Seungho hung up.
The third call came before he could pocket the phone. Cha Yul this time.
He answered.
“You got him, don’t you,” Yul said, low, no greeting.
“…Yes.”
“He tore through my office like a damn hurricane. I told him to wait, to breathe—he didn’t. You should’ve seen his eyes.”
“I saw them.”
“Don’t let him jump, Seungho.”
“He didn’t jump.”
“Good.” Yul’s voice dropped to a whisper, raw at the edge. “That boy… he doesn’t break the way others do. He just burns until there’s nothing left. Keep him from burning all the way through.”
Click.
The apartment settled back into silence.
Seungho watched as Haneul’s breathing slowed. Not calmed—just slowed. His cheek pressed against his knees, damp hair sticking to his face. He looked… younger. Untamed. Holy.
Seungho stood once more. Crossed the room in stillness.
He didn’t ask permission.
He just knelt, gathered the boy gently, and lifted him. Haneul didn’t stir. Didn’t resist. He was all heat and weight and silence.
Seungho carried him to the couch. Laid him down carefully. Pulled a soft fleece blanket over him—the kind that caught light like snowdrift. He didn’t tuck it too tightly. He knew better.
Then he sat beside him on the floor again, legs folded. His tea had gone cold.
His phone buzzed again.
He turned it over—face down.
And left it that way.
Outside, the February rain began to fall and turned to snow—slow, aimless, soft.
Like grief with nowhere to land.
??????
Chapter 17 —In the Time Between
Three days after the bridge.
The world outside had gone white and quiet.
Snow feathered over the balcony railings in slow, deliberate layers. Below, the Han River pulsed dull and grey, as if holding its breath.
Inside, time stretched thin.
The fridge hummed with a low, mechanical patience. The radiator breathed in cycles—warm, then warmer. The wind curled around the tall windows like a ghost looking in. No music. No footsteps. Only the quiet throb of a penthouse holding its own stillness.
