4DAS Chapter 2 (Part 3)
by Brie“Next person, please step forward for your supplies.”
Even as he hesitated, lost in thought, Young-il’s turn came just as expected.
He wrote his name on the list as instructed and accepted the box of supplies.
Deliberately ignoring Baek Seonghyeon’s sidelong glance, he stuffed the noticeably heavier box into his backpack.
With this, he could live much more comfortably than before.
‘If I’d come with Lee Rowon, we could’ve gotten twice as much… No, let’s not go there.’
What would be the point of getting greedy about supplies in a situation like this?
Right now, he should just be satisfied with having wrapped up the conversation with Baek Seonghyeon without issue.
He replayed the conversation in his head, but couldn’t recall having shown any weaknesses or said anything that could be used against him.
Of course, that guy had said some things that got under his skin—but still.
Baek Seonghyeon, wearing that same vague smile, stepped forward after Young-il and received his box.
In the end, none of his companions showed up at the supply site.
If Seonghyeon was to be believed, they were probably at another distribution center.
Even so, a sense of unease crept over Young-il.
What if they’d been found already?
‘No… There’s no way they’ve been caught already.’
Young-il suddenly remembered that Baek Seonghyeon hadn’t once taken out his phone since arriving.
Not a single ringtone or vibration.
Maybe the surrounding noise had drowned it out, but Young-il had been keeping an eye on him the whole time.
If there had been a buzz, he would’ve noticed.
If the bikers had found Rowon, wouldn’t they have contacted the man somehow? Thinking along those lines, there was a high chance Rowon hadn’t been caught yet.
Of course, it was uncertain whether they even had phones, and they might’ve agreed to exchange information in person later to save battery…
Let’s stay optimistic.
There’s nothing more damaging to mental health than imagining the worst about a situation you don’t fully understand.
If he started mentally spiraling, he might end up exposing his weakness to the man standing right next to him—so even if it took effort, it was better to maintain a hopeful mindset.
Only with that effort could he stop himself from thinking things he shouldn’t.
I knew Hayoon would be waiting patiently too.
Maybe it was because of last night’s nightmare.
The thoughts he’d tried so hard to suppress had started bubbling up from deep within.
That child, in the far end of a cold basement on a winter’s day; this young man, curled up in the suffocating heat of a storage closet.
Both of them had been waiting for Young-il.
Young-il believed they would be safe.
He wasn’t sure about this time—but last time, he had definitely failed.
The memory of that failure swelled and swelled inside him.
I told myself not to get a bad feeling.
Told myself it was pointless to think like that, that I just needed to focus on getting back quickly.
But what good had it done to let go of that belief?
Even if he’d run back, screaming like a madman, would he have been able to stop his daughter from turning into a zombie?
Of course not.
Logically, he knew it had been an unavoidable accident.
But still…
What if something’s gone wrong?
What if, while I was wasting time watching Baek Seonghyeon, those bikers from yesterday found Rowon—
Anxiety lives where the light of reason can’t reach.
Even if he held his breath, the pressure rising in his throat was hard to suppress.
That young man is not that child.
He’s someone entirely different, and so is the situation.
He knew that.
And yet, even knowing it—Young-il just couldn’t forget.
“Ugh, I think I’ll head back now. What about you? Gonna wait for your friends?”
“No need. I’ve already received my rations. I’ll be heading out soon too.”
Young-il turned away, hoping his voice wouldn’t tremble.
He didn’t want to see what kind of expression Baek Seonghyeon might have.
It might look like he was checking his reaction.
“Right. Well then, uh, take care on your way back. With my leg the way it is, I’m already dreading the walk.”
“Carrying that box will definitely be tough on your own. Would you like some help?”
“No thanks. Just get going, will you?”
What, you gonna take him back to the apartment and throw a party?
As Young-il walked off briskly on his bad leg, Seonghyeon didn’t stop him.
Maybe he hadn’t meant it seriously anyway.
Even to himself, it hadn’t sounded like a convincing offer.
The subtext—Take it or leave it—was obvious.
It’s fine. I just need to go back.
Just go back and make sure Rowon’s safe…
They weren’t family.
They hadn’t even met under good circumstances.
It was just the resemblance in the situation that made him so anxious.
Even if he was hiding that young man, their relationship wasn’t anything special.
There was no reason to be this worried.
That’s what Young-il kept telling himself as he walked.
But then—
“Bullshit, you bastard! Who do you think you’re fooling, acting like you’re not infected!”
A loud shout erupted from the corner of the distribution site, and everyone’s attention snapped in that direction.
Startled by the outburst, Young-il reflexively turned his head.
“I-I’m not infected, okay? Anyway, you’re the one who scammed me! You said these batteries were so rare that people were trading them for almost their entire food supply, and all you gave me was a couple of bottles of water! Give me back my batteries!”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re the idiot who traded without knowing the value! It’s not like I held a knife to your neck and forced you! And seriously, who are you trying to lie to when it’s obvious you’re infected? You reek of rotting flesh every time you breathe!”
A young man wearing a black mask was facing off with a middle-aged man in a sun visor.
It seemed the one in the sun visor had tricked the masked man and profited unfairly.
In these kinds of trades, it was usually considered the fault of the one who got swindled.
Almost no one at this site was well off, and exaggerating the value of one’s goods to survive was practically standard practice.
Besides, anyone who had managed to survive the past eight months of hell should have a rough sense of what survival goods were worth.
If someone didn’t even know that, it could mean one of two things:
First, they’d been leeching off supplies others brought them—fine for children or the elderly, but not exactly respectable for a perfectly able-bodied adult.
And second…
“If you’re so scared, why don’t you take off that mask? I bet a hundred percent there’s tearing around the mouth. They say zombies get those marks from chewing people up. Why else would you be wearing a mask in this heat, huh? It’s not like it’s the COVID era anymore.”
It could mean he was infected, someone whose memory had been completely wiped over the last eight months—who wouldn’t know anything unless told.
The young man didn’t respond, just raised a hand to cover his mask, clearly struck by something.
That was enough to make the middle-aged man puff up, triumphant—he now looked more like a righteous citizen than the con artist he probably was.
“Disgusting! Disgusting! No way I’d take some zombie’s junk, it’s filthy! What if I catch the zombie virus from touching it? Huh?”
Pretending to recoil in horror, the middle-aged man raised his voice and threw the box of batteries to the ground.
From the light thud it made, it was clear he’d already taken the contents.
The young man immediately crouched down to check the box and then looked up, face twisted with rage.
“You fucking piece of shit…”
“What, you gonna bite me now? You gonna tear me apart or wha—urk!”
But obviously, a fight didn’t need to involve biting.
The young man lunged and grabbed the middle-aged man by the collar, slamming him hard into the ground.
The man let out a groan as he hit the floor helplessly—he might’ve been clever with tricks, but he was no match for the younger man’s strength.
“Uh, hey! There’s a fight going on!”
“Shouldn’t someone break it up? What do we do?”
Realizing the seriousness of the situation, the people nearby began murmuring and exchanging uneasy glances.
The government workers were still at the front, busy handing out supply boxes and managing the line—they didn’t seem to have noticed anything yet.
Just at a glance, it was clear who was in the wrong.
Swindling someone who had no way of knowing better, and mocking and insulting them on top of that—none of it could be called justifiable.
He got a few punches for provoking the guy, but he had it coming.
And yet, for some reason, the way people looked at the young man wasn’t exactly kind.
“He’s infected? Is that for real?”
“Must be, right? Otherwise he would’ve denied it from the start.”
Some of the onlookers rushed in and pulled the young man off.
He was still shouting curses and tried to kick the older man, but with multiple people holding him down, he couldn’t resist for long.
The looks directed at him were filled with naked suspicion and anxiety.
The words “zombie” and “infected” buzzed in the air like a swarm of gnats.
Even if he was a zombie, he was still the victim of fraud—but nobody brought that up.
Not a single person mentioned it, like they had all silently agreed to ignore that part.
“What now? I mean, even if the zombie talk upset him, you still can’t go around beating people like that.”
“No matter how you slice it, it’s his fault for not checking the market price. He could’ve at least asked someone next to him.”
From the crowd’s reaction, Young-il felt a chill he couldn’t quite explain.
Of course, logically, he understood.
There’s a widespread notion that it’s always the buyer’s fault for getting scammed.
Some of these people would probably react the same way even if the infected one had been the scammer and the survivor the victim.
But still, clearly—
“Honestly, I’m not comfortable around infected people. Even if they’ve had the treatment gas, you can’t really tell if they’ve fully come back or not.”
“Yeah. Who knows how many people they killed while they were out of their minds. He just grabbed that guy by the collar without warning, too…”
The gaze never lies.
The way they were looking at him now—it was almost identical to how they looked at zombies.
A look that separates and fears what’s different from themselves.
And at the same time, a look that’s always ready to attack or shove that difference out of sight.
Look at that.
The young man had made a slightly clumsy but entirely valid complaint, and yet, just because he had once been infected, he was being painted as “violent like a zombie.”
Just like Young-il had told Baek Seonghyeon earlier—those people wouldn’t just forget what happened while they were infected, they’d be blamed for everything they didn’t even do.
So what if the law didn’t punish them?
They didn’t have lawyers.
In that sense, they were at a disadvantage.
There was no one to recognize those stares, those murmurs, as unjust.
And it’s not like survivors were so righteous either.
They were violent by choice.
They killed infected people by choice.
And no one said anything about that.
“Give it back, you bastard. My stuff, my batteries—give them back…”
As the young man choked out his words in a hoarse voice, the middle-aged man who had caused the whole incident was quietly slipping away.
Not one person tried to stop him.
Young-il’s body moved before he realized it. He grabbed the back of the middle-aged man’s neck just as he was about to dart out of the intersection. The man spun around, cursing loudly, but flinched the moment he saw Young-il.
“What the fuck—who the hell—? Oh, uh?”
“If you have any conscience at all, leave the batteries. There’s still such a thing as basic decency. How can you try to trade that for just a couple bottles of water?”
When faced with a tall man with broad shoulders, most people show at least a little bit of respect. This middle-aged man was no exception. Whether he’d keep that up after learning Young-il’s leg was messed up was another matter, but for now, he clearly looked intimidated.
“N-no, I mean, it’s not like that. But you saw it too, right? That zombie bastard hit me! I mean, come on, after getting hit like that—”
“Well, you got hit because you scammed someone and insulted them. You’ve probably forgotten, living like it’s the Wild West for a few months, but there’s still such a thing as fraud, right? And with government officials standing right over there, maybe you should think twice.”
It wasn’t just an empty threat. A few public workers were indeed approaching, seeming to have caught on to what was happening. Flustered, the middle-aged man finally pulled a bundle of batteries out of his bag, wrapped in plastic, and threw them down before quickly hurrying off. Young-il picked them up and tossed them toward the young man.
“You too—next time you try to trade something, at least listen to what people around you are saying. This world’s changed, and you could lose your nose while blinking.”
He didn’t know for sure if the guy was a former infected or not, but if he kept getting tricked like that, he wouldn’t survive for long. The young man, finally freed, clutched the batteries and ran off in a hurry. He was probably too shaken to take any of that advice to heart.
Had he wasted time on something unnecessary?
Young-il sighed and turned around. He was already worried about being away from home for too long—he needed to get back quickly so he could let the kid out. Just thinking about him sweating and struggling in that closet in this scorching heat…
“Mr. Park Young-il.”
At that moment, Young-il flinched at the voice behind him. Had he ever told Baek Seonghyeon his name? He didn’t remember doing so. Maybe the guy had seen him write it on the supply list earlier. As he turned around, Young-il’s eyes met the man’s directly.
“You’re pretty different from what I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“Nothing much. In times like these, you hear all kinds of things just because someone’s breathing. What I heard must’ve been just one of those things.”
“……”
“Just talking. Don’t mind me. I’ll see you again sometime.”
Though his tone was calm, there was a certain weight to his gaze.
Young-il felt like he’d drawn some unnecessary suspicion. Pushing down the unease, he hurried his steps, hoping that “see you again” was nothing more than a throwaway line.
Rowon kept his eyes wide open and bit down hard on his lips.
Clunk—the clothes rack shook, hitting the closet door. They were probably checking each item of clothing one by one, hoping to find a couple of free cigarettes like earlier.
He couldn’t breathe. The air inside the stuffy wardrobe had always been stifling, but now, fear that even his breath might leak out made it worse.
“Eh, there’s nothing here.”
The muttering voice, dull and unmotivated, was chillingly close.
“Come on, let’s just wrap it up! What the hell’s so great about some damn cigarettes?”
“Just because you don’t smoke doesn’t mean you get to talk shit! That last one was a super rare kind! I bet we could’ve traded it for half of today’s supply box. Just wait a bit. If I find even one hidden pack of smokes, that’s hitting the jackpot….”
They weren’t leaving. The clattering continued. The guy seemed to be tossing clothes onto the bed, one after another.
The noise was loud and rough—thankfully, it masked the sound of Rowon’s breathing. But even so, his heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.
Wasn’t there any way out?
There was a simple enough solution: the moment the closet door opened, he could kick the guy with all his strength and make a run for it. Considering the element of surprise, it wasn’t a bad plan.
But the problem was what came after. If it were just one person, it might work. But there were two. Judging by the voices, the other guy seemed to be in the living room. If he happened to be blocking the front door, Rowon could end up getting caught.
He had no idea how big they were, so it was hard to guess the odds of success.
If they were around his size or smaller, he might be able to shake them off and escape. But if they were stronger, things would quickly turn against him.
And considering what happened yesterday, they probably had a motorcycle.
Even if Rowon somehow made it out of the apartment, if they gave chase on a bike, there’d be no way to outrun them.
No, maybe running away wouldn’t solve anything.
Because—
“I don’t get it, what’s Baek Seonghyeon even thinking, going all the way to that supply post just to meet that old guy? It’s not even one of our regular spots, and we won’t be able to help if things get messy.”
“He’s always been weirdly obsessed with Lee Rowon. Since the guy’s living at Rowon’s place now, I guess he’s got his suspicions.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“And you know how Baek Seonghyeon is. If that guy’s lying and we call to tell him we found Rowon… he’ll probably slit the guy’s throat on the spot.”
Rowon instantly sobered up.
That man was with them?
And they had a way to contact each other?
Then this wasn’t something that would end just by Rowon escaping. Even if he managed to get away, if things went south, Young-il could be in danger.
If Rowon died, that was fine. He didn’t want to, but he could accept it.
But if that man died because of him?
That was different.
That man, he… Rowon…
“Oh? This place has a built-in closet. I couldn’t see it because of the clothes rack.”
Rowon instinctively groped around in his bag.
Thankfully, the bag’s material was soft and didn’t rustle. Inside were just things like a small bottle of water and a box of energy bars. Nothing that could dramatically change the situation.
That’s what he thought at first.
But then, his fingers brushed against something hard at the bottom of the bag. It wasn’t a water bottle or food. With eyes barely adjusted to the dark, he managed to check it—and found a folding knife. Once opened, it extended into a blade about the length of half a hand.
He didn’t know whether the man had packed it in case of emergencies, or whether it had already been in the bag from the beginning. But that didn’t matter. The purpose didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was how to use it. He flicked it open and lightly pressed the tip against his fingertip. A sharp sting. The blade was keen.
If he stabbed the neck in one go, could he kill without a sound? He had never tried, so he didn’t know. But if it was possible, it was a gamble worth attempting. He wasn’t sure whether the person outside had a weapon, but if he attacked first and before they understood the situation, he might have a chance.
If he succeeded.
He gripped the knife tightly with both hands. If it went well, it would be the safest method. If he had taken even a moment longer to think, he might have realized how absurd that logic was—but demanding rational thought from a brain in panic was nearly impossible.
He didn’t feel horrified at how easily he had decided to kill. His mind didn’t even reach the obvious conclusion that killing two people would get him caught immediately. There was only one thought in his head: I have to. Just like before.
Before?
A chilling sensation twisted through his insides. A knife. A blade. A paring knife stabbing into someone’s throat. But that made no sense. This folding knife wasn’t something like that.
And yet his subconscious knew. If someone had killed once, they could kill twice. And after twice, it would only get easier. When? He had no memory of it. During the infection, he wouldn’t have had the clarity to use a knife. Zombies bit and clawed. They didn’t use paring knives.
His heart pounded for a different reason now. This was something he could not remember—must not remember—but once a memory cracks open, it flows without mercy.
—Rowon. You have to do it. I know you don’t want to. I know, but still…
……
—There’s no choice. If you don’t do it now, it’ll be too late. But Rowon—
……
—My lover is coming. I was going to introduce you today. You haven’t met, but they’re kind. You’ll get along. So I want you to…
Another thud sounded outside. This time it wasn’t clothes—someone was moving the rack itself. They were pushing it aside, preparing to open the built‑in closet behind it.
The situation was dire, yet in a sense, it helped. The sound snapped him back to reality. Now wasn’t the time to dredge up the past. Now was the time to decide—would he swing the knife the moment the closet door opened, or think of something else?
He didn’t have long to choose. Acting on instinct, Rowon made his decision. Instead of the face he must never recall, he pictured another face—stern, rugged, and yet strangely gentle when relaxed—the face of the man who had hidden him here.
Rowon tightened his grip on the knife.
On his way back, limping with each step, Young-il felt his anxiety swelling larger and larger inside him.
The clash between the infected and the survivors had shaken him more than he wanted to admit. Maybe Baek Seonghyeon’s cryptic provocations had sharpened the unease. The heavy pack on his shoulder weighed on him in more than one sense.
The world might return to normal, but people won’t.
He couldn’t shake the image of the infected man he’d just seen. No—more precisely, it was the survivors who had left a stronger impression. Their eyes, pretending to be sympathetic but ready to turn cold the instant anything went wrong.
The more he replayed those looks in his mind, the more a sickening familiarity churned in his gut.
—Hayoon. Maybe… maybe our girl could still live. She hasn’t killed anyone. If we tied her down somewhere, watched over her, if we just…
—If you leave her alive, she will kill someone. No matter how well you two try to manage her, accidents happen. And even if—even if that never happens—
—Even if what?
—She’d still be a zombie. A monster that eats people. What’s the point of keeping a thing like that alive?
That cold gaze. The gaze his companions had given him back then, when he begged them to spare his daughter. That was the moment the group truly fractured.
Even if he hadn’t killed her… even if he had fought everyone and kept her alive… would anything have changed? They would’ve whispered anyway. Called her an infected monster behind his back. Accused him of protecting a killer, even though she hadn’t killed anyone. They would’ve pointed fingers. They would’ve judged.
And maybe, deep down, it wasn’t just their fault. At one point, Young-il had almost thought the same way. He’d almost accepted that she was doomed, that killing her would be a mercy.
If not for one person holding him back, he might have become twisted just like the rest of them—cheering for the death of the infected, hunting them with excuses, telling himself it was justice.
But—
—Don’t become like them.
Someone had stopped him. Someone beside him who made him leave before it was too late. Someone who told him he had once been a better man.
—You were kind, weren’t you? You didn’t used to look like this. I know you’re broken over Hayoon, but still… don’t become like them.
His wife. The woman who had killed their own child with her own hands, yet remained the last person who reminded him of who he used to be.
—We can’t go back to who we were. Not completely. But we can remember that once, at least once, we were better than this.
She had said those words, lifted him back up—and then been torn apart by a zombie right in front of him.
“It was meaningless. I protected nothing. I saved no one…”
He hadn’t lived—he had merely failed to die. And he remembered because he couldn’t forgive himself enough to forget.
Maybe that was the “rumor” Baek Seonghyeon meant. That Young-il, who failed to protect everything he loved, now hated zombies and the infected because he had been robbed of what he cared for. That he had every reason to resent them.
But the truth was the opposite. He didn’t hate others—he hated himself.
He resented that the infected had survived while his precious ones hadn’t. He resented that he alone kept breathing, accomplishing nothing.
Maybe that was why he didn’t want Lee Rowon to die.
If you must forget, forget. But don’t die. For some of us, the only way to keep living is to know someone else survived.
Did he like the kid? He didn’t know. Their first meeting had been terrible. They barely knew each other. Rowon wasn’t beautiful, wasn’t precious. There was nothing beautiful left in the world after his wife died. A man who had killed his own child hardly had the right to cherish anything.
So would it be fine if the kid died? He had tried to rape someone on the first day, he had useless bikers hunting him, and he was a walking nuisance. Shouldn’t it be fine if someone like that died?
He didn’t know. The boy was not his daughter. Not his wife. But—
If that boy died, Young-il knew he would not be fine. That much, at least, was certain.
He’ll be fine, right?
Young-il hurried into the apartment building. Without even dropping off his pack on the first floor, he headed straight for the fourth. His battered leg screamed in protest, but he didn’t care.
Rowon would be safe. He had to be.
When he opened that closet door, the boy would be there—maybe even napping without a care, because in strange ways, he was oddly carefree. He’d survived eight months as a zombie, after all…
Then he heard it. Footsteps.
Multiple footsteps, rushing down from the floor above.
Young-il spotted the men on the third floor.
His blood felt like it was rushing backwards. It was exactly the same faces as yesterday. The men looked startled, but their surprise was nothing compared to his.
Was he too late? Had he already lost his chance?!
His thoughts tangled into chaos, too jumbled to form any conclusions—and in that mess, the men moved first.
“What the hell? Why’s he already—”
“I told you not to waste time, you bastard! Just run!”
They vaulted over the railing and leapt down to the lower floor. Young-il couldn’t catch them. His leg wasn’t cooperating, and more than that, his mind had already leapt somewhere else. Not the hallway. The fourth floor. Rowon should’ve been hiding in the closet in unit 404.
Was he still there? Had he run?
Or worse—was he dead?
Again?
Had he failed again? Done nothing, again? That kid, acting like he couldn’t be killed no matter what, was he really gone so easily?
Young-il’s thoughts spiraled, repeating only that. The same guys from yesterday. Not on the first floor, but coming down from much higher. There was no other explanation.
Stumbling and frantic, he half-dragged his body up to the fourth floor. His faltering leg eventually gave way entirely, and he flailed like he was swimming uphill.
The fourth floor. 404. He never should’ve given him a room with such a cursed number.
And the door—it was wide open. Not cracked. Wide. That was it, then. In horror movies, it’s always that open door where something happens. Even if you crawl in barefoot and desperate, it’s already too late.
The closet door was closed.
Would it have been better if it were open? Or worse? At least then he’d be able to see clearly what was inside. Even if it was something he didn’t want to see.
He grabbed the door and tried to open it, frantic. But it didn’t budge. The sliding door rattled like it was caught on something. It had opened fine earlier, hadn’t it?
“Rowon! Lee Rowon!”
He shouted without thinking, shaking the door wildly. He didn’t even consider whether the men outside might hear.
Fortunately, the sound of motorcycles seemed to be fading into the distance. But Young-il’s mind was too shredded to think that far.
Was he going to open this door to another corpse? Someone strangled, or butchered? Should he not open it at all, then? If he didn’t see, maybe it wouldn’t be real.
But that was just an empty denial, and he knew it.
Tears streaming, he banged on the door as if trying to tear it off its track. Open up. I didn’t mean it when I thought it was unfair you lived while my daughter died. I don’t want anyone to die anymore.
No—was it worse because it was him?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t think that far anymore.
But then, cutting through the tangled web of his thoughts, came a sharp voice.
“Wait—wait, mister!”
From inside. A voice.
Young-il froze. Then came the sound of something rattling behind the closet door. Someone was trying to open it.
“Uh, this thing’s really stuck in there. It’s not broken, I think? No wait, maybe I just broke it a little. Anyway, uh—did they leave? Are they really gone?”
Like a breath finally breaking through clogged lungs, relief flooded in.
The door rattled once more—harder this time—then something slipped out of place, and the door opened.
Inside was a completely unharmed young man.
Not dead. Not broken.
Though he was clutching an unfamiliar knife in one hand, and his face was soaked in tears, he was alive.
“I-I was trying to open it. I didn’t know how, so I forced the knife into the bottom rail of the closet… There wasn’t anything to wedge into the top, so I just held it shut with both hands.”
“Huh? Uh, yeah…?”
“They must’ve thought it was jammed and gave up. Maybe it would’ve opened if they’d shaken it really hard, but they didn’t seem that motivated. But… were you crying? Outside, I mean—did something happen?”
He had clearly been crying himself, yet he was asking Young-il if he had cried.
Young-il’s legs gave out and he sank to the floor. The young man crawled out of the closet and held onto Young-il’s shoulder.
“I thought I was gonna die. Really.”
“…”
“But I didn’t. Turns out, people are hard to kill.”
His warm, steady hand supported Young-il’s shoulder. Young-il could have brushed it off, but the sensation of being held—when his body was so weak—wasn’t unpleasant, so he stayed still. He stared blankly at the young man.
His face was a mess of tears and snot, but his expression was oddly calm, completely at odds with his appearance.
Still, it was a face that put people at ease.
A strange, deflating noise slipped from Young-il’s throat. His breathing grew ragged, and the young man looked confused.
“Mister? Why are you suddenly—what’s wrong?”
Exactly. Why was he crying like this?
Thinking about it, it was kind of ridiculous. The idea that this young man might be dead had only ever been a baseless fear. He’d just gotten swept up in his own thoughts and panic.
“No, it’s nothing. Just… just me.”
His voice caught, and he couldn’t speak properly. The young man looked at him for a moment with a deadpan expression, then pulled him into a hug.
Young-il, caught off guard, found himself wrapped in the young man’s arms. The size difference made it a bit awkward, but still.
“Did something happen?”
“No, no…”
“If nothing happened, then that’s a relief. Let’s rest for a bit, okay? We’re both exhausted… You can explain later.”
Young-il gave a small nod, though he felt a little embarrassed to actually explain. He had run into Baek Seonghyeon, then seen an infected person in trouble on the way back, then saw those guys from yesterday coming down from the third floor—so he assumed Rowon had been killed.
At the time, it all felt urgent and convincing. But in hindsight, it had no real logic to it at all.
But sometimes logic didn’t matter.
The warmth of this young man’s body felt good—and that had nothing to do with logic.
Sometimes, what you need isn’t an explanation, but just another person’s warmth.
If someone asked what this warmth meant, Young-il wouldn’t have had an answer.
But he was certain about one thing: he was relieved by it.
Leaning against Rowon, Young-il let himself breathe deeply for a long time.
As the sun rose higher, even this small, cramped room began to fill with the light of summer.