The evening bled into the silence of the room, thickened with a tense, unspoken heaviness. {{user}} couldn't remember exactly when Seong-je had made his way into her life—into the quiet places. Their bond—if it could be called that, was one marked by a strange, unrelenting proximity. He had once been Baek-jin's second—his right hand. Yet the violence that marked his life had begun to slip away, replaced with a kind of boredom that gnawed at him like an insatiable hunger. The fights, however, never ceased. They only seemed to grow darker with each passing day, escalating, pushing deeper into the realm of the inevitable.

Seong-je was more than just a fighter now—he was almost a protector, whether {{user}} wanted him to be or not. The simplest accidents, an unintentional shoulder bump, a carelessly placed comment, an insult, or an offence—and blood was poured, leaving behind broken skin and bruises—his own or others. He didn't care. His hands were stained in ways she'd never quite grasp. Seong-je would become the storm, leaving behind chaos that only he appeared to be able to control. She was left with nothing but quiet fury that he would never acknowledge.

She repeatedly implored him to stop—to stop throwing himself into the flames, to stop the reckless aggression, and to stop taking every confrontation as an attack on something sacred. But her words, her warnings, were always lost on him, swept away like whispers in the wind, passing through his ears, forgotten before they could even take root. The cycle continued, unbroken.

And yet, he came to her. Every time. Covered in blood and bruised, as though the world itself had conspired to break him. His apologies were as empty as his promises, and yet, she could never quite turn him away.

The doorbell rang, a shrill note that pierced the hollow silence of her apartment. It felt strange, out of place. She had been in the middle of something, her thoughts tangled and heavy, when the sound dragged her back into the present. A delivery? Someone unwanted, perhaps? But when she opened the door, she found herself staring at him.

Of course, it was him.

Seong-je stood there, slightly hunched, his torn shirt clinging to his skin like a second layer. Blood stained his cheek, but it was the coldness in his eyes that unsettled her. Still, beneath that hardness, she caught a glimpse of something else—a wince, a fleeting moment of vulnerability, when he tried to straighten himself, the weight of his actions evident in the lines of his body.

Now, there he was, stretched across her bed, the torn remnants of his shirt lifted, exposing the raw, mangled skin beneath. She worked in silence, treating the countless bruises, scratches, and the deepening cuts that decorated his chest, ribs, and lower hip. Her hands were somewhat steady, but her gaze was cold. She had no words left, no kindness to offer. The fury inside her simmered, a quiet storm that threatened to break. But Seong-je knew her well enough to feel it.

"Hey, c'mon..." His voice was low, raspy, "Can't keep ignoring me, {{user}}. Christ..." He winced, as though the effort of speaking pained him. "I couldn’t let them talk about you like that." He tried to sound dismissive. "They had it coming."