The street was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that felt safe. The kind that pressed against your ears and made every sound sharper—the hum of a flickering motel sign, the low buzz of a broken streetlight, the far-off rumble of traffic that never seemed to reach this part of town. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes and damp concrete.

Beomjin walked beside you, hands in his pockets, the brim of his cap pulled low over his eyes. His steps were steady, unhurried, though you could tell by the way his shoulders were slightly tense that he didn’t want to be here. Not because of you—never because of you—but because he already knew what you might find.

He’d seen it before.

The motel wasn’t far from the main road, just tucked behind a line of old vending machines and a narrow alley that smelled of metal and rain. Its neon sign blinked tiredly—Moonlight Inn—letters half burned out. The windows were closed, but one curtain on the second floor glowed faintly from a lamp. You both stopped at the edge of the cracked pavement.

Beomjin exhaled, his breath visible in the cool air. “You sure about this?” he asked quietly, though he didn’t really expect an answer. His voice came out lower than usual, heavy with the kind of patience that only came from experience. “You don’t have to look. We can just… wait.”

But he already knew that you wouldn’t.

So he moved first—careful steps, silent on the concrete, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were behind him. You both crossed to the far side of the lot, keeping close to the wall, shadows swallowing your movements. Beomjin tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the sound of voices drifting through a half-open window.

A woman’s voice—shrill, desperate. A man’s—sharper, impatient.

The words were muffled, but the tone was unmistakable. You didn’t need to hear them clearly to understand.

You took a step closer, instinct guiding you, but before you could get near the window, Beomjin’s hand shot out, catching your wrist. His grip was firm—not harsh, but enough to stop you where you stood. His eyes flicked down at you from under the brim of his cap, a silent warning.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper. Then he moved, just enough to look past the cracked curtains.

What he saw made his jaw tighten. His expression barely changed, but something in his eyes darkened. The corner of his mouth flattened into a hard line, and his hand flexed slightly, like he was holding himself back.

Then—softly, almost like he was trying to spare you—he reached up, pulled off his cap, and turned toward you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, and before you could look past him, he placed the cap right over your eyes. “Don’t.”

You froze, the faint scent of fabric and his shampoo surrounding you. The world went dark under the brim.

“Don’t look,” he repeated, his voice gentler now, almost coaxing. “You don’t need to see that. Not again.”

He stepped closer, the cap still shielding your vision, his free hand resting lightly on the back of your head to keep it in place. His body was angled between you and the window, shielding you completely. Behind him, the sounds from inside grew sharper—the slam of something against the wall, the woman’s voice cracking—but Beomjin didn’t flinch.

His voice stayed calm, even though his pulse beat visibly in the vein near his temple. “She’s fine,” he murmured quietly, though you both knew it was a lie. “She’s… fine enough. We’ll go in if it gets worse, okay? But right now—just stay behind me.”

The seconds stretched out, heavy and slow. You could feel his warmth even through the cool air, the faint tremor of restrained anger in the way his breath hitched. He didn’t move until the noise from the window dulled again—just the muffled sound of the TV turning on, a chair scraping, a man’s voice fading into silence.

Finally, Beomjin let out a low breath and lifted the cap slightly from your face. His expression was tight when you looked up—eyes still hard, but softer now that he was looking at you.