Just as Ryu Soh-an had bottled up his feelings toward his friends until the moment he finally erupted, Han Jigang too swallowed his growing doubts as he watched Soh-an change little by little. Simply holding back his hot temper felt like it was draining away every bit of patience he’d built over a lifetime.
If he’d known it would come to this, he would’ve demanded answers from Soh-an much sooner. Leaving him alone, simply because it was Soh-an, had been a mistake. Whatever had caused this change, Jigang was determined to rip it out by the roots.
“Soh-an. Answer me.”
At Jigang’s firm voice, Soh-an bit down hard on his lip. He fought desperately not to show anything, pulling every ounce of willpower together to suppress the storm writhing inside him like a serpent.
If it hadn’t been about Nabin, maybe he could have confided in someone—anyone. Even Kim Su-hyun, the person he was closest to at the Center outside of his friends, had never heard the full weight of his feelings.
He should’ve bled off some of that darkness inside by talking about it, but instead he shoved it down and locked it away. Every time he tried to speak, the words died before they could leave his lips.
How could he even explain? How could he tell them that, in another timeline, his own brother and his friends had done unspeakable things to Nabin, and that without meaning to, he now looked at them with feelings tainted by disgust?
He convinced himself that once Nabin got better, the guilt—and the bitterness toward them—would fade. Never before had he been so grateful that his power as a Healing Esper extended to mental trauma.
But the truth was undeniable: what had been done wasn’t the work of strangers. Even if he hadn’t existed in that other timeline, Soh-an still drowned in guilt, believing his own karmic burden had lingered and pushed Nabin into ruin.
The only penance he could offer was to heal Nabin with everything he had. He clung to the fragile hope that time would soothe his restless heart.
But without realizing it, he’d already reached his limit. The spark that finally blew apart his reason was something so small.
A plate of juicy steak Han Jigang had cooked for Ryu Somin.
When that sight overlapped with Nabin’s memories and emotions, it was like fire hitting a bomb’s fuse.
The memory of what they had done to Nabin, tangled with the agony Nabin had felt, surged all at once, painting Soh-an’s vision blood red. That was the last thing he remembered.
When he came to, the situation had already spiraled past the point where he could do anything. And now, no excuse would be enough.
Han Jigang had no intention of backing down until he got an answer he could accept. Tae Yishin, uncharacteristically silent, watched with an expression stripped of his usual smile, his face set cold and hard, eyes locked on Soh-an.
Under that gaze, Soh-an instinctively knew—Yishin’s resolve was the same as Jigang’s.
“…I need to know too. Why you’re doing this.”
The calm, weighty voice rolled through the quiet living room. Gong Min had come downstairs only after Somin had fallen asleep. For him to speak meant they truly had made up their minds.
The stares pinning him in place felt like ink spilling across his vision. If there was one thing Soh-an could never do, it was lie.
If only he had Yishin’s slick tongue, the ability to cover things up with a smooth excuse. But Soh-an had never been capable of hiding the truth behind clever lies. His honesty wasn’t chosen—it was forced by his utter lack of talent for deceit.
He thought furiously.
If he tried to cover this up with lies alone, they’d see through it immediately. They might even tail him all the way to Hayan’s mansion.
Nabin’s condition had improved compared to the day Soh-an first treated him, but one direct encounter with these men could undo everything—erasing all progress in an instant.
Nabin’s shattered mind had only just been pieced back together. That fragile stability was the result of Hayan, Soh-an, and Su-hyun’s desperate effort, combined with Nabin’s will to survive.
But if anyone asked whether Nabin was truly fine, the answer would still be “No.” He was like a vase glued back together—fragile and unstable.
Even the smallest shock could shatter him all over again. And in truth, the state was so severe that even Soh-an couldn’t guarantee recovery.
Just brushing against Nabin’s memories and emotions had been enough to nearly make him lose control of his own mind—despite his mental strength being stronger than most S-rank Espers.
He had to weave lies layered with truth, enough to hide Nabin’s existence without being caught. It wasn’t as though he could keep Nabin secret forever anyway. The Center Director was already waiting for the day he’d be revealed.
But until Nabin was strong enough not to break down in front of them, Soh-an had to buy time. The safest way was to cut off any link—to stop openly meeting Nabin and return to acting as if nothing had changed, leaving them with no trail to follow.
If he went back to normal, their suspicion would fade. Even if they did follow him, it wouldn’t lead to Nabin.
The problem was that in all of Korea, Soh-an was the only one who could treat Nabin. Kim Su-hyun couldn’t heal psychological wounds, and bringing in a foreign Healing Esper was practically impossible.
Praying his lie would hold, Soh-an steadied his expression. His palms were slick with cold sweat, but his face showed nothing.
“It’s because of a Guide I’ve been treating lately. His trauma is so severe that even I can’t heal it all at once. Experiencing his memories and emotions during treatment… it shook me more than I realized. I’m sorry.”
“And who’s this Guide?”
If his trauma was too much even for Soh-an, then the Guide must be high-ranked. And from A-rank upward, there were few enough that their names were all known.
That was why Jigang immediately doubted him. To his knowledge, there wasn’t a high-ranked Guide with trauma so severe Soh-an couldn’t handle it.
He didn’t know every bit of Center gossip, but if something that serious had happened to an upper-rank Guide, he would’ve at least heard rumors.
At Jigang’s suspicion, Soh-an answered more steadily. The tremor in his voice had faded, as if his resolve had finally solidified.
“The Guide isn’t officially with the Center. It was a personal request from the Center Director.”
Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a lie. Since the Director hadn’t revealed Nabin’s identity yet, he technically wasn’t part of the Center. Soh-an bent the truth rather than breaking it.
There had been times before when he’d fallen sick from bottling up emotions left behind by patients he treated. Back then, it hadn’t been an Outbreak, just a collapse—but they’d seen enough to know the side effects of his ability.
“If that’s the case, you should’ve told us sooner. Why suffer alone like that?”
Thankfully, his excuse landed. Yishin, voice gentler now, scolded him lightly, his eyes full of worry he couldn’t hide.
“…I just didn’t want you to worry. You know me. I’d rather shoulder it myself than make you and the others anxious.”
Relief washed through Soh-an. He exhaled silently, the tension draining until he felt like he might collapse on the spot. It had been a long time since he’d pushed his ability to this level of exhaustion—not since his early days as an Esper.
If there had been a bed nearby, he would’ve thrown himself onto it. Having cleared this hurdle, the urge to rest seized him completely.
Perhaps because his mind was so dulled, he didn’t notice. He didn’t realize that despite his words, they instinctively sensed he was still hiding something. That unanswered doubts still lingered in their hearts like residue that refused to fade.
A shadow fell across their eyes as they looked at him. Especially Tae Yishin, who clenched his fist so tightly his palm caved inward, hidden where Soh-an couldn’t see.
