whispered. “I—”
Seungho’s browsfurrowed. “Sky—?”
Haneul backed up.
“I shouldn’t have come.”
“Wait— You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“Tell me what happened—”
But Haneul was already walking away.
