He turned, scowling, and instead of “thank you”, he shouted toward the hallway:
“Hey, skyscraper!”
A pause.
"Those folded like you’ve got OCD. They for me?"
Seungho’s voice came from the hallway, even and unreadable. “They’re clean. Yours if you want.”
Haneul clicked his tongue. “I’m not getting in that fucking indoor lake. I’ll drown.”
He eyed the tub suspiciously. It stretched like a luxury koi pond, the kind of thing only rich people or Bond villains used. No way in hell. He moved toward the shower instead, locating the digital control panel built into the wall.
“Huh.”
His fingers hovered over the glass. No knobs. No levers. Just smooth black touchpad.
“…High-tech bullshit.”
He poked it.
Nothing.
He poked it again.
Still nothing.
He grunted. “What kind of sadist builds a shower you need a damn user manual for—”
Third try. A beep. Then an explosion of freezing water.
“FUCK!”
The cold smacked into his skin like knives. He shrieked, flailed backward, slipped on the wet tile, kicked the glass, and knocked over a bottle of Seungho’s shampoo.
“THIS BATHROOM IS CURSED!” he bellowed, soaking wet and furious, banging on the wall like he was trying to summon a priest.
In the hallway, Seungho froze.
The thuds. The snarls. The curses.
He had negotiated with corrupt foreign diplomats. He had stayed calm under televised board meetings with hostile shareholders. But nothing in his CEO training had prepared him for a man screaming bloody murder at a shower panel.
The bathroom door flew open.
And out came Haneul.
Dripping. Naked. Radiating fury.
His braid clung to his neck in wet strands. Water glistened on lean, pale muscle, on sharp collarbones and tense thighs. His skin flushed from cold, chest heaving. Eyes sparking.
He stomped into the hallway, dripping on the floor with zero shame, teeth bared.
“Fix it,” he growled.
Seungho blinked.
“You heard me,” Haneul said. “Fix the fucking water. Like a normal person. No AI toilet interfaces. No black mirror bullshit. Just make it hot.”
