The rain had already washed the streets twice that evening, but the city never looked clean. It only smelled wet —the metallic scent of old roofs, damp concrete, and oil dripping from broken pipes. A thin, cool breeze slipped around his collar, the kind that comes in the evening after a gentle rain.
He stopped his bike and checked the address on his phone again under the flickering streetlight.
Last one," he muttered, pushing his bike through the narrow alley between two shops, its wheels hissing against the wet pavement.
The building at the end looked wrong — too quiet for this side of the district.
The metal door hung half open, light leaking through. Voices murmured inside, low and sharp.
He knocked once, hesitated, then pushed the door open.
"Delivery for…" he began, but the rest of his sentence drowned under the sudden crash of something heavy inside. The voices snapped into shouts. Before he could turn back, the walls lit up. Blinding white flashes and the thunder of boots pounding in.
"Police! Hands where I can see them!"
He froze. Someone tackled him from the side, driving him into the cold concrete. The shock of impact lit up his ribs, and the ground felt slick and unforgiving beneath his shoulder. There was shouting everywhere — curses, breaking glass, gunmetal glints under the flashing lights.
The air turned thick with smoke and rain pouring in from the broken roof.
Then… darkness.
…
He woke to silence.
Cold crept along his back, water dripping from somewhere above. His head throbbed.
A flashlight beam crossed his vision, and a voice followed: "Got one breathing here."
He pushed himself up slowly, coughing. His body ached.
Shapes moved through the smoke — men in riot gear, gloved hands dragging others out of the building.
Blue and red lights pulsed through cracks in the walls, painting the haze in flickers of urgency.
Then he saw them. And everything seemed to go still when he did.
Threads.
Faint, shimmering strands stretched between everyone in sight from head-to-head, the officers, the cuffed men being led out, even him.
They glowed like veins of light in the smoke. Some were red. Some blue. Some so pale they looked like mist.
Each time someone shouted, the lines trembled.
He blinked hard.
They didn't disappear.
…
The ride to the station blurred by in fragments.
Handcuffs clicking shut. A wet seat. Sirens muffled by rain.
Nobody looked at him except one officer, an older man with tired eyes.
"You're just a kid," he muttered.
"What the hell were you doing there?" he asked amidst the hiss of rain and the low wail of sirens, his voice barely cutting through the noise.
He didn't know how to answer.
The truth felt too small: a delivery.
Not that he knew it was going to a wanted gang hideout.
And he wasn't a kid — not really.
He wouldn't say that to a man with a badge and a gun, but still.
He was eighteen. A senior at Daehan High. Old enough to know better than to mouth off to a cop.
…
Hours later, he sat under a buzzing fluorescent light in a small white room.
The tabletop was smooth and spotless beneath his palms, cool to the touch like polished stone.
He cupped the paper cup in both hands, its warmth seeping into his fingers, too gentle to chase the chill from his skin.
Steam curled upward, carrying the faint scent of instant coffee — burnt, bitter, and a little sweet, like something pretending to be comfort.
The same officer came back — folder in one hand, a cup in the other.
He set it down with a soft scrape.
"You're not in trouble, son," he said.
"Just tell us again what you were delivering."
The words hung in the air, too casual for the room.
He could feel his pulse in his throat, the way his knees didn't quite fit under the table. The light buzzed louder than it should.
"A package. I do deliveries in the evening after school as a side hustle," he said quietly.
The man studied him for a long time.
And there, again, the threads flickered between them.
The one from the officer to him glowed a steady blue. He could feel it — trust, quiet and solid.
He glanced at the thread connecting him to the younger officer across the table. It vibrated like static. Suspicion. That one didn't believe him.
They didn't seem to notice the threads.
And somehow, that changed everything.
He was nervous — the kind that sat behind the ribs and made his breath shallow.
But the threads shimmered like truth laid bare, and he could read them, somehow.
Not perfectly. Not with certainty.
But he could feel what they meant.
The officer's thread glowed a steady blue — trust, quiet and solid.
The younger one's line buzzed faintly, like static — suspicion.
He didn't know what this was, didn't know why he could see them.
They'd started flickering into view hours earlier, and he hadn't told anyone.
he wasn't sure if he should.
But here, in this room, they gave him something.
Not comfort exactly, but clarity.
Enough to steady his hands.
Minutes later, they let him go.
"We confirmed your parents' story," the older cop said. "Don't take any more side jobs in that part of town. You're lucky you weren't shot tonight."
His parents were waiting at the front desk.
His mother stood as soon as she saw him, pale and trembling.
His father's apron was still wet from the kitchen sink, the front of his shirt damp and wrinkled like he'd come straight from scrubbing dishes.
"You could have died," his mother whispered, grabbing him by the shoulders. Her grip was tight — not angry, just desperate, like she needed to feel he was real.
He opened his mouth. "I…"
"We'll talk at home," his father cut in, his voice rough, already turning away.
"Come on."
They hailed a taxi outside the station.
Rain still fell in thin sheets, streaking the windows as they climbed in. His mother slid in first, her hand brushing his arm — not gripping, just checking he was still there.
His father gets in after them, shaking the wet umbrella outside before closing the door. He gave the driver their address, then leaned back, arms crossed, jaw tight. No one spoke.
The city passed in wet blurs, neon bleeding into puddles.
His mother kept glancing at him, her eyes red-rimmed, lips pressed tight like she was holding something back. And his father didn't look at either of them.
The cab smelled faintly of old vinyl and cigarette smoke. The heater hummed, but it didn't reach his feet.
He could feel their worry — not just in their silence, but in the way the threads shimmered between them.
His mother's line to him pulsed erratically, pale and trembling. Worry.
His father was the same. He tried to look composed, but the thread gave him away.
…
The rain had stopped by the time they reached their small restaurant.
The sign above the door flickered weakly: Sam's Dinner.
Inside, the smell of soy and oil hung in the air.
The night's last customer had gone, leaving only the hum of the fridge and his little brother perched on a stool, legs swinging.
"Yoon! The police called!" the boy blurted, jumping down from the stool the moment he saw him.
"Did you really get arrested? Did they handcuff you? Did they put you in a cell? Did you—"
"Stop it, Lio," his father grumbled.
His brother fell silent but kept staring, wide-eyed with excitement rather than fear.
A bright, bouncy thread connected them — proof of his curiosity and innocence.
Yoon managed a faint smile, ruffling the boy's hair before heading upstairs.
He closed the door behind him, tossed the damp jacket aside — still smelling of smoke — and sat by the small window.
The city outside was a patchwork of neon and shadow.
He leaned his head against the cold glass, watching faint lines of light ripple beyond it — from the buildings, from the few people still walking the streets.
They moved like threads.
He blinked.
Still there.
Not illusions.
Not damage from a concussion.
Real.