[Exile was carried out against those who had committed a serious breach of regulations aboard the ship. As the execution site was made public, the residents…]
I turned my head to look at Min Yugeon. He was sitting next to me on the bed, scrolling through the same announcement, when he met my gaze.
“What?”
“……”
I lowered my eyes without answering.
“…Seo Suho.”
Min Yugeon furrowed his brows as if he already knew what I was thinking.
The day Min Sanghan and Ji Chanwoo were officially sentenced—their reactions were exactly as I’d expected.
Min Sanghan shrieking in denial, too twisted and shameless to admit his crimes.
Ji Chanwoo silently bowing his pale face in resignation.
I could never bring myself to understand them, and so I never forgave them. That’s why, in the end, I watched Min Sanghan’s final moments alongside Min Yugeon. We stood in the closest possible place—close enough to see every nuance of his expression, to hear the despair in his screams, to feel it all vividly.
But deep down, I still questioned whether I’d truly made the right choice. No matter what he’d done, Min Sanghan was still Min Yugeon’s father.
“I told you not to think like that. I’m fine.”
Min Yugeon immediately picked up on what was going through my head. He lifted my hand and pressed his cheek to my palm.
“Well… to be honest, I am a little disappointed.”
His soft gaze gradually darkened.
“He went too easily for the things he did.”
“…!”
“It wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.”
His low whisper carried a chilling undercurrent of menace. The expression vanished from his face as he stared into the void.
For a moment, I forgot to breathe. A cold shiver crept down my spine.
At some point, there was something unfamiliar—something eerie—about Min Yugeon that made him feel like someone I no longer recognized.
…And I knew. I knew Min Yugeon couldn’t be the same as before. Too much had happened. Still, I feared that this dense darkness might one day swallow him whole.
“Suho?”
He looked at me again. His face now radiated warmth, as if he’d never worn that blank expression just seconds ago.
“Yeah.”
I barely managed to compose myself and answered shortly. Min Yugeon dismissed the floating notification in front of us, then studied my face.
“You don’t look well. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No.”
I shook my head and opened my mouth carefully.
“That’s not it…”
Even witnessing Min Sanghan’s end with my own eyes didn’t bring me peace. Even if I’d taken Yeo Wonjin’s hand and killed him myself. No matter how he’d met his end, I never would’ve been satisfied.
Because no matter what I did, my mother and father were never coming back.
“Min Yugeon. In the end, we’re still here together.”
But right now—being with Min Yugeon—this was enough. The bond between us, fragile and trembling as it was, hadn’t broken. That was what mattered most to me now.
More than the insatiable thirst for revenge, more than the bottomless pit of hatred—Min Yugeon came first.
“So let’s focus on the present.”
I didn’t want Min Yugeon dwelling on the shadow of Min Sanghan. I knew the wounds he carried were different from mine and wouldn’t heal overnight. But I hoped the fact that we were together again could have some kind of healing effect.
Min Yugeon looked at me with a dazed expression.
“…Yeah.”
Then, like he was in a trance, he replied softly.
“Yeah.”
His voice wavered ever so slightly in agreement. His throat bobbed as if he were trying to steady the rising swell of emotion. His deep brown eyes slowly began to glisten.
Min Yugeon slid down and buried his face in my chest. I gently ran my fingers through his disheveled hair. His white strands—longer than before—spilled over my arm and down to his nape.
“Suho.”
Holding my waist in a firm, unyielding embrace, Min Yugeon let out a long, quiet breath.
“There’s no chance we’ll be separated again, right? The two of us.”
It was a question soaked in unshakable anxiety.
I looked down at Min Yugeon in silence. My chest ached. The time we’d been forced apart—because of misunderstandings about each other’s feelings, because of what Min Sanghan had done—had left a scar that could never be erased. To Min Yugeon, who had been consumed by agonizing guilt, that wound had planted an especially deep fear.
The fear that I might leave him again. That I might abandon him at any moment.
I wanted to uproot that fear.
Maybe if I said yes, if I told him there’d never be such a thing again, like he’d asked—it would help, at least a little.
But I couldn’t say that.
“Actually…”
After a long silence and hesitation, I finally spoke, seriously.
“There’s something I need to tell you. It’s about what’s coming next.”
“….”
Min Yugeon’s body stiffened. He had no idea what I was about to say.
Or maybe that’s exactly why he froze. Dreadful possibilities seemed to cloud his face.
“I’m thinking of going up to the surface.”
I laid out the plan, hoping it wasn’t the worst-case scenario he had imagined.
“…What?”
Min Yugeon shot upright. I raised my hand awkwardly and looked at him.
Apparently, it wasn’t even among the possibilities he’d feared. His face went pale as he stared at me in disbelief, like something inside him had broken.
Though I hesitated, I calmly continued.
“The lab has limited access to test subjects, but the surface doesn’t. It’s crawling with monsters. And, though it wasn’t planned… I confirmed that I’m relatively safe out there.”
“….”
“So I’ve adjusted the direction of my research. I’m going to try taming as many monsters as I can on the surface.”
Yeo Wonjin hadn’t approved my revised project proposal yet, but it was unlikely he’d ignore the efficiency of large-scale taming operations conducted aboveground. When weighed against what was beneficial to the ship, the answer was obvious—he’d accept it.
“Wait… wait.”
Min Yugeon muttered, his voice tight like he couldn’t breathe. Then he got out of bed. His unsteady steps toward the nightstand made me anxious, and I quietly followed him down.
He grabbed a water bottle and gulped it down, then caught his breath. He looked too stunned for it to be just a mild reaction, so I watched him silently, waiting.
“I think… I heard you wrong.”
Finally, Min Yugeon turned to face me, biting his lower lip hard.
“Did I hear you right? You’re saying… you’re going to live on the surface?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
He shook his head immediately and stepped in close. His frame—restored with muscle, back to its original size—blocked my view. Gripping my shoulders hard, Min Yugeon spoke with a trembling voice.
“Absolutely not.”
“…Min Yugeon.”
“I don’t care what the reason is. You can’t.”
His voice left no room for compromise.
“Just because you came back safe last time doesn’t mean it’ll happen again. I won’t let you go.”
His eyes were twisted, his grip nearly slipping out of control. It might’ve looked like he was angry, but he wasn’t.
I took his hands—cold with fear—and held them tight.
“Calm down. What you’re afraid of isn’t going to happen.”
“You…!”
Min Yugeon looked like he was about to snap but then shut his eyes tight. He exhaled slowly, trying to collect himself.
“How can you be so sure? No one even knows how many monsters are out there. How can you be so certain nothing will happen to you in the middle of all that?”
Even in his agitation, he was careful not to raise his voice. He let go of my shoulders and took a step back, afraid he might hurt me.
I pulled him back in and embraced him.
“Yugeon.”
“…!”
“I’m not going up there without a plan.”
I had to say it. If I wanted to convince him.
My mouth was starting to go dry.
Until now, I hadn’t told Min Yugeon the details of my ability. All he knew—like everyone else—was that I had a natural affinity with monsters.
The reason I hadn’t told him was simple.
Even sharing that information could put him in danger.
If it ever came to light that the real reason I wasn’t attacked by monsters wasn’t just a vague “innate trait” but something specific—my unusual eyes—then there was a chance they’d start experimenting on my eyes.
And if that happened, I would lose my freedom.
In that state, I wouldn’t be able to carry out the Military Beast Project—my parents’ legacy—properly. That’s why I’d kept the fact that my eye contact with monsters was the key to taming them a secret. Even though I knew I’d be punished if it were ever discovered.
The ship’s leadership had no tolerance for silence or secrecy when it came to matters that affected its interests. If they judged me guilty of concealing something, I would face punishment with no way to avoid it.
Until now, I’d kept quiet even with Min Yugeon, not wanting to make him vulnerable to charges of concealment. But if I wanted to convince him—if I wanted him to let me go—then it was time I told him everything.
