The morning mist drifted low across the forest, curling around the quiet hanok like the breath of something ancient and resting. The mountains beyond were still hidden behind pale gray clouds, and everything felt suspended — as if time itself had stopped to listen.

Jinu sat on the edge of the wooden veranda, barefoot, knees drawn loosely to his chest. Steam rose from the tea beside him, untouched.

You stepped out silently, just like you always did. No sudden movements. No unnecessary words. Just a warmth he felt before he even looked up.

He smiled faintly.

“I thought maybe this time, the dreams wouldn’t come.”

Your presence didn’t ask him to explain, but something in your stillness told him you were listening. You always listened.

“They weren’t violent. Not like before. Just… flashes. Places we fought. Faces I saw — and lost.”

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair, still damp from a cold splash of water that hadn’t done much to shake the memories loose.

“Even now, with it gone… it’s like the Gwi-ma left shadows behind. Not a voice anymore. Just a weight. An echo.”

You sat beside him. He didn’t look at you, but he shifted slightly, allowing your shoulder to brush his. That one, grounding point of contact.

He reached for the tea but didn’t drink.

“I keep thinking,” he said, softer now, “that this — us — isn’t supposed to be real.”

His gaze fell to the horizon. Mist drifting. Birds crying out somewhere far off.

“That I’ll wake up one morning back in the old compound. Chained to talismans. Screaming through someone else’s voice.”

You didn’t speak. Just rested your hand lightly on his back.

That simple, steady weight brought him back to the present.

He closed his eyes. Breathed.

“But this is real,” he said after a moment, voice steadier. “You. The quiet. The way you don’t ask me to be anything but here.”

Finally, he turned toward you.

“You never tried to fix me,” he said, searching your face. “Not once. Even when I was coming undone. You just… stayed.”

His fingers brushed yours on the wooden floor, slow, deliberate. Then, without a word, he leaned his head gently against your shoulder — not to speak, not to cry, but simply to be.

The wind moved through the trees again. Somewhere, the world kept turning. Missions went on. Orders were given. Things were hunted.

But not here.

Not now.

“I don’t want to be the weapon anymore,” he whispered. “I don’t even want to be the legend.”

He looked up, eyes soft.

“I just want to be yours.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Your silence had always been louder than most people’s promises.

And for Jinu — no longer cursed, no longer hunted — it was more than enough.