— I'm hungry, - Seungho suddenly said, when the tension after their argument hung too heavily. His voice was low, calm, as if he was intentionally diverting the conversation. - Let's make ramen. For two.
Do-yoon raised an eyebrow, not expecting to hear that.
— Are you serious? After everything... you're thinking about food? — Precisely because of that, - Seungho smirked. - Better to eat than to argue into the void.
He had already walked into the kitchen, not waiting for an answer. He took packages of noodles, eggs, and green onions from the cabinet. Do-yoon followed him, still frowning.
— Let me at least put on the water, - he mumbled, turning on the stove.
The water started to boil. Meanwhile, Seungho sliced meat into thin strips, then carelessly handed the knife to Do-yoon:
— The onions are yours.
Do-yoon took the knife, carefully beginning to chop the greens. He did it with concentration, as if trying to drown out all his thoughts that way. Seungho watched out of the corner of his eye how he moved—too precise, calculated movements, as if even in the kitchen, this man remained a detective.
— You're slicing the onion as if you're interrogating it, - Seungho chuckled.
Do-yoon shot him a look.
— And you're slicing meat as if you're cutting up enemies.
Their eyes met, and for the first time all evening, it wasn't an argument or a challenge, but something else—almost a faint shadow of a smile, accidental but genuine. Soon the broth boiled on the stove, the smell of noodles and spices filled the kitchen. Together, they poured the ramen into bowls and sat down at the table. And ate in silence.
Only the sound of rain outside the windows and the clatter of chopsticks on the porcelain broke the quiet. But there was no enmity in this silent meal—just exhaustion and the strange feeling that the person sitting next to him was someone impossible to break away from.
***
Later, when the night had already settled over the city in a dense fog, Do-yoon got up from the sofa in the living room. In his hands—a pillow and a blanket.
— I'll sleep here, - he said stubbornly. - It will be the right thing to do.
Seungho stood in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame. His silhouette seemed almost predatory in the half-darkness.
— Wrong. - He shook his head. - The bed is king-sized. And I'm not going to leave you on the sofa like a casual guest. — I'm not your... - Do-yoon began, but his words cut off when Seungho walked over and took the pillow from him.
— Lie down, - he said calmly.
In the end, they lay down together. Seungho lay nearby, not touching him, but his warmth was felt too clearly. Do-yoon tossed and turned, trying to move away, but at some point, he gave up and simply closed his eyes. Sleep came heavy, but for the first time in a long time, there was the feeling that he was not alone.
***
The morning greeted them with the smell of coffee and the noise of the city outside the windows. They barely talked—only short phrases, as if conserving words. When they went down to the garage, Seungho said:
— I'll drive you. I'm going to the club anyway.
Do-yoon wanted to object but nodded. The car took them onto the streets of Seoul, wet after the night rain. Seungho drove, focused on the road. Do-yoon was silent, but he already knew inside that the conversation wasn't over.
***
The VIP room of the club was empty. A heavy smell of tobacco and spilled alcohol hung in the air, and smoldering remnants of incense sticks smoked in the corners. There were still traces of glasses on the low tables, and the mirrored walls reflected the two of them—too different, yet stuck in the same game. Do-yoon placed a folder on the table. His fingers lingered on the cardboard cover, as if he didn't want to open it in front of him until the last moment.
— I found something, - he finally said, his voice softer than he intended. - Documents. They link the disappearances to one of the directors.
Seungho looked up. Interest flashed in his eyes, but mostly—coldness. He slowly leaned forward, placing his palms on the edge of the table.
— The name. — Lee, - Do-yoon said, trying not to look away. - Everything points to him.
A pause hung in the air. Seungho didn't answer immediately—as if verifying every word, weighing not only the name but also the person who spoke it. Finally, he exhaled shortly, almost dryly:
— Not surprised.
Do-yoon frowned.
— So, you suspected him? — I suspect many people, - Seungho replied, leaning back in his chair. His voice became more even, but a hidden steel was palpable in that steadiness. - Lee is too volatile, too greedy. But evidence is another matter. — Are you saying this isn't enough? - Do-yoon leaned forward slightly. - The documents show traces of deliveries coinciding with the times of the disappearances.
Seungho nodded, but his gaze remained wary.
— Not enough paper. If you want to accuse—you need a fact that won't be washed away by water. — So you don't believe it? — I believe what I've seen myself, - Seungho said sharply. - And you work that way too, Detective.
Do-yoon fell silent. The words stung, but there was truth in them. He ran his palm over the folder and said quietly:
— Then we need to check the warehouse again. If Lee left traces—they're there.
Seungho watched him for a time, as if weighing not just the proposal, but Do-yoon himself: his stubbornness, his fear, his readiness to plunge into the darkness again. Then he nodded.
— We'll check. Together. — This time, you won't interfere with me, - Do-yoon responded harshly.