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Hongjoong was bleeding.
Rain slipped down the curve of his spine, threading cold against the warmth leaking from his side, the bullet’s path singing every time his ribs pulled as he moved. The microdrive weighed in his pocket, heavier with every step, thumping against his thigh in rhythm with the thunder cracking over the city, a reminder of the truth tucked against his skin, of the cost stamped in red across the wet concrete behind him.
Blood tracked from where glass had caught his arm, a window he’d crawled through to get out alive. Another sharp ache pulsed near his ribs, where a guard’s bullet had grazed him.
The world smelled like iron and wet concrete, the kind of scent that lived in the back of your throat long after you tried to spit it out, that clung to the collar of your shirt and stained the cuffs when you wiped your face. Neon bled across puddles, fractured into pieces with every ripple underfoot as he cut down another alley, boots slipping on the slick. His breath ghosted in front of him, quick and harsh, loud enough to make him curse himself for the noise. He pressed himself against the cold brick, letting himself believe—just for a second—that he’d gotten away with it.
The thing about Hongjoong was, he always knew when he was lying to himself.
The prickle down his spine came first, the hair at his nape lifting, a cold certainty crawling up under his collar. A shadow in the alley moved with unnatural precision, cutting through the rain as if it wasn’t even there. Hongjoong’s hand hovered near his sidearm, slick against the grip. The space felt too narrow, the walls pressing in, the dark too thick around the edges, and he hated how loud the rush of blood in his ears was, making it hard to think.
He let out a slow breath, shifting his weight, trying to decide if he could outshoot him or if this was going to be another one of those nights where he had to rely on being smarter, faster, meaner.
A shot cracked through the rain.
Pain flared near his ribs, searing, hot and vicious, dragging him forward. He staggered, dropping him to one knee before he could stop it, his palm hitting the wet ground and a curse ripping out of him, then slammed against the wet brick, breath punched out of him as he clutched the drive, the taste of metal flooding his mouth as he forced himself to swallow down a sound that would give him away. He pressed a shaking hand to the wound, breathing hard, blinking water out of his eyes that might have been tears, might have been rain, might have been both.
The man in black stepped closer, cutting the rain in two as it stepped forward, the muzzle of the gun still smoking, steam curling where water met heat. Hongjoong saw the way he moved, how he measured the space, how he watched every breath Hongjoong dragged in through grit teeth, like a wolf who knew exactly how far his prey could run before it got tired.
“Fuck,” Hongjoong breathed, the word twisting into a grin, blood on his teeth, eyes sharp despite the pain threading lightning through every nerve.
And then—
A voice came from somewhere behind him, low and even.
“San.”
The man didn’t turn, but Hongjoong saw the way his shoulders shifted and how the gun lowered by a slight margin.
Hongjoong’s grin sharpened, breath catching as he forced himself upright, the microdrive still pressed against his leg.
“Thanks for the head start.”
San’s lips pulled back to show teeth, a sound leaving him that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so sharp.
“Little shit.”
Another figure stepped out of the shadows, the rain catching on his shoulders and a hand coming to rest on San’s arm with the kind of easy familiarity that said this wasn’t the first time he’d had to pull him back.
“Not today,” Yunho said, the words a soft verdict.
San’s eyes cut to him, sharp, frustrated, but he didn’t move, the rain dripping down his jaw. Yunho’s voice was calm and unshakable, but Hongjoong saw the gaze stayed on him, measuring, waiting for the next move.
And Hongjoong gave it to them.
His fingers closed around the cold metal cylinder in his pocket, thumb slipping the pin free before he let it fall to the ground.
White smoke exploded around them, mixing with the rain in a hiss that covered the curse that fell from San’s lips as he lunged forward, Yunho’s hand catching him again.
“Let him go.”
Hongjoong moved through it, pain in his side grounding him as much as it threatened to slow him down, he didn’t look back.
A breathless giggle slipped out of him, the kind that didn’t belong in a place like this, echoing off the wet pavement before it was downed by the rain.
And then he was gone.
The city swallowed him as he ran.
Hongjoong pressed a hand to the fresh wound, warm slickness seeping between his fingers, the pain a raw tether that kept him sharp. The microdrive knocked against his leg with each step, remembrance of what this night had cost and what it still might.
Water dripped off the edge of his hood, pattering onto cracked asphalt, and he ducked under a rusted scaffolding with his pulse spiking, head snapping up at the sound of footsteps that weren’t there. Somewhere in the distance, the low thud of sirens cut through the night, and Hongjoong wondered how many bodies they would find in the wake of his escape.
They called them rebels, thieves, traitors—Halateez, they whispered, like it was something to be afraid of. Maybe it was. Maybe he was.
His shoulder slammed against a brick wall as he slipped, catching himself with a hiss, eyes scanning every shadow for the wrong kind of stillness. San’s stillness. This thought made his pulse stutter, his mind replaying the moment the bullet had found him, all patient and precise.
These guys weren’t enemies, not really. But they weren’t allies either, as of now.
They all used to run missions together, before the world split them down the middle, before the lines blurred and trust became a currency that Hongjoong ran out of months ago.
He moved forward, ducking through a fence that rattled under his grip, breath catching as the lights of the safehouse came into view—a single bulb above a warped metal door, flickering in the rain, throwing pale, tired light onto cracked concrete.
Hope, if he was desperate enough to call it that.
The alley breathed, exhaled cold into the warm rain, and he pressed himself against the brick, chest heaving slowly and forcing the panic into the rhythm of his pulse, slower, slower, until the edges of his vision stopped pulsing black and the microdrive stopped digging so sharply into his hip. He let his gaze sweep the rooftops, the windows, the narrow slits where barrels could point, where scopes could glint if someone was careless enough to let the streetlight catch the lens.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
Nothing.
Safe. Or as close as it would ever be.
He moved, boots splashing through puddles, breath fogging in the damp. The safehouse door looked smaller, paint peeling along the warped metal frame, the keypad blinking faintly while asking for a code he had memorized years ago when this place was still a haven and Seonghwa’s laughter still lived here.
Pressed a shaking hand against the scanner, thumb slipping with the blood coating his palm, as he blinked rain out of his eyes when numbers swam, vision edged in black for a moment too long. The device chirped a low denial, red flash in the dark.
“Come on,” he breathed.
Pressed it again, slowly,the pad warm under his skin.
Green blink. Soft click.
He slipped inside, the door closing with a final thud that reverberated into the hollow of his chest, the sound echoing in the small entryway like it was too loud for a place meant to be forgotten.
Inside, it smelled like dust, old wood soaked in damp, the hush so complete it made his ears ring. Maps curled on the walls, the ink bleeding at the edges from humidity, lines they had traced once with laughing promises, plans that had tasted like hope before they turned into funerals with names they didn’t say anymore.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this—him alone in a safehouse with shadows changing at the edge of his vision while rain slid down the windows as the world was trying to drown itself.
A breath rattled in his lungs, sharp, as he pressed a hand to his ribs, leaning against the wall, the cold biting through layers already soaked through, sinking into bone. The microdrive dug into him, heavy, heavier than it should be, heavier than the weight of Yunho’s gaze, than the hesitation in San’s finger.
He took three steps before the world tilted, black creeping in from the edges, knees folding under him before he could brace. The ground met him hard, the pain a flare that cleared his vision for one breath as it blurred again, leaving him on the floor, the microdrive clattering loose from his pocket, skittering across the wood with a soft, traitorous rattle.
Hongjoong didn’t reach for it.
He pressed his forehead to the cool floor, breath catching, the rain still dripping from his hair, pooling around him, mixing with the blood. His palm curled, pressing against the ache in his side, the sting keeping him here, keeping him from letting go.
He wanted to get up. He needed to. He told himself he would.
But for a moment, the floor was safer than standing, and the dark was softer than light, and breathing was enough.
After a while, he turned the drive over in his hand, thumb brushing the rough etching he’d carved on the side—a reminder in case he ever forgot what he was carrying.
Proof.
Proof that KQNet wasn’t just watching everyone, but pulling strings, rewriting lives, silencing the ones who tried to speak. Files full of faces and dates and places where people disappeared without explanation. Contracts signed in the dark by men who would never have to see the blood their signatures spilled.
It was everything.
And it wasn’t enough.
Uploading the data would tear KQNet open, show the world what it was really breathing in every day, what the lights in the towers really meant when they blinked at night. It would mean the rebellion wasn’t just a whisper in the dark anymore.
It would also mean death.
For him, for the others, for anyone too close when the system’s kill order went out. He’d known that when he pulled the files, when he slipped them into the drive and tucked it against his skin, and felt the weight settle in the pit of his stomach, telling him there was no going back.
Atlas.
That’s what they called him, in the small moments when the comms were quiet and the mission was done and the others let themselves laugh again, when Seonghwa’s eyes softened, and Wooyoung tossed him a grin, and Yunho called him reckless under his breath as affectionate concern.
Atlas, holding the weight of the world on tired shoulders because he was too stubborn to let anyone else carry it. He pressed the drive to his forehead, eyes fluttering shut, letting the quiet wrap around him, the only sound the rain against the roof and the soft hum of electricity in the wires.
The world was still out there, watching.
And he was still here, breathing.
Ghost, Phantom, Wolf, names they wore like armor, easier to carry than the truth of who they were to each other. And he could still hear Yunho’s voice, “I’ll get you out if it goes wrong.”
That was before.
Until Halateez became more than a rumor, the system got smart and decided it was easier to buy ghosts than kill them. San and Yunho, now moving like shadows for the wrong side. Hongjoong didn’t know if they’d joined Halateez because they believed it was the only way to protect the people left, or if the system had found the right lever to pull, the right family to threaten, the right secret to hold over their heads.
He hadn’t asked. Because he didn’t want to hear the answer.
The worst part wasn’t seeing them on the other side of a gun, but watching San’s finger tighten on the trigger with that same calm focus he used to cover Hongjoong’s blind spots. And the part when Yunho’s hand had closed around San’s arm in the rain, pulling him back, the soft “Not today,” carrying a weight that made Hongjoong’s chest tighten.
Was Yunho protecting him, even now? Or was it mercy, the kind that came with a promise of tomorrow’s hunt?
Hongjoong’s fingers curled around the drive again, pressing it to his lips for a breath before tucking it back into his pocket, letting it rest against the ache in his side.
They knew each other’s moves. Each other’s tells. Each other’s fears.
And that made them dangerous in a way strangers could never be.
That was why San hadn’t missed, and why Yunho had stopped him.
And why Hongjoong wasn’t sure if he wanted to survive this long enough to see how the next part played out.
The rain continued to whisper against the windows and Hongjoong’s eyes kept catching on the door, the flicker of the bulb above it, the shadows that passed across the bottom seam when the hallway shifted, a draft or something more. His hand stayed on the drive, thumb pressing into the etching like it could anchor him there, keep him from folding in on himself.
A noise.
Barely there, it was a shuffle, slow exhale of breath on the other side of the door.
His hand went to his gun, slick from rain and blood, the weight of it into his palm as he lifted it, aiming at the door from where he sat slumped against the wall with breath locked in his throat.
The lock clicked.
Rain came first, rolling off the figure in the doorway, dripping from black hair plastered to a sharp jaw. A pair of dark eyes lifted, catching his, holding.
Seonghwa.
His name didn’t leave Hongjoong’s lips, stuck behind the ragged sound of a breath he didn’t remember pulling in. Relief punched through Hongjoong so hard it made him want to throw up. He kept the gun up, wavering, his lips pulling into a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’re late,” he rasped, breath fogging in the cold.
Seonghwa stepped inside, shutting the door with a soft click, eyes not leaving Hongjoong’s even as he slid the hood back from his hair.
“Put it down.”
The words were had no push in them, only a statement. Hongjoong’s fingers flexed on the grip, the tremble turning into a shiver, a wave of heat pooling low in his gut from the way Seonghwa looked at him.
God, he was so fucked.
The gun dipped, clattered to the floor with a dull, defeated sound that echoed in the hollow of the room. His vision tilted sideways, the edges bleeding black, and the last thing he saw before it all slipped was the way Seonghwa moved forward, fast but controlled, strong arms catching him before gravity could claim him.
It hurt, but it made everything else quiet.
Seonghwa’s scent was rain and metal and something that made Hongjoong’s head swim, to suck in a sharp breath that pressed pain into every nerve and lit them up in the worst, best way.
“You’re a mess,” Seonghwa murmured, close to his ear, a huff of warmth in the cold room, against the shell of Hongjoong’s ear and he could feel the slight tremor in the breath that carried them.
A low, choked laugh broke from him, hands fisting in the jacket, holding on. His head tipped forward against Seonghwa’s shoulder, the pain flaring in a bright, clean line through him, forcing a gasp from his lips that he bit down on too late.
“Don’t get sentimental on me,” he managed, words muffled against wet fabric.
Seonghwa didn’t answer, just lifted him, carrying him to the cot, every step jostling the wound, making Hongjoong gasp, the edge of pain riding alongside the heat that was pooling under his skin, shameful, alive.
The cot springs groaned under the added weight, under the weight of everything that hovered between them in the small room. Seonghwa’s palm pressed lightly against his chest, keeping him from curling in on himself as another wave of pain rolled through, stealing the breath from his lungs, leaving him blinking up at the ceiling until his vision cleared enough to find Seonghwa’s face again.
“You worried about me?” Hongjoong forced out, the words curling at the edges with something that tried to be a smile and failed, a ghost of humor that couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice.
Seonghwa’s lips twitched, but it didn’t reach his eyes as his hands moved, peeling the shirt away, inspecting the wound with a clinical detachment that cracked when his thumb brushed too close, when Hongjoong’s hips jerked, breath catching in a sharp, broken gasp that he tried to swallow.
“Don’t move,” he said with a controlled voice, but there was a roughness there that hadn’t been there before, something that made Hongjoong’s chest ache for reasons that had nothing to do with the pain.
Hongjoong’s breath hitched as the other’s fingers pressed around the wound, checking the bleeding with ease, pulling a hiss from his throat.
“Shit—” His hand shot out, grabbing Seonghwa’s wrist, gripping tight enough that his knuckles whitened, not to stop him, but to hold on, to keep him close, to let it hurt.
Seonghwa’s eyes didn’t leave his, even as he pulled out clean gauze from the small field kit he had, tearing the packet open with his teeth, the rip of it loud.
“You’re still negligent,” he said.
Seonghwa pressed the gauze down, firm but careful, eyes watching every twitch of Hongjoong’s jaw and the fight in him flickering but refusing to go out.
The pain cracked through him, pleasure leaking in around the edges.
Hongjoong’s breath rattled softly as Seonghwa taped down the fresh gauze, fingers warm against cold skin, and for a moment, Hongjoong let himself close his eyes.
“Don’t,” Seonghwa’s voice came.
Then Hongjoong forced his gaze back up, unfocused, landing somewhere near Seonghwa’s collarbone before dragging up to his face. His breath caught, sharp, sweet, wrong.
“Tired,” Hongjoong mumbled, the word catching thinly.
“I know,” he replied.
Something shifted, the air between them thickening as Hongjoong tried to push himself up on his elbows, the effort making his vision swim black at the edges.
“Hey—slow,” Seonghwa’s palm braced gently to his chest, holding him down with the lightest pressure.
Hongjoong let out a small laugh, breathless, wincing as it pulled at the stitches, head rolling to the side to stare at the wall.
“You always this bossy?” he rasped, words slurring around the edges.
Seonghwa’s lips twitched, fingers moving to brush damp hair off Hongjoong’s forehead, lingering. “Only with you.”
Hongjoong’s eyes flickered, something tightening in his chest that had nothing to do with the pain in his ribs. The world tilted, focus blurring in and out, the outlines of Seonghwa’s face doubling, steadying, doubling again.
“You… gonna tell me it’s okay now?” Hongjoong’s voice cracked, words soft and tired.
“No,” Seonghwa said, pressing down on his body just a little harder, pulling a ragged gasp from Hongjoong’s throat, eyes rolling back before he dragged them open again, blinking up at Seonghwa. “But you’re here. That’s enough.”
Hongjoong swallowed, throat dry, eyes dragging across Seonghwa’s face, tracking the water dripping from the ends of his hair, catching in the hollow of his throat.
“You should lie back,” Seonghwa said, not moving his hand. Then he reached for the cloth, dipping it into the basin on the floor, wringing it out, water dripping. He brought it to Hongjoong’s chest, dragging it slowly over dried blood, over the smudges of dirt from the alley, fingers following.
It hurt, but it was clean pain, cleaner than fear, sharper than exhaustion, enough to drown out everything else, and enough to feel good in the quiet, something to anchor himself to when everything else felt like it was slipping.
Hongjoong’s brows pulled together in quiet concentration, on the softness in his eyes that he tried to hide.
“You’re… good at this,” he mumbled, exhaustion sinking deep into his bones.
“You’re terrible at letting yourself be taken care of,” Seonghwa replied, thumb brushing under the line of Hongjoong’s ribs, over bruises hidden beneath skin, pressing enough to make Hongjoong’s hips twitch.
A soft, broken sound escaped him, shame heating his face, eyes sliding away to stare at the cracked ceiling.
“Fuck—” he breathed, swallowing, trying to laugh but it came out thin. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
Seonghwa’s hand stilled, cloth dropping to the basin with a soft splash, his palm resting over Hongjoong’s ribs.
“You shouldn’t have to be,” he said quietly.
Hongjoong’s eyes snapped back to him, the weight of the words pressing heavier than the pain in his side. His lips parted, words catching on the edge of his teeth, the confession slipping out before he could stop it.
“I missed you.”
The silence that followed was thick, but Seonghwa didn’t look away and his thumb stroked across Hongjoong’s skin slowly. “I know,” he whispered, leaning forward, close enough that Hongjoong could see his softness there that had no place in a room like this.
Hongjoong’s breath stuttered, chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with the wound, eyes blinking hard.
He felt safe. God, he hated himself for it.
“Stay,” Hongjoong whispered, the word barely a breath, but it was everything.
Seonghwa’s lips twitched, a small, broken thing, his thumb brushing across Hongjoong’s ribs one last time before he nodded. “I’m here.”
Hongjoong let himself breathe, sinking into the warmth of Seonghwa’s hand. He remembered the first time Seonghwa patched him up, voice calm over the gunfire in his ear, telling him to breathe. Ghost, they called him, the phantom in the comms who always found a way to get him out.
Seonghwa was the one who pulled him out of the extraction in Sector Seven when the building burned, the one who stayed awake through the night to keep watch while Hongjoong slept off blood loss.
Hongjoong didn’t trust easy, but he trusted Seonghwa.
“You’re thinking too loud.”
“Sorry,” Hongjoong muttered, his lips twitching like he was fighting the smallest smile.
“We can’t stay long,” Seonghwa said, eyes unreadable. “You know that.”
“Yea..” Hongjoong let his head tip back, throat bobbing, the ceiling blurry overhead. “We never do.”
Hongjoong’s eyes dragged back down to Seonghwa’s, the way they softened and sharpened all at once.
“You have the drive,” Seonghwa said, like he was asking but they both knew he wasn’t.
“I do,” Hongjoong answered, the words sticking in his throat.
“What’s the plan, HJ?” he asked, using the nickname as if it was nothing, and didn’t tear something open in Hongjoong’s chest.
Hongjoong’s mouth twisted, tired, eyes blinking slow. “You tell me, Ghost.”
Seonghwa’s eyes flickered, the smallest thing, as he wanted to look away but didn’t. His hand hovered, then dropped from Hongjoong’s ribs, and shoulders rolled back into that distant posture Hongjoong hated.
“We move at dawn,” Seonghwa said, tone flattening out. The words caught, a split second hesitation before clearing, Seonghwa’s hand tightening once on Hongjoong’s wrist like he wanted to take it back, like he almost would.
“Dawn,” Hongjoong echoed dryly. He watched Seonghwa with narrowed eyes, jaw flexing as silence stretched.
Seonghwa busied himself, checking ammo, cleaning blood off the floor with care, and Hongjoong’s eyes tracked every movement.
“Don’t do that,” Hongjoong said.
Seonghwa stilled, glancing back. “Do what?”
“That thing where you pretend you don’t care.”
A humorless huff left Seonghwa’s lips, head shaking once. “It’s not pretending.”
“Bull. Shit.”
Seonghwa’s jaw tightened, his eyes sliding shut for a breath before he looked back, dark gaze pinning Hongjoong in place. “Please stop making this harder than it is.”
The words punched something low in Hongjoong’s gut, his breath catching, pain flaring through his ribs as he pushed himself off the cot, closing the last inches between them and his chest nearly brushing Seonghwa’s.
“You think this is easy for me?” Hongjoong asked, eyes searching his, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.
Seonghwa’s eyes flickered, jaw tight, throat working around words he didn’t say. His hand lifted, hovered again, fingers curling like he wanted to reach for Hongjoong’s face, but forcing himself to pull back.
“Stop,” Seonghwa whispered.
“Why?” Hongjoong’s eyes burned. “Because you want to keep pretending this is nothing? That I’m nothing?”
Seonghwa’s breath shuddered out, his composure slipping and the rain outside filling the space between heartbeats.
“Hon—” Seonghwa started.
“Don’t call me that if you don’t mean it,” Hongjoong snapped, the word cutting, sharper than the pain in his entire body.
It was too much.
Hongjoong’s hands braced on the edge of the cot, knuckles whitening as he pushed himself upright, the burn in his side flaring hot, bright behind his eyes, nearly making him black out. He sucked in a sharp breath, spine locking as the pain roared through him—
and he let it.
It hurt, but it was clean, a bright line of heat that kept the fear out, made the world sharpen into the shape of Seonghwa in front of him.
He reached up, fingers curling into Seonghwa’s collar, dragging him down in one sharp, breathless pull. Seonghwa resisted for half a second, breath hitching, the fight in him flickering before it broke, and then he was kissing Hongjoong back, edged with everything they wouldn’t say, hands finally settling on his waist, careful over the bandage. It was a crack in the armor, the taste of rain on Seonghwa’s lips, the salt of blood and sweat, the sound of Hongjoong’s broken breath catching between them as Seonghwa’s hands finally, finally settled on his waist, careful over the bandage.
Hongjoong kissed back like he was starving, the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, fingers tightening in his jacket, pulling him closer despite the pain sparking in his ribs. And Seonghwa kissed him back like he was trying to memorize it, the tilt of Hongjoong’s mouth, the shaky sigh that slipped free, the way his body trembled, alive, real, right there.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Seonghwa breathed against his lips, the words a lie.
“Shut up,” Hongjoong whispered back, kissing him again.
Hongjoong’s fingers tightened in his jacket, dragging him closer until their bodies pressed together, the bandage at Hongjoong’s ribs tugging, pulling a sharp, breathless gasp from his throat. Then Seonghwa pulled back to breathe, his forehead resting against Hongjoong’s, his hand lifting to cup the side of his face, thumb dragging across his cheekbone.
“You’re ridiculous,” Seonghwa murmured, but his finger kept moving slowly, pulling another soft, broken sound from Hongjoong’s lips.
“Don’t stop,” Hongjoong whispered, the words falling out like a plea.
Seonghwa’s eyes closed for a moment, lashes wet, breath shaking as he let the space between them collapse. His lips found Hongjoong’s jaw, dragging slow warmth as he pressed soft kisses down to the edge of his throat. Hongjoong’s hands slipped from Seonghwa’s jacket to his shoulders, clutching, holding on, his hips rolling up into Seonghwa’s careful weight despite the pain sparking in his side. A ragged gasp tore from him, the edge of it twisting into a desperate whine. Seonghwa’s hand moved to his ribs, fingers spreading wide, pressing to hold him still, to keep him from hurting himself, from wanting too much. His head lifted, eyes dark, searching, the rain still dripping from the ends of his hair onto Hongjoong’s skin.
“Please breathe,” Seonghwa whispered.
“Can’t,” Hongjoong shot back, voice wrecked, his hips shifting again, chasing the heat of Seonghwa’s body, the pain singing under his skin.
Hongjoong’s eyes flickered as Seonghwa leaned down, pressing their mouths together again. This kiss was deeper, bruising in its softness, the drag of Seonghwa’s lips against his pulling a shaky sigh from Hongjoong’s chest, a tremor running through him as he arched up, pain and pleasure tangling. Seonghwa’s other hand braced against the cot beside Hongjoong’s head, the metal frame creaking under the shift. They kissed like the rain outside was coming for them and dawn would take everything away. Hongjoong’s fingers curled into the fabric at Seonghwa’s back, pulling him down closer, the heat of it pushing tears to the corners of his eyes.
Then Seonghwa pulled back first, breathing hard, noses brushing, the air between them warm and wet and tasting of goodbye.
“We can’t,” Seonghwa whispered, the words shaking, the lie bitter on his tongue.
Hongjoong’s exhale stuttered, his chest aching and eyes blinking hard as he looked up at Seonghwa, the softness in his eyes that didn’t match the words, and his hands wouldn’t let go.
For a while, neither of them moved, the rain ticking against the windows like a clock counting down. Hongjoong’s fingers twisted in Seonghwa’s collar again, calming himself on the quiet strength in Seonghwa’s body, the warmth that shouldn’t have felt like home.
“What happens tomorrow?” Hongjoong asked, voice small.
Seonghwa’s eyes flickered, something tightening in the line of his jaw as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the cot, his hand shifting to rest lightly against Hongjoong’s ribs, thumb stroking the edge of the bandage like he could smooth away the tremble in Hongjoong’s breath.
“Tomorrow,” Seonghwa said, testing the word, rolling it across his tongue. “We’ll disappear, get you somewhere safe.”
Hongjoong’s lips twitched. “And after that? Another tomorrow?”
Seonghwa only let his eyes drop to where his hand rested, fingers splayed across Hongjoong’s side, feeling the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. His finger pressed gently, and Hongjoong’s breath stuttered, the pain flickering sharp and bright before fading into a dull ache.
“You don’t have to keep doing this by yourself,” Seonghwa said, the words slipping out softly, betraying him.
Hongjoong’s eyes fluttered closed, a shiver rolling through him. “Don’t lie to me.”
Seonghwa’s hand stilled, the room tightening around them while the rain outside softened into a hush. “I’m not,” he said.
“I don’t want to run alone again,” Hongjoong said, the words breaking.
“You won’t,” he promised, “trust me.”
Trust. A filthy, fragile word.
Hongjoong’s eyes closed, lashes sticking for a moment, the weight of exhaustion pressing behind his eyes.
“You remember the blackout in Sector Four?”
The words came too low to catch, but the syllables snapped Hongjoong’s eyes open.
“We’ve had a lot of blackouts,” he rasped, bitter-soft.
“Well, not like that one.”
His gaze didn’t lift, thumb brushing along the sharp bones of Hongjoong’s wrist, finding the pulse there. “The night the generators failed. Everything went dark,” Seonghwa’s eyes unfocused, as if he could see it, a small crease forming between his brows.
“Mingi panicked, he kept opening the fridge and yelling about the eggs going bad, the chicken thawing too fast.”
A huff of air escaped Hongjoong, catching on something that hurt. “Sounds like us.”
“And Yunho,” Seonghwa continued, lips twitching. “He was snapping glowsticks like it was going to fix the power grid, waving them around in the hall so no one would trip.”
Hongjoong’s gaze dropped, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the bandage pulling tight, a reminder of now.
“Then you were…”
Hongjoong’s mouth quirked, bitter-soft. “I was what?”
Seonghwa paused, swallowing, thumb pausing in its rhythm before moving again. “You weren’t there. You were on the roof.”
The memory hit, unbidden. Cold seeping through concrete under him, the sharp scent of city rain, the hush that had fallen when every light had gone out block by block, the world swallowing its own noise.
“I thought you were pissed at us,” Seonghwa admitted, a soft laugh in his throat, almost embarrassed. “All of us running around, lighting candles, yelling, laughing, knocking shit over. We thought you were avoiding it.”
“Maybe I was.”
“You were watching the sky,” he murmured, still tracing that slow circle on his skin. “You said it was the first time you saw the stars in this city.”
Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, a line forming between his brows
“You looked like you were going to cry,” Seonghwa said, voice thinning out, “but you didn’t.”
Hongjoong’s throat worked around words he didn’t have, the silence pressing.
“I remember thinking…” his finger pressed gently into the hollow of Hongjoong’s wrist, “If you asked, I’d follow you anywhere.”
“I didn’t ask back then,” Hongjoong managed, the words fraying.
“I know,” Seonghwa said, leaving something raw behind. “But I still did.”
His hand didn’t leave the wrist for a long moment, his thumb moved once, brushing over the pulse point, a low hum in his throat like he was counting heartbeats, making sure each one stayed.
Hongjoong’s lips pulled into something that might’ve been a smile if it didn’t hurt so much. “What,” he rasped, the word catching, “worried I’ll die on you?”
A breath slipped past Seonghwa’s lips and adjusted the blanket higher, tucking it around Hongjoong’s shoulders with careful hands. “Sleep.”
A sigh trembled loose as the warmth of Seonghwa’s touch sank in. He didn’t remember letting his eyes fall shut, it was more a flicker, a blink that lasted too long.
A thumb swept across the inside of his wrist one last time, warm.
“I’m sorry.”
Too quiet to matter, because Hongjoong was already gone, breathing steady and finally asleep for the first time in a long while.
. . .
Dawn came slow and found the edges of the cot, the mess of bandages on the floor, the empty basin with water gone cold. It found Hongjoong, still for a moment, caught between the quiet of sleep and the pull of waking.
The rain had stopped, leaving a hush so loud it rattled.
His throat was dry, and the pain in his ribs reminded him he was alive. A slow inhale, shallow, cautious, the scent of rain gone stale, the warmth beside him gone.
A hand moved, dragging across the sheet, reaching for nothing, fingertips brushing cold fabric before curling into a fist. The blanket was still tucked around him, the shape of it a lie.
His vision cleared, sharpening around the empty room. Hongjoong pushed himself up, the pain flaring bright, a hiss slipping between his teeth as he pressed a palm against the bandage, breathing through it.
He stayed there, bent over himself, letting the ache settle, then his eyes dragged to an empty mug on the table.
A note lay under the mug, the paper thin enough to tear from the press of his fingers, the letters stark against the pale background, a single sentence that settled in his stomach like gravel.
— You shouldn’t have trusted me.
It was cruel in its simplicity, which made something in him recoil and reach at the same time, because it was the truth, and Seonghwa had always been good at telling him the truth when it hurt the most.
He pressed the note against his knee, letting the edges bite into skin, eyes lifting to the crooked blinds that filtered the grey morning light in thin, uneven lines along the room, each strip of light and shadow like a memento that nothing stayed clean, everything fractured eventually. The drive was gone, stripped from him while he bled in Seonghwa’s hands, while he let himself believe in the hush of whispered promises and the softness in eyes that had no right to be soft.
Ghost. The name felt sour in his mouth now, heavy in the back of his throat, because Seonghwa had never been a ghost, not to him. Ghosts didn’t stay, didn’t hold him through the dark, didn’t brush blood from his lips, didn’t kiss him like the world would stop if they let go.
And yet, ghosts left.
A breath slipped but it shook at the end, rattling in a chest that felt too small for what he needed to carry now. His eyes closed, the darkness behind them more honest than the room around him, and he could almost feel Seonghwa’s hand on his wrist again.
This place had never been a home , only a holding cell with softer walls.
His fingers crumpled the note bit by bit, the paper folding in on itself as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, forehead pressing against the backs of his fists, letting the sting in his side live, still capable of moving even if it felt like there was nothing left to move for.
Somewhere else, Seonghwa was walking away.
Rain was hitting him in cold pinpricks, dripping past the collar he hadn’t bothered to pull up. The drive burned against his skin, tucked inside the inner pocket where he could feel every shift of its weight. It was too light for what it would cost, for what it would save.
Hongjoong’s laughter was stuck in his ear, the tired huff of it when he’d said, “You’re late,” hiding how scared he had been, how much he’d wanted Seonghwa to stay.
He would have stayed.
If the world hadn’t been built to break people like Hongjoong for wanting it to be better. If Seonghwa hadn’t seen what KQNet did to rebels who tried to wake the city up, who ran with drives full of truth and thought that was enough to change everything.
Seonghwa would have stayed.
But he’d seen the bodies the system left behind. He’d seen the kill orders go out, the quiet, surgical erasure of people who thought they mattered, people who thought the fight was worth more than they were.
Hongjoong would have been next.
Seonghwa’s hand curled around the drive tighter, thumb brushing the grooves Hongjoong had etched into the casing, something sentimental, something stupid, something Seonghwa would keep seeing in the dark when he tried to close his eyes.
He didn’t want to hurt him.
He did it to save him.
Hongjoong would never forgive him, that was the cost. The price to keep him alive, for making sure the system didn’t send someone worse to collect what Hongjoong had stolen and clean it up with a bullet between the eyes, to make him another silent statistic in a war no one wanted to admit was happening.
Seonghwa could live with that. He really would. Because losing Hongjoong was not an option, even if it meant Hongjoong would spend the rest of his life hating him for it.
The rain fell harder, soaking into Seonghwa’s hair, clinging to his lashes as he tilted his head back and let it wash the blood from his jacket, the taste of Hongjoong’s kiss from his lips, the promise he’d made from the soft part of his voice that Hongjoong had believed, even if he had tried to hide it.