He woke slowly — not as if from sleep, but as if rising from deep water, where everything pulls you down and your body no longer belongs to you.
First came the smell: iron, antiseptic, and coffee.
Then the feel of fabric beneath his fingers — cool, clean sheets, muted light, and the soft breath of morning air seeping through the crack between the frame and the glass.
He opened his eyes.
The room was almost empty — nothing unnecessary: a low table, a first-aid kit, a folded blanket, a lamp still faintly glowing with the warmth of its filament.
On the windowsill — a mug with traces of black coffee, and beside it, a folded note.
He sat up carefully, feeling the dull ache in his shoulder beneath the bandage, and reached for the paper.
The ink had bled slightly, the handwriting sharp and angular — written, it seemed, with restrained irritation or something quieter, like worry.
"You keep rushing headfirst into trouble.
If you keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong — you'll die.
Yesterday you just got lucky that I was there.
P.S. Drink up and get out of the apartment."
He smiled faintly, his eyes lingering on the words. Beneath the roughness, the warning read like something else — fatigue, and a kind of care hidden behind the edge of the tone, like a blade sheathed in cloth.
His fingers brushed the bandage. The skin beneath was still hot, but the pain had softened — human, almost warm.
He finished the glass of water, breathed in the scent of coffee, and thought that maybe that smell had already become part of him.
Fog hung thick outside the window — almost tangible.
It softened everything it touched, even the things meant to cut: concrete, antennas, neon signs.
Ryeon stood by the window, listening to the city hum somewhere far away.
The earpiece lay in his hand, a piece of metal too cold to feel like part of his body.
He stared at it for a long time before turning it on.
The hiss in the line was dense, drowning the first few words.
— …Ryeon, — Min Ki's voice broke through, muffled, as if rising from underwater. — Do you even understand what you've done?
He didn't answer.
Just kept his gaze on the gray air outside.
Min Ki's tone hardened — sharp, clipped, no breath between phrases.
— You disappeared for four hours. Four. And you come back with a wiped channel and foreign traces in the logs. You interfered in an operation you weren't assigned to. No coordinates, no explanations. You broke protocol.
Ryeon exhaled quietly and finally spoke:
— I didn't plan to interfere. I just happened to be there.
— Just happened? — a note trembled in Min Ki's voice, somewhere between anger and disbelief. — You don't "just happen," Ryeon. You don't do accidents. You either appear on command or you vanish completely. So tell me — what were you "just doing" when the shooting started?
He was silent. The words stuck in his throat.
— The drop. Container zone. Cache under twenty-eight. Everything as ordered.
— And the blood on your jacket — was that "as ordered" too?
— Not mine.
Silence.
Min Ki drew in a breath. For a few seconds, the only sound on the line was breathing — uneven, but shared, two rhythms that somehow aligned.
— Did you shoot someone?
— No.
— Then who?
— A journalist. I don't know. Wrong place, wrong time.
— And you decided to throw yourself under fire for some reporter you don't even know? — his voice rang with irritation, but underneath it was something else — tension, warmth, something personal. — Do you have any idea what it looked like from my side? The signal drops, your ID reappears in an active combat zone, and then nothing. You wanted to give me a heart attack?
Ryeon rubbed his face. The words that formed in his head sounded simpler there than aloud.
— I didn't think. I just… saw him hit. Too much blood. I stopped it and left. That's all.
— That's all? — Min Ki let out a short, harsh laugh. — You have no idea how that sounds. You're not a machine, Ryeon. If you really wanted to stay invisible, you wouldn't have reconnected. You always know when someone's listening.
— Maybe I just wanted someone to hear.
A long pause followed.
The noise on the line softened, as if even the network itself was listening.
— You're strange today, — Min Ki said at last.
His tone had changed — quieter now, lower.
— You never used to want to be heard. You used to hide in silence like it was your second skin. So what now? You want me to understand?
— I don't want you to understand, — Ryeon said evenly, though his gaze trembled. — I'm just… tired of explaining things that don't need to be explained.
— No. — Min Ki's reply was soft but certain. — You're tired of pretending you don't care. That's all.
Ryeon smiled faintly, without light in his eyes.
— You like to analyze things, as if we're still in the same room surrounded by sensors. But this is just a night. Just a man who was in the wrong place.
— You're lying.
— I never lie, Min Ki.
— You're lying when you call it coincidence. You don't do coincidences. And yet you did this. Why?
He fell silent.
The words were there, but saying them felt unnecessary.
Outside, the fog moved like breath.
— You know, — Min Ki said after a pause, — I hate this moment. When you go quiet. When I can't read what's in your head. When I think that if the line cuts out, I'll never hear you again.
— You're exaggerating, — Ryeon murmured.
— No, I'm reacting. You disappear, and all that's left for me is noise — that damn noise you leave behind. And I have to live in it.
Ryeon closed his eyes.
The voice in his ear was too close.
Too warm.
— Maybe you should just shut the line off, — he said quietly. — Then there'll be no noise. No me.
— Don't say that.
— Why not?
— Because I've done it once before, — Min Ki's voice broke, rough, barely audible. — And I still hear how it sounded.
Ryeon didn't answer.
The fog outside was thicker than the walls.
The static in the line crackled softly — like someone breathing through the wires.
— You don't have to admit it, — Min Ki said after a long silence. — But I can tell you've changed. Not because of the missions. Not because of the system. Because of someone. And I'm not sure I want to know who.
— I'm not sure either, — Ryeon replied.
His voice was calm, but that calm held more truth than all his words before.
They both fell silent.
Min Ki wanted to say something more, but the words didn't come.
The line fractured — static growing louder, uneven, like breath after running.
— Ryeon… — Min Ki's voice, quiet, almost a whisper. — Just… stay alive. No explanations.
He didn't have time to answer — the connection cut out.
The screen went dark, leaving only his reflection in the glass — eyes brighter than before.
Outside, the fog drifted slowly, softly.
Ryeon removed the earpiece and set it down beside the cold coffee mug.
The scent of bitterness mixed with ozone, filling the air — a reminder that even the coldest things sometimes carry warmth.
And somewhere in that same room — where not long ago there had been smoke and blood — Ji-son sat by the window, watching the pale dawn.
He held the note in his hands, the one that still smelled faintly of coffee and the hands of the man who had saved his life.
He read it again and smiled — quietly, so as not to disturb the morning stillness.
Outside, rain was falling.
Its sound was soft — like the hush of breathing.