Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nam-gyu’s world had always been noise. Blurred neon lights, throbbing basslines, the hiss of smoke through parted lips. Pills swallowed in back rooms, half-remembered kisses behind club curtains, and mirrors streaked with glitter and regret. His life moved in snapshots—flashes of euphoria, spirals of come-downs, and a constant edge of barely-contained panic beneath the surface.

He had lived fast and loud, never thinking far enough ahead to worry about consequences. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the sterile brutality of prison. Here, the chaos was of a different kind. Bleached walls, fluorescent lights that buzzed like flies, and silence that roared after lights-out. Here, you could feel time rot on your skin.

The noise he’d known was gone. No more music pounding from cheap club speakers. No more catcalls across sticky floors. No more laughter layered with smoke and lies. All of it replaced by the quiet grind of survival — the clank of metal doors, the hiss of whispers, the hollow thud of fists hitting flesh just out of sight.

He didn’t think much about his almost shoulder-length hair until he arrived. Outside, it was part of the persona — calculated, curated. It framed his sharp cheekbones like a weapon, shimmered under neon light like a lure. People looked. Some even touched. He used to like that. Used to need it. It meant power. It meant control. But in prison, beauty was not an asset. It was bait. And softness was a kind of blood in the water.

It made him a mark.

The first month passed in a blur of clenched teeth and bruised mornings. He kept his head down in the showers, moved fast through corridors, ate silently with his back to the wall. Still, the bruises came. Purple blooms beneath his ribs, fingerprints blooming across his hips. Always hidden, always where guards wouldn’t bother to look — or worse, where they did look and simply didn’t care. Some watched. Some smiled. And some joined in.

He didn’t scream. Not once. Even when he wanted to. He let them take what they came for, lips bitten raw behind forced indifference. His silence became another layer of defense — not strength, exactly, but something adjacent. Survival by endurance.

Sarcasm became his shield. A sharp tongue was the only weapon he had left. A twisted smile was easier than flinching. It made him harder to approach — or so he hoped. But when it didn’t work, when pain came anyway, he told himself it was better than fear. Better than begging. He’d rather be broken than pitied.

By week five, he was unraveling. His body trembled from withdrawal, his skin ached from cold, and his nights were haunted by cravings and the echo of remembered highs. Food tasted like nothing. Time stretched long and gray. Every cell looked the same — concrete and hopeless. Every face blurred together: angry, empty, dangerous.

He started counting cracks in the walls just to keep track of days.

And then — when he wasn’t looking for anything anymore — came Dae-ho.

He didn’t arrive dramatically, didn’t walk in with a warning or a crowd. He just appeared, steady and unassuming. Older than him, broader. Not the kind of man people messed with, but not the kind who needed to prove anything either. There was something still about him — like a man who had seen too much and finally stopped trying to outrun it.

His eyes didn’t scan the room the way others’ did. They didn’t flicker with hunger or calculation. They just looked — level and quiet, like deep water that didn’t care if you drowned.

The first time they crossed paths, Nam-gyu had been scrubbing blood from his shirt in a sink that never ran hot. Not his blood this time, which was some kind of victory. His knuckles were raw. His jaw ached. He was trying not to shake.

Dae-ho approached like it wasn’t a decision. Like gravity.

He held out a clean towel.

Nam-gyu scoffed, wiping sweat from his upper lip with the back of his wrist. “What’s this? Charity?”

Dae-ho shrugged, not bothered. “No. You looked like you needed it.”

Nam-gyu narrowed his eyes. “You expecting something in return?”

“No.”

That answer hit harder than a threat. It didn’t make sense. Nothing here came free.

He didn’t take the towel. He let it hang there between them for a beat too long, then turned away. But that night, it was folded on his bunk — clean, soft, absurdly out of place.

Nam-gyu stared at it for a long time before touching it. He hated how much it got to him. Hated the care in the gesture, hated that someone had seen him and offered something that wasn’t a transaction.

It scared him more than violence ever had.

Dae-ho noticed him long before they ever spoke. Nam-gyu had that effect — the kind of presence you didn’t mean to watch, but found your eyes drifting to anyway. He usually sat alone in the canteen, hunched over his tray like it was a shield. Even in a room full of noise — clattering trays, harsh laughter, guards barking orders — Nam-gyu seemed wrapped in silence. He picked at his food with long, thin fingers, more out of obligation than hunger, and stared off like he was somewhere else entirely. Not just daydreaming — escaping. His shoulders were always tight, his jaw locked like he was waiting for something bad to happen. And in here, that was fair.

Dae-ho sat at a different table, usually with two other inmates he trusted enough to share space with. They were calm, polite, no troublemakers. They were people Dae-ho wanted to spend time with, not forced to. Still, most days, Dae-ho’s attention drifted across the room to where Nam-gyu sat alone — always alone. The kid didn’t mix, didn’t joke, didn’t seem interested in the casual alliances that formed among the more sociable prisoners. And yet, there was nothing passive about him. Even in stillness, he felt like a live wire.

He looked like trouble — that was obvious from day one. But not the kind that started fights just to feel alive. No, Nam-gyu’s trouble was of a different kind. Quieter. Smoldering. Like someone who’d been burned too many times and learned to hold the heat inside. He didn’t look like someone who belonged here. Too polished, too clean-boned. That almost-shoulder-length hair that should’ve been vanity became a target in a place like this, but Nam-gyu wore it anyway, defiantly. Too pretty for prison, Dae-ho had thought more than once, almost bitterly. He had a face made for cameras, not concrete. Some days, when the light hit him right — cheekbones cut sharp, eyes unreadable — Dae-ho found himself thinking, He could’ve been a model. Or at least someone who didn’t end up here, fighting ghosts in his head and bruises on his skin.

A few times, Dae-ho had tried to break the distance. A nod in the yard. A quiet offer — a seat at his table, a shared talk, or just a moment in the sun where the silence didn’t feel so heavy. But Nam-gyu never accepted. Not once. He’d glance over with that cool, unreadable look, lips curled into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Sometimes he’d say nothing at all. Sometimes he’d throw out a quip like armor: “I don’t do group therapy,” or “I’m allergic to people.” And that would be that.

Still, Dae-ho kept watching. Not out of pity. Not even out of curiosity anymore. There was just something about Nam-gyu — something fractured but burning, something that reminded Dae-ho of younger versions of himself, the ones he never saved. Maybe he knew better now. Maybe not. But every time he looked across that room and saw Nam-gyu sitting alone, pretending it didn’t bother him, Dae-ho felt the smallest pull. A quiet thread tying two strangers together — not in words, but in silence.

It happened on a washed-out Thursday, the kind of day that bled together with the dozens before it. Lunch was the same pale mystery meat, the same watery soup, the same tension hanging over every table like fog. Dae-ho sat in his usual spot against the back wall, flanked by Mr. Baek and Ji-won — the closest thing he had to friends inside. Mr. Baek was  and old man, quiet but sharp-eyed, always eating with small, meticulous movements. Ji-won, middle-aged, talked too much but knew when to shut up. They were reliable in their silence, in their presence. A kind of routine Dae-ho hadn’t realized he valued until he had it.

But even then, his attention drifted — like always — when Nam-gyu walked in.

He moved like he didn’t want to be noticed, but the irony was that he always was. His longer, dark hair hung loose and unkempt, falling across his face. He never tied it back. It was a silent rebellion, maybe, or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, it gave him a softness that didn’t belong here. Not in this hard, gray place. He looked too clean-cut to survive — like someone who had been pulled out of a photoshoot and dropped into hell without warning.

Nam-gyu clutched his tray in one hand and hovered near the entrance for a moment, scanning the canteen. All the tables were full — shoulders pressed together, hunched bodies, cold glances. He didn’t belong anywhere, and everyone knew it.

Dae-ho saw his hesitation and spoke before he could think better of it.

“Want to sit with us?”

Mr. Baek didn’t pause, just glanced up and back down at his tray. Ji-won raised an eyebrow and kept chewing. Dae-ho kept his voice casual, light, as if it didn’t matter either way — but there was something quiet and hopeful in the way he looked at Nam-gyu, something steady.

Nam-gyu’s eyes flicked to him. He didn’t answer at first. The silence stretched long enough for it to turn awkward, maybe even a little painful. But then, with a soft scoff, he shifted his tray and came over.

“Fine,” he muttered, like it cost him something.

He slid onto the bench beside Dae-ho, not across. Not separating himself. He sat close enough for their arms to almost touch, but not quite. He kept his posture tight, his elbows in, like he was trying to take up less space than his body required. The air around them shifted — not tense, not quite — but watchful.

Mr. Baek said nothing, just kept eating. Ji-won gave Dae-ho a loaded glance, but wisely didn’t comment.

Nam-gyu picked at his food with slow, deliberate fingers. His hands were thinner up close, more delicate than they seemed at a distance. A few strands of hair fell into his face, tickling his nose. He didn’t bother to move them. Dae-ho found himself watching again, not in a hungry way, not even curious — just present, quiet, taking in the strange, unexpected shape of this moment.

Nam-gyu noticed.

He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing without looking directly at Dae-ho. “What?” he snapped, the word cutting and sharp, like a shard of broken glass.

Dae-ho didn’t flinch. He blinked once and answered softly, polite as ever. “Just surprised you said yes.”

Nam-gyu gave a humorless little laugh, barely more than an exhale. “All the other seats were taken.”

“Still,” Dae-ho said, “I’m glad you did.”

That earned him a sideways glance — brief, unreadable. Then Nam-gyu went back to his food. He didn’t say another word, but he didn’t get up either. He stayed, finished the meal, and when he finally stood and walked away, his tray was empty and his shoulders looked — if only for a moment — less tight.

Dae-ho watched him go, a slow thought turning over in his chest like an ember trying to catch.

It hadn’t just been about the other seats.

And next time, maybe, Nam-gyu wouldn’t need an excuse at all.

And he was right.

Sometimes, Dae-ho noticed the bruises. Faint purple rings around Nam-gyu’s wrists, the way his lower lip was swollen and cracked just enough to catch the light. Sometimes the younger man’s legs would tremble slightly when he sat down, like his body was fighting battles no one else could see. But Dae-ho never said a word. He didn’t ask how it happened or offer pity. There was no need. Nam-gyu didn’t want that kind of attention — not from him, not from anyone.

Sometimes Nam-gyu ignored his presence completely. He would sit somewhere else in the canteen or the yard, like he didn’t even notice Dae-ho was there. Other times, he would come and sit beside Dae-ho without a word, close but distant, like a shadow that could disappear at any moment. Those quiet moments of shared space were rare, but Dae-ho treasured them — just the simple presence, the silent company in a world that otherwise shouted at them both.

Nam-gyu never started conversations. He was too guarded for that, and Dae-ho respected it. Instead, there were the occasional biting remarks — sharp little comments thrown like darts, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes sarcastically funny. Dae-ho found himself smiling at those moments. He liked the way Nam-gyu’s laugh came out when it did — rare, like a secret shared between them. It wasn’t loud or easy, but it was real. And that was enough.

A few days later, after a so-called ‘fight’ left him limping and his right eye bruised nearly shut, the guards transferred him. “Protective placement,” they said, which was a joke in itself. They dropped him into Dae-ho’s cell without explanation.

Dae-ho didn’t say anything. Just shifted his few belongings and offered Nam-gyu the upper bunk.

Nam-gyu curled up the first night shaking and nauseous. No appetite. No pills. No escape. The ghosts came fast and stayed long. He whispered nonsense to keep them at bay. Dae-ho didn’t judge. He didn’t speak unless spoken to. Just sat across the cell, watching him with that same steady gaze, as if making sure the pieces didn’t fall too far apart.

“You’re weird,” Nam-gyu muttered one night, curled like a child, arms wrapped tight around himself. “You act like you care.”

Dae-ho didn’t look up from his book. “Maybe I do.”

“Yeah? You a saint or a psycho?”

A pause. Then, quiet: “I’m just tired.”

Nam-gyu snorted. “Aren’t we all.”

Chapter Text

Their friendship didn’t bloom gently—it had to be carved out of tension and habit, day by day, like scratching initials into stone. It began in the canteen, that sterile hall of clattering trays and dead-eyed stares, where Nam-gyu again sat beside Dae-ho, but this time with a scowl and a bruised jaw. Every day after that, Dae-ho would claim the same seat beside him without asking, placing his tray down with quiet certainty. Dae-ho always ate slowly, like the food tasted better that way, and Nam-gyu, who at first only picked at his meals with disgusted little noises, started copying him. Not that he’d ever admit it. When he grumbled about the rice being dry or the soup being “prison-flavored sludge,” Dae-ho would just smirk and silently nudge over the better portion of his tray—meat that wasn’t gristle, bread that wasn’t stale, fruit when they got it. Nam-gyu would roll his eyes, but he always took it.

Days turned into weeks, and slowly, Dae-ho and Nam-gyu began spending more time together. It started with simple things — walking side by side in the yard during the limited hours they had outside. Their footsteps echoed softly on the cracked concrete, sometimes in silence, sometimes with quiet exchanges. The world around them buzzed with tension and danger, but for those moments, it felt a little less heavy.

Sometimes Dae-ho would find his way to the laundry room where Nam-gyu worked. The scent of detergent and damp clothes filled the air, mingling with the faint, ever-present hum of machines. Nam-gyu would be folding shirts or sorting linens, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. When Dae-ho arrived, they’d exchange brief greetings and small talk — nothing heavy, nothing too personal, just fragments of everyday life that made the place feel less like a cage.

“Got a tough day?” Dae-ho would ask quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

Nam-gyu shrugged, folding another shirt. “You could say that.”

Their conversations were interrupted more than once by guards who didn’t appreciate outsiders loitering in work areas. “You don’t work here,” one grunted to Dae-ho, waving him off. "Get the fuck out."

Dae-ho would smile politely and leave without a word, but the visits didn’t stop. They were a lifeline — a thread of connection in a world built to tear people apart.

Sometimes, the four of them — Dae-ho, Nam-gyu, Mr. Baek, and Ji-won — would hang out together. The older men shared jokes, exchanged stories, and laughed quietly, their voices low enough not to attract attention but loud enough to fill the empty corners of the yard or the common area.

It was strange, almost surreal, to smile and laugh in a place like that. Yet somehow, with Dae-ho beside him, it felt real. Like this was a space they could claim for themselves, even if just for a moment.

And in those moments, the walls didn’t feel quite so close.

Sometimes, when sleep wouldn’t come, they talked about their pasts — the lives they’d left behind, the choices they’d made, the things they’d never say out loud during the day. Those late-night conversations were rare and fragile, like whispered secrets shared under a thin blanket of darkness.

During meals, laughter came easier, even if just for a moment. Nam-gyu once laughed uncontrollably when Dae-ho tried a piece of food that was way too spicy for him. The man’s face went red, his eyes watering as he desperately reached for water, and Nam-gyu’s laugh echoed quietly through the mess hall — sharp, wild, and genuine. And Dae-ho smiled. It was the first time he heard him laugh. It was cute. It was different. Those moments were special, pockets of light in the endless gray. But they didn’t come often.

Nam-gyu wasn’t easy. He threw evil looks at other prisoners who crossed lines, and Ji-won would warn him quietly, telling him not to make enemies. But Nam-gyu rarely listened. He was mean, bitchy, sharp-edged — a defense mechanism forged in fire.

Yet with Dae-ho, he acted different. Sometimes... His sharp tongue dulled, his sneers turned to smiles. When he laughed with Dae-ho, it wasn’t just a reflex; it was real, a crack in the armor that only Dae-ho seemed to see. In those fleeting moments, Nam-gyu’s walls came down, and the harder world outside faded away — if only for a little while.

It didn’t take long before the whispers started. Men at other tables eyed them with thinly veiled contempt. Sometimes it was muttered insults—“Pretty boy’s got a babysitter,” or “You two fucking, or what?” Other times, it was louder, crueler. One guy, broad-shouldered and dull-eyed, barked something disgusting about Nam-gyu’s mouth and what it was good for. Nam-gyu shot to his feet, fists clenched, but before he could move, Dae-ho stood beside him. He didn’t say a word—just stared. His body was still, but his presence was a wall. The room hushed. The guy looked away first. It happened again, and again, and after a while, they stopped trying. Nam-gyu never thanked Dae-ho aloud, but sometimes, when they walked the yard later, he bumped their shoulders together and called him "Dad" just to piss him off. Dae-ho only chuckled.

They weren’t alone, though. Two others were still orbiting their strange little world. Mr. Baek, an old man with rheumy eyes and a stiff leg, would shuffle over with a tray and the quiet authority of someone who had survived more than most. He didn’t ask—just sat. Started humming softly between bites. Later, Nam-gyu learned he used to be a music teacher. He was a man who commanded respect with his attitude alone, although it was known that as an old, sick man he could not do much to make someone's life miserable. Then there was Ji-won, a man in his late forties with a face carved sharp by time and a cigarette tucked behind his ear, even though smoking was banned. He was friends with Dae-ho and, by extension, tolerated Nam-gyu with a kind of exasperated fondness. He’d bring scraps pilfered from the kitchens—tea leaves, pickled radish, salt—and mutter about “these damn kids” while flavoring the slop they were given. Nam-gyu would roll his eyes and call him Uncle. Ji-won called him “brat” in return, but there was warmth behind it.

Together, the four of them formed something that felt—dangerously—like belonging. It wasn’t family, not really. But it was something close. Evenings were spent playing cards on a makeshift table made from stacked milk crates, or sharing stories—Dae-ho about the sea, Mr. Baek about old classrooms, Ji-won about women he’d loved and left. Nam-gyu, reluctant at first, started adding his own stories about club nights and glittery chaos, told with a sharp tongue and a flickering smile. And sometimes, when the others had gone quiet and the guards weren’t watching, he and Dae-ho would sit shoulder to shoulder against the wall, knees brushing, and Nam-gyu would forget, just for a breath, where they were. Sometimes, Dae-ho would glance at him—not with pity, not with judgment—but with something softer, something steady. Nam-gyu never knew what to call that look. He just knew it made the air feel warmer, and the ache in his chest a little easier to carry.

What followed wasn’t quite friendship. It was quieter than that. Something gentler, harder to name — like the silence that follows after a storm, when things are still broken but no longer falling apart. They shared space the way people do in a lifeboat, not out of choice, but survival. There was caution in it. Distance. But also a strange kind of trust, the kind that grows in places where everything else has been stripped away.

Nam-gyu snarked, rolled his eyes, and threw out biting remarks like knives. Dae-ho listened, never flinching. He didn’t push, didn’t prod. He simply answered when spoken to, responded with warmth when most others would’ve responded with cold. And when he spoke, it was about things Nam-gyu had never learned to want. Peace. Stillness. Long afternoons fishing in silence. The soft weight of a dog resting its head in your lap. He told stories like they were lullabies — not the kind that put you to sleep, but the kind that made you remember what safe felt like.

Nam-gyu pretended not to care. He rolled his eyes. Scoffed. Said it was boring. But he listened. Always listened. He memorized those stories without meaning to. Clung to them like life rafts in the silence of the night.

It was Dae-ho who helped him kick the drugs. Not by tearing them from his hands or demanding anything. Just by staying. By being there — steady, patient, unshakable. When the withdrawal hit like a hurricane, when Nam-gyu couldn’t stop shaking or sweating or crying or screaming, Dae-ho stayed. Sat close without touching. Let the storm pass, again and again. Anchored him when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

“You think I’ll ever be normal?” Nam-gyu asked one night, his knuckles white as he clutched the edge of his bunk, voice low and brittle.

Dae-ho’s reply was quiet, unshaken. “You already are. Just came out of the factory with a few bonus features.”

Nam-gyu laughed. Not one of his sarcastic chuckles, but a real laugh — raw, surprised, almost breathless. “Shit,” he said, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand, “you’re so goddamn cheesy.”

And Dae-ho rised corners of his lips, because he didn’t mind.

He was glad to hear him laugh again.

”You’re cute when you laugh,” he stated.

And Nam-gyu didn’t reply. Didn’t move. He was looking at him with the same smile.

One night, with the lights off and only the faint buzz of the prison silence around them, Nam-gyu whispered into the dark, “When we get out… let’s open a café. You can cook. I’ll make it pretty. Maybe we’ll get a dog or something. You look like a dog person.”

There was a pause. Then a soft answer, full of something that almost sounded like hope. “I am.”

Nam-gyu stared up at the ceiling, imagining sunlight through windows and the sound of spoons clinking against ceramic cups. A dog curled up in a corner. The warmth of something that felt like a home. For the first time in what felt like forever, he could almost believe it — that maybe a future like that wasn’t impossible. Maybe, just maybe, it could be real.

But the bullying never really stopped. When Dae-ho wasn’t near—when he was in the workshop, or called for questioning, or even just showering late—other inmates took their chance. They were careful, practiced. Nothing that left bruises. Just a hand too firm on Nam-gyu’s waist as he passed, a body pressed too close in line, breath hot on his neck as someone muttered filth in his ear and walked away laughing. Sometimes it was worse. A finger tracing the collar of his shirt. A whisper describing what they'd do if they caught him alone. At first, Nam-gyu fought back fiercely. He threw sharp insults, mocked anyone who tried to break him, and didn’t shy away when it came to fists. He clung to the idea that he was tougher than he seemed — that his spirit could outmatch their strength. But more often he lost. He wasn’t as physically strong as they were. Still, he refused to let them completely own him, refusing to be just their punching bag or ragdoll. Yet, no matter how hard he resisted, the bruises kept coming. Slowly, Nam-gyu began to shut down. He stopped reacting, stopped fighting back the way he used to. Instead, he changed tactics — maybe if he ignored them, stayed quiet, and kept his head down, they’d stop seeing him as a target. He said nothing. He did nothing. The guards wouldn’t help. The system didn’t care. And Nam-gyu… he couldn’t bear the look he knew he’d see in Dae-ho’s eyes if he told him. So instead, he locked himself in the showers after lights out, letting the icy water hit his skin like penance. He scrubbed until his arms turned red, raw, shaking.

And he whispered, It doesn’t count. It doesn’t count. They didn’t touch who I am. They didn’t get in. Over and over, like a prayer meant for no god.

Then came Chuck.

An American inmate who’d been in Korea for years—long enough to speak the language decently but not long enough to lose the arrogance. He was older, built like a retired soldier gone to seed, with sun-damaged skin and a lazy, lingering stare that made Nam-gyu’s spine stiffen every time they crossed paths. Chuck wasn’t loud or violent. He was worse — quiet, calculating. His attention came in slow waves. First a bar of soap on Nam-gyu’s bunk. Then a new toothbrush. A smuggled candy bar that tasted like it had been stolen more for the message than the sugar. Nam-gyu told him to get lost. Called him names, spat near his feet. Chuck just smiled.

“You know,” he said one night, cornering Nam-gyu near the laundry room where the hum of machines masked his voice, “you remind me of that girl from the Disney movie. What’s her name? Mulan. You ever see it?

Nam-gyu stared at him, disgusted. “She’s Chinese, idiot.”

Chuck chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You all look the same anyway.”

Something in Nam-gyu’s chest snapped. “Fuck you,” he hissed, voice low and sharp. “Do you even hear yourself?”

Chuck leaned in like they were sharing a secret. “But you are kinda different. You’ve got that same fire, though. Pretty little warrior. Bet you’d look good with your hair up in one of those buns, all fierce and delicate.”

Nam-gyu pushed past him, shaking, bile in his throat. He went straight to the guard’s office and filed a report. Again. And again, nothing happened. No bruises, no proof. Just his word against a foreigner’s smile. Chuck had been here too long, made too many “friends” in the system. Nam-gyu realized quickly: no one was going to help him.

He started sticking even closer to Dae-ho, his presence the only thing that kept Chuck at bay. He ate beside him. Waited for him outside the workshop. Sat back-to-back during outdoor breaks. Dae-ho didn’t push, but his eyes watched everything—every tremor in Nam-gyu’s hand, every flinch when Chuck passed by a little too slowly.

One afternoon, when the sun barely touched the courtyard and the sky looked like dull metal, Dae-ho said quietly, “He’s not going to stop. I’ll deal with it.”

Nam-gyu scoffed, arms crossed tight over his chest like armor. “I can handle it,” he snapped, though his voice cracked halfway through. “What, you think I’m some helpless little girl just because some American buddy thinks I’m the fucking Disney princess of the week?”

Dae-ho didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His gaze was steady, grounded. Protective.

Nam-gyu turned away quickly. He hated how safe Dae-ho made him feel. Almost more than he hated Chuck.

Chapter Text

In the morning, Nam-gyu was laying sprawled across the top bunk, one arm flopped over his face, the other dangling over the side like a lifeless vine. His hair, never tied, cascaded over the pillow like dark silk, swaying gently.

"I'm not going," he muttered before Dae-ho could even open his mouth. "Not hungry. I'll head to laundry when it's time."

Dae-ho stood by the door, one hand resting loosely against the cold metal frame. He didn’t argue. Didn’t push. There was no point. He’d seen the way Nam-gyu’s shoulders stiffened when Chuck walked by, how his flippant tone had a crack beneath it, like glass about to shatter. He knew the way fear cloaked itself in sarcasm, how shame dressed itself up as pride.

So he just nodded.

A soft silence followed. The kind that had settled between them often these days—not uncomfortable, but heavy. Familiar.

Dae-ho moved to gather his things—his folded shirt, the towel hanging from the edge of his bunk. As he bent down, his gaze caught on the corner of a sketchbook poking out from under a wrinkled shirt near Nam-gyu’s pile. He hesitated, glancing up at the motionless figure above.

Still breathing slow. Still pretending to sleep.

He reached for the sketchbook carefully, as though it might flinch away from him. Flipping it open with practiced gentleness, he found page after page filled with raw sketches—lines rough but vibrant, scenes alive with warmth.

The café.

Drawn in different lights. From different angles. Window seats drenched in sunlight. Shelves lined with plants. A counter with handwritten notes: You’d hate the apron. Muffins are your job. Try cinnamon first.

Dae-ho blinked down at them, stunned. Not by the skill—though it was good—but by the care. The precision. The hope embedded in every page. He couldn’t draw a straight line if he tried, but Nam-gyu had managed to sketch a place that felt like home. Something gentle. Something safe.

He caught himself smiling.

And then, just as quickly, the smile faded.

He closed the sketchbook without a sound and placed it back exactly where he found it and looked up once more at Nam-gyu’s still form, at the way his arm covered his eyes like he couldn’t bear to be seen.

The door buzzed for morning break. Without another word, Dae-ho walked out

The canteen buzzed with the usual mix of dull chatter and the scrape of metal trays. Chuck—loud, square-jawed, too confident for someone with that little self-awareness—was already seated, flanked by two of his usual lackeys. He looked up as Dae-ho approached, grinning around a mouthful of toast.

"Well, well," Chuck said, raising an eyebrow. "If it isn’t Korea’s Dad. You lose your puppy this morning?"

Dae-ho smiled faintly. "Not lost. Just resting."

He set his tray down slowly, deliberately, across from Chuck, but didn’t sit.

"You’ve been watching him," Dae-ho said evenly. Not accusing. Not dramatic. Just a fact placed gently on the table like a napkin.

Chuck raised both hands in mock innocence. "Watching? I like the view. Not a crime, is it?"

"No," Dae-ho said, his tone still light. Still polite. "But the next time you make him feel unsafe, I’ll break your legs."

Chuck blinked. Laughed, awkwardly. "Is that a threat?"

"No," Dae-ho said with the same calm cadence he might use to discuss the weather. "Just a schedule. You keep bothering him. And eventually, I’ll make sure you can’t walk long enough to follow anyone again."

Chuck’s smirk faltered. He glanced at his tray, then back at Dae-ho, who was still smiling. It wasn’t a mean smile. It wasn’t even angry. It was the kind of smile that made you nervous because it didn’t need to raise its voice to mean business.

"You done?" Chuck muttered.

"Yes," Dae-ho said. "And you are too. Leave him alone."

He picked up his untouched tray and walked off without another word.

Later, when Nam-gyu finally made his way to the laundry room, sleeves rolled up and pretending not to look around for Dae-ho, he found a folded packet of tea next to his station.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough to make him pause.

He didn't ask about Chuck. And Dae-ho didn’t mention it.

But that day, Nam-gyu sat a little closer at lunch. And Dae-ho didn’t need to say a word to feel the victory.

However, Chuck didn’t take the rejection well. He was furious that Nam-gyu had chosen Dae-ho. What is more, he was mad that he ridiculed him and disrespected his ‘authority’. So when he saw Nam-gyu sitting alone near the yard fence one afternoon, waiting for Dae-ho like always, Chuck made his move. He strolled over with that smug American swagger, flanked by two other inmates from his little circle — men who owed him favors or were just bored enough to follow power. Nam-gyu glanced up and immediately regretted it. He stiffened, but stayed seated. If he got up, if he ran, they’d follow. They’d win.

Chuck crouched beside him, voice smooth like poison. “Still playing house with your husband?” he asked with a crooked smile. “You really don’t know how to pick ‘em.”

Nam-gyu didn’t respond. His jaw clenched.

“You know about your boyfriend?” Chuck continued, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Should’ve looked him up. Life sentence. Creep got caught with a kid — then killed him.”

Nam-gyu didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his breath hitched.

Chuck leaned closer, voice barely a whisper now. “They say he just stood there after. Watched the body for a while. Cold. Like a real sick fuck.”

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed.

Laughter bubbled from one of the men behind Chuck. Another muttered something in English — Nam-gyu didn’t catch it all, just enough to hear “twinks and drama” between the snorts. Chuck patted Nam-gyu’s shoulder mockingly before standing. “You’ll see, sweetheart. They always hide the worst shit behind the quiet ones.”

Nam-gyu sat frozen long after they walked away, numb to the chill that seeped through the concrete. He didn’t wait for Dae-ho. Didn’t speak to him at dinner. That night, he lay in their bunk, staring up at the stained ceiling, every laugh they’d shared unraveling in his mind like a thread pulled too hard.

Dae-ho noticed the change. Of course he did. Nam-gyu didn’t speak to him unless he had to. Didn’t sit next to him. Didn’t even look at him when they passed in the yard. It was like watching a door slowly close, one inch at a time, and being powerless to stop it.

That morning, he asked anyway.

He was restless. While sitting on that one uncomfortable, cold chair he couldn't stand stand that atmosphere and Nam-gyu's attitude. It was colder than this fucking chair.

"What did they say to you?" 

Nam-gyu didn’t turn around. He was lying on the top bunk, blanket pulled halfway over his face, voice dull and flat. "That you’re in for life. That... there was a kid."

Dae-ho stiffened. planting his feet on the cold concrete floor like it could ground him. His hands hung between his knees, fingers twitching slightly. His voice was calm, but every word felt deliberate. "It’s not what it sounds like."

Nam-gyu scoffed, a humorless sound that cut through the thick morning air. "It never is."

"I met him online. He said he was twenty. We talked for weeks. I had no reason to doubt him." Dae-ho paused, as if the memory physically pained him. "When I found out the truth, I panicked. I was going to turn myself in. But he got scared. Tried to run. I grabbed him. He slipped. Hit his head. I—I froze. I should’ve called for help. I didn’t. That’s why I’m here."

The air in the cell seemed to grow thinner. Nam-gyu stared blankly at the ceiling, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and when he did, his voice was sharper than before. "And you expect me to just believe that?"

"No," Dae-ho said softly. "But I hoped you’d understand why I didn’t tell you."

Nam-gyu finally turned his head to look at him, eyes glassy with disbelief and betrayal. "You should’ve told me before I gave a damn."

They both knew he did. That was the part neither of them could say out loud.

They had never defined what they were. Never said the words. Never called it love. But it was there—in glances, in silences, in the way Nam-gyu leaned just a little closer during meals, in the way Dae-ho always waited outside the laundry room just to walk him back. In the way their eyes always found each other in the chaos of the yard. It was something fragile and real, something unspoken but undeniable.

And that’s why it hurt so fucking much.

Nam-gyu sat up slowly, blanket pooling around his waist. His shoulders were tight, tense like a wire pulled too far. His hands shook.

He was mad.

Mad that Dae-ho had lied. Mad that he had done something so reckless, something that hurt innocent people. Mad that it was real, and raw, and permanent. Mad that he had let himself believe there could be something soft between them. That maybe, somehow, he could deserve something good. He was mad at the guards. Mad at the disrespectful prisoners. He was fucking mad at everything—at the world, at himself, at Dae-ho, at the way hope always slipped through his fingers like water. Everything.

"You lied to me."

"I know."

"You let me think... fuck, I don’t know what I thought. That maybe we could get out and start over. That maybe I wasn’t completely broken for wanting something good again."

"You’re not broken."

Nam-gyu laughed, sharp and bitter. "Don’t. Don’t try to fix it with that soft voice of yours."

Dae-ho didn’t flinch. He just sat there, looking up at Nam-gyu like he was still worth everything, even now. Especially now.

"You helped me get clean," Nam-gyu said, quieter this time. His voice shook. "You made me believe I could want things again. That I wasn’t just a fuck-up."

"You’re not. You never were."

Nam-gyu’s hands balled into fists. "But not with you. Not anymore."

Dae-ho didn’t argue. He didn’t reach for him. He just nodded, eyes dull. "I didn’t want to ruin the one good thing I had left. Even if it was only for a while. Even if it wasn’t mine to keep."

The silence stretched again—tight and endless.

Nam-gyu didn’t climb down. But he didn’t look away either. His eyes stayed locked on Dae-ho’s face like he was trying to read something in it, something that could make it all make sense. But there was nothing left to find.

That night, neither of them slept. The space between the bunks felt like a chasm.

It wasn’t heartbreak. It wasn’t betrayal. It was something messier. The kind of grief you feel for a thing you never got to name. The kind of pain that settles in your bones and makes a home there.

And after that, the silence became permanent. They moved through their shared space like strangers. No more quiet jokes. No more shared warmth. Just cold routine. Nam-gyu scrubbed his tray clean with robotic precision. Dae-ho folded his blankets with military care. They breathed in sync, but never looked at each other.

Next to them, lying slightly crumpled on the cold concrete floor, was a drawing of the café—one Nam-gyu had sketched in pencil late one night, tucked up on the top bunk with a flashlight half-hidden under his blanket. It wasn’t much. Just a small piece of paper featuring: a counter, some chairs, a window with little potted plants. A name scribbled at the top in looping, tentative letters.

He hadn’t been sure if it was any good. He rarely was. But Dae-ho had thought so. He’d looked at it like it meant something—like it was something. The first time Nam-gyu had shown it to him, almost embarrassed, Dae-ho had studied it quietly and then said, “This is good. Really good. You’re talented.” 

Nam-gyu had scoffed at him, muttered, “You’re just saying that because you’re soft,” but he couldn’t stop the small smile that cracked through. And after that, he kept going. He’d draw the café again, from different angles. Add tiny details. A crooked bookshelf. A chalkboard menu. A sleeping dog by the door.

“Right here,” Dae-ho had once said, pointing to a spot near the back wall, “that’s where I’ll keep the good coffee.”

Nam-gyu had laughed. “You’ll ruin my café with your taste in beans.”

My café. He’d said it like it was real.

It became a quiet ritual—those stolen moments with a pencil and paper. Like they were sketching out a world that didn’t hurt. Somewhere they could belong.

But now the drawing lay forgotten, half-torn, a dirty bootprint smeared across one corner. Nam-gyu hadn’t picked it up. He’d noticed it earlier, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t bring himself to. What was the point?

It didn’t matter anymore.

The café, the plans, the laughter—they all felt like someone else’s dream now. A fiction. The lie had touched everything, ruined everything. What had once made him feel warm now made him feel sick.

It was just a piece of paper. Useless. Ruined.

Just like the idea of them.

Mr. Baek, the older man who’d been locked up for decades, noticed the shift. He’d known Dae-ho before Nam-gyu came along—back when he barely spoke, barely existed. Yes, he was kind and calm, and everything but also he seemed to be depressed. He accepted his fate long time ago. Prison. But with Nam-gyu, he’d brightened, opened. Smiled. Even told stories, like a man remembering what it meant to live. Now that light was gone. Now, he was shrinking again, folding in on himself like something wounded. Mr. Baek tried to talk to Nam-gyu, but the young man—because that’s what he still was, in many ways—was all thorns and venom.

“You don’t get it,” Nam-gyu snapped one day. “He fucking lied.”

Mr. Baek didn’t argue. He just patted his shoulder and left him to sulk, the way a parent knows when their child needs to burn through the storm on their own.

“You’re mad. I get it,” the old man said gently. “But he’s not the same without you.”

Nam-gyu snorted. “Good. Let him suffer for once.”

“He’s suffered plenty,” Mr. Baek replied. “So have you. Doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it to yourselves.”

Nam-gyu didn’t answer. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to cry. Most of all, he didn’t want to care. But he did. And that pissed him off more than anything.

“You think people like Dae-ho get many chances to feel alive in a place like this?”

Nam-gyu rolled his eyes. “Spare me the wisdom, Grandpa.”

“He changed. You changed him.”

Nam-gyu looked away. “He should’ve told me. I’m not some stupid kid.”

“No,” Mr. Baek said. “You’re just young. That’s not the same thing.”

But Nam-gyu wasn’t ready to hear it. The betrayal curdled in him. It hurt so much. And in that bitterness, the cravings crept back.

The reason Nam-gyu acted the way he did was simple—he had no one.

There was never a father in the picture. His mother, a woman more skilled in cruelty than care, left him behind when he was a teenager, entering adulthood, saddled with two younger siblings who looked at him with the kind of trust that hurt. He tried. God, he tried. But he was just a kid himself, with no money, no help, no future. In the end, he brought them to an orphanage—a place he’d convinced himself would be better. Somewhere safe, where maybe someone would look after them the way he couldn’t.

They didn’t understand. Of course they didn’t. They looked at him like he’d betrayed them. And he never saw them again.

He told himself it was better that way. That they’d be better off without him. That they hated him anyway, so what was the point of reaching out? But that guilt sat in his gut like a stone, years after the fact. He carried it with him into every room, every silence, every sleepless night.

Friends? What friends. Nam-gyu hung out with whoever was around—usually people high enough not to notice how broken he really was. Maybe that’s why they liked him. Because when he was high, he was funny. Loud. Carefree. A good time. But the second the haze cleared, he became inconvenient again. Too much. Too sharp. Too real.

Even Thanos, the famous rapper he used to hang out with, only really wanted him around when Nam-gyu was flying high. They’d meet at parties, backstage, in clubs where the music drowned out the silence inside his chest. Thanos liked him when he was reckless. When he was wild. But sober? Sober, Nam-gyu was just another burden.

No one ever helped him unless they wanted something in return. A hit. A fuck. A favor. He started believing that was all he was good for. That maybe he deserved it.

And then came Dae-ho.

Dae-ho, with his steady hands and patient eyes. Dae-ho, who didn’t ask for anything. Who just showed up, again and again, without demanding a single piece of him. Who looked at Nam-gyu like he was worth saving.

For the first time in his life, Nam-gyu started to believe he could want something more. A future that didn’t terrify him. A life that didn’t chew him up. Dae-ho made him believe in peace—quiet mornings, soft touches, laughter that didn’t come from a high.

And now he’d taken it all away.

He lied. He destroyed everything.

Nam-gyu wasn’t just heartbroken. He was furious.

Furious at Dae-ho for not telling him the truth. Furious at himself for letting his guard down. Furious at the world for always playing this same sick joke on him—every time something good appeared, it rotted underneath.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to go back to not caring.

But he did care. And that was the worst part.

Because now, he had something to lose again. And he already had. It hurt.

So, like always when things hurt too much, Nam-gyu went back to what he knew: control through chaos. He relapsed.

Chapter Text

The cravings returned like old ghosts—familiar and cruel. They didn’t knock. They slipped in through the cracks in his mind, curled up in the corners of his skull, whispered sweet rot into his ears when the nights grew too long and the silence too loud. At first, he resisted. One day. Two. A week, maybe. He chewed the inside of his cheek until it bled. Picked at his skin until it scabbed. Curled up in the corner of his bunk and tried to draw, but even the pencil felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Then it was just a few days. Then hours.

Until finally, he gave in.

It started small—manageable, he told himself. Just one pill, pressed into his palm by a kid with twitchy hands and a nervous smile. He didn’t even ask what it was. He just swallowed it dry, stared at the ceiling, and waited for the ache to dull.

Then another. A second deal made in the corner of the laundry room with someone from Chuck’s crew—someone he swore he’d never talk to again. And another, with a guy he’d once insulted in the showers for smelling like a rat. None of that mattered now. Shame had no place here. Only need.

Names whispered in the dark. Debts tallied in flesh. He traded touches for tablets. Lips for lines. Backs of hands for the backs of stalls. He came back to his cell reeking of sweat and shame, eyes glassy and dull, every breath a quiet apology he never said out loud.

He tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t real. That it was just a transaction. Just survival.

He let someone kiss him—sloppy, searching. He let trembling fingers fumble at another man’s belt, the weight of every shameful second crushing him beneath the surface like hands pressing him underwater. He said the price out loud—two pills. Just two. Nothing more. And it was done.

When the drugs finally hit, it wasn’t relief—it was erasure. A cold, hollow comfort that numbed nothing but reminded him exactly how far he’d fallen. His stomach churned, but his body floated. Detached. Faded. He didn’t cry. He didn’t think he could anymore.

This lasted several days. Maybe weeks. Time blurred when everything felt like smoke. He floated through routines half-conscious, avoided contact with Dae-ho and the others. Even the old man stopped trying to greet him.

The bitchy mask came back hard, louder and meaner than ever. He snarled at guards with dead eyes and a crooked smirk. Laughed cruelly when one of the quiet inmates slipped on a wet patch in the cafeteria. Called the old man “mossy corpse” for forgetting his tray.

When Dae-ho passed by one afternoon with clean laundry folded over his arms, Nam-gyu didn’t even look up—just muttered “washed-up marine” under his breath with venom he barely felt.

And then, one night, he stumbled back into their cell.

The door creaked open slow, like even the act of entering cost him something. Nam-gyu stood in the frame, barely. His weight sagged against the wall, legs trembling under him. His movements were sluggish and jagged all at once, like a puppet with tangled strings. His eyes—wide, unfocused, pupils blown black—darted around without landing on anything. A grin was stretched across his flushed face, crooked and too big, like it had been carved there. His lips parted, dry and twitching, as if he were about to laugh, or cry, or vomit—but no sound came.

He reeked. Sweat. Chemicals. Smoke. Something sharp beneath it all—like fear. Or shame.

Dae-ho was already sitting on the lower bunk, back straight but still, a worn paperback forgotten in his lap. The moment the door opened, he knew.

He looked up. Their eyes met—barely.

“Nam-gyu…” he said quietly.

Nam-gyu didn’t seem to hear him. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He swayed into the room like he didn’t quite trust the floor. “S’all good,” he slurred, voice thick and loose. “I’m—look, I’m fun again, yeah? More like myself. Everyone said.”

Dae-ho didn’t move. His jaw tightened, his hands curled around the edges of the book.

“You’re high,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an accusation. Just a quiet, inevitable truth.

Nam-gyu let out a noise—meant to be a laugh, maybe. It cracked in his throat. “So what?” He waved a hand vaguely. “Tired of bein’ this hole. Tired of... me.”

“You don’t look like yourself,” Dae-ho said, voice low but firm. There was no judgment in it. Just hurt. Just heartbreak.

Nam-gyu’s smile twisted into something cruel and tired. “Maybe this is me,” he spat, though his words slurred and fumbled together. “Maybe I’ve always been like this. Broken. Dirty. Worthless.”

He tried to move past Dae-ho then, heading toward his bed, but his balance gave out halfway. He caught himself on the ladder with a harsh grunt, head lolling forward.

Dae-ho was up in a second, steadying him with one hand just lightly against his back. He didn’t want to scare him. Didn’t want to make him feel cornered. “Hey—hold on. You can take the bottom bunk tonight, okay? I’ll sleep up top.”

Nam-gyu didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. He gripped the ladder with clumsy, trembling fingers, jaw clenched. Then, slowly, stubbornly, he began to climb—his knees knocking into the rungs. It looked like agony.

“Nam-gyu,” Dae-ho tried again, quieter this time, “please. Just let me—”

But the boy kept going, silent, shaking, refusing the offer like it was a test of something he couldn't name. It took too long, but eventually, he made it to the top and collapsed face-first into the mattress with a strangled exhale. His legs dangled for a moment off the side before he pulled them up like a child curling into himself.

Dae-ho stood there beneath him, looking up at the faint outline of Nam-gyu’s back rising and falling in shallow, irregular breaths. He could hear him muttering something—just faint syllables, drug-slurred and desperate. Maybe names. Maybe apologies. Maybe nothing.

“I should’ve stopped it,” Dae-ho whispered, to no one. “I should’ve seen it sooner.”

Nam-gyu didn’t answer. Maybe he couldn’t. His arm flopped over his face again, body twitching slightly under the high. Whatever strength had gotten him up that ladder was gone now.

Dae-ho sat down on the lower bunk, slowly, like the weight of what just happened was pressing into his chest. He looked at the top bunk for a long time, guilt knotting in his stomach like rope pulled too tight.

“You’re not alone,” he said quietly, knowing Nam-gyu probably couldn’t hear him. “Even if you think you are. Even if you want to be.”

Silence.

But Dae-ho stayed awake the whole night, just in case Nam-gyu needed someone to catch him if he fell again.

The next night, it happened again.

Rougher this time.

And worse—because this time, it wasn’t just some desperate inmate looking to make a deal. It was a guard. One of the worst.

Everyone knew him. The kind of man who never missed a fight, never intervened. Who walked by bruised faces and broken teeth with a grin. He didn’t just tolerate the violence in the prison—he fed on it. Encouraged it with smirks and offhand comments. A man who laughed when blood hit the floor. Who got off on watching others fall apart.

Nam-gyu had always avoided his gaze. He knew what kind of attention that guard liked to give. The kind that came with a price.

But that night, it didn’t matter.

There were no games. No fake smiles. Just a grin that never reached his eyes and a nod toward the back corridor—a stretch of shadow behind the storage room where the lights were always dim and the cameras mysteriously “glitched.”

Nam-gyu hesitated. His whole body tensed, frozen like a rabbit in the crosshairs. But fear made his legs move. It always did.

The guard didn’t say a word.

Just shoved him into the wall with a hand clamped tight around the back of his neck. Nam-gyu’s cheek scraped against the concrete, his breath stolen by impact. He didn’t resist. What was the point?

There was no discussion. No pretending this was a trade. It was a power trip. An act of dominance. The price was three pills and silence. Nam-gyu never agreed to it—but that didn’t matter. His consent was never part of the deal.

The guard tore at his clothes like they were nothing—an obstacle in the way of cruelty. Hands rough, breath sour, eyes gleaming with something vile. Nam-gyu bit down on his tongue to keep from making a sound. He focused on the cracks in the wall. The flickering light. Anything but what was happening to him.

He told himself not to cry.

And he didn’t.

But afterward, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His knees barely held. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, swallowing bile and pride, but the shame stayed rooted in his chest like a stone.

And then—because the guard wasn’t done with him—he grabbed Nam-gyu’s face, fingers digging into his jaw until it hurt. Forced two pills into his mouth like he was feeding a stray dog.

“Swallow,” the guard said, voice sharp, cruelly amused.

Nam-gyu did.

He didn’t even think—his body just obeyed. The bitter taste slid down his throat like punishment. The pills burned going down, like they knew what they were buying.

The guard walked away after that, whistling to himself.

Nam-gyu stood frozen in that corridor for a long time, half-dressed, chest heaving, cold seeping through his sweat. He leaned his forehead against the wall and let the nausea roll over him. The pills would hit soon. They always did. And then… maybe the shaking would stop.

But not the rest of it.

Not the hollow.

Not the knowing.

Eventually, he dragged himself to the showers. The place was empty. Silent. Too clean.

He grabbed the cracked bar of soap and started scrubbing. First his hands. Then his arms. His chest. His face. Again and again until the skin turned red, then raw. Until it peeled. He clawed under his nails. Dug until they bled. Scrubbed until blood mixed with water and the drain gurgled beneath him.

Then he collapsed against the tile wall. Sat beneath the freezing spray of water, head bowed, lips moving like a broken prayer.

“It doesn’t count,” he whispered.
“It doesn’t count.”
“It doesn’t touch who I really am.”

But it did.

It did, and he knew it.

Even with the drugs softening the edges. Even with the fog curling around his thoughts like a shield. It had touched something deep inside. Left bruises that couldn’t be seen. Wounds that couldn’t be scrubbed clean.

He’d go back to the cell and pretend again. Smile too wide. Make a joke too sharp. Push Dae-ho away before Dae-ho could look too closely. He’d keep the mask on.

But underneath it, something had cracked.

And still—he didn’t stop.

Because stopping meant remembering.

And remembering meant drowning.

Another time, Dae-ho found him collapsed on the cold tile floor of the showers.

Nam-gyu’s body curled in on itself, trembling, a mess of blood and water and raw, flayed skin. Deep scratches ran across his arms, chest, and thighs—some shallow, others torn open in desperate, frantic fury. His fingernails were cracked and bloody, his knuckles scraped from pounding tile. His lips moved, but no words came. Just broken exhales—shallow, panicked. His breath caught like something stuck in his throat.

He hadn’t even heard Dae-ho come in.

Dae-ho froze in the doorway for a moment, heart sinking at the sight. Then he stepped quietly into the small space, the soles of his shoes soaking through instantly. He moved slow, deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal too frightened to recognize kindness.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t scold or ask what happened.

He just sat down beside him, legs folding awkwardly onto the freezing wet floor, knees brushing Nam-gyu’s side. The chill bit into his skin through his thin clothes, but he barely noticed. His eyes were only on Nam-gyu—his ruined hands, his trembling shoulders, the blood swirling in the drain like dirty ink.

He reached out, gently, and laid a hand on his back.

Nam-gyu flinched like he’d been struck.

“Don’t,” he rasped, voice shredded and hoarse. He didn’t look up. “Don’t pretend you care.”

“I’m not pretending,” Dae-ho said quietly.

Nam-gyu gave a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh—more like a sob disguised in bitterness. He forced his head up, just enough to meet Dae-ho’s eyes. His own were swollen, red-rimmed, hollow.

“I let them,” he said, voice cracking. “I let them. For pills. For nothing.”

“I know,” Dae-ho said. His voice didn’t tremble. It didn’t falter. It held firm—anchored in something real.

Nam-gyu tried to turn away again, but his arms were too weak. His whole body sagged, like he couldn’t hold it up anymore. “I’m disgusting,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m a fucking joke. Everyone knows. Everyone looks at me and they know what I am.”

“No,” Dae-ho said. Not sharp, but firm. “You’re hurting. You’re not disgusting. You’re hurting.”

Nam-gyu pressed his face against his arms, trying to disappear. But his body wouldn’t stop shaking. Shame crawled under his skin like a living thing. His voice was nearly a whimper now. “You should hate me.”

Dae-ho moved closer. Carefully. As if every motion could shatter something fragile. His hand slid along Nam-gyu’s spine, slow and steady, brushing over blood and bruises and raised welts. “I don’t,” he whispered. “I could never. It’s my fault.”

That made Nam-gyu flinch again—like the words burned.

He turned his face, eyes barely open, barely seeing. “What?”

“I should’ve told you the truth,” Dae-ho said. “I should’ve told you that I'm not getting out. That I have a life sentence.”

Nam-gyu’s mouth opened, then closed, then words caught in his throat.

“I lied,” Dae-ho said, voice breaking. “I lied because I wanted you to have hope. I wanted you to believe we could start over. That there was a future. A peaceful life waiting for us. I thought if I told you the truth, you’d lose that hope, and maybe give up. I was wrong.”

Dae-ho’s voice dropped, heavy with shame. “And because of that lie, I crushed the dreams you built in your head. I didn’t mean to—never meant to—but I did. And I hate myself for it.”

Nam-gyu blinked, stunned and small and still trembling.

“I saw you slipping,” Dae-ho continued, breath hitching. “Every night you came back more hollow, more hurt, and I just watched. Because I thought that hope would keep you alive. And now I don’t know what to do.”

Nam-gyu’s body buckled inward again, curling tighter, tighter, until he couldn’t hold himself up anymore—and finally, he collapsed into Dae-ho’s arms.

Dae-ho wrapped both arms around him, holding him tight, holding him still through the shaking. He rested his chin against the top of Nam-gyu’s head, breathing slow, steady, grounding him.

Nam-gyu didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

He just cried—soundless, body-wrecking sobs that soaked into Dae-ho’s shirt and skin and soul.

And Dae-ho didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just held on.

Held all of it.

Later, when the worst of the storm had passed, Nam-gyu stayed curled against him, skin raw, limbs trembling. But the sobs had faded to silence, and his breathing had steadied.

Still, the shame didn’t loosen its grip. It sat heavy in his chest, a weight he couldn’t shake. Every filthy choice he’d made played on a loop in his head—every bargain, every lie, every time he’d given himself away just to numb the screaming inside. The voices, the laughter, the names—whore, junkie, freak—rattled like coins in a tin cup, echoing even when no one was speaking.

He felt less than nothing.

Felt like a shell of a boy who’d once laughed too loud, danced too freely, kissed strangers in neon light and believed he’d be okay.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Nam-gyu whispered. The words were so soft Dae-ho almost didn’t catch them. “I don’t know who I am without it.”

“You’re someone who’s still here,” Dae-ho said softly. “That counts. That means something.”

Nam-gyu didn’t believe him. Not yet.

But he didn’t pull away.

And Dae-ho stayed with him through the night—sat on the cold tile, arms never leaving, his body a shield against the darkness clawing at the edges.

When the cravings twisted inside Nam-gyu again, Dae-ho held him tighter. When his fingers twitched for pills, Dae-ho gently laced their hands together and said, again and again, “You’re not alone. You’re not disgusting. You’re still here.”

Chapter Text

A few days later, in the canteen, the harsh fluorescent lights highlighted every bruise, every trembling hand. Nam-gyu sat rigid, trying to eat, but the room was a battlefield of mocking eyes and cruel smiles. Every nerve in his body screamed with tension, but he forced himself to keep still, to swallow down the urge to run or lash out. Around him, the atmosphere was thick with low, cruel murmurs—words sharp enough to cut through steel.

“Look who’s back,” hissed one inmate, loud enough for the circle around Nam-gyu to catch. “The little slut who sells his body for pills. What’s it like, huh? Getting passed around like a cheap toy?”

Another laughed, louder and nastier. “Hey, Nam-gyu! Bet you’re tasting every dick in here just to score your next fix.”

Laughter bubbled up, and a third joined in, mocking his every move. “I’d almost feel sorry if you weren’t such a disgusting joke. How much did it cost this time? Two pills? Five? Hell, probably less.”

Nam-gyu’s fingers clenched into fists under the table. His jaw was tight, grinding hard to hold back the scream that threatened to tear free. The last thing he wanted was to cry—he would rather fight, punch, anything than let the shame break him down into tears. He could feel the burn of humiliation creeping in, but he swallowed it hard, burying it deep beneath a veil of cold, biting rage.

He hated what he’d done. Every filthy, desperate moment. Every time he’d let himself be used, sold, lost to the drug that promised relief but gave only emptiness. And now, this—the mockery, the scorn—was a punishment worse than any bruise. Everyone knew what he was, and there was no escaping the label branded onto him like a scarlet letter.

Then Dae-ho stood up. His movements were calm, deliberate, like a silent storm gathering strength. He walked over, his shadow falling across the circle like a wall of steel.

“Enough,” Dae-ho said quietly, but his voice cut through the room like a blade. “Back the hell off.”

The laughter died abruptly. The inmates glanced at each other, suddenly aware of the steady, unyielding presence blocking their way.

“You want to throw stones? Throw them at me,” Dae-ho said, his eyes cold and unblinking. “Leave him alone.”

Slowly, grudgingly, the circle broke apart, the men melting back into the background with muttered curses.

Dae-ho sat down next to Nam-gyu, his hand dropping firmly onto Nam-gyu’s shoulder, steady and reassuring. Nam-gyu flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Don’t listen to them,” Dae-ho murmured. “They don’t get it. You’re stronger than they’ll ever know.”

Nam-gyu swallowed thickly, fighting the lump rising in his throat. “They see me as nothing… like I’m trash.”

“No,” Dae-ho said softly, his voice steady like a rock. “They see what they want to see. But I see you.”

Before Nam-gyu could answer, the old man—Mr. Baek—came over, his slow footsteps echoing softly in the room. His lined face held a mixture of kindness and knowing.

He sat down beside Nam-gyu, careful not to crowd him but close enough to offer quiet support. “Listen to me,” Mr. Baek said firmly. “They can say what they want, but it doesn’t define you. None of it.”

Nam-gyu looked up at him, eyes burning with a fierce pride that refused to break. “I was mean.”

Mr. Baek shook his head gently. “We all stumble, Nam-gyu. We all make mistakes. What matters is that you’re trying. That you’re still here, still fighting. I forgive your disrespect, because I see the man behind it—the one who’s hurting, but who hasn’t given up.”

Nam-gyu’s breath hitched, but the tears never came. Instead, a cold resolve settled over him. The shame, the guilt—they still gnawed at his insides, but the warmth from Dae-ho’s hand and Mr. Baek’s words gave him something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

Dae-ho squeezed his shoulder gently. “You’re not alone. Not now, not ever.”

Nam-gyu’s eyes met Dae-ho’s, the weight of unspoken apologies and fragile trust hanging in the air between them. And for the first time since the darkness took hold, he let himself believe he could fight his way back.

Ji-won appeared, threading his way through the scattered prisoners, his sharp eyes locking onto Nam-gyu immediately. Without hesitation, he dropped down beside him at the table, folding his arms with a half-smile that was part frustration, part genuine care.

“You’re a stupid brat,” Ji-won said bluntly, shaking his head. “But hell, we all make mistakes. Even you.”

Nam-gyu glanced up, a flicker of reluctant amusement cracking the tight walls around him. For a moment, they shared a brief, rough laugh — a rare, human moment in a place built to break men.

Ji-won’s gaze softened just a little. “You don’t have to fall apart. You just gotta want it bad enough.”

Later, as the four of them—Dae-ho, Mr. Baek, Ji-won, and Nam-gyu—walked together in the prison yard, the dense, toxic atmosphere pressed down on them like a storm. The yard was a patchwork of cracked concrete and rusted fences, filled with restless prisoners trying to escape boredom and despair in their own ways. The air buzzed with tension—shouts, occasional fights, and the ever-present undercurrent of fear and suspicion.

As the four of them made their way across the cracked, dusty prison yard, their footsteps echoing off the high concrete walls, a harsh conversation drifted over from a cluster of inmates gathered near the fence. The voices were low but urgent, carrying the weight of frustration and fear.

“They don’t give a damn if we snap or die in here,” one man was saying, voice rough like gravel. “The guards? They let the worst happen. Fights, contraband, abuse — it’s all part of their game to keep us scared, divided, and quiet.”

Another inmate spat on the ground. “We’re just pawns. They turn a blind eye, take bribes, maybe even worse. Nobody’s safe — especially not the weak.”

The air grew heavier with each word, thick with a bitterness that clawed at their skin. Mr. Baek, walking with his usual slow but steady gait, shook his head, his lined face somber beneath graying hair. “They’re not wrong,” he said quietly. “The guards don’t just stand back. Some of them make sure the chaos keeps going, and some even profit off it. Contraband, favors, threats — it’s all tangled.”

Ji-won glanced sideways at Nam-gyu, whose jaw clenched tight, eyes fixed ahead but clearly troubled. “You mentioned the pills earlier,” Ji-won said, voice low. “Tell me again — who gave that to you?”

Nam-gyu’s breath caught for a moment, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I had to do things. Things I hate,” he muttered, voice rough. “One of the guards... The ugly one. I sold myself for the pills. That’s how I got them.”

The words hung between them, sharp and raw. Dae-ho’s eyes darkened, the usual calm replaced by a hard edge. “So it’s not just neglect or incompetence. The guards aren’t just watching — some are actively involved. Smuggling drugs, exploiting prisoners. It’s a system built to keep us trapped, in every sense.”

Ji-won nodded slowly, the hint of a grim smile tugging at his lips. “They use us. They make us fight for scraps, but the real power games happen behind the scenes. We’re just pieces on their board — or worse, tools.”

The group’s pace slowed, the weight of reality settling over them like a suffocating fog. Around them, the yard buzzed with tension — whispered threats, furtive glances, the occasional bark of a guard’s command slicing through the noise. Prison life wasn’t just about serving time; it was about navigating a maze of cruelty and survival where trust was a rare currency.

Nam-gyu’s eyes flicked to the cracked ground. “I’m trying to stay clean,” he admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “But every day is a fight. The cravings never stop.”

Mr. Baek placed a firm hand on Nam-gyu’s shoulder, a rare gesture of solidarity. “You’re stronger than you think, kid. This place breaks a lot of people, but it won’t break you — not if you don’t let it.”

Dae-ho slowed to match Nam-gyu’s uneven pace, offering silent support. Ji-won cracked a rare smile, the tension easing just a bit. “Yeah, stupid brat,” he said with a chuckle, “but even stupid brats can get through hell if they stick together.”

They all laughed — a brief, fragile sound — before falling into a comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts but linked by the unspoken promise to keep fighting, no matter how dark the days became.

Another day, Nam-gyu showed up for work with a different attitude. He felt like he was getting better. He was slowly getting used to the place. The other prisoners didn't bother him as much. He didn't feel the same craving for drugs anymore. He focused on the task in front of him, trying to steady his breath as he folded the stiff, overwashed prison uniforms into neat, identical stacks. The laundry room was damp and suffocating, heat pressing down from overhead vents and rising from the machines like the air itself had weight. The scent of detergent mixed with human sweat clung to his skin and clothes, acrid and constant, but he didn’t mind. It grounded him. The repetition—fold, crease, stack, repeat—was a kind of anchor. A ritual. Something clean. Something predictable.

He kept his head down, fingers moving in mechanical rhythm. He counted under his breath like a prayer.
“One. Two. Smooth. Fold.”
Again.
“One. Two. Smooth. Fold.”
The whir of the industrial washers, the slap of wet cloth against metal, the rhythmic thud of tumbling fabric—these were safe sounds. Familiar. They gave him the illusion of control in a place built to take that away.

Then came the footsteps.
He heard them before he saw them.
Three pairs, heavy and careless. The sound of smugness in every step. Laughter followed—too loud, too sharp, too cruel to be real. It echoed off the tile like the echo of something rotten. Nam-gyu’s stomach clenched.

He didn’t need to look.
He already knew who it was.

They walked in like they always did—like predators strolling into a pen already stocked with prey. The tall one with the broken tooth, always talking like he thought he was clever. The squat one with the greasy hair, the kind who liked to laugh even when nothing was funny. And the third—the mean one. The one with the quiet eyes and the loud fists. They were a pack. They fed off each other’s noise.

Nam-gyu didn’t flinch. Didn’t look. Just kept folding.

“Hey, pretty boy,” one of them sneered, voice laced with poison. “You fold clothes as good as you spread your legs?”

A chorus of laughter followed. Another voice joined in—lower, heavier, slick with contempt.
“Heard you’ll do anything for a pill. What’s it now, huh? Two folds and a blowjob?”

Still, Nam-gyu said nothing. His hands didn’t pause. His jaw tightened, tendons straining, but he stayed silent.
Silence was armor.
Silence was dignity in a place designed to strip him of both.

They moved closer. He could feel their presence now—shadows stretching across the folding table, soaking the light from above. He could smell them: sweat, stale breath, the faint chemical tang of prison soap.

The last one leaned in, voice nearly a whisper, but no less venomous.
“You know, I got something better than a pill. Real nice payment. All you gotta do is open up and say please.”

That’s when Nam-gyu’s eyes lifted, despite himself.

He didn’t want to. But he did. Just for a second.

And there he was.

The guard.

Not the young one—not the one who sometimes looked away out of guilt. No. This one was worse. Colder. Meaner in that special kind of way only people in power could be. This guard had watched kids get cornered, mocked, beaten, broken. Had leaned against the wall while it happened—arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, like it was all beneath him. Sometimes he smirked. Other times he walked away. He always came back.

He’d watched Nam-gyu, too. Closely. Too closely.

He was the one who dragged him to a place forgotten by everyone. Out of sight. Out of reach. The hall was empty, just the low buzz of flickering lights and the distant clatter of a mop bucket left behind. Nam-gyu remembered the smell of bleach, the press of tile against his back, the way the man’s hand closed around his wrist like iron. He used him without his consent and then, as if as a "reward," he forced pills into his mouth, only deepening his addiction. That fucker knew full well about his addiction. And he was fucking laughing at it. What is more, afterward, the guard smiled like he expected gratitude. Like he’d done Nam-gyu a favor. In Nam-gyu's eyes, he was trash.

He thought that the pills were just to shut him up.

And Nam-gyu regretted that he didn’t spit them out.

But it worked. He didn’t talk about it. Not right away. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he knew what would happen if he did. The bruises faded, but the rot stayed. He finally had to let go of this feeling and confess to Dae-ho and the others what had happened. Ji-won had provided the perfect opportunity, and he had taken advantage of it.

Not everything. Not directly. Just enough.

Just enough to feel like he wasn’t alone inside his skin. He didn’t realize the quiet young guard was nearby. The twitchy one who lingered just long enough to hear. Who always kept his mouth shut but moved like someone with too many secrets in his pocket.

By morning, the rumors had spread like oil on water.

The guard—the one who had hurt him—never said a word. Not to Nam-gyu. Not to anyone.

He didn’t need to.

He just watched. Like always. Arms folded. Chin lifted slightly, like it was all beneath him. Like none of it mattered.

But it did. Because now, Nam-gyu had told.

And the guard hated him for that.

Hated the way he still held his head up, even when he flinched. Hated the way he still spoke like he mattered. Hated his delicate, young face. Hated his manners. Hated everything about him.

But he couldn’t lay hands on him again. Not without risk. The whispers were already out. His job might be on the line. Of course, he knew how this place worked. Knew that once the rumor spread, the system would handle it for him. But still, he couldn’t risk his career.

So he stepped back.

Let the others do the damage for him.

They would punish Nam-gyu for talking. For surviving. For not staying quiet. For being alive.

He didn’t need to lift a finger.

He just had to be still.

Nam-gyu’s punishment didn’t come from the system. It came from the people inside it.

He was there, standing in the doorway, arms crossed like he had every right to be entertained. Like he’d bought front row seats to a show he’d helped direct.

Nam-gyu’s gaze met his. Locked. A dare, or maybe a plea, or an anger. Hard to tell anymore.

The guard didn’t react—not right away.

Then, he turned. Slow. Deliberate.

And just before he disappeared around the corner, Nam-gyu saw it.

That twitch of his lips.

A grin. Small. Crooked. Almost lazy. Approval.

He wanted this to happen.
He wanted them to break Nam-gyu down, piece by piece. Not with only fists or weapons—but with humiliation. With fear. With silence. He wanted to see the fight bleed out of him, until he was nothing but another ghost in gray.

And something in Nam-gyu cracked.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

It cracked like ice under pressure—quiet but devastating. Something deep and old and volcanic inside him stirred.

Suddenly, a hand reached out, fingers tangling in Nam-gyu’s hair, tugging playfully, mockingly.

That was it.

Nam-gyu spun around, fury exploding in his chest. “Shibal! Don’t fucking touch me!” he roared.

He punched the man square in the face. No hesitation. Just rage.

He felt the crunch of bone under his knuckles. The hot spray of blood. It spilled down the man's chin, fast and bright.

There was a beat of silence. The others stared, stunned.

Nam-gyu squared up, breath ragged, fists clenched, eyes wild. His whole body trembled, but he stood his ground. He wasn’t some shaking little ghost in the dark anymore. Not in this moment.

“You want to try me?” he snarled.

But they didn’t come.

The bleeding one cursed, stumbling back, clutching his face. Another muttered something, but none of them moved closer. They lost interest, slinking away like jackals denied a meal.

Nam-gyu stood there, chest heaving, heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. His knuckles throbbed—one had split—but he didn’t care.

He felt strong.

Stronger than he had in days.

Because even though his skin itched with need, even though his veins screamed for the dull, warm fog of a pill—he didn’t take it. He didn’t beg. He didn’t sell himself.

He wasn’t clean. Not yet. But he fought. And he was still standing.

He returned to the table slowly, breathing hard. The uniforms he’d been folding were crumpled on the floor now. He bent down, picked one up with shaking hands, and began again.

One fold. Two. Smooth the creases.

He didn't think about the situation anymore after that. He was proud of himself, but not proud enough to brag about it. He didn't want to bother anyone with it. He was strong. He could handle it. He spent the rest of the day in the company of three people who, as usual, didn't give him space. It didn't bother him, not anymore. It was a strange kind of comfort that he didn't object to. And so until the evening, when darkness tore through the corridors.

The cell was cloaked in the stillness of midnight. The harsh fluorescent light from the corridor flickered faintly through the barred window, casting pale stripes across the cracked walls. Nam-gyu lay on the top bunk, restless, his mind tangled with shame and longing. The cold pressed against his skin, but it was the weight inside his chest that made it hard to breathe.

He shifted, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. For a moment, he wondered if maybe tonight could be different — if he could reach out to Dae-ho, touch something real again after the chaos inside him. Carefully, he slid down from the bunk and moved to the lower bed, where Dae-ho was sitting quietly, reading a battered book.

Tentatively, Nam-gyu’s hand brushed Dae-ho’s arm. “Can we…?” His voice faltered, barely a whisper. The words hung in the cold air, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Dae-ho looked up, the warmth in his eyes dimmed by a shadow of pain. He didn’t pull away but shook his head softly, voice low and calm. “Not like that. Not now.”

Nam-gyu’s chest tightened, his breath catching. “Is it because… because of what I did?” His voice cracked. “With… other men?”

Dae-ho’s jaw clenched briefly, but he forced himself to meet Nam-gyu’s gaze with steady honesty. “It’s not that I don’t care,” he said quietly. “But it’s the first time you’ve come close to me like this… and I’m upset. Not because of what you did before, but because I want this to be different — to be real between us.”

Nam-gyu swallowed the lump in his throat, blinking hard to hold back emotions he couldn’t let show. The shame, the fear, the ache of feeling broken — it all pressed on him.

Dae-ho shifted closer, wrapping an arm around Nam-gyu’s shoulders in a careful, protective way. “But I want to be close to you. I want to hold you, just… cuddle. We can do that instead, it it’s okay with you. No pressure. No expectations.”

Nam-gyu hesitated, then slowly leaned into the touch, the warmth grounding him amid the storm inside. “Okay,” he whispered, voice barely steady. “I’m okay with that.”

Dae-ho stayed behind Nam-gyu with gentle fingers threading through the strands of his hair with a patience that made Nam-gyu's shoulders slowly relax. The fluorescent lights above cast a soft glow on the dark waves that slipped between Dae-ho’s fingers. “Your hair’s pretty,” Dae-ho murmured, brushing a lock behind Nam-gyu’s ear. “Soft, too. Softer than mine.” His own hair had grown a bit longer than usual, falling just past his ears, but it lacked the thickness and deep color that Nam-gyu’s held. Nam-gyu huffed, staring at the floor. “Maybe I should cut it. Then maybe the assholes around here will stop calling me names.” Dae-ho frowned at that, his hand pausing. “Don’t,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. “Your hair suits you. Let them say what they want. It doesn’t change the fact that you look good with it.” There was a rare softness in his voice, the kind that tugged at something fragile inside Nam-gyu—something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.

They sat like that, two fractured souls pressed together in the harsh light of their cell, the silence between them softening into something like peace. Outside, the world continued its brutal rhythm, but here — in this small, fragile moment — there was a quiet hope that maybe, with time, healing could begin.

Chapter Text

The day began the same as always — gray, loud, and too early.

Metal doors clanged open down the row, each one slamming against concrete like punctuation in a language spoken only by those who had no choice but to listen. Guards barked orders like a drill team on autopilot, their voices sharp and practiced, echoing through the long, echo-chambered corridors.

The air in the cellblock was already stale—sour with sweat, overcooked steam, and the ever-present sting of disinfectant that never quite killed the rot. Nam-gyu blinked into consciousness, lids heavy with sleep, breath catching in his throat. He groaned quietly, one hand reaching up to push through his tangled hair. His face was still soft with sleep, lips dry, eyes rimmed with the residue of a night too restless to offer real rest.

He rolled over—not to face the wall like most did, hiding from another hopeless morning—but to face Dae-ho. He was already half-dressed, pulling his faded uniform shirt down over tired, broad shoulders, his expression as unreadable as always.

“Mornin’, princess,” came the gravelly murmur. Dae-ho’s voice was low, rough from disuse, but not unkind.

Nam-gyu tried to answer, but his voice came out as little more than a raspy exhale.

“Up.” The word was clipped, followed by the thud of fabric landing beside him. Dae-ho had tossed Nam-gyu’s blouse onto the bunk. “You’ve got five minutes to look less dead.”

Nam-gyu blinked at it, then at Dae-ho, and huffed something that could’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. He sat up slowly, the stiffness in his body a reminder that mattresses here were more idea than reality.

Outside the cell, the day ground forward like a rusted machine.

Under the cold flicker of fluorescent lights, the inmates were herded into lines like livestock, guards pacing with batons clutched loosely in gloved hands. Nam-gyu and Dae-ho moved through the routine like muscle memory, faces neutral, movements careful but practiced.

Breakfast was the same as always—dry toast that scraped the roof of your mouth, and a pale, watery scoop of something that only vaguely resembled eggs. The canteen buzzed with low voices, that specific kind of background hum that came from too many people trying not to be heard, but needing to speak anyway.

Nam-gyu sat beside Dae-ho, picking at the toast with thin fingers. His expression was distant, eyes scanning the room with quiet calculation.

Around them, the tension simmered just under the surface. Conversations curled through the air like cigarette smoke.

“Third time this week,” someone grumbled behind them. “Sewage backed up again. Whole block smells like piss.”

“Guards don’t give a shit,” came another voice. “Not unless someone dies and even then, only if it happens during inspection.”

“You hear they cut hot water again?” someone near the wall added, bitter.

“My back’s peeling like a snake.”

“That new guard? The twitchy one. Keeps shaking down bunks for bribes now. Doesn’t even bother hiding it.”

“Better him than the ones asking for other favors…”

Nam-gyu stilled.

The words hit too close. Too precise. His hand froze around his plastic fork, the toast untouched on his tray. His eyes flicked up, just for a second, gaze skimming the room before dropping back down.

Dae-ho noticed.

He didn’t say anything —but he shifted his chair subtly closer, the side of his knee brushing Nam-gyu’s beneath the table. A quiet gesture. A line of defense drawn in silence.

Later, in the yard, the sky stretched above them like dull metal. The sun hung there, white and cold, giving light but no warmth. The wind carried grit and the scent of smoke from somewhere far enough away to pretend it didn’t matter. Chain-link fences rattled in the breeze. No one looked up anymore.

Nam-gyu and Dae-ho walked slow, lazy laps along the outer edge of the yard, avoiding the clumps of men playing cards or arguing in hushed tones. Their rhythm was casual, but their eyes were sharp.

The guards leaned against the fence line, chatting idly, sometimes laughing with the inmates who had things to trade—cigarettes, painkillers, other less mentionable currencies. Everything here had a price.

“Kitchen’s a mess,” someone muttered as they passed. “They’re letting shit rot. You’ll see—someone’s gonna drop from food poisoning next.”

“You hear what happened to the guy in Block B?”

“Yeah. That shit with the meds. They gave him the wrong stuff—again.”

Nam-gyu kept walking, but Dae-ho could see the slight tightness in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed every few steps.

“Another day in paradise,” Nam-gyu muttered under his breath, too low for anyone but Dae-ho to hear.

They made their way to a quieter corner of the yard. Here, the sounds of the crowd dulled, and the looming concrete walls offered a fragile illusion of privacy. It was here, in these moments, that survival became bearable—not because the world had softened, but because they had found something human inside it.

They never spoke about hope. Not really. Hope was a dangerous thing in places like this.

But they had each other. That meant something.

They didn’t feel the desperation they once had, that clawing panic of realizing they were caged. That had dulled over time, worn down like bone on stone. What remained was simpler. They lived for small moments—stolen mornings, quiet evenings, a brush of fingers as they passed things back and forth under the table.

They spent the rest of the day scattered in their assigned duties—Nam-gyu hunched over sweat-soaked linens in the laundry room, hands red from detergent and hot water, while Dae-ho, temporarily reassigned to the electrician’s department, trailed behind an older inmate who walked him through the basics. He wasn’t trained for this kind of work, but Dae-ho was a fast learner. In places like this, you had to be.

Time passed slowly, as it always did inside, but eventually the late afternoon light filtered through barred windows, the shadows stretching long across concrete floors. With a sliver of free time before lockdown, they found their way to the corner of the common room where Mr. Baek and Ji-won were already shuffling a worn-out deck of cards, the corners bent and edges soft from overuse.

“Come on, sit,” Mr. Baek said, motioning them over with a crooked finger and a tired smile.

Nam-gyu flopped down without hesitation, stretching out his legs and tossing a sarcastic glance at the others. “Cards, huh? What are we, retirees on a cruise?”

“You’ll like it,” Ji-won grinned, dealing the cards. “It’s easy.”

It wasn’t. Within ten minutes, Nam-gyu was glaring at the hand of mismatched suits and numbers like it had personally insulted him.

“I don’t get this,” he muttered. “What’s with the queen beating everything unless it’s a—what, a seven of hearts played by someone standing on one foot?”

Everyone laughed. Dae-ho leaned closer, voice low and patient as he walked him through the rules. Nam-gyu groaned dramatically, flopping sideways on the bench, one arm draped over his eyes.

“This is a game for old geezers,” he declared loudly, just as Mr. Baek was trying to count out his points.

“I’m not that much older than you,” Dae-ho deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.

Nam-gyu peeked out from under his arm. “You give off ancient vibes.”

That earned another round of laughter—real and easy. No one was offended. In here, small moments like that were gold. They ignored the heaviness of the place: the distant shouting, the flickering lights, the way time felt like it folded in on itself. In that moment, they weren’t prisoners. They were people.

Dae-ho found himself watching Nam-gyu more than the cards. He noticed the way the younger man smiled more these days, how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed—no longer guarded, no longer bitter, just real. And Dae-ho loved that smile. He loved how it cracked through the hard shell Nam-gyu carried like armor. He loved the way he laughed without restraint, like he forgot—if only briefly—where they were.

God, how he loved that laugh.

When the final call came for evening lockdown, the group dispersed with quiet groans and drawn-out sighs, reluctant to let go of the lightness. Dae-ho and Nam-gyu walked side by side back to their cell, shoulders brushing now and then, their steps in sync.

The cell door clanged shut behind them. The world outside was all concrete and iron again, but Dae-ho didn’t mind anymore. He was grateful—deeply, silently—that they shared this space. That they had each other.

Nam-gyu tossed himself onto his bunk, stretching out with a satisfied hum like a cat in a sunbeam. Dae-ho watched him for a second before sitting down on the uncomfortable chair across, heart light in his chest.

It didn’t descend like it did in the outside world—there was no sunset painting the sky, no gentle fading of light. Just the steady hum of fluorescent bulbs dimming in their old sockets, one flickering out after another until only the corridor’s weary orange glow seeped through the bars. Evening in confinement wasn’t marked by stars or silence, but by the metallic grind of routine: final counts, steel doors slamming shut, and the occasional muffled curse traveling down the row. The world beyond those walls had forgotten them. And maybe they were starting to forget it, too.

Inside their cell, the heat clung to every surface. It was an awfull warmth made heavier by breath and still air, trapped between peeling concrete and rusted vents. Of course, they didn’t work properly. The scent was a familiar one—sweat, dust, disinfectant, and the faint undertone of skin too long without sunlight.

Nam-gyu lay sprawled across his bunk, one leg bent, one arm tucked beneath his head. He stared up at the ceiling, studying its jagged lines like they held secrets. The cracks had become constellations to him, a map only he could read, traced in the same idle way his thoughts wandered. His shirt clung to him, damp at the chest and back, hair curling slightly at his temples with the heat.

The silence between him and Dae-ho had lasted long enough to be comfortable.

“You ever think about getting out?” Nam-gyu asked suddenly, as if the words had slipped out by accident. His voice was low, rough-edged from the long day, but his tone carried a strange gentleness. Like he hadn’t just cracked open a quiet truth.

Across from him, Dae-ho was still on the hard-backed chair, elbows on his knees, eyes down. He didn’t look up immediately. “Not really,” he said after a beat. It wasn’t defensive. Just real. “Thinking about it doesn’t change anything.”

Nam-gyu hummed softly. “I bet you’ll walk someday. You’re one of the good ones. You’ve still got something in your eyes—something that says you don’t belong here.”

Dae-ho met his gaze, unreadable. “Doesn’t matter what my eyes say. System doesn’t care.”

The younger man let out a breath, soft and humorless. “Well... I’ve got maybe a year left. Feels short on paper. But in here?” He swallowed. “Feels like a fucking lifetime.”

“You’ll get through it,” Dae-ho said, the words quiet but firm.

Nam-gyu shifted, turning his head to face him fully. There was no grin now, none of his usual sharpness. Just an open look, more boy than man. “You know what? I don’t really think about the future anymore,” he murmured, voice just a thread. “Because I’m with you. And right now... that’s enough.”

Dae-ho inhaled, slowly. His eyes lifted, locking on Nam-gyu’s. He studied him—every flicker of vulnerability, every breath that threatened to shake. And something in him stirred. A feeling he hadn’t let himself hold too long, too clearly. But it was there now, undeniable.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

And then—something shifted in the air.

Their eyes locked, and in the silence that followed, both of them saw something in the other. Something fragile. Something true. Neither of them said it aloud, but it was there—unspoken, shimmering faintly like heat on asphalt.

Dae-ho stood, slowly.

He stepped closer to the bunk, eyes never leaving Nam-gyu’s. Then he lifted a hand—not to touch, not yet—but to offer. Just a silent gesture. An invitation.

Nam-gyu hesitated only for a second. Then he reached down, took Dae-ho’s hand, and let himself be pulled from the top bunk. His bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and for a moment, they stood close—closer than they’d ever let themselves be outside their cell.

Dae-ho guided him to his own lower bunk. It wasn’t romantic. It was quiet. Intentional. A wordless decision to let the rest of the world, the rest of the night, wait.

As Nam-gyu sat, Dae-ho hovered beside him. Eyes searching, hand reaching up—fingertips brushing along his jaw with aching tenderness.

“Do you still want me?” he asked softly, the words hanging between them like a final out.

Nam-gyu didn’t answer. Not with words.

He pulled Dae-ho down.

The kiss started rough, all breath and urgency, their bodies colliding with something just short of desperation. But then it slowed, softened, turned into something deeper—more like a promise than a question. Nam-gyu let his hands rest on Dae-ho’s chest, fingertips pressed into the fabric like he needed to hold on to something real. Something solid.

Dae-ho kissed him like he mattered. Like every second between them had meaning.

Nam-gyu’s hands moved lower, fisting in the hem of Dae-ho’s shirt. He tugged, a silent request, and Dae-ho broke the kiss just long enough to help him pull it over his head. Nam-gyu followed, stripping off his own shirt with shaky fingers. Their hands bumped, fumbled—awkward in a way that made it more real. Dae-ho’s gaze lingered, eyes moving over Nam-gyu’s ribs, the faded bruises, the thin lines of old needle scars.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t flinch. But Nam-gyu did.

Dae-ho's palm brushed over Nam-gyu’s side with something close to reverence. "You cold?" he asked softly.

Nam-gyu gave a short eye-roll, breathless. “Do I look cold?”

Pants followed, slow and deliberate, movements reverent rather than rushed. Dae-ho took his time, touching him like something precious, not like a secret or a sin. When Nam-gyu flinched a little at the waistband, Dae-ho hesitated.

“You okay? Does it hurt?”

Nam-gyu huffed, impatient. “God, you’re worse than a nurse.”

But even as the words left his mouth, his chest ached with something unfamiliar. No one had ever asked before. No one had cared enough to pause. And maybe that’s why he was so frustrated—because Dae-ho’s questions poked at something tender, something he wasn’t used to protecting. His sass came as a shield, sharp and snappy.

But still, somewhere deep down, he found it cute. Infuriatingly cute. Because no one had ever been so careful with him. So maddeningly concerned.

Dae-ho looked like he might pull back, so Nam-gyu softened slightly, brushing his knuckles down Dae-ho’s chest. “I’m fine. Just—don’t stop being weirdly sweet about it.”

Dae-ho’s brows lifted slightly. “Weirdly?”

Nam-gyu smirked, but it was breathless. “Yeah. It’s annoying. Kinda cute, though.”

When their bare chests pressed together, Nam-gyu let out a soft gasp. Their bodies aligned, hips brushing, the reality of it sparking somewhere deep in his chest. He arched up into him instinctively, legs parting without resistance. His breath hitched when Dae-ho settled between them, and he gasped louder than he meant to.

“Shh,” Dae-ho whispered, brushing his mouth against Nam-gyu’s neck. “They’ll hear.”

Nam-gyu moaned softly beneath his breath, eyes fluttering closed. His body trembled with want, but it wasn’t frantic—it was trusting. When Dae-ho finally moved inside him, slow and careful, Nam-gyu’s fingers dug into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist in instinctive response.

Dae-ho stilled.

He held him, cradled his cheek, and breathed in his shaky exhale. He looked down into Nam-gyu’s face, searching. “Does it hurt?”

Nam-gyu groaned, tossing his head back slightly. “You’re seriously asking again?”

Dae-ho hesitated, but Nam-gyu reached up, fingers threading through his hair. “No,” he said finally, softer. “Not when it’s you.”

That cracked something open in Dae-ho—something protective, something deep.

“I don’t care about what you did before,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “None of it matters here. Not to me.”

Nam-gyu blinked up at him, momentarily stunned into silence.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at him like he wasn’t sure how to believe it.

Dae-ho kissed him again, slow. Then he moved—deep, steady, grounded. Not claiming. Not taking. Just being with him. Like this was the only thing that mattered. The only thing that had ever mattered.

Nam-gyu was all sighs and soft cries beneath him, clinging, trembling, whispering things that didn’t need to make sense. And when he got too loud, Dae-ho kissed the noise from his mouth, quieted him with gentle palms and murmured reassurances.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t use. He held.

Nam-gyu surrendered completely. Not out of weakness—but out of trust. Trust that Dae-ho saw the wreckage and didn’t turn away. That he wanted all of it anyway.

When Nam-gyu came, it was with a cry swallowed into Dae-ho’s shoulder, his body shuddering like he’d been pulled loose from something heavy. Dae-ho followed moments later, quiet, his breath catching, a soft groan against Nam-gyu’s skin.

They collapsed into the aftermath, tangled limbs, sweat-soaked sheets, hearts pressed together like they needed to sync to survive.

Dae-ho stayed inside him for a long time, just holding him, breathing with him. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. He laid beside Nam-gyu, still touching him—thumb brushing his cheek, a hand on his waist, like he couldn’t bear to lose contact.

Nam-gyu’s head rested on Dae-ho’s chest, ear against the steady thrum of his heart. He was still trembling faintly, but it wasn’t fear. It was release.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he murmured, voice raw and wrecked.

“No,” Dae-ho whispered, brushing his lips to his temple. “Just safe.”

Nam-gyu was quiet for a long time.

“Why are you like this?” he asked at last, not quite a whisper, not quite a plea.

Dae-ho’s smile was faint, a soft breath against his hair. “Because someone has to be.”

Outside, the chaos of the prison lived on—shouts echoing down the corridors, the occasional clatter of steel on concrete.

But here, in this narrow cell on the lower bunk, they had carved out something else.
Something gentle.

Dae-ho wished they could stay like that—intertwined, wrapped in stolen warmth, in silence too rare to waste. He held Nam-gyu close, chest rising and falling in time with the younger man’s breath, and for a moment, he allowed himself to pretend that the walls didn’t exist. That time had stopped. That they weren’t inside a decaying prison, one heartbeat away from being seen or punished. But reality pressed in like the heat on their skin. He knew they couldn’t stay like this for long.

Still, Dae-ho didn’t move. Not yet. His gaze dropped to Nam-gyu’s face—flushed, content, his mouth slack and pink from kissing. Something tightened in his chest. He’d been touched before, used before, but this was different. This wasn’t about sex. This was about surrender. Nam-gyu had let go. Not to escape, not to manipulate, but to be held.

That’s when it hit him.

He was in love.

Not the kind of love that blooms quietly. This was the kind that grows in cracks—fierce and stubborn, rising despite everything trying to crush it. Nam-gyu’s past, his body count, the reckless way he laughed or pushed people away—it didn’t matter. Not here. Not now. Not to him.

He was Dae-ho’s. And Dae-ho would burn the world down before he let anything happen to him. Whatever it took—he’d protect him. He swore it.

The silence that followed was warm, but heavy. Their breaths had finally slowed, bodies slick and tangled in the narrow bunk. Dae-ho’s fingers idly traced the dip of Nam-gyu’s spine, memorizing every curve, every tremble. For a moment, he wished they could stay like that forever—hidden, untouched by the chaos beyond the bars. But he knew better.

Dae-ho shifted, pulling back with a reluctant sigh. His voice was low, roughened by emotion. "We can't let them see us like this."

Nam-gyu blinked, dazed and flushed. "I don't care," he whispered, still drunk on closeness. "Let them see. Fuck them."

Dae-ho cupped his jaw gently, tilting his face up. "You don’t get it. They don’t like you, Nam-gyu. They’re looking for any reason. If they catch us like this, they'll make it hell for you. And I can't let that happen."

Nam-gyu’s mouth opened like he was going to protest again, but the look in Dae-ho’s eyes silenced him. It wasn’t fear—Dae-ho wasn’t afraid of the guards. It was concern. A deep, quiet devotion that Nam-gyu hadn’t seen directed at him in years. Maybe never.

So he nodded. Just once. Slowly. Dae-ho pressed a soft kiss to his lips—brief, and then pulled away completely.

Nam-gyu sat up, the sweat cooling on his bare skin. He hesitated before climbing up to his own bunk. The mattress was thin, the sheets coarse. Still, he lay there with something new unfolding inside him.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Without drugs in his system, without someone yelling at him or hitting him or needing something from him—he felt strange. Quiet. He didn’t feel like a monster. Not tonight.

All his life, he’d believed he was bad. Unfixable. Rotten. He had said it to himself so many times, it became a truth carved into bone.

But Dae-ho had looked at him like he wasn’t any of those things. Touched him like he was worthy of gentleness. Protected him when he didn’t even ask to be protected.

And now, lying alone but not abandoned, Nam-gyu realized something he never had before:

He wasn’t evil. He was just angry. Hurt. Resentful. Tired of being used, hated, punished.

And somehow, Dae-ho—quiet, calm, careful Dae-ho—had reached through all of that. Helped him see there was something else underneath. Someone else.

Someone worth saving.

Chapter Text

The morning light slanted through the grimy canteen windows, painting thin golden lines across metal tables and trays of lukewarm oatmeal and stale bread. Dust hung in the beams like a reminder that no one cleaned thoroughly here—at least not when it came to the corners. The air smelled of overboiled coffee, steel, and the rot underneath.

Voices buzzed low like static, spoons scraping against metal trays, chairs dragging harshly across the floor. It was a usual morning in the prison canteen. But at one table tucked near the back wall, the atmosphere was different. Warmer. Livelier.

Laughter burst from that table in sporadic waves, drawing a few curious glances.

Nam-gyu was at the center of it, lounging with the kind of ease that didn’t come naturally to people here—unless they were very good at pretending. He had one elbow slung over the back of his chair, the other nudging Ji-won beside him with mock offense. His face glowed with a mischief that was hard to miss, even in this place.

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, eyes alight, “not everyone gets to have their first time with a saint. I’ve been blessed, okay?”

Ji-won groaned like he was in physical pain. “God, you’re unbearable today.”

Nam-gyu gasped theatrically. “Today? Just today?”

“Don’t encourage him,” Ji-won muttered, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth with the resignation of someone used to this.

Across from them, Mr. Baek chuckled softly, shaking his head with amusement. “Let him have it. Boy’s glowing like he won the lottery.”

Nam-gyu didn’t miss a beat. He sat up straighter and tapped his own chest proudly. “I did win. Have you seen him? Man’s a miracle worker.” His eyes flicked to Dae-ho with a brightness that softened him, despite the cocky tone.

Dae-ho sat beside him with his usual quiet calm, one hand wrapped around his chipped coffee mug, the other methodically buttering his toast with military efficiency. His face gave nothing away—except for the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Nam-gyu was doing enough talking for both of them.

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. You’re in love,” Ji-won mumbled, not looking up.

Nam-gyu grinned wider. “I’m not in love, I’m in rapture.”

“Oh Jesus,” Ji-won muttered.

Mr. Baek snorted. “You’re in something, alright.”

Nam-gyu leaned into Dae-ho like he was showing off a prize, eyes glittering. “Can you blame me? He treats me like I’m made of glass or gold or something. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” Ji-won said. “Shut up, maybe?”

Nam-gyu cackled. Even Dae-ho huffed a quiet laugh, finally glancing at Nam-gyu with a look that said, You’re ridiculous, but I’m still here.

A few tables over, Chuck turned in his seat, a half-eaten piece of bread hanging from his hand. He’d been listening, clearly. His eyes narrowed as they landed on Dae-ho, then shifted to Nam-gyu, and back again. Something mean stirred in them.

“Miracle worker, huh?” Chuck said, loud enough for their table to hear. “Didn’t think you’d go for leftovers, Dae-ho. Not really your style.”

The table fell silent. The air shifted. Ji-won’s spoon froze midair. Mr. Baek’s smile faded. Nam-gyu’s shoulders tensed, and his grin faltered—not wiped away entirely, but flickering at the edges like a candle threatened by wind.

Dae-ho didn’t flinch. He calmly finished chewing his toast and set his mug down with deliberate quiet. Then he turned his head toward Chuck, meeting his gaze without a hint of hesitation.

“I don’t care what you think my style is,” Dae-ho said, voice level but firm. “But say something like that again, and we’ll have a problem.”

Chuck scoffed, but he turned back to his tray. Didn’t push. Maybe it was something in Dae-ho’s eyes. Maybe it was the silence that fell over the surrounding tables. Or maybe it was the way Nam-gyu didn’t speak, didn’t snap back, just stared at his tray like he was willing himself not to let it get under his skin.

The tension gradually drained from the table. Mr. Baek resumed eating. Ji-won exhaled through his nose, annoyed but relieved.

Nam-gyu finally looked up, and when he did, the smirk was back—but now it was more armor than amusement.

“Guess someone’s jealous,” he said, flipping the energy on its head, like the insult didn’t sting. “Not my fault that Dae-ho is much better and has a taste.”

“Or a martyr complex,” Ji-won mumbled.

Nam-gyu elbowed him again. “Don’t be bitter just because you have trust issues.”

Ji-won arched a brow. “You trust him?”

Nam-gyu’s smirk shifted, a little more genuine this time. He didn’t answer with words. Just looked at Dae-ho—really looked at him. And Dae-ho, steady and unshaken, offered him a slow blink and a tiny nod, barely perceptible, but full of something solid.

Mr. Baek, catching the silent exchange, shook his head again and smiled.

“Kids these days…” he muttered. “Love like it’s the end of the world.”

And maybe it was. Maybe that’s why it mattered so much. Why every look, every shared smile, every hand beneath the table meant something more. Because this place—the cells, the guards, the fear—was built to take everything from them. Laughter rose again, not quite as loud this time, but real. And for a while, the prison faded around them. Just a little.

Ji-won suddenly straightened, eyes flicking around the canteen like he was checking to make sure no one too curious was within earshot. The playful glint from earlier had drained from his face, replaced by something more serious—cautious, even. He leaned in, lowering his voice to just above a whisper.

“Hey. Speaking of problems…”

Nam-gyu, mid-sip of his coffee, paused. His eyes narrowed in quiet curiosity.

Ji-won leaned closer, pitching his voice even lower. “You know my job’s been taking care of the lawn in the yard, right? Sweeping the gravel, trimming the hedges—boring shit.”

Nam-gyu nodded slowly. “Yeah?”

Ji-won glanced over his shoulder again, then back. “Well, this morning, while I was out there, I overheard something. Couple guys from Block C. They were talking real quiet at first, but then one of them got pissed and raised his voice. They weren’t just venting.”

Nam-gyu’s expression shifted, the teasing amusement from earlier now completely gone. “What kind of talk?”

Ji-won gave a grim look. “Riot talk.”

Mr. Baek, who’d been munching on his toast with a lazy rhythm, froze mid-bite. “You sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Ji-won said. “They weren’t exactly subtle. One of them said he’s sick of being treated like a dog. That they’re all done playing nice. Said something like, ‘We’ve been waiting long enough. Time to light the match.’”

Silence fell around the table, heavy as concrete.

Dae-ho’s eyes flicked toward the front of the room, where two guards stood near the doors—arms crossed, chatting idly, unaware of anything beyond their coffee mugs and the clock ticking toward the next routine.

He turned his gaze back to Ji-won. “How many of them?”

“Didn’t catch all the details,” Ji-won said. “But at least four or five talking like they already had a plan. One of them had a fresh bruise on his face, like he’d already been in it with someone. You know the type—hungry to hit back. Any excuse.”

Nam-gyu had gone still. His foot tapped under the table, an old habit from when he was trying not to look nervous. He looked at Dae-ho, eyes sharp now. “You think it’s gonna get bad?”

Dae-ho didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the table, brows knit in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but certain.

“Bad enough. Riots don’t stay in one block. Once it starts, it spreads. Fast.”

Mr. Baek grunted. “Last one we had was three years ago. Whole place went into lockdown for a week. Beatings. Solitary. Dogs. They don’t fuck around when it comes to losing control.”

Nam-gyu glanced over his shoulder now too, toward the guards—then beyond them, toward the long stretch of windows that looked out onto the rec yard. It was still quiet out there. Still. But the kind of still that made your skin itch. Like something waiting to snap.

“They said when?” Nam-gyu asked, his voice low.

“No,” Ji-won said. “Just said soon. Could be today. Could be tomorrow. I figured you’d all want to know.”

Dae-ho nodded, slow and deliberate. “Good call. For now, we don’t say anything. Not unless we see something definite. No reason to get caught up in it.”

Ji-won looked uneasy. “You think the guards know?”

“If they do, they’re not showing it,” Dae-ho said. “Maybe they think it’s all talk. But we know better.”

Nam-gyu leaned forward again, bracing his elbows on the table. He looked between them, jaw tight. “So we just wait? Hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces?”

“We stay alert,” Dae-ho said. “We keep out of it. We watch each other’s backs. That’s all we can do.”

Mr. Baek grunted again, but didn’t argue.

The tension coiled like a wire between them now, stretched taut beneath the surface. The laughter from earlier still echoed faintly in the space, but it sounded distant—like something remembered, not something real. There was a shadow beneath it now, something darker circling just out of sight.

Around them, the rest of the canteen moved on, unaware. Or pretending not to be.

The guards didn’t seem to notice a thing.

Nam-gyu sat back, folding his arms across his chest. He stared down at his tray, no longer interested in the half-eaten bread or the watery oatmeal. Something inside him prickled—like a storm was coming and he could already feel the static on his skin.

Still, they stayed seated. Ate what they could. Waited.

Because in here, any morning could turn without warning. And they all knew that better than most.

As they stood to clear their trays, Dae-ho reached out and gently tugged Nam-gyu back by the sleeve, just enough to hold him a moment longer.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice almost drowned by the noise of the room. “Especially you. I mean it—if things go sideways, stay away from it. Don’t get involved.”

Nam-gyu raised an eyebrow, deflecting with a crooked grin. “Worried about me, husband?”

Dae-ho didn’t smile. His eyes searched Nam-gyu’s face with quiet intensity. “Yeah. I am. You’ve been getting better. Laughing again. Sleeping. I don’t want to see all that ripped away because someone else is angry enough to burn this place down.”

Nam-gyu blinked, caught off guard by the softness in Dae-ho’s voice. His grin faltered, replaced by something more real—something almost vulnerable.

“…Okay,” he said finally, voice lower now. “I’ll stay close.”

Dae-ho gave a small nod, brushing his knuckles against Nam-gyu’s hand before stepping away.

And as they walked back to their duties, the unease still sat in Dae-ho’s chest like a stone. Because danger wasn’t a question of if in this place—it was a matter of when. And when it came, he would do everything he could to keep Nam-gyu out of its path.

Days had passed. In the fragile rhythm of prison life, Dae-ho and Nam-gyu had become something steady—like a heartbeat, soft but persistent against the concrete silence that surrounded them. There was no need for grand declarations. The way Nam-gyu sought Dae-ho’s eyes across the yard, the way Dae-ho always made sure there was space beside him at every meal—those things said enough. Their bond had become something visible. Unmistakable.

The guards stopped trying to separate them. Other inmates stopped pretending they didn’t see it. Some watched with curiosity. A few sneered. But no one dared interfere. Because whatever was growing between them wasn’t just romance—it was a lifeline.

At night, they shared the same narrow bunk. Dae-ho always let Nam-gyu have the inside, where the chill of the wall couldn’t reach. Nam-gyu teased him for it—called him a husband, a knight—but he never once protested. Most nights, Dae-ho would talk quietly in the dark, asking about the dumbest things just to hear Nam-gyu’s voice: What was your favorite drink? Do you remember your first concert? What kind of dog would you get if you could? Silly, harmless things that didn’t belong in prison. They'd laugh softly, curled into each other, like they had all the time in the world.

And then, eventually, they stopped caring.

It began in whispers, cautious hands under the blanket, soft moans muffled into each other's skin. But soon, it wasn’t quiet anymore. Not really. They weren’t ashamed of it. They weren’t hiding it. Not from the other inmates, not from the guards. It became a rhythm of its own—touching, loving, like it was just something natural to do in a place built to strip that away. Something rebellious. Something human.

They made love the way people breathe. Like survival.

It had started to feel like peace.

Until the screaming started.

At first, it was a single voice. Distant. Sharp. Nam-gyu stirred but didn’t lift his head from Dae-ho’s chest. He thought maybe it was a fight, another squabble in the corridors that would blow over.

Then came a crash. A thunderous metallic rattle—like a table flipping, or a chair slammed into a wall. Then more shouts. The unmistakable rhythm of fists pounding flesh. Footsteps pounding the floors above. The prison was waking like a beast, thrashing.

Dae-ho and Nam-gyu sat up at the same time, breath caught in their throats.

A second later, Ji-won appeared at the cell door. Panting. Pale. His shirt was torn at the collar and a thin cut bled down one cheek.

“It’s happening,” he gasped. “They started it—the riot. Canteen’s trashed. Block C's gone nuts. They’re tearing the north hallway apart. Guards can’t control it. Some are locking themselves in.”

Nam-gyu blinked fast, disoriented by the suddenness, by the fear coiling tight in his stomach. He opened his mouth to say something—probably a joke—but it died before it reached his lips. Instead, he said, flatly, “Good. Maybe they’ll burn this place down.”

Dae-ho was already up, grabbing his shoes, his eyes sharp and calculating. “This isn’t a game, Nam-gyu. It’s a war zone.”

“I know that,” Nam-gyu bit back, more forcefully than he meant to. His hands were shaking. “I know, okay? I’m not an idiot.”

Ji-won glanced down the corridor, nerves snapping like wires in his eyes. “I’m going back to the yard. Safer there, I think—if that still means anything.” He was gone before either of them could stop him.

Dae-ho turned to Nam-gyu, his face suddenly grim. “You can’t be anywhere near this.”

Nam-gyu folded his arms. “You think I can’t handle it?”

“No. I think you’ve already handled enough.”

Nam-gyu’s expression flickered—defensive, then confused, then something smaller. “I’m not going to hide like some coward.”

“This isn’t cowardice,” Dae-ho said. His voice dropped low, rough around the edges. “It’s survival. And you’re the one who still has a chance.”

Nam-gyu turned away, jaw tight. “What about you?”

Dae-ho didn’t answer right away. He stepped forward, placed a steadying hand on Nam-gyu’s shoulder. “I'm not geting out. You know that. This isn't about me.”

Nam-gyu’s eyes met his. “So I’m just supposed to leave you if something happens?”

“Yes,” Dae-ho said, without hesitation. “If it comes down to that, you run. You find somewhere safe and you stay there.”

Nam-gyu laughed bitterly. “You think I could live with that?”

Dae-ho’s hand moved to his face, fingers brushing his cheek. “You’re not dying in here with me. You understand?”

Nam-gyu didn’t answer. He looked like he wanted to scream and cry and punch the wall all at once. But he didn’t move. Didn’t run. Didn’t hide.

The chaos outside was escalating. Screams became roars. Something exploded—maybe a fire extinguisher or a gas line. Boots pounded the floors, and the sharp crack of batons meeting flesh echoed down the corridors like thunder.

Dae-ho looked toward the door, then back at Nam-gyu.

“Especially you,” he said again, voice tight with emotion. “You stay away from this. Let the world burn if it wants to, but you—you walk out of here. You live.”

Nam-gyu’s throat bobbed. “Why do you even care this much?”

Dae-ho stared at him, something breaking open in his eyes. “Because you’re worth it.”

Nam-gyu stood beside Dae-ho, trying to keep the fear off his face. Trying to be brave. Dae-ho knew what this was—knew it was going to get worse. And fast.

And still, he kept Nam-gyu behind him.

Whatever came through that door, he’d face it first.

Another handful of days had passed. Or maybe more. Time had become a blur inside the crumbling walls of their cell—marked only by the occasional scream in the corridor, the flickering overhead light, and the aching in their empty stomachs. The riot had burned fast and hot, and now it was smoldering into something worse: uncertainty. Lawless, quiet dread.

The shouting outside had faded into sharp, sudden crashes and indistinct voices moving like shadows down the halls. No more guards. No more announcements. Just silence broken by the occasional groan of old pipes or the distant sound of something metal being dragged across concrete.

Dae-ho hadn’t left the door. He kept it barricaded with everything they could scrounge: dented boxes, torn blankets twisted into knots, scraps of bed frame. Ji-won’s old chair had been wedged into the frame, broken but still serviceable. It wasn’t much. It wouldn’t hold forever. They both knew that. But it was something.

Nam-gyu sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, one foot bouncing in relentless rhythm, his fingers picking at the hem of his shirt. He’d been quiet for too long. Too still. The weight of their hunger was turning into a sharp, crawling ache, and the dryness in his mouth made it hard to speak without sounding broken.

The silence between them had changed. It was no longer warm or intimate. It was brittle now—fragile and tense, like a wire pulled taut, threatening to snap with the wrong word.

Finally, Nam-gyu broke it. “We need food,” he said, voice low but sharp with urgency. “And water. We can’t just sit here forever.”

“I know,” Dae-ho said without looking at him. His eyes were locked on the barricade like it might crumble any second. “But I’ll go.”

Nam-gyu shot to his feet, the bunk creaking behind him. “No. I’ll do it.”

Dae-ho turned sharply. “No.”

“I can handle it.”

“You’re staying here.”

Nam-gyu scoffed, taking a step closer, trying to sound stronger than he felt. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“I never said you were.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

“I’m treating you like someone I care about,” Dae-ho said, and his voice—while calm—was steel under silk. “That’s different.”

Nam-gyu’s jaw clenched. He paced once, then turned on him again. “You think they’ll go easier on you out there? You think they care that you’re an ex-marine, that you’re stronger? They don’t. They’ll kill you just the same.”

“I know how to move in that chaos. You don’t.”

Nam-gyu’s voice cracked. “Then let me go with you.”

That stopped Dae-ho cold.

"No."

Nam-gyu stepped closer. “We don’t split up. If you’re going, I’m going. I can watch your back. You don’t get to play the hero and leave me here like some abandoned pet—”

Dae-ho grabbed his arms, cutting him off. “You’re not my pet. You’re the only thing in here that makes sense to me. That’s exactly why you’re staying.”

Nam-gyu stared at him, eyes wide, a thousand words caught in his throat but none willing to come out. His hands curled into fists.

Dae-ho leaned his forehead against Nam-gyu’s and breathed in deep like he was trying to memorize him. “If they see you out there, they won’t just attack you. They’ll enjoy it. They hate you. They’ll make an example out of you. Because they know it would hurt me.”

Nam-gyu flinched. “So what? You want me to sit here and wonder if you’re dead?”

“No,” Dae-ho whispered. “I want you to be the one who survives.”

He kissed him then—deep, desperate, tasting like fear and hunger and love all at once. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about seduction or comfort but about anchoring each other to something real, something that still existed in a place that had fallen apart.

When they finally broke apart, Nam-gyu’s breath trembled. “I hate you for this.”

“I know,” Dae-ho said softly. “But I’d hate myself more if I let you die trying to follow me.”

He pulled him into a tight hug, one hand pressed to the back of Nam-gyu’s neck like he couldn’t bear to let go. Like he wouldn’t survive letting go. Then, finally, with visible reluctance, he stepped back.

Nam-gyu’s hand slipped into Dae-ho’s, fingers squeezing hard. “You better come back.”

“I will.” A pause. “I promise.”

Then Dae-ho unwedged the door, slow and silent, listening to the groan of metal and the whisper of danger outside. The hallway looked darker than before. The lights were flickering. The air felt heavier.

He glanced back once—just once—at Nam-gyu, standing there in their dim cell, thin and tired and angry and beautiful.

Then he slipped out into the dark.

Nam-gyu waited. Alone with the sound of his own breathing. Alone with the weight of every second that passed.

It wasn’t just noise—it was a living, breathing monster, gnashing its teeth and thrashing through concrete veins. Screams ricocheted off the crumbling walls, high-pitched and guttural, laced with terror and fury. Somewhere in the distance, the sharp pop of something exploding echoed through the halls, followed by the clang of metal, the shatter of glass, the frantic rush of dozens of feet.

Lights flickered in a frantic strobe, casting long, warped shadows across the destruction. Glass crunched underfoot. Overturned tables, broken bed frames, and splintered wood littered the corridors like debris after a storm. Graffiti smeared in blood covered the walls—some intentional, others the desperate smears of hands searching for escape or support. Doors hung from hinges. Bodies—some moving, some not—lay sprawled across the floor.

Dae-ho stepped out slowly, his back straight despite the weight pressing against his chest. His eyes flicked from one threat to another, every muscle coiled and ready. He’d seen riots before—back in his early days, when he was young and reckless—but never anything like this. This wasn’t a rebellion. This was collapse.

The system had cracked.

There was no getting food now. The kitchens were surely looted, their contents either devoured or destroyed. Storerooms would be barricaded, if they weren’t already set ablaze. The guards were scattered, those who hadn’t run hiding or were injured. The ones who were alive didn’t have the numbers to regain control.

He saw a group of inmates sprint past, one of them holding a broom handle sharpened to a deadly point, another laughing manically with blood smeared across his face like warpaint. One man limped, dragging his injured leg, but he still clutched a broken chair leg in both hands, ready to swing. Their eyes darted toward Dae-ho but flicked away again. He was big, calm, centered—too controlled to provoke just yet.

He raised both hands, stepping into the middle of the hallway like a soldier walking into no man’s land. “Enough!” His voice cut clean through the chaos. A single, thunderous sound of command in a storm of confusion. “You’re not going to win this.”

Several heads turned. Angry, wild eyes. Faces half-lit by the flickering lights.

“You think they won’t retaliate?” he continued, louder now, his voice steady and resonant, the kind of tone that silenced rooms before fists ever needed to fly. “You think this is freedom? This—this is suicide.”

A bottle arced through the air and smashed near his boots, glass shards skidding across the floor. A chorus of curses followed it, but Dae-ho didn’t flinch. He stepped forward again.

“You’ll get more time, all of you. Solitary. Beatings. Transfers. Worse. They’ll bring in men with guns, dogs, tear gas. You’ll beg to be locked in again.”

His words drew more anger than reason. The crowd was past listening, past logic. They were animals now, pushed too far for too long, lashing out at the nearest thing with a heartbeat. The riot had taken them. They wanted blood.

That’s when he saw the guard.

Crumpled against the base of the wall, half-hidden behind a broken table leg, was a young man, a boy. No older than Nam-gyu— the same age. His uniform shirt was torn, soaked with blood seeping from a gash at his temple. His eyes were dazed, lips parted as if whispering something only he could hear. One arm twitched weakly. He couldn’t defend himself.

And stepping toward him—deliberate, confident, weapon raised—was a man Dae-ho recognized. A broad-shouldered prisoner with a square jaw and a habit of picking fights just to feel alive. He held a jagged shard of glass like a knife, its edge glinting under the swinging lights.

Dae-ho moved.

He didn’t stop to think. He didn’t weigh the odds. His body reacted before his mind could argue.

He sprinted forward, planting himself between the boy and the attacker. His arms were wide, protective. “Don’t!” he barked. “He’s down—he’s not a threat!”

The attacker blinked, caught off guard for a moment. His eyes narrowed as he registered Dae-ho’s interference. The tension in his stance didn’t ease—it sharpened.

“Traitor,” he spat, his voice low and venomous.

The glass came down fast.

The first strike hit Dae-ho in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a grunt. The pain was sharp, immediate, but he didn’t retreat. He took it.

Then came the others.

A fist to his jaw. A knee to his gut. Kicks, boots, anything they could land. More men joined in. Someone grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back into the circle of blows. He didn’t even see most of them—only felt them. Blunt force again and again. His body screamed.

But he didn’t fight back. He didn’t swing. He didn’t move away.

And then it all began to fade.

Colors dulled. Sound muffled. The pain was distant now, pushed away by the rising tide of black at the edges of his vision. He could barely keep his eyes open.

But through it—through it—he saw Nam-gyu’s face in his mind.

Not the version with a scowl and an insult. No. The real one.

The way he had smiled that one night, soft and disarmed in the quiet darkness, lying against Dae-ho’s chest. The way his eyes looked when he was teasing but vulnerable. His laugh, his sharp tongue. The way he’d melted in Dae-ho’s arms that night. The warmth of his breath on Dae-ho’s skin. That impossible softness he never showed anyone but him.

That was the last thing Dae-ho saw before the darkness took him. Not the pain. Not the crowd. Not even the blood.

Nam-gyu couldn’t take it anymore. The wait was unbearable. Long minutes had crawled by—maybe an hour, maybe two, though time had lost all meaning. The chaos outside their cell had come in waves: first, the sounds of distant shouting and clashing metal; then screams—sharper, closer; and finally, silence. But not peace. It was the wrong kind of silence. The kind that follows violence. The kind that feels like breath being held before the next blow falls.

His nerves were frayed raw. His legs bounced restlessly where he sat. His throat was so dry it hurt to swallow. And despite everything, despite the sickness twisting in his stomach and the pulse hammering in his ears, he stood up. He didn’t care if it was stupid. If it was suicidal. He had to find Dae-ho.

He pushed the cell door open slowly, hand trembling on the frame. A gust of stale air hit him, thick with blood, sweat, and something burnt. The corridor was a nightmare made real—smeared red handprints dragged down the cracked walls, fluorescent lights flickering above like failing stars. Chunks of ceiling had collapsed. Shards of broken glass crunched beneath his bare feet.

Nam-gyu moved fast. Silent. Every step sent a jolt of cold up his legs, but he barely noticed. 

He swallowed hard and kept going.

Around the corner, he passed the remains of a shattered food cart. The canteen must’ve been raided. Bent forks, smashed trays, and crushed packets of rice littered the floor like discarded offerings to some angry god. One man lay curled nearby, clutching his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers. Nam-gyu didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Each new hallway was worse than the last. The stench was overwhelming—urine, metal, rot. The walls were no longer gray but streaked with gore. And still, there was no sign of Dae-ho. No sign of order. Just destruction.

And then, just ahead—something still. Something familiar.

Nam-gyu's breath caught.

A body. Not like the others. Broader. Stronger. A body he knew. Unmoving.

He stumbled closer, his vision narrowing, the air sucked from the world. His knees buckled as he collapsed beside the body, flipping it gently over with shaking hands.

Dae-ho.

His shirt was soaked through, crimson spreading across his chest and ribs. His face was barely recognizable, one eye swollen shut, blood crusted along his temple and lip. One arm lay at an unnatural angle. But it was him. Nam-gyu would’ve known him even in the dark.

His lungs refused to work. His own heartbeat pounded in his ears so loudly he thought it would drown him. His hands hovered uselessly above the man’s ruined chest. There was no movement. No sound.

The cold hit him like a slap.

“No...” he whispered, or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the word only formed inside his head.

He stared. Wide-eyed. Mouth slightly open. A ghost of breath caught in his throat, but it went nowhere. The world dimmed around him, muffled like he’d been dropped underwater.

And then—laughter.

It pierced the haze, low and cruel.

"That bastard got what he deserved. Fuckin' traitor. Should’ve let the pig bleed out. Now he's the one, who needs to be rescued. Oops! Too late."

Nam-gyu turned his head slowly, as if his body no longer belonged to him.

A man stood a few feet away—tall, built like a wall, tattoos twisting across his arms. His lips were curled in a smug grin. His knuckles were red and split. He looked proud.

Proud of what he’d done.

Nam-gyu didn’t think.

He lunged.

The first punch cracked against the man’s jaw with such force that Nam-gyu’s entire arm ached. The man reeled back, stunned, but Nam-gyu was already on him, wild and relentless. His fists flew without rhythm, without aim. There was no technique, no control—just fury. It surged through him, a scream made flesh. Everyone around just watched. As if in shock. When one of the prisoners finally tried to lunge at Nam-gyu, another stopped him. He knew Dae-ho. He respected him. And he respected Nam-gyu's reaction even more.

He punched and punched and punched, each blow fueled by grief and terror and blind, boiling rage. Blood splattered across the floor, across his skin. The man groaned, tried to fight back, but Nam-gyu didn’t stop. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to destroy.

He kept going until the man stopped moving. Until his hands were shaking. Until his own vision blurred with sweat and tears and blood he couldn’t tell apart.

Then silence again.

Nam-gyu collapsed beside the man’s body, breath hitching, chest heaving. His fingers trembled as he wiped his eyes with the back of a bloodied hand. Then, slowly, painfully, he crawled back to Dae-ho’s side.

He reached for him, lips quivering.

“Dae-ho...” he whispered, his voice hoarse and raw. 

There was still no answer. He pressed his palm against Dae-ho’s cheek. Still cold.

He swallowed a sob, shaking his head like he could undo this. Like he could will Dae-ho to breathe again, to speak, to smile at him like he used to. But there was nothing.

That was when the special forces stormed the corridor.

The hallway exploded with noise—boots slamming, rifles raised, armored vests glinting under harsh white lights. Shouts barked orders in every direction. Prisoners screamed. A siren wailed in the distance.

But Nam-gyu didn’t hear them. Didn’t look up.

He was still there, broken and bloodied, curled around the body of the man who had protected him.

The man he loved.

Chapter Text

Nam-gyu was dragged away from Dae-ho’s bloodied body, kicking and screaming, his voice raw with agony. He clawed at the floor, reached out blindly, but his hands found nothing but cold concrete. His throat tore open with a cry that didn’t sound human—feral, wounded, endless. The riot sirens drowned him out, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His body twisted and thrashed against the officers who grabbed him, nails catching skin, fists swinging uselessly. He didn’t see faces—only uniforms. Only force.

"Get him off the floor—NOW!"

He didn’t hear them.

He didn’t care.

They shoved him through the chaos, and in their panic, they treated him like an animal. Not a grieving man. Not a person. They pushed him into his cell with such force he stumbled and hit the opposite wall, knees giving out beneath him. The door slammed shut behind him like the final nail in a coffin.

And then—it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Nam-gyu stayed still for a moment, breath catching painfully in his lungs. He blinked, dazed, eyes landing on the upper bunk—his own. Then the lower. Dae-ho’s.

Empty.

The emptiness hit him like a punch to the chest.

He stumbled forward like someone drugged, arms limp at his sides. He didn’t feel his knees scrape the floor as he collapsed onto the mattress. He curled into the space Dae-ho once occupied, as if his body could fill the void he’d left behind.

The sheets still smelled like him. That faint clean scent mixed with something warm—familiar. Real. Alive.

Nam-gyu curled tighter around the blanket, clinging to it like it was Dae-ho’s arm, Dae-ho’s chest, Dae-ho’s steady breath.

His own body trembled violently. His tears were silent now, no longer hot and heavy, but slow and numbing. He couldn’t stop them, didn’t even try. His face was soaked, his cheeks streaked with grime and salt, his fingers bloodied—some of it his, most of it Dae-ho’s.

It was like something inside him had cracked. No. Not cracked. Broken.

He didn’t make a sound anymore. Only breathed in ragged, shallow gulps, as if too much air might shatter him into pieces.

Footsteps scuffed faintly outside the cell. A figure slipped through the bars while the guards were too preoccupied with shouting prisoners and the lingering chaos down the corridor.

It was Mr. Baek.

He didn’t speak when he saw the boy curled up in grief. His breath caught at the sight.

Nam-gyu looked impossibly small—too small. Crumpled like something discarded, clinging to Dae-ho’s blanket as if it were the only thing tethering him to this world. His body shuddered with the kind of silent sobs that came after too much screaming—when the voice gave out but the pain didn’t.

Baek hesitated just a moment, then moved forward, each step measured and slow. The aches in his knees screamed at him, a familiar protest of age. His leg had stiffened again—one of those old reumatic flares, but he didn’t pause. Didn’t complain. Not now.

With effort, he lowered himself to his knees beside the bunk. The motion wasn’t easy—it hadn’t been for years—but he gritted his teeth through the stiffness. A sharp throb shot through his joints, grounding him in the reality of his own failing body. But it didn’t matter. Not in that moment.

Because the young man needed him.

Baek stayed there, kneeling through the pain, steady and unwavering. And then, after a quiet pause, he reached out.

His hand, rough and warm, settled gently on Nam-gyu’s head.

Nam-gyu didn’t flinch. If anything, he softened under the touch. Some small, broken part of him leaned into the warmth, into the wordless comfort. The sobs didn’t stop—but his body began to loosen, not in relief, but in surrender. No longer fighting the grief. Just drowning in it, finally safe enough to let it happen.

Baek’s hand moved slowly, brushing through tangled hair with a tenderness that ached. He said nothing. There were no words for this. Nothing he could say would bring Dae-ho back. Nothing could mend the pieces that had shattered inside the boy’s chest.

But sometimes, presence was the only language left. And Baek spoke it fluently.

So he stayed there—knees aching, back stiff, shoulders hunched—not because he was strong, but because Nam-gyu couldn’t be.

Down the corridor, Ji-won leaned against the wall, his temple throbbing with pain from the riot. His shoulder was grazed, and his knuckles were scraped from breaking up a fight between two inmates who had lost their minds in the chaos.

He’d seen the aftermath. Everyone had. The whole wing had felt it—had felt him.

Nam-gyu’s scream.

It had cut through everything, high and cracked, the sound of someone being hollowed out. A soul being ripped clean from the body.

Ji-won hadn’t seen Dae-ho’s body up close, but he’d caught a glimpse as they dragged Nam-gyu away, and it was enough. The image burned itself into his brain—the blood, the bruises, the sheer stillness of a man who’d once felt so solid, so large, so there.

No one had said anything. No one could.

Because they’d seen them. Ji-won had seen them, just hours earlier—Nam-gyu and Dae-ho, pressed close in a quiet corner, laughing over something dumb, fingers brushing like they couldn’t help it. Like they belonged together.

Mad in love. That’s what they were.

Ji-won had teased Nam-gyu about it sometimes—about how annoying he was with all that talk of love, about how he’d brag like a schoolboy with a secret. And sure, it had been irritating. But it had also been… sweet.

Real.

He was happy for them. Annoyed, yes. But happy. It had made this place—this prison—feel a little less empty.

As Ji-won passed their cell, he slowed.

He saw them.

Nam-gyu was on the lower bunk, curled so small he looked like a child. His body heaved in silence, shaking with sobs that had long since dried out his voice. His fingers clutched the blanket like it might dissolve if he let go.

Behind him, Mr. Baek sat with both arms wrapped around the boy, his head bowed, chin resting gently against Nam-gyu’s crown. He rocked him slowly, wordlessly, his hand stroking through dark, matted hair.

Like a father cradling his son.

There was no judgment in Baek’s eyes. Only sorrow. Only the unbearable weight of helplessness. His face was crumpled, a man too old for this kind of grief, and yet sitting through it anyway, bearing it because Nam-gyu couldn’t do it alone.

Ji-won stood there, frozen.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn't go down.

Something twisted inside him, sharp and awful. They were all hurting. Baek’s grief was plain in the way he held the boy. Ji-won’s own chest felt cracked in half. But Nam-gyu—he was beyond hurt.

He was shattered.

And looking at him now, Ji-won knew—really knew—that something in Nam-gyu had broken. And could never be fixed again.

He couldn’t bear to look at it. Couldn’t stand to see that kind of devastation.

Ji-won turned his eyes away.

And then, quietly, he kept walking.

The world had shifted. Something was gone now. Something they wouldn't get back.

And nothing—nothing—would ever be the same again.

And the prison still hadn’t recovered. Shattered glass crunched under the boots of guards, and blackened scorch marks stained the corridor walls. The air reeked of smoke and dried blood, and the halls buzzed with tension—like the building itself was holding its breath.

In the aftermath of the riot, order had been forcibly restored. But truth? That was a luxury no one was interested in. The guards were angry—at the inmates, at themselves, at the loss of control. Someone had to pay, and they weren’t looking for justice. Just a scapegoat.

The investigation was nothing more than a performance. They scribbled names on clipboards, whispered with bruised inmates, collected shaky accusations made out of fear or self-preservation. There were no checks, no second thoughts. Just mounting paperwork and more bruises.

Nam-gyu’s name came up fast.

He’d been inconsolable when they dragged him away from Dae-ho’s body—kicking, screaming, spitting blood through his grief. It made him memorable. Dangerous.

A few days passed in eerie stillness. Then, the boots came.

Their march echoed down the concrete corridor—sharp, mechanical, final. Every step reverberated through the floor like the ticking of a countdown.

“Prisoner 124. Interrogation. Now.”

Nam-gyu sat on the edge of the lower bunk—Dae-ho’s bed. He hadn’t moved from it in days. The blanket was still crumpled from when they dragged Dae-ho’s body out. Nam-gyu’s fingers clung to it like it was sacred. His spine curled inward, hollow-eyed and mute, as if each breath was a punishment for surviving.

“I said get up.”

He didn’t lift his head. His voice cracked like old glass. “Whatever.”

Two guards stormed in. There was no hesitation. One grabbed his arm, the other hooked him beneath the shoulder, and they hoisted him like dead weight. He didn’t struggle. Didn’t cry. Didn’t speak again. His feet dragged behind him, socks skimming across the floor. He’d stopped eating two days ago. He hadn’t touched the food tray from the night before. His body was light. Easier to manhandle.

The cellblock watched. Inmates fell quiet. Behind one set of bars, Mr. Baek gripped the metal tightly, eyes narrowed with concern. But he said nothing.

The guards shoved Nam-gyu into a windowless room cold enough to make his teeth chatter. The metal table at the center gleamed under the fluorescent light. A red camera blinked in the corner. The cuffs snapped around his wrists like handcuffs on a corpse.

Two men sat across from him. They wore plain shirts but carried the arrogance of men who didn’t need uniforms to assert power. The older one had greying temples and bags under his eyes. The younger, clean-shaven, barely blinked.

“Name?”

Nam-gyu didn’t respond.

The taller officer opened a file. Thick, worn, stained from fingerprints and old coffee.

“You’re being charged with instigating the riot, assault with intent to kill, and aggravated assault on a corrections officer who nearly bled to death from a cranial wound. You’re also under investigation for the death of inmate Park Jin-soo. Know him?”

Nam-gyu’s lips moved, but only a breath escaped. His eyes flicked up. “What?”

The shorter officer leaned in, voice oily and rehearsed. “Don’t play dumb. You vanished during the riot. When we found you, one of our men was bleeding out on the floor of the canteen—skull cracked. Right beside him were two bodies. Prisoners. Park Jin-soo and another one. Both dead. And you? Your hands were wrecked. Bruised to the bone. Knuckles torn open. Sound familiar?”

Nam-gyu’s expression shifted—confusion curling into something almost frightened. “I didn’t— I don’t remember that.”

“No?” the tall one sneered. “You don’t remember cracking someone’s head against the wall until they stopped moving? You don’t remember assaulting an officer doing his job? We have witnesses. People saw you, covered in blood, stumbling down the hall like a rabid dog.”

Nam-gyu’s gaze dropped to his hands, limp in his lap. He hadn’t noticed the bruises. Now he saw the dark scabs, the purpling skin stretched tight across his knuckles. Cuts still healing. His hands began to tremble.

“He almost died,” the officer continued coolly. “That guard. He was unconscious for thirteen minutes. We thought we’d lost him. He’s still in the ICU.”

“I didn’t touch a guard,” Nam-gyu whispered. But his voice betrayed him—thin, unsure, splintering. “And I-“

And then something broke through the fog.

A laugh.

That voice.

Park Jin-soo. Filthy. Cruel. Laughing while chaos erupted, saying Dae-ho’s name like it meant nothing. Like it was funny. Like Dae-ho’s death had been a game.

Nam-gyu saw blood on tile. His fist hammering someone’s jaw. Screaming. Cold water spraying. Someone yelling for help. He remembered him.

But not the guard.

And he hadn’t meant to kill him. Had he even killed him?

“I… I don’t…” His breath hitched. “I remember hitting someone.”

The officers stilled.

“He said he killed him,” Nam-gyu murmured. “Dae-ho. He said he did it. He laughed.”

“Are you confessing?”

“No!” Nam-gyu’s voice cracked, panic rising. “I didn’t mean— I don’t know what happened. I just wanted him to shut up. He wouldn’t stop. I don’t remember killing him. I didn’t— I don’t think—”

“So you did attack him,” the younger officer said. “In retaliation.”

Nam-gyu’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then: “I don’t know. Maybe. I just— I wanted him to stop.”

The tall officer clicked his pen. “You cracked his skull and left him bleeding in the canteen. Things like that don’t happen by accident.”

Nam-gyu’s spine jolted. His lips trembled. He swallowed bile.

“Same with the guard?” the other added. “He got in your way, so you took him out?”

“No!” Nam-gyu’s voice sharpened, full of desperation. “I don’t remember that. I would never- I never touched a guard. I swear.”

Silence. Only the hum of the overhead light and the steady red blink of the camera.

They slid the file toward him.

“Nam-gyu. Twenty-five. Criminal record going back to sixteen. Petty theft. Drug possession and selling. Solicitation. Assault. Multiple hospital stays for suspected overdoses. No listed family. No fixed address.” A pause. “You’re barely a human being on paper.”

Nam-gyu stared down at it—his life reduced to faded ink and tired creases. A rap sheet written by survival. Shame curled in his gut. Disgust, too. Fear.
But his voice came anyway, soft and low.
“I was trying to be better.”

The officers laughed.

“The whore who fell in love behind bars,” the older one scoffed, reclining in his chair. “That’s rich. Makes for a good redemption arc. But this isn’t a drama, kid. You don’t get to be the misunderstood hero. You’re exactly what you’ve always been—a piece of shit. A failure.”

Nam-gyu didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Then the red light on the camera blinked out with a click.

One of them stood, stepped behind him. The other stayed seated, cold eyes locked on his face.

“You want sympathy?” the one behind murmured, voice close to his ear. “Should’ve thought of that before you started spreading your legs for pills.”

Nam-gyu flinched hard.

The man in front of him tilted his head. “You think we didn’t know?”

“You were high more often than not. Limping down the corridor, barely holding yourself upright from all the ‘favours’ you gave out for a fix. Glazed eyes. Hollow smile. Like you didn’t even live in your own body anymore.” He leaned forward. “We let it slide. Thought—what harm could one junkie do? Selling his body for scraps. Clinging to some stupid fantasy.” A beat. “Turns out? A lot.”

Nam-gyu’s breath hitched. His throat closed up under the weight of the words. His ribs trembled with the effort not to fold in on himself.

“And then you had the nerve to play house with another prisoner. Like you mattered. Like someone like you could be loved.”

His voice cracked as he whispered, “I didn’t start the riot. I didn’t… I didn’t do it.”

“No,” the taller one said. He walked back into view and crouched just enough to look Nam-gyu in the eye. “But you’ll take the blame.”

He tapped Nam-gyu’s arm—almost gently. Mocking.

“You’ll make the paperwork cleaner. Neater. You don’t matter. Noone gives a shit about you and you should understand it at last.” He glanced down at the file, like he had to check it for a name that meant nothing. “Nam-gyu.”

Nam-gyu’s breath stuttered. The flood came silently at first—tears slipping past lashes he refused to close. His shoulders shook, but he made no sound. He stared straight ahead, barely seeing. Not because he didn’t want to—but because everything inside was falling apart.

Chapter Text

The canteen was quieter than ever. It was demolished. Some prisoners were assigned to clean this place up, to fix broken furniture, scraped walls. Others just sat there. No one dared to laugh. No one dared to speak too loudly. The clinking of spoons against metal trays echoed in the vast, empty air. It was a hollow sound, one that seemed to mock the silence left behind after the riot.

Ji-won sat with Mr. Baek at the usual table, though it didn’t feel usual anymore. The people who once filled the surrounding seats were either in the infirmary, in isolation, or—like Nam-gyu—gone somewhere else. Waiting. For something grim.

“I don’t get it,” Mr. Baek muttered, pushing around the bits of gray slop on his tray without eating. “It’s nonsense. They’re blaming Nam-gyu like he planned it. Like he did something wrong.”

Ji-won glanced up but didn’t say anything.

“I mean, look at him,” Baek continued, the frustration thick in his voice. “He’s just a kid. Lost. Troubled, yeah—but he’s not cruel. Not violent like that. Not… calculated.” He let out a bitter laugh. “He looked up to Dae-ho like he was everything. There’s no way he’d start something that could put him in danger.”

A prisoner from another table looked over but quickly turned away, as if afraid of being associated with any side at all.

Baek leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “They just want someone to blame. Someone easy. Someone whose past already makes them look guilty.”

“He killed someone,” Ji-won said quietly, but without judgment. “That’s what they’ll say. That it doesn’t matter why.”

Baek’s lips tightened. “And the rest of them? The ones who did kill, who hurt others during the chaos—will they see the inside of a courtroom? Or will they let it slide because they don’t want the paperwork?”

No answer came. Just the sound of trays scraping and boots on concrete.

“I’ve seen real monsters in here,” Baek went on. “And Nam-gyu isn’t one of them. He was changing. Dae-ho… he brought something out of him. Something softer. Something real. And now they’re trying to erase all of that like it never existed.”

Ji-won stared down at his untouched food. “They won’t listen. They never do.”

The two men sat in heavy silence. Around them, other prisoners picked at their meals with hollow eyes. The world hadn’t ended, but for some, it had shifted irreversibly.

Somewhere, Nam-gyu was waiting for a trial that didn’t care about truth. And in the canteen the people who once laughed and lived in fragments tried to pretend they still belonged to something that made sense.

The courtroom was a cold, sterile chamber filled with harsh fluorescent lights and the murmurs of dozens of onlookers—guards, officials, and a handful of other prisoners awaiting their own fates. Nam-gyu sat rigidly at the defendant’s table, his hands clenched into fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. Every eye seemed to bore into him, waiting for him to break, to confess, to admit guilt.

The prosecutor rose, voice sharp and relentless, as they recited the charges against him. Nam-gyu was accused of being the instigator of the riot that had torn through the prison—of sparking violence that left multiple prisoners injured and two dead. They accused him of orchestrating chaos and causing irreparable harm. The “evidence” was presented: testimonies extracted under pressure, surveillance footage twisted to suit the narrative, and statements from prisoners and guards alike—all pointing to him.

When the floor opened for his defense, Nam-gyu’s voice was steady but weary.

“I didn’t start the riot. I didn’t kill anyone during it,” he said firmly. “I’m not guilty.”

But the courtroom didn’t believe him.

Even the guard who had been saved by Dae-ho was called to testify. His words were cold and rehearsed, shaped by pressure from the authorities who wanted to close the case swiftly. The guard confirmed the accusations, pointing directly at Nam-gyu.

The betrayal hit Nam-gyu like a punch to the gut.

He had long suspected there was no justice here, but hearing it aloud—the certainty of his fate—was unbearable.

The judge’s expression was unreadable, but the murmurs from the room grew louder. The prosecution pounced on his statement. They reminded the court of his criminal past, painting him as a dangerous and manipulative man, someone who had lied before and could do so again.

Pressed by the mounting pressure and the cold faces around him, Nam-gyu’s defenses cracked. For the first time, he confessed, his voice raw and heavy:

“Yes. I killed one prisoner. But it wasn’t during the riot. I mean, technically it was, but... But it wasn’t for power or chaos. It was because he... he killed someone I loved. I didn’t mean for this to happen, but I couldn’t just stand by.”

A hush fell over the courtroom. His admission was a double-edged sword.

The prosecution jumped on this confession, twisting it to their advantage.

“You see,” the lead prosecutor sneered, “he finally admits to murder, yet tries to deny the other crimes. This only proves he’s a liar. Unreliable. Someone who cannot be trusted. If he was lying about one murder, why wouldn’t he lie about the others?”

The judge nodded slowly, absorbing the prosecution’s words. The defense lawyer said little, their own confidence shaken by the confession.

Nam-gyu sat back, defeated. His confession, meant to bring some measure of honesty, instead sealed his fate. The judge declared him guilty on all charges.

The sentence was pronounced coldly, without hesitation: life imprisonment.

The words hit him like a physical blow. The realization—this was it. No parole. No second chances. No future beyond the cold walls and endless nights.

He felt the weight of the sentence crush him, the finality of it sinking deep into his bones.

As the court cleared, Nam-gyu’s eyes stayed fixed on the floor. The fight was over. He had lost.

Nam-gyu’s footsteps echoed hollowly as the transport vehicle pulled up to the prison gates. The heavy clang of metal doors opening greeted him like a grim reminder of the life he was forced back into. As the guards shoved him through the corridors, he caught sight of the prison yard—the place still alive with movement despite the chaos from days before.

Prisoners labored silently, repairing the damage done in the riot. They lifted broken furniture, swept shattered glass, and patched torn walls. The atmosphere was tense but purposeful, a collective effort to reclaim order from destruction. Nam-gyu’s gaze drifted toward the spot where he had found Dae-ho’s broken body. The area was now clean—scrubbed of blood and debris—but in his mind’s eye, the memory remained vivid. He could still see Dae-ho lying there, motionless, the silence of that moment pressed deep into his chest.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t want to. Words felt meaningless.

The guards gripped his arms roughly, dragging him toward his cell. It was the same cell he had left before the riot, the same walls that now felt colder, emptier without Dae-ho beside him. They hadn’t transferred him to another facility—there was simply no space elsewhere. Whether that was a blessing or a curse, Nam-gyu couldn’t say. He didn’t care.

His mind was a blank slate, stripped bare of hope, anger, or fear. The weight of his sentence and the loss he’d suffered had drained him of everything.

They locked the heavy door behind him.

Nam-gyu stood there for a long moment in the dim light, the silence swallowing him whole.

He was back. But nothing felt the same.

The moment Mr. Baek heard the news—that Nam-gyu had been sentenced to life—his world seemed to tilt on its axis. The words replayed endlessly in his mind, brutal and unyielding. Life. Just endless days confined by cold walls and harsh judgment.

Baek’s chest tightened with a mix of anger and helplessness. No justice here, he thought bitterly. The system was a machine fueled by fear and punishment, blind to truth or mercy. He wanted to scream, to fight back, but he knew his fists were useless against the iron bars of authority.

In the days that followed, Baek watched Nam-gyu slowly unravel—though to the outside world, the boy seemed almost… different. Nam-gyu no longer moved like the reckless, impulsive soul who used to mask pain with biting remarks and devil-may-care energy. His behavior had shifted entirely—quiet, distant, detached. And his eyes… they were the worst part.

Nam-gyu’s eyes used to burn with fire. Whether it was anger, sarcasm, or desperation—there had always been something alive behind them. But now they were cold. Empty. Void of any emotion. Like all the light had gone out, leaving only a shell behind.

Surprisingly, the others didn’t mock Nam-gyu. They had seen what he did—the fight, the desperation—and the violent truth behind it. They respected the cost Nam-gyu had paid, and no one wanted to risk starting another fight. There was a quiet acknowledgment, a fearful distance. Nam-gyu had changed, and his presence in the yard and halls carried a weight that demanded respect, or at least wary silence.

But inside his cell, the change was more than physical. Nam-gyu stopped eating almost completely. Food slid untouched from the tray. Words became scarce, and when Baek tried to reach out, his efforts were met with blank stares or silent withdrawal. The boy’s eyes, swollen and haunted, never shed tears in front of anyone anymore. The pain was locked deep inside, smoldering behind a facade of coldness.

Mr. Baek found himself drawn to the cell whenever he could, slipping small comforts through the bars—extra bread, a rare kind word, a hand gently resting on Nam-gyu’s shoulder. Sometimes he wondered if Nam-gyu even heard him, or if the boy’s silence was a wall too thick to break through. Yet Baek stayed, refusing to leave Nam-gyu alone with his ghosts.

The prison was harsh and unforgiving, but in this silence between them was a fragile thread of hope—fragile, yes, but enough to hold onto.

Several days passed—maybe several months. Nam-gyu didn’t know anymore. Time had become a blur of grey walls, tasteless meals, and silence that stretched endlessly between each breath. He didn’t care to keep count. He didn’t care about much of anything anymore.

He had already tried to end it all twice.

The first time, Ji-won had found him just in time. No words were exchanged afterward, just the hurried tension in Ji-won’s hands as he cut Nam-gyu down, his face pale and terrified. The second time, Nam-gyu wasn’t so lucky. He was found by the guards and thrown into isolation, then nearly sent to psychiatric. They debated whether he was a danger to himself or others, but in the end, decided to toss him back into his cell, as if returning a broken object to a shelf.

Now, Nam-gyu simply existed. Or vegetated.

He spent most days lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling or curling into the corner of his bunk. Sometimes he heard voices outside—guards barking orders, inmates laughing or arguing—but none of it touched him. He was underwater, drifting, weightless.

One evening, his fingers brushed against worn pages folded into a tight square. He slowly unfolded them, and as the lines came into view, his breath caught.

Sketches.

The cafe he and Dae-ho had dreamed of building together.

Rough but filled with care—rows of tables, a warm kitchen, handwritten notes describing the menu ideas: spicy stews, pickled sides, soft-boiled eggs, and Dae-ho’s idea for a dessert that Nam-gyu had once laughed at. It was all there. Every detail was a memory.

He clutched the sketches to his chest and let the sobs break free. They came without warning, violent and raw, echoing off the cell walls like a storm. He buried his face in the paper, as if it might bring Dae-ho back, as if he could crawl into the drawing and live there instead.

But it was impossible.

Dae-ho was gone. The dream was gone. And Nam-gyu…

He was resigned.

Chapter Text

One day, the quiet, dead rhythm of Nam-gyu’s prison life was broken.

The familiar hum of the corridor lights was drowned out by the jarring rattle of keys and the stomp of boots approaching fast. Before he could even lift his head, his cell door was flung open with a bang, the cold white light from the hallway cutting into the dim grayness like a blade.

Nam-gyu didn’t flinch. He lay motionless on the top bunk, one arm slung across his face, the other hanging limp over the edge.

“I don’t have anything,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and lifeless. He assumed it was another random cell search. Maybe someone reported him again. Maybe they just wanted to harass him. Whatever it was, he didn’t care. Not anymore.

But instead of the usual shouts or the rustling of guards ransacking his things, he heard something else—quieter footsteps, the drag of hesitant shoes, a sharp intake of breath, and the muffled sound of someone being shoved forward.

Then the door slammed shut again.

Nam-gyu slowly lowered his arm and peered over the edge of the bunk.

A young man stood in the center of the cell, his posture awkward and uncertain. He was about Nam-gyu’s age. He carried a canvas prison-issue sack in one hand, the strap twisted between his fingers from how tightly he gripped it. His eyes flicked nervously around the room like he was trying to measure how much of his soul he’d lose in here.

Nam-gyu’s voice sliced through the silence.

“I haven’t had a cellmate in months.”

The guard, still outside, let out a lazy grunt. “Well, now you do.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t even neutral. It felt suffocating—thick with things unsaid and feelings unwelcomed.

The new inmate shifted his weight and finally moved toward the lower bunk, placing his sack gently on the mattress. His hands trembled slightly, either from nerves or cold or both. He didn’t look up at Nam-gyu.

Nam-gyu’s eyes narrowed. He stared at the bag, then at the man’s back, his gaze sharp and unreadable. He sat up slowly, legs dangling over the edge of the bunk. He didn’t look frail anymore, just distant. Heavy with something darker.

“You can’t use that bed.”

The man blinked, turning his head. “What?”

“That bed’s not for you.”

The man furrowed his brow. “They assigned me here. That’s the bunk they told me to take.”

Nam-gyu tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, calculated. “Then sleep on the floor.”

His voice wasn’t angry. But it was absolute.

The young man opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was something in Nam-gyu’s expression—something too cold, too empty—that made arguing feel dangerous. It wasn’t about the bed. It was about something deeper, something sacred.

Nam-gyu’s gaze drifted to the bottom bunk, and for a moment, his hardened expression faltered—just for a heartbeat. He could still see Dae-ho there sometimes. Asleep, or sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, smiling tiredly. He could still hear his voice in the silence. And now someone else wanted to lie there like none of it had ever happened?

No.

Nam-gyu looked away, eyes fixed on the far wall. He leaned back against the cold concrete, pulling his knees to his chest, his arms draped over them like a protective shield.

The new cellmate hesitated, then took a thin blanket from his sack and laid it on the floor. He didn’t say another word.

They sat in silence—Nam-gyu high above, the stranger on the concrete below. The air between them hung heavy with unspoken boundaries and unwelcome memories.

Nam-gyu didn’t sleep that night. He just listened to the stranger’s breathing. And he wondered how long it would take for the boy to see that some ghosts don’t make room for the living.

The silence between them stretched long into the next day. Hours passed, filled only with the distant clatter of trays, murmurs of guards, and the heavy footsteps of prisoners moving through routines Nam-gyu had long stopped caring about.

The new cellmate—still without a name—had made no move to challenge Nam-gyu about the bunk again. He slept curled up on the floor with only the blanket, sometimes rubbing his arms against the chill of the concrete. He kept mostly quiet, but now and then his eyes would flick up to the top bunk, watching Nam-gyu with an expression somewhere between caution and curiosity.

Nam-gyu didn't ask what he was in for. He didn’t care. But the boy had muttered it anyway to himself once, maybe out of nerves, maybe just to fill the void. Something about scamming people. Fake charity work, false investment tips—nothing violent, but enough to land him here.

It was during one of those long, silent stretches—just as the sun began to filter weakly through the high, barred window—that the stranger finally broke the silence.

"What’s your name?" he asked softly.

Nam-gyu didn’t move. He was lying on his side, back turned to the lower half of the cell, his breath slow and steady. It almost seemed like he hadn't heard. But the way his fingers twitched slightly over the edge of the mattress betrayed him.

The boy tried again, more hesitantly this time. "You been here long? I mean… I don’t mean to bother you. Just trying to... I don’t know. Talk."

Still no response.

A nervous laugh followed. "You don't have to answer. Just thought it’d be weird, being in here together and not saying anything."

Nam-gyu shifted, slowly rolling onto his back. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling above him. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, flat, and edged with disdain.

"Don’t treat me like we’re making friends."

The boy blinked, taken aback by the sudden sharpness.

"I—I wasn’t, I just..." he trailed off, unsure of what to say. He sat back against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees.

Nam-gyu turned his head slightly, not enough to face him but enough that his voice reached him more clearly. "I didn’t ask you anything. Don’t try to get cozy with me. This isn’t a camp."

The boy was quiet for a moment. Then, voice barely above a whisper, he said, "I’m Park Min-su."

Nam-gyu said nothing. He just stared back at the ceiling, letting the silence fall again like a steel curtain between them.

But even if he didn’t reply, the name lingered in his mind longer than he wanted to admit.

Park Min-su.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. The silence returned, but now it felt less empty—just strained.

And then, finally, Nam-gyu’s voice came, sharp and begrudging:

"Nam-gyu."

That was all. No warmth. No friendliness. Just the name.

But to Park Min-su, it was enough.

During a meal, Nam-gyu sat in the corner of the cafeteria, a tray of untouched food in front of him. He leaned back in his seat, eyes dull, arms crossed as he watched the slow shuffle of prisoners in line. Ji-won and Mr. Baek were already seated beside him, speaking quietly between themselves, their presence a quiet comfort in an otherwise suffocating routine.

Then Mr. Baek spotted a figure standing hesitantly near the food station—Park Min-su, tray in hand, scanning the crowded tables. He looked out of place, even in prison grays. His eyes were wide, uncertain, his steps slow and cautious. There was a lostness to him, something Baek recognized from someone else not so long ago.

Baek raised a hand and waved him over. "Min-su! Come sit with us. There’s room."

Nam-gyu’s posture stiffened instantly. He turned his head sharply to glare at Baek, then at the approaching boy. Min-su looked surprised by the invitation, but after a moment of hesitation, he shuffled over.

Nam-gyu didn’t hide his displeasure. As Min-su drew closer, Nam-gyu's eyes narrowed. He shifted in his seat so that he took up more space, legs splayed, shoulders wide, a silent warning. When Min-su went to sit beside Nam-gyu—where Dae-ho used to sit—Nam-gyu slammed his spoon down.

"Not there," he snapped, voice like a blade. "Pick another spot."

Min-su froze mid-motion, looking up in confusion. "I—I didn’t mean to—"

"That seat’s taken," Nam-gyu muttered, his eyes cold. "Don’t sit where you don’t belong."

The air turned heavy. Ji-won looked down awkwardly, avoiding the tension, while Mr. Baek sighed, shaking his head slightly.

"Nam-gyu," Baek said gently, though with firm undertone, "he’s not trying to replace anyone. He’s just a kid looking for a place to sit. Let it go."

"He’s sitting somewhere else. That spot’s not free."

Baek leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only Nam-gyu could hear. "You were worse when you first got here. More reckless, more hostile. But he’s even more lost than you were. At least you had someone looking out for you. You think pushing people away is going to bring Dae-ho back?"

Nam-gyu flinched, his jaw tightening. He didn’t respond, but his glare didn’t soften. Min-su remained standing awkwardly until Baek gestured him to the seat beside Ji-won instead.

"There. Sit here," Baek said, his voice warm again. "You’re fine."

Min-su nodded, still quiet, and slid into the seat. He didn’t speak much, just picked at his food. The table stayed mostly silent after that, broken only by the occasional scrape of cutlery.

Nam-gyu eventually rolled his eyes and muttered, "Whatever."

But his own tray stayed untouched, and his eyes flicked—just once—toward the boy now sitting among them.

Even if he wouldn’t admit it, something had shifted.

The three of them sat at the table. Ji-won and Baek chatted quietly, their voices blending into the hum of the canteen. Park Min-su sat across from them, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes flicking around nervously before settling on the half-eaten food in front of him. He nodded sometimes, trying to keep up with the conversation, offering a small smile when it felt right. But the fourth presence at the table, Nam-gyu, remained silent.

Nam-gyu leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, his cold gaze fixed somewhere far past the table. He didn’t look at Min-su. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even move except to occasionally tap his fingers against his arm. His presence was heavy, and his silence, even heavier. Ji-won seemed used to it by now. Baek, though, tried to keep things from feeling too strained.

Baek glanced at Nam-gyu, then at Min-su, then back again. Finally, after a pause in the conversation, he sighed. “Don’t mind him,” he said softly to Min-su, “Nam-gyu lost someone. Someone really important. He’s not trying to be a bastard. He’s just…”

“Baek,” Nam-gyu snapped, his voice low but sharp, his glare immediate.

Baek ignored the warning tone. “It’s just the way he grieves,” he continued. “It’s not personal. Try not to take it to heart. You’re new here, and honestly, I think you’re even more lost than he was when he first came. But not as hurting.”

Min-su’s eyes widened slightly. He didn’t speak, but he gave a small, almost understanding nod.

Nam-gyu stood abruptly. His chair scraped harshly against the floor, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. “You don’t get to explain me to him,” he said coldly, his voice low and tight with anger.

Baek raised his hands slightly. “I was just—”

“I don’t care,” Nam-gyu cut in. His eyes flashed for a moment, not with fire, but something quieter. More painful. “Don’t talk about him. Not to people who don’t know.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the table in tense silence.

Min-su watched him go, then glanced at Baek and Ji-won, unsure if he should apologize or just stay quiet. Baek let out a slow breath and looked down at the table. “He’s not heartless,” he murmured, “just broken.”

And no one disagreed.

Later that evening, the cell was dim and quiet, washed in the faint orange hue of the corridor lights seeping through the bars. Nam-gyu sat hunched on the lower bunk—once Dae-ho’s bed, now technically Min-su’s. He barely noticed the shift. It didn’t matter. The mattress still held traces of the past, and that was all that counted.

A sketchbook rested on his knees, its pages worn at the edges, corners curled from time and use. His hand moved slowly, pen gliding across the paper in steady strokes. He was drawing the cafeteria again. The one he had once envisioned building with Dae-ho. A place far from cells and concrete, with sunlight, warm wood, and people who smiled. The sketches were detailed, tender—his only sanctuary, the only way to feel close to what he’d lost.

Min-su had been quiet, respectful of the silence. But now he stood just beside the bed, hesitant. His eyes flicked to the sketch, and a small breath escaped him.

"That’s... really pretty," Min-su said, voice soft, careful, trying to be polite.

Nam-gyu didn’t even glance up. His hand didn’t stop. He didn’t answer.

Min-su shifted on his feet. "Did you design it yourself? It looks... peaceful. Like it’s from a dream."

Still no response. The air grew heavier, the silence thick and cold.

Min-su tried again, nervously rubbing his hands together. "I just meant—it’s impressive. You’re really good."

Nam-gyu stopped. Slowly, he closed the sketchbook with a soft snap and finally looked up at him. His eyes were cold, unreadable.

"Why do you keep trying to talk to me? I told you—I don’t want friends."

Min-su stepped back a little, instinctively. "I know. I just... I thought—"

"Don’t think," Nam-gyu snapped as he stood, his frame looming suddenly closer. "You think I need your approval? You think I care if you like my drawings?"

Min-su looked like he might cry. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Nam-gyu let out a sharp, mocking laugh, something bitter curling in his throat. "What, gonna cry now? You’ve been here five minutes and already you’re falling apart."

Min-su turned away slightly, embarrassed, shoulders tense.

Nam-gyu’s laughter died down. He stared at him a moment longer, then said, quieter but still edged, "I’m not a monster, you know. Whatever you’ve heard—whatever Baek or anyone told you—it’s not the full story."

Min-su looked back at him, startled.

"You think you already know who I am? You don’t. No one here does. Not anymore. So stop acting like we’re about to have a heart-to-heart."

Silence settled again, heavy and awkward. Min-su didn’t respond. Nam-gyu turned away and sat back down, reopening the sketchbook with a sigh. He picked up his pen, but the lines didn’t come as easily anymore.

Chapter Text

The next few days bled into one another, settling into a rhythm so mechanical it might as well have been etched into concrete. Wake up. Eat. Work. Eat again. Kill the hours. Work some more. Get locked back in. Sleep if you can. Repeat.

Each segment of time blurred into the next, smothered beneath the same dull palette of rust-stained grey and buzzing fluorescents. Even the sounds of prison life—clanging doors, the metallic grumble of trolleys, barked orders—seemed to loop like a broken tape.

Nam-gyu moved through it like a ghost tethered to routine. He didn’t question it. Didn’t think too hard. Didn’t feel much either. He just did what needed doing. Not out of discipline, not even survival. Just inertia.

That afternoon, the laundry room was heavy with steam and the stench of sweat-soaked uniforms. The industrial dryers roared in the background, masking most of the usual chatter. Nam-gyu stood at the folding station, stacking navy shirts with mechanical precision, his fingers operating without his mind fully present.

The sound of voices cut through—raised, then sharp.

It barely registered at first. Yelling wasn’t unusual. Neither was someone posturing over stolen soap, a skipped line, or bruised pride.

But then came a taunt, slicing through the white noise:

“What’s a knee-buckled thing like you doing here? Thought this place was for men.”

Another voice joined in, slick with mockery. “You’re the scammer, right? Got people wrapped around your fingers? Why don’t you work your little magic and get us out of here?”

Nam-gyu’s eyes drifted toward the far corner, his hands pausing mid-fold. Two inmates had Min-su trapped, his back pressed to a flaking wall of peeling paint and rusted pipes. One of them jabbed a finger into his chest—not enough to bruise, but enough to threaten. Min-su didn’t retaliate. He just stood there, small and cornered, trying to shrink further into himself. His mouth opened once, then closed. Nothing came out.

Nam-gyu lowered his gaze again. Fold. Stack. Fold.

It wasn’t his business.

Not really.

He didn’t owe Min-su anything. He didn’t owe anyone anything.

And yet...

His jaw tensed. His hands moved slower. The taunts grew meaner, the laughter more pointed. He could hear the shift in Min-su’s breathing even from here—sharp and shallow, the kind that came with panic.

It stirred something in Nam-gyu’s chest. Something he thought he’d drowned.

He dropped the shirt.

His steps were quiet but deliberate as he crossed the room, threading between laundry carts and heaps of damp fabric.

“Hey.”

One word. Calm. Almost lazy in its delivery.

The two inmates turned, irritation flickering across their faces—until they saw him.

Their posture changed. Just slightly. But enough.

It wasn’t fear exactly. Nam-gyu wasn’t physically imposing, not in the traditional sense. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days and probably hadn’t cared to eat either. Pale. Worn. Eyes like cold glass. But everyone knew his story by now. The guy who snapped. The one they said went off the rails after the riot. The one with nothing to lose. A lifer.

And that meant something.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, tone still flat.

The taller inmate raised his hands in a lazy gesture of peace. “Nah, man. Just talking.”

Nam-gyu stepped in closer. His gaze didn’t waver. “Then do it somewhere else.”

The weight in his voice wasn’t volume. It was intent. Cold, clipped, final.

The tension thickened like a heatwave, buzzing between bodies.

One of them chuckled under his breath, masking nerves with mockery. But neither of them said anything else. They looked at each other—then peeled away from the wall, shoving their way past a cart and vanishing out the side door with muttered swears that sounded hollow.

Min-su exhaled like he’d been underwater too long.

Nam-gyu turned back without a word.

“Th-thank you,” Min-su stammered, his voice still catching, trailing behind.

Nam-gyu didn’t pause. “Don’t thank me.”

“But still… you didn’t have to—"

“I didn’t do it for you,” he interrupted, his voice as quiet as before, but with an edge like cracked ice. “It doesn’t mean we’re friends. I just didn’t want to see another body dragged out of here.”

Min-su faltered, falling a few steps behind.

Nam-gyu returned to the folding station, picked up the same half-folded shirt, and started again as if nothing had happened.

After a long pause, without turning around, he added:

“But don’t let those fuckers win. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

A couple more days passed, each bleeding into the next like brushstrokes on a canvas washed with gray. Morning bells, stale breakfast, work, dinner, more work, then silence behind bars. The same rhythm. The same routines. The same weight in Nam-gyu’s chest that he didn’t know how to shake.

But amid the monotony, something began to shift—so gradually that he almost missed it.

Min-su had started to change.

Or maybe Nam-gyu had only just begun to notice him properly.

At first, it was just little things—so small they could’ve gone unnoticed. The way Min-su no longer flinched when the guards barked orders. How he started lifting his chin a little higher, not out of defiance, but out of quiet resilience. He still moved cautiously, still spoke softly, but there was a steadiness to him now, like the trembling fear that once coated his every movement had started to fade.

Nam-gyu didn’t speak much, but his eyes saw everything. He saw how Min-su lingered to help another inmate lift a heavy cart in the workroom, even though no one asked him to. He saw him offer his bread to Ji-won when the man complained of an upset stomach. He even saw him—just once—pat one of the older prisoners on the back with a reassuring smile after a tense exchange with a guard.

A smile.

That smile stirred something deep in Nam-gyu’s chest. It wasn’t Dae-ho’s smile—far from it—but there was something in it that echoed, some fragile sincerity that reminded him of warmth, of comfort, of a time when things didn’t feel so lost.

He hated it. And he couldn’t look away.

Each day, Min-su became a little more himself. Less like a lost boy clinging to the edges of the prison’s harsh ecosystem, and more like a quiet thread holding pieces of it together. He wasn’t trying to prove anything, and that was the strangest part. There was no desperation in the way he existed. He was just... decent. And in a place like this, that decency stood out like a flare in the dark.

Nam-gyu watched him from across tables, across their cell, across the thick veil of grief that still wrapped around his own chest. He told himself he wasn’t interested. That Min-su’s transformation had nothing to do with him. But that was a lie, and he knew it.

There were moments—fleeting and silent—where he caught himself softening.

Like when Min-su bumped into him by accident and immediately apologized with that earnest, wide-eyed look that made Nam-gyu want to punch something just to avoid how it made him feel.

Or when Nam-gyu found a half of a chocolate bar tucked under his tray one evening, the kind they only got once a month, and Min-su wouldn’t admit he’d slipped it there.

He didn’t say thank you. But something in him loosened.

At night, Min-su kept to his corner on the floor, his blanket worn and thin, his comic books stacked like little shields beside him. He never once asked for the bed. Never once commented on the silence. He just made himself small and present, like a shadow that didn’t ask to be noticed.

And maybe that was why Nam-gyu started to notice.

At some point he found himself listening when Min-su spoke. Not replying, not engaging—just... listening. The cadence of his voice, the way he tried to comfort Ji-won when his cough got worse, or how he quietly asked Baek about his grandchildren, like any of this still mattered in a place that swallowed time whole.

Nam-gyu didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t want to name it. He couldn’t.

But he no longer thought of Min-su as just another temporary name in a sea of faces.

And Min-su—maybe sensing something—never pushed. He met Nam-gyu’s silence with patience. When their gazes occasionally locked across the cell, he held the look for a beat longer than before. He never smiled then. He never tried to force it. But his expression said: I see you. And somehow, that was worse.

Then came the night Nam-gyu couldn’t take it anymore.

He was sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk—Dae-ho’s bunk. Not his. Never his. He hadn’t let anyone touch it since. His fingers idly traced a seam in the mattress, breath catching with ghosts he hadn’t been able to chase off, not even with rage, not even with pills.

Min-su was curled nearby on the floor, comic book resting on his chest as his eyes began to close. He looked peaceful. Comfortable. As if the cold, hard ground had become home.

And that... that was what broke Nam-gyu.

“I’ll take the lower one,” he said, voice hoarse like he hadn’t used it in hours.

Min-su’s eyes opened slowly, blinking up at him. “What?”

“The bed,” Nam-gyu clarified, barely above a whisper. “You can take the top. I’ll sleep here.”

Min-su sat up, blinking in confusion. “But... I thought you didn’t want—”

Nam-gyu cut him off with a shake of the head. “It wasn’t about you. It was about him. I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else lying here.”

Min-su was quiet for a long moment. “I didn’t mind the floor,” he said softly.

“I know,” Nam-gyu replied, finally looking up at him. “But you shouldn’t have to sleep there like a dog just because I’m stuck in the past.”

Silence stretched between them, but this time, it wasn’t cold. It was warm in its honesty.

Min-su gave a small, almost tentative smile. “Thanks.”

Nam-gyu just turned away, settling slowly onto the mattress as if it still burned with memory. His body curled instinctively toward the wall, one hand resting at the edge—where Dae-ho’s had once rested. It didn’t feel the same. It never would. But it didn’t feel like betrayal either.

Behind him, he heard Min-su stand up, the soft rustle of his blanket, the hesitant climb onto the top bunk. No further questions. Just quiet acceptance.

But before sleep could claim him, Nam-gyu spoke again, almost too softly to be heard.

“I’m still grieving... I think I'll always be,” he said. “That's why I act like an ass. Don’t take it personal.”

Min-su’s voice drifted down from above, warm and calm. “I never did.”

And for the first time in weeks, Nam-gyu’s chest didn’t feel so tight. The grief was still there, gnawing at his ribs—but something else was there too now.

But then came another day. Another struggle for every single prisoner. Nam-gyu, as usual at that time, was in in laundry room. It was a job that didn’t require much talking, and that suited him just fine. The hum of the machines, the steam, the rhythm of folding and sorting—there was something quietly methodical about it. Something that felt... familiar. Almost like home, though he hated thinking of that word.

When the guard informed him that someone else would be joining the laundry duty, he immediately bristled. It felt like a violation of something sacred. This was his space. His routine. His escape. And now, of all people, Min-su had been assigned to join him.

"No other spots," the guard said flatly. "Deal with it."

Nam-gyu didn’t hide his annoyance as Min-su stepped cautiously into the steamy room. Min-su offered a polite nod but didn’t say anything, wisely reading the tension in Nam-gyu’s jaw. The first few minutes passed in silence. Nam-gyu kept working like Min-su wasn’t even there.

The truth was, the laundry reminded Nam-gyu of a part of his past he rarely let surface. His mother had been a volatile, alcoholic woman who cared more for her next drink than for the three children she’d brought into the world with three different men. Nam-gyu, the eldest, had picked up the slack early. He remembered scrubbing school uniforms in their cramped bathroom sink, making sure his younger siblings wouldn’t be bullied for showing up in dirty clothes. It had never been about cleanliness. It had been about survival.

So laundry was something he knew. Something he had a strange sort of pride in. He didn’t need help. He didn’t want help.

After a while, Min-su cautiously stepped forward and tried to mimic what Nam-gyu was doing. He was careful, slow—too careful, Nam-gyu thought. It made him roll his eyes.

“Here,” Nam-gyu muttered eventually, unable to take the fumbling any longer. "Not like that. Like this."

He showed Min-su how to sort the clothes properly, how to measure out the powder, where to check for stains. Min-su listened attentively, nodding and asking quiet questions. The air began to thaw, just a little.

Then Min-su, in a well-meaning attempt to help—and to prove, perhaps, that he wasn’t entirely useless—grabbed the scoop and dumped what could only be described as a reckless, heaping mound of detergent into the machine. It was a mix of both washing powder and liquid soap, too much of both, far more than any load could possibly need. Nam-gyu, distracted by sorting uniforms on the opposite counter, didn’t notice until the machine let out a strange, sputtering groan.

He turned just in time to see the first bubbles burst from the rim.

A moment later, foam erupted—thick, white suds cascading over the metal drum like a volcano mid-eruption. They slithered down the machine’s sides, spreading quickly across the floor in a wave of sticky whiteness. Within seconds, the entire corner of the laundry room looked like the aftermath of a soap factory explosion.

Nam-gyu stared, frozen for half a beat.

“What the hell—” he muttered, blinking at the sight.

And then he laughed.

It wasn't a polite chuckle or a scoffing snort—it was a full-bodied, unrestrained burst of laughter that echoed against the tiled walls like a flare in the dark. It startled even him. His head tilted back, shoulders shaking, one hand clutched the edge of the metal counter for support as he doubled over, struggling to breathe between gasping fits of laughter.

It was the kind of laugh that hadn’t lived in him for a long time. Not since Dae-ho.

Min-su, standing awkwardly in the middle of the foam with the empty scoop still clutched in one hand, looked around at the mess he’d made. He winced. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

"No, no," Nam-gyu said between laughs, holding his stomach. "You idiot, you turned it into a damn bubble bath."

Min-su’s face flushed crimson, but he couldn’t help smiling. “Guess that’s one way to clean the floor…”

Nam-gyu let out another round of laughter, his voice lighter than it had been in weeks—maybe months. Something in him had uncoiled, like a spring he hadn’t known was wound so tightly.

For a moment, they weren’t inmates. They weren’t fractured people in a system that tried to grind out anything resembling joy. They were just two young men standing ankle-deep in foam, laughing like idiots in the quiet absurdity of it all.

The bubbles kept coming. A sticky flood of foam spread slowly toward the center drain, creeping along the cracks in the tile like a slow-moving monster. It lapped against their shoes, soaking their socks, seeping into the edges of their pants.

Nam-gyu wiped his hand down his face, breath still catching in his throat, the laughter lingering in his chest like warmth after a good cry. His face, usually tight and wary, looked almost boyish when he smiled—genuine, unguarded.

Min-su couldn’t stop watching him. He’d seen glimmers of this side before—fleeting, blink-and-you-miss-it moments where Nam-gyu’s sharp edges dulled. But this… this was different. This was sunlight breaking through after a long winter.

Without thinking, the words tumbled out.

“You have a cute laugh.”

It was soft, quiet. Not meant to be a big thing. Just a passing compliment. A small truth.

But Nam-gyu stilled.

His smile vanished like smoke caught in wind. He straightened, posture stiffening. Something in his eyes flickered—pain, memory, something deeper and rawer than Min-su had expected. The warmth in the room dropped a few degrees.

“Don’t say shit like that,” Nam-gyu muttered, already turning his back.

Min-su’s heart dropped. “I-”

But Nam-gyu had already grabbed a mop and dropped it into the foam with a sharp slap. He scrubbed at the floor like it had insulted him, jaw clenched tight, movements rigid. The air felt heavy again, the moment broken like glass underfoot.

Dae-ho used to say that. Almost word for word. He’d laugh, ruffle his hair, and call his laugh cute like it was the simplest truth in the world. During their stolen moments on cold nights, he’d lean in, tug Nam-gyu’s chin up, and say, “I love it when you're laughing.” And Nam-gyu would roll his eyes and pretend he didn’t care. But he did.

He always did.

Now the sound of his own laugh made his throat ache. It felt disloyal somehow, like joy should be a secret he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. Like every time he laughed without Dae-ho there to hear it, he was losing another piece of what they used to be.

Min-su lingered a moment longer in the foam, uncertain, his earlier ease replaced with a careful silence. Then, slowly, he bent down and grabbed another mop. He didn’t say anything—just joined Nam-gyu in cleaning up the chaos he’d caused.

They worked side by side, the silence now a fragile kind—not angry, not resentful. Just quiet. Shared.

Nam-gyu didn’t look at him again, but he noticed. He always noticed.

And somewhere, beneath the mess, beneath the ache in his chest, beneath the old ghosts and shattered pieces, a tiny part of him still held onto that laugh. Still remembered what it felt like to let go.

Just for a moment.

Even if he couldn’t forgive himself for it yet

Chapter Text

The laundry room had never felt so quiet.

The machine was silent now, its insides gurgling the last of the soap residue into the drain. Foam still clung to the edges of the tile like forgotten laughter, but the air had stilled. Nam-gyu leaned on the mop handle, unmoving, as if scrubbing the floor had drained more than just the soap.

Min-su worked a few feet away, careful not to disturb him. Their mops moved in rhythm, side by side but never touching.

"Hey," Min-su said quietly after a while, not looking up. "Sorry. About that."

Nam-gyu didn’t answer.

Min-su glanced at him, then back to his mop. “I wasn’t trying to— It just came out. I say dumb stuff sometimes. I didn’t mean to…”

Still nothing. Only the sound of suds smearing across tile.

“I just… I liked seeing you laugh,” Min-su finished, voice barely above a whisper.

Nam-gyu’s hands tightened on the handle. His knuckles whitened. A long breath left his nose. “That’s the problem,” he said, so low Min-su almost missed it. “People always like seeing you better when you’re pretending you’re okay.”

Min-su frowned. "I don’t think you were pretending."

Nam-gyu shook his head slowly. “You don’t know what it’s like carrying someone with you everywhere. Every breath, every step—he’s there. And then suddenly you laugh, and it’s like you left him behind. Like you’re betraying him."

His voice cracked then. Just slightly. But enough.

Min-su looked away, giving him the dignity of silence.

“I loved him,” Nam-gyu said. The words dropped like stones. “Dae-ho. I loved him and I failed him.”

The mop handle slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

Min-su didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just waited. Gave space.

Nam-gyu’s breath hitched as he sank down onto the damp floor, foam soaking into his uniform. He didn’t seem to notice. Elbows on knees, face in his hands. The kind of posture that held years of exhaustion.

“I don’t know how to be here without him,” he said, voice muffled. “Everything’s too quiet. Even when it’s loud, it’s quiet. Like the part of me that used to listen for him is still listening. And he’s not there.”

Min-su approached slowly. Sat beside him, even though the floor was wet and cold.

“You don’t have to pretend that you know,” Min-su said softly. “You’re still grieving. And that’s okay… I mean it’s understandable.”

Nam-gyu didn’t respond, but his hand twitched, fingers curling slightly near Min-su’s.

They sat there in silence.

Minutes passed.

And then, slowly, Nam-gyu’s shoulder tilted toward him. Just enough to lean. Just enough to feel the warmth of someone still alive beside him.

Min-su didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just let it happen.

In the late evening the cell was quiet, save for the low hum of the overhead light and the occasional creak of a mattress as someone shifted in their sleep.

Min-su lay awake on his back, blinking slowly, fingers drumming lightly against his stomach. His thoughts were a quiet storm—circling, returning, replaying the earlier moment in the laundry room like a scene he didn’t want to forget. He kept seeing Nam-gyu’s face as he laughed, hearing that burst of joy echo in the sterile space. It had lit something up inside Min-su, something warm and aching.

He shifted slightly, and the springs creaked under his weight. He let out a soft exhale, something between a sigh and a quiet snort of amusement at the memory. The moment had been ridiculous—and somehow perfect.

Below him, from the bottom bunk, Nam-gyu’s voice floated up, low and rough with sleep or maybe something else. “You awake?”

Min-su blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah,” he replied softly. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

There was a pause. Then the soft rustle of blankets, followed by the metallic creak of the bunk frame. Min-su felt a small jolt run through the bed as Nam-gyu climbed up. A moment later, Nam-gyu swung one leg over the edge and settled beside him on the top bunk, legs dangling freely in the air. His feet swayed slightly, high above the cold cement floor, his gaze locked somewhere far below.

Min-su was surprised—Nam-gyu never climbed up unless he had a reason. And there was something in the way he moved that made Min-su suddenly wonder if he’d had a nightmare.

“You okay?” Min-su asked after a moment. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Nam-gyu was quiet for a beat, then gave a small shrug. “Sort of.”

Min-su waited.

“I saw Dae-ho,” Nam-gyu murmured. “In a dream. He was there, just like he used to be. Sitting next to me, grinning like an idiot. He looked healthy. Like the way I try not to remember him—before everything fell apart.”

His legs kept swinging gently, the rhythm slow and distracted. He didn’t look at Min-su.

“He told me he liked my hair and was happy that I let it grow a little. Said it made me look softer. He tried to tuck a piece behind my ear, but his fingers were all clumsy and he laughed at himself. Said I looked like myself again.”

A breath of a smile touched Nam-gyu’s face, but it was quick to fade.

“Then he started messing with me. Stole half my rice, tried to braid my hair with his fingers. Told me to stop frowning so much.”

He shook his head, fond and pained all at once.

“He leaned his head against mine and just sat there. Talking about random things. Like the kind of ramen he missed. A cat he saw once on the yard. Stupid shit. I didn’t want to say anything that would end it. It felt too real. Like—like if I moved too fast or said the wrong thing, he’d vanish.”

Min-su turned his head slowly, watching the tension in Nam-gyu’s shoulders. He looked like something delicate trying not to fall apart.

“I didn’t move,” Nam-gyu whispered. “I stayed completely still. Like I was trying to trick the world into letting me keep him a little longer.”

Min-su swallowed, the ache in his chest growing.

“But I woke up. Just me. And the cold.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The air between them felt still, thick with something neither of them dared disturb.

“You miss him,” Min-su said gently.

Nam-gyu gave a small nod. “Yeah. Like hell. All the time. And I don’t think that’ll ever stop.”

“You really loved him.”

Another nod.

“He loved you too,” Min-su said. “That doesn’t disappear just because he’s not here.”

Nam-gyu didn’t reply. He just stared at the floor, legs still swinging slightly, like a boy trying to forget he ever dreamed at all.

“He’s still with you,” Min-su said. “Just... not the way he used to be.”

Nam-gyu didn’t answer. But he didn’t climb back down either.

And Min-su didn’t ask him to.

He noticed the subtle movement below: Nam-gyu’s hand trembling slightly as it brushed against his own cheek.

Min-su’s breath caught when he caught the shimmer of tears, slow and reluctant, tracing down Nam-gyu’s jaw. For a moment, the tough mask Nam-gyu wore cracked, revealing something raw beneath.

“Are you crying?” Min-su’s voice was barely more than a whisper, careful not to break the fragile moment.

Nam-gyu didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let out a bitter, humorless laugh that sounded more like a rasp. “I guess so.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, swallowing hard before speaking again. “Dae-ho… he was important to me. The only person who ever treated me like I was more than a fuck-up.”

His voice broke slightly on the last word, the weight of it sinking into the air. “I never had that before. People looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was a joke. But him? He saw through all the shit. He saw me.”

Min-su swallowed the lump in his throat. “You’re not a piece of shit, Nam-gyu. Not to me. Not to anyone who’s worth it.”

Nam-gyu’s laugh was dry and harsh. “Yeah? Feels like I am. Since he’s gone… all the cracks I thought I’d covered up, they’re busted wide open. I’m back to feeling like the mess I was before. Like I’m nothing but some wreck nobody gives a damn about.”

Min-su shifted closer on the bunk, careful not to jostle Nam-gyu but wanting to close the distance. His voice softened. “That’s not true. You’re not nothing. Actually, I would say you’re pretty cool. Yes, sometimes you scare me. But you’re not a bad person.”

Nam-gyu’s eyes flicked up to meet his, flickering with vulnerability that rarely showed. “You don’t get it. Before Dae-ho, I was deep in it. Pills, booze, anything to numb the noise. I was a wreck. I sold myself just to get a fix — didn’t care what it cost.”

He swallowed hard, voice thick with regret. “Dae-ho was the one who helped me keep my head above water. He made me want to fight, even when everything felt like it was swallowing me whole.”

Nam-gyu’s fingers trembled again, and Min-su’s hand reached out instinctively, brushing Nam-gyu’s cheek to wipe away the lingering tear.

“I’m scared,” Nam-gyu admitted, voice barely above a breath. “I feel the cravings creeping back, the dark nights that won’t end, the endless loop of ‘what ifs’ and ‘could’ve beens.’”

Min-su’s heart ached watching the fragile man before him—the fight behind the eyes, the fear barely contained.

“You don’t have to fight it alone,” Min-su said, voice steady but gentle. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Nam-gyu gave a small, dry chuckle, shaking his head just a little. “Not like you could anyway,” he said, voice rough but with a trace of humor, the kind born from too many walls and locked doors.

The chuckle faded quickly, replaced by a hollow silence. Then, almost softly, Nam-gyu added, “But thanks… it means something.”

Min-su lay back on his bunk, the faint creak of the metal frame settling beneath him. The dim light above flickered softly, casting a muted glow across the cramped cell. For the first time, he felt like he truly understood Nam-gyu — beyond the guarded silence, beyond the sharp edges and sarcasm.

He had heard the rumors—the whispers floating through the prison walls about what Nam-gyu did to survive. How he sold himself to other men, even some of the guards. At first, Min-su dismissed them. Nam-gyu always seemed too reserved, too closed off to be the kind of person who would give himself away so freely. It just didn’t fit.

But the truth was undeniable.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine the battles Nam-gyu had fought in his short life. The weight of his past, the desperation that had pushed him into places most people wouldn’t dare go. The kind of pain that hardened a person on the outside while breaking them inside.

Mr. Baek had told Min-su once about Nam-gyu and Dae-ho’s relationship—how much they meant to each other. It wasn’t just companionship. It was something deeper, something rare in a place like this. Dae-ho had never judged Nam-gyu for what he had done or where he had come from. Instead, he was a constant—a lifeline in the dark.

No wonder Nam-gyu was so broken.

No wonder the loss cut so deep.

It made Min-su’s chest tighten to think about it.

Nam-gyu had held on to something real in a world built on betrayal and fear. And now that it was gone, the cracks showed in ways Min-su had never seen before.

He realized then how much Nam-gyu needed someone—not just as a guard or a fellow prisoner, but as a person who could see him. Really see him.

And Min-su wanted to be that person.

To be there.

To understand.

To carry some of that burden with him.

But he knew he couldn’t replace Dae-ho.

Nam-gyu was still on the edge of Min-su’s bunk, bare feet dangling freely several feet above the cold concrete floor. Strands of his dark hair had fallen loose and brushed softly against his pale face, catching the moonlight and framing his features in a way that made him look younger—almost fragile.

His legs swung slowly back and forth, the steady motion the only sign of movement in the quiet space. Nam-gyu’s gaze was fixed on the floor, eyes heavy but distant, lost in thoughts he wasn’t ready to share.

Min-su watched Nam-gyu for a long moment, the quiet between them stretching but not uncomfortable. Finally, Min-su’s voice broke through the silence, low and gentle. “Hey... you want to sleep here? With me? Just for tonight.”

Nam-gyu’s head twitched slightly, surprised by the question. Without looking up, he let out a short, sharp snort—a mix of amusement and dismissal. “No way,” he said, voice rough but carrying that familiar sassy edge. “You think I’m gonna crawl into bed with you? You’re not that lucky.”

A small, fleeting smile tugged at the corner of his lips before fading. Min-su could tell it was less about refusal and more about keeping his guard up.

Min-su smiled quietly, unbothered. He understood that was Nam-gyu’s way—protecting himself with words when everything else felt out of control.

“So...” Min-su tried again, voice soft and patient, “you want to talk? About anything? I’m here.”

Nam-gyu’s legs kept swinging, his shoulders trembling slightly as he shook his head without looking up.

The silence deepened.

Min-su waited, then finally asked with a teasing lightness, “Alright, then... should I just shut up?”

Nam-gyu shook his head again, but this time it wasn’t a refusal. It was something else—a quiet permission, fragile and unspoken.

Min-su chuckled softly, leaning back against the wall, settling into the stillness beside him. Sometimes, just being there was enough.

Nam-gyu’s hair slipped further into his face, his bare feet swinging gently, and for the first time in a long while, he seemed almost at peace. Min-su shifted on the narrow mattress, careful not to disturb the quiet stillness that had settled between them.

He could sense Nam-gyu’s restlessness, the weight of sleeplessness pressing down on him like a stone. And though Nam-gyu hadn’t said much, Min-su understood — he didn’t want to be alone. Not now.

Exhaling slowly, Min-su ran a hand through his hair. The silence stretched long before he spoke, his voice low and steady, as if treading carefully on fragile ground.

“Since you won’t talk, I’ll do it,” he said softly. “I guess you could say… I wasn’t always this guy lying here beside you.”

He glanced sideways, catching a glimpse of Nam-gyu’s face partially hidden behind a loose strand of dark hair falling over his eyes.

“When I was a kid, I was a total nerd. Like… the kind of kid no one wanted around. Overweight, awkward, always the target for bullies.” His voice cracked just a little, memories sharpening painfully in his mind. “They picked on me for everything — my clothes, the way I talked, even how I walked. Sometimes, it felt like they wanted me gone, like I didn’t belong anywhere.”

Min-su swallowed hard, hands tightening into fists against the thin blanket. “But I always loved animals. Dogs, cats especially. They were the only ones who didn’t laugh or push me away. They made the loneliness easier to bear.”

He shifted, pulling his knees up slightly. “But I wasn’t just some sad kid. I got into trouble too. I started scamming people online, hacking accounts, messing with things I didn’t understand. It was reckless... stupid. But it made me feel powerful. Like I mattered.”

A dry, bitter chuckle escaped him. “Turns out, it wasn’t worth it. I’m here now—serving three years for the mess I made. Fair enough, I guess.”

Min-su’s eyes flicked to Nam-gyu’s feet swinging back and forth, the muscles in his calves tense beneath the thin skin.

“So... what about you?” Min-su asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “You wanna say anything?”

Nam-gyu’s gaze stayed fixed on the floor. His voice came slow, tired. “Doesn’t matter. Life sentence. Gotta leave the past behind.”

Min-su watched as a flicker of pain crossed Nam-gyu’s face, the barest tremble of his jaw. He wanted to say more, to bridge the gap between them with words that could hold some comfort. But for now, the silence spoke louder.

He reached out, a tentative hand brushing a stray lock of hair from Nam-gyu’s forehead, fingers lingering there for a moment.

"You're still a person. A human being, not just a number," Min-su said gently, his voice cutting through the heavy stillness of the night. "I know it's easy to forget in here... with the uniforms, the routines, the way people stop looking at your face and start seeing just your record. But you're more than that. You shouldn't forget who you are—what you like, what you hate. That still matters. You still matter."

Nam-gyu didn’t speak at first. His head was lowered, eyes fixed on a crack in the cement, the tension in his jaw visible even in the shadows.

He exhaled. Not sharply, not angrily. Just a slow, worn-out breath like someone who’d carried too much for too long.

“My family was always... a mess,” Nam-gyu said, voice low and hoarse. "No dad. He left before I could remember his face. My mom... she had this way of pretending we were fine while everything burned behind closed doors. She’d drink, yell. Sometimes worse. I always tried to protect my little sibling, even when I didn’t know how."

He paused, one leg stilling mid-swing.

"I think they hate me now. Or maybe that’s just in my head. I don't know anymore. Maybe it’s better if they do. I messed up so much, Min-su. All I ever wanted was to make things better for us. But I ended up here. And they’re out there. Alone. Probably ashamed of me."

Min-su remained quiet, giving him the space to speak.

"But you know what? We have something in common. I also always loved animals. It’s just... they’re honest, I guess. They don’t pretend. A dog likes you or it doesn’t. A cat scratches you or curls up in your lap. No games. No lies. Better than people, most days."

He gave a small, humorless laugh.

"And… I used to think I looked good. Like, actually good. Sometimes I’d look in the mirror and think... maybe I could be someone. A model. A celebrity. Someone people admire. Not because of who I was, but because of how I looked. I know it sounds vain and so stupid now. A joke."

Min-su turned his head, studying him with a kind of soft earnestness. "It’s not stupid. And... you do look good."

Nam-gyu glanced at him, a flicker of surprise passing over his face.

Min-su flushed slightly but didn’t look away. "I mean it. You’re... beautiful. Not just because of your face, or your hair, or your stupid pout. There’s something in you. Something... sharp and bright and real. Even when you try to hide it. Especially then."

Nam-gyu stared at him for a beat longer, then looked away, shaking his head with a quiet, almost bewildered chuckle. "You’re such a weirdo."

"Don't judge," Min-su replied, half-smiling.

And for a moment, something warm settled between them. A fragile sort of understanding. Two people, stripped of pretense, sitting in the dark, sharing pieces of themselves that most never got to see.

They didn’t need to say more. Not yet.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

Min-su yawned, his voice soft and a little heavy with sleep. "I'm getting really sleepy. Sorry, Nam-gyu... I'm probably going to pass out any minute now."

Nam-gyu was still sitting on the edge of the top bunk, his bare feet swinging slightly above the cold concrete floor. The hem of his pants brushed gently against his ankles with each slow motion. Strands of hair had fallen into his face again, catching the faint silver of moonlight that filtered in through the bars. He didn’t look up, just kept staring at the ground as if the cracks in the cement held answers.

Min-su shifted on the mattress, stretching his arms before rubbing the back of his neck. There was a moment of hesitation in his voice, like he wasn’t sure how to say what he was about to.

"Listen... Are you sure you don’t want to sleep here? With me? I mean—" he rushed to clarify before Nam-gyu could misunderstand, "not like that. I’m not saying anything weird. I swear. I just... I don’t mean it in a sexual way. I don’t sexualize you."

Nam-gyu finally looked at him, one brow twitching up in mild amusement. He snorted softly. "Not like you could anyway," he muttered with a small, sardonic smile.

He almost smirked but didn’t. His lips parted like he had something clever to say, then closed again. His expression softened into something tired and unreadable.

After a pause, he said quietly, almost regretfully, "I shouldn't."

Min-su didn’t argue. He nodded, understanding without question or judgment. He lay down on the narrow bed and shifted his body closer to the wall, pressing his shoulder against the cold surface. He left space beside him—enough for someone else. He lay on his back, arms resting loosely over his stomach, eyes still open to the ceiling above.

Nam-gyu noticed. He noticed how Min-su didn’t turn away, how he didn’t shut him out. He noticed the open space, the quiet welcome.

It brought something tight and aching into his chest.

Because someone else used to do that too.

Dae-ho.

He would lie in bed, pressed up against the freezing wall. Even when the bed was barely wide enough for one person, he made space. Not just physically, but emotionally—like he was saying, You can be here. It’s okay.

Nam-gyu used to complain about how cold the wall was. How it made his bones ache, how it felt like sleeping in a prison inside a prison. Dae-ho never argued. He just moved closer to the wall every night. Just so Nam-gyu wouldn’t have to. So he could be warm.

It had meant everything.

Now Min-su was doing the same.

Time passed. The cell was quiet except for the occasional distant sound—metal groaning, footsteps echoing faintly through the building. Nam-gyu didn’t move. Not for a long while. He was still on the edge of the top bunk, feet bare, strands of hair falling over his eyes. The floor was cold beneath him, the silence loud in his ears.

He looked down at Min-su. At the space left for him. At the still body lying there, on his back, unmoving but unmistakably awake. Min-su wasn’t asleep. He was pretending, maybe, but he wasn’t gone.

Finally, Nam-gyu moved. With slow, quiet effort, he eased himself down onto the bed beside him. The mattress shifted slightly beneath his weight, but Min-su didn’t flinch.

Nam-gyu lay down carefully, eyes adjusting to the dark. He turned slightly toward Min-su at first, staring at him—not that he could see much. Just the outline of his face, softened by shadows. He stared for a short while, taking in the quietness, the warmth that didn’t press but offered.

Then, as if embarrassed by how long he looked, Nam-gyu turned his back to him, curling slightly into himself.

Min-su, lying on his back, stayed still.

But he smiled to himself.

Chapter Text

Min-su didn’t even realize when he’d fallen asleep. The exhaustion had crept up quietly, lulled by the warmth beside him, the faint sound of Nam-gyu’s breathing, the comfort of not being alone. Somewhere in the deep of the night, his body gave in.

And with sleep came dreams.

In the dream, it was still night, but warmer. Softer. They were still in the prison, but the cell seemed larger, the air less heavy. Nam-gyu sat above him, straddling his hips, his hair tousled and falling forward, casting shadows over his sharp eyes. There was a weight in his gaze—not pain, not shame, just intensity. Something raw. Something knowing.

And Nam-gyu was moving on top of him.

His knees pressed into the thin mattress, his spine arched as he rolled his hips with slow, deliberate pressure. His back rose and dipped like a wave, every motion elegant and slow and dripping with intention. His oversized shirt hung off one shoulder, collar slipping low, exposing a delicate collarbone slick with sweat. His hair was messy, clinging to his forehead, and his lashes fluttered like he was struggling to keep his eyes open under the weight of it all—of pleasure, of desperation.

Min-su lay flat, stunned. Every breath he took shook.

Nam-gyu looked like something out of a fever dream. Too beautiful. Too fragile. Too hot. Too much.

He was all soft edges and flushed skin, grinding down against Min-su with the slow, teasing rhythm of someone who didn’t just want to be touched—he needed it.

“Please…” Nam-gyu’s voice cracked, high and breathless. “Min-su…”

He rocked his hips again, back arching, spine curling inward. His head dropped back, exposing the delicate curve of his throat as he whimpered—high, helpless, needy.

Min-su’s hands hovered just above his waist like he was afraid to touch him. Nam-gyu looked too delicate, like he might break under pressure, but at the same time, too hot to resist. He was glowing. Burning. And Min-su couldn’t look away.

Nam-gyu grabbed Min-su’s hands, laced their fingers together, and dragged them down to his waist—then lower. “Touch me,” he whispered, trembling. “I can’t— I want it—”

He ground down again, harder this time, and Min-su felt him—every curve, every throb, every shiver.

Min-su’s hands moved on instinct, gripping his hips, thighs, then sliding over the swell of his ass. His breath caught as his fingers sank into soft flesh through thin fabric. Nam-gyu moaned in response—high and broken—and kept moving, grinding his back against Min-su, his breath hitching on every roll of his hips.

His whole body begged.

Not with words, but with the way he moved, the way he trembled, the way his eyes fluttered open just long enough to look at Min-su—glassy, ruined, begging to be seen.

“You want me like this?” he asked, voice a whisper, almost unsure—like maybe he didn’t believe he could be wanted this badly.

Min-su’s heart punched against his ribs.

He was too beautiful. Too vulnerable. Every part of him screamed surrender, but there was something powerful in it too—something devastating. Nam-gyu didn’t hide how much he wanted. Didn’t care if it made him look desperate or soft or fragile. He was all of it at once, and it was killing Min-su.

He reached up, cupped Nam-gyu’s cheek with shaking fingers. Nam-gyu leaned into the touch like he’d waited a lifetime for it, closing his eyes, sighing like it hurt to be touched gently.

Min-su whispered, “You’re gonna ruin me…”

Nam-gyu just smiled, lips swollen, lashes damp, and kept grinding, his body moving like silk against him.

He was too much.
Too hot.
Too soft.
Too real.

And Min-su wanted this

But then—
Min-su startled awake.

It happened fast, sharp, like a snapped wire in the dark. One breath he was drowning in warmth, in skin and soft sounds and that devastating dream—then everything changed.

Reality crashed into him like a wave of cold water.
The thin, hard mattress beneath him.
The sting of frigid air against sweat-damp skin.
The distant clatter of something metallic far down the corridor.

And beside him—real, alive—Nam-gyu.

Curled close, small and still, his breath soft and steady. His body was warm, unaware, just inches away.

And Min-su—
He was hard.

His heart slammed into his ribs. Heat flooded him, chased quickly by guilt so sharp it nearly made him wince.

He clenched his jaw and cursed under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose with shaking fingers.
The dream still clung to him like smoke.

Nam-gyu—gasping, grinding, glowing. All of it had felt too real. His thighs. His voice. The way his back arched so delicately, so hungrily. Min-su hadn’t wanted it to end, and now that it had, shame punched a hollow into his chest.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen.
He didn’t want to see Nam-gyu that way—not just that way. Not when he had spent every day trying to prove, quietly and carefully, that he didn’t see him as something to take.

And yet—
Here he was.

Breath shallow.
Body betraying him.
Mind replaying the dream in agonizing flashes.

Min-su turned his face to the ceiling, careful not to move too much. His pulse thundered in his ears, and the cold felt sharper now, crueler, like punishment.

This isn’t just attraction, he thought, his throat tight. It’s confusion. Loneliness. Proximity. Need.
And something deeper he didn’t dare name.

He exhaled shakily and whispered into the dark, “Get a grip.”

Nam-gyu stirred beside him. Just a twitch—barely more than a breath.

Min-su held himself completely still.

Nam-gyu’s breathing evened out again. Asleep. Still untouched by what burned inside Min-su like a secret sin.

So Min-su rolled slightly away, giving them both space. A symbolic gesture. A small mercy.
He wouldn’t ruin this.
Not when trust was still something fragile growing between them, a tiny green shoot pushing up through concrete.

But the heat in his body hadn’t left. It settled in his gut, aching and bitter.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Tried to breathe past it.

And that’s when it happened.

A shift.

Subtle. So small it almost didn’t register—just a stretch, a curl of Nam-gyu’s spine. A change in the rhythm of his breathing.
But it wasn’t sleep anymore.

Min-su’s entire body tensed, bracing for something he didn’t have a name for.

Nam-gyu’s eyes opened slowly. Dazed. Sleep-drunk. But aware.
The moonlight caught just enough of his face to highlight the curve of his cheek, the flutter of long lashes, the softness of lips parted in a sigh.

He didn’t speak right away. He just blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, husky with sleep:
“You okay?”

Min-su’s throat went dry.

“Yeah,” he lied. It came out low and hoarse. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Nam-gyu said, voice a little raw. “The cold did.”

Min-su exhaled through his nose—relief, or maybe just the ache of guilt pushing out. “Want the blanket?”

Nam-gyu didn’t answer right away. He shifted slightly, not quite facing Min-su, but moving closer. The space between them shrank by inches.

“You moved,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation. Just an observation.

Min-su swallowed. “Just needed space. I didn’t want to take too much of yours.”

A beat of silence stretched.

“I don’t mind,” Nam-gyu said. So soft. Like a secret.

The words hit Min-su like a blow to the ribs.

He looked over at him—really looked.

Nam-gyu’s profile in the dark was almost too much to bear. Messy hair. Eyelashes brushing his cheekbones. Arms curled close to his chest like he was holding something precious—or hiding something broken.

“I do,” Min-su whispered. “I mind too much.”

Nam-gyu turned now, slowly. Brow creased just slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Min-su dragged a hand down his face. “It means I’m trying not to fuck this up. I’m trying not to be a creep when I—”
He stopped, jaw tightening. “Just forget it.”

But Nam-gyu didn’t forget.

He studied him in the dark. Then, after a breath:
“You dreamed about me.”

Min-su flinched, breath catching.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t teasing.
It was just… true.

Nam-gyu shifted again. Closer. Not touching, but nearly. “Was it bad?” he asked.

Min-su looked away. His voice cracked. “No. It was… too good.”

Nam-gyu looked down between them. His fingers toyed with the blanket edge, slow and absent.

Then, quietly, “It’s okay. I don’t hate you for that.”

Min-su turned his head toward him, surprised.

Nam-gyu didn’t smile. His voice was quiet. Honest. Maybe a little heavy.

“People wanted me before. Used me. Paid for me. Touched me like I wasn’t even there.”
He paused, throat working. “You never did. Even when you could have. Even now, you’re trying not to.”

Min-su’s heart twisted so hard he thought it might tear.

“I don’t want to be like them,” he said, voice raw.

“You’re not.”

Nam-gyu turned his back, curling in on himself again. But not to push Min-su away. He stayed close—closer than before. Like he wasn’t afraid of being seen now.

Min-su stared at the back of his neck, where the skin was pale and delicate.

The silence between them wasn’t empty anymore. It hummed with something alive.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare touch him.

But his chest ached with everything he wanted to say, and everything he knew better than to speak.

And yet—somehow—the shame in him began to ease.

Because Nam-gyu was still here.
Still breathing beside him.
Still choosing not to leave

The first light of dawn crept through the barred window, soft and pale against the cold walls. The shadows pulled back slowly, inch by inch, revealing the gray harshness of the prison cell. Nam-gyu blinked as the light touched his face, his eyes dry and gritty. His whole body ached—not sharply, but in a way that made him feel hollowed out. Like he’d survived something invisible.

He sat up stiffly, his muscles sore, as if sleep had been a battle. There was no alcohol, no pills, no sharp edges to blame it on this time. Just dreams. And silence. And the weight of things that couldn't be said out loud.

Sliding off the edge of the bunk, his bare feet met the cold metal ladder with a quiet clink. He climbed down slowly, one rung at a time, every movement deliberate. The air bit at his skin, and he pulled his thin jacket tighter around himself like armor. He didn’t look back.

He moved toward his own bed, needing the space, needing the familiar stiffness of the mattress that felt less like comfort and more like penance.

Behind him, Min-su stirred, the sound of shifting sheets barely audible. The mattress creaked softly, and a sleepy voice followed: “Hey…” A pause. A breath. “You okay?”

Nam-gyu froze mid-step. His shoulders tensed, eyes staring at the floor. “Forget the night,” he said, his voice low, rough. “It didn’t happen. Just… forget it.”

Silence followed for a moment, and then Min-su pushed himself up on one elbow. His hair was a mess, his eyes still puffy from sleep, but his voice had an unmistakable clarity. “I can’t,” he said, gently but firmly. “Because I saw you. Really saw you. Not the version you show everyone else. Just you. Scared. Tired. And still—God—still beautiful.”

Nam-gyu’s jaw tightened. His chest burned. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he muttered, almost bitter. “You were and you still are half-asleep.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Min-su replied. Then he hesitated. Frowned. “And I’m sorry. About… earlier. In the night.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “That wasn’t—God, I didn’t mean to— It just… happened. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Nam-gyu finally turned to look at him. His expression unreadable, arms folded tight across his chest.

“I mean,” Min-su continued quickly, panic creeping into his voice, “I’m not saying I’m not—attracted to you. I mean, I’m not trying to be. Not like that. Or—I mean, I don’t only—fuck.” He exhaled and dropped his face into his hands, muffling a mortified groan. “What I’m trying to say is… I think you’re… pretty. Really pretty. And I wouldn’t mind if—if something happened. Not that anything should, or—God, just ignore me. Please.”

Nam-gyu blinked. Then huffed.

Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled.

It was quiet, low in his throat, and entirely unexpected—like something fragile cracking open under pressure. “You’re such an idiot,” he said softly.

Min-su peeked at him from behind his fingers, face blazing red. “Yeah. Kind of spectacularly.”

Nam-gyu’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was there. “Are you always like this when you’re trying to be honest?”

Min-su nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately.”

Nam-gyu shook his head, moving to sit on the edge of his bunk. He rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Well… I’ve been through worse.”

They sat in the quiet for a while, the kind that wasn’t quite heavy, but not yet light either. A space in between. A pause between breaths.

Then Nam-gyu added, “Thanks. For not pretending.”

Min-su looked at him, surprised.

But Nam-gyu didn’t say anything more. He just sat there, shoulders soft, eyes lowered, a thousand thoughts flickering behind them. Then he stood, brushing imaginary dust from his knees and letting the quiet fall between them like a curtain being drawn.

“Well,” he said, voice a little too neutral now. “We should head to breakfast.”

Min-su blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Right. Sure.”

Nam-gyu didn’t wait. He slipped into his shoes and ran a hand through his messy hair, then shot Min-su a half-smirk over his shoulder. “Try not to trip over your feelings on the way.”

Min-su let out a weak laugh, still reeling a little, but grateful for the levity. “You’re the worst.”

“It seems that you like it,” Nam-gyu said, softer this time.

They walked out into the corridor side by side.

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual background hum—metal trays clattering against steel counters, boots echoing on concrete, murmured conversations blending into a steady drone. Somewhere across the room, a guard barked out a warning, sharp and brief, cutting through the air before dissolving into routine.

Nam-gyu moved through it all with a quiet ease, his tray balanced in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his uniform. His walk wasn’t as guarded as usual, his steps more relaxed. There was something lighter in his posture, as if a weight he’d forgotten he was carrying had shifted—if only slightly.

Min-su followed just behind him, and when they reached their usual table, Mr. Baek and Ji-won were already seated, halfway through their breakfast. A half-eaten boiled egg rolled lazily near Baek’s elbow; Ji-won was crunching on burnt toast like it was candy.

Baek looked up, arching a brow as Nam-gyu sat down—this time, beside Min-su instead of across from him. He set his tray down without a sigh, without a curse, and—Baek squinted—was that a faint smile?

“Well, well,” Baek said slowly, spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. “Look who finally decided to grace us with his divine presence.”

Then his gaze narrowed slightly, studying the subtle curve of Nam-gyu’s lips, the way his body leaned ever so slightly toward Min-su instead of away.

“And… smiling?” Baek added, more curious than accusatory. “Did I miss a holiday?”

Ji-won leaned forward, all gleaming mischief and sharp eyes. “You okay, Nam-gyu? You look… suspiciously not miserable.”

Nam-gyu didn’t rise to the bait. He grabbed a piece of toast from his tray, bit into it, and chewed calmly before answering. “Maybe I slept for once.”

“Bullshit,” Ji-won said with a grin. “You never sleep well. Not unless someone knocks you out or you’re doped to hell.”

Nam-gyu snorted through his nose but didn’t fire back. No glare, no scoff, no verbal dagger. Just a small shrug, almost casual. “Maybe I had a better reason this time.”

Baek’s spoon lowered slowly into his bowl. He clocked the flicker of Nam-gyu’s eyes toward Min-su—brief, but it spoke volumes. He watched the way Min-su tried (and failed) to hide the way his shoulders stiffened, how his hands fidgeted just slightly with the edge of his tray.

Baek didn’t push. He only smiled—rare and warm, like a crack in old armor. “I don’t know what changed between you two,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his spoon, “but whatever it is, it seems to be working. You’re almost tolerable this morning.”

Ji-won barked a laugh. “You mean Nam-gyu’s not breathing fire and spitting acid over his oatmeal for once?”

Nam-gyu rolled his eyes hard enough to see the ceiling. “Don’t get soft on me now. I’m still a bitch.”

“Sure, you brat,” Ji-won shot back, grinning. "Noone said otherwise."

Laughter rippled around the table—awkward from Min-su, sharp from Ji-won, quiet and genuine from Baek. But the most surprising sound came from Nam-gyu himself: a chuckle, low and soft, like it escaped before he could stop it.

It wasn’t much. Just a moment.

But it was real.

And when it passed, it left behind a warmth they hadn’t felt around Nam-gyu in weeks—maybe months.

They finished eating with a rhythm that didn’t feel forced. No snapping, no muttering under breath. Just the easy scrape of spoons and the occasional joke from Ji-won. The silence, when it came, wasn’t heavy like usual—it was easy, breathable.

When they were done, Nam-gyu stood first, brushing a few crumbs off his uniform. Without missing a beat, he nudged Min-su lightly with his elbow.

“Come on. We’ve got work,” he said.

Min-su blinked, still caught in the strange warmth of the morning. “Already?”

“Time flies when you’re not pissing me off,” Nam-gyu said with a smirk, turning toward the exit.

Min-su stood too, grabbing his tray and trailing after him, their steps naturally syncing as they crossed the room. Nam-gyu didn’t walk ahead or pull away. He didn’t even hide the soft tug of his lips.

Baek watched them go, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Ji-won gave a low whistle and leaned back, arms crossed behind his head. “Did that just happen?”

Baek didn’t answer right away. He watched Nam-gyu and Min-su vanish into the hallway, side by side, heads low in quiet conversation. He blinked once. Twice.

“Something did,” he finally said. “And I think it’s good.”

Ji-won snorted. “Good? In here? You sure you’re not hallucinating?”

Mr. Baek took a sip of the watery coffee and gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes—but it tried.

“For him,” he said. “Yeah. It’s a start.”

Nam-gyu walked fast.

Too fast.

Min-su had to half-jog just to keep up, the soles of his boots slapping clumsily against the concrete with every hurried step. The echo bounced between the corridor walls as they passed rows of identical doors, fluorescent lights casting a harsh pallor over everything.

“Hey—what’s the rush?” Min-su called after him, breath catching a little. “Are we late or something?”

Nam-gyu didn’t slow. He didn’t even look back.

“No,” he said, voice clipped and flat. “Just don’t feel like loitering.”

Min-su’s brows knit together. “Is it because it got weird back there?”

At that, Nam-gyu faltered—just for a breath, barely enough to notice. But then he stopped walking entirely near the end of the hallway, spine straight, shoulders stiff beneath the thin prison-issued jacket.

Min-su slowed too, careful with his steps, suddenly aware of the silence hanging between them. He watched Nam-gyu’s back for a moment, the way it rose and fell slowly, as if he were trying to push something back down inside himself.

Then Nam-gyu turned.

Not abruptly, not angrily—just slowly, with purpose. And as he did, he stepped forward and leaned in just slightly, closing the gap between them until they were eye to eye.

Min-su’s breath caught in his throat.

Nam-gyu was almost half a head taller, and yet in this moment, it felt like he was shrinking the space between them in a way that made Min-su feel small—but not in a bad way. He could see everything from this distance—the tired shimmer in Nam-gyu’s dark eyes, the faint shadow of a bruise near his jaw, the unruly strands of hair falling over his face.

“You’re making it about you,” Nam-gyu said, his voice soft but laced with something sharp. “Don’t.”

Min-su swallowed, heart thudding. “I didn’t mean to. I just—”

Nam-gyu cut him off, straightening his spine, that familiar mask of indifference settling over his features again.

“It’s not about awkwardness,” he said. “It’s not about you. It’s just the way it is. You start early, you finish early.”

He turned again, but slower this time.

Min-su stared after him, blinking. “Right. Sure. Early start. Makes sense,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything.

But honestly, it didn’t. Not really.

He was too distracted by how close Nam-gyu had been, how that smirk—not quite real, but not fully fake either—had curved his lips, how he could still feel the ghost of the other’s breath near his cheek. His brain felt scrambled, thoughts skipping in circles around how pretty Nam-gyu looked when he was annoyed.

It was almost unfair, how someone could look like that in a place like this.

Nam-gyu must have felt the attention, because he paused halfway down the corridor and gave Min-su a glance—just a flicker over his shoulder, unreadable, quick.

Then he kept walking.

Min-su jogged again to keep pace, trying not to grin like an idiot, when the sudden scrape of heavy boots made both of them tense.

A guard appeared from a side hallway, thick-necked and mean-eyed, his uniform jacket open, baton slapping lazily against his thigh. He spotted Nam-gyu immediately, his lip curling into a sneer.

“Well, well, where are you running off to, you whore? Late for a meeting with your old friends, or just trying to outrun the memories?”

Nam-gyu didn’t slow down. If anything, his pace quickened, shoulders tight, like he was trying to shake the words from the air.

Min-su struggled to keep up, feeling the sting of the insult as much as the urgency behind Nam-gyu’s steps.

The guard chuckled darkly. “Careful, princess—running fast won’t erase what you are.”

Without breaking stride, Nam-gyu flicked him off—middle finger sharp and deliberate, a silent “fuck you” sharper than any words.

The motion was clean and sharp, like flicking a cigarette toward the wind.

“Go polish your baton, Officer,” he called over his shoulder, voice smooth as silk and twice as cutting.

The guard muttered something under his breath—something ugly—but didn’t follow.

Min-su stood there stunned for half a second, then hurried to catch up with Nam-gyu, who was already heading down the final stretch toward the laundry.

He was walking like he owned the hallway, like nothing could touch him.

And Min-su, breathless again for a different reason, couldn’t help but smile as he followed.

Even in moments like this—especially in moments like this—Nam-gyu was impossible not to look at. Impossible not to follow.