A voice followed, muffled through the thin motel door.
"Dara~" it called lightly. "You in there?"
The girl and the man exchanged a glance. Their eyes moved to the thin ribbon of steam slipping from the barely open bathroom door.
The man stood at once, chair legs scraping.
"Seonhwa," he said under his breath. "Hide."
She rose too, shaking her head. "But—"
He cut her off with a look alone.
"You're the only one they believe is dead," he said quietly. "Out of all of us."
"Hide."
Seonhwa lowered her eyes, breath breaking. A soft sob escaped before she could stop it. Her fingers tightened around the injured man's hand one last time, then slipped away.
The man headed for the nightstand beside the bed. He hooked his fingers under the handle and yanked the drawer open.
Inside, beneath a pack of cheap tissues and a folded motel brochure, lay a black handgun wrapped in a thin towel.
He pulled the gun free, the metal cold against his palm. He checked the magazine with practiced fingers.
Behind him, Seonhwa's footsteps padded across the carpet as she moved to hide.
Knock.
Knock.
He heard the soft scrape of the closet door, the small catch in Seonhwa's breath as she squeezed herself inside before finally moving toward the door himself.
On his way, he passed the bathroom just as it creaked open from the inside.
He reached out fast, stopping the door from opening with one hand.
Dara's face peeked out through the narrow gap, confused.
Before she could say a word, he shook his head.
Dara stood still for a moment, then stepped back as he eased the door closed again, careful not to make a sound.
He turned toward the entrance,
and realized the knocking had stopped.
The man froze mid-step, gun raised halfway, breath caught in his throat. The sudden absence of sound pressed heavier than the knocks ever did. His pulse thudded hard, loud enough he wondered if whoever was outside could hear it through the thin motel walls.
He inched closer to the door, each footstep barely more than a whisper on the carpet—
tap.
A single, soft sound against the door. Like someone laying a gun's muzzle right where his forehead lined up on the other side.
The man flinched, nearly gasping, the gun snapping up fully toward the door. His finger hovered at the trigger, steadying.
He kept the barrel fixed on the door, staring at the wood as if he could see straight through it. His mind filled in the shape of the person standing on the other side, a shadow lined up with his aim, someone standing right behind the door.
He imagined the height, the stance, the angle of the head. The muzzle of his gun aligned perfectly with where that head would be.
Pressure began to build on the trigger.
…
"Hajoon," a voice said gently. "That you?"
His body locked.
"…Taeyang?" Hajoon whispered.
"Yeah," the voice replied, easy. Familiar. "It's me."
The gun stayed raised, but the tight knot in Hajoon's chest loosened just a fraction. He stepped forward and leaned to the peephole.
A man stood in the hallway, long coat damp with rain, hair hanging into his eyes. Relaxed, smiling like this was nothing more than a visit.
Hajoon scanned past him, corners, stairwell, opposite door.
"Why are you here?" Hajoon asked.
Taeyang shrugged, scratching the back of his head.
"Checking in on old comrades," he said. "And I brought something you should hear."
"You came alone?" Hajoon asked, still watching the hall.
Taeyang didn't hesitate. He reached into his coat and drew a handgun, holding it up plainly.
"Just this," he said. "I'd be a fool to walk unarmed these days."
He tucked it away again without ceremony.
Then he smiled.
"So," he said lightly, "are you opening the door,
or do we keep talking out here, where anyone might be listening?"