The desperate knocking—so frantic it could set your nerves on fire—cut through the heavy rhythm of the background like a sharp blade. It always came back just when you’d begun to forget it.
Lee Han-seo, following Park Woo-jun’s note, reheated the cold food and enjoyed a leisurely meal without rush.
First it had been the anchor. Then the producer. Now, it was the Head of News. If he kept turning them away, the station president himself might show up next, dragging his bloated ego through the door by tomorrow or the day after.
So far, no broadcasting president had come shamelessly knocking, but several newspaper CEOs already had. That started the day after all their ads were pulled—from both the print pages and the main banners on their websites.
Unlike the solo streamers who’d freak out the moment they got served—shaking hands, crying eyes, scrambling to upload apology videos in suits against sterile white backdrops—the media companies had acted cool. Even after seeing the lawsuit, they pretended it was nothing.
But that was their business, wasn’t it? Blowing up and rehashing other people’s screw-ups. Whether it came from years of experience or simple self-interest, they knew better than anyone how to spin things without getting burned.
They sneered at the sharply-worded complaints, brushing them off with smug laughter. But when his grandfather and mother pulled every last ad—without warning—they had no way to block the fallout. That’s when they started crawling back, panicked and pathetic, like their pants were on fire.
Broadcasting stations held out a little longer than the newspapers—maybe because their parent companies had deeper pockets—but one by one, they eventually caved and waved the white flag.
And really, the ones who still managed to crawl to his front door and beg at his feet were the lucky ones. Smaller media outlets, the kind too broke to get a press badge or figure out how to contact him, got flattened before they could even raise a hand in surrender.
“Tch. It’s honestly hilarious. Stay quiet for a second and they think you’re some kind of idiot…”
Muttering to himself, Lee Han-seo pulled out some prepped fruit Park Woo-jun had left in the fridge and bit down with a loud crunch, sprawled lazily across the couch.
It was at least another hour before the bell and the knocking finally stopped for good. Still, today’s visitor had surprising persistence. He couldn’t help but nod to himself, remembering a department head from another station who gave up and left after just thirty minutes the night before.
Well, either way, it’s not like any of them were getting a pardon. In that sense, the ones who left early might’ve been the smarter ones. Still, if you were grading them on effort, today’s guy at least deserved a passing mark.
Apparently, the people who were being sued by Lee Han-seo and his father were now taking it out on Park Seon-jun, saying it was all his fault. It was happening several times a day. There were even companies begging for forgiveness here, then running off to vent their frustration on him.
Not that any of it really stirred anything in him anymore. He wasn’t amused. He wasn’t vindicated. That long, exhausting adolescence of his had stripped away every last ripple of emotion.
His eyelids were so heavy it hurt to keep them open, but sleep—once gone—never came back. He kept chewing mechanically. Crunch. Crack. The crushed fruit pulp slipped silently down his throat, not even a whisper of resistance.
The next sacrificial lamb arrived just after noon. Without even being prompted, they started reciting their credentials to the unanswered front door. This time, it was the lead producer of some cable talk show.
A third-rate celebrity hosted that show—the same one that, just three weeks ago, had somehow dug up his elementary and middle school records and ripped him apart on-air. They called him lazy, arrogant, hopeless from the start. And it wasn’t even a news channel. How the hell did they get a press pass?
The producer, clearly nursing a mountain of resentment, barely lasted an hour before slinking off. Honestly, shouldn’t they have at least lasted longer than their own airtime? That thought made Lee Han-seo let out a dry, bitter laugh.
He’d always thought he’d grown up with a decent amount of freedom—at least compared to others. But his standard for “others” had always been Ryu Ho-yeon, who grew up locked in a lab without even a birth certificate. No wonder his perspective was skewed.
But once you started slipping into cynicism, the spiral never stopped. Everything looked darker.
The talk show host had snickered and said:
“Never even went on a field trip or a school outing? Guess that means he didn’t have any friends. I mean, someone who thinks they’re so above everyone else—how would they even make friends? And get this—our sources say he never once ate in the school cafeteria. Guess he thought he was too good to sit with the untouchables. Incredible, right?”
Field trips. School outings. Of course he’d wanted to go. Even when everything was paid for, he never got to join in—not once.
Every single time, just before the event, higher-ups would yank him back to the Center’s lab.
There was one time—in elementary school—when he fought back and made it to Sports Day. But the event ended in chaos when masked men burst in to kidnap him.
The high-ranking official from the Ministry of Defense, who was in charge of the Center at the time, didn’t even blink. In front of a crowd of onlookers, he just clicked his tongue and scolded him. Didn’t even bother to wrap a blanket around the shoulders of a sobbing ten-year-old, still shaking from being rescued.
“Guide Lee Han-seo. An S-Class Guide should be a role model. Look at this. Look at how many people are suffering because of you.”
“…I—I’m sorry. Hic. I’m really sorry…”
“Tsk. This is why Espers and Guides shouldn’t be let out into the world.”
These days, the law had changed. Now, unless you were an ability user, you couldn’t even be appointed as a Center Director. But back then, the Director of the Esper Management Bureau was just a ribbon-tied promotion for high-ranking military officers—a shiny medal on their résumé.
Back then, they used to joke among themselves: “Espers respond to beatings, Guides respond to threats.”
That was the kind of world he’d grown up in.
The staff back then were bitter that such a vital S-Class Guide had been born into a flawless, untouchable background. And so, from a young age, they made sure to mold Lee Han-seo’s values from the ground up—shaping him into exactly what they wanted.
Because of all that, somewhere along the way—without even realizing it—Lee Han-seo had absorbed something deep into his subconscious. A sense of duty, maybe. Or a kind of compulsion, the idea that a top-tier Guide should live with purpose, with obligation.
Looking back, aside from that one time he’d thrown a tantrum about wanting to be paired with Park Woo-jun instead of Ryu Ho-yeon, he’d been practically flawless in playing the role assigned to him. Which meant the system’s plan had more or less worked.
But that, too, had its limits.
Now, well past his twenties, Han-seo was no longer the kind of person to get swept up in ideals just because they sounded noble. He’d grown up enough to see things for what they were—and to feel completely detached from the mindless masses who’d wag their fingers and flap their tongues without knowing a thing, just for the thrill of it.
Nobody meant for it to happen, but it was a perfect storm. A chick breaks its own shell when it’s ready.
Well, the shell was already shattered. And Han-seo had no plans to sacrifice himself anymore. Not for the many. Not for anyone who didn’t matter.
Woo-jun. Mom. Dad. Grandpa. Grandma…
He ran through the names in his head, trying to count the people he truly wanted to protect. Even if he added his late maternal grandmother and his paternal grandfather, he still didn’t have enough to fill ten fingers.
The Espers he’d grown close to inside the Center could take care of themselves just fine. They didn’t need him to protect them.
Well—except for Park Woo-jun.
“Ugh, I don’t know. Thinking about this crap is exhausting. I’ll deal with it later—after a bit more rest.”
Tapping his toes to a random pop song he didn’t even know the lyrics to, he focused on his mobile game instead. Time flew by in a blink.
He got so into it, his forehead felt warm and his eyes throbbed with tension.
Not even realizing how much strain he was putting on his already tired body, Han-seo lost himself in that small, silly joy.
So much so that he didn’t hear the door lock click open.
“Baby, I’m home~!”
Ah, shit.
He should’ve at least made it look like he’d eaten before Park Woo-jun came back.
He got up too fast and the room spun around him.
Woo-jun rushed over, caught him, helped him sit back down, then glanced at the empty fruit plate with a proud little grin. “Hold on a sec,” he said, and headed straight for the kitchen.
Feeling uneasy, Han-seo trailed after him.
And sure enough—there it was.
Woo-jun put the plate in the sink, opened the rice cooker, and his expression sank. His brows drooped at the corners in a way that looked more heartbreaking than angry.
If he’d just started scolding him, Han-seo could’ve yelled back or argued. But with Woo-jun just standing there, lips pressed tight and looking so hurt, it made him feel like he was the worst kind of criminal.
“Uh… but why are you home already? It’s not even quitting time yet.”
Guilt made his tongue twist awkwardly. Woo-jun didn’t answer. Instead, he gently ruffled Han-seo’s hair and bent down to check his face, studying the shadows beneath his eyes.
“Did you sleep at all? How’s your stomach? Want to eat something nice for dinner?”
“No thanks. I’m not really hungry.”
“Look at you… you’ve lost so much weight. It’s killing me to see you like this.”
Trying to steer the conversation away, Han-seo grabbed his collar and gave it a playful tug.
“Come on. Answer me. Why’re you back so early?”
“Oh. Joon-young sunbae and Ryu Ho-yeon are coming later. We’ve got a quick meeting, so we’re all gathering here.”
“Just the Espers? Not Jung-hyuk hyung or Jae-won too?”
“I didn’t ask, but… probably? I figure they’ll come too.”
“Then let’s eat something good. Grill some meat for me.”
“…”
“What’s that face supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m relieved… but kind of hurt, too.”
“Hurt? Why?”
“Baby… am I not enough to bring your appetite back?”
The way he said it, all hesitant and soft, with that sweet, clueless face—God. Even if he wasn’t hungry, it was enough to make his mouth water.
It’d been so long since he’d felt anything lighthearted, but just then, a real smile broke across Han-seo’s face.
He burst out laughing, wrapped his arms around Woo-jun’s neck, and pulled him into a hug.
Each time he pressed a kiss to that pale cheek—mwah, mwah—a fluttery thrill buzzed through his chest, like something had started beating there again.
