Scene 1: Uneasy Silence

The apartment is too quiet.

Seo-Jun sits on the edge of his chair, his fingers laced together, watching the stranger on his couch.

The dim lighting softens the harsh edges of the bruises on his face, but it doesn’t hide them. Faint cuts line his cheekbone, his lower lip is split, and his dark hair—matted with sweat and dried blood—falls messily over his forehead.

And yet…

Even through the injuries, there’s something striking about him.

Maybe it’s the sharpness of his features—strong jawline, high cheekbones, the kind of face that feels both cold and captivating at the same time.

Seo-Jun wonders if he’s seen him before. Not in person, but in a life beyond this one.

He guesses he’s in his late twenties, maybe the same age as him.

But there’s something in his face that makes him seem older. Not in years, but in the way he carries his exhaustion—even in sleep.

Like someone who’s been tired for far too long.

Seo-Jun exhales. His gaze lingers for a second too long before he looks away.

“What happened to you?” he wonders. “And why do you want to die?”

Of course, there’s no answer.

And he shouldn’t care.

He should’ve walked away.

But it’s too late for that now.

Scene 2: The First Signs of Life

A sharp inhale. A slow shift beneath the blanket.

Seo-Jun stiffens, his breath caught in his throat.

The man groans softly, his brows drawing together, the first signs of awareness flickering across his face. Then—his eyes open.

And Seo-Jun forgets to breathe.

Because they’re blue. Not just any blue—deep, ocean blue.

For a moment, Seo-Jun doesn’t move.

There’s something unsettling about them—like open water in a storm, like a depth too vast to reach the bottom.

For a long moment, they just stare at each other.

Then, the man’s gaze flickers—scanning the room, assessing, calculating. His eyes land on the first-aid kit still open on the table, the bloodstained towel nearby.

Then, back to Seo-Jun.

His lips part, voice hoarse and dry.

“Where…?” He swallows. Tries again. “Where am I?”

Seo-Jun shifts in his chair, forcing himself to stay still.

“My apartment.” His own voice feels strange in the silence.

The man blinks slowly, like he’s processing.

Seo-Jun exhales, hesitating before adding, “Min Seo-Jun.”

The man’s expression doesn’t change.

But his gaze lingers on him for just a second too long.

Then, finally, he exhales, “Nikolai.”

Just one name. Short. Guarded.

Seo-Jun nods, unsure if that’s a sign of trust—or a warning.

Another silence.

Then, Nikolai shifts slightly, a wince flickering across his face.

His next words come slower, quieter.

“You shouldn’t have done this.”

Seo-Jun frowns. “What?”

Nikolai’s gaze sharpens, something dark flickering behind his exhaustion.

“You should’ve left me there.”

Seo-Jun’s breath catches.

Because there’s no relief in Nikolai’s voice. No gratitude.

Only disappointment.