Haneul stood by the door in Seungho’s oversized hoodie and his own combat boots. Hair damp from his freezing balcony pushups, “for dopamine, skyscraper, not for you.”. Fox mask tucked under his arm like a dare.
“I’m going,” he said.
Seungho didn’t ask where.
“I’m coming with you.”
“You’re not my bodyguard.”
“You’re wrong.”
Haneul scoffed under his breath, but didn’t argue. Didn’t even roll his eyes.
That was answer enough.
??????
Velvet Eclipse, in daylight, felt hollowed out. Like a church after a funeral. Without the music and perfume and low-lights, everything was exposed: the wear on the velvet, the scuff marks on the mirrored pillars, the scent of smoke trying to outlive memory.
The staff stopped moving. One girl gasped. Someone whispered “that’s him.”
Haneul didn’t flinch.
Hewalked like someone returning to a crime scene — back straight, hands loose at his sides, expression flat.
Until he reached the lockers.
Junseo’s was still there, untouched.
Same obnoxious stickers. Same glitter scrawled with metallic marker: “Slay bitches <3.” The corner of his old purple scarf still caught in the door.
Haneul’s hand lifted slowly, and pressed it to the cool metal.
Then—gently, reverently—he opened it.
Not to look inside. But to reach for the edge of that scarf.
He plucked a few loose fibers — strands of violet yarn no longer woven into anything. Just thread. Memory. A whisper of something that used to be warm.
He tied them into his braid with practiced ease. Near the end. Right after the small red bead. Before the ivory fang.
Behind him, Seungho didn’t move. Didn’t speak, but his eyes followed the motion.
And in that quiet ritual, he began to understand.
The braid was not fashion.
It was an altar.
??????
Cha Yul didn’t get up when they entered. He leaned back in the cracked leather chair, cigarette already lit, office warm with smoke and low light.
“Don’t you dare hug me,” Haneul snapped.
“I wasn’t gonna, Cheonsa.”
“Good.”
