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The trauma bay is already chaos by the time Baek Kanghyuk pushes through the doors.
Blood on the floor. Screams bouncing off steel. The fluorescent lights buzz too loud, too white. The patient’s vitals are crashing, someone’s crying, and Nurse Cheon’s already yelling at an intern whose gloves are on inside out.
Standard Tuesday.
“Move,” Kanghyuk snaps, shoulder-checking an orderly as he drops his bag and surveys the scene. “What’s the mechanism?”
“Blunt force. Motorcycle versus barrier. No helmet. GCS 4 on scene,” Jaewon answers tightly, already gloved, already holding pressure on a bleeding abdomen.
Kanghyuk’s eyes flick over him once—messy hair, soaked sleeves, jaw clenched so hard it looks painful. He looks like he hasn’t slept. Again.
Kanghyuk looks away before his gaze lingers. “Why hasn’t he been intubated?”
“We tried. Vocal cord swelling—visualization’s a nightmare.”
He doesn’t say it, but the message is in his tone. I was waiting for you.
Kanghyuk doesn’t hesitate. “Suction. Scope. Push sux and etomidate. I’ll tube him.”
“You can’t see anything down there,” Jaewon says.
“Watch me.”
---
Jaewon does.
He watches as Kanghyuk goes in blind, never blinking. The whole bay holds its breath for eight seconds—and then the tube’s in, cuff inflated, lungs inflating with a hiss.
Kanghyuk’s voice slices through the air. “Pulse dropping. Pressure’s tanking.”
“Massive internal bleeding,” Jaewon mutters. “FAST was positive. Bleeding into the peritoneum.”
“Then prep the OR.”
“No time,” Jaewon says, standing taller. “He’ll arrest in five. We open here.”
There’s a pause.
Kanghyuk turns to him, expression unreadable.
“You’re not the attending.”
“No. But I’ve got the knife and the hands to do it. You’ll assist me or get out of the way.”
Silence. Even the monitors seem to go quiet.
Kanghyuk’s stare is ice. “If he dies on this table, it’s on you.”
Jaewon doesn’t blink. “Then I’ll live with it. Can you?”
---
They cut.
Together.
---
The room floods red.
They work fast, wordless, muscle memory and instinct. Kanghyuk retracts ribs with steady, forceful hands while Jaewon clamps bleeders and evacuates clots like he’s been doing it for years.
He hasn’t. But right now, you wouldn’t know that.
Their movements sync up in strange rhythm—like a duet composed in war.
Sweat drips into Jaewon’s eyes. He blinks it away. Kanghyuk tosses him a lap pad without looking. He catches it one-handed.
They don’t speak again until the patient is stable, bleeding controlled, vitals rising. Kanghyuk pulls off his gloves with a sharp snap and tosses them into the bin.
“Cocky,” he mutters.
Jaewon exhales slowly. “Alive.”
Kanghyuk turns. Their eyes lock.
Too close. Too charged.
“You defied a direct order,” Kanghyuk says, low and controlled. “You’re not invincible.”
“No,” Jaewon replies, just as soft. “But you’re not always right.”
That’s what does it.
Kanghyuk steps forward. Just enough to breach the edge of personal space. Jaewon doesn’t flinch. He’s trembling slightly—adrenaline, fury, something else—but he doesn’t back down.
“You want to challenge me in front of the whole team?” Kanghyuk asks.
Jaewon lifts his chin. “Maybe I want you to admit I’m not just your shadow.”
Kanghyuk says nothing.
But his gaze is dark, sharp, unreadable. And it lingers—on Jaewon’s mouth, his throat, the red on his collar.
Whatever he was going to say next is cut off by Nurse Cheon clearing her throat loudly. “Can one of you demigods finish signing the trauma report?”
Kanghyuk doesn’t look away for another two beats.
Then he turns.
Walks off without a word.
---
Jaewon doesn’t realize he’s still holding the scalpel until it slips from his gloved fingers and hits the floor.
He doesn't pick it up.
Instead, he looks at the doorway Kanghyuk disappeared through and thinks—
Why the hell do I feel like I’ve fought this battle before?
Even though this is the first time it’s felt like a war.
---
Universe B
Downtown Seoul – 2:12 a.m.
Warehouse District. Wet asphalt. Streetlights flickering like dying stars.
---
There’s blood on Woo Chaewon’s knuckles.
He wipes it off on the back of a dead man’s jacket, slow and methodical, as if ritual matters more than remorse. His breaths fog in the cold air. His side aches—gunshot graze, nothing vital. Still hurts like hell.
Behind him, a metal door creaks open.
Footsteps. Not hurried. Expensive.
He doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.
“Didn’t peg you for the cleanup crew,” he says, voice quiet but edged.
Geumson’s voice follows, casual as a silk noose. “You’re bleeding. Sloppy.”
Chaewon turns.
And there he is.
Lee Geumson.
Prosecutor by day. Puppetmaster by night. Dressed in black, tailored, arrogant. Like a man who believes Seoul belongs to him because he’s memorized its arteries.
“You sent them,” Chaewon says, low.
Geumson raises a brow. “If I had, would they have missed?”
“Some did. Some didn’t.” Chaewon takes a step closer, eyes flat, movements slow and trained. “And one of them begged before he died. Said your name.”
Geumson doesn’t flinch. “They beg a lot, these days. Maybe you’ve started listening.”
“You set me up.”
“No,” Geumson says smoothly. “I gave you a test.”
Chaewon’s fist clenches. His side pulses in pain. Blood drips again. He doesn’t notice.
Geumson does.
“You’re not looking so steady, Captain.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Why? It suits you. Soldier without a war. Blade without a cause. Maybe I’m doing you a favor—keeping you sharp.”
Chaewon moves. Fast. Hand at Geumson’s throat in a blink, pinning him against the brick wall.
Geumson doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t struggle. He smirks.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice brushing against Chaewon’s face like smoke. “You kill me, you’ll never find out what I know.”
Chaewon’s breath is ragged. They’re too close. The air between them is soaked with tension and the taste of iron.
“Try me.”
Geumson doesn’t blink. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
“…What.”
“This,” Geumson says, barely audible. “This thing between us. It’s not loyalty. Not hate. It’s something older. Like we’ve done this before.”
Chaewon’s fingers loosen just slightly. Confused. Angry. Shaken.
That’s when Geumson leans in.
Not far. Just enough.
So close they’re breathing the same air. So close it’s almost a kiss—but not quite.
“Next time,” Geumson says softly, “try not to bleed so much. It makes you human.”
Chaewon releases him.
Shoves him back hard enough to make the wall thud.
Geumson doesn’t fall.
He smiles.
“Good night, Chaewon.”
Chaewon watches him disappear into the night, every step silent like a whisper of sin.
He stands alone under the flickering light, blood dripping onto the wet ground.
And in that moment—
He knows.
He’s seen that smirk before.
In a dream.
In a hospital.
In someone else’s skin.
---
Universe A
Hankuk University Hospital — Trauma Center
03:47 a.m.
---
It’s quiet now.
The kind of quiet that follows adrenaline like a shadow. The trauma bay’s been scrubbed clean, vitals monitors silenced, floors gleaming under flickering white lights. But the silence doesn't bring peace. It never does.
Jaewon is in the locker room, alone, half changed, fingers trembling slightly as he unlaces his blood-streaked shoes. His scrubs are stiff with dried plasma. The adrenaline’s gone, and what’s left is… heat. Burned nerves. A tightness in his throat.
He knows what it is.
It’s not fear. It’s not pride.
It’s Kanghyuk.
---
The door opens behind him with a metallic clang.
Jaewon doesn’t turn. He knows that step. He knows the exact way Baek Kanghyuk’s boots sound on tile—measured, heavy, certain.
“I didn’t need backup,” Jaewon says flatly.
“I wasn’t offering,” Kanghyuk replies.
Jaewon exhales through his nose. “Then what do you want?”
Silence.
Then, “You crossed a line.”
“I saved a life.”
“You gambled a life.”
“And we won.”
Kanghyuk doesn’t respond.
Jaewon turns around. Slowly. His shirt’s halfway undone. Collar loose. Neck exposed. Eyes sharp.
“You’re not mad I cut. You’re mad I was right.”
Kanghyuk steps closer. “I’m mad you think it was your call to make.”
“We didn’t have time for you to make it.”
It’s a low blow. He knows it the second he says it.
But he doesn’t back down.
Neither does Kanghyuk.
Now they’re only a foot apart. Breathing each other in. Heat off skin. The faint scent of iodine and sweat clinging between them.
“You think being right once makes you invincible?” Kanghyuk growls.
“No,” Jaewon murmurs, “but I think it makes you scared.”
Something in Kanghyuk’s jaw ticks. His hand twitches—like he wants to hit something. Or hold something. Jaewon doesn’t know which would be worse.
“You’re not my enemy,” Kanghyuk says, voice tight. “Stop treating me like one.”
“Then stop treating me like I’m disposable.”
That lands. Hard.
Kanghyuk looks away for half a second—just half—and Jaewon sees it. Sees the hesitation. The guilt. The crack.
Then Kanghyuk’s hand slams against the locker behind him, inches from Jaewon’s head. Not hitting. Not threatening. Just—close.
Jaewon doesn’t flinch.
Kanghyuk leans in.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough to feel.
“You think you know me?” Kanghyuk says, low, dangerous.
“No,” Jaewon breathes. “But I think you want me to.”
The air goes still.
His heart is in his throat. He swears he can hear Kanghyuk’s pulse.
Their eyes lock.
Kanghyuk’s gaze drops—to Jaewon’s lips, his collarbone, the flush crawling up his neck. Then back to his eyes. Searching. Tormented.
“I’m not someone you should want,” Kanghyuk says finally.
“But I do,” Jaewon whispers, and it feels like a confession and a curse.
Silence.
Then Kanghyuk steps back.
One step.
Another.
He turns, walks away without a word, door slamming shut behind him.
---
Jaewon exhales like he’s just surfaced from drowning.
And still—he's burning.
Not from the heat of the OR, but from something much worse.
He presses the back of his hand to his mouth like he’s afraid of what he almost said.
Or what he wanted Kanghyuk to say back.
---
Universe B
Juwoon Syndicate Headquarters
04:12 a.m.
---
The Juwoon estate isn’t a home.
It’s a fortress.
Three levels of armed guards. Surveillance dead zones mapped to Geumson’s memory. Hallways wide enough for blood to be scrubbed clean without staining the walls.
He walks through it like he owns it.
Because, in many ways, he already does.
---
The meeting room reeks of incense and barely-concealed rage.
At the center sits Lee Juwoon — syndicate patriarch, Geumson’s father, a man whose voice can make generals flinch and judges kneel. Across from him, Geumson stands like a shadow cast by ambition itself.
“You orchestrated a hit on Bongsan property without my approval,” Juwoon says. His voice is quiet. That’s when he’s most dangerous.
Geumson doesn’t blink. “It worked.”
“Don’t test me.”
“I’m not. I’m replacing you.”
Silence.
Someone inhales too loudly.
Juwoon’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, the room threatens to erupt in violence.
But Geumson only smiles. Smooth. Cold. Beautiful in a way that shouldn’t survive in places like this.
“I want the throne,” he says.
“You’re not ready.”
“I’m already doing the work. I’m already paying the cost.”
“The cost,” Juwoon says softly, “is loyalty.”
Geumson laughs under his breath. “Then I’m bankrupt.”
---
Later.
The meeting ends without blood.
Just tension. Just unfinished war.
Geumson exits to the balcony, hands gloved, eyes sharp. The night is thick with Seoul's rot. Sirens echo faintly in the distance, as if warning something wicked is loose.
And then—
A click. Behind him.
Not a gun. Just a lighter.
He doesn’t turn.
He doesn’t have to.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” Geumson murmurs.
Chaewon steps out of the shadows, cigarette between his lips, coat damp from the rain.
“No,” Chaewon says. “Just wanted to see what betrayal looks like up close.”
Geumson smirks. “Then look harder.”
Chaewon leans against the railing beside him. Close. Too close for a spy. Too far for a lover.
“You’re going to burn everything down.”
Geumson shrugs. “Let it burn. Maybe something cleaner will rise from the ash.”
“And who decides what’s clean?”
“Me.”
Silence.
Then Chaewon’s voice drops lower.
“You think I’m not watching you?”
“I hope you are.”
Geumson turns to face him. Their bodies almost align—just off-center. Not touching. Not yet.
“Tell me something, Captain,” Geumson says, eyes unreadable. “If I lose everything—would you still come for me?”
Chaewon’s jaw tightens.
“I don’t rescue devils.”
“No,” Geumson whispers. “But you follow them.”
He steps back into the dark, the faintest echo of a grin left behind.
Chaewon doesn’t stop him.
But his fingers twitch like he almost reached.
And didn't.
---
Universe A
Baek Kanghyuk’s Apartment
05:36 a.m.
---
“Stay, or collapse in the stairwell. Your call.”
That’s all Kanghyuk says.
No kindness in his voice. Just that clipped, irritable tone he uses when he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care.
Jaewon blinks at him from the doorway, exhausted, still in half-washed scrubs and a trauma coat that smells like smoke and blood and antiseptic. He sways on his feet.
He doesn’t argue.
---
The apartment is sparse. Surgical. Like him.
Steel gray furniture. No clutter. No warmth. The kind of place where someone sleeps three hours a night and never dreams.
Jaewon toes off his shoes with a sigh that borders on a groan.
“Couch or floor?” he mutters.
Kanghyuk tosses a towel at his head. “Shower first.”
Jaewon catches it. Just barely.
---
Twenty minutes later
The steam hasn’t cleared from the bathroom mirror. Jaewon stands shirtless, towel low on his hips, staring at his own reflection like it might crack open and explain why his skin still feels too hot.
He thinks about Kanghyuk’s hand slamming the locker beside his head. About the way he didn’t move. About the way he wanted to move.
He splashes cold water on his face.
It doesn’t help.
---
Back in the living room, Kanghyuk’s on the couch, scrolling through a trauma journal with a scowl. He doesn’t look up when Jaewon appears wearing an oversized T-shirt that clearly doesn’t belong to him.
But he does notice.
His eyes flick up. Down. Away again.
“Shirt’s fine,” he says gruffly.
“You handed it to me.”
“Didn’t say I was blind.”
Jaewon snorts under his breath and collapses onto the floor with a pillow.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” Kanghyuk says.
“It’s fine.”
“You’ll wake up with spinal damage.”
“Good thing I know a surgeon.”
A pause.
Kanghyuk sighs like the world is exhausting and so is Jaewon. Then he shifts. Tosses the blanket to the side and pats the far end of the couch.
“Don’t touch me in your sleep.”
“I don’t want to touch you when I’m awake,” Jaewon says.
Liar.
---
Two minutes later
They’re lying on the couch. Awkward. Facing away from each other. Jaewon’s bare knee brushes against Kanghyuk’s thigh once. He doesn’t move it.
The silence is thick.
“So,” Jaewon whispers into the dark, “you always let people crash here?”
“No.”
“…So why me?”
Kanghyuk doesn’t answer.
Not right away.
Then, finally:
“Because you scare me.”
Jaewon freezes.
He turns slightly. “Excuse me?”
“You scare me,” Kanghyuk says again, quiet. “You’re reckless. And you make me reckless. And I don’t like how that feels.”
Jaewon exhales.
His voice shakes when he says, “You think I don’t feel that too?”
Silence.
Then—
The couch shifts. Kanghyuk rolls onto his back. Jaewon feels the warmth of his arm just inches away. Neither moves.
“Go to sleep,” Kanghyuk says.
Jaewon doesn’t.
Not for a long time.
Because in that thick, aching quiet—
He realizes this is the most he’s ever felt seen.
And it’s terrifying.
---
Universe B
Euljiro Backstreets — 3rd District Zone
11:49 p.m.
---
Rain.
Always rain in this part of town. It slicks the asphalt in oil-sheen black, puddles reflecting flickering neon in broken shapes. The alley smells like rust and gasoline and something rotting deeper in the dark.
Chaewon’s boots splash through it as he runs.
Gun low. Jacket flaring behind him. Blood trailing from his ribs.
The deal was a setup.
He knows it now. He’s three blocks too deep and a beat too late. The Bongsan cartel was never coming to negotiate.
They came to kill him.
---
Two gunmen flank him near the fire escape. He dives, rolls, returns fire. One goes down.
The second gets him in the side.
Close. Too close.
Chaewon grits his teeth, presses a hand to the wound. He’s still upright. Barely. The pain sears through him like fire, but he doesn’t stop moving.
He never does.
---
He stumbles into an abandoned print shop, the heavy door groaning shut behind him.
Silence.
Almost.
Footsteps echo. Measured. Calm.
Not Bongsan.
Something worse.
Geumson.
Dressed in black again. Not a single drop of rain on him. Like the storm knew not to touch him.
“You knew,” Chaewon breathes, back against the wall, blood soaking through his shirt.
Geumson’s head tilts. “Of course I did.”
“You sent me here.”
“No.” He steps closer. “I invited you here. You chose to come.”
“Why?” Chaewon rasps.
Geumson’s gaze darkens. “To see if you’d live.”
---
The tension spikes.
Chaewon’s gun is still in his hand. But his arm is trembling now.
Geumson doesn’t even flinch. He crosses the room slowly, stopping just a breath away. His voice drops to something cold and intimate.
“You move through this world like you want to be ruined.”
“And you want to be the one to do it?” Chaewon spits.
“No,” Geumson murmurs, brushing a gloved thumb near the blood at Chaewon’s jawline. “I want to see if someone like you… survives someone like me.”
Their eyes lock. Everything in the room stills — rain outside, breath inside, time between them.
Geumson steps closer.
Closer.
Too close.
Chaewon shoves him back.
Not far. Not hard.
Just enough to say not yet.
“You set me up,” he growls.
“I gave you clarity.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“And you’re bleeding.”
Geumson sighs, unbuttons his coat, and shrugs it off. Holds it out like an offering.
Chaewon doesn’t take it.
“Don’t mistake this for kindness,” Geumson says softly. “I’m only helping because I want to see what kind of monster you become with a scar from me.”
He tosses the coat over Chaewon’s shoulder.
Then disappears through the back exit like smoke slipping beneath a door.
---
Chaewon stays frozen, chest heaving, blood soaking through the fabric.
The coat smells like gunpowder and cologne and something even more dangerous.
He should throw it away.
He doesn't.
---
Universe A
Baek Kanghyuk’s Apartment — 06:58 a.m.
---
The first thing Jaewon notices is warmth.
Then the arm around his waist.
Then the slow, terrifying realization that he’s not alone.
His eyes snap open.
And Baek Kanghyuk is there.
Still asleep. Still holding him.
One long, scarred arm slung heavy across his middle, chest pressed to his back, their legs tangled under the blanket that neither of them remembers pulling up.
For a breathless moment—
Jaewon doesn’t move.
Because for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels safe.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
---
Kanghyuk shifts behind him.
A soft exhale against Jaewon’s neck. A faint murmur, too slurred to catch.
Jaewon should move.
He should laugh, shove him off, pretend this didn’t happen.
But instead—
He lets himself stay.
Just for another minute.
---
When Kanghyuk finally stirs, it’s abrupt. His body jolts back like he’s been caught mid-crime. Jaewon rolls away instinctively, the moment cracking between them like thin glass under a step.
Neither speaks for a few seconds.
Too much tension. Too much knowing.
Then Kanghyuk clears his throat. Stands.
“This never happened.”
Jaewon blinks at him from the couch. “You were spooning me.”
“I was unconscious.”
“You were nuzzling.”
“False.”
“You whimpered.”
Silence.
Kanghyuk looks like he wants to throw himself into traffic.
Jaewon hides a smirk.
“Coffee?” Kanghyuk says, voice flat.
“Please. Extra denial.”
---
The kitchen is awkward.
Too much distance between them for a room this small.
Kanghyuk hands him a mug without meeting his eyes. Jaewon watches him fumble with the sugar like a man who can perform battlefield thoracotomies but can’t survive morning-after silence.
“So,” Jaewon finally says, “are we pretending this didn’t happen? Or just pretending it didn’t mean anything?”
Kanghyuk sets the spoon down. Slowly.
“I don’t do ‘meanings.’”
“Liar.”
A pause.
Kanghyuk’s hands curl around his own mug like he might crush it.
“Last night was…”
He trails off.
Jaewon waits.
But the sentence never finishes.
---
There’s a knock at the door.
Both of them flinch like they’ve been caught.
Kanghyuk moves first, yanking the door open—
—and there stands Dr. Han, looking exhausted, annoyed, and holding a trauma report file.
He glances at Jaewon standing barefoot in Kanghyuk’s shirt.
Then at Kanghyuk’s rumpled hair and flushed neck.
Then back at Jaewon.
A long pause.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t see anything,” Han says dryly. “As long as the paperwork’s done.”
He hands Kanghyuk the file and walks away without waiting for an answer.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
Jaewon sips his coffee.
“Subtle,” he says.
Kanghyuk groans into his hands.
---
Universe B
Seoul Central District Court
09:02 a.m.
---
The courtroom is freezing.
Wood-paneled walls. Metal detectors at every entrance. A judge’s bench that feels like a throne. The hum of whispered politics and expensive shoes clicking on tile.
And in the center of it all — Geumson.
Prosecutor.
Immaculate.
A three-piece suit tailored so precisely it feels like armor. Hair swept back, expression unreadable. He doesn’t look like he’s here to serve justice.
He looks like he’s here to own it.
---
“Call your witness.”
His voice is velvet.
The courtroom murmurs.
And from the side door, hand still wrapped in gauze, posture military-sharp despite bruises and blood loss — Woo Chaewon walks in.
Time stops.
Geumson’s eyes flick up once.
Just once.
But it’s enough.
Their gazes crash like a wave against concrete.
No greeting. No recognition. Just the deadly silence of two men pretending they haven’t been breathing each other in for weeks.
---
Chaewon takes the stand.
Raises his right hand.
Swears to tell the truth.
And then Geumson approaches.
Every step slow. Echoing. Calculated.
He circles the witness box like a predator that’s already memorized the kill shot.
“State your name.”
“Woo Chaewon.”
“Occupation?”
“Private security consultant.”
“Previously?”
“Naval Intelligence. Special Recon.”
“Mm.” Geumson smiles faintly. “So you know how to lie.”
The courtroom shifts.
The judge raises a brow.
Chaewon doesn’t flinch.
“And you know how to manipulate a courtroom,” he replies.
Geumson's grin tightens just a little — almost a real emotion.
“Let’s talk about the night of the Bongsan raid.”
Chaewon’s jaw ticks.
“You arrived without backup. Why?”
“I was given intel suggesting a low-risk exchange.”
“By whom?”
Chaewon hesitates.
The air thins.
Geumson leans in. Not close. But closer than he should.
“Answer the question.”
“You already know who.”
“Enlighten the court.”
Chaewon’s voice drops. “The source was anonymous.”
“Convenient.”
“And yours isn’t?” Chaewon counters, sharply. “Tell me, Prosecutor — where exactly were you when the bodies started hitting the ground?”
Gasps.
Judge bangs the gavel. “Order.”
Geumson smiles like a man on fire who’s decided to enjoy it.
“I’m not on trial.”
Chaewon’s voice is quiet. “No. But you should be.”
---
The rest of the testimony is a blur of pointed phrases, strategic omissions, and too much eye contact.
By the time Chaewon steps down, he’s not sure which part of him aches more: the wound in his side, or the one in his chest.
---
Outside the courtroom.
Rain again. Always rain.
Chaewon lights a cigarette with shaking fingers.
Behind him: footsteps.
He doesn’t turn.
“I’m surprised you didn’t object more,” Geumson says softly.
“I’m surprised you didn’t perjure yourself.”
A pause.
“I missed this,” Geumson murmurs.
“This?” Chaewon exhales smoke. “You mean near-death and legal entrapment?”
“No,” Geumson says. “Us.”
Chaewon turns.
There’s a storm in his eyes.
“There is no us.”
Geumson steps closer. Close enough that their coats brush.
“Then why do you keep showing up where you know I’ll be?”
Silence.
Raindrops start to fall. Slow. Cold.
Chaewon flicks the cigarette away and walks off.
But Geumson watches him go—
Like a man who’s already decided that someday…
He won’t let him.
---
Universe A
Hankuk University Hospital — Trauma Floor
08:10 a.m.
---
Nurse Cheon Jang‑mi walks into the trauma unit, holding two coffees, and immediately stops walking.
Because Baek Kanghyuk is… smiling.
Not the sarcastic half-smirk. Not the smug post-surgery "you're all idiots" face.
An actual, tired, private smile — aimed directly at Yang Jaewon, who’s just walked in with damp hair, a surgical coat slung over one shoulder, and Baek’s T-shirt barely hidden beneath his scrubs.
Jang-mi squints.
No. Nope. That’s not normal.
She backs out of the room like a cartoon character exiting stage left.
---
Meanwhile, Kanghyuk is trying to pretend everything is fine.
He’s on his fourth chart and second coffee and still can’t stop glancing at Jaewon.
Who is very obviously not looking back.
At all.
Which is somehow worse.
---
In the nurse’s station:
Nurse Agnes is reviewing vitals when Jang‑mi slams her coffee down like a courtroom exhibit.
"Tell me you saw it."
Agnes doesn’t look up. “Saw what?”
Jang-mi lowers her voice. “They’re being weird.”
Agnes finally glances up. “You’ll need to narrow that down.”
Jang-mi nods toward the trauma bay. “Dr. Baek and Dr. Yang. They’re acting like—like they just had sex and then decided to pretend they’re strangers.”
Agnes frowns. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”
“I’m not judging,” Jang-mi says, “I’m just saying something happened, and I want to live.”
“Fair.”
---
Elsewhere:
Dr. Han walks into the trauma team conference room and immediately turns on his heel.
Because the air inside?
Thick.
Jaewon’s standing at the whiteboard, explaining a case. Kanghyuk’s sitting, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Jaewon’s face like he’s trying to burn it into memory. Every time Jaewon paces past him, their shoulders graze.
Neither flinches.
But neither says anything, either.
Han mutters to himself, “I give it one week before they combust and set off the sprinklers.”
---
10:43 a.m.
In the trauma break room:
Kanghyuk corners Jaewon by the fridge.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re deflecting.”
Jaewon opens the fridge. “You’re projecting.”
Kanghyuk steps in closer. “You’re infuriating.”
Jaewon doesn’t back down. “And you’re—”
Their shoulders brush. Again.
Silence.
Too close.
Too loud.
Jang-mi walks in carrying a clipboard.
Sees them.
Freezes.
Backs out again.
From behind the door: “Do it already, for god’s sake!”
Kanghyuk blinks. Jaewon nearly chokes on laughter.
---
Later that day, in a stairwell:
Kanghyuk traps Jaewon against the wall.
“You said it didn’t mean anything.”
“I lied.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
Kanghyuk leans in like he’s about to kiss him—
—but Jaewon ducks away with a smirk.
“Too many cameras. Try again later.”
And then he’s gone.
---
Kanghyuk stands there alone, staring at the wall, fists clenched.
And smiling.
Just a little.
---
Universe B
Woo Chaewon’s Apartment
02:17 a.m.
---
The door was locked.
Bolted. Triple-checked.
But it didn’t matter.
Because the lock is hanging open now. Twisted. Forced. Clean.
Chaewon stands in the doorway, breathing hard.
His apartment is wrecked.
Not ransacked — no, that would suggest panic or desperation.
This was surgical.
Every drawer opened. Every file cabinet turned over. One photo frame cracked, deliberately.
On his desk, scratched into the wood in blood-red ink:
"You’re not untouchable."
---
He doesn’t call it in.
Doesn’t clean it up.
He just walks inside, silent, gun drawn, senses burning.
---
Three minutes later, he knows exactly what’s missing.
Not the documents — those are decoys.
Not the surveillance drives — those are encrypted.
It’s the photo that’s gone.
The one no one was supposed to know existed.
A candid, blurry shot. Him and Geumson. Post-interrogation, post-bloodshed. Leaning close. Not touching — but close.
Almost human.
---
A sound.
The faintest creak on the balcony.
Chaewon spins, gun raised—
—and Geumson steps through the sliding glass door like he owns the air inside.
Black shirt. Gloves. No weapon. Just him and that too-perfect smile.
Chaewon doesn’t lower the gun.
“You picked a hell of a night to visit.”
“I could say the same.”
---
They stare at each other.
Geumson glances at the mess. At the red warning. At the shattered frame on the ground.
Then, slowly, looks at Chaewon.
“I didn’t do this.”
“No?”
“No. If I wanted to scare you, I’d leave a body, not a message.”
Chaewon doesn’t move. “You expect me to believe that?”
Geumson’s smile vanishes.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
---
The silence is sharp.
Chaewon finally lowers the gun. Just a little.
Geumson steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. He stops just short of touching.
“You’re bleeding again,” he says.
Chaewon snorts. “Nothing new.”
“I could fix it.”
“I’d rather bleed.”
“Liar.”
Another pause.
Then Geumson tilts his head.
“Whoever did this knows about us.”
“There is no us.”
“Oh?” Geumson’s voice is almost soft. “Then why did you keep the photo?”
That lands like a hit.
Chaewon exhales, chest tight.
“I should arrest you.”
“You should kiss me.”
That stops everything.
---
One beat.
Then Chaewon steps forward and shoves Geumson back against the wall.
Hard.
The glass rattles.
But Geumson doesn’t flinch. He just stares.
Eyes dark.
Challenging.
Ready.
Chaewon’s hand curls in his shirt, teeth clenched.
“I hate you,” he growls.
“I’m counting on it,” Geumson whispers.
Their mouths almost crash.
But Chaewon pulls back.
Breathing heavy. Shaking.
“Get out.”
“Make me.”
“I swear to god—”
Geumson leans forward, lips brushing his jaw.
“You keep threatening me like it’s not foreplay.”
Chaewon shoves him harder.
Then steps away.
“You want to help?” he rasps. “Find out who sent that message. And keep your distance.”
Geumson’s smile returns, razor-sharp.
“No promises.”
And then he’s gone.
---
Universe A
In the Air — Medical Helicopter Bravo One
17:38 p.m.
---
The rotors scream above them.
Wind slams against the sides of the chopper like fists. Below: city lights blur past in fractured grids. Inside: blood.
Everywhere.
A twenty-two-year-old biker. Blunt force trauma. Internal bleeding. BP dropping. Time: none.
“Abdomen’s distended,” Jaewon yells, trying to hold the portable ultrasound steady.
“Confirmed pelvic fracture,” Kanghyuk barks. “We crack him open now or he dies before we land.”
“You want to do an ex-lap up here?!”
“No choice.”
Jaewon stares at him.
“You’re serious.”
Kanghyuk’s eyes flash, sharp and familiar. “Have I ever joked in the sky?”
Jaewon growls under his breath, snapping gloves on.
“Give me suction. Get the crash kit open. I want that IV wide bore. Now.”
---
Ten minutes in, the floor’s slick with blood. The kid’s pressure is crashing.
Jaewon’s wrist is cramping. Kanghyuk’s face is set like stone.
“Clamp,” Kanghyuk says. “I’ve got the bleed.”
“No, you don’t—there’s another source.”
“I said I’ve got it—”
“You almost died last time you said that!”
The words slam out of Jaewon like a punch.
Kanghyuk looks up.
Everything stops.
Even the wind seems to pause.
Jaewon’s breathing hard, surgical mask slipping down. His hands tremble, just slightly.
“I’m not letting you bleed out on me again,” he mutters.
Not today. Not again. Not with everything they’re not saying hanging between them like another open wound.
---
Kanghyuk watches him.
Very quietly:
“Jaewon.”
But Jaewon doesn’t let him speak.
“I know you think you’re indestructible,” he says, voice cracking. “And I know you think you have to carry everyone. But I’m here too. I’m right here. And I’m not going to keep standing by watching you throw yourself into every fire like your life doesn’t matter—because it does.”
The suction hisses.
Kanghyuk doesn’t say a word.
So Jaewon leans in, chest heaving, eyes fierce.
“And if you die before I tell you how I feel, I swear to god I’ll resurrect you just to kill you again.”
---
The kid’s vitals beep — stabilizing.
They both glance down.
Still alive.
For now.
Jaewon slumps back.
Kanghyuk adjusts the clamp with surgical precision… then glances up.
And says:
“…We’ll talk after we land.”
Jaewon glares at him.
“You better.”
---
Universe A
Trauma Center Rooftop — Helipad Bay
18:53 p.m.
---
The helicopter spins down, the rotors sighing to a halt like the lungs of a god giving out.
Inside: blood-stained gloves, silent glances, a patient being wheeled away alive.
Outside: Kanghyuk and Jaewon, still on the rooftop.
Alone.
---
Jaewon leans against the railing, wind tousling his hair. His scrubs are soaked, his jaw is set, and his heart is hammering in his throat.
Kanghyuk hasn’t said a word since they climbed down from the helicopter.
Now, finally, he steps forward.
“You meant what you said up there.”
Jaewon doesn’t move. “Do you really have to ask?”
“No,” Kanghyuk says quietly. “I just… didn’t expect it like that.”
Jaewon turns.
And suddenly the wind’s not the loudest thing anymore.
“I’ve almost lost you twice now,” he says. “And I’m so goddamn tired of pretending I haven’t.”
Kanghyuk blinks.
Jaewon’s voice drops. “I wake up in the middle of the night thinking I’m still in that trauma bay. Covered in your blood. Do you know how that feels?”
“Yes.”
The word is sharp. Soft. Loaded.
Kanghyuk closes the distance.
“I remember how cold the floor was. I remember the sound your voice made when you thought I wasn’t going to wake up. I remember you holding my hand like it was the only thing tethering me back.”
Jaewon looks at him — truly looks.
Then Kanghyuk steps even closer.
“I remember you saying my name like it broke you.”
Jaewon’s mouth parts.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he whispers.
Kanghyuk smiles — small, pained.
“Because I’m not good at things that aren’t emergencies.”
A pause.
Then—
“I love you, Yang Jaewon.”
Silence.
Breathless.
Shattering.
And then Jaewon laughs — short, disbelieving, eyes stinging.
“You really had to wait until after we did open abdominal surgery in a flying death box to say that?”
Kanghyuk tilts his head. “Well, I wanted it to be memorable.”
Jaewon lunges forward and kisses him.
It’s not soft.
It’s not careful.
It’s desperate.
Fists in fabric. Teeth. Wind howling around them. Blood still drying on their hands and lips and hearts.
Kanghyuk pulls him in like he’ll never let go again.
Jaewon doesn’t fight it.
Because he never wanted to.
---
When they break apart, they’re breathless.
“You’re mine now,” Kanghyuk says, voice low and feral.
“I always was,” Jaewon replies. “You just didn’t notice.”
Kanghyuk grins.
“I noticed.”
---
Universe B
Docks. Warehouse 42. East District
01:34 a.m.
---
Chaewon crouches behind a stack of crates, sidearm drawn, boots silent on the concrete.
The message scratched into his desk wasn’t just a threat.
It was a code.
A signature he hadn’t seen in years.
"Bering."
A ghost.
A betrayal.
A man he trusted once — in war, in fire, in the kind of brotherhood you’re not supposed to survive. And now?
Now Bering’s selling intel to the Bongsan cartel.
And leaving blood like breadcrumbs.
---
Chaewon spots him. Upper level. Armed. Smiling.
The same dog tags clinking against a tactical vest.
The same eyes that once watched his back.
“You always were good at hide and seek,” Bering calls down.
Chaewon doesn’t answer.
He just raises the gun.
Then—
A shot rings out.
But it’s not Chaewon’s.
Bering’s leg jerks. He falls from the catwalk, hits the ground hard, gun skittering away.
Footsteps echo.
And Geumson steps into the light.
Black coat. Red gloves.
Expression lethal.
---
“Really?” Chaewon snaps. “You followed me?”
“No,” Geumson says calmly. “I led you.”
“You shot him.”
“I winged him.”
“You didn’t need to—”
“He threatened you.”
“That’s not your call.”
Geumson steps closer. “Everything about you is my call.”
Chaewon’s hand tightens around his weapon.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s true, and I hate that it’s true.”
Silence.
Bering groans. Tries to crawl.
Geumson steps forward — boot heavy on Bering’s injured leg.
Chaewon jerks forward, blocking him. “We need him alive.”
Geumson’s eyes flash.
“So do I.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“No?” Geumson smiles. “It’s exactly how this works. You go by the book. I write the ending.”
---
Chaewon grips his collar, shoves him back.
“Not like this.”
They’re chest to chest. Breathing fast.
“You always do this,” Chaewon says. “Play god with other people’s lives.”
Geumson leans in, voice low.
“I only play god when someone touches what’s mine.”
Chaewon’s whole body goes still.
The silence stretches. Tightens.
Then Chaewon growls, furious, terrified, and kisses him.
Hard. Violent. Stupid.
But it’s not to silence him.
It’s to stop himself.
From doing worse.
From becoming him.
---
Geumson grabs the back of Chaewon’s neck and deepens the kiss like he’s claiming territory.
Like if he kisses hard enough, it’ll make everything better.
It doesn’t.
But it makes everything worse in the best way.
---
When they break apart, breath ragged—
Chaewon whispers, “You’re going to ruin me.”
Geumson smiles, thumb brushing his bottom lip.
“I already have.”
---
They hand Bering over to Internal.
Alive.
Barely.
---
Universe A
Hankuk University Hospital — Trauma Wing
07:29 a.m.
---
It starts with a bruise.
A small, suspicious mark peeking from under the edge of Jaewon’s collar as he yawns mid-shift change.
Nurse Jang-mi sees it.
Freezes.
Squints.
Then promptly walks into a supply cart and knocks over six boxes of gauze.
---
Ten minutes later:
Nurse Agnes “accidentally” switches Jaewon’s coffee order with Kanghyuk’s. “Oops.”
Jaewon blinks. “How did you even know his order?”
Agnes doesn’t answer. She just sips her own latte and stares over the rim.
---
Meanwhile, Dr. Han walks into the staff lounge and immediately U-turns out with a muttered, “Nope.”
Because Kanghyuk is sitting there, shirt half unbuttoned, sipping his americano like a man who just won a war, and Jaewon is pretending to read vitals like his life depends on it.
Han pulls Jang-mi aside in the corridor.
“You saw it too, right?”
“Oh, I saw it,” she whispers. “And I heard it.”
“You what?”
“Trauma bay. Last night. Heated conversation. Breathing. Shouting. Very suspicious... suction noises.”
Han covers his face.
“I need bleach for my ears.”
---
By lunchtime, the entire trauma center is in silent agreement:
They’re dating.
They’re hiding it.
It’s painfully obvious.
---
Kanghyuk, of course, has zero shame.
He tosses Jaewon a banana during a case review and says, “You need potassium. You’re twitchy.”
Jaewon flushes deep red.
Han chokes on air.
---
Then comes the final blow:
Jang-mi bursts into the locker room holding a dry erase board titled:
"KangHyuk ❤️ JaeWon: Secret Dating Timeline (Draft v.3)"
Points include:
“Rooftop tension incident”
“Heli-confession (?)”
“Mysterious neck bruise”
“Matching wristbands during trauma shift??”
“Coffee switcheroo—Agnes has theories”
Jaewon looks at the board.
Looks at her.
And quietly says, “I'm going to fake my own death.”
---
That afternoon:
Kanghyuk corners him behind the blood bank fridge.
“You’re embarrassed.”
Jaewon glares. “You’re smug.”
“I saved your life in a helicopter.”
“I saved yours in a CT room.”
Kanghyuk leans in. “That mean we’re even?”
Jaewon hesitates.
Then mutters, “...Maybe.”
Kanghyuk brushes their fingers together.
“Wanna ruin that and sneak into on-call?”
Jaewon swats his hand away.
“There are cameras.”
Kanghyuk shrugs. “So let them watch.”
Jaewon: malfunctioning.
---
Jang-mi passes the on-call room door five minutes later, pauses, then updates her whiteboard:
“Secret dating: confirmed. Also, Jaewon’s knees may be in danger.”
---
Universe B
Old Seoul Financial District — Burned Police Archive Building
23:09 p.m.
---
They were never meant to meet here.
The building had burned down twelve years ago.
Officially condemned. Unused.
But tonight, lights flicker behind shattered glass. Surveillance feeds are rerouted here. The message from Bering’s phone was clear:
“Come alone. Or don’t come at all.”
---
Chaewon ignores that.
Because when Geumson finds out the name Bering whispered before slipping into unconsciousness — “Yeong-do” —
he goes silent.
Stone cold.
Then he loads his gun and says, “We end this tonight.”
---
Now: the two of them move through the ruin like wolves. No backup. No second chance.
Geumson has a knife.
Chaewon has a pistol.
Both have history carved into their spines.
---
Inside: flickering monitors. Scattered police files. Surveillance footage — from weeks ago. Some from BF’s corridors. Some from Chaewon’s apartment. Some… from Chaewon and Geumson together.
In the rain. In the dark.
Unmistakable.
“Looks like someone’s been watching your romance arc,” Geumson mutters.
Chaewon clenches his jaw. “Don’t joke.”
“I’m not.”
---
A laugh echoes from above.
And down the steps walks Cha Yeong-do.
Not older. Just quieter. His gun’s holstered in a designer suit jacket. His eyes glint like steel.
“I thought I’d have to fish you out of the morgue,” he says cheerfully.
Geumson raises his weapon.
Yeong-do doesn't flinch.
“Still dramatic, Lee Geumson. You never disappoint.”
---
Chaewon steps forward. “Why?”
Yeong-do smiles. “Why? Because power doesn't die with age — it just gets more discreet. I taught you that.”
“You taught me nothing but how to ruin lives.”
Yeong-do nods at the screens. “On the contrary. You’ve done a fine job ruining your own.”
Then his eyes shift to Geumson.
“I always wondered if you’d snap.”
Geumson moves — too fast — but Yeong-do already has the silver gun raised. Not at Chaewon. Not at Geumson.
At the server racks behind them.
He fires.
The whole room goes dark.
---
Flashlights. Shouts. Scramble.
Gunfire starts. Return shots echo. Dust clouds everything.
Chaewon tackles Geumson behind a crate. “He’s going to burn the evidence!”
Geumson’s breathing hard. “He doesn’t care about proof. He’s here for us.”
Bullets carve the air above them.
Chaewon’s ears ring. “We need to flank him.”
Geumson glances down — blood on his side.
Chaewon’s hand clamps over it.
“You’re hit.”
Geumson grins, teeth red. “So what else is new?”
---
A pipe bursts. Sparks fly.
Chaewon moves first. Circles. Tracks.
And corners Yeong-do against the wall.
“You’re finished.”
Yeong-do tilts his head.
“Are you? Because I have the rest of the files.”
He taps his chest.
“Heart drive. Literally.”
---
Geumson limps up, knife still in hand.
“Then I’ll cut it out.”
For a moment, Yeong-do looks almost proud.
“You’ve become everything I hoped.”
Geumson lunges.
---
But Chaewon grabs him — stops the blade mid-swing.
Not because he disagrees.
But because they’re not done yet.
“Not like this,” Chaewon growls. “We need what he has.”
Geumson’s eyes burn. “I don’t care about the files. I want his blood.”
“And I want to survive.”
They stare at each other.
For one second too long.
And Yeong-do pulls a second weapon—
A shot fires.
Someone falls.
---
Universe A
Hankuk University Hospital — Trauma Bay, Night Shift
00:31 a.m.
---
The ER doors slam open.
A gurney rushes in, surrounded by paramedics yelling vitals — but even they’re shaken.
“Unidentified male — early 30s — multiple stab wounds, chest trauma, shallow breathing, arrhythmia on route!”
Kanghyuk pulls on gloves. Jaewon snaps to his side, adrenaline burning off the fog of exhaustion.
They both freeze when they see the patient.
---
His hair is matted. His chest is drenched in blood.
But the face—
It's like staring into a mirror warped by a dream.
Kanghyuk’s jaw tightens.
Jaewon’s heart skips.
He looks like someone they don’t know…
but feel like they should.
---
“Vitals crashing!” the nurse shouts.
Jaewon jumps into action. “Lidocaine now! Prepping for thoracotomy!”
Kanghyuk moves automatically — but something feels wrong.
Like his hands don’t quite belong to him.
The man’s wrist…
There’s a scar — not surgical. Military. Faint.
Almost identical to the one Kanghyuk got back in that rescue op that no one else survived.
---
They crack open his chest.
Bleeding. Fast.
Kanghyuk clamps down.
“Pulse is back!” Jaewon breathes.
But then the monitors glitch.
Just for a second.
They flicker. Like the power blinked — but it didn’t.
The overhead lights remain on.
Only the screens jumped.
---
Kanghyuk stares down.
The man’s hand twitches.
Then grabs Kanghyuk’s wrist.
Tight.
Eyes flutter open — for half a second.
And in that moment, Baek Kanghyuk feels something slam into his skull like a memory that doesn’t belong to him.
Rain.
Gunfire.
A voice whispering his own name — but not from Jaewon.
From someone else.
Someone who looks like him — but isn’t.
---
The man goes into V-fib.
Kanghyuk jolts.
“Code Blue!”
Defib paddles slam into place.
“Clear!”
Shock.
---
He’s flatlining.
And as the monitor goes still—
Jaewon whispers, “Kanghyuk… his face…”
Kanghyuk looks again.
And suddenly he’s terrified.
Because the shape of the jaw…
The scar above the brow…
The exact, haunting familiarity…
He looks like Woo Chaewon.
---
The body is rushed to the morgue.
No ID.
No next of kin.
No medical record.
Nothing.
But Kanghyuk doesn’t sleep that night.
And Jaewon keeps seeing that face behind his eyelids.
---
Somewhere deep inside the hospital, in an old storage room…
One of the monitors turns itself on.
Just for a second.
Flickers.
Static.
Then two names flash on screen:
> BAEK KANGHYUK
> WOO CHAEWON
---
Universe B
Underground Holding Cell, Off-Grid Site
04:09 a.m.
---
Chaewon’s head pounds. His ears ring from the shot.
Smoke curls through the broken ceiling above them.
Geumson is bleeding — but alive.
Chaewon took the hit for him.
Shoulder. Clean exit.
But it’s the moment after that changes everything.
Because Yeong-do doesn’t flee.
He smiles.
Clicks a switch.
And the floor beneath them opens.
---
They fall — not far. A controlled drop. A hatch.
Below them: a sealed corridor, military-style.
Lights flicker to life.
Walls lined with data drives.
A map of Seoul marked with convergence points.
And in the center: a mirror.
No — not a mirror.
A gate.
A polished, curved surface framed in metal — humming faintly. Like a machine that’s been sleeping too long.
---
Yeong-do steps in, untouched.
“Welcome to the Crosslink Chamber,” he says.
“This is where your lives stopped being your own.”
---
Chaewon grips his gun. “What the hell is this?”
Yeong-do smiles. “It’s the doorway.”
“To what?”
“To the other side.”
---
Geumson speaks — quietly. “You’re insane.”
“No.” Yeong-do walks slowly along the monitors. “I’m a survivor of the first test. Back when they thought only data could pass between dimensions. But turns out... so can people.”
He pauses, taps a screen.
Security footage flashes — Kanghyuk, operating.
Chaewon freezes.
“What is that?”
Yeong-do grins. “That? Is you.”
---
Because on the screen…
Is a man with Chaewon’s face.
Same eyes. Same posture. Different world.
He’s wearing scrubs.
And standing over a body with surgical precision.
---
“Two worlds,” Yeong-do murmurs. “One soul stretched thin.”
“This is impossible,” Geumson growls.
Yeong-do: “Is it? You ever wonder why your scars don’t line up with your memories? Why dreams feel like replays?”
Chaewon breathes, shallow. “That’s not me.”
“Isn’t it?”
---
The lights flicker.
Yeong-do places his hand on the gate’s surface.
It shimmers — not glass, not water. Something in between.
“You want answers?” he whispers.
“Step through.”
---
Geumson raises his gun. “Back away from it.”
Yeong-do chuckles. “You think bullets scare me anymore?”
“You bled once. You’ll bleed again.”
“I don’t need to cross it. You do.”
---
Sirens above. Someone’s triggered the alarms.
They don’t have much time.
Geumson grabs Chaewon, eyes sharp.
“We need to destroy this.”
Chaewon doesn’t move. He’s still staring at the gate.
At himself on the screen.
---
He whispers, “He looks… like me. But better.”
Geumson: “You’re enough.”
Chaewon: “He doesn’t bleed like I do.”
Geumson: “Then I’ll make sure you’re the one who survives.”
---
Yeong-do throws something — a device.
Smoke bomb. Cover.
They can’t see.
Chaewon fires wildly.
Geumson lunges forward, slashes—
Silence.
When the smoke clears…
Yeong-do is gone.
The gate is still active.
And Chaewon is holding a drive Yeong-do dropped — labeled:
> “Protocol 3: CHA-01 / BK-01 Connection”
---
Universe A
Hankuk Hospital – Old Records Wing / Restricted Terminal
03:44 a.m.
---
The hospital is quiet at this hour.
Too quiet.
Baek Kanghyuk should be asleep.
Instead, he’s here — alone, in the off-limits records terminal, swiping a hospital admin’s stolen keycard.
The machine flickers awake.
He types the number Jaewon found scribbled in the trauma bay log: CHA‑01.
The screen freezes.
Then unlocks.
---
> SUBJECT: CHA‑01
STATUS: DECEASED (ASSUMED)
PROGRAM: CROSSLINK MIRROR INITIATIVE
FILE ATTACHED: BK‑01 – ADVISOR/SURGEON – ACTIVE
Kanghyuk stares.
BK‑01.
His initials. His birth date. A classified ops photo he doesn’t remember posing for.
This isn't a coincidence.
This is a lie he’s lived for years.
---
He scrolls.
Medical notes. Experimental surgeries. "Cross-identity neurological tracking."
Something about mirror worlds. Psychological bleed-through.
And a final note:
> “If BK‑01 reactivates, CHA‑01 instability is expected. Proceed with observation, not contact.”
He slams the terminal closed.
But it’s too late.
Behind him, the door creaks open.
---
Yang Jaewon stands there.
Bleary-eyed.
Hair messy.
Still wearing his overnight hoodie.
“I knew you’d be down here,” he murmurs.
Kanghyuk stiffens. “You followed me?”
“I woke up. You weren’t there. Then I remembered that patient’s face. Your hands shaking. And you’ve never—ever—shaken before.”
Kanghyuk exhales.
Turns.
“I think I’m being erased.”
Jaewon frowns. “What?”
“I think I’m not just me.”
---
He shows him the file.
Jaewon reads it. Slowly. Carefully.
His face doesn’t change — but his hands do.
They start to tremble.
---
“Someone made you?” Jaewon whispers.
“No. I think someone made both of us.”
He steps closer.
“Because I dream things, too. People I’ve never met. You dying in ways you haven’t. Me… holding a gun. Not a scalpel.”
Silence.
Then:
“What if we’re just echoes?” Kanghyuk asks. “What if none of this is real?”
Jaewon reaches out — takes his hand.
Squeezes.
“You feel real to me.”
Kanghyuk swallows hard.
“And if you start disappearing?” Jaewon asks softly.
Kanghyuk looks him in the eye.
“Then don’t let me go quietly.”
---
An alarm goes off in the trauma wing.
Incoming emergency.
Jaewon looks at the terminal. Then at Kanghyuk.
Decision made.
“We face this together.”
Kanghyuk nods once.
But his fingers don’t release Jaewon’s until the very last second.
---
As they run toward the trauma bay—
The lights flicker.
The walls groan.
And the words flash on the screen again:
> PROJECT CROSSLINK – SYSTEM SYNCING...
> [WORLD MERGE: 7%]
---
Universe B
Abandoned Metro Station — Sector 4 Bleed Point
02:03 a.m.
---
They follow the coordinates in the decrypted drive.
It leads them beneath the city.
Into an abandoned metro tunnel — one sealed since a “structural collapse” fifteen years ago.
But that was a lie.
Because beneath the concrete?
Is a bleed rift.
A shimmer in the air.
A hum that isn’t electricity.
A vibration in the bones.
---
Chaewon stops first.
Geumson follows, jaw clenched, pistol drawn.
“Tell me this is a trap,” he mutters.
Chaewon stares at the air that’s folding in on itself like light breaking.
“No. It’s a door.”
He takes out the drive. The moment he does, the shimmer sharpens.
It begins syncing.
---
> INITIATING CONNECTION...
CHA-01: ACTIVE
BK-01: ACTIVE
MERGE POINT SYNCING… 79%...
---
Geumson grabs his arm. “We go back. We shut this. We bury it.”
Chaewon doesn’t answer.
He’s staring into the light now — and in it, he sees...
Himself.
But not just himself.
He sees Baek Kanghyuk — holding a scalpel, not a gun.
And next to him, Jaewon, eyes wide with horror.
“Do you see it?” Chaewon whispers.
Geumson shakes his head. “I see you losing it.”
But Chaewon steps forward anyway.
And the moment his hand breaches the field—
Time warps.
The tunnel screams.
---
Gunfire erupts.
Behind them — shadows.
Masked operatives.
Not police. Not gang.
Clean suits. No insignia. Crosslink agents.
Sent to neutralize the breach.
Chaewon is pulled back just in time — a bullet rips past his shoulder.
Geumson returns fire, surgical and merciless.
Two go down. Three more flank.
---
Chaewon screams, “They want to seal it from both ends!”
Geumson grits his teeth. “Then we blow it first.”
“No!” Chaewon yells. “I need to know what’s on the other side!”
Geumson turns, furious.
“You want to meet him? You want to meet yourself?
What if he’s better?
What if he never failed?
What if he has the one thing you want and never could have?”
Chaewon whispers:
“Then I’ll know I didn’t imagine it.”
---
The field pulses.
The drive slips from Chaewon’s hand.
A bullet strikes it mid-air — shattering it.
The gate surges.
Feedback screeches.
Something is coming through.
Not a person.
Not yet.
But a message.
Just one sound through the chaos:
> "Chaewon."
Spoken softly.
And not by anyone in this universe.
---
Then the field implodes.
A shockwave knocks them both back.
The rest of the tunnel collapses.
Dust. Screams. Stone raining from the ceiling.
Geumson grabs Chaewon, shields him as the final collapse seals the rift.
---
Silence.
Smoke.
One breath.
Two.
And Chaewon — bruised, bloodied — stares at the sealed wall of stone where the breach used to be.
A tear slips from his eye.
Not from pain.
From the sound of his name. Spoken by someone who shouldn’t know it.
---
Geumson, kneeling beside him, growls:
“If they want to break our world—
Then we burn theirs first.”
---
Universe A
Operating Theater – Hankuk Hospital
18:22 p.m.
---
A girl is dying.
Fifteen years old. Blunt trauma to the liver, road accident. Her blood pressure is crashing.
Kanghyuk is at the table. Jaewon beside him. They’ve done this a thousand times.
Scalpel. Clamp. Suction.
Routine chaos.
Until—
Kanghyuk freezes.
Hand mid-air.
Eyes blank.
---
Jaewon frowns. “Hyung?”
No response.
Kanghyuk blinks.
Suddenly he’s somewhere else.
---
The walls aren’t sterile white.
They’re grimy concrete.
The gloves on his hands are black leather.
The tool in his hand isn’t a clamp.
It’s a pistol.
There’s a man in front of him. On his knees. Bleeding. Pleading.
> “You don’t have to do this.”
And Kanghyuk hears his own voice—
But it’s not his own.
> “That’s what they said the first time. But I still pulled the trigger.”
He raises the gun.
Fires.
---
FLASH.
He’s back in the OR.
Blood everywhere.
Jaewon is yelling. “Hyung! Focus! We’re losing her!”
Kanghyuk’s hands are shaking.
He looks down—
And sees the girl’s blood. On his hands.
But for a second—he thinks it’s gunpowder.
---
He pulls himself together.
Clamps the artery. Sutures. Finishes the surgery with machine precision.
The girl lives.
But something in him dies.
---
Post-op. Locker room.
Kanghyuk rips off his gloves like they’re burning.
Jaewon follows. Quiet. Controlled. But watching everything.
“You glitched again,” Jaewon says.
Kanghyuk sits on the bench. Doesn’t meet his eyes.
“I killed someone.”
“You’ve killed a lot of people, medically speaking—”
“No. Not here. Not in this world.”
He looks up.
Eyes haunted.
“I think I did something terrible. In another life.”
---
Jaewon kneels in front of him.
“Tell me what you saw.”
Kanghyuk does.
Every detail.
The kneeling man. The words. The trigger.
Jaewon listens.
Then says, “Chaewon.”
Kanghyuk stills.
“…what?”
“That name you found. CHA‑01. You just described his memory.”
Kanghyuk whispers, “Why would I have it?”
And Jaewon finally says what he’s been avoiding:
“Because you’re not just linked to him. You might’ve been created from him.”
---
They sit in silence.
Then the hospital’s overhead lights flicker.
Twice.
And on Kanghyuk’s hospital-issued pager, a message flashes that should be impossible:
> [UNREGISTERED SIGNAL RECEIVED]
FROM: CHA‑01
TEXT: “You pulled the trigger. Now I want to know why.”
---
Universe B
Crosslink Substation-07 — Unregistered Server Bunker
01:17 a.m.
---
The station isn’t on any map.
Buried under a condemned water treatment plant, sealed in lead, wired with hardline feeds — no satellites, no trace.
Chaewon and Geumson only find it because the broken drive left behind glitched once — and repeated a signal ping.
When they open the final reinforced door—
The room is silent.
Monitors line the wall.
And all of them show scenes from the other side.
---
One screen:
Baek Kanghyuk, mid-surgery. His hands bloody. Focused. Brilliant.
Another screen:
Yang Jaewon, backing away from a sink, bleeding from the chest — a wound he didn’t have before.
Chaewon steps closer. His fingers hover above the console.
“These aren’t recordings,” he whispers.
Geumson taps a panel. The timestamp doesn’t match their time.
“It's ahead of us. By five minutes.”
Chaewon turns.
“That’s not just a window. That’s a loop.”
---
Geumson sees it next.
Jaewon.
In a future frame.
Bleeding out.
On the hospital floor.
Alone.
His mouth forms a word.
> “Help.”
No sound. Just lips moving.
Geumson steps back.
He’s never met this man — this Jaewon —
but his heart races like he has.
Like something wrong is happening to someone important.
---
Chaewon’s voice is cold now.
“They’re not just watching the other universe.”
“They’re predicting it.”
---
And then: the monitors flash.
One by one, the feeds distort.
A warning scrolls across all displays:
> CROSSLINK SYSTEM SYNC IN PROGRESS
MERGE THRESHOLD REACHED — 97%
A siren sounds — not loud, but low-frequency, gut-deep.
The room starts vibrating.
One monitor flickers back on — and it’s a direct feed of their bunker.
But in Universe A.
And in it?
Kanghyuk is standing where Chaewon is now.
Looking directly through the screen.
---
His lips move.
> “Are you seeing this?”
And Chaewon hears it.
Not in the room.
In his head.
> “Yes,” he replies aloud.
---
Geumson grabs Chaewon’s shoulder. “We need to leave. Now.”
But Chaewon’s eyes are locked on Kanghyuk.
And Kanghyuk’s hand lifts.
Points to something off-screen in his world.
The camera slowly pans.
To Jaewon.
Bleeding.
Collapsing.
---
Then everything goes dark.
A total blackout.
Not just the screens — the entire city block.
Power's been cut.
And in the silence, under the ground,
a new message loads on the emergency terminal — dim, red text:
> MERGE INITIATED.
BOTH REALITIES ARE NOW AFFECTING EACH OTHER IN REAL TIME.
NEXT CONTACT: FATAL.
---
Geumson and Chaewon run. No time to argue. No time to breathe.
But as they reach the exit hatch—
A voice comes through the static wall intercom.
Not Kanghyuk.
Not Jaewon.
Not Yeong-do.
A child’s voice.
Whispering:
> “You’re not supposed to exist together.”
And then…
The ground above them explodes.
---
Universe A
Trauma Bay — Code Red
21:33 p.m.
---
Blood is pouring out of Jaewon’s side.
But there’s no entry wound. No burn. No rupture.
Just arterial blood soaking through his scrub top like it appeared out of nowhere.
And Kanghyuk is screaming for help.
"Crash cart, now! Bag him — I want vitals every five seconds!"
His voice isn’t steady.
It’s shattered.
---
The nurse stammers, “Doctor—there’s no visible trauma—there’s nothing to stitch—”
“Then stitch air!” Kanghyuk yells, snapping gloves on. “I am not losing him.”
---
He cuts Jaewon’s scrubs away.
The bleeding is real.
But the flesh? Unbroken.
Veins are rupturing beneath the skin, like something invisible has pierced him from another place.
Kanghyuk's breath falters.
This isn’t medical.
This is dimensional.
---
He remembers the file.
> CHA‑01.
Synchronization.
“Fatal if uncorrected.”
And Jaewon had said something days ago.
> “I dream of getting shot. But I never die.”
---
Now he’s dying.
---
Kanghyuk grips the scalpel. Hesitates.
This isn’t a surgery.
It’s an exorcism.
---
He whispers, “Don’t disappear.”
And makes the first incision.
Jaewon jolts.
Monitors spike.
His mouth opens.
And he screams a name Kanghyuk has never heard him say before—
> “GEUMSON!”
Kanghyuk flinches.
The air around them shudders.
The trauma bay lights explode overhead.
---
Everything goes black.
Emergency lights kick on.
Surgical lamps flicker red like bloodshot eyes.
Kanghyuk keeps operating.
Cut. Clamp. Close.
Even if it’s blind. Even if it’s hopeless.
---
Then—
The monitor stops.
Flatline.
Kanghyuk drops the clamp.
“No. No, no, no—”
He grabs the paddles.
“Clear!”
Jaewon's body jerks.
Nothing.
“Again!”
Clear.
Beep.
Beep. Beep.
---
Pulse.
A heartbeat.
Alive.
---
Kanghyuk drops to his knees beside the gurney, soaked in blood that doesn’t even look like it belongs in this world.
He presses his forehead to Jaewon’s temple.
“You don’t get to leave me,” he whispers. “You don’t.”
And Jaewon—barely conscious—breathes:
> “I… saw you. Holding a gun. But it wasn’t you.”
Kanghyuk’s blood runs cold.
Because that’s exactly what he saw.
In that mirror room.
In that dream.
---
And from the hallway—
A voice cuts through the static:
> “Doctor Baek?”
A nurse. Trembling.
She holds out a paper. Just printed.
No sender. No timestamp.
Just one line:
> “THE OTHER ONE IS COMING THROUGH.”
And under it, a second line:
> “JA‑01 INTEGRITY: 57%.”
---
Kanghyuk doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Just grips Jaewon’s hand.
And promises, in silence:
> If the other world wants to take him—
They’ll have to go through me.
---
Universe B
Collapsed Crosslink Bunker — Sector 7
02:09 a.m.
---
Geumson is trapped under concrete.
One arm shattered.
Chest bleeding.
Chaewon is screaming, digging, wrenching away steel with raw hands.
“Stay awake!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Geumson gasps. “You owe me coffee first.”
But they both know — if the emergency breach finishes syncing, one of them is going to cease to exist.
Because the file Chaewon pulled before the blast said it clearly:
> “Subject Pair Conflict Detected: JA‑01 / GS‑01”
“Stabilization impossible. One will overwrite the other.”
---
Chaewon looks at the screen.
Two images flicker.
Jaewon, intubated on a gurney in Universe A.
Geumson, bleeding here.
They’re not just parallel.
They’re tethered.
And if Geumson dies — Jaewon stabilizes.
But if Jaewon fades — Geumson lives.
Chaewon’s hands curl into fists.
The universe is asking him to choose.
Between the man he knows…
…and the one he’s only seen through shattered reflections.
---
Geumson’s voice breaks the silence:
“You love him.”
Chaewon doesn’t answer.
Geumson grins, weak. “Don’t bother lying. I’ve seen how you scream his name in your sleep.”
“…he’s not you.”
“No. He’s worse,” Geumson jokes, wincing. “He’s polite.”
Chaewon’s eyes water.
“I can’t let you die.”
Geumson exhales. “Then don’t. Give me a reason to stay.”
---
Suddenly—
The static hum deepens.
Another screen lights up:
> MERGE AT 99.4%
SUBJECTS WILL INTEGRATE ON COMPLETION
FINAL LINK INITIATED
And just then—
A surge of light floods the room.
It’s not fire. It’s not electricity.
It’s a gateway.
Opening, fully.
For the first time.
On the other side:
Baek Kanghyuk.
Holding Jaewon — bloodied, but alive — in his arms.
---
“LET US THROUGH!” Kanghyuk shouts into the void.
Geumson sees it.
Jaewon — real, breathing — blinking awake.
Their eyes meet across space.
A mirror split in two.
And both sides — desperate to hold on.
---
Chaewon runs to the center of the chamber.
A control panel rises from the floor.
Two buttons.
One red.
One white.
> [RED: FINALIZE]
[WHITE: CONVERT AND MERGE]
One ends the tether. One fuses them.
But if he fuses them… there's no going back.
No two worlds. No second chance.
Just one shared future.
---
Geumson looks at him.
“Do it.”
Chaewon hesitates.
“You sure?”
Geumson chuckles, blood in his teeth. “I was born in hell. You think I’m afraid of becoming someone better?”
---
Chaewon presses WHITE.
The light erupts.
Kanghyuk yells Jaewon’s name as they surge forward—
And the barrier shatters.
---
The worlds collapse.
And for one impossible second—
Both couples are in the same room.
Kanghyuk holding Jaewon.
Chaewon holding Geumson.
And the tether breaks clean.
Not by death.
But by merging.
They aren’t erased.
They’re rewritten.
Stronger.
Healed.
Whole.
---
Silence.
Then:
Breath.
Heartbeat.
And four people… alive.
Together.
---
Universe A / Newly Merged Seoul
03:47 a.m.
---
Baek Kanghyuk sits on the rooftop of Hankuk Hospital, a thin blanket draped over his shoulders, coffee untouched beside him.
The wind hums different now.
Like the city’s breathing twice at once.
Below, life continues — ER rotations, ambulance sirens, cigarette breaks on the curb.
But here, above it all, it’s quiet.
And beside him?
Jaewon.
Still pale, healing slow. But alive.
---
Kanghyuk doesn't speak for a long time.
Then, softly:
“I remember being him. For a second.”
Jaewon leans in.
“Chaewon?”
Kanghyuk nods.
“I held a gun. And I thought... I could do it. If it meant protecting you.”
Jaewon reaches for his hand.
“You didn’t have to.”
Kanghyuk looks at their joined fingers.
“I think I already had.”
---
Down in the old Crosslink ruins, now cordoned off and buried in emergency bureaucracy—
Geumson walks with a limp. Arm in a sling. Still refuses help.
Chaewon is beside him, equally broken, equally awake.
Neither can sleep.
Too many memories that aren’t quite theirs.
Too many kisses in dreams.
Too many deaths that never happened.
---
“I keep thinking,” Geumson says quietly, voice echoing off tile and moonlight,
“what if we were only meant to last one night?”
Chaewon lights a cigarette. Doesn’t answer.
Geumson scoffs. “That’s your reply?”
Chaewon exhales smoke.
“No,” he murmurs. “This is.”
He pulls Geumson in by the collar, gentle, insistent.
Foreheads meet first.
Then lips.
It’s not fiery.
It’s not perfect.
It’s true.
---
Elsewhere, Kanghyuk pulls Jaewon tighter into the blanket.
“I thought we’d die before this.”
“We kind of did,” Jaewon whispers, smiling.
Kanghyuk laughs — the sound hoarse, real.
And Jaewon adds, half-asleep,
“If this is a new world, I want you in it. Every night. Every chaos. Every coffee.”
Kanghyuk presses a kiss to his forehead.
“Then I guess we’ll need a new alarm clock.”
---
Somewhere in Seoul, between two breaths, a final signal flickers out.
A terminal shuts down.
A file self-erases.
Two worlds, once fractured, now thread together — tightly, without seam.
And in the silence after, only this remains:
> “Subject Status: Stable.”
“Connection: Permanent.”
“Ending: Happy.”
---