This feels different... he thought, his unease pressing heavier with each passing block.

The streets here weren’t like the ones near Rocky’s place. These roads were cracked and dirty, lined with broken windows and graffiti. Shady figures lingered at corners, their eyes following the car with suspicion or hunger. The air itself felt thicker, dangerous.

James finally pulled the car to a stop at a grimy corner. He leaned back with a grin, clearly amused.

“Walk from here. Address is inside the envelope.”

Won shot him a quick glare but didn’t argue. He stepped out, the air sharp with the scent of smoke and rust. Opening the envelope, he found a slip of paper with an address scrawled across it—and a small black key that glinted faintly under the streetlight.

He hesitated only a moment before shoving both into his pocket and setting off.

---

The address led him into a narrow alley, the kind where sound seemed to die in the walls. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, pooling in the corners like waiting predators. Won moved carefully, his eyes flicking from one end to the other.

Finally, he reached a rusty door tucked behind a heap of trash. The lock was old, crusted with red-brown corrosion. He slid the black key into it, and with a reluctant click, the door gave way.

The space inside was worse than the outside. It was an abandoned warehouse, the walls bare, windows cracked, and the air thick with dust. Empty. Except for a single metal box sitting in the center of the floor like bait.

Won’s steps echoed as he approached, every nerve on edge. He crouched down, reaching out—

The sudden sound tore through the silence. Won spun around just in time to see two figures drop from the rafters above, landing with practiced ease.

They were rough, built for trouble, each gripping a knife that gleamed under the dim light.

The first one sneered, his grin wide and cruel.

“Well, well. What do you think you’re doing, kid?”

Won’s instincts kicked in instantly. He jumped back, fists raised, heart hammering in his chest.

The two thugs circled him like wolves, knives glinting in their hands. Their movements were casual, confident—like they’d done this a hundred times before.

“Hand it over and we’ll let you walk,” one of them sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.

Won’s glare hardened. He wasn’t stupid. He could see the lie in their eyes.

“As if” he muttered.

The first thug lunged, knife flashing. Won twisted aside, his hand catching a discarded metal pipe from the floor. Without hesitation, he swung.

The pipe slammed into the thug’s arm with a sickening sound. The man howled, stumbling back, his knife clattering to the ground.

The second one wasted no time. He slashed forward, the blade grazing across Won’s shoulder.

Pain seared through him, hot and sharp, but Won gritted his teeth and pushed forward, slamming the pipe hard into the man’s knee. The thug buckled with a cry, crashing to the floor.

Both men groaned, clutching their injuries. Won didn’t wait for them to recover. He grabbed the metal box off the floor and bolted for the door, his breath ragged, pulse pounding.

The alley outside swallowed him in shadows as he ran, clutching the box tightly to his chest. His shoulder throbbed, blood soaking through his shirt, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

---

Back in Rocky’s office, the atmosphere was calm, almost too calm. Rocky sat at his desk, his expression unreadable, while James leaned casually against the wall.

“Think he’ll make it?” he asked, voice amused.

Rocky lifted his coffee cup, sipping slowly, his expression unreadable.

“If he doesn’t,” he said flatly, “he was never worth it.”

—

The front doors slammed open. Won stumbled inside, battered and breathless, blood darkening his shoulder. His chest rose and fell with ragged gasps as he staggered down the hall and into Rocky’s office.

Without a word, he slammed the metal box onto Rocky’s desk.

“Here,” he panted, voice strained.

Rocky didn’t move at first. He simply stared at Won with that same cool, detached gaze. Then he spoke, calm and deliberate.

“Open it.”

Won hesitated, suspicion flickering in his eyes. Still, his fingers moved, flipping the lid back.

Inside was nothing. Nothing but a single slip of paper.

Won’s brows knit together as he picked it up, his hands trembling from exhaustion. Scrawled in bold letters was a single word:

TRUST.

His face twisted in confusion.

“What the hell—”

Rocky finally rose from his chair, walking slowly around the desk until he was standing in front of him.

“This wasn’t about the box,” he said evenly.

Won’s glare sharpened, anger breaking through his fatigue.

“Then what was it about?!”

Rocky’s voice lowered, calm—almost soft.

“Seeing if you’d run away.”

The words hit harder than any blade. Won froze, the realization cutting deep.

Rocky crossed his arms, watching him closely.

“You didn’t.”

Won lowered his head slightly, shoulders tense, emotions tangled between pride, confusion, and simmering frustration. His voice came out quiet, almost bitter.

“Of course I didn't .”

Rocky’s lips curved faintly, just enough to register as approval.

“Good.”

From the doorway, James gave a low whistle, his grin sharp.

“Congrats, rookie.”

Won rubbed his sore shoulder with a wince, grumbling under his breath.

“You guys are the worst.”

To his surprise, Rocky chuckled—low and quiet. It was the first time Won had ever heard that sound from him.

“Get used to it,” Rocky said, almost amused.

Before Won could retort, the sound of hurried footsteps filled the hall. Michael burst into the room, his wide eyes locking on Won’s bruised face and bloodied clothes.

“WON!” he cried, rushing forward.

Won immediately dropped to one knee, resting a reassuring hand on Michael’s head. Despite the ache in his body, his tone softened.

“I’m okay. I’m home.”

Michael flung his arms around him, clinging tightly as though he feared Won might disappear again. Won held him, his chest tightening.

From where he stood, Rocky watched silently. His expression revealed nothing, but his thoughts lingered, unspoken:

They’ll be safe here.

-----

Later that night, the apartment had gone still. Michael was already asleep, his soft breathing muffled through the closed bedroom door. Won stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, clattering plates into soapy water. He scrubbed hard, more out of habit than skill, his movements rough and uneven.

On the couch, Rocky lounged lazily, one arm draped over the backrest, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“You’re bad at this,” Rocky drawled suddenly.

Won paused mid-scrub, frowning over his shoulder.

“At what?”

“Cleaning,” Rocky replied flatly, as if the answer were obvious.

Won set the plate down with a sharp clink.

“Excuse me? I’m not.”

“You are,” Rocky said, tone calm and almost bored.

Won’s frown deepened, but before he could snap back, Rocky pushed himself up from the couch. He stretched lazily, then padded toward the kitchen as though he owned the space. Won instinctively stepped aside, confused, watching the older boy roll up his sleeves.

To Won’s surprise, Rocky began washing the dishes with practiced ease, his movements smooth and efficient. He rinsed, scrubbed, and stacked each plate neatly, as though he’d done it a hundred times before.

“You… know how to do this?” Won asked, blinking.

Rocky didn’t look up, his attention fixed on the plate in his hands.

“I’ve lived alone for years, idiot. What, you think I only know how to beat people up?”

Won blinked again, speechless. His mind tried to reconcile the image of Rocky—the ruthless, unreadable fighter—with the one standing before him now, sleeves rolled up and soap bubbles clinging to his arms.

He’s surprisingly… domestic? Won thought, baffled.

Rocky glanced sideways just in time to catch Won’s stunned expression. He rolled his eyes, letting out a quiet huff.

“Go rest,” he muttered softly, still scrubbing. “I’ll finish it.”

“Seriously…?” he asked, disbelief coloring his voice.

Without even looking up, Rocky replied, “You’re in the way. Go.”

Won let out a reluctant sigh, shuffling toward the living room.

“Bossy old man…” he muttered under his breath.

From the sink, Rocky chuckled quietly, the sound so soft that Won nearly missed it.

Flopping onto the couch, Won stretched out and stared at the ceiling, hands folded behind

 his head. 

In the kitchen, Rocky moved with steady efficiency. He rinsed the last plate, set it neatly in the drying rack, then dried his hands with a towel and tossed it casually over a chair.

When he stepped into the living room, his eyes immediately fell on Won sprawled across the couch. He stood over him, expression flat, and muttered,

 “Pathetic.”

Won lifted his head slightly, glaring.

“Tch. I didn’t ask for commentary.”

Rocky smirked and dropped lazily into a chair across from him. 

“You’re not used to people helping you, are you?”

The question caught Won off guard. He blinked, narrowing his eyes.

“Huh?”

“Every time someone does something for you, you act like it’s a trick,” Rocky said calmly, leaning back in his seat.

Won looked away, jaw tightening.

“…Maybe because it usually is.”

Rocky studied him in silence, his expression unreadable, but his tone softened just slightly.

“It’s not, this time.”

Won hesitated, his eyes flicking back toward Rocky. For the first time, there was something almost steady, almost trustworthy, in the other’s voice. Something small inside him wavered.

“You’re full of surprises,” Won muttered, though whether it was annoyance or reluctant admiration even he couldn’t tell.

“Get used to it,” Rocky muttered, his eyes fixed elsewhere, as if the words were nothing more than an afterthought.

Won let out a quiet sigh and turned away, unwilling to argue further. His footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor as he made his way to the bedroom.

Inside, the dim light barely reached the small figure curled up under the blanket. Michael’s breathing was slow, steady, peaceful. For the first time in days, he seemed truly at ease.

Won lingered in the doorway, tension slowly melting from his shoulders. A faint smile tugged at his lips—rare, fleeting, but genuine.

Crossing the room, he sat carefully on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the boy’s sleeping face. The weight pressing on him felt lighter here, if only for a moment.

Leaning forward slightly, he whispered into the quiet, words barely carried by his breath.

“I guess we should trust him… for now.”