Plates were pushed aside, the remnants of their meal abandoned as the atmosphere in the room shifted. The warmth of shared food and fleeting camaraderie dissipated, replaced by something sharper, colder—an unspoken but undeniable return to reality.
The table, which moments ago had been a place of reluctant ease, now became something else entirely. A war table. A place of deliberation, strategy, and the kind of ruthless precision that left no room for hesitation.
Rae-a leaned forward, elbows braced against the wood, fingers lacing together with quiet purpose. Her posture was relaxed, but her gaze was anything but. Sharp, unyielding, filled with the kind of focus that turned people into weapons. She wasn't just planning. She was preparing for execution.
"We start with Chul-soo's two top lackeys," she said, her voice crisp, the edge of command unmistakable.
Across from her, Jun-ho frowned, his arms crossing over his chest in reflexive skepticism. The years he had spent chasing criminals, uncovering layers of deception, had forced him to question everything—every plan, every angle, every move before it was made.
"Why not go straight for Chul-soo?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, watching for her reaction.
Rae-a barely hesitated. Her answer came as swiftly as a blade through flesh, clean and unapologetic. "Because I don't just want to kill him." Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it, something darker. "I want to dismantle everything he built—everything tied to his name. If we take him out first, the power vacuum will be chaotic. But if we break his foundation, piece by piece, we control the collapse."
She spoke with the certainty of someone who had already seen the destruction in her mind, laid it out like a meticulously crafted blueprint. This wasn't just revenge. This wasn't just survival. This was obliteration by design.
Jun-ho said nothing, but his sharp eyes flickered with something unreadable. He wasn't sure yet if he was horrified or impressed.
Across the table, In-ho watched her with an expression that was equal parts amusement and intrigue. His fingers tapped idly against his knee, a steady, rhythmic sound in the otherwise heavy silence. He had seen this fire in her before, the relentless drive to take control of her fate. But this was something more. A hunger not just for justice, not just for retribution—something deeper, more consuming. She wanted Chul-soo erased. Not just dead, but forgotten. His legacy ground into dust, his name spoken only in whispers of warning, if at all.
Rae-a exhaled, shifting her focus back to the plan. "There's the enforcer," she said. "Ryuk Jong-soo. Brutal, no conscience, the type to leave nothing but bodies in his wake."
Jun-ho made a low sound of acknowledgment. He had met men like that before. Men who thrived on destruction, who didn't just follow orders but relished them. The kind who didn't need a reason to kill, only permission.
"And then the strategist," Rae-a continued, her jaw tightening slightly. "Won Chang-min."
She didn't elaborate immediately, but the tension in her shoulders said enough.
"He's smarter," she finally said, voice lower, clipped with something close to frustration. "Calculated. He might see through all of this if we aren't careful. He's the one I'm most concerned about."
In-ho hummed, barely tilting his head. "A man cut from the same cloth," he murmured, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
Rae-a shot him a look, unimpressed, but he caught the flicker of something in her eyes—understanding, perhaps. Because she knew as well as he did: men like Won Chang-min weren't reckless. They weren't impulsive. They were the ones who planned five steps ahead, who accounted for every variable, every flaw, every weakness.
Just like In-ho.
If they wanted to take him down, they needed to be ruthless.
The air in the room had thickened, no longer holding the warmth of a meal shared but the chill of war approaching. The battle lines had been drawn, their enemy looming just beyond the horizon.
A thick silence settled over them, not the kind that came naturally in the ebb and flow of conversation, but the kind that carried weight, stretching between them like a wire drawn too tight, thrumming with anticipation. It was a silence that marked the moment before an irreversible decision, before the point where words would commit them to a path they could no longer turn back from. Jun-ho leaned back in his chair, his exhale slow and measured, the kind of breath that came from a man carefully calculating his next move, but before he could speak, before he could offer his agreement or his doubt, In-ho's voice cut through the tension with quiet precision, his tone flat but carrying a weight that made the air shift.
"We shouldn't do anything."
The words dropped like a stone into deep, undisturbed water, sending ripples through the charged atmosphere, a statement so unexpected that Rae-a's head snapped toward him with such speed it was a wonder she didn't strain something, her expression twisting into one of immediate disbelief, a scoff slipping from her lips as she stared at him as if he had just spoken a language she had never heard before. Of all people, he was the last she expected to suggest inaction, the last she thought would advocate for waiting, the last who would sit back and let events unfold without forcing them into a controlled outcome.
Jun-ho, though less visibly reactive, was no less affected by the sudden shift in the conversation, his brow lifting slightly, his gaze sharpening as he studied his brother with newfound scrutiny, his attention no longer divided between strategy and doubt but solely focused on the unexpected pivot In-ho had just introduced.
In-ho, however, remained unaffected by their resistance, exhaling through his nose in a way that suggested he had anticipated their immediate rejection of his suggestion, though if it frustrated him, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he simply dragged his fingers along the rough edge of the table, the touch light but deliberate, his fingertips moving in slow, rhythmic beats, tapping in a pattern that was too controlled to be a nervous habit, too intentional to be anything other than a calculated pause, a moment meant to force them into listening.
"The entire underground is in chaos right now," he finally said, his voice as smooth as ever, free of hesitation, completely indifferent to their skepticism. "If we make a move too soon, if we act before the dust settles, we step into uncertainty, and uncertainty is what gets people killed. There is no advantage in rushing headfirst into a battlefield we don't yet understand, no power in disrupting something that is already unraveling on its own. The smarter play is to wait and watch, to let them scramble, to observe the ways in which they attempt to restore order, because chaos always follows a pattern whether people realize it or not, and once we understand that pattern, once we see how it flows, we can manipulate it, control it, and ensure that the collapse happens on our terms rather than as a reaction to our interference."
His words were clinical, detached in a way that suggested he was speaking from experience rather than theory, his tone carrying the certainty of someone who had orchestrated collapses before, someone who had dictated the terms of destruction rather than simply watching from the sidelines. There was no hesitation in the way he spoke, no room for argument in the logic he laid out before them, and though Rae-a hated to admit it, she could hear the truth in his reasoning, could see the sense in what he was saying even as frustration coiled in her gut at the thought of waiting, at the idea of allowing things to settle into a pattern when every part of her screamed to act now before the opportunity slipped away.
Leaning back in her chair, she exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to dig her nails into the table, forcing herself to acknowledge the wisdom in his approach despite every instinct telling her that time was not their ally. Waiting made her restless, made her feel as though she was allowing fate to tighten its grip around her throat, but she wasn't arrogant enough to ignore logic when it was laid out so plainly in front of her, nor was she foolish enough to push forward blindly when she knew control was the key to dismantling everything Kang Chul-soo had built.
"If we're waiting, then we make sure Won Chang-min is the first to go," she said finally, sitting up straighter as she turned her full attention back to the strategy before them, her voice cutting through the dimly lit room with renewed focus, each word firm with certainty. "He's the real threat in the long run, the only one with the foresight to adjust to the chaos, and if anyone is going to find a way to use the instability to Chul-soo's advantage, it's him, which means he's the priority, not just as an obstacle but as the key to ensuring the collapse stays in our control."
Jun-ho didn't immediately respond, but his sharp gaze flickered over her face, his posture still, his expression giving away nothing as he considered her words, the weight of his silence carrying the sense that he was calculating, that he was analyzing every possibility before making his decision, before finally, after a long moment, he gave a single nod of agreement, the simple motion more final than any words could have been.
In-ho, watching the exchange with an unreadable expression, smirked slightly but offered no argument, neither opposing the plan nor pushing further for hesitation, simply accepting the shift in their course with the same measured ease with which he had introduced the initial resistance.
The decision had been made, the first step locked into place, the pieces set on the board, and now, all that remained was the waiting—waiting for the underground to settle into its own patterns, waiting for the right moment to strike, waiting for the inevitable shift that would tip the balance in their favor.
The soft glow of Jun-ho's phone screen illuminated the dim room as a message appeared, casting a faint, cold light against his face as his fingers moved swiftly, typing something that disappeared as soon as it was sent, and the moment the task was complete, he pushed his chair back with a quiet scrape, the sound cutting through the low hum of tension that still lingered in the air as he stood without ceremony.
"I have to go," he said simply, his tone neutral but leaving no room for question.
Rae-a, unimpressed by the abruptness, arched a brow, arms crossing over her chest as she regarded him with mild annoyance. "What, just like that?"
Without missing a beat, Jun-ho met her gaze, his expression unchanged. "I have a job," he answered, his voice still even, unwavering. "They called me in."
There was a pause, brief but noticeable, as if some unspoken thought lingered just beneath the surface, and though he didn't elaborate, the way In-ho's gaze subtly sharpened, the way his posture shifted ever so slightly, suggested that he, too, could sense the weight of something unsaid. He had known his brother long enough, studied him closely enough, to recognize when something sat at the back of his mind, when something pressed against his thoughts, though for once, In-ho chose not to pry, not to push, instead letting the moment pass with nothing more than a quiet observation.
Still, when he finally spoke, his words were simple but heavy, laced with an undertone that carried more than just casual concern. "Be careful."
Jun-ho, who rarely acknowledged warnings, met his brother's gaze for a beat longer than usual before offering the smallest dip of his chin—a silent but deliberate acknowledgment. For once, he allowed himself to feel the weight of In-ho's concern, a quiet gratitude settling in his chest. Maybe, despite everything, things between them could still turn out okay. With that unspoken thought lingering, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving behind the heavy air of unfinished conversations and the quiet certainty that this was only the beginning.
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The evening had settled into a hush, the kind of silence that didn't feel empty but instead carried the weight of unspoken thoughts. Outside, the distant hum of the city had dulled into a faint murmur, distant enough to be ignored but present enough to remind him that the world still moved beyond these walls. The warm glow of a single lamp stretched across the room, casting elongated shadows that flickered with the occasional shift of movement. In-ho's gaze swept across the space before landing on Rae-a, curled up on the couch, her form half-illuminated by the golden light.
She hadn't noticed him watching. Her attention was buried in the book resting in her lap, her fingers occasionally tightening around the edges of the worn pages as if grounding herself in the words; something she had never been able to indulge in before. It was an unusual sight, one that made something in his chest tighten, though he couldn't quite name what. There was something oddly domestic about it—something so unlike her usual guarded intensity that it almost felt foreign. It unsettled him. Not because she looked out of place, but because she didn't.
And that was the problem.
His house had never been meant to accommodate someone else. It wasn't built for warmth or comfort, wasn't designed to be lived in beyond the bare necessities. He had never thought about things like extra blankets, softer clothes, the small comforts that turned a space into something more than just four walls. The realization gnawed at him, left a bitter taste in the back of his throat.
She had nothing here that truly belonged to her.
The shirt she wore was his, the loose fabric draping over her frame in a way that should have been amusing but only served as another reminder of how out of place she was in his world. The slippers on her feet weren't hers either, too big to fit properly, borrowed in the absence of anything else. There were no small traces of her presence beyond what necessity dictated—no belongings, no signs that she had settled, only the lingering scent of her shampoo against the fabric of the couch.
It was temporary. It was all temporary.
And yet, he found himself shifting uncomfortably at the thought, hoping that wasn't the case.
With a quiet sigh, he reached for his coat, fingers gripping the material a little tighter than necessary. He needed to fix this. It was an unfamiliar instinct, one he wasn't sure how to categorize, but it didn't matter. He couldn't change the circumstances they were in, couldn't erase the weight of what they were planning, but he could at least make this place bearable for her. If only for the time they had left here.
As he pulled the coat over his shoulders, the soft rustle of fabric finally drew Rae-a's attention. She glanced up from her book, her gaze lazily trailing over him, not quite questioning but still expectant.
In-ho hesitated for half a second before speaking, his voice quieter than usual. "I'll be back."
He didn't explain, didn't offer anything more. She would see why when he gets back.
Rae-a only hummed in acknowledgment, already returning her attention to the words in front of her.
In-ho exhaled slowly before stepping toward the door. He didn't want to leave her alone in the house—not when the silence that followed might feel too much like solitude, too much like the kind of emptiness she had learned to live with. But this was necessary.
She didn't need to look up to know he was moving. The subtle shift of weight, the quiet but deliberate rustling of fabric, the way the air seemed to change around him—it was enough. Her senses had long been trained to pick up on the most imperceptible of movements, and he was no exception. She could feel him near the doorway, the faint sound of a coat being pulled from the rack, the purposeful way he adjusted it around his frame.
Something about it made her pause.
"Where are you going?" Rae-a asked without raising her gaze from the page, her voice light, almost careless, yet carrying a thread of curiosity she hadn't meant to reveal. It was a simple question, one she could have let go unanswered. She didn't need to ask. She didn't have to care. And yet, the words had already left her lips before she could think better of it, slipping out as if knowing had suddenly become important to her. Somehow, somewhere along the line, it had.
In-ho hesitated, just for a moment, but it was enough for her to notice. He rarely paused. His words were always measured, precise, prepared before he even spoke them. When he finally answered, his voice held that same practiced calm, but there was something quieter beneath it, something almost softer, if only for a fraction of a second.
"I need to get something. I'll be back."
The response was simple, efficient, devoid of anything extra—yet the addition of those last three words settled differently in the air between them. She nodded absently, turning another page in her book, though she barely registered the words. She told herself it didn't matter where he was going. That it wasn't her concern. But as the quiet stretched between them, she felt the weight of her own unspoken thoughts.
A brief pause, and then, without thinking, she added, "Stay safe."
It was habit, a phrase spoken so many times before that it came naturally, a reflex she hadn't even considered. But as soon as the words left her mouth, she felt them linger in the space between them, heavier than they should have been. This wasn't a meaningless phrase exchanged between allies before a job, nor was it a detached courtesy spoken without thought. She had meant it.
That realization unsettled her.
The soft rustle of fabric, the quiet shuffle of his movement, before he paused. The concern in Rae-a's voice made his heart beat irratically but he forced himself to speak and not get choked up on his own words.
"I will. I wont be long."
And then the sound of the door clickied shut. He was gone.
Rae-a let out a slow breath, staring at the words on the page that no longer held her attention. She had said it without hesitation, without calculation, and now, in the stillness of the room, she had to face the truth of it.
She cared.
And that was something she wasn't ready to confront.
Not until after Chul-soo got what he deserved.
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The night had settled over the city like a heavy shroud, muffling the usual cacophony of distant traffic and scattered conversations into something quieter, something almost suffocating. A thick mist curled through the streets, rolling in from the nearby river, its presence clinging to the air in translucent waves. Streetlights flickered weakly against the damp fog, their dim glow casting elongated shadows across the pavement, stretching shapes into something almost human, something that moved when no one was there.
In-ho walked with steady, unhurried strides, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, fingers brushing against the cold metal of his firearm as a subconscious reassurance. The city was never truly silent, but tonight, the usual sounds seemed distant, swallowed by the weight of his own thoughts. He had always found an odd comfort in solitude, in these late-night walks where the only company he kept was the hum of his own mind, the endless calculation of next steps, contingencies, exit routes. But tonight, that familiar sense of control felt unsteady, like something lurking just beyond his reach.
Rae-a's voice still lingered in his mind, unbidden. Stay safe. She had said it so casually, her attention still half-absorbed in the book she was reading, but there had been something unspoken beneath the words, something that settled uneasily in his chest. It was such a simple phrase, one he had heard countless times before from people whose well-being he did not concern himself with. And yet, hearing it from her, feeling the weight of it when she hadn't even looked at him—it had struck something deep.
His steps carried him deeper into the mist-covered streets, past the washed-out glow of neon signs flickering in vacant storefronts, past the occasional parked car where condensation beaded along the windows, catching the dim light like fractured glass. He had spent years walking these streets with purpose, knowing exactly where he was going, knowing exactly what to expect. But tonight, the air felt different, heavier.
And then, in the space of a single breath, he felt it.
It was subtle at first, nothing more than an imperceptible shift in the atmosphere, a presence just at the edge of his awareness, like a faint ripple disturbing still water. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled before his mind could fully register why, instinct whispering what his rational thoughts had not yet caught up to. His body tensed, muscles coiling beneath the surface, but his pace remained unchanged, his expression carefully schooled into something unreadable.
He had learned long ago that reacting too soon was a mistake.
The world around him seemed to sharpen, details coming into unnerving clarity—the rhythmic click of his own footsteps against the wet pavement, the distant echo of water dripping from an unseen gutter, the way the mist swirled unnaturally in the periphery of his vision, displaced by something that shouldn't be there.
Someone was following him.
Not a common thug, not some reckless tail with more nerve than skill. No, this was someone who knew what they were doing. Their movements were deliberate, measured, precise. Not too close, not too far. Staying just outside of what an average person might notice, but In-ho was far from average. The presence behind him carried a weight, a kind of self-assurance that only came with experience, with power. Whoever they were, they weren't just watching. They were waiting.
His fingers twitched toward the holster beneath his coat, a fraction of a second away from wrapping around the grip of his gun, but he resisted. There was no need for rash decisions—not yet. Let it unravel. He could feel the tension thickening in the air like an impending storm, a silent challenge in the way the footsteps behind him never faltered, never hesitated.
He reached the mouth of an alley where the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp barely cut through the fog, pooling weakly against the pavement. And then, as if sensing the moment was right, the presence behind him finally stepped forward.
From the shadows, a figure emerged, their silhouette shifting into view with the ease of someone accustomed to moving unseen. Their stance was relaxed but purposeful, carrying the kind of quiet authority that demanded attention without the need for words.
In-ho's eyes flicked up, expression impassive, but his grip tightened in his pocket, his body already calculating distance, speed, the angle of a clean shot if necessary. He recognized this presence. Perhaps not the person themselves, but the kind of weight they carried, the kind of significance they held in this world.
When they finally spoke, their voice was calm, controlled, but layered with something unmistakable—intent.
"We need to talk."
In-ho's gaze narrowed, his eyes scanning the shadowed figure with the same cold precision he applied to everything. His posture remained deceptively relaxed, but the subtle tension in his jawline betrayed the storm of calculations running through his mind. This man was certainly someone from the Underground, which caught him off-guard, as he expected he would be left alone until there had been some semblence of structure clarified. He wasn't a man who welcomed surprises, and this was certainly not one he had been expecting. The weight of the night pressed down on him, thick with an unspoken warning.
"Now's not a good time," he said, his voice a measured calm, though there was an edge beneath it, sharp as a blade unsheathed just enough to make its presence known. He didn't need to make threats; his mere presence carried the weight of unspoken danger.
The figure stepped closer, unconcerned by his refusal, unshaken by the quiet menace in his voice. The faint glow of the streetlamp barely illuminated their form, leaving them shrouded in a veil of obscurity. And then they spoke, their tone devoid of emotion, yet commanding in a way that allowed no room for argument.
"It's not a request."
Before In-ho could react, a gloved hand extended from the shadows, pressing a folded slip of paper into his palm with the certainty of someone delivering an inevitable fate. A mere breath later, the figure stepped back, vanishing as seamlessly as they had appeared, swallowed by the darkness of the alley. The only sign they had ever been there was the slight chill that lingered in the air and the weight of the paper burning against In-ho's skin.
He didn't move. For a long moment, he simply stared at the empty space where the figure had stood, the rhythmic hum of the distant city now a dull, meaningless drone in the back of his mind. The slip of paper felt heavier than it should have, the weight of implication far greater than its physical form. He didn't need to open it. The message was already clear. The time. The location. Tomorrow.
It seemed as if his suggestion to let things unravel first, was likely something that wouldn't be doable.
His thoughts twisted through the possibilities, each one darker than the last. He had known this was coming. A confrontation, a reckoning—but not this soon. The paper crinkled beneath the tightening of his fingers, the tension coiling within him like a serpent preparing to strike. The choice was no choice at all. He had to go. The alternative was worse.
Taking a slow breath, he forced the unease into the recesses of his mind, burying it beneath logic and reason. He had lived with the weight of such encounters for years; he wouldn't let one message unravel him now.
The walk to the convenience store stretched longer than it should have, the air colder, the streets emptier, as though the world itself sensed the shift in balance. The damp mist curling from the nearby river thickened the night, clinging to his coat like unseen hands, urging him to turn back, to reconsider. But he pushed forward, his steps unhurried, his movements precise. Distraction was unacceptable. His focus had to remain absolute.
Yet his mind, so accustomed to compartmentalization, refused to obey. It drifted—to the house, to Rae-a. The starkness of his home had never bothered him before, had never even crossed his mind. He lived simply, efficiently, and alone. That had always been enough. But now? Now there was an emptiness to it, an absence of anything that made it remotely livable for someone like her. No extra clothes, no basic necessities. No comforts. Nothing. The realization unsettled him in a way few things did. She had been forced into this, into staying in a place that was so devoid of warmth, so unwelcoming, and he hadn't even considered it until now.
He entered the convenience store, its artificial brightness a stark contrast to the heavy gloom of the streets. The clerk barely glanced up, accustomed to customers moving through with silent efficiency. In-ho did the same, navigating the aisles with the same calculated precision he applied to everything. Bread, fruit, simple ready-to-eat meals—practical. Clothes, understated and neutral, chosen with function in mind rather than preference. Toiletries, items she hadn't asked for but would need nonetheless.
He didn't linger. After paying, he stepped back out into the night, the weight of the bag in his hand feeling oddly unfamiliar. It wasn't heavy, not physically, but it carried something intangible, something he wasn't ready to name.
The walk back was quicker. His pace remained measured, but there was an urgency creeping beneath it, a quiet restlessness that set his nerves on edge. The night had shifted. The silence, once a familiar companion, now felt suffocating. The shadows stretched longer, the quiet more pronounced. His instincts hummed with awareness, an unshakable sense that something unseen loomed just beyond reach.
His thoughts stormed against one another, a chaotic clash of strategy and uncertainty. He would deal with it tomorrow. The meeting. The implications. The inevitable consequences. But tonight, he had something else to focus on. Tonight, he had to walk through that door and act as though everything was normal.
Because normalcy, no matter how temporary, was the only thing keeping the balance from tipping into something neither of them could afford.
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In-ho stepped back through the door, the weight of the night clinging to him as if the cold itself had settled into his bones. His coat, damp from the mist curling through the streets, hung heavily around his frame, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to pause. The familiar quiet of the house greeted him, not empty, but charged—different from the sterile solitude he had grown so used to. There was a presence here now, something subtle but undeniable. His gaze swept across the room, his sharp eyes landing on Rae-a.
She was curled up on the couch, her figure illuminated by the warm, golden glow of the lamp beside her, shadows dancing over the sharp angles of her face. A book rested in her hands, fingers idly gripping the edges of the worn pages. She was absorbed, the slight crease between her brows betraying the intensity of her focus. It was an image so still, so startlingly domestic, that In-ho found himself lingering in the doorway longer than he intended.
It was strange—seeing her like this, so at ease. In this house that had been nothing but a shell of his existence for years, she looked as if she had always belonged there. And that realization was more unsettling than anything else.
But as if sensing him, Rae-a glanced up, her dark eyes immediately scanning him with the sharp, calculating intensity he had come to expect from her. She didn't miss a thing—not the barely-there tension in his shoulders, nor the way his fingers flexed just slightly at his sides, as if still holding onto something intangible. The shift in his demeanor was subtle, imperceptible to most, but she caught it immediately.
Still, what she noticed first were the bags in his hands. The weight of them, the way the plastic stretched under the heft of what he had brought back. Clothes, personal items—things that didn't belong to him. Things meant for her.
Her lips quirked, amusement flickering across her face. "Didn't take you for the chivalrous type."
In-ho barely reacted, setting the bags down near the door with an easy, fluid motion before glancing at her, his expression unreadable. And then, almost as if on cue, the corner of his mouth lifted into something subtle, something confident. He leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folding across his chest in an effortless display of control. "Sweetheart, I do know how to take care of things when it matters."
His voice carried that familiar blend of self-assurance and teasing challenge, and Rae-a, despite herself, felt heat creep up the back of her neck. She scoffed, rolling her eyes, but the reaction wasn't as dismissive as she wanted it to be. She hated how easily he could get under her skin, how effortlessly he could make her react. She turned her attention back to her book, feigning indifference, but she didn't turn the page.
In-ho noticed.
For a moment, the air between them felt lighter—something rare and fleeting. But then, the weight of unspoken matters pressed back in, heavy and inescapable.
He was the one to break the moment, his voice shifting—still calm, but edged with something firmer, something resolute. "I'll be out tomorrow. I need you to stay here."
Her response was immediate, sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "Where are you going?"
Her eyes met his, searching, demanding an answer he wasn't willing to give. She didn't like being left in the dark. Especially not now.
His expression remained unreadable, but there was something in the way he straightened, in the way his gaze held hers with that quiet, unwavering authority. "It doesn't concern you, Rae-a."
The way he said her name like that—clipped, direct—was a warning. He only ever said her name like that when it was something serious. She knew his patience with her was thinning. And yet, instead of backing down, suspicion flared in her chest.
Her gaze flickered from him to the bags on the floor, as if looking for a missing piece to a puzzle she hadn't yet figured out. He had gone out and returned with things for her, things she would never expect him to think of, let alone buy. And yet, he was shutting her out now, keeping something from her. The shift in his attitude, from teasing to controlled distance, only made it worse.
She straightened slightly, her tone leveling into something firm, unwavering. "I'm going with you."
The words left no room for debate, and for a moment, silence stretched between them.
In-ho's expression didn't change, but his stance did. Just slightly. A shift of weight, a tilt of his head. And then, his reply came, colder this time, more final.
"No."
The single word struck harder than she expected it to. There was no room for argument, no leeway to push. His tone had turned to steel, his resolve immovable.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Rae-a's expression before she forced it away, her jaw tightening in irritation. Her arms crossed over her chest, her posture closing off. It wasn't just about wanting to go with him—it was about the fact that he refused to let her. That he shut her out so easily, made a decision without her. One that she already had assumed was in relation to the underground.
And for a reason she couldn't quite pinpoint, that stung more than she wanted to admit.
But arguing was pointless. He had already decided.
So, without another word, she looked away, fixing her attention back on the book in her lap. A flimsy distraction. A poor attempt at pretending she didn't care.
"I'll be fine here then," Rae-a muttered, though the words felt hollow even as they left her lips. They carried little conviction, as if she were trying to convince herself rather than him. The quiet that followed settled uncomfortably between them, thick with the unspoken. Her hands clenched at her sides, the frustration gnawing at her insides like an itch she couldn't scratch. She couldn't shake the feeling of being left behind, of being forced into stillness while everything around her continued to move. It was suffocating, that sense of uselessness, the gnawing thought that he was deliberately keeping her in the dark. But she swallowed it down, pressing her lips into a thin line.
In-ho, however, remained unmoved. His dark eyes flickered over her face, as if he could see the battle waging beneath her composed exterior, but he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he turned on his heel, his long coat shifting slightly with the movement. His footsteps, steady and unhurried, echoed faintly in the stillness as he moved toward the hallway. Without looking back, he gestured towards a door on the far side of the room, his fingers grazing the smooth wooden frame. "Your room's this way," he said simply.
Rae-a hesitated, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer, searching for something—anything—that might give her insight into what he was thinking. But, as always, he was unreadable. With a quiet exhale, she finally moved, rising to her feet and following him without a word.
The hallway stretched before them, lined with closed doors and cast in dim lighting that softened the sharp edges of the space. The only sound between them was the soft scuff of their shoes against the polished floorboards, a rhythmic whisper that seemed to fill the silence. Rae-a was hyper-aware of the closeness between them, the way the air seemed to shift in the narrow corridor, thick with the tension that neither of them acknowledged.
When they reached their destination, In-ho slowed to a stop and turned slightly, his expression unreadable in the soft glow of the light overhead. He gestured toward the door beside hers, his voice dipping into something quieter, something almost careful. He didn't want to leave her upset with their previous conversation, he just cannot have her around for it. He needs to know what the meeting is for and plan accordingly. "If you need anything, I'll be next door."
For a moment, Rae-a simply stared at him, processing his words. It wasn't the proximity that unsettled her—it was what it implied. The fact that he was placing himself within reach, within the boundaries of her world when she was so used to people keeping their distance. There was an awareness to it, an understanding that neither of them spoke aloud. It was a reassurance. She was well aware that he was trying to lighten the tension between the two of them, and for once-she listened.
And yet, she couldn't ignore the unfamiliar weight of it. The idea that, despite everything, he was close enough to hear her if she called for him.
A flicker of something she didn't want to name stirred in her chest, and before it could settle into something real, something dangerous, she shook it off with a scoff. A slow smirk curled at her lips, the teasing lilt in her voice as she tilted her head. "Aw, are you worried about me, Frontman?" she taunted, her tone light, but beneath it, a question lingered, unspoken and uncertain.
In-ho didn't react immediately. He merely studied her, the barest flicker of something crossing his face before it smoothed over into something more familiar—calm, calculating, but tinged with undeniable amusement. He let out a quiet chuckle, slow and deliberate, before finally meeting her gaze with a smirk of his own. "Worried?" he mused, his voice carrying the same easy arrogance that always managed to unnerve her. His tone dipped lower, smooth and teasing, a challenge woven beneath the words. "Hardly, considering it's in my own home. But, sweetheart, I'm more than happy to offer you reassurance if that's what you need."
The unexpected sweetness in his voice sent a pulse of warmth through her, clashing violently with the teasing edge of his words. Rae-a's breath hitched—just barely, almost imperceptibly—but she knew he caught it when his smirk deepened ever so slightly. She felt the heat creeping up her neck, and without meaning to, she averted her gaze, feigning nonchalance as she willed the warmth in her cheeks to fade.
"Whatever," she muttered, the word quieter than she intended, lacking the usual sharp bite. She wasn't sure how to respond to this—this version of him that was softer, teasing but not mocking, careful in a way she hadn't expected. It made him feel human. It made this moment feel real in a way she wasn't prepared to confront.
In-ho, however, wasn't finished with her just yet. His amusement only seemed to grow as he straightened slightly, the glow of the hallway lights casting a faint shadow along his sharp features. "If you get too scared, don't hesitate to knock, sweetheart," he added, his voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial.
Rae-a's head snapped back up, her face burning as she sputtered, eyes widening in immediate outrage. "As if—!"
But he only chuckled, deep and rich, clearly enjoying her flustered reaction far too much. It was rare, after all, to catch her off guard, to unravel even the smallest fraction of her carefully composed exterior. He let the silence linger for a moment, stretching the tension just enough before finally stepping back.
"Goodnight, Rae-a," he murmured, his voice softer now, lacking its usual sharp edges. There was something else there, buried beneath the layers of their history—something unspoken, something that neither of them could name but both could feel. And with that, he turned, his silhouette disappearing around the corner, leaving her standing there, staring after him with far more emotions than she cared to admit.
She remained in the hallway for a long moment, her heartbeat betraying her with its uneven rhythm. Her fingers grazed the edge of the doorframe, her grip tightening for just a second as her mind replayed his words, his smirk, the way his voice had softened just before he left. It left her unsteady, off-balance in a way she wasn't used to.
"Idiot," she muttered under her breath, though there was no real bite to the word. It was a weak attempt to dismiss the lingering warmth in her chest, the unfamiliar sense of comfort that, despite her best efforts, she couldn't quite push away.
For the first time in a long while, it wasn't the emptiness of silence that surrounded her. It wasn't the hollow feeling of being left behind, of being alone in a world that demanded she survive on her own. No—this time, it was something else entirely. Something tenuous and fleeting but real.
And despite everything, Rae-a couldn't ignore the weight of it.