The garage was dark, dim lights barely illuminating the corners. Yu-ri stood in the middle of the room, his hands tucked into the pocket of his light blue hoodie. His head hung low, eyes fixed on the concrete floor.
His face was stripped of emotion. Empty.
No—beyond empty.
He stood there as if he had no choice but to.
Clack. Clack.
The sharp sound of expensive shoes echoed through the silent garage.
"What took you so long?" an old, hoarse voice filled the space. "It's not like you succeeded at anything, hmm?"
Yu-ri's eyes twitched. He held back the surge of emotions threatening to spill over.
"You never gave me any proof," he said flatly.
The man stepped forward and stopped beneath the dim light, right in front of Yu-ri.
He was tall, dark, and unsettling. An air of cold luxury clung to him, radiating from his scarred body. Long black hair framed his aged face, his dark eyes sharp beneath the wrinkles of time—old, yet still dangerous.
Gunmen followed him everywhere. Even here.
Three stood behind Yu-ri. Three more lingered behind the eerie man.
"You don't need proof for the obvious, Yu-ri," the man said calmly. "Wasn't it kind enough of me to point out who your father worked for?"
Yu-ri's eyes twitched again. The hand in his hoodie pocket curled into a tight fist.
He snapped.
In an instant, he lunged forward and grabbed the man by the collar.
The gunmen stiffened, ready to act, but froze when their boss lifted a single hand, silently ordering them to stand down.
"I told you," Yu-ri growled, his voice sharp with restrained fury, "I'm not working for you until I get my documents back."
His eyes burned under the dim garage lights.
"You think you're some smart manipulator? Let me stop you right there." His grip tightened. "You're not fooling anyone."
The man simply smiled.
Fear clearly wasn't something he was familiar with.
Yu-ri pulled him closer until their faces were inches apart.
"You're just a sixty-year-old man surviving because of a hundred bodyguards and a rich background."
The man smirked, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening.
"So you do know I'm getting old," he murmured.
Suddenly, his smile vanished.
"And yet you can't help me out here."
The air shifted.
Without warning, the man's arm swung toward Yu-ri.
Yu-ri barely managed to dodge in time.
The old man smirked again, straightening as if nothing had happened. He adjusted his black coat, completely unfazed.
"I'll see you after the job is done, then."
Yu-ri opened his mouth to protest—
—but no words came out.
He could only watch as the man and his gunmen walked out of the garage toward their waiting car.
And then they disappeared into the darkness.
Yu-ri stood frozen long after the sound of the car engine faded into the night.
Silence swallowed the garage again.
His hands slowly dropped to his sides, fingers trembling slightly before curling into fists. The dim lights above flickered, casting uneven shadows across the concrete floor.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.
He kicked a loose pebble across the ground, the tiny sound echoing far louder than it should have in the empty space.
That old man always did this.
Show up, say just enough to dig under Yu-ri's skin, then disappear before anything could be settled.
Yu-ri dragged a hand through his messy hair and let out a slow breath. His chest felt tight, like something heavy was pressing down on it.
Who your father worked for.
Those words replayed in his mind again and again.
He hated it.
Hated how the man dangled pieces of the truth in front of him like bait.
Yu-ri leaned back against a cold concrete pillar and stared at the dark entrance of the garage where the car had vanished.
"Get my documents back," he whispered to himself, jaw tightening.
If that was the price…
Then he'd finish the job.
Even if it meant walking straight into hell.
But that meant his head was already resting beneath a guillotine. Death had become something like an old friend now—an inescapable presence that followed him wherever he went. No matter how far he ran, it would always be waiting.
Still, it didn't matter to him anymore.
He had nothing left to lose.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Hisss!
The pan sizzled as Jade tossed in a handful of chopped vegetables. He flipped and stirred them with surprising confidence, moving the spatula like a seasoned chef—when in reality, the only thing he knew how to cook was fried rice.
BOOM!
Jade paused.
"Thunder? Again? Really?" he muttered, glancing toward the window while tossing the rice into the pan.
Rain tapped softly against the glass, the sky outside flashing faintly every few seconds.
A few minutes later, the fried rice was done.
"Not bad," he said to himself, plating it with a small nod of approval.
Jade carried the dish over and set it on the burned wooden table in the narrow hallway. The table creaked slightly under the weight.
His eyes wandered around the house.
It had never bothered him that Yuri once lived in a place like this. What did bother him was how Yuri had never explained why the house looked the way it did.
The charred walls. The dark stains creeping up the ceiling. The faint smell of smoke that never truly disappeared.
Anyone could tell what had happened.
The house had caught fire.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Thunder rumbled again, shaking the old windows.
Jade had just taken a bite when he heard it.
Click.
The front door.
He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.
A second later, the door creaked open slowly.
Cold air slipped into the house.
Jade turned his head.
Yuri stepped inside.
His hoodie was damp from the rain, dark strands of hair sticking to his forehead. The dim hallway light fell across his face, revealing the same blank expression he always wore when he came back late.
Jade leaned back in his chair.
"Took you long enough."
Yuri didn't answer. He quietly closed the door behind him, the lock sliding into place with a soft click.
For a moment, he just stood there.
His eyes moved across the hallway… the burned walls, the flickering light, the small table.
Then they landed on the plate.
Fried rice.
Jade lifted his spoon again. "Don't look so surprised. I got hungry."
Yuri walked over slowly, the floor creaking under his steps.
"You cooked?" he asked, voice low.
Jade snorted. "Relax. I didn't burn the place down."
A faint pause followed.
Yuri pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
For the first time that night, something in his expression softened.
"Smells good."
Jade slid the plate toward him.
"Then eat before I change my mind."
Yuri looked down at the plate in front of him.
Then he noticed Jade's hand still resting on it.
Instead of pulling the plate away, Yuri gently tapped Jade's hand with his finger and looked up at him. His head tilted slightly to the side.
"What happens if you change your mind?" he asked, a playful pout forming on his lips.
Jade's gaze dropped to the finger tapping his hand.
Then he looked up.
Right into Yuri's eyes.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Yuri's eyes were annoyingly tempting—too calm, too confident, like he already knew how this would end.
Jade clicked his tongue.
In one swift motion, he pulled the plate back toward himself.
"Then you don't get it," he said with a careless shrug, scooping another spoonful of fried rice.
Yuri blinked.
"…Seriously?"
Jade ignored him and took a bite.
"Mm," he hummed thoughtfully. "Pretty good, actually."
Across the table, Yuri leaned back in his chair, watching him in disbelief.
"You cooked it for me."
Jade raised a brow without looking up.
"Did I say that?"
Yuri stared at him for a moment longer before letting out a quiet laugh.
Then, without warning, he reached across the table.
And stole the spoon right out of Jade's hand.
To Be Continued... ...