WOP Ch 4.3

“Haah…”

An unconcealed sigh of exhaustion escaped his lips. The gentle back-and-forth sway of his head stopped abruptly. His dark gaze shifted towards a distant wall in the living room.

Beige silk wallpaper, a dark brown sofa, a minimalist console, and a small painting came into view. A painting gifted by someone he couldn’t even recall. The artwork held no particular sentiment or significance for him. Yet, contrary to his cynical observation, the image of someone else who, quite naturally, had cherished that painting surfaced in his mind.

Because they weren’t talkative, whenever he brought them to his studio apartment on weekends, they would always sit quietly, looking through art books and photography collections. The silence, the pale face, the thin hands turning pages – these images flashed through his mind in succession. The man’s expression hardened further at this uncontrolled flow of consciousness.

Avoiding the bright fluorescent light, Shin Kwonjoo quietly closed his eyes. His throat was dry, and a lingering headache had persisted for hours. His slow-beating heart caused an unfamiliar pain with unexpected intensity. It was a dull ache, as if someone was pressing down on his chest with a heavy weight.

Just a few months. That was all.

However, the emptiness and suffocation that had lingered for days were impossible to articulate, let alone explain rationally, the brevity of that time notwithstanding. An inexperience in properly exchanging emotions with others suppressed his subconscious.

He opened his eyes again.

The spot on one side of the sofa, close to the wall, suddenly felt strangely empty. It was the spot Ha Joyoon always favored when visiting his apartment. The manifestation of these heavy, suffocating physical symptoms was unfamiliar. Incomprehensible emotions colored his impassive, unreadable face. A deep, quiet night, where even breaths had to be listened for carefully, was passing.

❄

On a Friday night, the bar was bustling with people unwinding from the week’s fatigue in their own ways. Due to the dropping temperature, the windows surrounding the establishment were fogged up.

Thud.

A manila envelope announced its presence with a sound proportionate to its weight. Shin Kwonjoo, who had just entered the bar and was chain-smoking before even taking off his coat, slowly turned his gaze towards it. Lee Haejoon, sensing the clear flicker of question in Kwonjoo’s eyes, jerked his chin towards the envelope he’d just placed down.

“The documents you asked for.”

“…Documents?”

“Ha Joyoon’s membership application and recommendation letter. I’ve already gotten the board members’ signatures on the recommendation, so Ha Joyoon just needs to fill out the application. Your office can send the related administrative paperwork.”

Kwonjoo’s expressionless face subtly contorted at Haejoon’s smooth explanation. Unaware of the shift in atmosphere, Haejoon poured the drink from a nearby bottle into an empty glass across from him.

“We’re holding the gathering as a year-end party this time, so quite a few people will be there. Bring him then. It’ll be a good opportunity to meet everyone at once.”

“Ah.”

“Hey.”

Seemingly oblivious to Haejoon calling him again, Kwonjoo put the filter of the cigarette he was holding to his lips and inhaled deeply.

“What’s with the reaction? You were pestering me to get this done quickly.”

Haejoon, not getting the expected response, frowned slightly and crossed his arms. He recalled his troublesome junior, who after their last drinking session, had been calling incessantly as if making up for a lifetime of missed calls.

“Thank you.”

With a tone clearly laced with reluctance, Shin Kwonjoo picked up the envelope placed in front of him. His gaze, as he examined the neatly stacked documents inside, was as indifferent as ever. However, there was a subtle difference from his usual demeanor. Haejoon tilted his head, sipping his still-hot udon broth.

“Something wrong?”

“No.”

“You totally look like something’s wrong.”

Kwonjoo’s movements as he organized the checked documents were almost languidly neat. Every motion was precise, yet the sense of something being amiss persisted. Observing his junior’s unresponsive demeanor for a moment, Haejoon cautiously ventured,

“Did you two fight?”

Kwonjoo’s dark eyebrows twitched subtly. Haejoon noticed the momentary flicker in his cheek and the corner of his lips, and let out a low sigh.

“You fought, didn’t you.”

“…….”

“Even calling it a fight is laughable. Did you shatter his mental state with your words again?”

Instead of an answer, Kwonjoo emptied his glass.

“We’re not children. Why would we fight?”

His hand was rough as he poured more alcohol into the empty glass. Tsk tsk. Haejoon clicked his tongue softly.

“He seemed gentle. Why do you keep giving him a hard time?”

A chuckle finally escaped Kwonjoo. He brought the glass to his lips, which were tilted in a wry smile. The transparent liquid disappeared in an instant. He then roughly placed the empty glass back on the table.

“Who’s giving anyone a hard time?”

His smooth forehead creased in a frown. Shin Kwonjoo wasn’t unaware of his own temperament. He knew he was difficult and selfish. Perhaps the problem was that he knew it too well.

“Do you think I don’t know you care about him? You wouldn’t ask me for this kind of favor unless you liked Ha Joyoon.”

Kwonjoo glared sharply, clearly displeased with Haejoon’s phrasing. “So dishonest,” Haejoon thought, accustomed to Kwonjoo’s prickly reactions. He took out a cigarette and lit it with a practiced flick of his lighter. Click. He shielded the flame with one hand, and white smoke immediately curled upwards.

“I’m just saying, think about how you treat people. I know you’re not that bad of a guy, but some people will judge you solely based on how you appear.”

“If I cared about that, I wouldn’t be like this.”

At Haejoon’s sincere advice, Kwonjoo gave a bitter, self-deprecating laugh and stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. Even the harsh nicotine couldn’t alleviate the suffocating feeling in his chest.

His life had been a relentless climb towards success as a journalist. His path had been paved with fighting, overcoming, and letting defeat be buried by success. He knew how to capture the spotlight, how to gauge public desires and meet market demands. It was his daily bread.

During that process, there was envy, jealousy, and ostracization from others, but to overcome it, Shin Kwonjoo fought armed with stronger armor and a sharper sword. In every moment where he had to make life-altering decisions, he never once regretted his choices. His marriage to Seonyoung, conducted like a business contract, was one such decision. Even Jeon Hyeoksu’s death, though it left him traumatized, was a situation where he believed, to a certain extent, his judgment and choices had been correct. He had lived that way, oblivious to the point where the means and the ends had become reversed.

“Still, treat him well. They say kind words can repay a thousand-amount debt, but you’re the type to create debts out of thin air.”

“…….”

“Don’t view the world so cynically.”

He was aware he’d wielded his power carelessly. However, in retrospect, he realized he’d been swayed as well.

A laugh finally escaped him. Swirling his glass, Shin Kwonjoo sighed.

Swayed. Yes, I admit it. I was swayed by you.

From the start. From the moment you looked at me with that naive expression, from that awkward moment when I, uncharacteristically, interfered and offered unsolicited advice about your work. He couldn’t deny that even getting involved in something he would normally have disregarded fell under the same context. Even bringing up that ridiculous partner of yours.

“Wasn’t I always a mess?”

“It’s not about being a mess. I’m just saying be careful.”

His darkened gaze shifted to the envelope. Despite the bustling noise within the bar, only silence existed within him. Time flowed vaguely by as he remained helplessly passive.

A bitter expression flickered across his face. He slowly tightened his grip on the envelope.

Shin Kwonjoo found his own morbid hope, that some kind of opportunity might arise from such trivial documents, ridiculous. However, he also knew that the part of him that had dismissed it as mere discomfort had now grown beyond control, gnawing away at his insides. Nothing was going his way – the words he’d already spoken and released into the world, his current predicament where he was bound by those words and could do nothing. A fierce headache, starting up again, began to torment him.

“What’s with the mood? Did I say something wrong?”

“…I’ll bring him to the gathering. I can’t be by his side all the time, so please look after him, Sunbae. He’s a bit shy.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw him then.”

“…He has a good eye. He doesn’t let any intentions or greed interfere with his photography. With the right guidance, he’ll be even more refined.”

“You can guide him.”

Shin Kwonjoo chuckled and replied,

“Well, I don’t even know what tomorrow holds.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type to stay here long. That’s the impression I got.”

“……”

A bitter silence hung between them.

“Let’s just drink.”

Lee Haejoon raised his glass with an awkward smile.

“Lately, I keep thinking about Hyeoksu.”

“Why dwell on someone who’s already gone? It’s pointless.”

“Listen to this guy.”

Chuckling softly, Haejoon continued,

“You’re right. Maybe it’s because of Ha Joyoon. Or his photos… Because of that pointless favor you asked of me.”

Shin Kwonjoo, tilting his glass back, gave a short laugh.

“Is it my fault again? I guess I’m the root of all evil.”

“Now you realize? I don’t know if it’s because it’s been a while since I’ve seen photos taken by someone with a good eye, as you said. If I were to go back into the field, could I take photos like that? I mean, with everything I’ve got.”

“…….”

“Kwonjoo, I don’t think I can anymore.”

Their full glasses clinked hollowly. Their gazes, chasing a value now lost, were empty.

“I’m no different. Cowardly and materialistic, then and now. Isn’t everyone like that? That’s how we got to where we are, Sunbae. The foolish and naive are all dead or missing.”

Haejoon laughed emptily at Kwonjoo’s blunt assessment.

“Aren’t you being a bit too unfiltered? Yeah. Only the cunning survive. That’s why it was strange seeing how I’d changed. That’s why… I keep thinking about Hyeoksu, who’s gone. I wonder what he was thinking until the very end. I hope that young man doesn’t follow the same path.”

“That’s a pointless worry. That won’t happen. …I won’t let it.”

“If you say so.”

“…….”

Even as they mechanically raised their glasses together, Shin Kwonjoo’s hardened expression remained unchanged.

❄

Joyoon’s eyes, unusually restless, scanned the scenery visible through the window. The clouds blanketing the sky were visibly heavy. Remembering the weather forecast, Joyoon’s expression grew serious.

Unconcerned, the other man, wearing silver-rimmed glasses, kept his eyes and hands busy examining the data. The film was densely covered with white, wrinkled, walnut-shaped images. That’s inside my head? Joyoon felt a sense of disconnect, still not used to seeing images of his own brain, no matter how many times he looked.

Lim Dohyun, who had been reviewing the test results he’d just received, smiled with satisfaction.

“You’ve gotten much better, though.”

At Lim Dohyun’s pronouncement, Ha Joyoon finally relaxed. He felt it had been worthwhile postponing his schedule and coming to the hospital, and asked the question that had been on his mind the entire trip.

“Can we change the medication, then?”

“Rather than changing it, we should reduce the dosage. Not immediately, though. Has it been very difficult?”

“I’ve been feeling nauseous. Like I’m going to throw up…”

As Joyoon cautiously spoke, Lim Dohyun’s expression immediately hardened.

“Hey, I told you to tell me right away if anything like that happens.”

“It wasn’t severe. Just uncomfortable.”

“Even if it’s minor, if you can feel it physically, the stress on your brain is much higher. If you receive any kind of shock, a blood vessel in your brain could rupture and cause a hemorrhage. You absolutely have to focus on what your body is telling you. Even the smallest things. …Wait a minute.”

With eyes full of concern, he stared intently at the test results he had just put aside, muttering to himself. Now accustomed to Lim Dohyun’s care and attention, Ha Joyoon comfortably accepted his kindness and smiled pleasantly. You brat, you’re smiling. Though Dohyun’s gruff tone was laced with playful reprimand, it didn’t change the warm atmosphere.

“How long will I have to take the medication?”

Ha Joyoon casually posed the question to Lim Dohyun, who was focused on the screen. Well… Without seeming to pay much attention to Joyoon’s words, Dohyun quickly moved the mouse cursor and clicked on various items in the prescription.

“You’ve improved a lot, but you’ll still need to continue with check-ups and rehabilitation, so I can’t say for sure how long. Why do you ask, all of a sudden?”

Lim Dohyun, who had been tapping his nose with a pen, glanced over. At the question in his eyes, Ha Joyoon hesitated, but then cautiously revealed his inner thoughts, which he hadn’t told anyone.

“I might… be working overseas.”

“Even if you work overseas, you’ll have to continue treatment at a hospital there. I can prepare referral letters and such, but the treatment and environment might be different from Korea, so you’ll need to look into that. Is this because of insurance issues?”

At the perfectly reasonable question, Ha Joyoon gave a sheepish smile and clasped his hands together. The warm air from the heater brought a reddish flush to his usually pale cheeks.

“It’s just that… it might be a place where I can’t expect any medical facilities or treatment.”

“What?”

“A war zone…”

Lim Dohyun’s jaw dropped. Disbelief and bewilderment stormed across his eyes. You, you… Stammering momentarily, Lim Dohyun tossed the pen he was holding onto the corner of his desk and let out a deep sigh.

“You know that’s not something you say if you’re in your right mind, right?”

“…….”

“Joyoon. I don’t care how well you think you are right now, you were unconscious for five years due to a head injury. Your body can’t be in perfect condition. Do I have to spell it out for you? And what about your head? You should consider yourself as having a glass marble perched on your neck right now. Isn’t that common sense? If you keep this up, I’ll have no choice but to tell your family, even without your consent.”

“Okay.”

“Stop with the foolish thoughts and focus on your rehabilitation.”

The movement of his fingers, neatly intertwined, stopped. After a brief silence, Ha Joyoon raised his head. His clear eyes, as always, gazed at Dohyun warmly. Thank you for your concern. His calm voice conveyed his gratitude, tinged with shyness.

“It’s my job. I can’t help it.”

“You…”

“To do my job properly, my health is the most important thing… I’m not saying I’m going right away. It’s not like I’m self-harming, and I’m not going to push myself like that. …I just want to know the objective facts. When will it be okay for me to receive intermittent treatment? What’s a reasonable interval? Um… also… the symptoms and risks that could arise if I don’t take my medication regularly, warning signs, situations to avoid… things like that. I need to know my condition accurately, taking these things into consideration, so I can make concrete plans and decisions.”

He conveyed his thoughts slowly, haltingly, but clearly. It felt right to reciprocate kindness with kindness, sincerity with sincerity. At this moment, Ha Joyoon wanted to express his honest feelings to Dohyun without reservation.

“I’m always grateful to you.”

“Haah, you…”

“Dohyun, I’d really appreciate your help.”

At Joyoon’s earnest gaze and resolute voice, Lim Dohyun, who had been about to scold him further, finally closed his mouth.

After a while, his dark eyebrows furrowed in contemplation. A sigh, tinged with resignation, followed.

“Since you’re so determined, I can’t stop you, but there are a lot of things you need to be really careful about. First, you need to monitor your symptoms for at least six months and continue with rehabilitation. Wherever you want to go, you need to completely step away from work for the time being.”

“…Okay.”

Ha Joyoon’s expression, as he listened to the explanation, was more serious and earnest than ever. And he realized that now was the time to put into action what he had only been thinking about.

❄

The editor-in-chief’s brow furrowed briefly as he looked at the white envelope. His usually affable expression sharpened. Hmm… A groan escaped his thick lips.

“Until the end of this month… That’s a bit sudden. Is it a health issue?”

“…Yes.”

Ha Joyoon, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, thought for a moment and nodded.

“My physical strength has been declining, which has slowed down my treatment and rehabilitation. My doctor gave me a final recommendation.”

The envelope, containing all the thoughts he’d agonized over for days, held only a single sheet of paper, but its weight was substantial. As Lim Dohyun advised, he needed to be thoroughly prepared. He hadn’t been diligent with his rehabilitation, consumed by despair, but that was no longer the case.

He had a clear goal now, accompanied by responsibilities. He knew he couldn’t just unilaterally assert his own opinions; he needed to explain and gain understanding first. It was a somewhat belated realization at his not-so-young age, but he was glad to have it now. Before returning to the front lines, he needed to reassure his family about his health.

“It’s a shame, but it can’t be helped. Health comes first, of course.”

Sighing repeatedly, the editor-in-chief crossed his arms.

“Does the Director know?”

At the short question, Joyoon’s thin shoulders flinched. His lips moved briefly as a face immediately came to mind. The editor-in-chief, recognizing the answer in Joyoon’s noticeably awkward demeanor, let out a long sigh.

“He’ll be disappointed. The Director was rather fond of you, in his own way.”

“…….”

It was more accurate to say he hadn’t been able to rather than hadn’t. For several days, even facing Shin Kwonjoo had been difficult, to the point where the past few months they’d spent together felt unreal. Lightly gripping his wrist, Ha Joyoon shrugged.

“He’ll be in briefly this afternoon, so tell him yourself then. I’ll report it, but still, people’s feelings aren’t so easily conveyed.”

“…Yes, I will.”

The editor-in-chief softened the stiff atmosphere with a slight smile.

“Why the long face? Did you commit some terrible crime? We’re the ones who brought you in while you were still sick and worked you.”

“No, not at all.”

“You’ve been a great help. Honestly, without realizing it, I’ve been treating photos as mere attachments to articles lately, not paying much attention to them, but your photos… well, they’re really good.”

“…I’ve received a lot of help here as well.”

“You’ve been a good influence on me.”

“…Thank you.”

“Not immediately, right? We need to find a replacement.”

“No, it’s alright.”

“Still, I’ll try to reduce your assignments as much as possible. There’s no point in taking a leave of absence if things stay the same.”

“Okay…”

“Let’s shake hands.”

The man rose from his chair, adjusted his slightly slipped waistband, and offered his hand. With a shy smile, Ha Joyoon took his hand. The editor-in-chief’s thick palm was warm. Smiling genially, he shook Joyoon’s hand gently.

“You’ll be at headquarters when you return, right?”

“Yes, most likely.”

“Are you going back into the field?”

“It hasn’t been decided yet, but… after discussing it with my supervisor at headquarters, I’ll likely receive my country assignment.”

At the concise answer, the editor-in-chief gave a playful grin.

“I bet you’ll run right back out there, Ha Joyoon.”

“Haha… No, I won’t…”

Awkward laughter, the whirring of the desktop fan, everyday conversations, the rapid pace of work being processed. All the elements of the office scene interlocked and turned at a constant speed. Time, too, and memories, would blend into this everyday routine and pass. As they always had.

After the meeting with the editor-in-chief, Ha Joyoon sighed repeatedly and looked at the data he had organized over the weekend. Minutes after checking his watch, his gaze shifted to his phone. Less than two hours remained until the appointed time. He didn’t know how many times he had checked the time since arriving at work that morning. He knew he was being overly sensitive, but human emotions weren’t solely governed by rational judgment.

“Haah…”

He sighed, filled with worry. The headache that had subsided for a while felt like it would return. He was pressing his fingers against his smooth forehead, thinking about his afternoon schedule, when—

Amidst the bustling atmosphere and the mix of various voices, one sound in particular pierced through the noise and caught his ear. With his eyes closed, Ha Joyoon recalled the interview questions sent by the agency and his answers to them. However, as expected, his half-hearted attempt at focusing didn’t last long.

Click, clack.

No matter how hard he tried to maintain his composure, as the sound of footsteps grew closer, his entire attention was drawn to their source. Finally, realizing his attempt to feign ignorance had failed, Joyoon slowly opened his eyelids. The color of his faintly shimmering eyes seemed darker than usual.

The firm gait resembled its owner’s temperament. Unhesitating, fearless. A gait that couldn’t be swayed, destined to move only in a straight line. His heart felt strangely unsettled.

Leaving the documents on his desk, Ha Joyoon turned his gaze towards the entrance of the office. Shin Kwonjoo entered, impeccably dressed in a suit, and greetings directed at him echoed throughout the office.

How long had it been since he’d properly seen him? He hadn’t changed at all, yet he seemed different in some indefinable way. The sharp lines of his profile appeared even more defined than before. Had he been very busy? Curiosity arose, a question he couldn’t ask directly, so he kept it to himself.

Stopping his surreptitious glances, Ha Joyoon let out a weak laugh. He found himself ridiculous, ending things first, yet continuing to think about him this way.

Just as it had been when he parted ways with Kang Taejung, he had a remarkably low tolerance for breakups, regardless of the relationship. However, it was best to avoid actions he would regret when looking back later. He had already shown, said, done too many things beyond repair during their initial separation, things that would remain not only as a source of personal embarrassment, but also as unpleasant memories for the other person. That pain alone was enough.

To prevent his attention from drifting towards Shin Kwonjoo, Ha Joyoon put in his earphones and played some random music. Classical music immediately filled his ears.

…Mr.

…Yoon…

“Mr. Ha Joyoon!”

Startled by the hand on his shoulder, Joyoon quickly removed one earphone and looked up. Nam Hyunwoo stood before him, wearing a friendly smile.

“Mr. Nam.”

“How loud did you have that? I’ve been calling you for a while. The Director wants to see you.”

He gestured towards Shin Kwonjoo’s office with a shrug. The office door was half-open, unlike usual, suggesting Kwonjoo had already entered. The music in one ear and the voices of people in the other tangled together like threads. With a somewhat vacant expression, Ha Joyoon slowly nodded.

Although it was slightly ajar, his hand knocked cautiously, just in case.

“Director, it’s Ha Joyoon.”

As soon as the tremor of the knock subsided, a low voice called out, “Come in.”

“You called…”

Contrary to Joyoon’s expectation that he would be sitting at his desk, Shin Kwonjoo was organizing his clothes. He paused mid-way through hanging his coat and turned his head to glance in the direction of the voice.

“Sit down.”

The man gestured towards the sofa with a calm expression. After a moment’s hesitation, Ha Joyoon cautiously settled himself in a corner. The dark, indigo-dyed buffalo leather softly conformed to his movements.

“What’s your schedule for this afternoon?”

Shin Kwonjoo, having finished arranging his clothes, turned and sat on the opposite side. His low voice was as smooth and relaxed as ever.

“What is this about?”

At the question in place of an answer, Kwonjoo furrowed his brow. Unlike Joyoon, who was glad to see him after so long, Shin Kwonjoo seemed displeased with the situation. Should I avoid him? A corner of Joyoon’s heart ached with a heavy feeling.

“There’s a gathering this evening.”

“A gathering?”

“Didn’t I mention it before? The foreign correspondents’ club meeting. It’s being held a bit earlier, combined with the year-end party. Let’s go together today. I plan to meet with Editor-in-Chief Waiton, whom we met before, so unless something comes up, please be prepared.”

It was a clear explanation that allowed no further questions. At the succinct addendum, Joyoon unconsciously smiled faintly.

Such a rigid and stubborn person. He could have pretended nothing happened, feigned ignorance, or simply forgotten about it, but he was determined to fulfill his responsibility. Shin Kwonjoo’s sense of responsibility, his insistence on keeping his word even to someone he clearly found uncomfortable, overlapped with someone else in Joyoon’s memory. A sudden wave of sadness washed over him.

“It’s alright.”

Kwonjoo’s hand, which had been checking a message on his phone, stopped abruptly. An awkward silence fell. With a somewhat annoyed expression, Shin Kwonjoo took out a cigarette and lit it.

“Why?”

The sudden drop to informal speech stung Joyoon’s heart. Scratching his head, he continued in as neutral a tone as possible,

“I have an appointment with someone from TnG this afternoon. They’re coming to the office. It’s a schedule I made a few days ago.”

“TnG?”

Kwonjoo’s expression immediately soured, and he frowned. A vertical wrinkle creased the bridge of his sleek nose, clearly displaying his displeasure.

“That employee from before?”

“…Yes.”

After a moment of hesitation, Joyoon nodded. Kwonjoo’s dark eyes flashed with a harsher light.

“Are you sure about that?”

At the following question, Joyoon finally met his gaze. Despite the coldness in his tone, every word Shin Kwonjoo had spoken to him since entering the office pointed to one conclusion: care and concern. No matter how obtuse or foolish Joyoon might be, he couldn’t miss the worry Kwonjoo was displaying.

Unsure how to react, Joyoon blinked repeatedly, his expression blank. His own wavering feelings were unfamiliar.

“…It’s fine.”

The words, squeezed from his tight throat, sounded strangely foreign, as if they weren’t his own.

Strange person.

His heart ached. I don’t know why it hurts, he thought, pressing his palm against his chest.

After a long silence, Shin Kwonjoo spoke.

“Then I’ll let you know the location, so come directly there this evening.”

The acrid scent of smoke tickled Joyoon’s throat. He had almost forgotten, since Kwonjoo rarely smoked around him, but he was actually a heavy smoker. A faint smile flickered in Joyoon’s eyes. After a brief hesitation, he shook his head instead of answering. Seeing the negative response, a sharp glint flashed in Shin Kwonjoo’s eyes.

“What’s the problem now?”

Shin Kwonjoo, suppressing his irritation, stared straight ahead. It was remarkable restraint for him. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, the filter pressing against his cheek. Up close, his face looked sharper and harder.

A strange tension filled the space between them, barely a foot apart. Ha Joyoon, tapping his fingers somewhat distractedly, finally parted his tightly pressed lips.

“I’ll join on my own later.”

The taut bowstring of tension snapped.

“Why?”

A gaze like an arrow released from the bowstring was directed at Ha Joyoon. He didn’t know how to articulate and explain the thoughts in his head.

“I have some other plans this evening.”

The excuse, offered after discarding countless other reasons, felt pathetic and flimsy. Blaming his own lack of eloquence, his inability to speak indirectly, Ha Joyoon slowly drew a line.

“I appreciate you thinking of me, but I can handle it myself, so you don’t have to worry too much.”

“…….”

“I’ll apply directly next month.”

Kwonjoo’s perfectly impassive face tilted slightly. The cigarette in his long fingers burned pointlessly, turning to ash.

“Is it necessary to avoid me like this?”

An extremely low voice flowed dangerously. Taken aback by the unexpected words, Ha Joyoon raised his hands defensively.

“That’s not it.”

The clumsy excuse wouldn’t work. Contrary to his expressionless face, Shin Kwonjoo’s tone became lower and faster. The embers of his patience, dried up by anxiety, ignited into an uncontrollable blaze.

“The membership matter was a professional proposition. Just think of it professionally.”

“Sunbae.”

“You’re acting like you’re cutting off all ties.”

“…….”

“Am I a burden to you?”

Despite the coldness, there was a tremor in his voice, and his hand, rubbing his forehead, was rough. The man who had always seemed like a towering mountain was suddenly on the same level as Joyoon. Amidst this strange sensation, Ha Joyoon chose his answer slowly and carefully.

“…Yes.”

“A burden.”

“…….”

“Haah…”

Shin Kwonjoo laughed emptily and leaned back against the sofa.

He knew. They had never been passionately involved. A clumsy sort of affection had arisen during their unexpected intimacy.

It was a simple, clear-cut conclusion. But strangely, the more he replayed those brief moments, the more the discomfort grew, swelling uncontrollably within him. Is that all? Are you and I really just—? Pathetic thoughts, ones even a child wouldn’t entertain, swarmed his mind like clouds. Staring at the ceiling for a moment, Shin Kwonjoo finally opened his lips.

“I understand.”

“…….”

“There’s no reason to force it on someone who doesn’t want it. You can go.”

Having finished speaking, Shin Kwonjoo covered his eyes as if tired and gestured towards the door with his other hand. Ha Joyoon, after briefly checking on him, bowed his head and stood up.

“…I’ll be going then.”

Pushed back by Kwonjoo’s harsh demeanor, he hadn’t been able to bring up the crucial matter of his leave of absence. Knowing Kwonjoo’s temperament, he was worried about the repercussions if he found out later. As Joyoon turned, burdened with this worry, a gaze caught him like a hook. A dark, cold, persistent gaze. Unable to move easily, Ha Joyoon bit his lip firmly and left the room.

Bang!

The sound of the old, wood-paneled door reverberated in his mind for a long time.

One person left, the other remained, guarding the space. Kwonjoo’s gaze remained fixed on the recently closed door. A chill permeated the air. Tap. Tap. The sound of his fingers drumming on the table created a rhythmic pattern of waves. It was one of his unconscious habits when something displeased him.

In contrast to his cooling mind, the temperature of his thick skin, muscles, and the dark red mass of organs hidden deep within his ribcage rose steadily, becoming almost unbearable.

Tap— Tap….

Inversely proportional to the lengthening intervals of the tapping, the man’s memories raced back into the past. The frantically flowing time gradually slowed as it reached a certain point. On a night when the air felt incredibly cold, her richly waved hair was tangled and disheveled. With her makeup half-smudged by tears, her distorted face screamed at him,

‘Do you think everything will just magically work out rationally? That everything will go exactly as you planned? Is that why you disregard people like this if they don’t meet your standards?’

‘You made the mistake. Why should I be blamed?’

‘You’re the one who made me like this! Fine, let’s break up. I’ll break up with you. And I’ll pray you meet someone even worse than me and suffer the same way, filled with regret.’

‘That won’t happen, so stop writing fiction.’

‘Just you wait. I’ll watch clearly as your arrogance crumbles.’

The image of the hysterically screaming woman paused. The scene rewound. As it reached a slightly older, slightly more worn-out memory, the tape slowed and then stopped. The setting shifted from a luxurious studio apartment to the heart of a city choked with dust and smoke.

‘Go back. Are you planning to set up camp here?’

‘Not yet. Too many people are injured.’

‘Are you a volunteer? You came here as a journalist, and you’ve already taken all the necessary photos. That’s enough. Worry about your own safety. This is a war zone. The company has already suffered significant financial losses because of your reckless behavior. Are you saying this without realizing you’re on the verge of having your contract terminated? There’s a limit to how much I can defend you to the company.’

‘That’s not important. Kwonjoo, people here still need help. They have nothing left. As of yesterday, all the foreign reporters have pulled out. There’s no one left to document what’s happening here. Someone has to stay.’

‘And so? You’re going to be that someone?’

‘If I can, I want to be.’

‘You’re pathetic. Do as you please. I’m crossing the border tomorrow.’

Despite the cold response, the man smiled gently and bowed his head. In his arms, a blood-soaked child was wrapped tightly in a dirty cloth. The child, cradled in his large frame, looked so small, and thus, even more fragile. Though the child’s chances of survival seemed slim at a glance, the man refused to give up.

‘Take care of the memory card, Kwonjoo.’

‘…Your photos have no news value. Don’t expect them to be used in articles. The same goes for exhibitions.’

‘I know.’

‘Photos like these won’t even pass the initial screening.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘I don’t care.’

An ongoing argument, like an unending war. One whose soul was depleted as time passed, and another whose soul was filled. Contrasting temperaments, ideologies, and values. One lived in the present, the other existed only in the past – the result of diametrically opposed lives.

‘Why go so far? I can’t understand your decision.’

‘I don’t know either. I think I can’t leave this place because I want to understand.’

‘You crazy bastard…’

Someone he could never understand. Yet, someone he ultimately had to understand.

The video of his memories crossed from the past back to the present. A damp breath lingered at the tip of his nose. Afterimages and echoes blended slowly, yet distinctly, in different hues.

‘I thought it was something I had to do. I don’t really know why.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come back?’

Traces of someone lost long ago resurfaced. A blind passion for documentation, a foolish inability to accept defeat in competition, …yet, righteous eyes that saw the world clearly. There was someone who resembled him – someone he could never understand, yet ultimately had to.

‘Sunbae.’

A clear, upright voice, resembling its owner, called out to him. A youthful face that made it difficult to guess his age. For some reason, he found it hard to look away from the hand clumsily turning the camera towards him.

‘Sunbae, I took a photo today…’

With a clear smile, tinged with the traces of someone he’d lost long ago, the young man smiled shyly. His half-bow revealed a long, pale neck. The smooth line of his neck, extending from beneath his neatly combed hair, was so white that he couldn’t resist. He lunged at him, kissing him hungrily, tearing off his clothes.

‘Sunbae, should I show you the photo?’

A naivete that didn’t match his age, awkward in social situations, a frustrating, single-minded focus on photography to the exclusion of all else, naive and easily fooled, sometimes infuriating him to no end.

It was a relationship with an expiration date, and the day of his departure was fast approaching.

Even if it continued, it was clear it would be a fruitless relationship, unproductive within such a conservative group.

Shin Kwonjoo closed his eyes. The bridge of his high, straight nose seemed particularly sharp. He gripped the armrest of the sofa, blue veins bulging on the back of his hand. The mind control that had always been easier than breathing suddenly felt difficult. It was because of his unconscious desire to find a single, unrealistic, illogical reason amidst hundreds of rational and logical ones.

Shin Kwonjoo suddenly felt an overwhelming thirst. A pain of unknown origin surged from deep within. The unsettling feeling of his feet sinking, the twitching of his sharp cheekbones.

His emotionless eyes shifted slowly. The remnants of the cold flash landed on the spot where someone had been sitting just moments before, a faint warmth still lingering.

Tap—

Tap, tap—

Tap…

The gradually slowing movement of his hand finally stopped. A complex gust of wind, a mixture of the cold harshness of winter, the lingering images of late autumn, and the passion of summer, blew through the tiny cracks in the seemingly impenetrable walls.

“…I’ve lost my mind.”

A single, small breath, a single, small smile, was enough to bring down the massive, solid walls.

❄

It was their first encounter in weeks. Only silence flowed between the two, caught in a strange relationship. Amidst the soft breaths and the rustling of papers, the contrast in their expressions was stark – one indifferently reading the questionnaire, the other glancing at him anxiously.

“Since you don’t want your face to be shown, we plan to present the interview content as a panel alongside the descriptions of your works.”

The voice that broke the silence was hoarse and strained. Seo Youngwoo’s eyes, devoid of any particular emotion, met Joyoon’s at this completely different tone from their previous meeting. His noticeably gaunt face, dark circles under his eyes, and dry lips suggested he wasn’t in good condition. But that was all. Joyoon no longer had the interest to wonder why. He replied in a flat tone,

“I understand.”

“There are ten questions in total. We plan to record your voice for about four of them, and you can provide written answers for the rest. Your voice recordings will be incorporated into a video along with your photographs.”

“Okay.”

Although he had reviewed the content beforehand, Joyoon sat up straight only after meticulously checking every page, right to the very last. As his field of vision widened, the other person’s appearance came into sharper focus. Seo Youngwoo, avoiding eye contact and darting his eyes around, bit his lip and tightly gripped the paper. Rustle. The sound of crumpling paper echoed.

“Let’s begin. I have another appointment this afternoon, so I’d appreciate it if we could finish quickly.”

At the quiet urging, his lips twitched further. After a final check of the equipment, Seo Youngwoo opened his mouth, his expression one of extreme discomfort.

“The Syrian civil war is intensifying recently. In a volatile situation like that, there must be many times when your subjects are in danger. As a photojournalist, you must grapple with the dilemma between capturing the image and providing aid. I’m curious about your perspective on this issue.”

A low, quiet voice responded after a brief pause.

“Whether one should directly intervene in an event or remain a detached observer, simply documenting the facts, is a question that requires constant contemplation… I don’t think there’s a single answer as to what should take precedence. However, I believe it’s necessary for photojournalists to consider what their photographs represent. The scenario you mentioned is a constant concern for journalists, but… no photojournalist, when faced with a situation where help is needed, would simply take the necessary photos and leave without doing anything. They wouldn’t abandon their conscience and moral obligations as human beings, even in the smallest way.”

Hmm. He paused briefly before concluding,

“At least, everyone I’ve met has been that way. However, I don’t think anyone can definitively judge the order of those priorities with a clear moral yardstick.”

The process of capturing horrific scenes in a city ravaged by indiscriminate violence and crumbling history was the most cautious act, born from countless choices and agonizing deliberations as a human being. The next question followed shortly.

“Compared to other journalists, you entered the field and immediately began covering war zones, particularly dangerous conflict areas. As a Korean with no direct connection to these areas, it must have been a difficult decision. I’d like to ask what prompted this, and what kind of news you focus on and photograph in conflict zones.”

Memories and emotions, unordered, swayed like ornaments hanging from branches.

“At first…”

Even though he had prepared answers in advance, Joyoon hesitated, lips parting and closing, unable to utter the first word. There was someone he inevitably had to mention to answer the question.

The person he’d wanted to show his photographs to first. His cherished love. And the compassion, the heartache he felt for others who were helplessly losing their loved ones, just as he had. The motivation that stemmed from that small feeling. A feeling that had ultimately become distorted.

His hesitation didn’t last long. If there was even the slightest chance his intentions would be misconstrued, it was better to find another way. Joyoon lightly rubbed his face and then answered.

“Can I think a little more about the reason and answer in writing?”

At the quiet request, Seo Youngwoo glanced up and nodded.

“The news I focus on in the field… In a war zone, things happen so fast. You’re not given the time to think deeply or consider things carefully. That’s why I think making quick judgments is the most important thing… You have to capture the scenes that are the most realistic, yet the most accessible to people. I believe you need to provide a neutral, factual depiction of the situation to those who will see the photos and learn about the tragedy. Ultimately, what I focus on most in the field is the news value and public accessibility… but as a journalist, I also want to capture the human element that can be overlooked within an objective frame.”

Although his answer was strictly professional, the pride he had carefully woven within couldn’t be dismissed as mere theatrics.

Tap. Pitter-patter. Tap….

A welcome guest knocked from outside the window. Joyoon’s gentle gaze shifted towards the window, drawn by the winter rain that had arrived unnoticed. The fine lines of rain slanted across the glass, painting a picture. Suddenly, Joyoon thought of his friend, left behind in a distant land.

Coley.

I believe you’re still alive.

I believe your Allah still wants your beautiful eyes to capture more of the world’s countless facets.

I want to see it for myself. Whether the world you see and the world I see are still aligned, where fate is leading us. Whether my efforts, insignificant and meager as they may be, have left even the smallest mark on someone.

Once the accumulated chill of the year has fallen upon the earth, the world must prepare for spring again. Even amidst the numerous events, memories, and emotions, time continued to flow quietly, justly, in its place.

Lost in thought, reminiscing about someone he missed, accompanied by the sound of rain tapping against his heart—

“…Me?”

Snapped out of his reverie by the muffled, quickly passing question, Ha Joyoon turned his gaze forward. The other man still had his head bowed, seemingly absorbed in the documents. No matter how uncomfortable he felt, it was undoubtedly his fault for letting his mind wander while someone sat in front of him. With an awkward expression, Joyoon lightly touched his nose and cautiously asked for the question to be repeated.

“Sorry, could you say that again…?”

“I asked if you’ve seen my brother lately.”

At the unexpected words, Ha Joyoon felt his composure completely crumble. What did I just hear? His clear face paled drastically. His heart twisted with pain, a direct hit like an unforeseen car accident.

As he sat speechless, Seo Youngwoo, who had been awkwardly avoiding his gaze, cautiously met his eyes. His large, dark pupils were already glistening with moisture. His expression was almost desperate.

“…That question seems irrelevant to the interview.”

The words that escaped him were rough and blunt, scraped out like shards of broken porcelain. They sounded so foreign, unlike his own voice. Ha Joyoon unconsciously raised a trembling hand to his cold neck. He had no idea what to say, how to react.

“My brother moved back to our family home.”

Seo Youngwoo’s suppressed voice was low and dark. The color of despair. Ha Joyoon’s brow furrowed slightly as he looked at him. He remembered Taejung, drunk and collapsed in front of his door. He had heard in passing that Taejung had been coming home every weekend lately, but had he moved back completely? Then the studio apartment… His train of thought was interrupted by the next words.

“I heard you live nearby.”

“…….”

Joyoon’s lips pressed into a thin line. A gloomy silence fell. Unable to contain the pain squeezing his heart, Ha Joyoon let out a bitter laugh. His wax-like, expressionless face suddenly crumbled. A cold voice, not his own, escaped his lips.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“I…”

“Are you wondering if I’m seeing Taejung?”

“…….”

The other man remained silent. Frustration, anger, and sadness swirled within Joyoon like a vortex. It felt like he was experiencing a lifetime’s worth of emotional turmoil in just six months. Smiling bitterly, he trembled slightly.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t even seen his face.”

“Really…?”

Seo Youngwoo asked again in a somber tone, as if seeking confirmation. Looking down at him silently, Joyoon nodded. It was both a lie and the truth, but it didn’t matter. Even as he spoke these words, unsure who they were for, a sharp thorn lodged in his throat.

Seo Youngwoo, unable to hide his anxiety, nervously crumpled the interview papers in his hand and finally spoke.

“Taejung and I… are in a serious relationship. It’s not casual.”

Joyoon’s breath hitched. Seo Youngwoo’s short statement, that it wasn’t a casual relationship, implied much about what had transpired between them. Tilting his head, Ha Joyoon rubbed his cheek, chilled by the cold air. His face was stiff, like a mask.

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

“…….”

“Are you saying this to hurt me?”

It wasn’t meant to be sarcastic; he was genuinely curious. The other party remained silent.

Joyoon suddenly found his own shock at their relationship ridiculous. Even if, as Seo Youngwoo claimed, they were in a deep relationship and had slept together, he had no right to blame or resent Kang Taejung. His current pain wasn’t resentment towards Taejung, but his own personal issue, his inability to be as nonchalant about such matters.

The choice he’d made to get involved with Shin Kwonjoo, feeling reckless after Kang Taejung ended things, now felt particularly bitter. As their relationship continued, he’d opened a part of his heart to Kwonjoo, but he couldn’t say that his decision back then had been right. Looking at the outcome, it was a foolish choice that had ruined even his relationship with Shin Kwonjoo. As he was lost in thought, Seo Youngwoo continued.

“My brother has been having a hard time since you came back.”

“…….”

“You did everything you wanted to do… You lived your life to the fullest.”

The resentful words were blunt. Joyoon silently endured the heart-wrenching pain of the unspoken accusations.

“Please don’t make things difficult for him anymore. The past five years were incredibly difficult and painful for him. He waited for you long enough. I wish you wouldn’t get involved like this now. I’m begging you.”

Seo Youngwoo, his voice trembling as he finished speaking, lowered his head until his forehead touched the desk. Though he appeared to be making an earnest plea, in reality, it was a declaration that he wouldn’t tolerate any kind of relationship between them. Watching him, Ha Joyoon desperately hid his crumbling heart and closed his eyes tightly. To one person, it was a plea born from an agonizing love, but to another, it was nothing but cruel violence.

And then Joyoon realized.

My existence continues to be an obstacle to your new love.

Unending pain breached the fragile dam and flooded through him. He remembered Kang Taejung’s impassive face, breaking up with him despite Joyoon’s desperate pleas. An expression etched with layers of old wounds and scars, like a thousand-year-old tree.

Joyoon felt an intense hatred for the man before him. Yet, from Taejung’s perspective, this man was the love that helped him bury the past and move forward.

At some point, I became consumed by a terrible greed.

For my beliefs and dreams, I might have used your love as a shield, forcing you into an endless wait. Driven by the selfish belief that you would wait for me, I leeched off you and came this far. And even as I saw you struggling, I couldn’t let you go, couldn’t let you make a new start.

Even though I knew your anxieties, I still hoped you would endure, that you would wait. When did you, who used to be so vibrant, like the fresh green of May, become so withered and dry, like a dead tree? He bore a heavy responsibility for the shattering of their relationship.

Ha Joyoon realized, for the first time, that even without Seo Youngwoo, he and Kang Taejung might have eventually broken up. A premonition that, with Taejung growing weary and himself always leaving, standing on irreconcilable paths in life, they would love and resent each other, tormented by guilt, until they finally let go of each other’s hands.

I haven’t done anything for you, and I have no right to do anything now… but still, I hope I can be of some help to you, even if it’s just a little. Because his anxieties, which he’s nurturing alone, will become poison for you too. It was right to eliminate any possibility that his presence might represent.

His role was to reassure this man so that Taejung could have a stable relationship.

His long, curled eyelashes trembled slightly. Looking at Seo Youngwoo, who sat motionless, Joyoon spoke, his emotions carefully concealed.

“I don’t know if I should say this… but I have no interest in you, Seo Youngwoo. Whether you’re hurt, suffering, or struggling…”

His indifferent gaze fell upon Seo Youngwoo. His glassy, transparent eyes seemed utterly devoid of any emotion towards him, and Seo Youngwoo unconsciously swallowed. Even this strange prick to his pride felt ridiculous.

“I never wanted to break up with Taejung. I was aware of you, but… back then, I could only think of myself. I clung to him relentlessly, begging him to come back. I was pathetic. But Taejung, for your sake, pushed me away.”

Kang Taejung’s final words, that he wanted to be devoted to Seo Youngwoo, kept echoing painfully in his ears. He had been so kind, so gentle, unable to speak harshly, trying to end things amicably until the very end.

“He said he wanted to be faithful to you, and that you weren’t someone he could discard just because I came back. I think Taejung… genuinely likes you. I’m just someone from his past, so don’t worry about me. …We haven’t contacted each other once since we broke up.”

Though spoken in a calm tone, it was the desperate cry of a lover wanting to forget the pain and start anew. He would likely never forget those words that had torn his heart apart.

“So don’t come here and do this. …I’ll have to live with the guilt of making Taejung suffer because of my selfish choices, but that has nothing to do with you. I don’t deserve any blame or resentment from you… Especially not regarding my work.”

Even as he spoke to reassure him, his words became twisted, ending in a sneer. Still, believing it was the best he could do, Ha Joyoon rose from his seat.

Screech.

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor.

“I didn’t want this either.”

Unable to meet Joyoon’s eyes, Seo Youngwoo trembled, his fists clenched. His muttered words were hoarse and strained.

“…Then don’t.”

Looking at him, his entire being screaming of anxiety and unhappiness, Ha Joyoon tilted his head slightly.

You’re strange. Why do you look like that after taking away the most precious love of my life? Why do you consider yourself so unhappy after taking away the jewel-like person who filled my soul? He was truly curious, but Joyoon didn’t voice the questions. It was no longer his place to interfere, now completely relegated to the sidelines.

“It seems pointless to continue this interview in this situation.”

Averting his gaze from Seo Youngwoo, Ha Joyoon continued in his characteristically slow, indifferent tone.

“I’ll submit the remaining answers in writing. I’ll send them to the email address you provided earlier. And…”

He inhaled briefly and exhaled quickly, secretly releasing the foul, rotten blackness of his heart into the current of his breath.

“I’d also like to request a change of contact person. Um… wouldn’t that be better for both of us?”

“…….”

“I’ll be going.”

Only after his final words did Joyoon finally feel a sense of relief as he turned to leave. There was no longer any reason to wait for a reply.