The phrase Sun Woosung heard most often in his life was, “How are you always so calm and expressionless?”
His parents, siblings, and everyone who knew him were put off by the cold face that never betrayed a single flicker of emotion.
But Sun Woosung never saw that as a flaw in his natural poker face. He didn’t enjoy socializing to begin with, and he wasn’t the type to crave attention from people who avoided him based on his expression alone.
That said, he didn’t necessarily think they were wrong. Even by his own judgment, his face was dry—emotionless to the point of appearing desolate.
Perhaps as a counter-reaction to that stillness, he began to seek out intense stimulation—enough to leave a noticeable change on even his indifferent face. It was only natural, then, that he found the Reconnaissance Unit—where he could experience visceral thrill and the rush of risking his life—so incredibly appealing.
So, on the day of his very first mission as a greenhorn in the unit, while heading to the staging area where the fighter jets waited, Sun Woosung didn’t feel even a hint of nerves.
Everyone around him was chattering, saying things like, “This guy’s nerves must be made of steel.”
“Hey rookie, are you seriously not scared? Not even a little?”
A bald squad member gave him a light pat on the shoulder as he asked, his tone deliberately low. Sun Woosung turned to face the man beside him.
It was a silly question. He had only one life like anyone else, and he wasn’t oblivious to the fact that these missions often ended in death. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel anxious—he just couldn’t help but embrace the feeling. He had joined precisely to experience this kind of tension.
So, expressionless, he replied,
“Yes. I’m scared.”
“…Huh?”
The unexpected answer made the other soldier widen his eyes, then burst out laughing as he clutched his stomach.
“You’re hilarious! I thought you were trying to act all cool as the new guy, but then you say you’re scared—with that face?”
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Let me in on the joke.”
The ruckus drew more soldiers over, and they quickly realized that even the stoic Sun Woosung was feeling tense. Soon, the group was laughing out loud together.
Even as he became the butt of the joke, Sun Woosung didn’t look the slightest bit annoyed or embarrassed. The bald soldier clapped him on the back with gusto.
“Don’t worry, man. No way we’re letting the youngest one die first.”
And he kept that promise.
Sun Woosung stood before an empty funeral urn, watching the mourners weep—family and friends of the man who had pushed him aside and vanished into the jaws of a monster in his place.
Their sobs seemed to rob him of his hearing, and the image of the fallen soldier blinded his vision. Sun Woosung looked down at his leaden legs, unable to take a single step, and realized that from now on, he’d carry the weight of someone else’s life on his back.
The nature of the Reconnaissance Unit’s missions was not something to be taken lightly. That brutal truth was etched deep into his brain, paid for with the ultimate price—someone else’s sacrifice.
After that, he began suffering from nightmares of the dead soldier appearing before him. As the guilt grew heavier, he pushed his body to the limit—training relentlessly, never holding back in missions. But none of it changed anything.
Until he met Seo Suho.
“Good morning!”
Returning the salute of the Research Facility guards with a firm voice, Sun Woosung stepped inside the building. Now familiar with the layout, he headed straight to Building B toward Seo Suho’s lab. He stopped in front of the closed door.
“Seo Su…”
He knocked and pushed the door open, only to fall silent. Seo Suho had fallen asleep, face down on the table.
Even though it was his personal space, Seo Suho had always kept a proper posture and never let his guard down. It was the first time Sun Woosung had seen him so deeply asleep that he hadn’t even noticed someone entering.
Lately, Seo Suho’s demeanor had become increasingly precarious. Aside from when he was with his team, his smile had completely vanished, and his reactions to external stimuli had dulled significantly.
His already sharp jawline looked even more pronounced now—he should have looked more on edge, but instead, there was an odd sense of detachment about him. Sun Woosung couldn’t shake the feeling.
He wanted to interrogate him, to dig out the reason behind Seo Suho’s struggles even if it meant forcing it out of him. It was one of those rare, awkward impulses he felt only when it came to Seo Suho.
“….”
Quietly stepping inside and closing the door, Sun Woosung softened his footsteps as he approached.
Seo Suho’s shoulders were slightly hunched, as though the chill in the room was getting to him due to poor condition. Sun Woosung took off his uniform jacket and gently draped it over Seo Suho’s thin frame, then sat down—not across from him as usual, but at his side.
Even without the shadows cast by his long lashes, the dark circles under Seo Suho’s eyes were evident. His pale, exhausted face looked so drained that Sun Woosung gently placed a hand on his forehead.
At his touch, Seo Suho’s eyelids twitched, but he didn’t stir. After a long moment, Sun Woosung pulled his hand back. Thankfully, there was no fever. If anything, he felt slightly cold, but it didn’t seem to be from any illness.
He glanced down at Seo Suho’s ankle. Occasionally, when the pants shifted, faint red marks were still visible on the skin.
—Gasp. Ugh…!
The sound of something sharp shattering, the gasp of someone choking.
Thinking back, Sun Woosung was almost grateful that he’d accidentally triggered a call to Seo Suho the night before a mission by mishandling his watch. Because when he rushed over without thinking, Seo Suho had opened the door with one foot drenched in blood.
In hindsight, he hadn’t just been startled—he’d been furious. Not at the situation, but at the simple fact that Seo Suho had been hurt.
Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, he didn’t have the luxury of focusing on his negative emotions—he was too busy tending to Seo Suho’s injuries.
Once the initial fury had naturally subsided, he turned his attention to Seo Suho’s precarious condition that day. It was obvious he was completely drunk, yet still trying to pull himself together out of awareness that someone else was present—that was so very like Seo Suho.
When asked if something bad had happened for him to drink so heavily alone, he pretended not to understand and simply warned him to be careful of the broken glass.
But when Seo Suho gazed up at him with eyes inevitably softened by intoxication, Sun Woosung felt his heartbeat begin to quicken. The always composed Seo Suho, disheveled and defenseless, focusing only on him—it awakened a desire within Sun Woosung that he hadn’t even been aware of until that moment.
“Say you’ve got a problem that absolutely needs solving… but no matter what you do, there’s just no answer. What would you do in that situation, Colonel?”
As Sun Woosung silently watched him—damp hair clinging to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lips drawn with delicate precision—the question suddenly came, like something one might ask when backed into a corner.
That question led into a conversation that eventually turned into Sun Woosung confessing the nightmares that plagued him. Though it was Sun Woosung who looked like he needed comfort, Seo Suho was the one who, wearing a suddenly serious expression, embraced him.
“If he wanted to see you suffer like this, he wouldn’t have gone in your place.”
Anyone could speak comforting words, but real consolation came only from someone gentle enough to say them in that way.
Seo Suho’s words made Sun Woosung realize what those strange feelings he often had toward him truly were. All in that one fleeting moment.
“Seo Suho.”
He couldn’t help calling out to him, so he whispered his name softly enough not to wake him.
A rough, calloused hand smoothed out the messy hair on Seo Suho’s pale forehead with a surprisingly gentle touch. Seo Suho stirred faintly and, half-asleep, instinctively leaned his cheek into Sun Woosung’s palm.
Sun Woosung grew worried that his pounding heartbeat might be loud enough for Seo Suho to hear. A warm flush crept up to his ears.
Maybe the feelings hadn’t begun when he realized them, but long before. Was it that day when he felt so sick inside, wondering if a person could truly break down that much? Or perhaps it was that moment in the memorial hall, when they had recognized each other.
“……”
A trace of regret flickered across Sun Woosung’s face. He should’ve spoken more clearly, more sincerely. He had been too hasty yesterday.
When Seo Suho, looking disappointed, snapped sharply and moved to leave, his thoughts short-circuited—and he acted without any plan. He hadn’t expected the confession itself to be outright rejected.
So he began to speculate on what Seo Suho must have thought to not understand something that obvious, and came to one conclusion: Seo Suho must not have felt even the slightest bit of the same emotion.
And Seo Suho wasn’t the type to accept affection from someone he didn’t share those feelings with.
There had to be a reason why Yeo Wonjin, who used to look at Seo Suho with such fondness, had never dared to cross that final line.
…Maybe it was for the best that Seo Suho hadn’t picked up on the real meaning behind his words. At least things had ended on a relatively gentle note.
Remembering the genuine look in Seo Suho’s eyes as he said thank you for caring, Sun Woosung raised his wrist and looked into the watch screen that reflected his face. For the first time, he wondered if the problem had been with his appearance—something that had never really bothered him before.
Even if he’d never been interested in romance, he at least had some idea of how people acted when they fell for someone. After all, his own teammates had once wasted an entire break gossiping about how they’d confessed or been confessed to by their partners.
Looking at the darkened screen that reflected his own face, Sun Woosung tried lifting the corners of his mouth—then gave up halfway.
