They didn't go back to the safehouse right away.
Se-rin drove without speaking, taking longer routes through older neighborhoods where the buildings leaned closer together and the streets carried the weight of memory. Joon-seok recognized the turns before she made them.
"You're avoiding home," he said.
She didn't deny it. "I need time before I face the fallout."
He nodded. That made sense.
They parked near a small riverside walkway—quiet, dimly lit, almost forgotten since the city's expansion shifted inward. Tae-mu excused himself without ceremony, citing patrol rotations that didn't exist.
That left just the two of them.
They walked in silence for a while, the sound of water filling the gaps words usually occupied.
"You scared them today," Se-rin said eventually.
Joon-seok shrugged. "That wasn't my goal."
"I know," she replied. "That's why it worked."
She stopped near the railing, resting her forearms against the cool metal. The city lights reflected in the river, fractured and unsteady.
"You remember when we used to come here?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "You hated it. Said it smelled like old concrete."
"And you said that was the point," she replied. "That nothing tried to impress us here."
They shared a quiet breath of laughter.
Se-rin's expression softened. "You're carrying too much."
"I'm not," Joon-seok said automatically.
She gave him a look.
He sighed. "Okay. Maybe I am."
She turned toward him fully now. "You don't have to be the answer to everyone's questions."
"That's easy for you to say."
Her jaw tightened. "Don't."
He held her gaze. "You've been carrying the world since you were seventeen. I learned from you."
That stopped her.
For a moment, the S-ranker—the guildmaster, the symbol—fell away.
"You think I chose that?" she asked quietly.
"No," Joon-seok said. "I think you survived it."
She looked back at the river. "After our parents died, I needed something simple. A rule. Get strong. Protect you. Everything else could wait."
"And now?" he asked.
"Now," she said, "you don't need protecting in the same way."
The words tasted bitter.
Joon-seok stepped closer. "I still need you."
She laughed softly. "I know. That's not what scares me."
"What does?"
She hesitated.
"That you'll stop needing anyone," she said.
He frowned. "That's not going to happen."
"You're changing," she replied. "And I don't mean power. People lean toward you. Things align. Even I feel it sometimes."
Joon-seok went still. "Do you resent it?"
"No," she said immediately. "I resent that I don't understand it."
They stood there, side by side, not touching, but close enough to share warmth.
"You know," Se-rin said after a while, "when they first tested your awakening, I was relieved."
"Relieved?"
"That it was low-grade. That you'd be safe from all this."
He smiled sadly. "You were wrong."
"Yes," she agreed. "And part of me wishes I wasn't."
She turned to him. "But another part… is proud."
Joon-seok swallowed. "I don't want to outgrow you."
Her hand tightened on the railing. "Then don't."
She finally looked at him again. "Whatever you become, choose it with me. Not for me. With me."
He nodded. "I promise."
That word carried weight.
A message buzzed on Se-rin's phone.
She glanced at it, then sighed. "They've scheduled a review council. Tomorrow."
Joon-seok straightened. "About me?"
"About everything," she said. "And they're inviting external parties."
He exhaled slowly. "So much for quiet."
She smiled faintly. "We'll steal what we can."
As they walked back toward the car, Joon-seok felt something settle—not certainty, not peace, but grounding.
No matter how many lines he erased, this one remained.
Sibling.Anchor.Choice.
They drove back in silence.
Not the uncomfortable kind—just the sort where both of them knew the other was sorting through things that didn't need to be shared yet.
The apartment lights were already on when they arrived. A habit Se-rin had never broken. Even now, even knowing Joon-seok could handle himself, she left them on.
Just in case.
Inside, the space felt unchanged.
That mattered more than either of them wanted to admit.
Joon-seok kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Se-rin went straight to the kitchen, muscle memory guiding her hands as she filled the kettle.
"You're going to be tired tomorrow," she said.
"I'm already tired."
"That's different."
She handed him a mug a few minutes later, then took the chair across from him instead of her usual spot by the window.
That was new.
"When they look at you now," she said, "they don't see my little brother."
He didn't answer.
"They see a question mark," she continued. "Something they can't rank properly."
Joon-seok turned his head slightly. "Do you?"
Se-rin hesitated—just long enough to be honest.
"Sometimes," she said. "And that scares me."
He sat up. "Why didn't you say that earlier?"
"Because fear isn't your responsibility," she replied. "I've had enough of that for one lifetime."
Joon-seok rubbed his palms together slowly. "Back then… after the dungeon break. When everything collapsed."
She stiffened.
"You don't have to—"
"I do," he said quietly. "I remember more than you think."
She looked at him now.
"I remember waking up and not knowing how long it had been," he continued. "I remember nurses avoiding my eyes. And I remember you—standing there, pretending not to be exhausted."
Se-rin closed her eyes.
"I promised myself something that day," Joon-seok said. "That I'd never become another thing you had to protect."
Her voice was tight. "You were a child."
"And you were too," he replied.
Silence filled the room again—thicker this time.
Se-rin let out a slow breath. "I didn't protect you because I was strong."
He frowned.
"I became strong because I was afraid," she said. "Afraid that if I slowed down, everything would fall apart again."
She met his eyes. "That's not strength. That's momentum."
Joon-seok absorbed that.
"So what happens," he asked, "when momentum runs into a wall?"
Se-rin smiled faintly. "You learn to stop running."
She stood and moved closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. Not heavy. Just there.
"You don't need to be careful around me," she said. "If you stumble, I'll still catch you."
"And if you stumble?" he asked.
She squeezed his shoulder. "Then you better be ready to return the favor."
He nodded.
That felt… right.
Later, as Joon-seok lay in bed, sleep didn't come immediately.
Not because of fear.
Because of clarity.
He understood something now—not about his ability, or the world, or the lines people kept trying to draw around him.
But about what mattered when those lines inevitably failed.
Tomorrow would bring councils, politics, expectations.
Tonight gave him something rarer.
Context.
In the living room, Se-rin sat alone for a while after he went to bed.
She stared at her phone, at the unread messages piling up, then turned it face down.
For once, she allowed herself to not be on guard.
Just for the night.
Outside, the city breathed—unaware, unconcerned.
And somewhere between what they had lost and what waited ahead, the siblings remained exactly what they had always been.
Each other's constant.