<Initiating system reboot.>
<Reactivating Gwanggongness.>
That voice—he hadn’t expected to hear it now, of all times.
His entire body, which had been languid and relaxed, tensed up in an instant. The haze of alcohol vanished immediately. It wasn’t just a feeling—he had literally returned to his Gwanggong body, one that didn’t even know the sensation of being drunk.
But the system voice didn’t stop there. The mechanical tone continued on.
<Resetting current Gwanggong Score.>
<A Gwanggong does not tolerate being looked down upon by the Sub-Gong. Gwanggong Score decreased by 7.>
<A Gwanggong does not let the Sub-Gong enter their room. Gwanggong Score decreased by 5.>
As soon as the notifications hit his ears, Seon-woo reflexively shoved Gwak Seung-hyeon’s chest away. But the deductions had already been applied—pushing him now wasn’t going to undo anything.
The only consolation, if it could be called that, was that the system hadn’t deducted any points for what had happened while it was offline…
If the Gwanggong Score had taken into account everything that went on during that period of lost system control, he couldn’t even begin to imagine how many points would have been stripped away.
And just thinking about what kind of ridiculous alerts might’ve popped up had that been the case—like “A Gwanggong does not let the Sub-Gong suck on sensitive parts”—made Seon-woo’s spine tingle with dread.
Shivering slightly, Seon-woo glanced at the clock. He needed to check how much time had passed since the system went down.
Meanwhile, Seung-hyeon had been staring at him the entire time with a grave expression.
Seon-woo’s shove had been too forceful to be dismissed as a mere light protest. From Seung-hyeon’s perspective, being suddenly pushed away without explanation must’ve been deeply confusing.
Still in a daze, Seon-woo eventually turned to meet Seung-hyeon’s unrelenting gaze.
He flinched when he saw Seung-hyeon reaching out a hand toward him, as if to touch him. Without thinking, he lifted his leg and kicked at whatever part of Seung-hyeon he could reach. Caught off guard, Seung-hyeon stumbled back, blinking in confusion as he got back to his feet.
Even then, the system continued speaking.
<Gwanggong Score has been set.>
<Current Gwanggong Score: 68.>
Before the system shut down, the score had dropped as low as 40. Now it was 68. Considering it had just dropped by 12, that meant it had been at 80 the moment it rebooted.
Maybe it was a side effect of restarting. If the system had resumed right where it left off, he would’ve been hit with another status ailment immediately—so this was a stroke of luck.
Relieved, Seon-woo raked his fingers through his hair. That’s when Seung-hyeon, who had been watching him intently, called out as if confirming something.
“Director.”
Seon-woo slowly lifted his head to meet Seung-hyeon’s gaze again. Seung-hyeon’s face was calm. Only his eyes seemed to be boiling over. His expression itself was composed—but barely.
Just remembering what that calm face had been doing moments ago made Seon-woo’s face burn with heat. But thanks to the reactivation of his Gwanggongness, not a single muscle in his face twitched. He averted his eyes and spoke carefully.
“Please leave.”
Seung-hyeon’s expression twisted—something that rarely happened. Seon-woo, feeling guilty, began avoiding his gaze entirely. Even he would’ve found it hard to accept being told to leave out of the blue in this situation. The mood just moments ago hadn’t been this frigid.
In truth, if the system hadn’t rebooted, Seon-woo wouldn’t have pushed Seung-hyeon away—and even if he had, it wouldn’t have been like that.
When Seon-woo looked away, Seung-hyeon’s face contorted even more. He muttered under his breath in disbelief.
“After all that just now…”
But the sentence didn’t make it to the end. With an irritated sweep of his hand through his hair, Seung-hyeon looked between Seon-woo and the floor several times. Then, as if he’d reached some private conclusion, he let out a short sigh.
“Fine. I get it, but…”
“But what?”
At Seon-woo’s sharp retort, Seung-hyeon stared back at him with piercing eyes. It took a long moment before he finally spoke again.
“…Nothing.”
It didn’t sound like “nothing” at all, but still, he said nothing more. As if speaking to himself, Seung-hyeon added quietly:
“Whatever.”
Seon-woo wanted to question him—wanted to demand answers—but this wasn’t the time or place. He forced himself to look away from Seung-hyeon’s face. If things ended like this, it was far less resistance than he had expected.
Seon-woo couldn’t help wondering what kind of person he must look like in Seung-hyeon’s eyes.
Throwing tantrums like a damn maniac, then randomly inviting him to a meal with his mother. Escorting a drunk man home, helping him change clothes, and then suddenly getting aroused by his touch. Letting him handle that arousal, and right as the mood starts to settle, kicking him out like trash…
Even if Seung-hyeon thought he was some deranged, emotionally bankrupt bastard, he wouldn’t be wrong.
But the words that came out of his mouth were, of course, nothing like the ones running through his head. The system, as if celebrating its reboot, presented him with dialogue options.
▶ “If you’re done talking, please leave. I don’t want to spend even another second in the same space as you.”
▶ “I told you to get out, didn’t I? Still standing there? If you’ve got nothing else to say, you’d best be on your way.”
Both were absurd in their own way, but the second option was the lesser evil. Considering how vividly what just happened beneath Seung-hyeon played in his mind, saying he couldn’t stand being in the same room now would only make him sound like a hypocrite.
Seon-woo opened his mouth slowly.
“I told you to get out, didn’t I? Still standing there? If you’ve got nothing else to say, you’d best be on your way.”
Seung-hyeon’s expression was a tangled mess of emotions, but he didn’t seem like he was about to say anything else. What was going through his head? Seon-woo was curious, but he couldn’t bring himself to look him straight in the eye.
Seung-hyeon’s voice came, low and subdued, “Understood,” Seung-hyeon walked over and opened the door.
Once he left, Seon-woo collapsed face-first onto the bed, drained of all strength. It felt like every ounce of energy had been sucked out of him. The thought of what they’d just done in this very room was enough to make him want to shoot up in the middle of the night in a panic.
It shouldn’t have happened like that.
Back when they were still at the bar, he’d acted like he was ready to defy the system, full of reckless resolve. But the moment it rebooted, he’d thrown Seung-hyeon out without a shred of mercy.
He sighed heavily, weighed down by guilt that now felt ingrained into him like a reflex. Only then did he think to check his phone—trying to distract himself, even for a second, from the shock of it all.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
27 missed calls.
Startled, he checked the call log. Every single one was from the same person.
Seeing Seo Eun-jae’s name fill the entire list jolted his memory—he finally remembered what had happened between them.
But he didn’t have the courage to call back. Explaining what happened to Eun-jae and spewing out whatever nonsense the system handed him as justification? That was too much. A text would be easier—less painful.
Seon-woo grabbed his phone and typed out a short message.
[Sorry about earlier. I was drunk and couldn’t answer the phone. I’ll explain everything tomorrow.]
It was essentially a one-sided plea for a 24-hour extension. Tossing the phone aside, he laid back down.
Sleep came quickly.
***
“I’ve been thinking about it all day, Director.”
Seung-hyeon was hovering over him, arms braced on either side, pinning him down. Seon-woo tried twisting his body to escape, but something felt off. He couldn’t move at all.
Seung-hyeon dipped his head and placed a kiss on his eyelid—a light brush that swept across his lashes, sending a shiver down Seon-woo’s spine.
He braced for the usual system warning—something like “Gwanggong Score has decreased”—but no mechanical voice came. Instead, Seung-hyeon pressed a trail of short kisses from his eyelids to his cheek, nose, then lips. Finally, in a quiet murmur, he spoke.
“It just feels so unfair…”
Lowering his head, he nestled between Seon-woo’s legs, resting his cheek against his thigh. His gaze as he looked up was both submissive and sharply intent.
“If I remember right, you were the one who said it felt good.”
Seon-woo wanted to respond—anything at all—but couldn’t even open his mouth. Seung-hyeon’s hands, though not gripping hard, held him down by the thighs with just enough force to make resistance feel pointless.
Was it that he lacked the strength to fight back?
Or was it that… he didn’t want to resist?
“That’s why… I want to make sure.”
Seon-woo squeezed his eyes shut as Seung-hyeon’s voice slid over him. He unfastened Seon-woo’s belt with practiced ease and unzipped his pants. Then, just like he’d done earlier today…
“Stop!”
<A Gwanggong does not scream upon waking from a dream. Gwanggong Score decreased by 3.>
Seon-woo gasped for breath, eyes darting around the room. The familiar shadowy monochrome interior came into view—same as always.
No sign of Seung-hyeon anywhere. He was lying alone on the wide bed. He let out a sigh of relief.
It was a dream.
A dream?
That’s what he dreamt?! Relief lasted only a second. Seon-woo’s face twisted in fresh horror as he trembled and lifted the blanket.
<A Gwanggong does not have wet dreams! Gwanggong Score decreased by 5.>
He clutched his forehead in silent agony. A wet dream? Seriously? He hadn’t had one since high school. And worse—it was about Gwak Seung-hyeon.
Something was seriously, seriously wrong with him.
Still flustered and at a total loss, Seon-woo suddenly heard a soft vibration. It had to be a message—from Seung-hyeon or Seo Eun-jae. One of the two. But he didn’t have the heart to check.
Just like in the dream, he clenched his eyes shut.
