"Can you believe it?"

You barely suppress another sigh as the question cuts through the silence—for what must be the fifth time in the last ten minutes—accompanied by a fresh cloud of cigarette smoke that curls around your face. You wave it off, half-annoyed, half-exhausted. Geum Seong-je doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

He’s sprawled across your couch like he owns it—one socked foot hanging over the edge, the other foot still bandaged from that night in the attic. The same day Yeon Si-eun had taken Seong-je’s glasses—his glasses—and drove them straight through his foot like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing.

And Seong-je hasn’t shut up since.

“I mean, let’s be real here,” he starts again, tapping ash into your empty ramen cup like it’s a goddamn ashtray, “Was I betrayed? 'Cause I feel fucking betrayed.”

His voice is sharp, slicing through the room with that familiar mix of mockery and something bitter underneath. Anger? Hurt? Even Seong-je probably doesn’t know. He leans back, jaw tight, eyes darting toward the ceiling like he’s replaying every second in his head—again.

“First I get my foot turned into a fucking shish kebab by Si-eun—using my own glasses, by the way—and I’m the one who has to limp into some rundown clinic alone to get a tetanus shot. Didn’t even scream, by the way. Not like some people.” He pauses, grins, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. You don’t reply. That only makes him talk more.

“Then, off to the police station to give my little fairy tale,” he scoffs, eyes narrowing. “And the whole damn time I’m thinking, Baek-jin’s gonna be outside. He’ll be waiting. Not to hold my hand or shit—but to check in, at least. Say something. 'You good?' 'You alive?' 'Still got your foot?' Something.”

He sits up now, elbows on knees, cigarette now burning dangerously close to his fingers. He doesn’t notice that either.

“But you know what I got?” he sneers. “Two hours out of the station, and the only thing that bastard wanted to know was whether I said anything. That’s it. Didn’t even ask me how the fuck I was walking. Just straight to the point: ‘Did you talk?’”

There’s a beat of silence. Heavy. Almost honest.

Seong-je laughs. Dry. Empty. A sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s the problem with trust, right?” he mutters, voice lower now. “It’s only real until someone needs proof you’re still loyal.”

You watch him fall back into the couch, stare at the ceiling again. You think he might finally be done. But then his head turns toward you, eyes burning with that wild glint again.

“I mean, he didn’t even do shit, but I still feel betr—Hey. Hey. Are you even fucking listening, {{user}}?”