The heat had finally settled, but Seon Juho sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead, his thoughts once again consumed by Lee Tae-rim.
That first kiss had been overwhelming—so intense it had left a deep impression. Honestly, it felt so good he’d wanted to swallow Tae-rim whole.
If just a kiss could feel that incredible, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it’d be like to go further. During Esper training, they’d taught about Insertion Guiding, and he’d seen instructional videos, but they hadn’t excited him at all.
The videos showed two naked men performing Insertion Guiding—sex, in simpler terms. Subtitles at the bottom explained everything: where to touch to heighten pleasure, which positions allowed deeper penetration, and how to stimulate your partner more effectively.
It had been his first time watching a sex video, but he hadn’t found it shocking or particularly arousing. It was purely educational—nothing more, nothing less.
Still, that didn’t mean he’d taken it lightly. Eventually, he’d be the one doing those things for Tae-rim. So he memorized every sensitive spot a man could have. Just imagining Tae-rim moaning underneath him made the whole thing worth studying.
He pictured himself burying his face between Tae-rim’s thighs, breathing in his scent—so intoxicating he imagined Tae-rim’s cock must taste just as sweet.
Shit. He was getting hard again.
“You really are just a beast, aren’t you?”
Before he could get fully aroused again, a woman walked in and scolded him. She knew damn well that jerking off in front of others wasn’t normal, but Seon Juho ignored her.
They couldn’t smell pheromones. They’d never understand just how sweet they were. That ignorance is exactly what let them say things like that.
After Guiding, it was the usual routine—drug tests and wavelength scans. And once again, nothing worked. None of the drugs had any effect on him.
By now, the woman had clearly stopped caring. With a look that said “whatever happens, happens,” she started injecting him with drugs even the other researchers had warned against.
But nothing worked. That was the convenience of an Esper’s body—it resisted everything.
When she finally gave up after wasting her efforts yet again, she sent him back to his room.
Back in the silence, alone, Seon Juho thought of Tae-rim once more.
Of course, Tae-rim had already been on his mind nonstop. But today, his thoughts were filthier, more vivid than yesterday’s.
The kiss they shared today had been nothing like the one during the Rampage. That kiss had been desperate, driven by a need to survive. But this one—this had been a real kiss. Sweet. Addictive. Unforgettable.
And when Tae-rim noticed the bulge between his legs, blushed furiously, and averted his eyes… the thrill that ran through Juho’s body had been electric.
There’s no way hyung can still see me as just a kid now.
The moment he’d waited for had finally arrived.
He was tempted to go to him right away—but now that the chance was finally here, a part of him wanted to savor it a little longer.
He knew Tae-rim wasn’t doing well.
Seon Juho was used to being locked up alone, but Tae-rim wasn’t. Every time he saw him, Tae-rim’s eyes were filled with loneliness.
On top of that, he was clearly sleep-deprived and mentally on edge.
He knew he needed to get out of here soon—for Tae-rim’s sake.
But his own desire kept holding him back. Just one more day. Just one more.
He felt guilty, but he wanted to stay a little longer. Selfishly, he wanted to keep seeing Tae-rim clinging to him.
The way Tae-rim depended on no one else—only him—was so sweet it was impossible to give up.
“…I’m sorry, hyung.”
I love you.
He swallowed the words before they could escape.
It would be selfish to expect Tae-rim to say it first—so Juho would be the one to confess.
He’d already shown it in every way possible, but still—he wanted to say it out loud. I love you. You’re the only one I need.
Seon Juho closed his eyes, hoping to see Tae-rim in his dreams.
***
Lee Ki-uk studied Dr. Kwak’s research journal with a look of interest. It documented the Guiding sessions between two individuals.
At first, their sessions had been uneventful—almost clinical.
Lee Tae-rim’s ability to calm Subject K’s volatile condition with nothing more than an embrace was certainly impressive, but it wasn’t unheard of. Tae-rim wasn’t the only powerful Guide in existence, so Ki-uk hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
What was clear, though, was that Subject K had been absurdly lucky. A Guide of that caliber showing up right at the moment of Awakening—and during a Rampage? That was nothing short of a miracle.
Still, the relationship between them didn’t seem particularly deep.
The journal noted that Subject K displayed obsessive tendencies toward his Guide, but even from Ki-uk’s perspective, it was obvious the feeling wasn’t mutual.
Espers becoming fixated on their Guides wasn’t anything unusual. It happened often enough that Ki-uk hadn’t found it worth raising an eyebrow.
But over time, the dynamic between them started to shift.
It probably began when Lee Tae-rim started to deteriorate mentally.
Isolated in a sterile white room, sleep-deprived and left alone for days at a time, waiting for Subject K to appear—anyone would’ve cracked under those conditions. Eventually, Tae-rim began showing signs of obsession as well.
He would rush forward to embrace Subject K the moment he arrived, and even after Guiding sessions ended, he seemed reluctant to let him go.
Given Tae-rim’s situation, it was understandable.
But Subject K was different.
He’d been raised in total isolation and was accustomed to solitude. As an Esper, his stamina and resilience were in an entirely different class.
Ki-uk paused on one particular line in the journal: Subject K seems to take pleasure in watching the Guide break down.
That line alone gave him pause.
That Esper is dangerous.
He’d already suggested to Dr. Kwak that they dispose of Subject K before things escalated further. But she remained obstinate. No—at this point, it wasn’t even stubbornness. It was arrogance. Absolute, inflexible arrogance.
There was something about Subject K that unsettled Ki-uk.
A strange discomfort would twist in his gut whenever he looked at the boy—and the feeling only grew stronger with time.
If it had been his project and not Dr. Kwak’s, Ki-uk would have terminated Subject K long ago.
He sometimes had an instinctive sense about these things. Whether a research direction would lead somewhere fruitful—or veer off into disaster.
Subject K fit squarely into the latter category.
He couldn’t explain it, but something about the boy screamed danger.
Right now, sure—he was obedient, calm, even docile. But that was only because of the explosive device strapped to his Guide’s neck.
The moment something shifted, he could snap.
And Ki-uk would’ve preferred to eliminate the risk before that happened.
But because the research fell under Dr. Kwak’s jurisdiction, he had no authority to interfere.
It was frustrating.
At Molt, independent research was sacred. Inviting cooperation was one thing—but meddling was strictly off-limits.
All he could do was suggest. Nothing more.
He sighed as he continued skimming through Dr. Kwak’s open files.
He didn’t know how other Molt branches operated, but here, most researchers made their logs accessible to the organization.
Files considered too sensitive were either kept private or locked with encryption—but in general, everyone shared their work for the collective good.
As he scrolled through her files, curiosity began to itch at him.
He couldn’t help but wonder what was in the locked folders.
Was there something about Subject K in there—some crucial information that Dr. Kwak was deliberately keeping to herself? Was that the reason behind her stubbornness?
Research on the Awakened wasn’t Ki-uk’s field, so he didn’t understand all the specifics. But he could grasp the general outline from her notes.
Still, despite his growing curiosity, he didn’t try to break into those files.
He had no desire to violate protocol just to peek into someone else’s research.
Dr. Kwak surely had her reasons.
Even so, he couldn’t shake the lingering unease surrounding Subject K.
But ultimately, there was nothing Ki-uk could do.
Subject K was her responsibility.
Shaking off his thoughts, Ki-uk turned his attention back to his own work. His Gate Generator research was progressing rapidly.
He was now developing a device capable of opening Gates above S-rank.
Originally, he’d only intended to upgrade the current generator for greater stability. But after reading Dr. Han’s logs on S+-rank Espers, he’d had a change of heart.
If Espers above S-rank were emerging, then it stood to reason that Gates above S-rank could follow.
That line of thinking had sparked an entirely new direction for his research—and to his surprise, it had been going remarkably well.
Ironically, far more smoothly than his Gate erasure research.
That field remained at a frustrating standstill.
They’d managed to suppress an A-rank Gate down to an F-rank one, but that was it. No matter how much progress they made, true erasure was out of reach.
In contrast, Gate generation had taken off.
He’d started the project out of frustration—more of a side experiment than anything else—but the work had flowed so smoothly, it almost felt like something—or someone—was guiding his hand.
It was as if the universe itself was nudging him away from erasure.
And honestly, Ki-uk didn’t care which path succeeded.
Whether they erased the Gates—or erased humanity so the Gates could never open again—it didn’t matter.
As long as the Gates disappeared, that was enough.
His gaze drifted toward a photograph of a smiling woman.
He stared at it fondly, his eyes full of longing.
Whichever path he chose, the end was close.
And the thought of seeing his wife again made him quietly, peacefully happy.
