The ward was plunged into silence; only the steady beeping of the machines and the footsteps of the nurse in the hallway reminded them that the world outside was still moving. Minjun lay propped up on his pillow, his eyes occasionally closing - fatigue and longing pulled him into sleep, but his eyes still couldn't completely let go of reality. Hyuk's hand was always nearby: on the sheet, on his palm, on his cheek - an anchor that kept him from drowning in his fears.
The secretary sat by the window, holding a folder of documents, but his gaze kept returning to the two of them. He remained as impassive as ever: a straight back, calm facial features, a display of dignity. But there was a warm carefulness in his gestures - the kind that is usually hidden behind formality.
"I spoke with the doctor," he said quietly, when silence returned to the ward. "Everything is under control. His condition is stable. He needs rest and - as much as possible - the presence of the person who is most important to him right now."
Minjun managed a slight smile, trying to say something, but his voice wouldn't cooperate. Hyuk leaned in and kissed his palm, as if conveying the words he couldn't speak.
"He mustn't know," Hyuk whispered, almost inaudibly. "I won't back down."
The secretary got up and approached the bed. He looked at Minjun without familiarity, but with a respect that only grows from quiet empathy.
"I understand that you've been through a lot," he said calmly. "And I understand that his father's words are not just words. But now the most important thing is safety and health. You might have a chance if you act carefully."
Hyuk heard this and, for the first time in days, felt that someone was acting not only on the father's will. It was like a quiet shift in the air: from a long-standing threat to a possibility.
"What do you suggest?" he asked, not taking his eyes off Minjun.
The secretary glanced around to make sure no one was listening at the door and lowered his voice even more.
"There's a way to temporarily get both of you out from under direct control. I can arrange a covert transfer, a temporary safe house, and documents. But it's a risk. And you will have to cut off all contact with your family - not directly, not through friends, not on social media. Any connection can be used to bring you back."
Hyuk squeezed Minjun's hand tighter. A mix of anger and relief ignited in his eyes: anger because the circumstances had pushed them to this, and relief because a real plan had emerged.
"I'll do whatever it takes," Hyuk whispered. "Just take care of him."
The secretary nodded.
"I'm not asking you to trust me as a friend. I'm asking you to trust the plan. I've been working on these kinds of cases for a long time, but it's usually different. Here, it requires extreme calm and extreme caution."
Minjun tried to speak but coughed; the air had somehow become heavy. Hyuk immediately offered him a glass of water and helped him drink. The sip provided a fragile sense of support; Minjun smiled weakly, and that smile held both gratitude and fear for what was to come.
Later, when dusk enveloped the city and the ward became even quieter, the secretary took a neatly wrapped package from his briefcase. He pulled out a small envelope, placed it on the bed, and said:
"This isn't a permanent solution. This is a window of opportunity. You will leave. I'll give you everything you need to start: car keys, documents in a new name, a ticket. After that - the steps are up to you."
He handed Hyuk a set: a neatly signed paper that could be shown in emergencies, a small packet with Minjun's passport, and a tightly folded envelope with a ticket.
"Jeju for a week," the secretary said quietly. "It's anonymous and calm enough there. The medical facilities are good. While you're there, I will make sure no one can easily find you."
Hyuk took the items as if holding the most fragile gift. His hands were steady, but what trembled in his palms wasn't anxiety - it was gratitude. Minjun watched, and tears came to his eyes again, but this time they were also from relief.
The secretary lowered his voice to a whisper, as if to confirm that every word was a final line of caution:
"Take care of him. And under no circumstances should you contact his father - by any means. If you need something, contact me. I can't act openly right now, but I will do what's in my power. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Hyuk replied, barely audible. He looked at Minjun, then back at the secretary. "We'll leave. We'll leave and we won't come back until it's safe."
The secretary nodded and placed one more small bundle on the bed.
"This is money and a contact number," he said. "Just in case: if none of your things are suitable, if you need a medical certificate - we have a reserve. But I repeat: do not contact them. Ever."
Hyuk clenched his teeth and nodded. He felt the weight of responsibility rising within him: not just for his partner, but for the child they were already carrying together in their thoughts, in their hopes, in their fears.
"I promise," he whispered, looking directly into the secretary's eyes. "I will be careful."
The secretary's gaze lingered on Hyuk for a moment - a strict, dry profile, and in it, something that seemed almost like approval flickered. He took a step back as if to leave, but stopped one more time before exiting:
"If his father starts to act directly, don't try to oppose him with force. It will lead to the worst outcome. Leaving now means winning time. I will try to ensure you have that time."
He handed Hyuk the car keys: neatly cleaned, without any marks, as if they were meant to survive any inspection. Then he placed the passport and carefully unfolded the ticket: a manipulation of names and temporary processing, but everything was official.
"The flight leaves tomorrow morning," the secretary said. "At 6:40. I can prepare the car; everything will be quiet. But you must be ready to leave immediately if there's a risk. And... one more thing. If you need me, just leave a one-word message. I will understand."
Hyuk whispered "Thank you," and there was so much in his voice that the words couldn't contain. He leaned over and kissed Minjun's forehead, and a moment later, Minjun responded with a weak but genuine smile.
The ward was filled with something more important than threats and orders: a silence where every breath was a promise, and an attention that had now become a matter of honor. The secretary, after saying goodbye, left, leaving the two of them and the package in Hyuk's hands - a small set of hope that could change the course of their lives.
When the door closed, Hyuk leaned against the bed and, unable to hold back his emotions, whispered:
"We'll leave. I won't let you be alone."
Minjun buried his face in the alpha's palm, and in that closeness - without words - they both found what they had been looking for: a tiny strip of calm where they could take the first step away from fear.
Outside the window, a light rain drizzled relentlessly, as if nature itself was holding its breath. And inside the ward, in the light of the dim lamp, there was only their world - fragile, but alive. And the ticket to Jeju lay nearby, like a ticket to a new life they could only imagine together.