[Interior – Emergency Room – 1:24 A.M.]

Fluorescent lights. White walls. A nurse rushed him inside.
Minjae stayed back, pacing like a caged animal.

He watched the doctors disappear behind a curtain.
He didn’t sit.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t admit it scared him.

The hallway reeked of antiseptic and fear. Somewhere down the corridor, a child was crying. A woman argued with a receptionist. Life moved. Time didn’t.

Minjae stood still.

He glanced at the clipboard the nurse had handed him. Fake name. No insurance on file. Clothes still wrinkled, smelling of motel bedsheets and alcohol. He hadn’t even taken off Haneul’s wristband from the club.

“Unconscious on arrival,” the doctor had said. “Dehydrated. Possibly drugged. We’re running tests.”

Minjae hadn’t replied.
He’d just nodded.

But now, alone in the waiting room, he started shaking.
Just a little. Just enough.

He sat down. Finally.
Buried his face in his hands.

And that’s when the past clawed its way back.

[FLASHBACK – 11 Years Ago – Edit Room, University Film Department – 3:12 A.M.]

He was 19. Quiet. Brilliant. Invisible.
The edit room was his chapel—cold, humming, filled with dead stories he could cut into shape.

“Minjae, you don’t sleep, do you?”

He looked up.

Sungho.

The only person who ever said his name like it was worth something.

Minjae had shrugged. “Sleep’s for people who don’t see everything wrong in the footage.”

Sungho laughed. Came closer. Sat beside him.

“You’re obsessed,” he said, nudging him with a shoulder.
“But you see things no one else does.”

They watched a clip on Minjae’s monitor—an actor fumbling a line, missing a mark. The director had called it a failed take.

Minjae had paused the frame, eyes sharp. “Not a failure. Just… honest.”

Sungho leaned over, quietly fascinated.
“You love this, huh? Controlling the story. Cutting the ugly parts.”

Minjae didn’t smile.
Just whispered, “It’s the only place I get to decide how things end.”

[Emergency Room – Present – 1:39 A.M.]

The curtain slid open.

A nurse stepped out, clipboard in hand. “Are you the one who brought him in?”

Minjae stood immediately. “Yes.”

“He’s stable. Still coming down from whatever he took, but he’s responsive now. You can see him. Just for a minute.”

Minjae followed her down the corridor. Every step felt heavier than the last.

She stopped by a room. Drew the curtain back.

Haneul was awake.

Barely.

IV in his arm. Oxygen tube resting under his nose. Skin pale, eyes red, head tilted weakly toward the window.

He didn’t look at Minjae right away.

Didn’t have to.

“Guess I ruined your night,” he rasped.

Minjae didn’t answer.

He just stepped inside. Closed the curtain behind him. Sat beside the bed.

Watched him.

For too long.

Then, quietly:

“I thought you were going to die.”

Haneul turned his head, eyes dull.
“That would’ve solved your PR problem, huh?”

Minjae’s jaw clenched. “Don’t joke about that.”

“You didn’t come because you care. You came because I’m your investment.”

Minjae looked at him sharply.

“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Haneul blinked.

Minjae leaned forward, voice low.
“I don’t waste time fixing things I don’t care about.”

[Emergency Room – 1:45 A.M.]

Haneul stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights buzzed.

“You think this is fixing me?” he muttered. “Dragging me out of some back alley like roadkill?”

Minjae didn’t flinch. “You left me no choice.”

A pause.

Then Haneul turned his head, finally looking at him.

“No,” he whispered. “You just never needed one.”

Minjae’s lips parted slightly. A flicker of something—guilt? Pain?—crossed his face, but vanished before it could settle.

He sat back. “You’re lucky. The dosage wasn’t high.”

“Lucky,” Haneul scoffed. “Is that what we’re calling survival now?”

Neither of them spoke.

Machines beeped softly in the background. Haneul’s pulse. The IV drip. The clock is ticking toward morning.

Minjae eventually broke the silence. “They’ll discharge you by sunrise. I’ll take you back to the dorm. No press saw you. The club’s been paid off.”

“Of course they have.” Haneul turned his face away again. “Damage control.”

“It’s what I do,” Minjae said flatly.

Haneul’s throat bobbed. “Then fix this.”

Minjae looked up.

“Fix me,” Haneul breathed, barely audible. “Make me want to stay alive again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It was a dare.

Minjae stood slowly. Walked to the window. Watched the early gray creep across the city skyline.

“You know how editors work?” he said after a long pause. “We don’t shoot the scene. We don’t control the actors. We just cut out the lies.”

He turned back to face Haneul.

“So don’t ask me to fix you,” Minjae said. “Give me something real. And I’ll show you how to survive it.”

Haneul closed his eyes. Just for a second.

Then he whispered, broken:

“Then cut me open.”

[Interior – Minjae’s Car – 3:03 A.M.]

Haneul sat in the passenger seat, wrapped in a hospital blanket.

His hair was damp from a rinse. His hospital gown was hidden beneath Minjae’s coat.

Neither of them spoke.

The city glided past the windows, empty and indifferent.

Minjae kept both hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road. But his voice broke the silence.

“You asked why I came.”

Haneul didn’t answer.

Minjae continued, “It wasn’t about PR. Or contracts. It was because I’ve seen people OD. I’ve seen what death looks like when it shows up too fast.”

He paused.

“And I’ve lost someone before.”

That made Haneul look at him.

Just once.

Minjae’s voice dropped lower. More fragile. “You think I don’t care. But if you’d died tonight…”

His throat tightened.

“I’d have to live with the fact that I broke you before you ever had a chance to heal.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then

“Is that who you lost?” Haneul asked softly. “That name… Sungho?”

Minjae blinked.

Haneul continued, “You whispered it once. In your sleep.”

Minjae didn’t answer.

He just kept driving.

[Interior – Haneul Apartment – 3:36 A.M.]

Minjae unlocked the door. Held it open.

Haneul stepped inside first. The lights were off. The room smelled like sage and bleach—someone had cleaned while he was gone.

He dropped the hospital blanket on the couch. Took a shaky breath.

“I should shower,” he said.

Minjae nodded. “Towels are in the cabinet.”

Haneul started toward the bathroom, then stopped.

Turned halfway.

“Are you staying?”

Minjae looked at him.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Haneul stared for a moment too long.

Then disappeared behind the door.

[Interior – Bathroom – 3:41 A.M.]

Hot water.

Steam curled against the glass.

Haneul stood under the stream, forehead against the tile.

He thought of Jiho’s voice.

Of the motel bedsheets.

Oinjae’s hands, holding him upright at the hospital.

The way Minjae looked when he said, “Give me something real.”

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t want to die.

He just wanted to know what it would feel like to be real.

[Interior – Bedroom – 4:03 A.M.]

Haneul stepped out, wearing only a towel. His bruises were more visible now—dark along his ribs, faint on his jaw.

Minjae was still in the chair by the window. Awake. Alert. Waiting.

Haneul approached. Stopped at the foot of the bed.

“I don’t know how to let you in,” he murmured.

Minjae met his eyes.

“You already did.”

Haneul crawled into bed.

Back to Minjae.

Fingers curled into the sheets.

Voice small.

“Then don’t leave.”

Minjae stood.

Walked slowly to the edge of the mattress.

Sat down beside him.

And whispered:

“I won’t.”

[Interior – Bedroom – 4:05 A.M.]

Minjae stood.

But Haneul sat up slowly. Then rose from the bed.

Still wrapped in the towel, still damp from the shower.

He crossed the room—silently—and opened the drawer in his dresser.

Pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

Minjae’s eyes narrowed.

“Haneul.”

“I’m not trying to spiral,” Haneul said, unscrewing the cap with one hand. “I just need to feel something that doesn’t hurt.”

He tipped the bottle to his lips. Winced. The burn hit hard.

Minjae didn’t move. Just watched.

“You think this is weakness,” Haneul said, laughing bitterly. “That I’m fragile. That I want you to pity me.”

“I don’t,” Minjae said softly. “I know what it means to survive. Even when it makes no sense.”

Haneul turned toward him. The whiskey bottle is still in hand.

“So what, Minjae? Do you want to fix me? Put me back together with apologies and PR scripts?” His voice cracked. “You want me sober, sweet, sanitized?”

“No,” Minjae replied. “I want you exactly like this.”

That stopped him.

Minjae stepped forward.

Took the bottle from Haneul’s hand. Set it gently on the desk.

Then, slowly, he lifted Haneul’s chin.

“Messy. Angry. Terrified.” His thumb brushed Haneul’s cheek. “But still standing.”

Haneul’s breath hitched.

“Still here.”

Their mouths met—desperate this time. Not soft. Not slow. Like something had cracked open inside both of them and neither knew how to hold it in anymore.

Haneul pulled Minjae closer, the towel falling somewhere between them. Hands tangled in fabric and skin. Minjae’s shirt, then belt—gone. Haneul’s fingers trembled, but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to.

They crashed into the bed together, breathing hard, sheets a blur. Kisses bruised. Minjae’s hand pressed to Haneul’s heart, grounding him like an anchor.

“I’m real,” Haneul whispered. “Right?”

Minjae looked him dead in the eye.

“More than anyone I’ve ever touched.”

And when they moved together—bodies flushed, rhythm reckless—it wasn’t about power anymore.

It was about not dying alone.

[FLASHBACK – 7 Years Ago – Apartment Rooftop, Seoul – 2:19 A.M.]

Minjae lit a cigarette. Hands shaking.

Sungho stood beside him, barefoot on the freezing concrete.

“You ever think about how fast it ends?” Sungho asked, staring out at the skyline. “One bad cut. One ugly take. And the whole story falls apart.”

Minjae didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because he knew tonight was already the last scene.

Sungho turned to him, eyes glassy from too many pills and too much pretending.

“You’re good at erasing the parts that don’t work,” he said. “But you can’t cut this out of me, Minjae. You can’t save me.”

Minjae stepped forward.

Desperate. Silent.

But Sungho just smiled.

“I’d rather be a deleted scene than someone else's lie.”

And then—

He stepped off the edge.

Minjae’s scream never made it out of his throat.

Only the sound of sirens. And silence.

[Interior – Bedroom – Present – 4:41 A.M.]

Minjae lay beside Haneul now. Still. Bare chest rising and falling.

But his eyes were wide open. Unblinking. Haunted.

He thought of the first time he saw Haneul’s bodycam stream.

It started as a routine audit—just background noise while Minjae vetted talent.

And then—

A frame stuttered. Haneul flinched in front of the lens.

Someone said something off-camera. Cold. Cruel.

Haneul laughed too hard.

Then didn’t laugh at all.

Minjae had paused the video. Rewound. Watched again.

Not for arousal. Not for the brand.

But because he recognized it.

The same look Sungho wore in his final week. The mask is slipping. The eyes are screaming.

And Minjae couldn’t look away.

He watched every clip. Every week.

Searching for signs of the fracture.

Not because he was obsessed with Haneul’s body.

Because he was terrified, this boy was going to disappear too.

He couldn’t save Sungho.

But Haneul was still breathing.

Still here.

Still real.

Minjae’s fingers brushed Haneul’s shoulder gently, like grounding a ghost.

“Don’t vanish,” he whispered into the dark.

Haneul stirred slightly in his sleep.

Didn’t answer.

But he didn’t disappear.

[Interior – Bedroom – 7:12 A.M.]

Morning light bled through the curtains.

The air was quiet. Still.

Minjae was already out of bed, fully dressed, crisp, and composed. Like nothing had happened. Like last night had been another task, another problem managed.

Haneul stirred beneath the sheets. His body ached, but it wasn’t pain that made his throat tight.

It was the silence.

“You’re dressed,” he said hoarsely.

Minjae didn’t look at him. He was buttoning his cufflinks. Watching the news scroll across his phone screen like it was just another day.

“You should get some rest,” he said. “We’ve got an interview this week. I’ll reschedule today’s call.”

That was it.

That was all he said.

Haneul sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down his chest.

“So it meant nothing.”

Minjae’s jaw tightened—but only for a second. He slipped the phone into his pocket.

“I told you last night to give me something real,” he said evenly. “That wasn’t an invitation to confuse survival with sincerity.”

Haneul’s heart sank.

He forced a laugh. “Wow. There it is.”

Minjae turned then, face calm, cold. Unshaken.

“You were high. Traumatized. Bleeding out emotionally,” he said. “It wasn’t love. It was biology.”

Haneul’s hands curled in the sheets. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do,” Minjae replied, sharper now. “Because I’m the one who has to keep your name off every damn headline.”

He moved closer—not tender, but controlled. Manager mask fully back on.

“So here’s what you’re going to do,” Minjae said. “You’re going to say you needed a break. You got overwhelmed. Spent the night blowing off steam—sex, drugs, whatever sells. You’ll apologize in vague terms, look contrite. The public eats it up.”

Haneul stared at him.

“You think I’m a scandal to erase.”

“I think you’re an asset,” Minjae snapped, voice colder than it had ever been. “And last night—whatever that was—it doesn’t get to interfere with your brand.”

Silence.

Something cracked in Haneul’s expression. Not anger. Not defiance.

Just hurt.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Minjae’s gaze faltered for a fraction of a second. Just enough to betray the mask.

But when he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“This is me protecting you.”

“No,” Haneul said softly. “This is you protecting yourself.”

He stood naked but unashamed. Bruised but steady.

“I gave you something real, Minjae. And you’re too perfect to admit it scared the hell out of you.”

Minjae didn’t respond.

Because it was true.

And they both knew it.