The rain continued to fall, as if wanting to wash away the city itself. It drummed on the roof, streamed down the glass, turning the streetlights into trembling shadows. Do-yoon sat in the kitchen. The tea had long gone cold, but he held the mug in his palms as if some warmth still lingered in it. A notebook lay on the table, open to the last pages. His handwriting—quick, sharp, sometimes illegible. Names, dates, arrows, short notes. He ran his finger across one of the lines. "Lee. Meeting. Club." And immediately pulled his hand back as if burned. Seungho's face flashed before his eyes again. The shadow of the lamp on his cheekbones, his gaze dark and heavy. And that quick kiss, harsh, like a verdict. Do-yoon abruptly closed the notebook.
— It's the right thing to do, - he said aloud. His voice sounded muffled. - It has to be this way.
But the room answered only with the sound of the rain.
***
The club greeted him with its usual chaos: the clinking of glasses, the smell of alcohol, music that broke against his chest with bass. People danced, laughed, drank, as if nothing in the world existed outside of this fiery neon. Do-yoon put on his uniform and took the tray again. White shirt, black vest—uniform, mask, role. He moved among the tables, smiled, spoke polite words, collected glasses. Everything as always. But something inside had changed. Each step was heavier. Each order sounded duller. He caught himself looking for the familiar figure. In the corner, at the bar, in the mirror opposite. But he wasn't there.
— Hey, Do-yoon, - called out a colleague, a young waiter with a tired face. - Serve table seven. They've asked three times. — Yeah, - he replied curtly.
The guy snorted, looking at him sideways:
— You look like you're not even here. — Just a long night, - Do-yoon cut him off.
He walked on, trying not to notice how every step echoed with emptiness. At the bar, he caught the eye of a man in an expensive suit. Clearly not a student or a casual visitor. Do-yoon pretended to adjust the tray and noted to himself: Third time this week. His face was calm, his movements precise. But his eyes were too observant. He recorded it in his memory.
***
Later, he went out through the back entrance. It was slightly drier under the awning, but the rain still reached him—the wind threw drops right into his face. Do-yoon lit a cigarette. The red dot of the cigarette flared and dimmed in sync with his breathing. The smoke mixed with the smell of wet asphalt. He inhaled the air, squeezing his eyes shut. The cigarette burned his fingers, but it was better than the emptiness inside. He didn't know that across the street, in a car with tinted windows, someone was watching him.
***
Seungho sat motionless. The headlights of passing cars illuminated his face for a moment. A shadow on his cheekbones, his eyes—fixed on the figure sheltered from the rain. He watched him light up. Close his eyes. Stand alone, as if the world had collapsed around him. Seungho's fingers dug into the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. He could step out. Walk over. Say just one word. But he remained seated. His lips trembled, but he held himself back. If I intervene, he will push me away even harder. Yet everything inside him was tearing apart. The urge to protect, to take him away from here, to hide him. But instead, he sat in the dark and watched.
***
Late that night, Do-yoon returned to his apartment. He took off his wet clothes, leaving them on the chair. He turned on the light in the kitchen, sat at the table, and opened the notebook again. New entries. Names. Time. Lines that led to one person. To Director Lee. His hand trembled. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. The apartment felt foreign. Everything reminded him. The mug Seungho had held. The shirt left after their night. Even the scent—barely perceptible, but too real. Do-yoon stood up, walked to the window, and pressed his forehead against the cold glass.
— It's the right thing to do, - he whispered. - It has to be this way.
But his heart was beating so loudly that the words sounded false. Outside the window, the rain continued its endless solo. And in that music, he heard only the silence within himself.
***
And far below, in the courtyard, in the car with its lights off, Seungho was still sitting. He couldn't leave either.