Han-gyeom, feeling the warmth enveloping him, looked at Seo Won with trembling eyes.
The black storm that had once been filled with screams gradually calmed, and the desolate ruins slowly shifted into a ruined cathedral shimmering with a faint glow.
There were no more fragmented whispers from the black creature, no more cracked laughter that sounded like it didn’t belong to anyone.
No one’s screams could be heard anymore.
“Don’t cry.”
Only a small, desperate whisper lingered in the air, as if pleading through agony.
Amid the rough, tear-choked breathing, he called out the name of the man who stared back at him.
“S…Seo…Won….”
It felt strange.
Just moments ago, he had been suffocating, certain he would die, but now he could breathe again, and the sluggish heartbeat that seemed ready to stop was pounding wildly in his chest.
He had thought there was no one left by his side. That it would always be that way.
But there was.
A man who had to be with him—because only then could he survive.
He didn’t know why that fact brought him such overwhelming relief.
Even though, someday, the day would come when he’d have to end that man’s life with his own hands.
At least in this moment, Seo Won—someone Han-gyeom couldn’t live without—swallowed up all the chaos with his earnest plea.
“Ah…”
The warmth of Seo Won’s touch made a sorrowful smile tug at his lips.
‘I… was lonely, wasn’t I?’
Countless faces of his tormentors flashed through his mind.
They had always been with him before the black storm came. Yet not one of them had ever tried to ease his loneliness. They only needed Cha Han-gyeom, the Guide, to relieve their own pain and emptiness. The emotions of a mere “tool” never truly mattered to them.
That included Song Yeon-woo, the one who had spent the most time with him in the research facility.
He knew.
He knew the reason Song Yeon-woo clung to him and held him tight was to soothe his own loneliness and twisted obsession.
He knew it—and still, he had been okay with it. Because that was the only thread he could grab onto to survive. Even knowing he was being “used,” he pretended not to notice.
But the word used was far too shallow a piece to fill the hollowness inside his chest.
No matter how much he piled it up, it was like pouring water into a broken bowl—it all leaked out somewhere, leaving him perpetually empty.
And yet, just now, a strange little fragment dropped into that broken bowl with a soft plop.
The fragment he thought would inevitably slip away stayed firmly in place, unmoving—and from it, warmth began to slowly spread from within.
With tear-soaked eyes, Han-gyeom quietly gazed at Seo Won.
Strangely enough, in his gaze, expression, and voice—not a single trace of calculation could be found. Nothing about him hinted at any attempt to use Han-gyeom.
Normally, no matter who the other person was, he could always sense that kind of thing right away, even if he hated it.
After all, if Cha Han-gyeom broke, Seo Won would die too.
There was no other way—without anyone to Guide him, he’d only spiral into an uncontrollable rampage…
If that were the reason he was being comforted, maybe he wouldn’t have felt anything at all.
“Stop crying, Han-gyeom.”
The anxious touch wiping away his tears, and the tender voice calling his name—none of it contained even the smallest piece of use. What filled it instead was a pure, unfiltered plea born of emotion.
The first time he had faced such emotion was on the day Song Yeon-woo became the black monster.
Only in the moment of death, when everything was let go, had Song Yeon-woo finally revealed his genuine feelings—and that image now overlapped with Seo Won’s, completely and without distortion. That moment became the barometer by which he understood Seo Won’s emotions.
‘To think I’d be comforted by a man like you.’
There was no doubt—it was he, Han-gyeom, who had stirred Seo Won’s emotions.
He had done so only to use them. To eventually discard him after wringing him dry.
To push him toward a tormenting, agonizing death.
And yet… that very emotion had now come back to soothe a loneliness he had forgotten was even there.
In that ironic situation, Han-gyeom lowered his eyes in confusion, leaning into Seo Won’s hand as it gently caressed his face.
Watching the two of them in silence, Kang Woo-chan bit down hard on his lip and turned away.
“What are you going to do?”
What had seemed like empty ground beside Woo-chan suddenly rippled like a shallow puddle. A man rose from it as if surfacing through water, eyes fixed on Han-gyeom and Seo Won.
“Song Jae-woo is still tied down, so if we threaten him, they’ll have no choice but to come with us. And Seo Won’s doppelgänger—just a flick of your wrist and he’s gone.”
Just as the man said, Song Jae-woo was still bound to the roots of the tree. Though weakened, the roots hadn’t yet released on their own. If they bluffed just enough—threatened his life before the bindings gave out—Han-gyeom would undoubtedly waver.
Seo Won’s doppelgänger truly was so powerful it was hard to believe it was a doppelgänger, but against Kang Woo-chan’s ability, it was nothing. With just a touch of his fingers, whether it was the doppelgänger or the ability itself, it would all vanish in an instant.
And yet—for some reason, Woo-chan turned his back on the doppelgänger, devoid of force.
“…Let’s go back.”
“You sure about this?”
The man fiddled with a black cube he’d conjured in his palm, his expression unsettled.
“You really okay with giving up Cha Han-gyeom?”
He knew better than anyone just how deeply Kang Woo-chan had been watching over Han-gyeom all this time.
An unshakable, visceral sense of kinship—so profound it could never be taken lightly.
The vulnerable parts of Kang Woo-chan that only Cha Han-gyeom could ever truly soothe.
Unlike Espers who longed for Guiding, what existed between them was a rare bond, free of the word use—a connection that transcended function or need.
Woo-chan had always considered Cha Han-gyeom as a true brother. He had sworn he would save him—no matter what it took—from the hell he still hadn’t escaped.
Yet now, with a bitter smile on his face, he couldn’t hide the ache of loss.
“Seems like… Han-gyeom doesn’t need me anymore.”
It was clear now—Cha Han-gyeom’s choice to stay by Seo Won’s side hadn’t been forced upon him. It was his own will.
Whether it was anger, hatred, or any tangled mess of emotion… The one he poured all of that into—was Seo Won.
If that was the reason he kept living, then Kang Woo-chan no longer had the right to say he was doing anything for Han-gyeom.
To Han-gyeom, Woo-chan was now nothing more than an obstacle—a lingering piece of a painful past, something unnecessary.
If that was the case, then he couldn’t reach out to him. He couldn’t allow himself to be the one to keep digging into those wounds any longer.
Closing his eyes, Woo-chan let out a deep breath.
“Han-gyeom… isn’t like the others.”
He wasn’t like the other experimental children—those who needed someone to lean on, to hold onto, to lead them.
While the others froze in place with their eyes fixed only on Woo-chan, Han-gyeom had gone searching for a path of his own.
Even if that path meant tearing himself apart—if that was what Han-gyeom truly wanted, then Woo-chan had no right to stop him.
Turning to look back at Han-gyeom once more, he met his eyes—calm now, nestled quietly in Seo Won’s arms. Unlike earlier, when panic had overtaken him, Han-gyeom now looked… at peace.
Woo-chan’s lips parted.
“I’m sorry.”
The moment he spoke those words, the rising tide of emotion swelled within him.
It was in this moment—this decision to finally let Han-gyeom go—that Woo-chan realized far too late what he had never noticed before. His chest ached with a sudden, bitter swell.
Even surrounded by countless Espers, he hadn’t known.
That within him, loneliness had been quietly piling up all along.
Woo-chan had always been the one to comfort the Espers. The one who led them. He was the indispensable Guide, the one whose power existed only to command others.
Maybe… what he’d truly needed was someone who could accept him even if he let go of all that—his relationships, his powers.
‘It’s already too late.’
Even now that he’d realized it, there was nothing left to say that would change a thing.
“I’m sorry, Han-gyeom.”
He had thought he was trying to save Han-gyeom, thought he was acting for his sake. But now he realized—it had all been for himself. That he had used Han-gyeom to fill the emptiness inside him.
And with that realization came an overwhelming wave of guilt.
‘I really am selfish, aren’t I?’
His mouth tasted unbearably bitter, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of ash.
Woo-chan said nothing more as he descended from the platform alongside the man. He planned to release the teammates still caught in Seo Won’s ability and return with them to another hideout.
Seo Won’s sharp eyes followed Woo-chan’s retreating back.
Just as Seo Won was about to speak—
“Kang Woo-chan, wait.”
It was Han-gyeom who called out to him first, even before Seo Won could.
