Wipers scraped rhythmically across the windshield, cutting through the torrents of rain. Headlights snatched the wet asphalt from the darkness, neon reflecting in the puddles. It was quiet inside the car: only the hum of the engine and the rare tapping of drops on the roof. Do-yoon sat, turned toward the window, but his gaze was directed not outward, but inward. Finally, he spoke:
— Where are we going? We can talk here.
Seungho didn't even turn his head. His hands held the steering wheel tightly, but his voice was steady:
— Home. To my place. — Why? - Do-yoon turned to him sharply. - Do you want to prove something? Or do you think the walls of your apartment will give your words weight? — I think, - Seungho replied calmly, - that conversations of this nature aren't held on empty streets in the rain. And certainly not near a diner that smells of noodles, where any passerby can overhear.
Do-yoon pressed his lips together, falling silent. But a minute later, he said again:
— Are you afraid of foreign ears? Or are you afraid that the truth will sound louder than you can bear?
Seungho smirked, but there was no amusement in it.
— I'm only afraid of one thing, Do-yoon. That one day you won't be next to me, but in the missing persons reports.
Those words hung in the air, and they drove in silence all the way to the apartment.
***
The apartment greeted them with silence and warmth. The panoramic windows overlooked the city, where the rain continued to flood the streets, and the lights seemed to tremble, as if from another world. Do-yoon stood by the window, not removing his shirt, staring down. His reflection mingled with the car lights.
— You still think I'm involved in this? - Seungho's voice sounded from behind. — I think too many threads lead to you, - Do-yoon cut in. - Too many coincidences. Lee is your man. The clubs are yours. People disappear right there.
Seungho took a step closer, and steel rang in his voice:
— Lee is my employee, not me. If he is involved, I will find out.
Do-yoon turned around, his eyes shining in the light of the night city.
— You want me to take your word for it? Without proof? Just because you said so? — I want you to trust me, - Seungho stated harshly. - Trust is worth more than any paper. — I'm a detective. I live by facts, - Do-yoon spoke almost through gritted teeth. — And I live by people, - Seungho replied and stepped close. - I'm not your enemy. But if you continue to look for the enemy in me, you will destroy us both.
He grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer. Their lips clashed in a kiss—sharp, hot, full of anger and desire. Seungho's fingers tore at the fabric of his shirt, gliding over his chest, his waist, lower, making Do-yoon gasp. Do-yoon writhed, wanting to push him away, but his body responded faster than his mind. His fingers clenched on Seungho's shoulders, and he kissed back—greedily, as if he hated himself for it. They merged, falling into this fire, this argument of bodies. Seungho's palm slid toward his thigh, lingering too close. Do-yoon groaned, biting his lip. The world disappeared: only breath, only heat, only the rain outside the glass. And at that very moment, he pushed him away.
— Trust doesn't cover up evidence, - he breathed out, panting heavily.
Seungho froze. He slowly withdrew his hand, but remained close, so their breaths mingled. Pain flashed in his eyes, hidden behind the habitual steel.
— I'm not asking you to cover up. I'm asking you to give me a chance, - he said quietly, almost inaudibly.