When had Seung-hyeon started staring at him with those relentless eyes?
It seemed Seon-woo hadn’t noticed, likely because the earlier phone call had drained so much of his mental energy. Now that their eyes had met, Seon-woo felt incredibly awkward with Seung-hyeon saying nothing in return.
“Why are you looking at me like that…”
He cleared his throat and opened his mouth first. Even after a brief pause, Seung-hyeon’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. Seon-woo tried hard not to show his hesitation as he finished his sentence.
“…sir?”
An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Seung-hyeon didn’t answer. Just as Seon-woo was frowning slightly, debating whether to push again to break this subtle tension—
“You’re really good at explaining things.”
Seung-hyeon suddenly dropped a completely off-topic remark. It had no connection to Seon-woo’s question, but there was something subtly pointed about his tone, like there was a hidden jab tucked in there. It was clear Seung-hyeon wasn’t exactly in a good mood.
Seon-woo couldn’t offer a clear answer—not because he didn’t have any guesses as to what had upset Seung-hyeon, but because there were far too many possible reasons. There were too many candidates, making it impossible to narrow it down.
“I wish you’d explain a few things to me, too.”
Explain what, exactly?
Seung-hyeon had always been the type to go along with things without too much protest, which might’ve led Seon-woo to push too much without offering enough in the way of explanation.
If Seung-hyeon had asked, Seon-woo would’ve done his best to answer. But the man didn’t go any further—he didn’t clarify what needed explaining, nor did he elaborate.
Instead, he just clammed up, then spoke again after a short silence.
“I’ll head to the hospital first.”
At those words, Seon-woo forgot to even read the room. He immediately reached out to stop Seung-hyeon.
“No, there’s no need to go to the hospital.”
It wasn’t some reckless disregard for his own health. There were simply things Seung-hyeon didn’t know.
The problem wasn’t a medical issue—it was the penalty from a drop in his Gwanggong Score. Even if he did go to the hospital, they wouldn’t have any real way to treat it.
He had already said something to Gwak Sang-hwa, but there was no telling how she would respond. Seon-woo couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. He needed to buy time, and he had to be prepared in case she came up empty-handed.
But Seung-hyeon didn’t look convinced. His expression darkened, and he reached out as if to check for a fever. Just before his hand could touch Seon-woo’s forehead, he spoke.
“Director, your condition right now—”
In that instant, a thousand thoughts raced through Seon-woo’s mind.
The system had started interfering again.
If he didn’t reject Seung-hyeon’s touch, the system would absolutely lower his Gwanggong Score even further. He had already suffered through that penalty until he nearly passed out. If his score dropped again, another abnormal state was bound to kick in.
And then—who knows what he might end up doing to Seung-hyeon.
That terrifying thought made Seon-woo instinctively block the approaching hand.
Regret followed almost immediately.
He couldn’t tell which was worse—succumbing to another abnormal state and showing Seung-hyeon an ugly side again, or rejecting his touch. All he knew for sure was that Seung-hyeon’s expression had turned rigid. That, Seon-woo noticed in an instant.
He forgot everything he had been thinking just moments earlier and hurriedly opened his mouth.
“It’s not like that.”
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 3.>
So much for slapping Seung-hyeon’s hand away in a desperate effort—his score dropped the moment he spoke.
Fortunately, it seemed his score had recovered a bit while he was unconscious, because no new abnormal status kicked in right away.
Still, even without any penalty notifications, his head suddenly spun.
Was this a lingering side effect?
Seon-woo clutched at his throbbing head and clamped his mouth shut. Seung-hyeon stood silently, watching his tense expression. His face could only be described as cold—icy, even—but somehow, it didn’t quite seem like he was angry. Not exactly.
“I…”
Seon-woo tried again to speak. His stomach churned, and the next words just wouldn’t come out.
The thought that the system was behind this too sent a fresh wave of fury washing over him.
Even after being pushed away once, Seung-hyeon reached out again.
This time, Seon-woo didn’t stop him.
If the score was going to drop anyway, he’d rather just let Seung-hyeon do what he wanted.
Seung-hyeon’s hand moved gently, not to his forehead, but to his lips.
The touch was soft—at odds with his chilly expression. He covered Seon-woo’s mouth with his hand, silencing him, and spoke with a face that was hard to read.
“See? And yet you still…”
Seon-woo felt his mind begin to fade again at the sound of Seung-hyeon’s low voice. He hated how helplessly his body gave in.
He had thought the system’s influence had weakened significantly—but was his current condition so bad that even this much was too much to endure?
“I really don’t understand,”
Seung-hyeon whispered. That restrained, aching voice was the last thing Seon-woo heard before he closed his eyes.
***
When he opened them again, the first thing he saw was a white ceiling.
That strange, sterile scent typical of hospitals clung to the air—it seemed Seung-hyeon had ended up taking him to one after all.
It was already the second time he’d passed out today; he had no excuse left to protest.
The large hospital room held only one bed—his. Of course it was a private room. An IV was hooked up to his arm.
Whether this would actually improve his condition, he didn’t know. But maybe, at least, it would help ease the fatigue from having been kidnapped.
He couldn’t even remember how many times he’d fainted lately.
Even back when he was living the grueling life of a salaryman with no stamina to spare, he only ever passed out metaphorically, collapsing into sleep each night—he had never literally lost consciousness like this.
And yet ever since he ended up in this sturdy Gwanggong’s body, he’d been fainting like it was a daily routine.
If anyone else heard that, they’d probably laugh.
Still lost in thought, staring blankly at the ceiling, Gwak Seon-woo suddenly snapped back to himself and quickly looked around. He had just remembered the expression on Gwak Seung-hyeon’s face right before he lost consciousness. Now that he thought about it, it was odd that Seung-hyeon wasn’t around.
Seon-woo had assumed—perhaps taken for granted—that Seung-hyeon wouldn’t have simply dropped him off at the hospital and left on his own.
Could he really have gotten that angry and abandoned Seon-woo here?
Uneasy, Seon-woo sat up. The room was spacious, and he thought maybe Seung-hyeon had just stepped into the adjoining bathroom.
Dragging the IV stand along with him, he checked every corner of the attached spaces, but there was no sign of Seung-hyeon.
Letting out a sigh tinged with regret, Seon-woo stepped back out of the bathroom. His thoughts drifted back to what might’ve upset Seung-hyeon. Had he disappeared with only a single text and gotten himself kidnapped? Was it because he greeted him in that disheveled state? Or because he’d rejected his words, coldly slapped away the hand he offered?
Now that he thought about it, there was more than one reason for Seung-hyeon to be angry. No wonder Seon-woo felt subdued just thinking about it.
He was on his way back to the hospital bed when he suddenly froze, eyes widening.
Seo Eun-jae was sitting silently in the chair beside his bed, staring right at him.
Had he been so focused on Seung-hyeon’s presence—or lack thereof—that he didn’t even notice anyone entering? Even so, that was seriously surprising. If Eun-jae had deliberately suppressed his presence like a shadow to sneak in unnoticed, Seon-woo had to admit the guy had talent.
Caught off guard, Seon-woo instinctively took a step back.
Still seated with his head lowered, Eun-jae spoke in a subdued tone.
“Lie down.”
The fact that he was speaking—coherently—meant this probably wasn’t a hallucination. Trying to steady his startled heart, Seon-woo finally managed to ask,
“How did you get in here?”
And the moment he said it, he realized how strange it was.
Muttering almost to himself, he added,
“They wouldn’t have let you in.”
Eun-jae stayed quiet.
Was he avoiding the question because it was something incriminating, or was he just too emotionally drained to speak? It was hard to tell.
At first, Seon-woo was just bewildered—but once he got a grip on the situation, annoyance began to bubble up.
He didn’t have the energy to deal with Seo Eun-jae right now. More than that, he needed to talk to Gwak Seung-hyeon—not him. He raised the hand without the IV and ran it roughly through his hair, trying to calm himself.
Eun-jae had lifted his head at some point and was silently observing him.
Seon-woo abruptly turned and shot him a sharp glare. Half on impulse, he voiced the one question that was burning in him.
“Where is Gwak Seung-hyeon?”
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 2.>
To think, just saying his name caused another drop—if nothing else, it was impressive in its own way.
Still, Eun-jae said nothing.
Seon-woo turned his gaze away from those quiet eyes. He didn’t look away. Perhaps sensing the silent pressure in Seon-woo’s gaze, Eun-jae finally opened his mouth after a long pause.
“He stepped out for a bit.”
A short but uneasy silence followed.
Still staring expressionlessly at Seon-woo, Eun-jae slowly added,
“Probably something to do with the Nam Jeong-dong situation.”
Ah, right—that was still unresolved.
Seon-woo cursed himself for collapsing in the middle of such a critical moment. A wave of urgency gripped him. Don’t tell me… Seung-hyeon went to confront Gwak Sang-hwa or Nam Jeong-dong alone. But showing agitation in front of Eun-jae would do no good, so Seon-woo kept his tone composed as he asked,
“Does Team Leader Gwak Seung-hyeon know you’re here, Mr. Seo?”
<Your Gwanggong Score has decreased by 2.>
The notification rang in his head like a sound effect, but he ignored it with practiced ease.
He’d asked because he doubted Seung-hyeon would’ve let Seo Eun-jae in if he’d known. And even if not Seung-hyeon, someone—anyone—should’ve been guarding the door to stop him. Was it that Gwanggong’s subordinates were just that careless, or was Eun-jae still benefiting from some kind of main character correction? It was frustrating not to know.
Meanwhile, Eun-jae remained completely calm.
“Do I need the team leader’s permission just to come see you, Director?”
Not technically wrong. But it was clear now—Seon-woo wasn’t going to get through to this man. For a brief moment, he considered calling someone to kick him out. But instead, with a sense of resignation, he sighed and spoke.
“Fine. Let’s hear it, then. Why’d you come?”
Of course, he didn’t forget to lace it with sarcasm.
“Though I can’t imagine there’s anything left to say.”
He walked over and sat on the bed. After making such a show of not budging until he got to talk, Seo Eun-jae now looked oddly hesitant once given the floor. He murmured with a faint, bitter smile on his otherwise emotionless face.
“Who knows. I don’t even really… know why I came.”
Seon-woo bit back the urge to snap at him. As frustrating as it was, he could understand—at least a little—Eun-jae’s confusion and inner turmoil.
“I just wanted to confirm something. Anything…”
While Seon-woo fell silent, Eun-jae continued with a voice that sounded utterly drained.
A small sigh slipped out from Seon-woo’s lips.
“How many times do you have to ‘confirm’ something before you’re finally convinced?”
Wasn’t this all just a pointless war of attrition, leaving them both exhausted? Just as that thought crossed his mind and he lifted his head, Seon-woo suddenly furrowed his brow.
Seo Eun-jae had leaned in—his face now uncomfortably close. Then, like a mannequin with a stiff expression, Eun-jae opened his mouth and spoke.
