Heavy drops ran down the windows, blurring the city lights into long silver streaks. A thick silence hung over the apartment. Only the even purring of the cat, curled at Do-yun's feet, reminded him that life still existed somewhere beyond their tension.
Do-yun sat on the floor near the bed, shivering in just his shirt, a mug of long-cold tea clutched in his hands. His thoughts refused to coalesce—neither into words nor into a plan. Every attempt to analyze the documents or corporate connections ran into the same wall: everything was too interlinked, too artificially constructed to be mere crime. Somewhere between the lines, he found himself asking a poignant question:
— Why am I still holding onto this? For the truth, or for the only constant in my life?
The cat nudged his knees. He stroked the soft fur mechanically, and it hurt—from the simplicity of the motion, from how few things in the world remained undefended or unmasked.
— Even though you know everything is going to hell, — he whispered, pheromones releasing a thin note of fatigue.
The cat purred louder, affirming him.
A quiet click of the door cut the silence. Yoon entered without knocking, as if the apartment belonged to him too now. He looked tired but calm, wet hair clinging to his forehead, shirt collar unbuttoned. He placed a plastic container of food on the table.
— I said I wasn't hungry, — Do-yun murmured, not moving.
— I know, — Yoon replied evenly, without reproach. — But you can't live on stubbornness alone. And this isn't about hunger; it's fuel for the fight.
He sat opposite Do-yun, back against the bed. The cat immediately leapt to his lap, choosing warmth.
They remained silent for minutes, the city roaring outside, rain pattering, yet inside, a fragile equilibrium lingered.
— You know, — Yoon said quietly, — sometimes I think this investigation is just an excuse not to let you go. Easier for both of us to hide behind duty.
Do-yun gave a wry smile.
— Too late to deny it. Our war began when we couldn't separate.
— I'm not denying it.
Their eyes met, unguarded. Fatigue, determination, and that rare, almost dangerous warmth passed between them when honesty was absolute.
— Back on the roof, — Do-yun murmured, — you knew it all led here. To us not stopping at the case.
— Yes, — Yoon's eyes darkened. — I was just waiting for you to stop running—from yourself, and from me.
***
The roof greeted them with a wind that slapped their faces and the damp smell of wet concrete. The rain had thinned to a cold drizzle; the city flickered with neon, like a nervous pulse.
Do-yun leaned against the railing, head lowered. His shirt was soaked, warmth draining from his body. Yoon approached, heavy presence behind him—protective, like a wall.
— Are you afraid? — Yoon asked softly.
Do-yun turned slowly. Fatigue shadowed his face, wet lashes, catching breath mid-word. Fragile, yet persistent.
— Of everything. And myself, too, — he admitted.
— That's not weakness, — Yoon said, stepping closer. — It means you're alive, capable of feeling. And therefore, capable of fighting.
— We can't control everything, — Do-yun's gaze wavered. — What if our closeness is our main vulnerability?
— We choose who we hold onto, — Yoon pressed. — And if it destroys us, it destroys us together. I won't leave you behind.
They closed the distance. Rain streaked their faces, mingled with hot breath. When their lips met, it was quiet, final—a confession without words or promises, only presence.
***
The underground parking garage was thick with tension. Dim lamps cast a dying neon glow over gasoline and damp concrete. Pheromones mixed with the scent of intimacy, bittersweet.
Yoon stopped by his car, hand on the key—but froze. Footsteps. Quiet, confident.
— Don't move, — Yoon whispered, shielding Do-yun.
A figure stepped from the shadows. Dark jacket, hood, hands in pockets. A slow, mocking smile.
— Mr. Yoon, — the voice hoarse, edged with derision, — finally alone.
— You shouldn't have come down here, — Yoon said coldly.
— On the contrary. I wanted to see who dared disobey orders, — the words sliced like steel.
Do-yun tensed, sensing the artificial pheromones pressing in. This was more than an enemy; this was someone who knew Yoon.
Yoon's pheromones flared sharply, metallic and threatening.
— One more step, and I won't hold back.
The stranger smirked, stepping back.
— Then tell him, — nodding to Do-yun, — his scent is too easy to find now.
A tense pause.
— Congratulations, Yoon-ssi. You chose a side.
He dissolved into the darkness, leaving only echoing footsteps and a chemical trace.
Silence returned—unnerving. Yoon turned sharply.
— Can you feel it? — his voice was raw.
— Yes. He was close. And he knew. —
— Then he knows now, — Yoon confirmed.
Do-yun stepped forward, gripping Yoon by the collar.
— If they've found us, — he whispered, trembling, — I don't want to hide.
Their kiss was desperate, hungry, a proof of life and wholeness. Pheromones flared, thick, sweeping away the foreign scent. Do-yun responded with his body, demanding, seeking sanctuary in Yoon's heat.
Yoon wrapped him in an embrace, pressing him against the wall. Tremors passed between them. Metal, wet clothes, pheromones—above all, their breathing, ragged, synchronized.