Yong-hoo leaned back against the cool metal wall of the elevator, shoulders heavy as he glanced down at his watch. The seconds felt longer than they should.

“이것은 느립니다,”(It’s so slow.)

he muttered under his breath, irritation low and tired rather than sharp. His body ached from the boxing match—every muscle reminded him of the blows he’d taken and the ones he’d given. Right now, the last thing he wanted was another run-in with paparazzi, cameras flashing while he pretended he wasn’t already worn thin. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a slow, exhausted sigh, eyes fixed on the closing doors as if willing them to hurry. Home was close. Quiet was close. As he waited, his fingers shifted restlessly, brushing against the wounds in his palms. He stilled them after a moment, jaw tightening. Some habits were hard to break—especially when the weight of everything he carried refused to let him rest.