The knife clattered to the floor as Ino clutched his bleeding arm. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the retreating footsteps.
That symbol. The rose-cross.
He stumbled to the window just in time to see a shadow melt into the alley across the street. Gone—for now. For three long breaths, Ino stood frozen. Then instinct kicked in. Bandages. Disinfectant. The bloodstained towel hidden deep in the trash.
He worked mechanically, his mind racing. Why us? Why tonight? The news reports flashed in his mind— families slaughtered in their homes. Always at night. Always when they were sleeping.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. Ino's head snapped up. Anta. He couldn't know. Not yet.
...
"You look like death microwaved twice," Anta announced, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. When Ino didn't rise to the bait, Anta's smirk faltered. "...Ino?"
A snap of fingers in front of his face. Ino blinked— Anta was leaning over him, wearing his school uniform, eyebrows knitted together.
"You look like shit," Anta declared, but his voice lacked its usual bite. He nudged the coffee mug closer. "Drank this already?"
Ino's fingers tightened around the cold ceramic. He hadn't slept. Hadn't moved from this chair since... since. The first rays of sunlight now highlighted the scratch marks on their front door—marks that definitely weren't there yesterday.
"Ino?" Anta's voice sharpened. "You're freaking me out."
"Sorry. Just... work stuff." Ino forced a smile.
Anta's gaze dropped to the bandage. "The hell happened to—"
"Kitchen accident. Clumsy me, right?" The lie tasted bitter. Anta eyed the untouched coffee, then Ino's rumpled clothes.
"Liar." But he didn't press. Just sighed and turned toward the stairs. "Don't you have work?"
Ino stood so fast his chair screeched. "C'mon, I'll walk you to school."
Anta bristled. "I'm not five."
"Please." The word cracked open, raw as the wound beneath his sleeve. Silence. Then—
"...Fine. But you're buying me melon bread or macaroon after." Anta shouldered his new bag—the bag, Christ, what if he'd never gotten to give it— Ino's hands shook as he locked the door behind them.
Outside, the morning sun felt like a taunt. He scanned every alley, every parked car. His bandaged arm throbbed under his sleeve.
Anta kicked a pebble. "You're being weird."
"Am not."
"You checked behind us six times since we left." A group of high schoolers passed, laughing. Ino's shoulders tensed until they were out of sight.
Anta sighed. "Look, I'll text when I get there. And after each class. And before I—"
"Every hour," Ino interrupted. "On the dot."
"...Fine." Anta hesitated, then shoved something into Ino's hand— his house key. "Stop losing sleep over nothing."
The bell rang. Anta vanished into the school gates without looking back. Ino exhaled. Then pulled out his phone. The factory supervisor's voice crackled through Ino's battered phone.
"Day off? Again? You realize—"
"I know." Ino watched the schoolyard through chain-link fencing. "Dock my pay."
....
The lock clicked shut behind Ino as he re-entered their empty house. His fingers lingered on the deadbolt - that same stubborn lock their father had drunkenly installed one midnight, swearing it would "keep out the fucking wolves."
Ironic. The real wolves had lived inside all along.
Ino and Anta had been alone in these walls for eight years, four months, and— he checked his phone— sixteen days. Not that he was counting. Their parents' departure hadn't been dramatic; just a note on the fridge and two suitcases gone by dawn. Seventeen-year-old Ino had microwaved fish sticks for Anta's kindergarten lunch that first day, pretending it was normal. Pretending he wasn't crumbling.
He ran a hand along the peeling wallpaper of the hallway. This house was all they'd left - this sagging, leaky monument to half-finished DIY projects and broken promises. But it was shelter. It was enough.
A glint caught his eye. The knife still lay where it had fallen last night, its edge smeared with rust-colored streaks. Ino's bandages prickled as he bent to pick it up.
Survivability. The word echoed through his skull as he scrubbed the blade clean. He'd learned that lesson at eighteen, turning down Seoul National's scholarship with shaking hands. The physics department head had called it "academic suicide." Professor Yang had wept actual tears. But none of them saw Anta waiting at the elementary school gates, backpack straps fraying, shoes two sizes too small.
The faucet water ran pink, then clear. Outside, a car backfired - or was it—? Ino's head snapped up. The street stood empty. He exhaled through his nose. This was the reality they never showed in those university brochures: survival wasn't differential equations or published papers. It was this. Bandaging wounds in dirty kitchens. Memorizing the cadence of neighborhood sounds. Calculating not particle trajectories, but how many extra shifts would buy Anta's winter coat.
The clock ticked toward dismissal time. Ino reached for his keys, his reflection warped in the toaster's surface - a gaunt young man with old eyes. Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten what his own dreams looked like.
But he remembered Anta's. That would have to be enough.
The school bell hadn't even finished ringing when Ino spotted Anta slouching through the gates, his new leather bag already slung carelessly over one shoulder.
"Tch. Stalker much?" Anta grumbled, but the way his eyes lit up at the bakery bag in Ino's hand betrayed him.
"Melon bread. As promised." Ino tossed the warm paper bag at him. "And before you ask—yes, extra custard filling."
Anta caught it mid-air, already ripping into the packaging. "You're not completely useless," he muttered through a mouthful of fluffy bread.
They took their usual detour past Dulwich's weathered storefronts, the late afternoon sun painting the cracked sidewalks gold.
The bakery bell jingled like an old friend as Ino nudged Anta inside. Warmth wrapped around them, thick with the scent of browned butter and yeast.
"Look who finally remembers this grandma!" The woman behind the counter beamed, flour dusting her apron like snowfall. Grandma Mei— Dulwich's unofficial guardian of lost boys and stale bread.
Anta immediately pressed his nose against the glass display. "Strawberry Macaroon. Two."
"I saved the last strawberry macarons for you." She slid the pastel-colored box across the glass display with a wink. Grandma Mei's eyes crinkled as she packed their treats.
Ino reached for his wallet, but Grandma Mei waved him off. "Aigoo, put that away. For my best customers—" She produced two canned coffees from under the counter, condensation still clinging to the aluminum. "—special service!"
The tension in Ino's shoulders unwound just a fraction. This was their ritual: Wednesday afternoons, melon bread, macaroons, free drinks and Grandma Mei's terrible jokes. A tiny island of normalcy in the chaos.
"You'll spoil him," Ino said, even as Anta immediately cracked open his can with a satisfied hiss.
"Someone should!" Grandma Mei laughed, then paused, squinting at Ino's sleeve where the fabric bunched oddly over his bandage. "You hurt yourself again, boy?"
Ino instinctively tugged his arm away. "Just a kitchen accident."
Anta froze mid-bite, eyes darting between them. The moment stretched— Then Grandma Mei snorted. "Probably burned yourself microwaving cup noodles, eh?" She shoved another bag of day-old croissants into Ino's hands. "Here. Learn to cook properly."
They stepped back into the autumn chill, steam curling from their cold drinks. The walk home was quieter, Anta unusually pensive as he nibbled his macaron.
"So?" Ino nudged Anta. "Physics test?"
Anta took a dramatic bite. "Child's play. Though June tried to cheat off me—"
Their laughter died at the sight of the unfamiliar Mercedes parked outside their house. Ino's grip tightened on the bakery bag. The front door stood ajar.
A woman in a fur-collared coat was running her finger along their bookshelf, leaving a trail in the dust. Her companion— a man with their father's weak chin— held a sheaf of papers.
The scent of expensive perfume hit them before they even crossed the threshold. Aunt Nari perched on their couch like a vulture in a designer pantsuit, her manicured fingers tracing the coffee stain on their armrest. Uncle Taejin stood inspecting the peeling wallpaper, nose wrinkled.
"Ah. There they are." Aunt Nari smile could frost glass. "We've been waiting."
Ino stepped forward, deliberately placing himself between them and Anta. "Funny. Didn't recall sending invitations."
The woman smiled like a knife wound. "We were just admiring our property." Anta stiffened beside him.
Uncle Taejin cleared his throat. "This isn't a social call. As your father's only surviving brother—"
"—you've come to 'claim what's rightfully yours'?" Ino finished, tilting his head. "Let me guess—right after hearing about Dulwich's rising property values?"
Aunt Nari's smile tightened. "That house deed should've gone to family. Not to—" Her eyes flicked over their patched sofa, the thrift-store TV. "—children playing house."
The air grew thick. Anta's breathing turned shallow behind him.
Ino set the bakery bag down with deliberate calm. "Aunt Nari. Uncle Taejin." His voice could've frozen lava. "You have ten seconds to explain why you're trespassing."
Uncle Taejin waved the documents. "Guardianship papers. This house rightfully belongs to—"
"To us." Ino plucked the papers from his hand, scanning them with a scoff. "These are void. The court awarded us emancipation three years ago." He tore them cleanly in half. "Now get out."
Aunt Nari's perfume soured the air as she leaned in. "You think you're so clever, don't you? That scholarship boy playing house?" Her eyes dropped to the scratch marks on the door— "We'll see what the judge says about a knife-wielding guardian."
Ino didn't blink. "Five."
"W-What?"
"Seconds left." He reached for his phone. "Unless you'd prefer I call the cops about your tax audits first? Or the casino receipts from Macau?"
Aunt Nari's face turned the color of spoiled milk. She grabbed her husband's arm, nails digging into his tailored sleeve. "This isn't over, Ino-yah." The childhood suffix twisted into a threat.
"You may have memorized some numbers, but blood matters more than paperwork in this country."
Their designer shoes click-clacked angrily down the porch steps. The Mercedes door slammed hard enough to make the neighbor's dog bark. Through the tinted windows, they could see Uncle Taejin pounding the steering wheel, his shouts muffled but unmistakably furious. "—goddamn orphan rat! Just like his no-good father—"
The engine roared to life. Gravel sprayed as they peeled away, leaving twin black streaks on the pavement.
Anta's breath came out in a rush. "...Did you just blackmail them with tax fraud?"
Ino watched the taillights disappear around the corner. "Technically, I implied I might." He nudged the torn
guardianship papers with his foot. "Their own receipts did the blackmailing."
The tension bled from Anta's shoulders as he stared at his brother. A slow grin spread across his face. "Remind me never to play poker with you."
Ino finally cracked a smile, tossing Anta the slightly crushed bakery bag. "Macaron?"
Anta caught the macaron one-handed, but his grin faded as he studied the torn legal papers on the floor. "They can't really take the house, right?" The strawberry cream smeared like a wound across his plate as he poked at it absently.
Ino slid a fresh macaron toward him— "Not without fighting me first." He meant it to sound light, but the words came out ground glass-sharp. Outside, the streetlights buzzed to life one by one, casting long shadows that made the scratch marks on the door look like claw streaks.
Anta didn't laugh. Just turned the pastry in slow circles. "Do you think..." His voice hitched, barely audible. "Do you think Mom and Dad ever—"
The clock ticked three times.
Ino's chest tightened. Eight years, and they still didn't know why the house had emptied one ordinary Tuesday. Why two packed suitcases and a half-drunk cup of coffee were the only goodbye.
He nudged Anta's ankle with his socked foot. "Doesn't matter. We've got the deed. We've got each other." The lie tasted bitter— they both knew paperwork wouldn't stop the wolves at their door.
A gust rattled the windows. Anta's eyes flicked to the darkened glass. "Then why do you have—" He gestured to the knife still on the coffee table.
Ino followed his gaze to the weapon, then to the bandage peeking from his sleeve. Let him think it was about the aunt and uncle. Let him not ask about the rose-cross symbol hidden under the napkin.
"Same reason you still check the closet for monsters," he deflected, forcing a smirk.
Anta snorted, but his fingers crept toward the dessert again. For a moment they just listened to the house breathe— the groan of pipes, the hum of the fridge, the whisper of tree branches against the roof. All the normal sounds that weren't footsteps, weren't knives scraping wood.
"You should eat that," Ino nodded at the macaron. "Before I do."
Dinner passed in uncharacteristic silence. Between bites of reheated stew, Ino watched Anta's eyes flicker toward the scratch marks on the door every time the wind rattled the windows.
The grooves looked deeper in the lamplight, like something had dug its claws in and pulled.
The last macaron crumbs still dotted Anta's plate when his chin began dipping toward his chest.
"C'mon, superstar." Ino ruffled his hair, smiling when Anta's swat missed by a mile. "Big day tomorrow."
"S'not even late," Anta mumbled into his sleeve, yet he leaned into Ino's side all the same—just like he had at seven after thunderstorms, at twelve after his first school fight. Some habits never broke.
Upstairs, their shadows stretched long against the walls, twin silhouettes merging into one. At Anta's doorway, Ino hesitated—then dragged the desk chair beside the bed with a screech of wood on wood. The same chair he'd sat in for three straight nights when Anta had the flu at nine. The same chair he'd toppled over laughing when Anta sleepwalked into the closet at eleven.
"You're being weird," Anta muttered, already burrowing under the covers. But his fingers curled tighter around the edge of the blanket.
Ino tilted his head back, studying the glow-in-the-dark stars above them. A constellation of childhood. "Remember how you made me redo Orion three times?"
A sleepy chuckle. "'Cause you put his belt upside down, dumbass."
Outside, the wind slammed against the windowpane. Anta's hand twitched toward Ino's sleeve—toward the bandage peeking beneath it. "Ino…"
"I'll be right here." He tucked the blanket edges with precision, the way he'd learned when Anta used to kick them off as a kid. "Guard duty."
Anta's breathing slowed into something steady and warm. In the quiet dark, Ino counted the fading stars— Orion's belt, the Big Dipper, the lopsided Jupiter Anta had insisted on adding— until dawn tinged the curtains gray.
Midnight found Ino sitting cross-legged in the dark living room, the knife balanced across his knees. Moonlight caught the rose-cross emblem he'd sketched on a napkin, its edges smudged from how often he'd traced it.
Why us?
The house creaked its reply. The pipes groaned. The fridge hummed. All ordinary sounds—until they weren't. Until every rustle of leaves became a footstep, every settling beam a knife dragged across wood.
A soft shuffle on the stairs.
"I knew it."
Anta stood haloed in moonlight, his sleep-shirt rumpled. His gaze locked onto the knife, then the bloodstained napkin.
"That's… not from cooking, is it?"
The truth perched on Ino's tongue, sharp as the blade between them. There's a killer hunting families. He marked our door. He'll come back. But Anta's hands were already fists at his sides, his breathing too quick— he didn't need the words to know.
"Stay here," Ino began.
Anta was already moving toward the kitchen. "Coffee," he declared, voice steadier than his trembling fingers.
"You look like hell."
As the kettle hissed, Anta's thoughts unraveled.
That dream again. The endless white space. The voice— crystalline yet wrong —calling Antares in tones that vibrated his bones. Always waking with his throat raw, his pillow damp with sweat.
Tonight, it felt closer. Like if he reached out—
The kettle's shriek shattered the thought. He poured two cups, hands moving on autopilot, three sugars for Ino, a splash of milk for himself. The way they'd done it since he was tall enough to reach the counter.
When he returned, Ino was slumped in the chair, the knife abandoned at his feet. In sleep, he looked younger— the perpetual crease between his brows smoothed out, the tightness around his mouth gone.
You should sleep, Anta thought, draping their thickest blanket over him. After all, you didn't yesterday.
Then, after a heartbeat's hesitation, he dragged the other armchair closer—close enough that their fingers would brush if they both reached out.
Outside, the wind howled. The house groaned. But here, in their fragile circle of warmth, the nightmare voice couldn't reach him.
Not tonight.
[END OF CHAPTER 2]