Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

        “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Sun Wukong asked quietly, watching Kim Namwoon as he meticulously checked his passport and sorted through the belongings he planned to bring.

        Kim Namwoon glanced at his older cousin, his expression weary, before releasing a long, tired sigh. “Do you even realise how many times you’ve asked me that today, Hyung?”

        He wasn’t wrong—Sun Wukong had indeed asked the question more than once that morning.

        “I’m just... worried about your brother, that’s all,” Sun Wukong murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

        Kim Namwoon exhaled again, slower this time. “That makes two of us, Hyung. That’s exactly why I’m doing this. I’m more worried about what might happen if he stays here. He’s been through too much already. That’s why I’m taking him somewhere quieter… somewhere he might finally breathe.”

        He paused, adjusting the zipper on his backpack before continuing, “He’s always loved nature, so I thought Switzerland might help. It’s not winter there yet, the climate’s milder and easier on him. I even looked up some doctors—specialists in hearing. Maybe, while we’re there, we can get a second opinion.”

        Silence settled between them, heavy and aching.

        As Kim Namwoon went back to his packing, Sun Wukong spoke again, more hesitantly this time. “I heard… that bastard showed up again yesterday. He met with Dokja.” 

        Kim Namwoon’s hands stilled. He turned slowly, eyes meeting Sun Wukong’s.

        “Did he say anything?” his cousin asked.

        “Yeah… he did,” Kim Namwoon said after a beat. “Not much, though. He apologized.” His tone dimmed. “But in the end, Hyung asked him to leave. He didn’t stay long.”

        Another silence fell between them, heavier this time, stretching across the room like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.

        “I heard he fainted… right in front of the gate,” Sun Wukong said at last, his voice low. “Did Dokja know?”

        Kim Namwoon gave a slow nod. “Yeah, he knew. In fact, he was the first to notice. He ran out to help him. Told me to drive him home too.” Namwoon’s expression was tight, conflicted. “He even made soup for him. Said the bastard had stomach issues—that something warm would help.”

        Sun Wukong’s brows drew together. So that was how it went. Despite everything, despite the pain and the silence, Kim Dokja still cared. Still reached out with kindness… to Yoo Joonghyuk.

        He didn’t know how to feel about it.

        Kim Namwoon was the first to stand, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a heavy thud onto the coffee table. His jaw was set, a snort escaping from him as he spoke, “My answer hasn’t changed. I don’t care how many times he apologizes. A bastard like him stays a bastard. No amount of sorrys will make me forget what he did to my brother.”

        Their eyes met, and Kim Namwoon’s voice dropped, cold and resolute. “He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Not after that.”

        Sun Wukong let out a quiet sigh, nodding in agreement. “Yeah.”

        But then Kim Namwoon’s expression faltered—just a little—and he glanced toward the door with a flicker of unease. “Still… My brother has always been soft-hearted. He can’t help it. I’m afraid that if that bastard keeps showing up, if he breaks enough times... Hyung might forgive him.”

        “People with soft hearts can be strong too,” Sun Wukong replied gently. “Dokja might forgive him, yes. But he’ll never love him the same way again. And that’ll be worse in the end, won’t it? To be forgiven, but never truly received.”

        Kim Namwoon gave a faint, bitter smile. “You’re right. Besides, we’re leaving today. Switzerland awaits. What’s the point of that bastard apologizing now? Even if he races to the airport and throws himself at our feet, it won’t matter. Hmph. Goodbye forever.”

        Sun Wukong nodded.

        Maybe Kim Namwoon was right.

        Maybe distance was what Kim Dokja needed most—time and space away from the one who had hurt him. 

        Maybe only then could he truly begin to forget.

* * *

        The morning was wrapped in a somber hush, the city cloaked beneath a blanket of grey clouds that hung low, as if even the sky hesitated to see him leave. 

        Han Sooyoung stood silently by the door, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her sharp features were unusually subdued, eyes fixed on Kim Dokja as he carefully folded the last of his clothes into a suitcase. The faint rustle of fabric filled the stillness between them—too gentle, too final. She hadn’t said a word yet. She knew herself well enough to know that if she opened her mouth, the words would come out cracked—sharp with anger, or worse, wet with tears. 

        Kim Dokja looked up, the weariness in his eyes older than his years. He signed with a slight motion of his hands, You can talk. I can read your lips.

        Han Sooyoung exhaled slowly, as if bracing herself. Her voice came out low. “You’re really leaving… without saying goodbye to him?”

        Kim Dokja gave a small, bitter smile, more tired than amused. “You know why. He’ll make a scene again.”

        She didn’t argue. Instead, she pushed herself away from where she was standing and took a seat beside him, unusually gentle. Her gaze had softened, but a storm still swirled behind it.

        “He fainted in front of the gate,” she said, “he’s not okay.”

        “I know,” Kim Dokja replied quietly, eyes not meeting hers. “I was the one who found him.”

        Han Sooyoung bit the inside of her cheek, “and you still made soup for him.”

        He nodded, like it was the only natural thing to do. “He hadn’t eaten. His stomach’s a mess. It didn’t feel right to just… send him away like that.”

        “Even after everything he’s done?”

        For a long moment, Kim Dokja didn’t speak. The silence stretched like the weight in his chest.

        Then, finally, he looked at her—his expression unreadable, yet undeniably heavy.

        “I feel guilty… when I see him like that.”

        The words caught her off guard. Her breath hitched, eyes flickering with surprise. That wasn’t what she expected to hear—not from Kim Dokja, not now, not after all that had happened.

        Kim Dokja sat with his hands folded tightly in his lap, his gaze distant, as if staring through time itself. “It wasn’t all his fault,” he said quietly. “If I’m being honest… a lot of it started because of me. I was the one who pushed for the engagement—even when he barely knew me.” His voice was low, brittle around the edges. “Then everything spiraled. The media caught wind of it, and the netizens… they jumped to conclusions, like they always do. And I—” he paused, eyes lowering, “—I let them.”

        A hollow chuckle escaped him, brittle like frost. “Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t even say anything wrong. He was just being honest. Why would a musician tie himself to someone who can’t even hear his music? Someone who could never fully understand his world?”

        He took a shaky breath, the weight of his own words pressing down on him. “I let myself believe the ugly things people said. I didn’t give him a chance. I didn’t wait to hear his side.”

        Across from him, Han Sooyoung’s expression softened, a flicker of pain in her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean you weren’t hurt,” she said gently.

        “I was,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But not all of that pain came from him. I was the one who clung to a fantasy, who hoped too much for something that was never promised. I convinced myself it could work, even when it wasn’t my place to dream like that.”

        He hesitated, then looked down at his trembling hands. “But what hurt most… what really broke me… was the lie. About the job. About the thing I held closest. He didn’t have to pretend. And when he did, it felt like betrayal.”

        His fingers curled into his palms, white-knuckled. “It felt like I didn’t matter. Like I was someone he had to lie to just to make things easier.”

        Kim Dokja’s voice was soft, like the faint wind pressing against a shut window. “But when I finally had time to breathe… to think clearly—” he exhaled slowly, “—I realized it was all a misunderstanding. He wasn’t cheating on me, or hiding something out of cruelty. Maybe… he wasn’t lying at all. He didn’t even know it was me. If he had known, he wouldn’t have dared reach out. He hates me, Sooyoung-ah. He despises me.”

        Han Sooyoung’s head snapped up, cutting him off sharply. “I don’t think that’s true.”

        She folded her arms, frustration softening into something closer to sympathy. “Yes, he’s a bastard. No arguments there. But from what I’ve seen—how he keeps coming here, asking for your forgiveness, always looking like hell—I think… he’s trying, Dokja-ya. He’s really trying to make things right.”

        She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip as she searched for the right words. “I think he’s scared. Of losing you. Of losing what you two might have. ”

        Kim Dokja didn’t respond. His silence was heavy, but not empty. Thoughtful.

        Han Sooyoung let out a self-deprecating laugh, her shoulders sagging just a little. “I know, it sounds ridiculous. I can’t believe I’m the one saying this either. I rushed into judging him without giving it a second thought. But now… now that I’ve seen how he acts after everything, I’m starting to think—he didn’t mean to hurt you. Not after he found out who you were.” 

        She looked away, her voice quieter, almost unsure. “Maybe… maybe he really didn’t know it was you.”

        Kim Dokja lifted his head and smiled, faint but real. “I understand. And I appreciate you telling me.”

        She nodded slowly, then asked, her voice no more than a whisper, “And now? How are you feeling? Do you think… you’ll forgive him?”

        For a long moment, his expression was unreadable—eyes dark, unreadable, clouded with emotion too complex to name.

        Then he spoke, his tone calm but laced with quiet sadness. “I think… I can forgive him. Someday.”

        A pause.

        “But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love him the way I used to.”

        Han Sooyoung looked at him, heart tightening at the quiet sorrow in his expression. “You still love him.”

        “Not in the same way,” Kim Dokja replied, his voice soft but unwavering. “I can’t deny that. But not with the same heart that once believed he’d never hurt me.”

        She swallowed, the lump in her throat making it hard to speak. “Will you come back?”

        Kim Dokja let out a breath of weary laughter. “Where do you think I’m going?” he said, gently. “Namwoon and I are just taking a vacation. Of course we’ll come back.” His honesty held a fragile warmth. “But for now… I need to leave. For my sake, and his.”

        He didn’t have to say the name—Han Sooyoung already knew.

        “If I stay,” he continued, gaze distant, “he’ll keep coming back. No matter what. And I… I still can’t forget the way he stood by while everything happened. The silence. The coldness. The way those curses were left unanswered. If I stay, I’ll only tear open wounds I’ve barely managed to stitch shut.”

        Han Sooyoung gave a small nod. She stood and stepped closer, brushing her hand lightly across his shoulder—a touch as fleeting as the comfort she wished she could give. “Then go,” she said quietly. “But don’t disappear, okay? Text me every day. If you vanish, I swear I’ll find you and kill you myself.”

        A faint smile touched Kim Dokja’s lips, tinged with the kind of sadness that lingered long after tears had dried. “I won’t disappear,” he said. “I just need to learn how to live without him.”

* * *

        The car sped down the highway, the tires eating up kilometers with grim urgency. The inside of the vehicle was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the turn signal and the shallow sound of Yoo Joonghyuk’s breathing. He gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary. His knuckles were pale, tendons taut.

       “Don’t come.”

        His mother had sent that text. 

        But Yoo Joonghyuk had to go. 

        Even if Kim Dokja didn’t want him there. Even if he had no right anymore. 

        His phone sat on the passenger seat beside him, screen dark. The last open app was the flight tracker Kim Namwoon had posted on his public story—an idiotic slip Yoo Joonghyuk was half-thankful for.

        He had a name. A flight number. A narrow window of time. 

        And nothing else.

        The traffic was light. The silence pressing. With each kilometer, Yoo Joonghyuk felt the tightness in his chest grow.

        Regret. Panic. Something like grief. 

        He hated the airport. He hated what it symbolized. 

        Departures. Distance. Things you couldn't chase once they were gone. 

        He didn’t know what he would say if he saw him. He just knew he had to. One more time. Even from afar. As he pulled into the long-term parking garage, the radio crackled in and out—some soft ballad about missing someone. He turned it off with a sharp flick of his fingers. 

        When he stepped out of the car, the wind hit him first—cold, humid, biting through his coat. He didn’t care. He walked fast, weaving through other travelers dragging their luggage behind them, his eyes scanning every direction as if Kim Dokja might already be there, slipping just out of view. 

        Inside the terminal, the departure board blinked, indifferent and uncaring.

        Flight 407 – Zurich – Open for Check-in.

        He checked the gate number. His boots echoed against the polished tile as he broke into a near-run.

        But he hadn’t seen him yet.

        And with every step, the fear grew louder in his head:

        What if he’s already gone?

        What if he was already too late?

* * *

        The moment Nirvana read the message from the spy he had hired, his hands clenched into fists. The screen of his tablet glowed faintly in the darkened room, casting sickly blue light across his face. His breath caught in his throat. 

        “Flight 407 – Zurich – 09:15 Departure. Kim Dokja and his brother leaving soon.”

        He read it again. And again. Just to be sure.

        So he’s running away.

        A flicker of fury passed through him, sharp and fast, before being buried under something colder. Fear.

        Not fear for Kim Dokja.

        Fear that the game was slipping out of his fingers.

        He had spent too long weaving his threads, too long pushing the right buttons in the dark. Whispering, orchestrating, waiting. Kim Dokja was supposed to stay. To fall apart just enough to lean on him. To need him. Not… leave.

        Nirvana stood abruptly, sending the chair behind him scraping loudly against the floor. The sound rattled through the small apartment. His coat was already on the back of the couch. He grabbed it with trembling hands. No time to change. He moved on instinct now—grabbing his wallet, keys, the burner phone—then bolted down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. Every second counted.

        He needed to get there before he did.

        Because if Yoo Joonghyuk reached Kim Dokja first—

        No. He wouldn’t let that happen.

        The spy also told him that Yoo Joonghyuk might gain the same information, and Nirvana could tell that man was going to find Kim Dokja as well. 

        The taxi ride was unbearable. The driver tried to make small talk, but Nirvana didn’t respond. He stared blankly out the window as Seoul’s buildings blurred past in shades of grey and concrete, fingers tapping relentlessly against his knee. Time was melting away too fast. 

        By the time the car screeched to a stop outside Incheon Airport, his mind was already racing ahead.

        What would he do if he saw Kim Dokja?

        What would he say?

        Could he still twist the knife in before it was too late?

        But he had to try.

        He pushed the door open and stepped out into the wind, sharp and cold like fate itself. The terminal loomed before him, full of people and noise and the finality of goodbyes.

        And Nirvana walked in, heart pounding, desperate to rewrite the ending he had not planned.

* * *

        The airport was bathed in morning light, all pale gold and muted hush, the kind that softened even the hard metal seats and endless walls of glass. Announcements murmured from overhead speakers, the steady cadence of names and flight numbers folding into the background hum of rolling luggage and quiet footsteps.

        Kim Dokja stood near the departure gate, his fingers lightly curled around the strap of his carry-on. The check-in had gone smoothly. The tickets were already printed. Passports stamped. All that was left was the waiting for their parents to come and bid them a farewell. 

        Next to him, Kim Namwoon had his arms crossed, a backpack slung over one shoulder, chewing the edge of his straw from the iced coffee he wasn’t really drinking. He kept glancing sideways, observing Kim Dokja with a look more perceptive than he let on. 

        Touching Kim Dokja’s shoulder gently, Kim Namwoon finally said, “you keep looking at the gate,” 

        Kim Dokja blinked, like he hadn’t realized it. “Just waiting,” he answered vaguely.

        “For the flight?” Kim Namwoon tilted his head, smiling without much humor. “You’re not watching the clock.” 

        Kim Dokja didn’t reply. His eyes flicked toward the arrival hall again, then quickly away, as though caught doing something shameful. 

        Kim Namwoon sighed and shifted his weight. “Hyung,” he placed a hand on his brother’s lap, directing Kim Dokja’s attention back to him, and said, a little softer. “You’re not waiting for our parents, are you?” 

        Kim Dokja’s lips parted, but nothing came out. He hesitated. 

        “You think he’ll come?” Kim Namwoon asked.

        There was no need to say a name. They both knew.

        “I don’t know,” Kim Dokja murmured. His fingers tightened slightly on the bag strap. “He shouldn’t.”

        Kim Namwoon didn’t press him. He just looked out at the crowd ebbing and flowing through the terminal. Businessmen in suits, toddlers clinging to stuffed animals, a woman with tears in her eyes hugging someone tightly. All the goodbyes people didn’t say until it was almost too late. 

        “You’re allowed to want him to come,” Kim Namwoon said after a beat. “Even if he doesn’t deserve it.”

        “I don’t want to want it,” Kim Dokja read his lips and whispered.

        “Still doesn’t mean you don’t.”

        The PA system crackled, announcing the boarding time for their flight. People began gathering in loose lines. Kim Dokja still didn’t move. And Kim Namwoon, for all his usual attitude, simply stayed beside him, hands in his pockets, waiting—quietly, like a brother who understood that some departures were heavier than just distance.

        “I’m sorry,” Kim Dokja finally muttered, looking at Kim Namwoon’s eyes.

        “What are you sorry for?”

        “For making you worry. For making everyone worry.”

        Kim Namwoon chuckled. “It’s not your fault.” he turned gloomy. “If it weren’t because of me, you… won’t be like this. It’s all my fault.” his voice trembled, he wanted to cry now.

        The memory flashed back unwanted. 

        That day, he just got his first motorbike. Out of his happiness, he wanted so much to show it to Kim Dokja, he even insisted to have his first ride with him. Who knew that they would collide with a car driven by a drunkard? The car didn’t only crash into his motorbike, but several other bikes, too. He suffered a minor injury as he managed to avoid the crash, but Kim Dokja… his head suffered blunt trauma and it had hurt his hearing ever since. 

        Kim Namwoon could never erase his guilt since that accident. Even though no one blamed him, not even Kim Dokja himself, he still couldn’t forgive himself. Now that he thought about it again, perhaps Yoo Joonghyuk was even better than him. At least Yoo Joonghyuk had never caused his brother something that would hurt his future. It was him all along that caused his brother his dream and life. And worse, it was because of him Yoo Joonghyuk could easily hurt Kim Dokja.

        And now, he was scared.

        After all that Sun Wukong had told him that Kim Dokja finally had given up, what should he do? 

        If Kim Dokja would never heal, he would never forgive himself. 

        And he didn’t know how he could live his life. 

        However, his thoughts couldn’t linger too long. The murmur of the terminal shifted slightly—like the air changed pressure. Kim Namwoon caught it first, lifting his head just a fraction. Something in the crowd had changed. Not in volume, but in presence. 

        Kim Dokja didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed ahead, still scanning the incoming crowd, still hoping for a familiar silhouette. Still pretending he wasn’t. 

        But Kim Namwoon stiffened beside him. He straightened, jaw tightening, and then slowly leaned in.

        “Hyung,” he muttered under his breath, careful and low. 

        Kim Dokja looked at him, he saw his brother’s not so good expression. His eyes searched for Kim Namwoon’s lips, reading it. 

        “Don’t panic.”

        Kim Dokja blinked at him. “What do you—”

        And then he saw.

        Not Yoo Joonghyuk. Not their parents.

        But someone else.

        Draped in a dark coat too sleek for the weather, his steps too elegant for the chaotic shuffle of airport crowds, Nirvana moved through the terminal like a shadow. Eyes sharp. Smile too calm. His presence alone drew discomfort, like a cold breeze passing beneath skin. 

        He hadn’t seen them yet, not directly. He was scanning, slow and deliberate, like he knew Kim Dokja was here. Like he could smell the unraveling of his plan. 

        Kim Dokja's heart dropped into his stomach. “Nirvana,” he whispered.

        Kim Namwoon’s hand went to Kim Dokja’s elbow immediately, not roughly, but firmly—protective in a way that made Kim Dokja snap back to himself. “What the hell is he doing here?” he hissed. “I have a bad feeling. Somehow I think he’s looking for us. For you.”

        Kim Dokja bit his lips. No, impossible, right? After all that had happened, did Nirvana still dare to look for him?

        “Do you think so?” Kim Dokja said quickly. “But what for?” 

        “How should I know? But better be careful than regret. He’s just a fucking snake. Let’s move somewhere else before he can see us.”

        Nirvana paused near one of the large information screens, back turned for a moment, but it wouldn’t last.

        He was getting closer. Too close. 

        “Should we run?” Kim Namwoon asked.

        Kim Dokja hesitated. He didn’t want to make a scene. They were too close to the gate. Too close to leaving.

        “No,” he said, swallowing thickly. “We wait. If we run now, he’ll notice and follow us.”

        Kim Namwoon nodded grimly, adjusting the strap of his backpack. Besides, they had not yet said goodbye to their parents. His eyes never left Nirvana. 

        Behind them, the boarding call echoed again—final call for another flight. 

        Kim Namwoon looked at the time. Alas, their flight was still three hours away. He should’ve come later, not too early like this.

        Now, they found trouble.

        No. Trouble found them.

        And somewhere outside, past the arrival doors, Yoo Joonghyuk had just stepped into the terminal.

* * *

        Yoo Joonghyuk shoved open the terminal doors, chest heaving from the sprint through the parking lot. His coat was still half-unbuttoned, hair tousled from wind and urgency. He didn’t care how he looked. He didn’t care that people turned to glance at him. Of course someone would notice him, he was a celebrity after all and a famous one, too. But it didn’t matter. He only cared about finding Kim Dokja.

        His eyes darted around the terminal—information screens, check-in desks, security gates, any sign of him.

        Kim Dokja had to be here.

        He just hoped that he was not late. He did ask help from Lee Jihye and Lee Hyunsung to check further information about the flight Kim Dokja might take with his brother. The last text from Lee Jihye had been brief. Just a location. Departure Terminal 2, Gate 36.

        Yoo Joonghyuk hadn’t responded. He was too busy and too anxious to get there. He moved forward, scanning faces as he passed. His heart was pounding—not just from the run, but from the thought that maybe Kim Dokja had already boarded. Maybe he was already on the plane. Maybe—

        Then he saw him.

        Not Kim Dokja.

        But Nirvana.

        A tall figure in a sharp coat, far too composed for a crowded airport. His posture was casual, but his gaze—razor-focused. Like a hunter looking for a single scent in a sea of noise.

        Yoo Joonghyuk stopped in his tracks. His stomach twisted.

        What the hell was Nirvana doing here? Didn’t Kim Namwoon send him to police detention? How did he get out? He was so busy with Kim Dokja, he didn’t pay attention to any other affairs. 

        Wait. Nirvana was here. Then there was only one reason why he was here.

        The answer came too fast, too obvious: Kim Dokja.

        His fists clenched.

        The bastard had found out. Of course he had. Of course he’d come. Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t know why Nirvana came to see Kim Dokja, but he was sure of one thing. Nirvana was here, not to say goodbye, but to ruin everything. 

        Yoo Joonghyuk moved again, this time faster, keeping low, angling himself behind a row of terminals. His breathing was shallow. He didn’t care if he had to fight him here. If Nirvana so much as touched Kim Dokja—if he tried anything—

        No.

        He won’t touch him.

        He wouldn’t allow that to happen. He just had to find Kim Dokja first.

        And if fate was cruel enough to bring them all to the same gate—then Yoo Joonghyuk would rewrite fate with his own hands.

* * *

        The crowd drifted in slow, tired waves around Departure Gate. The distant announcements were muffled by chatter and the low rumble of rolling suitcases. Kim Dokja stood near the large terminal window, eyes fixed on the hazy outline of planes against the grey sky. His shoulders were tense beneath his coat, fingers absently twisting the fabric of his sleeve. 

        Kim Namwoon stood just a few steps away, phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah, Mom. We already checked in. Just waiting now… No, no sign of him. It’s fine.” He glanced toward his brother with a small smile. “He’s doing okay. When will you arrive?” 

        He turned slightly, back facing the terminal walkway. 

        However he didn’t notice, out of his sight, when Nirvana appeared.

        He moved with careful precision, slipping through the bustle of the crowd without drawing attention, as though the world naturally bent around him. The flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes the moment he spotted Kim Dokja standing alone. 

        Kim Dokja didn’t see him at first. Nor did he hear him.

        “Dokja-ssi,” Nirvana said gently, but the words didn’t reach him. Not clearly. Just a shift of air, a shape of sound he couldn’t decipher. 

        Kim Dokja, feeling someone was near, turned halfway, brow furrowed, squinting at the figure beside him. His eyes widened slightly when he saw who it was. Nirvana? How did he—

        Nirvana stepped closer, lips moving slowly this time, exaggerating the shapes so Kim Dokja could read them. I’m not here to hurt you.

        Kim Dokja froze, uncertain, eyes flicking to the crowd behind them. His lips parted slightly. “What…?” 

        Nirvana leaned in a little, careful not to startle him. “Please. I’m just here to apologise. To help.”

        He signed the last word clumsily, but sincerely.

        Kim Dokja hesitated.

        Then Nirvana said, slower, more deliberately: It’s Yoo Joonghyuk. He’s… he’s in the hospital. Emergency.

        Kim Dokja’s heart sank.

        Nirvana smirked in his heart. He knew those words working well. He could see the anxiety coming from Kim Dokja’s eyes once he mentioned Yoo Joonghyuk’s name. No matter what they said about the relationship between these two, it was undeniable Kim Dokja did care about Yoo Joonghyuk. He spit in his heart, what’s so good with that man? He was a hundred times better. If he was given a chance, he could make Kim Dokja happy and grateful to have someone like him. 

        “He collapsed,” Nirvana continued, hands gesturing with a rhythm meant to be seen, not heard. “Stomach rupture. Stress. Bleeding. He refuses surgery. He said he won’t go under unless he sees you.”

        Kim Dokja blinked rapidly, the color draining from his face.

        “He wants to see you. Please.” Nirvana’s voice lowered again, tender like velvet, like concern. “You don’t have to stay. Just come with me. Just see him once.”

        Kim Dokja’s lips trembled. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, wordlessly, he picked up his bag.

        Across the room, Kim Namwoon ended his call and turned back toward the window.

        His eyes scanned the spot where his brother had been standing just a minute ago. 

        Empty. 

        His smile faded.

        “Hyung…?”

        But Kim Dokja was already gone.

* * *

        Yoo Joonghyuk’s footsteps had slowed. His eyes flicked back and forth across the terminal, sweeping past blurred faces and blinking signboards.

        Nothing. The gate was empty. No familiar figure, no dark hair, no quiet eyes looking back at him. 

        Just the hum of luggage wheels and the murmurs of waiting passengers. 

        He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. 

        Was he… too late? But it's impossible. He had checked the schedule. He was more than two hours early. Kim Dokja must have not left yet. 

        His throat clenched. His chest hurt. And not mention his gastric problem. He didn’t even have the chance to fill his stomach before. He was not 100% normal yet, but he forced himself to be here.

        His gaze lifted—perhaps out of instinct, or maybe a final flicker of hope.

        And then he stilled.

        Above him, on the second floor, beyond the sterile glass of the upper departure lounge, two figures emerged beneath the cold glow of fluorescent lights.

        One of them—there was no mistaking that silhouette.

        Kim Dokja.

        The other—

        Yoo Joonghyuk’s  blood turned cold. His heart stopped mid-beat.

        Nirvana.

        A frigid wave of dread slammed into him. His chest tightened.

        No.

        His body reacted before thought could form. He lunged forward, pushing through the sea of people that had gathered around him, their hands tugging at his sleeves, phones flashing, voices calling his name. But he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when he’d finally seen him.

        His feet thundered against the floor as he sprinted toward the nearest escalator, lungs burning with every breath. Panic clawed its way up his throat like acid.

        No, no, no. Nirvana had found him.

        How?

        How did he get to him?

        What is he going to do to him?

        And ahead—just beyond reach—Kim Dokja was getting further away.

        Before he could get far, a sudden commotion exploded around him.

        “Yoo Joonghyuk! It’s really him!”

        “Oppa! Over here, please—just one photo!”

        “Please sign this! My sister’s a huge fan—!”

        Shit. He'd forgotten. In the rush, the panic—he hadn’t disguised himself. He hadn’t even bothered to cover his face.

        The crowd swelled like a tidal wave, voices rising into a feverish pitch, bodies pressing in. A flurry of hands, phones, and flashing lights engulfed him. Some had recognized him the moment he entered, but now it had multiplied. Dozens—no, maybe hundreds—surrounded him like a net, snapping pictures, shoving pens and papers into his hands. A blur of adoration and noise.

        He tried to shove past them, tried to scream above their cheers. “Move. Move—damn it, move!”

        But it was useless. They didn’t hear him. They didn’t care. All they saw was Yoo Joonghyuk—the star, the legend, the name.

        The flashes blinded him. The clamor swallowed his voice whole. He turned, craning his neck, desperate—searching.

        Then—he found them again.

        Up above, still on the second floor. Kim Dokja had slowed. His body turned slightly, uncertain. Hesitation laced the angle of his shoulders.

        Something was wrong.

        Yoo Joonghyuk saw the way Nirvana’s hand gripped his wrist. Too tight. Controlling. Wrong.

        Kim Dokja stumbled, half a step back. His face unreadable, but Yoo Joonghyuk saw it—knew that body, that stillness, that flicker of resistance. 

        He was trying to pull away.

        And Nirvana—Nirvana just yanked him forward, forceful now, dragging him further into the terminal.

        Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest tightened until it ached.

        His throat tore as he cried out, raw and panicked,

        “KIM DOKJA—!”

        But there was no response.

        Kim Dokja didn’t turn.

        Of course he didn’t.

        His voice couldn’t reach him. Not through the crowds. Not through the roar of fans screaming his name, thinking it was joy.

        Not when Kim Dokja—Kim Dokja couldn’t hear him.

        And he was being taken. Again. Right in front of him.

        Nirvana’s head turned—just for a second.

        Their eyes met.

        And in that sliver of frozen time, Yoo Joonghyuk saw it.

        The smile. Crooked. Cruel. A razor’s edge carved across Nirvana’s face, glinting with mockery and triumph. Then, with a jerk that snapped Kim Dokja’s balance, Nirvana yanked him forward—hard—disappearing into the corridor above. 

        “No—!!” Yoo Joonghyuk broke through the last wall of bodies, stumbling as he sprinted toward the escalator. “KIM DOKJA!!”

        But he was too late.

* * *

        At first, it was subtle.

        A hand resting lightly against his back. A gentle nudge at his waist. Nirvana moved beside him with the composure of someone entirely in control—each step confident, each touch carefully measured. Kim Dokja tried to ignore the tension creeping up his spine, chalking it up to nerves, the noise of the terminal, the gravity of what Nirvana had told him.

        Yoo Joonghyuk was in the hospital. Refusing surgery. Asking for him.

        That was what mattered. That had to be what mattered.

        Still…

        Why was Nirvana standing so close?

        Kim Dokja subtly edged to the side, trying to carve a little space between them. But Nirvana mirrored the motion seamlessly, sliding back into step with him—closer now. His arm brushed against Kim Dokja’s, fingers trailing lightly across the fabric at his waist. The breath that hit his ear when Nirvana leaned in to speak was too warm, too intimate. Kim Dokja stiffened.

        “Almost there,” Nirvana murmured, lips curved faintly, voice too smooth. His eyes gave away nothing.

        The hallway they entered stretched long and sterile, curving away from the central gates. It wasn’t a part of the airport Kim Dokja remembered—too quiet, too empty.

        Something was wrong.

        He slowed slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “Are you sure this is the right way?”

        For a beat, Nirvana didn’t reply. Then, with disarming ease, his hand tightened around Kim Dokja’s wrist—not painful, but firm. Possessive.

        “We have to go this way,” he said quickly. “It’s crowded out there. When I arrived, some fans spotted me. I had to take the back route to escape the attention.”

        The explanation sounded plausible. Reasonable.

        But then Nirvana looked behind them—just a flicker of movement, a flash of unease in his gaze—and his expression changed.

        Without warning, he picked up speed. His grip on Kim Dokja’s wrist hardened.

        Kim Dokja stumbled to keep up, breath catching.

        And suddenly, the weight in his chest returned—heavier than before.

        Something wasn’t right.

        Kim Dokja stumbled, his shoes scraping loudly against the polished floor as he was jerked forward. “Wait—wait, what’s going on?”

        “There’s no time,” Nirvana snapped, his earlier calm shattered. The softness that had laced his voice only moments before was gone, replaced by clipped urgency and something far darker. Though the words were hard to hear, Kim Dokja could read his lips. He could see it in the tightness of Nirvana’s jaw, the tremble beneath his forced composure.

        Panic ignited in his chest, fast and choking. He dug in his heels, resisting with all the strength he had left. “I want to go back. I need to find Namwoon—”

        “No.”

        The word hit like a gunshot—sharp, flat, absolute.

        Nirvana’s hand crushed around his wrist, no longer gentle. His face twisted, no longer kind. The illusion cracked wide open. Behind the mask of concern lay something raw and frantic. Desperate.

        Kim Dokja’s breath caught in his throat.

        This wasn’t about Yoo Joonghyuk.

        It had never been about Yoo Joonghyuk.

        “I said let me go!” He struggled, trying to twist out of Nirvana’s grip, but the man’s strength was unnerving—unyielding. With increasing force, Nirvana dragged him deeper into the corridor, farther from the terminal’s glow, its noise, its people.

        Behind them, the sound was swelling—voices, movement, something loud, urgent. Something important.

        Nirvana was running from it.

        “You lied—!” Kim Dokja’s voice cracked with disbelief.

        “Shut up,” Nirvana hissed, low and venomous. “You’re going to ruin everything.”

        Fear sliced through Kim Dokja like winter wind. His pulse thundered in his ears. He turned his head, desperate, scanning the corners, the halls, the stairwells—looking for someone, anyone. Just one familiar face.

        But there was no one.

        He was being taken.

        And no one knew.

* * *

        Yoo Joonghyuk was desperate now.

        Kim Dokja was being taken—dragged away right in front of him—and he couldn’t reach him.

        The crowds pressed in from every side, a wall of bodies and flashing cameras, their excitement deaf to the urgency in his voice. Shouts and laughter blurred into a single roaring hum. The scene had become utter chaos. Faces blurred. Hands grabbed at his sleeves. Phones thrust into his face. A thousand voices screaming his name—but not the one he needed to hear it.

        From the edge of his vision, he saw the airport police moving in at last, their uniforms cutting through the mob. But it was too late. What good would they do? They’d spend their time dispersing the crowd, asking questions, creating more delay.

        By then, Kim Dokja would be gone.

        Yoo Joonghyuk gritted his teeth, fury and dread clawing through his chest. With all the strength left in his limbs, he shoved his way forward—elbowing, pushing, breaking through the tide. It didn’t matter what they thought. It didn’t matter how it looked. He had to get to where Kim Dokja was taken.

        He had to.

        He kept looking up—eyes scanning for that familiar silhouette, that small, retreating figure. He saw Nirvana, saw the way he clutched Kim Dokja’s wrist, forcing him forward with brutal urgency.

        He saw Kim Dokja struggle.

        “KIM DOKJA!”

        Yoo Joonghyuk roared, voice cracking.

        No answer.

        He knew Kim Dokja couldn’t hear him.

        The noise was too much. The distance too far.

        His deafness—unforgiving.

        Still, Yoo Joonghyuk kept screaming his name.

        He would not stop.

        Even if his throat tore open.

        Even if no one listened.

        Because if he stopped, if he gave up now—

        He might never see him again.

* * *

        Kim Dokja was terrified.

        No matter how hard he struggled, Nirvana’s grip wouldn’t budge. He was stronger—unreasonably so—and all of Kim Dokja’s efforts to free himself had only made his wrist ache. Now, Nirvana had dragged him to the far corner of the lounge, the lights growing dimmer, the space quieter. Ahead, the door to the parking lot loomed.

        Once they crossed that threshold, anything could happen. And none of it would be good.

        He had to get away.

        He didn’t care if he caused a scene. He didn’t care who saw or what they thought. All that mattered was escaping—getting free before it was too late.

        So, he acted on instinct.

        Kim Dokja slammed his foot down hard on Nirvana’s. The suddenness of it caught him off guard—Nirvana cried out, grip loosening just enough.

        That was all he needed.

        Kim Dokja wrenched his wrist free and bolted, not daring to look back. His legs carried him faster than he thought possible, every step fueled by desperation. He had to return to Namwoon. He had to find help before Nirvana caught him again.

        Even though he couldn’t hear anything, he felt it.

        Nirvana was behind him. Gaining on him. Getting closer.

        His heart beat like a war drum, fear slicing through his chest like ice.

        Could he escape? What if he couldn’t? What would Nirvana do if he caught him?

        He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to find out.

        Please—someone. Anyone.

        Yoo Joonghyuk.

        The name surfaced like a plea. A ghost. A whisper in the chaos of his thoughts.

        Why? Why now?

        Why did his mind go to Yoo Joonghyuk of all people?

        What would Yoo Joonghyuk do in a moment like this?

        No. Stop. He shouldn’t think about him. He had to stop hoping. Wishing.

        Even if Yoo Joonghyuk was here—what difference would it make?

        He wasn’t the kind of person who would save him.

        Not anymore.

        He was running too fast.

        Too desperate.

        His foot caught something—he wasn’t even sure what—and the next second, he hit the ground. Hard.

        Pain flared across his palms where they scraped against the floor, but he knew he couldn’t stay down. He couldn’t afford to.

        He pushed up, ready to move again—

        But a hand grabbed him.

        Fingers like iron, yanking him back to his feet.

        “Where do you think you’re going?” Nirvana’s voice was low and furious, his eyes wild. “You’re coming with me.”

        No.

        No, no, no.

        Kim Dokja’s panic surged again. He thrashed once more—one last desperate push—and broke free. His lungs burned, his vision blurred, but he kept running. Back through the corridor, back toward the noise, the light, the people. Below, a crowd had gathered. Massive. Loud. 

        And in the middle of it—someone.

        A figure.

        Kim Dokja didn’t know why, but his heart lurched.

        Something inside him screamed to go there.

        To get to that person.

        He didn’t know who.

        But somehow… he hoped.

        “KIM DOKJA!!!”

        What?

        “KIM DOKJA!!! I’M HERE!!! I’M HERE!!! LOOK AT ME!!! KIM DOKJA!!!”

        What? What was happening?

        He could hear? Was he dreaming? He was sure now—he wasn’t mistaken.

        He could hear it.

        Clear as day.

        Someone was calling his name.

        “KIM DOKJA!! LOOK AT ME!!”

        He knew that voice.

        He knew that voice.

        It had been the only voice he wanted to hear for so long. The voice that had been his anchor in the chaos, the voice that carried all his hopes. It was the voice that kept him going, the reason he fought to return to normal, to regain the sense of hearing that had once been lost.

        Yoo Joonghyuk?

        “KIM DOKJA!!”

        Yes. He could hear him now. Yoo Joonghyuk was down there, in the heart of the crowd, his voice cutting through the noise, desperate, pleading. Yoo Joonghyuk was there. Reaching for him.

        In the midst of all the blaring confusion, the overwhelming sound, there was only one voice that pierced through the chaos, the one voice that mattered.

        Yoo Joonghyuk's voice.

        Kim Dokja wanted to reach back, wanted to let him know. He was so close to the edge now. Just one step away. He could almost feel the connection, the hope that surged in his chest.

        But then, Nirvana’s grip tightened again.

        This time, there would be no escaping it so easily. Kim Dokja tried to pull away, to break free, but the hands that held him were too strong. Desperation surged through him. He twisted, bent back farther, reaching out toward the only thing that mattered in that moment—Yoo Joonghyuk, his voice, his presence.

        But his balance faltered.

        His feet—no longer grounded.

        And in that terrifying instant, the floor seemed to slip away from him.

        Yoo Joonghyuk gasped, his heart pounding in his chest. In the midst of the chaos, everything unfolded before him in a slow-motion nightmare.

        He saw it all.

        How Nirvana was dragging Kim Dokja back, how Kim Dokja fought with everything in him to escape, his body tense with fear, desperation flashing in his eyes.

        And then—

        He saw it.

        Kim Dokja’s body, weightless for a split second, teetering on the edge of the railing, before gravity took hold and pulled him downward with terrifying speed.

        The crowd around them gasped in unison, hands flying to mouths, eyes wide with disbelief.

        The shock and horror of the moment rippled through the crowd, but none of it mattered to Yoo Joonghyuk.

        He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

        He surged forward, like a bull seeing red, a primal drive overtaking him.

        People stumbled and were knocked down in his wake, but he didn’t care.

        All that mattered was Kim Dokja.

        He had to catch him.

        He had to save him.

        Nothing else in the world existed except for that one desperate need to keep him from falling.

* * *

        Kim Dokja felt himself falling.

        It was strange. Why was he so calm? As if he had already known this was coming. Perhaps it was because he had imagined this moment countless times before—wondered what it would feel like to fall from such a height, to finally end the endless cycle of pain. That must be why he felt so serene.

        Everything around him moved in slow motion. He saw himself mere meters from the hard floor, and he knew the impact would come soon. The way his body tensed instinctively, preparing for the inevitable. He should brace himself, protect his head. But deep down, he already knew what was waiting for him at the bottom. It would be the end.

        And that was okay. He had no regrets.

        He let his gaze wander one last time, toward the fading figure of Yoo Joonghyuk. His heart twisted with a mixture of anger and sorrow. Yes, he was angry at him. Disappointed in the way things had turned out. But more than that, he felt a deep, aching happiness. He had seen Yoo Joonghyuk’s dreams come true. He had seen him thrive, shining with pride and joy on the stage. He had kept his promise… to attend every concert Yoo Joonghyuk held. He had witnessed his success, and in a way, that was enough.

        Yoo Joonghyuk was never wrong.

        He didn’t deserve a place beside him. A person who couldn’t hear could never truly understand the beauty of music, and Yoo Joonghyuk loved it more than anything. If they had tried to be together, he would have only been a burden, holding him back from everything he was meant to achieve. So, in a way, it was for the best that they never had the chance.

        He closed his eyes.

        This was it.

        The darkness would come, and he would be swallowed whole. There would be no more pain, no more struggling.

        It was a shame, though.

        He never got to say goodbye to his parents, to his brother. They loved him so much, and all he had ever done was cause them endless worry.

        But maybe this way, they could finally be free.

        Live their lives without him weighing them down.

* * *

        A LOUD THUMP.

* * *

        “Kim Dokja?”

        A soft voice pierced the fog of his fading awareness.

        Wait. He could hear? How was that possible?

        “Kim Dokja… are you alright?”

        He could hear. Really hear. The words were so clear, so real.

        “Kim Dokja,” the voice trembled, growing louder as it cracked with emotion, “please… open your eyes. Please… please let me know you’re just alright—”

        The sobs broke free, raw and desperate.

        Kim Dokja's breath caught in his throat, and his eyes fluttered open, confusion flooding his mind. Was this just an illusion? Was he still falling? Had he died, and this was some sort of afterlife where he could finally hear?

        But as his vision cleared, a face he knew so well came into focus.

        Yoo Joonghyuk.

        “Yoo… Joonghyuk?” His voice sounded so small, as if it barely existed in the air.

        Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes were red and wet. “Thank God… thank god… you’re alright…”

        Was he? Kim Dokja blinked, his mind racing, trying to piece together what was happening. He suddenly realized he was lying on top of Yoo Joonghyuk. The man’s body was still, but his arms were wrapped tightly around him, as though he were afraid that if he let go, Kim Dokja would vanish into thin air.

        Kim Dokja’s eyes widened in horror. His gaze shifted to Yoo Joonghyuk’s head, blood staining the top of his forehead. His leg… his leg was bent at an unnatural angle.

        No. No, no, no.

        Yoo Joonghyuk must have caught him. He must have stopped him from falling, taking the brunt of it himself.

        “Joonghyuk-ssi, are you— are you alright?” Kim Dokja stammered, fear lacing his voice as he quickly tried to shift off him, only to be met with resistance.

        Yoo Joonghyuk’s smile was strained. “I’m— it doesn’t matter— most importantly is you are.” He swallowed hard, his pain masked by the words.

        Kim Dokja’s heart squeezed painfully. "Your head—" He hesitated, looking at Yoo Joonghyuk’s leg. "Your leg— it must be broken. We should get help."

        His eyes frantically searched the area around them. “Someone!! Get help!! Quickly!! Please!!!”

        For a long moment, the crowd remained frozen in shock. No one moved.

        Then, out of the crowd, a familiar voice cried out.

        “Hyung!!”

        Kim Dokja turned to see Kim Namwoon pushing his way through the crowd, panic in his eyes.

        “Namwoon!!” Kim Dokja cried, the dam breaking inside him as tears started to fall. “Namwoon!! Get help!! Now!!”

        Kim Namwoon’s eyes widened at the sight of Yoo Joonghyuk’s injuries, but he didn’t ask questions. He quickly whipped out his phone and called for assistance, his voice urgent.

        “Joonghyuk-ssi,” Kim Dokja hugged him tightly, holding him close, desperately clinging to the small comfort of his presence. “Don’t worry, help is coming. Stay with me.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk smiled faintly, his voice a whisper. “I’m okay… I’m glad you are—”

        But before he could finish his sentence, his body slackened in Kim Dokja’s arms. His eyes closed, and his breath slowed, slipping into unconsciousness.

        Kim Dokja’s heart hammered in his chest, the weight of the moment crashing down on him. Yoo Joonghyuk was slipping away, and all he could do was hold on tighter.

* * * 

        The hospital waiting room was oppressively quiet, yet Kim Dokja’s mind was anything but. His thoughts screamed inside him, they wouldn’t let him rest. He sat in the farthest corner, wrapped in a thin blanket he couldn’t remember receiving, its warmth doing little to stop the tremble in his limbs. His eyes, rimmed red and swollen from weeping, remained locked on the sterile white wall as if staring long enough might stop time.

        His hands were clasped together tightly in his lap, fingers digging into one another. They wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how desperately he tried to still them. 

        Beside him, Kim Namwoon sat hunched over, his posture rigid, like he was trying to fold into himself. He hadn’t said much since they arrived. Every so often, his eyes flickered toward Kim Dokja, watching the way his shallow breaths hitched and caught, the way tears clung to his lashes but refused to fall. And each time, the guilt inside Namwoon grew heavier—like an anchor chained around his heart. 

        “I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, the words catching on the lump in his throat. “Hyung, I’m really, really sorry.”

        Kim Dokja didn’t answer. His eyes didn’t move. A single tear slipped down his cheek, tracing a quiet path over skin that had already known too much salt.

        “I shouldn’t have left you alone… I thought—just for a minute, I thought you’d be okay. I thought there wasn’t enough time for anything bad to happen…” Kim Namwoon’s voice cracked, brittle and broken. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. “But Nirvana—he took you. And it’s all my fault.”

        Kim Dokja’s head dropped forward, his hair falling like a curtain, hiding the rawness in his expression. His shoulders quivered again, this time with a barely contained sob.

        “It’s not your fault,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was nearly swallowed by the silence around them. “It’s mine… I should’ve run faster… I should’ve fought harder…”

        The door opened with a soft creak, and footsteps padded across the cold tile.

        “Dokja,” came a voice—gentle, aching with concern.

        He looked up slowly, eyes meeting the familiar, worried gaze of his mother. She hurried to him, her coat still draped around her shoulders, and knelt in front of his chair without hesitation.

        “Oh, Dokja, my baby,” she murmured, gathering him into her arms. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

        That was all it took.

        Something inside him broke loose, the last of his strength crumbling. A guttural sob escaped him, jagged and unrestrained, and he collapsed into her embrace like a child lost and finally found. She held him tightly, rocking him with the practiced tenderness of someone who had soothed him through every nightmare he never spoke aloud.

        His father sat beside them, quiet but solid, placing a steady hand on Kim Dokja’s back. It was a wordless comfort, grounding him in the present as his grief washed through him.

        Han Sooyoung joined them, slipping into the seat next to Kim Namwoon. Her usual sharpness was dulled, her face solemn. Without saying anything for a long moment, she reached out and gripped Kim Namwoon’s shoulder with quiet force.

        “Stop blaming yourself,” she said, voice steady. “Nirvana’s been planning this. You weren’t the one who failed.”

        Kim Namwoon’s jaw clenched. He didn’t speak, but he gave a tight nod, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallowed down the guilt.

        They sat like that—together, yet each lost in their own storm—beneath the sterile hum of hospital lights. The world outside moved on, but here, in this waiting room suspended between fear and hope, time slowed.

        The intercom crackled overhead once or twice, paging names none of them heard.

        Then—finally—the doors to the emergency wing creaked open.

        The door opened with a soft creak, and a doctor stepped out, pulling down his surgical mask. 

        “Family of Yoo Joonghyuk?”

        Kim Dokja rose instantly, breath catching in his throat. “Here,” he answered, voice thin and trembling. He didn’t pause to think about how he technically wasn’t family. None of that mattered. All he knew was that he had to be there—he was there—for Yoo Joonghyuk.

        The doctor offered a gentle smile, one that washed a little of the fear from the air. “He’s alright.”

        The words struck Kim Dokja like a wave, and he nearly crumpled from the force of his relief.

        “He suffered a fractured leg and minor head trauma. The loss of consciousness was due to temporary shock—his body simply gave out under the stress. There’s no internal bleeding, and no signs of long-term damage. He’s stable now. Responsive. He just needs rest and monitoring. You’ll be able to see him soon.”

        Kim Dokja’s knees buckled, and his father was there just in time to steady him. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice choked.

        His mother pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his temple. “See, sweetheart? He’s going to be okay.”

        Han Sooyoung let out a long, shaky breath. “That idiot. Too damn stubborn to die.”

        Kim Namwoon quickly turned his head, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes in an attempt to hide his tears.

        Kim Dokja clutched his chest, as if trying to hold his heart in place. The ache in his lungs finally eased—he could breathe again.

        Yoo Joonghyuk was alive. That was all that mattered now. 

        The doctor gave a final nod before walking away, leaving behind a hallway full of trembling shoulders and quiet, grateful tears.

        Then, after a while—once the relief had settled, once the tears had dried just a little—someone finally noticed what none of them had dared to realize in the chaos.

        “Dokja-ya,” Persephone said softly, almost not believing her own voice. “You… you can hear? You can hear us?”

        Kim Dokja turned to her slowly, eyes wide. He nodded.

        “Yes,” he said, his voice barely more than a breath. “I can hear you. Crystal clear.”

        For a moment, no one moved. The silence in the room wasn’t heavy anymore—it was stunned, suspended. Persephone’s eyes welled with tears. Her lips parted, but words refused to come. Around her, the others were frozen in the same disbelief.

        “That’s… that’s…” she stammered, overwhelmed, her hand covering her mouth. She wasn’t prepared for this. None of them were.

        “How—how could this happen?” she finally asked, stepping closer, her gaze filled with gentle awe as it searched his face. “How are you hearing us?”

        Kim Dokja looked down at his hands before turning his eyes back to his mother. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t understand it either. It just… happened. When I was panicking, when I was trying to escape, I suddenly heard Yoo Joonghyuk. He was calling my name—screaming it. I thought it was all in my head. But even after everything ended… I can still hear you all.”

        He gripped his mother’s hand more tightly now, as if grounding himself in the moment.

        “But I’m scared,” he confessed. His voice trembled. “What if it disappears again? What if this is just temporary?”

        “No, Kim Dokja,” Han Sooyoung said sharply, cutting through the fear before it could bloom any further. She leaned forward, her eyes fierce. “Don’t do that. Don’t think like that. You have to believe this is real. It’s a good sign, okay? Your hearing is coming back. That’s the only thing you need to focus on right now. That’s all that matters.”

        Kim Dokja pressed his lips into a thin line, holding her words in his chest like a fragile gift. Then, slowly, he nodded.

        She was right.

        What good would fear do now?

        For the first time in so long, he could hear the voices of the people he loved.

        He could hear their worry, their warmth, their hope.

        And Yoo Joonghyuk was alive.

        That was enough—for now, that was enough.

        “Mom, what about Yoo Joonghyuk’s family? Have you contacted them?” Kim Dokja asked quietly, his voice still fragile with lingering fear.

        Hades answered for her, his tone calm but heavy. “We did. On our way here—we called them. They should be arriving any moment now.”

        Kim Dokja gave a slow nod, relief settling in his chest again—but it was short-lived.

        “That jerk!” Kim Namwoon suddenly burst out, his voice sharp with anger. “Wait until I get my hands on him! I swear, he won’t get away this time!” He turned to the others, his eyes blazing. “I’ve already called Wukong-Hyung. He’s taking this straight to the police. This time, Nirvana’s really going to jail—no tricks, no loopholes!”

        Kim Dokja said nothing. The fire of adrenaline that had been keeping him upright began to fade, draining out of his limbs. His legs buckled slightly beneath him—but before he could fall, his father was there, steadying him with firm hands.

        “Dokja-ya,” his father said gently, “you need to rest. You’re pale and shaking. Since we’re already at the hospital, let’s have you checked out, too. You just went through hell—don’t pretend you didn’t.”

        “I’m fine,” Kim Dokja murmured, trying to stay upright. “I just… I want to be here when—”

        He faltered. His tongue froze mid-sentence, heat blooming in his cheeks before he could stop it. He shouldn’t say it. It was too revealing, too obvious.

        Persephone saw right through him.

        She smiled, warm and knowing, and gently brushed his hair from his face. “You want to be here when he wakes up,” she said for him, not unkindly. “But do you think he’d want to see you like this? Looking half-dead yourself?” Her tone was soft, coaxing. “Let’s have you looked at first. Especially your hearing—you’re still worried about it, aren’t you? Let’s make sure you’re really okay before you start worrying about him again.”

        Kim Dokja hesitated, caught between wanting to stay and knowing she was right.

        Then Han Sooyoung chimed in, her voice breezy but dependable. “I’ll wait with him,” she said, arms crossed. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’ll keep watch—and make sure that idiot doesn’t try to escape the second he opens his eyes. He’ll be my hostage.”

        Her words drew a small laugh from the others and softened the tension like sunlight through clouds. Kim Dokja felt the knot in his chest loosen, just a little.

        He gave a faint smile, turning to his mother. “Alright,” he whispered, his voice steadier. “Okay. I’ll listen.”

        Because she was right. They all were. Yoo Joonghyuk was safe now. And he had people—real people—watching over him.

        It was okay to rest. Just for a little while.

* * *

        The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air as soft beeping filled the dim room—steady, quiet, like a heartbeat. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale wash over the hospital bed where Yoo Joonghyuk lay still beneath crisp white sheets. 

        Then, a faint twitch. His fingers stirred against the blanket, his brows drew into a subtle frown. A moment later, his eyes fluttered open, blinking sluggishly against the light. The ceiling came into focus first—cold and unfamiliar—before a shape moved into his field of vision.

        “Joonghyuk-ah,” a gentle voice said, trembling slightly.

        His mother.

        She was there, sitting beside his bed with reddened eyes and a shaky smile. His father stood behind her, arms crossed tightly, his usually stern expression soft with worry.

        Yoo Joonghyuk parted his lips, his throat dry and rough. “...Dokja?” 

        The name rasped from his throat, weak but urgent. 

        His mother’s breath caught, and she reached for his hand.

        “He’s okay,” she said quickly, soothingly. “He’s safe, Joonghyuk-ah. Don’t worry.”

        He blinked hard, trying to push past the fog in his mind. “What… happened?”

        “You’ve been unconscious for three days,” his father said, voice steady but low. “Shock and trauma. You had a fractured leg and a minor head injury, but the doctors said you’re out of danger now. You need rest.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flicked from their faces, trying to piece together broken fragments of memory. The chase. The panic. The way Kim Dokja had screamed when Nirvana’s hands had seized him.

        His chest tightened. “I didn’t stop him… I should’ve stopped him…”

        “Joonghyuk-ah—”

        “I should’ve known,” he said, voice cracking. “I should’ve been more careful with Nirvana, I should’ve—he took Dokja because I wasn’t strict enough. It was all my fault—” He broke off, a sharp breath shaking out of him as tears welled suddenly in his eyes. 

        For a moment, neither parent spoke. Then his mother squeezed his hand.

        “Listen to me,” she said gently. “What happened wasn’t your fault. What matters now is that you’re both alive. Kim Dokja is safe—and you know what, something miraculous happened.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk blinked back tears, staring at her.

        She smiled, though her voice trembled. “He can hear, Joonghyuk-ah. His hearing—came back.”

        “What…?” he whispered.

        “His parents told us… the doctors think the shock and the physical trauma he experienced must have dislodged an old blood clot that had been pressing against a part of his brain,” his father explained. “It was dangerous, but… it relieved the pressure. And now, he hears again. Perfectly.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk covered his face with his hands, tears sliding down freely now.

        “Thank god,” he choked out. “Thank god… I thought I lost him. I thought I—I was too late—”

        “You didn’t,” his mother said softly. “You didn’t lose him. He was here when you were brought in. Refused to leave. You kept calling his name even in your sleep, and he kept answering. Every time.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk wept openly then, the weight of guilt and relief crashing into him all at once. His body ached, but it didn’t matter.

        Nothing mattered but those words.

        Kim Dokja could hear again.

        That’s all that matters.

* * *

        “Is he… willing to see me?” Kim Dokja asked softly, standing just outside the door of Yoo Joonghyuk’s room. His voice was gentle, carefully polite — but the tremble beneath it didn’t escape Yoo Joonghyuk’s mother.

        She hesitated for only a moment before shaking her head, eyes dim with quiet sympathy. “I’m sorry, Dokja-ya. He’s… not ready to see anyone yet.”

        Kim Dokja’s fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his hospital gown. The familiar sting of disappointment settled deep in his chest. Ever since the doctors told him Yoo Joonghyuk had regained consciousness, he had been trying—hoping—to see him, just once. To thank him for saving his life. To look him in the eyes and tell him how grateful he was. How scared he had been.

        But Yoo Joonghyuk kept turning him away.

        Each time he approached the room, each time he stood outside gathering his courage, he was met with the same quiet refusal. And each time, the unanswered question grew heavier: Why?

        Had he done something wrong?

        Kim Dokja’s mind spiraled in guilt. Of course he had. This entire incident, the danger, the pain Yoo Joonghyuk suffered—all of it traced back to his own carelessness. He had trusted the wrong person. He had let his guard down. And Yoo Joonghyuk had paid the price for it.

        He was such a fool.

        “I understand, Aunty,” he finally said, his voice barely holding together. “I… I’ll come back later.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk’s mother gave him a small, apologetic smile, her eyes kind. “Dokja-ya, I’m truly sorry. Please don’t take it to heart. I believe Joonghyuk just needs a little time. He’s not shutting you out forever. When he’s ready, he’ll want to see you — he might even come looking for you himself.”

        She paused, studying his too-pale face, the shadows beneath his eyes. “You’re still recovering, too. Please… rest a little, hm?”

        Kim Dokja nodded faintly. He didn’t trust his voice anymore.

        “I understand. Thank you. Please excuse me.”

* * *

        Kim Dokja sat on the edge of the hospital bed, shoulders hunched, eyes dull. The sterile white walls seemed to press in closer with every passing minute, the beeping monitors a hollow rhythm in the background. His body ached from the aftermath of the incident, but none of that pain compared to the heaviness pressing down on his chest.

        His thoughts were consumed by one person.

        Yoo Joonghyuk.

        He had believed—hoped—that after everything, after Yoo Joonghyuk had risked everything to save him, after he had finally regained consciousness, they would be able to talk. To sit down and face each other again, no matter how awkward or painful it might be. But reality proved colder than that hope. Yoo Joonghyuk refused to see him. Each time Kim Dokja tried to enter the room, he was turned away without a word. No explanations. No messages. Just silence.

        Kim Dokja didn’t know what hurt more—the uncertainty, or the possibility that Yoo Joonghyuk truly didn’t want to see him.

        He rubbed his face with trembling hands, fingers dragging down as if trying to wipe away the fatigue weighing on his soul. The hospital room, with its sanitized linens and bland walls, felt less like a place of healing and more like a quiet prison. He was caged here with his thoughts, his regrets, and questions that never stopped circling.

        The door creaked open softly.

        Han Sooyoung stepped in, her usual sharpness dulled, replaced by a quiet gentleness. She paused, eyes scanning his figure, before walking over and settling into the chair beside his bed.

        “You look like hell,” she said, voice casual but not unkind. “You haven’t slept, have you?”

        He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained locked on the blanket pooled in his lap, his hands clenched tightly into it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

        “I don’t understand,” he murmured. His voice was strained, brittle. “He’s awake. After everything, I thought… we could finally talk. I wanted to thank him—for saving me. I thought maybe we could clear the air between us. But he won’t see me. It’s like he’s… hiding from me.”

        Han Sooyoung said nothing at first. She leaned back slightly, arms crossed, her gaze thoughtful as she studied him.

        “Why do you think he’s avoiding you?” she asked.

        The question hit harder than he expected.

        Kim Dokja's throat tightened, and he looked away, blinking back the sting in his eyes. “I… I don’t know. Maybe he’s angry. Or maybe I did something wrong. What if… what if his injuries were worse than they told us? What if he’s trying to hide it from me? His parents have been kind, but they won’t let me in either. And I keep thinking… if I hadn’t been so reckless, none of this would’ve happened. He wouldn’t have gotten hurt because of me.” His voice cracked at the end. The guilt was loud, sharper than any pain in his body.

        Han Sooyoung reached over and stilled one of his clenched fists with her hand. “Listen,” she said, steady and clear, “if they’re not letting you see him, there’s probably a reason. Maybe his condition really is serious, and his family just wants him to rest and recover. You know how stubborn he is—he’ll probably refuse to stay in bed if you show up. That’s just how he is.”

        She gave a small sigh. “You both need time. And right now, he might not be ready. But that doesn’t mean he’s pushing you away forever. He’s still healing. So are you.”

        Kim Dokja looked down at their hands, hers steady over his trembling one. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he gave a quiet, almost broken nod.

        “I just—” he whispered. “I just want to know that he’s okay.”

        Han Sooyoung’s voice softened. “I know. And you will. But not like this. Give him time.”

        Kim Dokja fell silent. Han Sooyoung’s words rang with quiet truth, undeniable and heavy. He wanted to agree. He wanted to believe that giving Yoo Joonghyuk time and space was the right thing to do. But the ache in his chest didn’t ease.

        Still, he whispered, “I understand. But it feels like—”

        His voice caught. He tried again, the words reluctant to leave his mouth. “It feels like I’ve failed him. Even when I try… I can’t reach him.”

        There was a pause. Han Sooyoung’s expression, often sharp and irreverent, softened into something gentler. She sighed, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter—meant only for him. “One thing I know for sure… Yoo Joonghyuk’s not avoiding you because he doesn’t care.” She leaned in slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “If anything, I think he’s avoiding you because he cares. Because he’s scared. Terrified, even.”

        Kim Dokja turned to her, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Scared of what?”

        “Of you seeing him like that,” she said simply. “Of showing you the version of himself that’s vulnerable and broken. He’s the type who always wants to be the strong one, the protector. He’s probably afraid that if you see him now, he’ll break your heart. And that’s the last thing he wants to do.”

        Kim Dokja’s eyes dropped to his lap, his grip tightening again on the blanket.

        “And there’s something else,” Han Sooyoung added, hesitating just a little. “I think he still blames himself. For everything. Especially for Nirvana.”

        Kim Dokja looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”

        “You know what I mean,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “About Nirvana. Yoo Joonghyuk probably thinks that, because he let Nirvana stay in the company, because he didn’t deal with him more harshly before, all of this was inevitable. That it’s his fault Nirvana went after you.”

        Kim Dokja shook his head, instinctive and sharp. “But that’s not fair. That wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have known—”

        “I know,” she cut in gently. “You know. We all know. No one could’ve predicted this. No one wanted this to happen. But the thing is…” she sighed again, looking away briefly, “Nirvana was his responsibility. His employee. And the reason Nirvana did this… was because he hated how Joonghyuk handled his case. It’s twisted, but in some warped way, Joonghyuk feels responsible. Even though he did the right thing.”

        She looked back at Kim Dokja, her gaze clear and unflinching. “And you know, he probably thinks this is his punishment.”

        Kim Dokja froze. Han Sooyoung’s words hit him like a tidal wave, sudden and unrelenting. He parted his lips to speak, but nothing came out. The silence stretched thin between them, heavy with everything he couldn’t say.

        “…Do you really think so?” he finally asked, his voice hoarse, barely more than a breath.

        “I know so,” Han Sooyoung replied firmly, her eyes locked on his. “Whatever it is, he just needs time—time to breathe, time to face himself. So stop telling yourself he’s angry at you, or that he’s avoiding you on purpose. Stop spiraling with thoughts that only hurt you.”

        She leaned in slightly, her voice gentler now. “He’s been through hell, Dokja. And after everything, do you really think he’d just walk away? Leave you? He won’t. He can’t. But he’s scared. Scared of seeing the look in your eyes when you look at him now. Scared he might hurt you again. And every time he shuts the door between you, he’s doing it to protect something—maybe you, maybe himself. Maybe both.”

        The words wrapped around Kim Dokja’s chest like a vice. His heart ached, a dull throb that spread through his entire body. His throat tightened as heat pricked behind his eyes. He swallowed hard, lips pressed together as if it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

        “…And from what I know,” Han Sooyoung added after a beat, “he’s working on something.”

        Kim Dokja looked up, startled by the shift. “Something?”

        She nodded. “I heard rumours. Something’s brewing in N’Gai. Something big. I don’t have the details yet, but it’s not nothing.”

        Kim Dokja frowned, his mind racing. “Do you think it’s related to the airport incident?”

        “It could be,” she said, exhaling slowly. “The whole internet’s a mess. Speculations everywhere. People are digging up everything—there’s even footage of that day. The chaos, the mob, Joonghyuk trying to protect you, your fall... Nirvana’s face caught on camera. It’s all over. People are demanding answers. From N’Gai. From him.”

        She let the silence return, both of them momentarily lost in the weight of it.

        “So,” she continued quietly, “it makes sense, doesn’t it? That he wants to shut the world out for a while. That he’d rather you not see him like this—wounded, overwhelmed, blamed. I don’t know for sure, but… that’s what I think.”

        Kim Dokja swallowed hard, her words sinking deep into him like a slow burn. He nodded, the motion small, as though his body could barely carry the weight of that decision. 

        The room felt colder now, more still. But the fog in his chest cleared, just enough to breathe. Han Sooyoung was right—Yoo Joonghyuk was fighting something far bigger than just their strained bond. And for now… waiting should be enough.

        Then, she looked at him seriously. “After everything that’s happened… do you forgive him?”

        Kim Dokja hesitated, then gave her a small, almost tired smile. “He made mistakes,” he said quietly. “And yeah… some of them are hard to forget. I… I don’t know. Should I?” 

        She shrugged with dramatic flair. “Don’t ask me. If it were up to me, I’d forgive him—but after I punch him. In the face. Both eyes. Hard enough to make him look like a panda.” 

        That pulled a laugh from Kim Dokja, a soft one, but real. “I can’t do that.” 

        “Of course you can’t!” she said indignantly. “Your hands are too precious to touch that filthy face. Let me do it for you.” She thumped her chest, looking proud. “I volunteer as tribute.”

        Kim Dokja shook his head, the corners of his mouth still tugged upward. Han Sooyoung always had a way of pulling him back, even when he was drowning. 

        Just as she reached over to start peeling an apple for him, the door burst open and Kim Namwoon stumbled in, breathless and wide-eyed.

        “Hyung!! You gotta see this!!”

        Kim Namwoon shoved his handphone to Kim Dokja once he reached him.

        It was Yoo Joonghyuk.

        A live broadcast. From what looked like his own hospital room. The same sterile walls, the unmistakable window view—Kim Dokja recognized it immediately. Yoo Joonghyuk sat upright in bed, dressed in hospital clothes. His expression was grave. 

        Kim Dokja’s heart lurched at the sight of him. Bandages wrapped around Yoo Joonghyuk’s head, and one of his legs was bound tightly in gauze. He looked tired. Fragile. And yet… composed. 

        Behind him stood his parents, watching silently. 

        But what startled Kim Dokja the most was the guitar resting on Yoo Joonghyuk’s lap.

        A guitar.

        What… what was he going to do?

        Kim Dokja sat frozen, eyes locked on the screen, breath lodged somewhere in his chest. His hands hovered uselessly above the blanket, trembling slightly.

        It felt like the world had fallen into a hush, holding its breath with him.

        The clock struck seven.

        On the screen, Yoo Joonghyuk appeared—not in a stage spotlight or studio, but seated in his hospital room, where the lighting was sterile and cold. There were no professional backdrops, no stylists, no glamour. Just him—bare, pale, and quiet.

        His hair was still slightly damp, clinging to his temples, and his skin held the pallor of someone who hadn’t seen sunlight in too long. But it was his eyes that struck hardest. They no longer held the fierce gleam they once did. The fire, the defiance—tempered now into something softer. A sharp-edged stone smoothed by waves.

        The camera was steady, framing him squarely at the center. The broadcast had only been live for seconds, yet tens of thousands had already joined. Comments poured in—floods of excitement at first, flashing hearts and cheering texts.

        But then, silence began to ripple through the virtual crowd.

        He hadn't spoken yet, but something in his stillness, in his expression, had changed everything.

        The chat shifted, almost all at once.

        From: “AAAAAH I’m so happy he’s back!!” to: “Wait… what’s going on?”, Why does he look like that?”, “Is something wrong…?”

        Yoo Joonghyuk still hadn’t said a word. He stared into the lens as though he could see beyond it—past the cameras, past the digital wall, straight to the person he truly meant to reach.

        Behind the camera, Lee Jihye stood stiffly, her lips pressed into a tight line. As Yoo Joonghyuk’s personal assistant, she had always been by his side—but even she didn’t know what he was about to say. Lee Hyunsung, who had been asked to help with the broadcast setup, hovered near the controls, nervously adjusting the audio levels despite everything being fine.

        Neither of them had been told the purpose of the broadcast.

        They had only received a short message: “Come to the hospital. I need to do this.”

        So they stood there, helpless and uncertain, watching Yoo Joonghyuk sit in front of the world—not as a star, not as an icon—but as a man who had broken something precious and was now gathering the courage to speak.

        Meanwhile, in Kim Dokja’s quiet room, three pairs of eyes stared intently at the screen—unblinking, motionless.

        Then, Yoo Joonghyuk nodded once and spoke, his voice as calm and steady as ever.

        “Good evening.”

        The livestream’s comment section erupted instantly. Tens of thousands responded with cheerful replies:

        “Good evening!! ”

        “Joonghyuk-oppa!!!”

        “HE’S BACKKKK!!!”

        Kim Namwoon snorted, arms crossed. “Tch. That bastard’s really got fans, huh?”

        Kim Dokja said nothing. His eyes didn’t leave the screen.

        “Hush,” Han Sooyoung muttered, nudging Kim Namwoon with her elbow. “Keep watching. And hey, take more screenshots—if he cries, I want the ugliest angles.”

        The two of them giggled softly, but the humor was thin, nervous. Even their laughter didn’t last long.

        Yoo Joonghyuk fell silent again for nearly half a minute. 

        Then, he spoke his second sentence. “This is the first time I’ve addressed all of you this way. I’m sorry… but what I say today may not be what you expected.”

        Kim Dokja’s chest tightened. The air felt too thick.

        Then came the blow.

        “I made a mistake. One that’s... unforgivable.”

        The comment section froze for a second. Then it exploded into panic.

        “Wait, what happened??”

        “Don’t scare me like this, Oppa.”

        “You're not quitting, right?? I will literally die if you quit.”

        “He looks so serious... my hands are shaking.”

        The screen was flooded with confusion and concern.

        Han Sooyoung’s face dropped its teasing edge.

        Kim Namwoon leaned forward unconsciously, the tension in the room now unbearable.

        Kim Dokja’s fingers gripped the blanket tighter.

        Yoo Joonghyuk shifted in his seat, inhaled slowly, and made a gesture toward Lee Hyunsung. Without a word, Hyunsung adjusted the camera, slowly zooming in. The frame closed in until only Yoo Joonghyuk’s upper body filled the screen. The subtle tremble in his lashes was now visible. His expression remained still—but something fragile lingered beneath it. 

        And then, his voice—hoarse, low—broke through again.

        “About three months ago... I hurt someone.” 

        Silence.

        “My careless words... led to a three-month-long campaign of hatred. The person I hurt was dragged through the worst kind of public scrutiny. And during that time, I—I had so many chances to stop it. To speak up. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.”

        A tremor ran through his voice.

        “There’s no excuse. None. I’ve been in this industry for eight years. I knew exactly what kind of power my words held. I knew what would happen. And I still... let it happen.” 

        The chat was losing coherence. Frantic scrolling, waves of disbelief. Some fans demanded answers. Others begged him to stop talking. 

        Behind the camera, Lee Jihye stood still, completely thrown. She had come thinking he might clear up a scandal, maybe announce his return schedule. But this—this level of raw confession—she hadn’t expected this. She turned slightly to glance at Lee Hyunsung, who looked just as stunned, his hand frozen on the focus dial. 

        While Kim Dokja…

        He sat there, trembling. His eyes glistened, reflecting the image of the man on screen who once seemed untouchable—now crumbling in front of the entire world. 

        This was no performance. 

        Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t just admitting guilt.

        He was breaking himself open.

        Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze flickered toward the corner of the screen, where Kim Dokja’s name kept appearing again and again among the countless scrolling comments. Perhaps the viewers had already begun to piece it together—had guessed who he was talking about.

        But he didn’t dare read them.

        Instead, he leaned forward, lowered his head, and bowed deeply.

        “Please,” he said quietly, “don’t attack him anymore.”

        Kim Dokja felt his chest constrict, breath catching in his throat. The voice was soft but resolute, almost breaking.

        “That person... he’s very important to me.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk lifted his head slightly, his expression trembling at the edges.

        “He’s kind. So, so beautiful and kind. Not at all like the rumors online. He’s never done anything wrong. Not a single thing. Everything—everything that happened was because of me.”

        His voice faltered, as though the next words hurt to speak. He swallowed hard, lips parting but unable to form syllables for a few seconds. Then, with effort, he continued.

        “I can’t imagine how he must’ve felt... reading all those slanderous, cruel words. How helpless, how hurt—how betrayed.”

        He exhaled, long and unsteady.

        “The guilt I carry now, the crushing shame I feel sitting here before you—it’s not even a fraction of what he endured.”

        Silence followed. The chat was still, momentarily suspended. Even the most talkative fans seemed to hold their breath.

        “I know an apology won’t fix anything. I know it can’t erase what’s already happened,” he said. “But I still want to say it. I have to say it.”

        His voice cracked.

        “I’m sorry.”

        His hands clenched over the blanket draped over his lap.

        “I was wrong. So wrong. If he never forgives me... I’ll understand. I deserve that.”

        The confession lingered in the air, heavy and solemn.

        Then Yoo Joonghyuk looked up, eyes dull with regret, and added in a voice barely above a whisper,

        “I didn’t want to say all this here, in front of everyone. This... this isn’t how I ever imagined confessing anything. But there’s no other way to reach you all, no other way to be heard. So I’m saying it now. Everything I feel—for him.”

        Kim Dokja’s hands trembled in his lap. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even blink.

        His entire world had narrowed to the glowing screen in front of him, to the man sitting under sterile hospital lights, finally speaking the words he’d once thought he would never hear.

        “There’s been a lot of speculation,” Yoo Joonghyuk said quietly, each word deliberate, as if weighed down by the very gravity of his guilt. “About the airport incident, about Nirvana… about me.” 

        He paused, hands motionless on his lap, the guitar untouched beneath them. His fingers curled slightly—subtle, but telling, as if bracing for a blow he believed he deserved.

        “Some of it… is true,” Yoo Joonghyuk admitted, his voice tight with restraint. “Nirvana was under my label. Everything he did—every lie he crafted, every manipulation he set into motion—happened on my watch, beneath my name. I should have known. I should have stopped him the moment it began.”

        A muscle jumped in his jaw, and for a heartbeat, he couldn’t speak. Then, lower now, with bitter clarity:

        “Everything he spread about Kim Dokja and him—every rumor, every twisted article, every image—was fabricated. He’s the one who staged it all, who fed the fire while the world devoured it. And me… I stood there. I could have said something. I could have ended it.” His voice cracked just slightly. “But I didn’t.”

        His voice faltered as a shadow passed over his face. His jaw clenched, and his fingers dug into his knees.

        “And because of that… Kim Dokja was hurt. He almost—”

        The words caught. For the first time, the mask Yoo Joonghyuk had worn so well—of strength, of poise, of indifference—cracked.

        His voice was thin when it returned. 

        “He almost died.”

        The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down like fog over the hearts of everyone watching. Yoo Joonghyuk sat motionless, staring into the lens with a gaze that seemed to reach no one and yet only one.

        “I’m not here to ask for forgiveness,” he said, softer now. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

        His eyes lowered. When he raised them again, there was a tremor in his voice, as though speaking to Kim Dokja alone, no matter the tens of thousands watching.

        “I wasn’t there when he needed me. Not when he was being cursed at by my fans. Not when he was made a scapegoat. Not when he was breaking apart from the inside.” He swallowed hard. “And now he’s the one on the outside, knocking… and I’m the one too afraid to open the door.”

        Kim Dokja sat frozen. His knuckles had gone white around the blanket. Beside him, Han Sooyoung sat in silence, her teasing long forgotten. 

        “I don’t want the spotlight anymore,” Yoo Joonghyuk said. “I don’t want standing ovations. Not when the one person I love most can’t even meet my eyes without remembering how I failed him.”

        His chest lifted with a shaky breath.

        “So this is… my last broadcast.”

        The comments exploded in a frenzy—questions, pleas, cries of disbelief—but Yoo Joonghyuk remained still, expression unreadable beneath the pain etched deep into his features. He was unmoved. 

        And yet, in Kim Dokja’s chest, something quietly began to break. 

        “I’m leaving the entertainment world,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, his voice steady, but hollow with finality. “This is the end of my career, and that’s the least I can do. Not out of shame… but because I want to find something else worth living for. I want to fix what I’ve broken. Not as an idol. Not as a public figure. Just… as Yoo Joonghyuk.”

        His hands shifted on his lap, resting against the worn surface of the guitar. The silence that followed was neither heavy nor empty—it was waiting. Breathing.

        “Before I go,” he continued, lowering his gaze to the instrument as though it were something sacred, “I want to play something. No lyrics. Just a melody. Only one person will recognize it. But that’s enough.”

        Then his fingers began to move—tentative at first, brushing the strings like they were old wounds. A hesitant note, then another. Slowly, the tune began to take shape, soft and familiar, quietly unfolding beneath the cold lights of the hospital room. There were no fancy arrangements, no flourishes. Just a plain, trembling melody played by unsteady hands that remembered something deeper than sound.

        And in the dim quiet of another room, Kim Dokja gasped.

        The sound struck through him like a chord pulled taut across his chest. That melody—he knew it. It lived in the deepest part of him. The one Yoo Joonghyuk had played once before, on a quiet afternoon in the garden, when Kim Dokja had just lost his hearing and everything else he thought he could rely on.

        That day, Yoo Joonghyuk had sat beside him—not with promises, not with pity—but with nothing but a guitar and eyes that held him gently. He had played this same melody, letting it resonate through the wood of the bench, through the air between them, through the bones of Kim Dokja’s chest. He had hoped the vibrations would reach where sound no longer could.

        And they had.

        That song hadn’t just been music—it had been salvation. A wordless reminder that he wasn’t alone, not truly. That even in silence, something could reach him. That he still mattered to someone. That he still had something to live for.

        And now, hearing it again—not in the garden, but through a screen filled with a thousand watching strangers—Kim Dokja knew.

        This song wasn’t for the world. It wasn’t for redemption. It was for him.

        Just him.

        The camera lingered on Yoo Joonghyuk as the final note faded, dissolving into the quiet hum of the hospital room. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t raise his head. He simply let the broadcast drift to its natural end—no farewell, no closing words—only the lingering echo of his song suspended in the hush, like something unfinished.

        Then, so softly it was almost a whisper, he murmured, “Even if you can’t hear everything anymore, you still have your voice. You’re still here.”

        Kim Dokja’s breath caught. His brow furrowed.

        He remembered that.

        Even if you can’t hear everything anymore, you still have your voice. You’re still here.

        Those were Yoo Joonghyuk’s words from long ago. A truth whispered to him when his world had been stripped of sound and certainty.

        But this time, Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t stop there.

        “Yet… I failed to be there for you.”

        And with that, his voice cracked. The composure he held so tightly splintered as his shoulders shook—and on the other side of the screen, Kim Dokja’s tears spilled over, unbidden.

        “I wasn’t there when you were hurting, when you were breaking,” Yoo Joonghyuk choked out. “Instead, I stood beside those who hurt you. Laughed with them. Let them mock you.” His voice trembled like something shattered. “So what does that make me? Not a man. Not a friend. I’m not even… human.”

        He swallowed hard, barely able to speak now, as if the weight of his own words crushed him.

        “I don’t deserve to be loved. Not by anyone. Especially not by you. That’s why—” he dragged in a breath, ragged, suffocating, “—that’s why I’m resigning. I don’t deserve a place in anyone’s heart.”

        He looked up then, just briefly, eyes glassy and unseeing.

        “An idol is supposed to inspire people. To be kind. To offer something good to the world.” His voice was so low it trembled with shame. “But I’m not that. I’m ashamed of who I’ve become. I despise it.”

        His lips trembled.

        “Forgive me,” he whispered.

        And then, with no warning, the broadcast cut to black—abrupt, final, and empty.

        In Kim Dokja’s hospital room, silence lingered like fog. No one moved. No one breathed.

        Then, with a voice raw and barely audible through the tight knot in his throat, Kim Dokja whispered, “He finally remembers.”

        Kim Namwoon stared at the blank screen, brows furrowed. “Was that... an apology?”

        “He sure did,” Han Sooyoung answered quietly. She turned to Dokja. “What do you think, Dokj—”

        But her words never reached the end.

        Kim Dokja had already flung off his blankets and leapt out of bed, barefoot, gown fluttering behind him as he ran out the door.

        Both Han Sooyoung and Kim Namwoon blinked, stunned into stillness.

        “Why are you just standing there? Go after him!” Han Sooyoung shouted, shoving Kim Namwoon.

        “Huh? Oh! Yeah, yeah!” He scrambled after her, the two of them bursting into the corridor in pursuit.

        But Kim Dokja couldn’t stop.

        He ran.

        The ache in his chest threatened to tear him in two, and every step jolted through the stitches that hadn’t fully healed. But he didn’t care. He ran like the floor was collapsing behind him.

        There was so much he wanted to say—too much—and all of it clawed at his throat, too heavy to hold in.

        Han Sooyoung’s voice echoed behind him, calling his name again and again, but he didn’t turn back.

        He stabbed at the elevator button with shaking fingers. When it didn’t come fast enough, he turned on his heel and flung himself toward the stairwell.

        Three floors.

        His lungs burned. His legs screamed. His body threatened to give out with every step.

        He didn’t stop.

        When he finally reached the hallway outside Yoo Joonghyuk’s room, the world was chaos. Nurses were whispering, eyes darting to the end of the corridor. Security murmured into radios. A few reporters lingered, cameras slung over their shoulders like vultures waiting to descend.

        But none of that mattered.

        He saw the door.

        Didn’t knock.

        He burst through.

        Inside, Yoo Joonghyuk sat frozen on the edge of the bed, guitar resting limply at his side, hands slack. He hadn’t moved since the broadcast ended, like the weight of his words had pinned him in place.

        When the door slammed open, he flinched.

        His eyes widened, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—like he had prepared himself for silence and solitude, and not the boy now standing in front of him, breathless and trembling. Kim Dokja stood in the doorway, chest heaving, words stuck behind his teeth. Everything he wanted to say evaporated the second their eyes met.

        Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him.

        And then, slowly, as if the dam inside him cracked all at once—

        His face crumpled.

        “Dokja—”

        Kim Dokja had never seen him like this.

        Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t just look tired—he looked ruined, as if every part of him had been scraped raw and left out in the cold. His voice trembled with more than pain when he said, “I’m sorry,” and the moment the words left him, something inside seemed to collapse.

        “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

        He tried to rise, but the effort sent a grimace through his body. Still, he reached out—one trembling hand, desperate and aching—as if afraid Kim Dokja might vanish if he didn’t reach him now.

        “I was stupid—I was blind—I didn’t know it was you—and now—” His voice cracked, uneven, frantic. “I didn’t know how to fix it, I didn’t know how to hold on—”

        “Joonghyuk-ssi,” Kim Dokja whispered.

        He took a step forward. Just one. Just enough for Yoo Joonghyuk’s breath to catch.

        In the background, Yoo Joonghyuk’s parents stood clinging to each other, their faces hollowed by sorrow. Lee Hyunsung and Lee Jihye were still there, too, silent and unmoving, their heads bowed as if in mourning.

        Yoo Joonghyuk’s outstretched hand faltered and dropped.

        And then—he cried.

        He didn’t look away, didn’t try to turn or hide. The tears fell freely, and with them came everything else. His shoulders shook, and the sobs clawed their way up his throat.

        “I should’ve been there,” he choked. “When they spoke ill of you. When they laughed and twisted your name. I should’ve said something—I should’ve —” His breath hitched. “It was my words, too, that hurt you. My silence. My cowardice.”

        The confessions spilled faster now, like a dam broken beyond repair.

        “When Nirvana—when he started spreading lies, I didn’t stop him. I should’ve known what kind of person he was. I should’ve known what it meant. And at the airport. That day—I should’ve seen—”

        His voice broke entirely. He bowed his head like he couldn’t bear to look at Kim Dokja anymore.

        “I know you kept reaching out. I know you did. But I— I was so ashamed of myself. I kept pushing you away thinking maybe it would fix something. That if I vanished, maybe it would hurt less. But it didn’t. I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking—”

        Kim Dokja reached the bed. His limbs trembled with exhaustion, but he sat down beside him—slowly, carefully—as if approaching something fragile.

        And then, finally, he looked at Yoo Joonghyuk.

        Really looked.

        He saw the pallor of his skin, the dark hollows under his eyes, the clumsy bandages, the weight of guilt curled around his spine like chains.

        A man trying to carry his own wreckage with his bare hands.

        “Enough,” Kim Dokja said softly.

        Yoo Joonghyuk looked up, startled.

        “I waited for you,” Kim Dokja whispered. “To come back. To say something. Anything.”

        Their eyes met—and for a heartbeat, neither one looked away.

        “When we were younger,” Kim Dokja began, his voice low and unsteady, “the last time we met in the garden… I kept waiting. I waited for the day I’d see you again.”

        He paused, the corners of his mouth pulling into a soft, wistful smile that barely reached his eyes.

        “To be honest, you were the reason I fought so hard to heal. To hear again. I remembered my promise to you—I never let myself forget.”

        His gaze softened, lost in the memories that still clung to him like old shadows.

        “I told you... when you succeeded, I’d come to every one of your concerts. I said I’d be there, listening to you. And I meant it. You were the reason I wanted my hearing back. So I could hear your songs. All of them.”

        He drew in a quiet breath, as though steadying something delicate inside him.

        “I’ve always looked at you,” he said. “You were my inspiration. That’s why… when our families arranged the engagement, I didn’t say no.”

        His smile faltered.

        “I’m sorry. I know now—I should’ve talked to you first. I should’ve asked you. So when you were angry with me, I truly believed I deserved it.”

        Across from him, Yoo Joonghyuk shook his head, frantic. 

        “No—no, don’t say that! It wasn’t—none of it was your fault—”

        “But I was wrong, too,” Kim Dokja murmured. “I made decisions without you. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was selfish. I was hurt, and I let that cloud everything. I don’t deny that. And now I see… it was all just a misunderstanding. All this time.”

        His eyes glistened as he looked back up at Yoo Joonghyuk.

        “So if you’re asking whether I’ve forgiven you or not… you don’t need to.” He took a trembling breath. “I already did. Even when I told myself I wouldn’t. Even when I tried to hate you—I couldn’t. I never could.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk let out a broken breath, the sound somewhere between a sob and disbelief.

        “I don’t deserve it,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve anything from you.”

        Kim Dokja reached forward, gently wrapping his fingers around Yoo Joonghyuk’s trembling hand.

        “I forgive you,” he said, and though the words were barely above a whisper, they rang clear—unshakable. “I do.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him then, as if seeing something sacred. His lips parted, trembling, his eyes pleading and lost.

        “Then… what about us? I—”

        “But…” Kim Dokja said softly, and Yoo Joonghyuk went still.

        “I can’t go back. Not yet.”

        His gaze dropped to their joined hands, his voice tight with sorrow.

        “The engagement, everything—it’s too much. I want to believe in us again, I really do. But I need time. Time to heal. Time to trust you again.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t argue. He only nodded, slowly, like someone accepting the weight of the sentence he knew he’d earned.

        “I’ll wait,” he said, hoarse and raw. “For as long as you need. Until the end of the world, if that’s what it takes.”

        Kim Dokja smiled, faint and broken, but still real. Still his.

        “I hope you mean that,” he whispered.

        “I do.”

        Their foreheads met, quiet and trembling in the stillness that followed.

        No anger remained between them. No accusations. No bitterness.

        Only grief.

        And love.

        And the fragile, uncertain beginning of something they both thought they had lost forever.

* * *

        Two months later, spring unfurled slowly across the countryside like a weary sigh, sunlight spilling through clouds painted in soft watercolors—pale blue and fading gold. The train swayed gently as it rolled past drowsy hills and quiet villages, their rooftops catching the light like forgotten memories. Inside the cabin, time moved as languidly as the season.

        “Don’t touch that,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, swiftly intercepting Kim Dokja’s hand just before it reached the suitcase handle.

        Kim Dokja gave him a deadpan look. “You’ve been treating me like I’m a relic from the Goryeo dynasty. I can carry my own bag.”

        “No,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied flatly, the finality in his tone brooking no argument.

        And maybe there wasn’t one to be had. Ever since Yoo Joonghyuk had been discharged from the hospital—with his injuries healed, his gait steady again, and his pride seemingly untouched—he had thrown himself into a new kind of mission. One marked not by sword or strategy, but by stubborn, overwhelming devotion.

        Relentless. Quietly desperate. And a little ridiculous.

        He uncapped a thermos with care and handed Kim Dokja a cup of tea, steam curling in the filtered light. “Drink this. You skipped breakfast.”

        “I didn’t skip it,” Kim Dokja said, eyes narrowing. “I just—”

        “You stared at the toast for ten minutes and told it to go die,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, deadpan. “That doesn’t count as eating.”

        Kim Dokja muttered as he took a reluctant sip. “I didn’t say that. I said it looked like it wanted me dead.”

        From two seats down, Sun Wukong reclined with complete disregard for etiquette, his feet draped arrogantly over the armrest. He looked far too amused. “This is better than any drama I’ve ever watched. One of you’s a celibate monk who swore off desire, and the other’s a demon prince trying to lure him into sin.”

        “I’m not a demon,” Kim Dokja said quietly, eyes on his tea.

        “Correction,” Sun Wukong said, grinning. “You’re a demon king.”

        Without a word, Yoo Joonghyuk leaned over and pushed Sun Wukong’s legs off the seat with all the patience of someone used to resisting murder charges.

        “Manners,” he said.

        “Oooh, terrifying,” Sun Wukong replied with mock fear. “I’m centuries older than you. You going to start a fight with a senior citizen? You want me to punch you again?”

        Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t respond, but the faint twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed him—like a man barely holding back a lifetime of exasperation with chaos he somehow chose to love. If restraint were a muscle, his was pulled tight and fraying.

        Kim Dokja let out a quiet laugh and turned toward the train window, resting his cheek against the cool glass. The warmth of the sun on his skin didn’t sting today. It didn’t ache. It felt like something close to peace. Real, quiet, ordinary peace—the kind that didn’t demand anything from him.

        He glanced sideways at Yoo Joonghyuk. “You know you don’t have to do all this.”

        “I want to,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied without hesitation. “Let me.”

        It still felt strange—this being cared for. Having someone notice the little things, the unspoken needs, before he had to find the strength to ask. Someone who tied his laces even as he complained, who carried every bag without a word, who watched him like a shadow with teeth, glaring at anyone who stared too long.

        Somehow, Yoo Joonghyuk had become soft where he used to be stone. And fiercely loyal in a way that asked for nothing, not even thanks. Like he had chosen penance and turned it into devotion.

        And maybe what surprised Kim Dokja most of all wasn’t that Yoo Joonghyuk had changed.

        It was that his family accepted him.

        Not immediately, of course. Nothing in the Underworld ever moved without resistance.

        Yoo Joonghyuk had shown up at the family estate dressed like he was attending a job interview with the gods—crisp shirt, polished shoes, hands full of apology gifts, and a speech so thoroughly practiced it must’ve lived on his bathroom mirror for days. Kim Dokja’s parents listened, stone-faced, arms crossed, until the end. Then, without ceremony, they invited him to dinner.

        Four dinners and one mortifying karaoke night later, they relented.

        “Well, if Dokja’s okay with it,” his mother had said at last, sighing like she’d aged five years. “We’ll give you a chance.”

        His father had even patted Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder once—firm and brief.

        In Underworld terms, it might as well have been a blessing carved in stone.

        Kim Namwoon, however, was still unmistakably Kim Namwoon.

        “So,” he announced, swaggering into their train compartment with a crinkling bag of snacks, “do I get to call you brother-in-law yet, or are we waiting until you tattoo my brother’s name on your ass?”

        “Why not yours?” Kim Dokja deadpanned, not even glancing up.

        “He’s not my husband,” Kim Namwoon shot back, waving the chips like a weapon. “And for the record, I’m still not letting you off the hook, Yoo Joonghyuk. You hurt my brother again, I will throw hands. I’ve been working out.”

        “I welcome the challenge,” Yoo Joonghyuk murmured from behind his book, eyes unmoved. “But you’d better keep a close eye on your Gundam collection.”

        “Wh—what Gundam?!” Kim Namwoon nearly choked.

        “Are you still buying those?” Kim Dokja asked, raising an eyebrow. “You do know our storage room is already a shrine to plastic models, right? Should consider asking Mom and Dad to watch over your expenses. Or maybe limit them.”

        From the corner, Sun Wukong let out a delighted, obnoxious cackle.

        “This is all your fault!” Kim Namwoon shouted, pointing accusatorially at Yoo Joonghyuk.

        Kim Dokja closed his eyes for a moment, letting the noise of them settle into his chest like warmth. It wasn’t perfect—far from it. There were still nights where silence grew too loud, where memories gnawed at the edges of his peace. Days where he woke up wondering if the ache of being forgotten would ever really fade.

        But then there were moments like this.

        Yoo Joonghyuk across from him, calm and unwavering, fingers lightly tracing the edge of his book, quietly reaching over to top off his tea as if it were second nature. The train humming beneath them, the future stretching wide and open through the window. Laughter spilling into the air. Arguments laced with affection.

        And somewhere in the quiet, in the small, unremarkable beauty of it all—Kim Dokja let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, everything might one day be okay.

        “Where are we going again?” Kim Namwoon asked, crumbs flying as he spoke around a mouthful of chips.

        Kim Dokja gave a small, tired smile. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere without cameras.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk turned toward him at that, and for just a moment, something gentle passed through his gaze—like sunlight filtering through water. “Then we’ll stay there as long as you want,” he said. “Even forever.”

        Kim Dokja didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. He simply leaned into Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

        And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself rest.

* * *

        They arrived in the late afternoon, the train's final sigh replaced by birdsong and the hush of wind in the trees. The garden was just as they had left it. The lake nearby shimmered in the dying light, its surface catching the soft hues of apricot and lavender that bled across the sky. Trees stood tall with new leaves, whispering in the breeze, as if welcoming them back. The wooden bench still sat beneath the tallest tree, weathered but waiting.

        It was here, once, that Yoo Joonghyuk had played his guitar—his notes quiet and careful, drifting into the ears of someone who couldn’t hear them then but had memorized them all the same.

        Now, Kim Dokja stood on that same patch of earth, older, steadier. His hearing restored. His heart not whole, but quiet—no longer bleeding, just slowly stitching itself back together.

        “I always thought,” he said, voice hushed but steady as he looked at Yoo Joonghyuk, “that when everything was normal again… or better… you’d go back to the stage. Back to your music. You loved it, didn’t you?” 

        Yoo Joonghyuk stood beside him, arms crossed, staring out at the lake with a faraway look in his eyes. “I did,” he said after a moment. 

        “Then why give it up?” Kim Dokja asked. “You still could, if you wanted. And I—” his smile was soft, touched with sorrow, “I’ll come to your concerts. Again. I’ll be your number one fan, again.”

        Yoo Joonghyuk turned to him, his gaze quiet but resolute, like dusk settling over a restless sea. “Because I already have what I want,” he said. “I’ve performed for millions. Stood under lights that tried to outshine the stars. But none of it ever meant as much as you listening to me. Just you.”

        Kim Dokja blinked, caught between disbelief and a fragile ache in his chest. “…You’re unbelievably cheesy.”

        “I’m not finished,” Yoo Joonghyuk replied without missing a beat. “I’ll still write. I’ll still compose. But from now on, every piece I make—every note, every word—is for you first. If you like it, we can decide together whether the world gets to hear it. If you don’t, it stays with us.”

        Kim Dokja stared at him, breath catching in his throat. “You’re serious.”

        “I am,” Yoo Joonghyuk said simply. “Let someone else sing them. Let the company grow without me on stage. I’ve sung enough. Now I just want to live my days beside you.”

        Kim Dokja looked at the man next to him—stern as ever, a little ridiculous in how seriously he took things, still somehow too tall for moments like this—and he smiled, helpless against the tide of it.

        “You’re really giving up the spotlight?”

        Yoo Joonghyuk gave a single, quiet nod. “The spotlight isn’t worth anything if you’re not there.”

        Kim Dokja turned his face away, wiping at the corner of his eye with a sleeve, as if it were just the wind. “You should at least get a hobby before you get too clingy.”

        “I already have one.”

        “…Which is?”

        “Making sure you never trip on your shoelaces again.”

        “You’re unbearable.”

        “Good. That means I’m doing it right.”

        They sat together on the old bench as the sun dipped lower, gilding the trees in soft gold. From Yoo Joonghyuk’s phone, the melody began to play—a recording of the song he’d once played with trembling fingers on a day Kim Dokja couldn’t hear. But now, the notes rang clear: warm, familiar, full of the unspoken.

        This time, Kim Dokja heard everything.

* * *

        Back in the city, life had settled into an uneasy, improbable rhythm—less like peace and more like a storm that learned to hum in tune.

        Han Sooyoung, naturally, had taken over half of Yoo Joonghyuk’s entertainment company alongside Sun Wukong—not because anyone asked her to, but because she outright refused to let “two emotionally repressed idiots” run it into the ground.

        “They’d probably convert it into a tofu farm,” she muttered to Lee Hyunsung one afternoon, her fingers flying across three phones at once. “And release an album called ‘I’m Sorry, Please Come Back’.”

        “Hey,” Lee Jihye called as she popped her head into the room, “when is Dokja-ssi going to Italy again? Is Boss tagging along?”

        Lee Hyunsung followed behind her with a tray of coffee, smiling gently as always. “Boss has been busy preparing the paperwork, hasn’t he? I helped him find a place in Italy. He’s planning to stay with Dokja-ssi until he graduates. It’s… nice. After everything, it’s good to see them living together peacefully like this.”

        “Yeah… ‘peacefully’,” Han Sooyoung echoed, voice flat with disbelief. “Until Yoo Joonghyuk went on a fan forum and tried to rehome a dog named Bihyung.”

        Lee Hyunsung’s mouth fell open. The tray nearly tilted out of his hands. “Bihyung?! Are you serious?!”

        “Dead serious,” Han Sooyoung said grimly. “Apparently, the little devil had Kim Dokja running around a playground all day. Yoo Joonghyuk got pissed. And I honestly don’t know if he was mad because the dog tired Kim Dokja out or because Kim Dokja was giving it more attention than him.” 

        “My poor Bihyung…” Lee Hyunsung sniffled. “His own father abandoned him.” 

        Lee Jihye wheezed with laughter, clutching the doorframe. “Please tell me that’s not real—”

        “It was real,” Han Sooyoung growled. “I deleted the post and sent him a warning. Again.”

        And yet, despite the chaos—and the bickering, and the threats of exile from group chats—they functioned. Somehow. Like the tangled inner workings of a clock that had forgotten the concept of precision but still managed to keep time.

        Lee Jihye ruled over the young trainees like a tiny, terrifying general, forging them into polished performers with a single glare. Lee Hyunsung organized charity events and training seminars, always with a hopeful smile and far too much coffee. Han Sooyoung juggled PR, crisis management, marketing, and yelling at executives in five languages before noon.

        And that’s how the office descended into mayhem nearly every day.

       A beautiful mayhem.

* * *

        Back at their home, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the world bathed in soft indigo. The light was gone, but the warmth lingered—subtle, like a memory that refused to fade.

        Kim Dokja leaned his head against Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoulder, watching the stars flicker to life above them. The silence stretched, not heavy, but delicate—like something that might shatter if disturbed.

        “Do you think we’ll always be like this?” Kim Dokja asked quietly, his voice just above a breath.

        Yoo Joonghyuk looked down at him, eyes steady. “Like what?”

        “Together,” Kim Dokja said. “Peacefully.”

        Without hesitation, Yoo Joonghyuk pulled him closer, his arm wrapping around him like a shield against the chill.

        “Yes,” he said simply. “And if not… I’ll start over. As many times as it takes.”

        Kim Dokja’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. “Then… will you wait for me?”

        “I will,” Yoo Joonghyuk answered, unwavering. “Because you’re the reason I begin again. Every time. And I’ll keep singing—until you hear me. Until I find you again.”

        And in the hush of evening, beneath the rustle of leaves and the sky turning slowly toward night, it felt like a vow carved deep into time itself—fragile but unbreaking, quiet but enduring. A promise that even if the world turned cold again, they would find each other.

        As many times as it took.

THE END.