Chapter 28

A soft click echoed as the electronic door lock disengaged.

“Did the Grim Reaper ascend to heaven with his buddies, or is he just off fucking around instead of hauling that miserable bastard away? Does someone always have to drag my ass out here to butcher him myself? If the goddamn ghosts dragged him to hell, at least there wouldn’t be a corpse left behind to clean up.”

Thoroughly drenched in bone-deep exhaustion, Gwichang stepped through the threshold, silently cursing every bureaucratic ghost at headquarters. He needed to carve out that corrupt piece of shit Noh Pil-gyu—who did nothing but pocket bribes and lounge on his ass—as soon as humanly possible. Spending the past few days digging up petty, foul-smelling audit trails had left him sick to his stomach. Weeding out the small fry was annoying enough, but the true malignant tumor was Noh Pil-gyu. Thinking of the higher-ups who had saddled him with such a vermin as a direct superior gave him a splitting headache.

Not a single lamp was illuminated; the entire apartment lay wrapped in stillness. Only after advancing two paces past the entryway did he pick up the faint, almost imperceptible presence of another living soul. A trace of faint pheromones.

Without bothering to switch on a light, Gwichang loosened his tie and entered the living room. His dark eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, picking out the faint silhouette that matched the subtle trace of pheromones. Why the fuck is this punk sleeping out here instead of in the bed? Tugging open the top two buttons of his dress shirt, Gwichang dropped heavily onto the far end of the sofa. The sudden dip in the cushions made the curled figure stir with a muffled sound before sinking back into sleep.

Tap.

Snatching the remote from the coffee table, he switched on a small accent lamp. It was only the soft entryway fixture casting a warm amber glow from a distance, yet it proved enough to illuminate Geum Seoul’s features with striking clarity. Right behind that wall lay a bed as soft as a cloud compared to the hovels he was used to, so why on earth? Still, given the boy’s petite build, the oversized leather sofa was more than spacious enough to serve as a bed.

Gwichang stared at the sleeping form in thoughtful silence. “…”

Why the hell did I bring this kid here? It was perhaps the first time in his life Gwichang had turned such a question inward. The trouble had begun with the surveillance cameras he ordered planted throughout the village. Despite issuing the command himself, he had not actually checked the feed until the evening of his first day on the road. Sitting in his hotel room while Yu Jeong-ham delivered operational briefings, Gwichang had found his gaze wandering back to Geum Seoul on the monitor again and again.

Geum Seoul’s daily routine starting at dawn had remarkably little to offer. The laundry he obsessed over was simply part of his odd-job hustle, and even that was fraught with wasted effort. In a destitute neighborhood boasting only a single washing machine, one might expect him to demand a reasonable fee, yet after diligently folding and lugging laundry bundles through the heat all morning, the boy earned at most five hundred won.

Then he would collect another armful of soiled clothes and waddle clumsily back to the building, repeating that thankless grind all morning before the sun reached its peak. When the heat grew most punishing, he would climb past the second-floor sill to hang the garments, descending drenched in sweat. It was a route he traversed dozens of times a day, and it appeared he took his lunch there as well, judging from the nondescript, foil-wrapped packets he carried along.

Whenever Park Gil-pyeong bellowed, the boy would sprint out instantly. Fast on his feet despite the ragged sneakers with worn-down soles, Geum Seoul ran with light, scurrying strides. And while Park Gil-pyeong appraised gems or prepped upcoming auctions, the boy had stood beside him, meekly surrendering his rear to that heavy, callous palm once or twice.

Geum Seoul startled easily. He was so skittish that even from limited observation, the image of his shoulders flinching upward in fright remained vivid in Gwichang’s mind. His habitual trembling, his tendency to curl into a ball—things Gwichang had initially suspected were calculated acts turned out to be the boy’s genuine nature.

Yet remarkably, Geum Seoul had never once flinched when Park Gil-pyeong pawed his backside. Even when subjected to crude, vulgar praises about how his ass was the only thing worth fondling, the boy had stood motionless and carried on with his chores without showing a ripple of distress, as though it were mere routine. Staring at the boy’s hands displayed in the corner of the monitor, Gwichang had noticed the slender fingers clenched white. Out of disgust. Because he was enduring it.

Gwichang gazed silently at Geum Seoul asleep beside him.

That night, too, had been pure operational instinct. On the journey back to headquarters, Gwichang had idly checked the surveillance screen and spotted Park Gil-pyeong waddling drunkenly toward the village entrance, immediately switching feeds to locate Geum Seoul. Five minutes prior, the boy had been seen climbing to the second floor with a towel around his neck, preparing to wash. Picturing the inevitable scene that would unfold, Gwichang had scrambled the aircraft without a second’s hesitation.

● SYSTEM

Code Recall, TQ Shoot

The tactical code dispatched as he boarded the craft had been received by Bae Seo-woo on the second floor.

There had been no grand calculation behind it. He had planted an operative on pure whim and extracted Geum Seoul on impulse. Only after depositing the boy in his apartment and administering the stabilizer had the belated question surfaced: Why on earth did I drag this useless kid along?

Rustle.

Perhaps chilled by the air conditioning, Geum Seoul curled tighter into himself, his pale skin gleaming in the amber light. Seated by the foot of the sofa, Gwichang had a clearer view of the boy’s soles, ankles, shins, and calves than his face.

When ordering appropriate clothing, the reason Gwichang had specifically added ‘shorts’ was simply that he thought they would suit him. Through the hem cut high along mid-thigh, alabaster legs and the curve of his buttocks pressed against the leather sofa showed in tantalizing glimpses.

Gwichang reached out and encircled the slender white ankle. Pressing his thumb lightly against the flesh above the ankle bone, a pale pink flush bloomed and receded. A faint, prickling sensation of transgression, no heavier than poking a ripe fruit on a market stall.

Shift.

As though on the verge of waking, the small body shifted once more. Feeling the chill in the room, the warmth of the hand circling his ankle must have felt inviting; turning his hips, the boy sluggishly dragged both feet up until they rested atop Gwichang’s lap. Acting like a little whore begging to be touched. Gwichang let his hand wander further. The straight line of the shin allowed his fingers to trace upward from the ankle with ease. Having spent his career surrounded by foul-mouthed brutes shedding coarse hair, Gwichang was intimately familiar with the pungent, greasy musk of raw alphas.

Utterly loathing the obnoxious arrogance of dominants who acted as though they would drop dead if they failed to announce their presence, Gwichang had beaten anyone who displayed the slightest insolence since his youth. Those who couldn’t control their pheromones or attempted to assert dominance through crude scent marking met the same fate. Rumors swirled through headquarters that the Deputy Director’s visceral allergy to secondary gender displays turned every man in his unit into a functional beta—rumors he acknowledged with a satisfied nod.

In that regard, Geum Seoul was remarkably clean. His legs showed not the faintest trace of hair, smooth enough that one might expect soft peach fuzz instead. Had he said he was twenty? Gwichang lifted the slender calf lightly in his hand. The neat, rounded toes ended in immaculate nails, and the rosy heels were so supple that only a firm press against the base revealed any firmness beneath.

“Mmm…”

Having stirred three times as if about to wake, Geum Seoul finally let out a soft murmur from his throat, his fingers twitching. He shifted his feet, and realizing one was held captive, his heavy eyelids fluttered open.

A sharp gasp tore from his lips. “…Ah!”

A startled breath tore from his throat. Waking to find both legs resting across someone’s lap with one ankle securely clasped was more than enough to induce sheer panic. Bolting upright, his toes clenched in alarm. He instinctively tried to yank his leg back, but the firm grip around his ankle easily overpowered his struggle.

Gwichang drawled in lazy mockery, “You use my lap as your personal footrest and now you yank your feet back just because you woke up?”

“I’m sorry. I…” Seoul stammered, his face blazing.

Having barely floated up from the murky depths of sleep into sudden, overwhelming chaos, Geum Seoul was thoroughly mortified. The lingering grogginess clinging to his lashes vanished in an instant, replaced by frantic tension pulling at his trapped ankle.

He had blurted an apology, but he couldn’t fathom whether the transgression was ‘presumptuously using the man’s lap as a footrest’ or ‘rudely pulling his foot away upon waking.’ He strained to tug his leg back, yet the warm, calloused palm wrapping his ankle remained utterly immovable.

Seoul looked up pleadingly. “You… you need to let go of my foot.”

His flustered voice trembled in broken fragments. Tilting his head, Gwichang sat forward, bringing his face markedly closer to Geum Seoul’s. After letting his gaze wander from the boy’s long lashes down to the delicate contours of his parted lips, he finally released his grip. His thumb casually grazed the flushed big toe as it slid away, though Geum Seoul desperately told himself it was purely an accident.

With a soft rustle of fabric, Geum Seoul straightened his spine and sat ramrod straight on the sofa cushion—a posture in stark contrast to Gwichang, who sank languidly back into the deep upholstery beside him.

“When did you arrive?” Seoul asked in a small voice. “It’s very late.”

“Just now,” Gwichang answered.

Geum Seoul felt a genuine spark of relief seeing Gwichang. Quite apart from having not seen him for days, he had felt an ache as the deputy director’s lingering fragrance in the apartment gradually faded. Because Gwichang sat with his head tilted completely back against the cushions outside his direct line of sight, Seoul turned his head slightly to look at him.

Gwichang murmured with a dry scoff, “You were limping like a cripple before.”

Ah. So that’s why he was touching my ankle. Understanding dawned, and Seoul cast his gaze down toward his toes. “It’s healed,” Seoul whispered, keeping his eyes glued to his toes.

Gwichang asked, “What about the rash all over your body?”

“It’s not hot here at all, so I haven’t sweated…” Seoul rubbed his forearm. “I think it’s thanks to the injection you gave me earlier.”

Gwichang’s gaze rested upon the nape of Geum Seoul’s neck as the youth perched on the sofa edge. The oversized T-shirt carried sleep-wrinkled creases that clung to his frame, outlining his pleasantly slender silhouette. His eyes drifted down along the boy’s bare forearms to his elbows.

“What about your mouth?”

“Pardon?” Seoul asked in confusion.

“The cuts.”