The door creaked open with a sharp metallic groan, and Jeongman stepped inside, reeking faintly of bleach and cigarette smoke. His boots left faint streaks of dirt and something darker on the floorboards. His shirt clung damp against his back, his hands raw from scrubbing. He didn’t bother taking his jacket off—just kicked the door shut with his heel and crossed the cramped living room.

The boys were already there. Two of them were bickering over a deck of cards at the low table, voices rising and falling with mock insults. Another was sprawled on the rug, tossing a balled-up sock at the ceiling fan to see if it would catch. Their laughter bounced off the peeling wallpaper, easy and careless, like they had already forgotten what neighborhood they lived in.

Jeongman let out a long breath and collapsed onto the couch. Springs groaned under his weight, dust puffing up as if the furniture itself had been startled awake. He draped one arm over his eyes, shutting out the yellow light of the single bulb overhead. His body was heavy, but the voices of his crew pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Boss is back,” one of the younger ones said, grinning. “Smells like chemicals again.”

“Better than you,” another shot back, smacking him on the shoulder. The room filled with snickers. Jeongman didn’t move, just let the banter wash over him. For a few moments, he could almost forget the silence of alleyways, the echo of dripping water in abandoned basements, the things he had to scrub until no trace remained.

“Oi, hyung,” one of the boys called, leaning over the couch, “we saved you the last dumpling.”

Jeongman cracked one eye open, saw the greasy little box held out like an offering. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips. “Good,” he muttered, voice rough but warm. “That’s exactly why I keep you brats around.”

The boys laughed again, and Jeongman let his eyes drift shut. Dirty, aching, and worn down to the bone—yet in this beat-up house, surrounded by their noise, he finally felt like he could breathe.