Two hours had passed since Han-gyeom entered his office.
Standing squarely in front of the door as if guarding it from anyone trying to enter, Ah-young could no longer resist the drowsiness creeping over her and let out a loud yawn.
“Huaaahm—!”
The two bodyguards who had been stationed outside the office since early on stifled their laughter as they watched her.
“Look at her jaw cracking open.”
“A fly might fly in.”
Ah-young wiped at the corners of her slightly teary eyes and pouted.
“I held it in for so long and only yawned once, and you’re really going to tease me this much?”
Even as her voice turned petulant, the two guards still seemed amused.
Thanks to them, Ah-young’s sleepiness faded. She glanced over her shoulder at the office door.
‘It’s been quite a while, but he still hasn’t come out. Did he fall asleep, maybe?’
At that moment, the two bodyguards seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“Shouldn’t we go in and check?”
“There’s no way he’s been smoking for two straight hours. He’s probably dozed off.”
Even though the mansion was comfortably warm, falling asleep in the office without a blanket could easily result in a chill. On the other hand, if he hadn’t fallen asleep and had been chain-smoking for over two hours, that was an entirely different concern.
Of course, Han-gyeom’s internal organs were always kept in pristine condition thanks to the ability Song Yeon-woo had cast on him while he was alive—as long as he didn’t suffer a seizure.
Ah-young hesitated for a moment, recalling Han-gyeom’s expression as he walked into the office alone.
‘He brought an ice apple with him, and there’s nothing around that could trigger a seizure… He should be fine.’
There wasn’t a sound coming from the office.
The door and walls were thick, and the space inside was fairly large, so unless someone deliberately raised their voice to call out, not much would be audible from outside.
‘I’ll take a quick peek later and then come back out.’
Determined to wait just a little longer—at least until the next yawn threatened to escape—Ah-young straightened her posture.
If only Ah-young had gone in at that moment, she would have seen it.
Han-gyeom, more broken than he had ever been before.
“Hk… ugh… ngh…”
Under the bright light pouring through the window, slumped against the part of the wall that the light didn’t reach, Han-gyeom sat with his back to it, a trembling sob escaping from his throat again and again. His eyes, soaked with tears, had lost all focus as they stared blankly at the laptop sitting atop his desk.
‘Why…’
Even if someone had told him the truth surrounding Song Yeon-woo, he never would have believed it. Not even if they had a report stamped with the official seals of the research facility and the Esper Association, or a recording of Yeon-woo’s own voice. He would’ve immediately turned his eyes away, convinced it was all done under coercion.
Unless it had been that video—one that captured all of Song Yeon-woo’s emotions and decisions—he would have never believed it.
— “Professor, I’ll do it. I want to. Please let me.”
— “No, it’s too dangerous. We’re going to reject it from our end.”
— “I can do it, I swear! I’m confident I won’t die.”
— “The source of all abilities is the heart. Even if regeneration is your specialty, there’s no guarantee your body will recover properly if we remove the source. Even if you survive, all your organs could begin to atrophy due to the severed ESP link.”
— “You were planning to try this eventually anyway, weren’t you? And I heard the Vice President of the Association is pressuring you hard to go through with it. If we say no, he might start interfering with the next experiment.”
— “Don’t worry, Professor. I’ll definitely survive just fine.”
Throughout his time at the research facility, Song Yeon-woo treated the researchers like parents. Not because he liked them, but because behaving that way meant fewer injuries… and less pain.
He didn’t want to hurt. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to be afraid. It was a sentiment every child in the lab shared.
But Song Yeon-woo deliberately acted the opposite. He endured pain well, didn’t cry loudly, and never showed fear toward the lab or its many instruments. Unlike the other children, who lashed out at their sole Guide, he kept a firm grip on his Guide’s mind, making experimentation easier.
Because of that, the researchers treated Song Yeon-woo with special care. Their demeanor toward him was a little less cold, a little less sharp. Sometimes they even made idle conversation. Before procedures involving pain, they would give him a brief warning about what was to come. They even allowed him more time with his Guide than they did with others.
It wasn’t kindness—it was strategy. That kind of treatment made Song Yeon-woo, the test subject, easier to manage. Even so, it was something every other subject, including Cha Han-gyeom, would have envied deeply.
The way the researcher spoke in the recorded video was likely not out of any genuine concern for Yeon-woo. More than anything, it was fear that harming the test subject would jeopardize the experiment.
And yet, it was Song Yeon-woo himself who persuaded them to go ahead with the heart extraction procedure. No one else.
‘You’re cruel… so cruel, Hyung…’
Han-gyeom had believed Yeon-woo had been forced onto the operating table without understanding what was happening. That even if he screamed and sobbed, begging them to stop, the researchers—who never batted an eye—would have just tied him down and cut out his heart.
But that wasn’t the truth.
Song Yeon-woo had smiled as he persuaded those trying to stop him. And in the end, he laid down on the surgical table of his own volition. There were no restraints anywhere, nothing to bind him in place.
And so, with a strangely serene expression, Song Yeon-woo gently closed his eyes atop the operating table.
Han-gyeom had believed that the reason Song Yeon-woo was ultimately discarded was because of the heart extraction. That his body, unable to regenerate properly after losing the core of his ability, had begun to atrophy, that it had to be because of that.
But the reality captured in the footage told a different story.
After the extraction was completed, Song Yeon-woo’s heart regenerated faster than any other organ. Perhaps because it was the nucleus of his ability, all of his ESP converged on it, accelerating its recovery at an astonishing rate. Even the researchers in the video had all expressed visible shock in that moment.
But that wasn’t what Song Yeon-woo had wanted.
The lively expression he’d worn when he lay on the operating table had been replaced by a face drained of all hope and filled with emptiness once he opened his eyes.
For hours, he didn’t move an inch. If it weren’t for the occasional blink, one could’ve mistaken the footage for a frozen screen.
With lifeless eyes, he lay there in complete silence, waiting until the automated voice announced, “All vitals have returned to normal. Preparing to initiate the next experiment.”
It was then that Song Yeon-woo shoved aside the researcher who had come in to prep him for the next round and grabbed a familiar vial of liquid with his own hand. Before anyone could stop him, he injected a lethal dose of the solution directly into his own body.
Only then did he smile.
— “Should’ve done this sooner.”
His breathless muttering, laced with madness, was clearly recorded in the video.
His body began to deteriorate almost instantly from the excessive injection of organ degeneration solution. His eyes bloodshot, his frail body forming lifeless creases and cracks in various places, his groans of agony echoed as blood poured from his mouth. His lungs were damaged, and his breathing grew so labored that every inhalation came out in jagged, painful gasps.
And yet, Song Yeon-woo smiled through it all. He laughed out loud, beaming like a child—pure and radiant.
Unlike the face twisted in despair just moments before, he looked as light and unburdened as he had the day he willingly climbed onto the operating table.
That was how Song Yeon-woo chose his own disposal.
The heart extraction was merely one episode—his final, desperate hope for death, and something he had selected on his own.
And yet, despite that, Song Yeon-woo left those words at the end of the footage:
— “Live, Han-gyeom-ah… Please.”
Begging for his own death, and yet hoping Han-gyeom would live—why?
Unable to hold back the torrent of tears any longer, Han-gyeom squeezed his eyes shut. Heavy drops fell, soaking his numb chest and the legs that had collapsed beneath him.
He had known that Song Yeon-woo had used him.
That he didn’t like him. That he didn’t love him. That it had all been driven by selfish desperation—to endure, just a little bit longer.
But even knowing that, it didn’t matter. Even if he had been nothing more than a disposable tool for Yeon-woo’s death.
Because it was still Song Yeon-woo who had helped him endure when he was on the verge of breaking, and it was only him—only Yeon-woo—who had sincerely asked him to live.
Even now, after learning the truth of Song Yeon-woo’s heart, that fact remained unchanged.
Han-gyeom recalled the day he had driven Song Yeon-woo into a berserk state with his own hands, and once more, grief-stricken tears streamed down his face.
