“…Sorry. I wrecked the house.”
Ryu Soh-an stood frozen, his face pale as he surveyed what was left of the mansion. The place looked like a ruin. The living room was the worst—barely the frame of the room remained intact. Everywhere he looked, heaps of broken furniture lay in piles, destroyed beyond repair.
The walls and floors were gouged and scarred, making it clear to anyone that what had just happened wasn’t some illusion. A dull ache rose in his chest, and Soh-an pressed a hand over his sternum.
This mansion had been a space where everyone’s tastes had blended together naturally. The sofa now gutted and torn open had been one that he and Ryu Somin had carefully picked out after three separate trips to the furniture store. They’d touched it, sat on it, and debated before finally deciding on it. It was one of their most cherished pieces.
And it wasn’t just the sofa. The other furniture, the lights, even the flooring—they had all reflected the preferences of him and his friends. Nothing had been chosen thoughtlessly.
They were all deeply attached to this house. Before awakening as Espers, they had lived hard lives without any real place to call “home.” If there was a patch of floor to lie on and a flimsy wall to block some wind and rain, that was enough to call it a house.
The day they first stepped into this mansion, even Gong Min—who was usually so stone-faced—had worn a constant smile. They had each chosen their own rooms, brought in the furniture they liked, and then celebrated together with a small party in the living room.
The house was filled with memories they’d built together. The living room window still carried faint marks from balloons taped there during parties. The dining table held the lingering echoes of shared meals.
Even if they replaced everything with new furniture, the memories tied to the broken pieces could never be bought back. And the reason for replacing them this time stung even more. Truthfully, this wasn’t the first time furniture had been damaged—Han Jigang and Tae Yishin often clashed because of their opposite personalities, and every time they did, repairs and replacements followed.
But Soh-an—he had never been the cause. He had always been the one cleaning up afterward. Now, staring at the wreckage left by his own loss of control, his eyes wavered, unable to settle.
He hesitated, then sat down, gathering shards of glass scattered around his feet. The mess was so overwhelming it seemed impossible to finish cleaning in a day, but the urge to do something was stronger than the doubt.
“If you’ve come back to your senses, that’s enough. Go check on Somin. He must’ve been the most shaken out of all of us.”
Han Jigang buried the flood of questions welling up inside. From the look on Soh-an’s face, he knew pressing him now wouldn’t get answers. If it had been Yishin, he would’ve forced the truth out of him, but with Soh-an, he couldn’t.
Instead, he decided to quietly look into what Soh-an had been doing lately. Judging by their expressions, Yishin and Gong Min were probably thinking the same thing.
If they wanted answers, they’d have to act in a way that reassured him. If Soh-an sensed they were suspicious, he’d only retreat further, hiding whatever secret he was holding.
At Jigang’s words, Soh-an finally remembered Somin. In his hazy memory of losing control and raging, Somin hadn’t been there. But judging from Jigang’s tone, it seemed Somin had witnessed the chaos too.
“Somin… saw it?”
“…Yeah. He barely managed to fall asleep. Go see him before he wakes.”
When Gong Min added his quiet support, Soh-an wavered, then slowly started up the stairs. More urgent than cleaning the wreckage was calming Somin, who must have been terrified. His steps to the second floor were heavy, as if weighed down with lead.
“Haah… fuck.”
Only after Soh-an vanished upstairs did Jigang finally let out the breath he’d been holding. He had kept his composure in front of him, but now his anger surged like molten lava poured into his skull.
If the cause of Soh-an’s change stood before him now, whatever it was, Jigang would have burned it to nothing.
He had already been restless lately, plagued by uneasy dreams that left him unsettled. They felt important, but every time he woke, the memories vanished. Normally, he’d have brushed it off.
The problem was that the emotions from those dreams lingered long after waking. He couldn’t recall the details, but the feelings clung to him like shadows, gnawing at him.
They were too tangled to name. The closest was the desperate urge to rip open his own chest and tear out his heart.
He had never felt anything like it before. So warped and unbearable it made death feel like an easier option. His mind felt ground into paste beneath it all.
The only reason he managed to function was because, with each blink, those suffocating feelings faded like mist. If they hadn’t, he might have lost control today the same way Soh-an had.
Still, his nerves were fraying thinner each day. And Soh-an’s behavior had only worn them down faster. The remnants of those dreams left him with both confusing emotional afterimages and a metallic tang sharp enough to sting his brain.
Even now, his nerves bristled, and Jigang swore he could smell iron in the air. His temples throbbed, and he pressed his brow, trying to ease the ache.
“Han Jigang, what are we going to do?”
Tae Yishin kicked irritably at the debris as he walked over. Like Jigang, he was convinced they couldn’t leave Soh-an alone like this.
They should have started digging the moment they noticed something was wrong. But because it was Soh-an, they had assumed he’d sort himself out. That complacency had been a grave mistake.
And the price was harsh. Like the ruined furniture, it felt as if an uncrossable river had opened between Soh-an and the rest of them. Before that river grew wider, they needed to build a bridge—or fill it in.
“What do you think? We figure out why he’s like this.”
Jigang’s voice cracked, rough with strain. His hand stilled against his brow, and his shadowed gaze shifted to the staircase where Soh-an had disappeared.
Yishin noticed just how much this was eating away at him. Jigang’s eyes burned so red it was as if scarlet paint had been poured across them.
“And if Soh-an insists on hiding it?”
But Jigang always went soft when it came to Soh-an. And though Soh-an was kind, when he dug in his heels, no one could make him budge.
Because he also had such a strong sense of justice, Yishin often clashed with him. Their ideals clashed too sharply to reconcile, and in those moments, Soh-an’s stubbornness was harder than steel.
“What do you mean? We dig in secret, of course.”
Jigang’s irritable reply made Yishin grin. If Jigang had refused, he had been ready to dig into Soh-an’s secrets alone. But thankfully, Jigang had realized that Soh-an wouldn’t give up the truth willingly.
Yishin turned his gaze to Gong Min, who had been quietly listening nearby.
“Gong Min, what about you? If you’re not going to help, at least don’t get in the way.”
Gong Min studied him for a moment, unreadable, then gave a small nod. With that, Yishin stretched and let out a relieved laugh.
Holding back his power while restraining Soh-an’s Outbreak had left his body aching, mana bottled inside him with nowhere to go.
“Finally, some relief. Then let’s start today. The sooner we bring Soh-an back to how he used to be, the better. We can’t let something like this happen again.”
He gave Jigang’s shoulder a light thump with his arm. Jigang grimaced, his brows furrowed deep, and pulled slightly away. Yishin only smirked and flicked his chin toward Gong Min.
Already, Gong Min was moving his massive frame, busily clearing the debris.
“Gong Min, you’re really going to pick that all up piece by piece? Just burn it. Jigang, give us a hand.”
He wasn’t wrong—if Jigang used his ability, there was no need to gather the fragments. His flames would turn everything to ash, and cleaning ash was far easier than hauling debris.
But at that moment, Jigang wanted nothing more than to use those same flames to burn Yishin’s smug mouth shut.
