Nnngh.
Cat let out a groaning sound, as if something was wrong, and walked toward the barrier. Then he bumped his forehead against it with a dull thud. His black fur got squashed against the wall, sticking out in messy tufts. With the barrier between us, we pressed our foreheads together and stared at each other.
The low rumble from Cat’s throat echoed through the space, as though he found it strange that I wasn’t greeting him the way I usually did.
Watching him, I realized why I had come here.
I just needed someone who would quietly watch over me—without asking anything, without saying anything.
Kiiiii…
Just like Rai, Cat was sensitive to emotional changes. But even a monster’s attention span had its limits. He tilted his head at first, puzzled by my strange behavior, but didn’t dwell on it for long. Propping his chin on his front paws, he kept his eyes on me for a while, then opened his jaws wide in a yawn.
His blinking started to slow. The yellow pupils took longer and longer to disappear behind drooping eyelids. His tail, which had been perked up slightly, gradually began to sag. He was clearly about to fall asleep.
I watched him drift off, and only after he was fully asleep did I quietly turn around. Normally, even the smallest movement would’ve startled him awake. But with someone familiar so close by, he must not have been on high alert.
Leaving the observation room, I walked into the lobby and, still dazed, instinctively began heading toward the main exit. But my gaze turned toward the direction of Building A.
I stopped walking and stared at its entrance for a moment before turning and heading that way. Standing silently at the entrance of the hallway that led to the Director’s office, I gazed down the corridor.
It was still deep in the night. Min Sanghan was probably not in the office.
“……”
A wave of heat surged up my throat.
“There’s going to be good news.”
“How could something like this happen? How could this…”
“You’re like a son to me, Suho.”
Min Sanghan, who had said that, since they were his friends, of course he’d help them safely on their way.
Min Sanghan, who had always encouraged me and looked out for me.
All the moments we’d laughed together, lived side by side, flashed through my mind like a speeding film reel.
…What the hell did I do?
I buried my face in both hands, squeezing my eyes shut, then opened them again. My entire body felt as if it had frozen from the inside out. My breath escaped in ragged, uneven gasps.
I had entrusted the memorial rites for the very people who were murdered—my mother and father—to the man who killed them. I had trusted him, even felt a connection to him, because he supported restarting the project. I sympathized with his estrangement from his own family, foolishly thinking that maybe, just maybe, the void in his life and the one in mine could fill each other a little.
But no matter how unaware I had been of the truth, the fact that I was deceived by Min Sanghan—that was entirely my fault.
I had disgraced the memory of my deceased parents.
I felt so utterly pathetic and disgusted with myself that I thought I might vomit.
“Suho?”
At the sound of Lee Shin’s voice, I looked up.
At some point, I’d ended up back in the observation room where Lee Shin was.
Why was I here? Unlike Cat, Lee Shin was someone I could talk to. He was someone who asked questions—who tried to understand me. Why had I come here, to someone like that?
…Those eyes that looked at me with blind faith. He hadn’t been with me for that long, and yet he already felt like he was on my side without question. Did I really want to lean on someone so naive?
“Suho!”
Lee Shin beamed, baring his white teeth in a bright grin, and climbed off the bed to approach me. He tapped cheerfully on the barrier as a greeting.
I slowly lowered the hand I had unconsciously raised to cover my mouth and looked at him. As soon as he saw my face properly, he hesitated.
The smile gradually faded from his bright expression.
“…Suho?”
“……”
“Suho, is something wrong? Are you hurt?”
Even as his face turned serious and he asked what was wrong, I still couldn’t say a single word. My lips trembled as I looked at him.
His eyes were wide open—clear, alert. He didn’t look like he’d just woken up. He focused completely on me. The concern slowly surfacing on Lee Shin’s face was vivid, unmistakable.
Maybe that’s why.
“I think I should just… give it all up.”
The words slipped out before I even realized it.
The project I’d thrown myself into, claiming I was carrying on my parents’ legacy—none of it would’ve been possible without Min Sanghan’s help. Just that one fact made everything I’d built feel false and meaningless.
The truth that Min Yugeon wouldn’t even exist without Min Sanghan—that, too, wrapped around my throat like a noose.
The thought kept coming back: that Min Yugeon was destroying himself little by little just to fight Min Sanghan—in other words, because of me.
“Maybe I should quit.”
A voice, heavy with exhaustion and sinking deep, slipped out. Lee Shin narrowed his brows, staring intently at me in response to my muttering.
My gaze dropped, swept away by the memories rushing through my head.
“I think I’d be fine being scattered into the sea.”
My parents and I often talked about monsters. One day, the topic shifted to the death of a monster, and somehow, that led us to talking about human death.
That day, my mother had turned to my father with a surprisingly serious expression and said:
“Once you’re dead, there’s no chance of being hunted by monsters anyway. Isn’t it way better than being trapped in a ship, even after death?”
“Yeah. I think so too.”
Normally affectionate and meticulous, my parents would sometimes take on that oddly detached, academically driven tone that researchers often had—especially during conversations like this. It may seem questionable whether such talk of their own deaths was appropriate in front of a young child, but I’d already reached an age where I understood death well enough, so it didn’t scar me. On the contrary, I had engraved their preferred way of parting into my memory, wanting never to forget it.
But I’d been forced to follow the regulations of the ship.
Even now, I still wished to send them off the way they had wanted—and I…
“Suho!”
Bang! The sudden crash against the barrier snapped me out of it. I lifted my head to find Lee Shin glaring at me, his face stiff and rigid.
“Come in here.”
“……”
“Come here!”
At first glance, his tone sounded like he was shouting in sudden anger. But if one looked closely, it was clear he wasn’t trying to intimidate me. He was flailing, overwhelmed by anxiety and fear, like a child throwing a tantrum.
The tense corners of his eyes, the drooping curve of his lips, and his tightly clenched fists—anyone would have noticed.
That look—of fear, of dread—I had seen it once before today, from someone else. But of course, it had been different. Min Yugeon had stood before me a complete sinner, weighed down by guilt even as he clung to me. Tears had streamed from a face openly wracked with remorse, and in the end, he hadn’t been able to stop me from walking away.
But Lee Shin was relentless. He banged on the barrier again and again, fists pounding hard enough to risk reopening old wounds. Thud, thud—like he meant to break it down.
Blood dripped down from his already torn knuckles.
More than feeling confused, I found myself irritated by the sight.
“…Wait.”
Seeing that there was not an ounce of hostility in his actions, I turned away. I decided to go along with what he wanted—for now—and cross the barrier.
I could feel his intense gaze burning into my back, as though afraid I might slip away again. Without a word, I walked down the hallway and stepped into the space where Lee Shin was.
“…!”
The moment I entered, Lee Shin threw himself at me, arms wrapping tightly around my body.
I blinked, trapped in his firm embrace. His long black hair fluttered in front of my eyes before gently settling.
“Are you hurting?”
Holding me so tightly I couldn’t move, Lee Shin asked in a quiet voice.
“Are you in pain?”
I inhaled sharply, freezing in place. I felt a twitch near the corner of my eye.
The blunt question pierced straight through my chest, and the chill reached down to my fingertips. For a moment, I couldn’t tell whether it was my body or Lee Shin’s that was trembling—but I quickly realized the obvious.
It was me.
As if trying to soothe me, Lee Shin pulled me into an even tighter hug. The strength of it made it feel like I could collapse completely, and he’d still be there holding me up.
“Suho, cry.”
He rested his chin lightly atop my head.
“Crying’s not bad. I cried too. Cry when it hurts. Cry when you’re sad.”
The words were impossibly simple—like a child trying to comfort someone. But they soaked into my ears and stirred my already quivering body even more. I bit my lower lip hard.
Had I ever once let myself cry with everything I had?
To me, tears were something that flowed when they had to—and the more I let them out, the weaker I believed I’d become. Ever since the day I broke down in front of my ruined home, I had convinced myself that showing emotions only led to helplessness.
And yet now, as my vision blurred and teardrops fell onto Lee Shin’s shoulder, it was happening again. Unstoppable.
He didn’t seem bothered at all by me silently dripping tears onto him. Still wrapped around me, Lee Shin didn’t flinch. I had no idea how many times my vision cleared and clouded again as I cried. But not once did he complain, or pull away. He stood there, holding me tightly, his shoulder soaking wet with my grief.
“Suho.”
Then, suddenly, he spoke.
He grabbed my arm and gently pulled back just enough to look into my face. There was something like resolve in his expression—maybe even nervousness.
I stared at him through swollen eyes.
“I know how to get out of the ship.”
“……”
“I remember everything. We can get out.”
The unexpected words halted my thoughts entirely.
I opened and closed my lips several times before finally managing to speak in a hoarse voice.
“…What?”
“Let’s go together, Suho.”
Lee Shin wrapped his arms around me once more.
“Let’s leave the ship.”
