Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

⌖

The traffic. Dear god, the traffic.

It was worse than it usually was in Seoul. They’d probably only moved about an inch in ten minutes. They were going to be beyond late.

Geonwoo was growing restless, finger tapping along the steering wheel in sync with the seconds ticking by still unmoved.

“You think you could go around?” Sanghyeon asked, boredom seeping through his tone.

He peeped out the windows at the crowd of cars surrounding him. If he could teleport, maybe. He said as much to Sanghyeon, who cracked a smile for the first time in five minutes.

And then another five minutes passed. And another. Nothing moved. People stuck their heads out of their cars. The honking grew louder, angrier, more frantic. The sun was too hot for that kind of standstill, and the heat fueled an edge of irritation through the air.

Finally, Geonwoo swore under his breath and unclipped his seatbelt.

“Stay in the car. I’m gonna see what’s going on.”

Sanghyeon sat up straighter, eyebrows raised. “Why? It’s probably just a fender bender.”

“I need to see what kind of ‘fender bender’ backs up traffic this bad,” Geonwoo answered, already opening the door. “Keep the windows rolled up, don’t waste the cool air.”

Sanghyeon saluted him dramatically. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

Geonwoo rolled his eyes and shut the door.

The moment he stepped outside, the heat hit differently—thicker, heavier. Something was wrong. He felt it before he saw it. The air felt… charged. Prickly and hair-raising like static.

He started weaving through the halted cars, muttering apologies as he brushed past open doors and irritated drivers. Eventually he pushed far enough ahead to see the front of the jam.

It was completely blocked off. Police cars perpendicular to the road, lights flashing. Officers kept people back. There was a broken guardrail. Two cars smashed together, metal twisted and crumpled like paper.

Geonwoo slowed, instinctively dropping into caution.

A police officer stepped forward, hand up. “Sir, please return to your vehicle.”

“What happened?” Geonwoo asked, eyes glued to the wreckage.

“A multi-car collision,” the officer answers curtly. “We have paramedics handling it. Please go back—”

A scream cut through the air.

Geonwoo’s head snapped toward the wreck.

Paramedics were trying to pull a man from one of the crushed cars. The moment they pried open what’s left of the driver’s door, the man lunged, sink­ing his teeth into the EMT’s forearm.

“What the—?” Geonwoo breathed, frozen in place for a split second.

The EMT shrieked, stumbling back. Another rushed in to help, only to get knocked to the ground. The injured man from the wreck fell on top of him, jaws snapping, tearing through skin like it’s nothing.

More screams erupted around them, sharp and ear piercing.

Geonwoo backed up, stomach flipping, vision tunneling with disbelief.

No. No, that’s not—people didn’t bite like that. They didn’t move like that. The man’s skin was grayish. His eyes unfocused. There’s no way he should’ve even survived a collision like that.

“Jesus Christ,” Geonwoo choked, turning on his heel.

He bolted back down the line of cars.

“Everyone needs to turn around! Back up your cars!” he screamed, waving his arms like a madman. “Something’s wrong! Back up!”

A few people stared at him, confused. Others ignored him. Most didn’t move at all. Not that they could with all their cars being packed in so closely.

He reached his car just as Sanghyeon rolled the window down, eyes wide.

“What’s happening?”

“We gotta get the hell out of here,” Geonwoo said, yanking the door open. “Get out—get out now. We can’t drive through.”

“What? Why?” Sanghyeon stepped out, clutching Geonwoo’s backpack instinctively.

“There’s— they’re—people are getting attacked,” Geonwoo stammered, grabbing Sanghyeon’s wrist. “We have to go! Now!”

They ran.

Behind them, car doors slammed. People shouted. Some tried to follow. Some stood frozen. Some started filming.

Another shriek pierced the air.

Then, everything snowballed.

They sprinted between cars, dodging panicked crowds. The noise behind them grew. Metal clanging, glass breaking, people yelling for loved ones. Someone pushed past them, hysterical. Another person fell. A child wailed from somewhere nearby.

Geonwoo’s heartbeat roared in his ears.

“This way!” he gasped, pulling Sanghyeon around another row of cars.

They turned the corner.

And ran straight into more chaos. People fighting. People fleeing. People being dragged down by… by things that used to be people.

Sanghyeon yelled his name. Someone grabbed at Geonwoo’s jacket. Someone else slammed into them, throwing them off balance. A woman collapsed in front of them, blood pooling around her head.

Geonwoo yanked Sanghyeon away, chest burning, throat tightening, panic swallowing him whole.

He couldn’t get them out. He couldn’t protect his brother. He couldn’t…

A hand clamped onto his arm.

He jerked back—

Then he wakes up choking on his own breath.

His hands are fisted in the blanket, knuckles white, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. Sweat clings to his temples despite the cold of the room, and for a moment—just a moment—he doesn’t know where he is. He expects to hear screaming, see the crush of bodies, the snap of jaws. Or if he allows himself to be optimistic, he expects to hear soft voices on a television screen, and to sink back into the comfort of his warm, even softer mattress at home.

But there’s only silence, a mildly comfortable cot, and a sea of useless computers.

And now, he hears the soft shuffle of socks on concrete.

“Hyung?”

Sanghyeon’s voice is groggy but alert, the way it always is when he hears Geonwoo gasp himself awake. He rubs at his eyes, hair a mess, shoulders hunched with a blanket thrown over them to beat the draft coming through a cracked window.

“You okay? It was… loud.”

Geonwoo drags a hand over his face, exhaling hard. His throat feels raw—maybe phantom pains from yelling in the dream. Maybe from sleep-yelling in real life too.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Just the same dream.”

“That day?”

“Yeah.”

Sanghyeon sits on the edge of the cot and bumps their shoulders together. It’s gentle and grounding, even if just barely.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No, not really.”

“You wanna try going back to sleep then?”

“I’ll pass.”

Sanghyeon studies him for a moment, lips pulling into a small frown. Concern softens his features, but he doesn’t push. He never pushes too hard. Instead he balls up his blanket and tosses it at Geonwoo’s chest.

“Fine. Then at least stop sweating on everything.”

Geonwoo huffs a laugh despite himself and throws the blanket back at him. Sanghyeon yelps, dodging it, and for half a second something warm fills the emptiness in Geonwoo’s chest.

The moment passes too quickly.

Because the dream—no, that day takes up space in his brain again. Because he wakes up to the ruins every day. Because even with his little brother beside him day in and day out, he’s lonelier than he’s ever been. He’s seen parts of himself—cold, ruthless, hopeless—that he never imagined were inside him. Parts he hates. Parts he needs to rely on.

It’s been months since he’s felt anything remotely like optimism.

⌖

By midday, the sun is a weak, washed-out thing hiding behind gray clouds. Their makeshift shelter—an abandoned office building with boarded windows and a roof that creaks at night—feels smaller than usual as Geonwoo rummages through their food crate for the fourth time.

There’s nothing but a single can of chickpeas and a suspiciously old protein bar.

Sanghyeon watches him from the table, chin propped on his hands. He sighs, “Well. That’s depressing.”

“You don’t say,” Geonwoo mutters.

They’ve been rationing for weeks after the last supply run went south. More undead than expected, fewer supplies. He had hoped they could stretch what they had until the next outpost run. Clearly not.

He straightens up and brushes off his jeans. “I’ll go. Shouldn’t be too long.”

“Hyung.”

The tone pulls him to a stop.

Sanghyeon stands slowly, arms crossed but eyes uncertain. He looks older than he did before all this already, a little sharper around the edges, but he’s still his kid brother, still trying too hard to pretend he isn’t scared.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Geonwoo hyung—”

“It’s too dangerous. Especially now that winter’s rolling in. And I need you here. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Sanghyeon snaps, voice cracking slightly. “In case you don’t come back?”

Geonwoo falls silent.

Sanghyeon takes a breath, steadying himself. “Hyung… every time you go out alone, I spend hours wondering if I’m gonna be sitting here when it gets dark, listening for your footsteps, and they never come. I can’t just wait around anymore.”

He can’t say he didn’t expect Sanghyeon to say this. Hell, honestly he’s surprised he hasn’t said it sooner. His heart still drops all the same seeing him take on such an uncharacteristically serious demeanor.

Sanghyeon presses on, quieter:

“I want to feel helpful. I need to do something. And I don’t want you to keep going out there alone.”

Geonwoo looks away, jaw tight.

He wants to shut it down. To insist he can handle it. That the world out there is no place for someone as good, and as bright as Sanghyeon.

But Sanghyeon’s right, in a way. It makes more sense to have backup.

And he knows it’s due time for Sanghyeon to get more hands on. He needs to know how to hold his own if anything were to happen to Geonwoo, god forbid.

Finally, he nods once. Stiff, reluctant.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you stay close. You listen to everything I say. No arguments.”

Sanghyeon beams. “Yes, sir.”

Geonwoo glares. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Sanghyeon ruffles his hair. “Still funny, though.”

Geonwoo huffs.

He just hopes he won’t regret this.

⌖

They leave before the sun starts to set—Geonwoo insists on it. He wants enough light to see things coming, enough shadows for cover, but not enough dark for anything to hide in.

Sanghyeon sticks close, just like he promised. Too close, really. Every few seconds, Geonwoo feels his jacket tug where Sanghyeon’s fingers brush it, making sure they don’t get separated.

It should annoy him. A couple years ago, it probably would’ve.

Now? He’s grateful for the contact. It means Sanghyeon is still here. Still alive.

And he intends to keep it that way.

They walk in silence, weaving through abandoned cars and toppled newspaper stands. Buildings loom overhead, completely hollowed-out—windows shattered, signs hanging crooked, overgrowth sneaking through cracks in the asphalt.

Seoul’s bones are showing.

Geonwoo grips the bat in his hand, palms fitted perfectly along the tape-wrapped handle. He remembers wrapping it with his dad the night before their first real family game, the way his dad guided his hands, adjusting his grip.

Relax your shoulders, Woo-yah. Don’t tense up. You can’t hit what you can’t see coming.

It’s funny, in a way. He’s never needed that advice more than now.

They’re halfway to the old convenience store when Sanghyeon freezes.

“Hyung.”

The quiet urgency in his voice makes Geonwoo instantly raise the bat. He turns, slow, careful.

There, half-hidden behind a ruined vending machine, an undead slumps forward. Its skin is grayish purple, lips peeled back from teeth that look too sharp now. Its leg drags, bone showing through torn flesh.

It hasn’t seen them yet.

Sanghyeon grips Geonwoo’s jacket. “We can go around—”

“No.” Geonwoo moves first. Quickly. Quietly. He steps forward before Sanghyeon can argue.

He hates killing them. Hates the sound—the way bones crack like wet branches, the way the body slumps with a dull heaviness that reminds him too much that they used to be human.

But he hates risking Sanghyeon more.

The undead turns toward the noise of his footsteps, snarling.

Geonwoo swings.

The crack echoes down the empty street. The creature slumps over with a thud, unmoving.

Sanghyeon lets out a shaky breath. “Nice hit.”

Geonwoo wipes the bat on his jeans out of instinct. “Don’t compliment me on that.”

“Wasn’t complimenting,” Sanghyeon mutters. “Just… observing.”

Geonwoo ruffles his hair. “Let’s go.”

⌖

The convenience store is worse than before.

He’d brought his backpack for whatever findings they’d come across, but apparently he’d expected too much. Shelves are overturned, glass bottles shattered across the floor. What little food remains is either already rotting or sealed in bags of things no one ever liked—curdled milk cartons, unmarked cans swollen with age, protein powder the color of chalk.

Geonwoo pushes open the back room door with the bat first. Empty.

He lets out a frustrated hiss. “Damn it.”

Sanghyeon toes at an empty ramen box. “Maybe the other one near the bus stop—”

A sound cuts him off.

Clattering. Soft at first, then louder.

Geonwoo’s instincts flare instantly. He grips the bat, pulls Sanghyeon behind him without thinking, shoulders tense and ready.

“It’s coming from aisle three,” Sanghyeon whispers, raising the pocket knife in hand.

“Stay here.” Geonwoo steps forward.

“Hyung—”

“Stay.”

He stalks toward the noise, ready to swing, ready to do whatever he has to.

Someone stumbles into view.

Geonwoo doesn’t think. The bat is already raised, mid-swing, adrenaline taking over.

“Wait—wait wait wait!” the stranger yelps, hands flying up. “I’m not dead! I’m not dead! Holy—please don’t hit me!”

Geonwoo stops the swing inches from the guy’s head.

They freeze, staring at each other.

The stranger is young—maybe around Geonwoo’s age or a bit older. Dusty jeans, layered shirts, a backpack full enough to bulge. He looks more startled than threatening.

And very much alive.

Sanghyeon peeks out from behind the aisle. “Not an undead?”

“Yes! See? Not undead,” the stranger brightens. “I’m Junseo. You guys are..?”

“Sanghyeon.” he points to himself, walking out from his cover, then pointing to his brother. “And Geonwoo.”

Geonwoo scowls and lowers his bat slowly. “I almost cracked your skull open.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Junseo wheezes. “Thanks for… not doing that.”

“What are you doing here?” Geonwoo demands.

“Same as you, probably. I didn’t think anyone else came this far into the old district anymore.” Junseo hesitates. “Are you… just the two of you?”

“Y—”

“That’s our business.”

Junseo raises his hands again. “Fair. That’s okay! Just asking because—” he takes a step back, gauging their reactions carefully. “I’m not alone. There’s a small community. Six of us, including me. Not too far from here, actually. We’ve been living together for months now.”

Geonwoo frowns. He doesn’t buy it. Communities fall apart quicker than they form.

Junseo adds quickly, “We have food. Water. Shelter. A garden—small, but it works. And we’re always looking for more people. We want to rebuild something, even if it’s tiny.”

Geonwoo’s grip tightens on the bat. “Yeah right.”

“I’m telling the truth, I swear,” Junseo insists. “Look, if you want proof, come back with me. If not, that’s fine too. I’ll leave you alone.”

Geonwoo opens his mouth to reject.

Sanghyeon speaks first.

“Okay.”

“Sanghyeon—”

“Please.” he steps forward. “We can’t keep doing this. You know we can’t. If there really is a group out there… even a small one… we should see it.”

There’s levity in his voice despite their situation, but his eyes give away his tiredness. He knows he’s tired.

Tired of starving.

Tired of being afraid.

Tired of surviving instead of living.

Geonwoo swallows hard.

He looks at Junseo—nervous, hopeful, hands still raised in defense like Geonwoo might swing again.

He looks at Sanghyeon—determined and scared in equal measure.

And for the first time in months, Geonwoo lets someone else’s hope be enough.

He lowers the bat fully.

“Fine,” he mutters. “We’ll go.”

Junseo lights up, relief flooding his face. “Great. Awesome. Fantastic. No skull-cracking necessary.”

Sanghyeon grins.

Geonwoo doesn’t. But he doesn’t fight it, either.

⌖

The walk to the supposed safe haven is long enough that Geonwoo has time to regret every decision that brought him to this point—especially trusting a stranger who’s head he’d nearly knocked off earlier.

Junseo walks ahead, humming, oddly chipper for someone living during the apocalypse. Sanghyeon is glued to Geonwoo’s side, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He notices an extra bounce in his step.

Geonwoo whispers, “If this guy’s leading us into a trap, I get to say I told you so.”

Sanghyeon says back, a lot louder, “If this guy isn’t leading us into a trap, I get to say I told you so.”

Geonwoo shoots him a look. “You’d really gloat about that?”

“Absolutely.” he shrugs. “Though, honestly… do you really wanna be right in this situation?”

Geonwoo hesitates, frowns, then grumbles, “I guess not, no.”

Junseo glances back over his shoulder, amusement tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth. “For what it’s worth, I’d vote for Sanghyeon being right. I don’t have the time or energy to drag people into traps these days.”

“Well, of course you’d say that.” Geonwoo says flatly.

Junseo just shrugs as if to say believe what you want.

They walk a little further before Sanghyeon perks up. “Okay,” he starts, smile creeping up on his face. “Lets make a bet.”

Geonwoo narrows his eyes. “On what? What could we possibly wager in a time like this?’

“Bragging rights?”

“…That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he affirms. “If Junseo-ssi here is taking us somewhere safe, and we don’t die horribly in the next twenty minutes, I win, obviously. You’d owe me—hmm—one ‘Sanghyeon was right’. Out loud. With sincerity.”

“…Seriously?”

“Yes. And if it is a trap,” Sanghyeon continues, “you’ll get the same for you. Assuming we survive long enough to settle the bet.”

Junseo, still walking ahead, lifts a hand. “I’ll make sure you survive long enough to settle it.”

“Really reassuring, thank you,” Geonwoo deadpans, but he knows Sanghyeon can tell he’s slightly less tense. Only slightly.

They continue walking, the city shifting around them—abandoned apartment buildings, broken signs, quiet streets dusted in the remnants of a fallen world. The silence as the night settles in is a bit heavy, fraught even, but it feels less suffocating than usual with Sanghyeon quietly complaining about rocks in his shoes and Junseo stopping every ten steps to check for undead.

And despite everything—despite the fear, the hunger, the ruins—Geonwoo feels the faintest trace of warmth in his chest. A warmth that almost feels strangely hope-like.

He hates it.

He keeps walking anyway.

“Alright,” Junseo says, “we’re pretty close—”

Sanghyeon squints. “Is that a gate?”

Geonwoo slows.

The safe haven turns out to be an old gated community—probably the kind of place that had matching mailboxes and residents that were affluent in the pre-end times.

Now the entrance gate is barely recognizable.

Thick metal sheets have been welded over the original bars, turning the once decorative ironwork into a solid barrier you can’t see through. Extra slabs of scrap metal reinforce the hinges and the sides, bolted on in uneven layers like armor.

The fence that runs around the community has gotten the same treatment: patched with chain-link, wooden planks, whatever materials could be scavenged, all wired tightly so there’s no gaps. The top is crowned with twisted barbed wire that definitely wasn’t part of the suburban aesthetic originally.

The road leading up to the gate is cleared of debris, forming a narrow, maintained path. Proof that people live here, guard it, and protect it.

It’s still rough, still worn down by the conditions of the world around it.

But it’s very real.

And surprisingly secure.

A promise of safety in a time where safety is a myth.

By the time they reach the gate, Sanghyeon is wearing a smug grin.

Junseo unlatches the reinforced gate with practiced ease, slipping through the narrow gap and gesturing for the two of them to follow. The moment they step inside, it feels like entering a different world—lived in, but not unkempt.

The community is fairly small, maybe only eleven or twelve houses arranged in two short loops, all weathered barely perceptibly, but standing strong no less. Smoke curls from one chimney. Lights glow faintly behind the curtains from that same house. Small garden boxes line one side of the gate. There’s actual stacked supplies.

Geonwoo sighs. “Alright, go ahead and say it.”

“I mean, what do I say? I have so many good options,” Sanghyeon crows, grinning ear to ear. “‘I knew it’? ‘I told you so’? ‘I’m right again, like always’?”

“You are not always right.”

“That’s not your line!” Sanghyeon sing-songs.

Geonwoo sighs, smiling through it. “You were right.”

“Thank you,” The youngest beams. “Now, was that so hard to say?”

Geonwoo can’t even pretend to be annoyed.

Junseo walks backward as he talks, pointing things out with easy familiarity. “Alright, so, that one’s mine,” he says, nodding toward the house closest to the gate—a compact place with solar panels rigged on the roof, matching the others. They must’ve been applied to the houses by actual professionals before everything went down. The perks of being rich, Geonwoo supposes. “If you need anything at night, that’s where I’ll be. Or you can go to Leo’s over there. But everyone here’s kind, so wherever you go they’ll help you.”

After they nod their understanding, he pivots and gestures toward a house across the street, its garage door replaced with slabs of metal. “That’s where we keep medical supplies and the weapons. Don’t go in without one of us—mainly a trust thing, but also everything’s being reorganized at the moment.”

Sanghyeon nods eagerly like he’s being given a tour of an amusement park rather than a post-apocalyptic neighborhood. Geonwoo, meanwhile, keeps his hand wrapped around the handle of his bat and tracks every window, checking for any moving shadows.

Junseo either ignores his suspicion or has grown used to it by now. “And that house,” he points to a small duplex near the corner, “is probably where you two will stay. It’s close to the essentials and you’ll be together while still each having your own space. We share chores, so you’ll be put in the rotation tomorrow.”

A beat passes, and Geonwoo can’t help but ask a question that’s been in the back of his mind this whole time.

“Really secure setup you’ve got here. You can’t have just brought us here out of the kindness of your heart,” he says conspiratorially. “What makes us so trustworthy? What do you gain in this?”

Junseo slows to a stop, turning to smile at the two of them, warm and sincere.

“All of us were alone before we found each other. We lost a lot of people before stumbling upon this place. Lost a couple people after, too,” Geonwoo sees his smile sour a little as the last sentence falls from his lips. He feels his stomach twist with guilt. “It’s because we decided to trust each other that we’ve made it to this point. And I just had a good feeling about you two. Plus it doesn’t hurt to have a couple extra hands to help around here.”

Sanghyeon returns his smile, clearly moved.

Geonwoo resolves to just hum noncommittally.

After the moment settles, he leads them down the slightly cracked pavement toward the house with the smoking chimney—the one he’d pointed out as Leo’s a moment ago. “Dinner should be more than ready by now. They’ll want to meet you.”

Warm light spills out as Junseo pushes open the door and steps inside without knocking.

“Hello everyone, I brought new friends.”

Five faces look up from their chairs around a battered table.

Junseo gestures grandly. “This is Geonwoo and Sanghyeon. They didn’t crack my skull open, so please, big round of applause.”

The crew is then introduced one by one.

Anxin gives a lazy two-finger salute. Xinlong nods in polite acknowledgment. Leo waves brightly. Jiahao squints like he’s evaluating their threat level.

And then—

He sees Sangwon.

Geonwoo freezes.

God, he’d thought it was him, but now that it’s been confirmed he doesn’t know how he’d doubted it for even a moment.

He looks up from where he’s been burying his nose in some book, dark hair falling into his eyes the same way it used to. He looks a little older. Sharper in the cheekbones, broader in the shoulders, a little more worn, but unmistakably him.

Geonwoo feels his stomach drop straight through the ground.

Oh, shit.

Chapter Text

⌖

Geonwoo was lying on his back on Sangwon’s childhood bed, scrolling through his phone, pretending not to pay attention to the way Sangwon kept scooting closer. Inch by inch. Like a prideful cat who wanted affection without asking for it directly.

Sangwon finally flopped down right on top of him with a dramatic sigh.

Geonwoo didn’t even look up. “Yes, Won-ah?”

“Nothing,” Sangwon answered, cheek pressed against Geonwoo’s chest, arms squeezing him tighter. “I just want your attention.”

“You’ve had my attention.”

“Well, I want more of it.”

Geonwoo huffed a laugh and locked his phone, setting it aside. He finally looked down at him, mouth twitching. “Has anyone ever told you you’re needy?”

Sangwon didn’t miss a beat. “No, they usually just call me Wonie.”

Geonwoo’s nose scrunched.

“That was—” he choked, lips pressed together momentarily like he’s physically fighting the urge to laugh. “Sangwon, that was bad. Like really bad. Probably one of your worst ones by far.”

Sangwon burst into laughter, completely unbothered, thumping his forehead lightly against Geonwoo’s chest. “I’m hilarious and you love me.”

Geonwoo fought his smile for another half-second before giving up entirely and wrapping an arm around his waist. He pulled him in and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Sure,” he murmured. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Sangwon’s smile was so genuine, so full, Geonwoo remembers thinking he could get addicted to it.

And he had.

⌖

The expression looking back at him now is so much icier.

“Sangwon?” he breathes out before he can stop himself.

Junseo perks up, glancing between them. “Oh—do you two know each other already?”

Geonwoo says, “Yes.”

At the same time Sangwon says, “No.”

A wretched silence overtakes the room.

The look he sees staring back at him is nothing like he’s seen before. Maybe not anger, but harsh enough to cut all the same. But he still sees the way Sangwon starts to blink a little faster, the way his jaw twitches barely perceptibly. He sees him take in a deep, shaky breath before saying, “Wrong guy maybe,” flat and dismissive.

Geonwoo’s jaw tightens.

Right.

Sure.

‘Wrong guy’.

“Excuse me,” Sangwon mutters, already standing and moving toward the hall. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

Leo watches him go, then steps in smoothly. “He gets like that when he’s tired sometimes. As you know now, I’m Leo.” he offers a hand to Geonwoo, then Sanghyeon. “Welcome. I’m surprised you managed to survive this long out there with a kid.”

“I’m eighteen,” Sanghyeon corrects, offended.

“Barely.”

Leo raises a brow. “And that’s not basically still a baby?”

Sanghyeon looks to Geonwoo, silently pleading for backup.

Geonwoo shrugs. “I’ve been telling him the same thing.”

Sanghyeon makes a wounded sound at his betrayal, and the others laugh before waving them over to the empty seats.

Despite Geonwoo’s nerves, and the earlier tension—the food is incredible. Warm, surprisingly flavorful, the first real food they’ve had in months. Food that didn’t taste faintly of rust, smoke, or rot.

And somehow, despite everything in him telling him to stay guarded, to stay distant, to not rely on anyone, he gets along with the others far better than he expects.

Even if every few minutes, his gaze drifts to the empty hallway Sangwon disappeared down earlier.

⌖

They do end up getting that duplex Junseo pointed out to them earlier. There’s two separate doors, and its split perfectly into two mirrored halves. Even with the view from the outside, Geonwoo’s still shocked by the sheer amount of space within it’s walls—a combined two kitchens, two bathrooms, and four bedrooms. If they wanted to, they each could practically pretend they lived alone.

But Geonwoo doesn’t even hesitate. He drops his bag on Sanghyeon’s side of the duplex, then stalks over to the far window, checking for movement outside the reinforced fence even though he knows it’s pointless. Sanghyeon, on the other hand, seemingly makes it his mission to brush his fingers across every surface in the house, his admiration evident. The dilapidated office-room they’d ended up calling home for the past year or so must’ve made him easily impressed, apparently.

“It’s pretty,” he awes, fingers stilling for a moment. “Wonder who lived here before us.”

Geonwoo finally pulls himself away from the window. He chances a glance around at the room’s decor, a vase atop a dusty fireplace, a painting of flowers hanging above it, a coffee table in front of a deep blue couch, marble counters in the attached kitchen. His stomach flips. “I don’t wanna think about it, to be honest.”

Sanghyeon hesitates, then nods, dropping it.

In the silence, Geonwoo’s eyes drift once toward the empty half of the duplex before he grabs a blanket draped over the couch, claiming it for the night.

Sanghyeon, who’s made his way to the doorway of the bedroom watches him, one eyebrow raised. “You know there’s a whole house with a bed on the other side, right?”

“I do,” Geonwoo mutters, fluffing a throw-pillow unnecessarily. “I’m fine here, though.”

“What, you don’t trust me to go to sleep on my own?”

“Can’t I just want to keep my dearest brother company?” Geonwoo says automatically, “You’re still a kid, after all.”

“I’m eighteen.” he repeats, smiling this time.

“Exactly.”

Sanghyeon tosses a sock at him. Geonwoo lets it bounce off his shoulder without reacting.

They start trying to settle in—Sanghyeon testing the mattress like it might collapse under him, Geonwoo stretching out on the couch that’s a little too short for his frame. The quiet settles in too, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Until Sanghyeon breaks it.

“So… how’re you feeling? About everything.”

Geonwoo doesn’t look up from adjusting the blanket around his legs. “Fine.”

“How about the truth this time?.”

Geonwoo sighs, turning his attention to the ceiling now. “It’s… a lot. Different.”

Sanghyeon nods. “The others seem nice, though. I think they did a good job making us feel welcomed.”

Geonwoo gives a soft grunt as he shifts. “Yeah.”

“And,” Sanghyeon stretches the word out, “there’s Sangwon.”

Geonwoo’s entire body goes still.

He hears the creak of the mattress, then sees Sanghyeon’s head peeking out from the doorframe. “I mean… obviously I recognized him. It’s not like he changed that much.”

Geonwoo says nothing.

“And honestly?” Sanghyeon continues, voice dropping a decibel lower, “I always liked him for you. Back then. I thought he made you less… grouchy.”

Geonwoo scoffs, nothing but mirth behind it. “I’m not grouchy.”

“You weren’t back then, at least.”

“Well, I’ve got a lot to be grouchy about now, I think.”

“Sure.” he throws his hands up in defense. “But, look. I’m just saying… seeing him again is weird enough for me. I can’t imagine how weird it is for you. You must be losing your mind.”

Geonwoo looks back down at the blanket across his lap, hard enough to distinguish each individual thread.

Sanghyeon breathes out and says, soft but direct:

“You never told me why you two broke up.”

The room falls thick with silence.

Geonwoo’s jaw works, but no sound comes out. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, breathing in slow once. Then again.

After a long moment, he reaches behind his head to turn off the lamp beside the couch.

“Go to bed, Sanghyeon-ah.”

Sanghyeon studies him, waiting for anything—an explanation, a hint, a crack in his emotional wall.

Nothin comes.

“…Okay,” he finally murmurs, turning back into his new room.

The lamp in there clicks off too.

And Geonwoo lies awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying a hundred memories and one look from earlier that felt like a punch to the ribs.

⌖

He wakes to the sound of knocking—firm and sure.

He’s halfway to grabbing his bat before his brain catches up to his surroundings and reason.

Right.

Right.

Undead don’t knock, and he’s within a fortified community.

He rubs a hand over his face as he gets up, joints stiff from sleeping on the couch. When he opens the door, Leo stands there, hands in his pockets, expression polite and posture open.

“Hey! I tried the other door first,” Leo nods towards the second half of the duplex. “But no one answered.”

“Yeah,” Geonwoo replies, pushing hair out of his eyes. “Big brother duties, you know.”

From the bedroom, Sanghyeon calls out without missing a beat, “Duties no one but yourself assigned, by the way!”

Leo’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh. “Well, I just came to tell you breakfast is ready. We’ll be gathered at my place again, so you know where to find us. Take your time to get ready, but you might wanna get over there before Anxin eats all the good stuff.”

Sanghyeon barrels out of his room, hair sticking up in every direction. “Breakfast? We even get breakfast too? Oh my god, this is awesome.”

Leo’s quietly amused. Geonwoo, despite everything, despite his conflicted feelings about their stay here still, starts to feel just a bit lighter at Sanghyeon’s excitement.

After getting ready, they walk to Leo’s together. Smoke curls from the chimney just like last night, warmth wrapping them immediately as soon as they step inside.

Everyone at the table greets them upon their arrival.

Well, other than—

“Is Sangwon coming soon?” Anxin asks, looking around. “I’m surprised he’s not here already.”

Leo serves himself calmly. “He said he wasn’t hungry when I asked earlier. Just make sure to leave some for when he is later.”

Geonwoo keeps his face meticulously blank.

‘Not hungry’.

Sure.

Breakfast is above expectations too—canned potatoes and some of the vegetables and herbs they’ve grown, apparently. It’s filling, and Sanghyeon in particular is so satisfied he's practically glowing.

“This place is insane,” he says around a mouthful. “I love it here!”

Junseo grins. “Told you it wasn’t a trap.”

Sanghyeon elbows Geonwoo. “And we could’ve been stuck in that smelly office eating rotten chickpeas.”

Geonwoo gives him a weak smile, then shovels another forkful into his mouth.

Leo gives Geonwoo a sympathetic look. “Rough morning, huh?”

“It’s fine,” Geonwoo mutters for the nth time.

When breakfast is finished they gather in the small living room for daily assignments. Leo sorts through a handwritten chart. Sanghyeon groans when he sees he’s on dish washing duty.

“Geonwoo,” he says, “you’re with Xinlong today. You’ll be harvesting the last of the crops before the freeze kills them. Winter’s coming in fast.”

“Got it,” Geonwoo replies.

Xinlong hands him gloves and a small gardening tool. “We’ve got, like, four beds that still have stuff in them—radishes, cabbage, a few stubborn carrots. Should only take a couple hours tops.”

They separate to do their assigned tasks, Geonwoo and Xinlong heading outside to the small community garden. The air is cold, but manageable, and he notes the frost dusting the ground now as they walk. Xinlong kneels to start pulling radishes, humming something tuneless.

Geonwoo crouches beside him.

Then footsteps approach.

He doesn’t look up at first, but he knows the pattern of the steps, their rhythm. He knows who it is before Xinlong glances over his shoulder and says, “Morning, hyung.”

Sangwon stands there at the edge of the garden, hugging himself for warmth. His eyes sweep from Xinlong to Geonwoo, skimming over him like the contact burns.

“Thought I’d help,” Sangwon says stiffly.

“That’d be great actually! We could use the extra hands.”

But the second Sangwon’s gaze truly lands on Geonwoo—just a flicker, just a moment—something shifts. His posture tightens. His expression shutters.

And then:

“Actually,” Sangwon clears his throat, “I’m… not feeling great. Think I’m gonna go lie down.”

Xinlong frowns. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired,” he’s already backing away. “Let me know if you need anything later, Xinlong-ah. I’ll make it up to you.”

He turns, walking briskly across the yard without looking back.

Xinlong sighs. “Guess it’s just us then,” he resumes harvesting, a beat passing, then, “You think he’s getting sick?”

Geonwoo watches Sangwon head back in the direction from once he came—too quickly, too deliberately.

“No,” Geonwoo answers quietly, pulling a radish from the soil. “I don’t.”

He’s definitely avoiding him. If he wasn’t sure before, he’s sure now. He’s refusing to acknowledge or even be around him.

And he can’t entirely say he blames him.

“Let’s just get this done,” he mutters.

Xinlong glances between him and the retreating figure before nodding, proceeding to work in silence.

⌖

The practice field behind one of the unused houses is quiet enough that the thwick of arrowheads sliding against quivers sounds loud. Sanghyeon is vibrating with excitement as he holds his first real weapon—an actual bow previously stored away in the weapons house, sturdy and well-worn, with a matching set of arrows that Leo okayed him to start learning with. He’d kept grinning at the thing when he got it like it was a birthday present.

Geonwoo finishes hauling the last bit of wood he’d gone to collect with Jiahao into the supply shed, wipes his hands on his jeans, and slows when he sees Sangwon already with Sanghyeon, adjusting his posture.

Geonwoo mutters some sort of excuse before heading that direction, close enough to hear, but not too close.

Sangwon stands behind him, tapping his elbow. “Not like that. If you lock up your shoulders, you’ll shake by the time you release. Relax, and it’ll come natural to you. Think of it like… breathing. But, like, not at all.”

Sanghyeon laughs. “Not sure how that helps.”

“It helps if you just do what I’m saying,” Sangwon answers, smiling just faintly.

Geonwoo stays a few feet away, watching quietly. Sanghyeon lifts the bow, draws—not very steadily—and Sangwon tuts in his disapproval, stepping in again to adjust his stance.

That’s when Geonwoo finally approaches.

“You’re making him rotate too far, I think,” Geonwoo says before he can stop himself. “It’s gonna strain his upper back like that in the long run.”

Sangwon’s shoulders stiffen. Slowly, he turns. “So you’re an archery expert now?”

“No, it’s just,” Geonwoo steps beside Sanghyeon, gently moving his elbow. “You’d want your weight centered, not leaning forward. And don’t hold your breath when you aim. Your chest will tense up.”

Sangwon crosses his arms. “I literally told him that five seconds ago,”

“No, you told him he’d shake if he locked his shoulders. That’s different.”

“Were you here the entire time, Kim Geonwoo?” Sangwon asks, tone turning cloying, clearly an attempt to keep his voice below argument-level. “Or do you have some sort of superpower that makes you omniscient?”

Geonwoo’s brows furrow briefly. “I’m not—I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, so am I, but apparently I’m wrong.”

Sanghyeon looks back and forth between them like he’s watching a tennis match.

Sangwon clicks his tongue. “You know what? It’s fine. Geonwoo can take it from here then, since he knows everything, apparently.” And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks toward Leo’s house.

Geonwoo watches him go, jaw tightening. He could stay. He should stay. But frustration and curiosity itch under his skin in equal measure.

He pats Sanghyeon’s shoulder. “You keep practicing. I’ll… be right back.”

“Uh-huh,” Sanghyeon replies, deadpan. “Cool. I’ll just shoot nature or whatever.”

Geonwoo follows the direction Sangwon had gone, stepping lightly without meaning to. When he’s halfway up the porch steps, he hears voices from inside—Sangwon’s, frustrated and tight, and Leo’s calmer baritone.

“—I’m trying, Leo, I am,” Sangwon says. “But every time I’m around him I just… I don’t know. I feel annoyed. And hurt. And stupid. And I hate it.”

Leo sighs. “I get it. I really do. But we’re in the end times, Wonie. We can’t afford to hold on to everything from before. You two don’t have to be best friends, but you have to be able to work together. We all do.”

“I know.” A pause, then quieter. “I wish I didn’t still feel like this.”

Geonwoo’s stomach twists.

He didn’t mean to overhear, and now the guilt he’d been harboring is more tangible than ever, eating at his insides an dissolving them like acid.

Footsteps approach. Geonwoo jolts upright just as the door swings open and Sangwon freezes mid-step, face draining.

Geonwoo blurts, “I wasn’t snooping.”

He knows he sounds guilty as hell.

Sangwon stares at him for one long, unreadable second, then brushes past him down the steps, expression shuttered.

He doesn’t say a word.

Geonwoo stands there on the porch, watching him walk away, feeling something raw and old reopen in his chest—something he’d tried hard to bury along with the world they lost.

⌖

Geonwoo has started wearing other people’s clothes.

He hates that it no longer makes him sick.

The longer they stay there, the clearer it is that a family had lived in this half of the duplex. As he’d clean he’d find old hidden photos, sweaters shoved in drawers, a yellow raincoat in a closet. At first, even touching their belongings felt wrong. Like trespassing in a timeline he had no business sticking his nose in. But he’d only had the clothes on his back when he and Sanghyeon had arrived well over a month ago, and a couple of pieces he’d scavenged along the way. Winter is coming, and pride isn’t going to keep him warm.

So now he walks around in someone else’s weather-worn flannel and slightly-too-short jeans barely reaching the ankle, pretending he doesn’t feel like a ghost wearing another ghost’s things.

Something that doesn’t change? The Sangwon situation.

Geonwoo had assumed the whole… accidental snooping thing or at least that talk itself would’ve burst the boil. Force some sort of shift, and crack open the silence-cocoon Sangwon keeps wound weapon-tight around himself when it comes to him. He thought maybe he’d be met with more hostility. Or maybe forced politeness. Or—God—literally anything. But instead, Sangwon simply… continues avoiding him. Efficiently. Seamlessly. At least as well as you can avoid somebody while living in the same small gated community, anyway. He'd almost think Sangwon is a figment of his imagination if it wasn't for everyone else seeing and talking about him.

Regardless, days pass, and everything stays exactly the same. Sangwon still angles himself out of rooms Geonwoo walks into, still volunteers for chores on the opposite end of the compound.

Geonwoo tells himself to let it go. He’s getting along well enough with everyone else, particularly Junseo and Xinlong, and Sanghyeon loves it here. Besides, Leo was right: whatever history lay between him and Sangwon has to stay buried if they’re going to survive as a unit. After all, Geonwoo knows the blame for the way things ended falls on himself more than anyone else.

So, he bites his tongue. Which he is not known to do often. For the group. For Sanghyeon, mainly.

There’s been zero progress, and he can be okay with that. He won’t try to press it or provoke him. When Sangwon decides he’s ready to acknowledge his existence in a neutral manner he’ll be open and willing.

But for now, he expects the endless nothing to continue. And Sangwon doesn’t seem to enjoy his company that much at the moment.

So when Geonwoo looks up from his bowl and sees Sangwon standing in the doorway while eating breakfast, he almost thinks he’s imagining it.

And apparently, he’s not the only one.

“Well, look who decided to join us,” Junseo says breezily, breaking the stunned quiet as the man in question steps further into the room.

Sangwon’s resulting expression is a tight-lipped grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Morning,” he eventually greets, voice even.

He takes the empty seat beside Junseo, who reaches out to give his shoulder a firm, familiar pat.

Directly across from Geonwoo.

Geonwoo’s spoon pauses halfway to his mouth. He forces himself to keep breathing, to remain expressionless, to not do anything to set off the man across from him.

Sangwon doesn’t even look at him. He focuses on the food in front of him, maybe on Junseo’s chatter, on Anxin handing him a serving like nothing’s wrong. Pretending like he hasn’t spent weeks avoiding this exact scenario.

Geonwoo catches a glance exchanged across the table—Sangwon and Leo. It’s brief, subtle, but unmistakable. A silent back-and-forth. Tension, and resignation.

Eat, the look seems to say.

Fine, the returned gaze answers back.

So Leo probably forced his hand.

That realization settles strangely in Geonwoo’s chest. Not relief, nor satisfaction. Just confirmation.

Sanghyeon, oblivious or pretending to be, hums happily and nudges Geonwoo’s knee under the table with his own. “Guess miracles do still happen.”

Geonwoo exhales through his nose, something close to a laugh threatening to bubble out before he shuts it down.

Across from him, Sangwon finally lifts his eyes just for a second.

Their gazes meet.

Nothing softens. Nothing explodes, either.

But something vaguely bitter is in there, buried under fatigue and restraint, before Sangwon looks away again and proceeds to eat his food as if he’s performing the act more than enjoying it.

Breakfast continues, oddly normal. Conversation resumes. Silverware clinks against bowls. Laughter after someone makes a joke.

And Geonwoo has the sinking feeling that whatever this is—this truce forcibly put in place for the sake of the crew—is about to snap under zero pressure the moment they’re left alone.

⌖

Leo doesn’t waste time after breakfast.

The assignments happen in the living room, everyone half-awake and warming their hands in their pockets. Leo stands near the coffee table with his notebook. He claps his hands once, sharp and decisive. The sound cuts through the room.

“Xinlong, Anxin—perimeter check,” he rattles off. “Junseo, Jiahao—water filtration and inventory. Sanghyeon, range practice with me.”

Geonwoo listens with half an ear until—

“Geonwoo. Sangwon. Hunting and light scavenging beyond the west block. Keep the area clear.”

Geonwoo glances up.

Sangwon doesn’t.

That’s what gets him.

Not a hint of surprise. No complaint. He just looks… tired.

Not the surface-level tired he’s been claiming lately, either. But defeated, almost, like this outcome had been decided long before Leo ever opened his mouth.

Sangwon simply nods once, and says, “Okay.”

That’s it.

Geonwoo’s level of enthusiasm matches Sangwon’s own.

They gear up in silence. Leo warns them to be safe and advises them to work together, eyes swapping between the two of them a beat too long. Sangwon nods his assent without comment. Geonwoo shoulders his backpack.

They leave through the gate together a few minutes after the perimeter check has been cleared, the metal creaking shut behind them. The morning air outside is thin and cold. They’re reintroduced to the ruins that stretch ahead—the skeleton of the old town Sangwon seems to know by heart now.

They walk with a sizeable gap between them, and aside from the sounds of boots crunching over mildly frozen debris, it’s quiet. Far too quiet, even.

Geonwoo clears his throat and chooses to try, unable to help himself.

“You mind telling me where we’re headed,” he asks, keeping his tone neutral. “so I can tell you whether I think that’s a good idea or not.”

Sangwon doesn’t slow. “You think you know this area better than me?”

“No, not really,” Geonwoo answers. “I just—”

“So then what difference would it make?”

Geonwoo takes note of the snippiness of his tone. He chooses to consider his next words carefully. “I was just trying to make conversation, that’s all.”

Sangwon huffs, loud and exhausted. “Really, I’d prefer we didn’t talk. We’ll do the job, come back, and tell Leo his attempt to make us friends worked. Okay?”

Geonwoo’s eyebrows furrow. “Shouldn’t we actually try to get along? And be honest with your beloved crew leader?”

“Ah,” Sangwon lets out a humorless breath. “So we’re big on honesty these days?”

Geonwoo falters for half a step, taken aback.

Okay. Sure.

He should let that slide. He should be the bigger person. He owes Sangwon that much, if nothing else. He was the one who messed things up back then—he knows that too.

“You’re still upset with me. I get it,” Geonwoo says gingerly. A scoff answers him, sounding suspiciously like still. “but it’s not like you yourself have been the poster child for honesty either.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he knows.

He’s crossed it.

Sangwon stops walking, and turns.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Well, since they’re already here.

“There’s no way you’ve been sick for nearly two months straight, Sangwon-ah.”

“…Well what if I was?”

“Sickness that long would be a death sentence these days,” Geonwoo presses. “Instead you always say you’re tired. You skip meals—”

“I’m not skipping meals.”

Geonwoo laughs, short and incredulous. “So you just happen to be sick or tired whenever we’re supposed to be near each other? Does that not look like avoiding to you?”

Sangwon’s jaw tightens. “Not everything’s about you, Kim Geonwoo.”

They stand there, staring each other down, the air between them brittle as glass.

“You see why I didn’t wanna talk now?”

This time, Geonwoo chooses to say nothing at all.

After a moment, Sangwon resolves to simply sigh and turn away. “Let’s just keep walking, yeah?”

Geonwoo lingers, worrying at his lip as he watches him go ahead, shoulders squared and back turned. After a beat, he falls into step behind him, the silence settling even heavier than before between them as they move on.

He leads them to the edge of an old strip of shops—collapsed awnings, shattered windows, ivy starting to crawl up brick like it’s reclaiming the place inch by inch.

“We split up,” Sangwon says abruptly. “Try to cover more ground.”

Geonwoo hesitates. “I don’t—”

“I know what I’m doing,” Sangwon snaps.

Geonwoo doesn’t argue this time either.

So, they separate.

Regret takes over almost immediately, and the guilt washes in in waves.

Their earlier conversation echoes in his mind while he moves through the abandoned shop—an old corner market with half its shelves collapsed and the air smelling faintly of that rot and dust he’d grown used to before. He crouches, sifting through a crate of long-expired canned goods more out of habit than hope of finding anything good, replaying his own words over and over again.

Poster child for honesty. Nice one.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, annoyed at himself. He’d meant to be calm. Measured. He’d meant to de-escalate, not poke at the raw nerve Sangwon was clearly guarding with his life. If this went back to Leo as another blowup, that would be on him.

He straightens slowly—and freezes.

Movement.

Outside the cracked front window, something brown flashes past the weeds and broken asphalt. Graceful and alive.

Geonwoo blinks hard. Then blinks again.

It’s a deer, standing just beyond the glass, head lowered, ears twitching, an antler broken in half. Thin, but not skeletal. Breathing and very real.

For half a second, Geonwoo genuinely wonders if he’s hallucinating. “…No way,” he mutters.

Carefully, he pulls the knife from the pocket of his bag, the metal feeling solid and cool in his palm. If he can get this, if he can actually pull this off, this could mean real food for the first time since he and Sanghyeon arrived. Protein. Something that should last them a little while.

He edges toward the window, movements slow, controlled, every step deliberate and every breath shallow. If he can get close enough, if he times it right—

A sound cuts through the air.

“S—!”

Sangwon’s voice.

Not loud. Not a shout, but a distressed yelp, short and panicked.

The deer bolts instantly, hooves clattering against pavement as it disappears between buildings.

“Fuck—” Geonwoo doesn’t even finish the thought.

He’s already moving.

He sprints out of the shop through the broken door, heart slamming against his ribs, following the sound without thinking, without planning, expecting—dreading—the worst. His grip tightens on the knife as he barrels into the neighboring storefront.

And there—

“Sangwon-ah!”

Sangwon is slammed back against a metal shelf, an undead pressed onto him, hands clawing at arms straining to push it away, teeth snapping inches from his throat. Sangwon is struggling, breath coming out in panicked gasps, boots skidding uselessly against the floor. The shelf rattles violently under the force, canned goods spilling and clanging to the floor.

Geonwoo doesn’t think.

He lunges forward and drives the knife up, hard, into the thing’s skull with brutal precision. Once. Twice. The body goes slack, collapsing to the side in a dead weight heap as Geonwoo shoves it off Sangwon and onto the floor.

Silence crashes down, heavy and shaking.

Sangwon slides down the shelf and stumbles forward, and Geonwoo is already on him, hands gripping his arms, twisting him side to side, frantic.

“Sangwon-ah—” Geonwoo calls gently this time, fingers pressing, checking skin, sleeves, his collar. “Are you bitten? Are you hurt—?”

“I—” Sangwon breathes, eyes wide and unfocused. “I don’t think—yeah. I’m okay.”

Geonwoo doesn’t trust that. He checks again anyway—arms, neck, hands—looking for blood, teeth marks, anything. Sangwon just stands there, stunned, letting it happen.

Finally, when Geonwoo’s satisfied he exhales sharply, the tension draining from his shoulders all at once as he pulls back.

Sangwon straightens, brushing dust and grime off his jacket like he’s on autopilot. He still looks stunned, distant, like he hasn’t fully caught up to what almost happened. “I didn’t see it come up behind me,” he mutters. “Thought the place was clear.”

Geonwoo watches him for a second longer than necessary. “Yeah. That’s usually when they get you.”

There’s a beat.

Then Geonwoo tilts his head and asks, weakly, “No ‘thank you’?”

Sangwon’s eyebrows draw up briefly before it clicks. “…Oh,” he says dumbly. “Uh. Thanks.”

The delivery is so flat, so delayed, that Geonwoo snorts before he can stop himself—and then laughs. Short, breathless, half hysterical.

Sangwon’s head snaps up. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I could’ve died, asshole!”

“I wasn’t laughing at that,” Geonwoo clarifies quickly, holding up a hand. “I just…” he sighs. “I tried to tell you splitting up was a bad idea.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sangwon mutters, shoving past him. “Whatever. Let’s just keep moving.”

But Geonwoo swears he sees the corner of Sangwon’s lips turn up just barely as he steps past him toward the back of the store.

Geonwoo watches him for half a second, then follows, this time staying close enough that their shoulders nearly brush.

Sangwon listens to his suggestion to stick together for the rest of the outing.

⌖

They make it back just before dusk, the sky bruised purple and gray. The gate groans open, then shuts behind them with a final clang that echoes through the compound. Dust clings to their boots, sweat darkens the collars of their shirts. But they look, by all outward measures, functional still.

Leo’s on watch duty it seems, perched near the entrance with his weapon resting against his shoulder. He straightens when he sees them, relief obvious on his face. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “You two made it back in one piece.”

Sangwon doesn’t slow his stride. “Yes,” he replies flatly. “We didn’t kill each other. Congratulations to us.”

Geonwoo breathes a short laugh before he can stop himself. “That’s a low bar—”

He almost adds it.

You almost got yourself killed, actually.

The words rise instinctively, biting and reflexive, and Geonwoo turns toward Sangwon, already opening his mouth—

Then he stops.

Because Sangwon shoots him a look.

It’s quick. Piercing. A warning more than a glare.

Don’t. Not now. Not here. Not in front of him.

Geonwoo’s lips snap shut. Instead, he adjusts the strap of his bag and says, evenly, “Found some stuff. Not much. Area’s pretty picked clean.”

Leo nods, satisfied enough. “Still counts. Good work.”

Sangwon gives a curt nod and peels off toward his house without another word, shoulders stiff, movements brisk like he’s ready to shed his skin of the whole outing along with the grime.

Geonwoo watches him go.

He doesn’t say anything else, and he lets Sangwon disappear into the building unscathed, in more ways than one.