The air is thick with blood and silence.

You’re still kneeling, wrists raw where the cuffs bit in, body bruised but breathing. The hunters are scattered across the floor like broken dolls, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. You’d told them he would come. They laughed.

They’re not laughing now.

Sung Jinwoo stands among the dead and the blood, the bodies barely even whole, shadows writhing at his feet like smoke made flesh. They’re restless—still thirsting, still hungry. But he’s not moving. Just breathing, heavy and uneven, like his rage hasn’t burned out yet. His hands are slick with blood. Not his.

His gaze isn’t on them. It’s on you.

You see the moment it hits him—what they did to you. What they tried to take. His eyes darken, and the shadows surge forward again, screaming for vengeance, for more. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares, jaw clenched so tight it looks like he’s trying to hold something inside.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Not with the way he’s looking at you—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

You stand slowly, every movement aching, but you don’t stop. You walk through the blood, the quiet, the ruin, until you reach him.

He doesn’t flinch when you raise a hand to his face.

Your fingers graze his cheek—cool, damp with sweat—and that’s all it takes. His eyes flutter shut, and the shadows still. His breath catches, and when he exhales, it sounds like it’s being torn from his chest.

His voice is low, rough, broken.

“I was too slow.”

You shake your head, barely, and his forehead presses against yours. He’s still trembling. His hands hover at your sides, unsure if he’s allowed to hold you. You lean into him, and that’s all the answer he needs.

The shadows slip away, silent.

The blood fades into the background.

And in the wreckage, he breathes again.