Either way, it worked in Seon Juho’s favor.
Whenever the woman pushed the Gate too far, that man would inevitably show up and lash out. Judging by that, he was either directly involved in Gate research or had built the Gate device himself. Which meant—when it came to the Gate, all Seon Juho had to do was catch that man and make him talk.
A smile tugged at his lips, hidden beneath the surface.
“No response to the drug.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“What about the wavelength?”
“No changes.”
“……”
The woman outside the capsule glared at him. Seon Juho remained expressionless, looking down at them from within. Their desperate efforts were almost pitiful.
They injected a few more substances. But still, there was no reaction—his body remained completely unaffected.
So this was what had Dr. Han all worked up over an S+-rank classification?
Watching their faces fall in quiet frustration, Seon Juho felt oddly satisfied.
As always, they continued with the experiment, knowing it would fail, dragging it out to the end. And as always, they eventually gave up and sent him back to his room, looking utterly drained.
The moment he stepped inside, the meal slot opened.
Same menu as usual—some kind of soup, a murky concoction of who-knows-what.
He wasn’t hungry, and frankly, the thought of eating made him nauseous. But he forced it down, thinking of Lee Tae-rim.
He didn’t know how much strength something like this could really give him, but if he starved, Tae-rim would be upset.
So Seon Juho slurped the soup down, remembering the soy sauce egg rice Tae-rim had made for him once.
There was no taste at all. He was genuinely curious what the hell they were putting in this stuff.
Before, he used to eat it without much thought. But now that he’d tasted real food, his body instinctively rejected this bland, unidentifiable slop.
Still, he forced it down, bite by bite—for Tae-rim.
When he got out of here, the first thing he wanted was that soy sauce egg rice.
After a quick wash at the sink, Seon Juho collapsed onto the bed.
The moment he pulled the blanket over himself and shut his eyes, the emptiness in his arms hit him.
He missed Tae-rim. Missed him so much he could barely breathe.
The days he used to fall asleep with that warm, sweet body in his arms felt like a distant dream.
Without Tae-rim, even breathing didn’t feel real.
Part of him wanted to destroy everything and run back to him right now—but Seon Juho held himself back.
Just a little more. Tae-rim was on the verge of giving in.
Each day, Tae-rim’s heart grew a little softer. And Seon Juho was slowly worming his way in, taking advantage of every opening.
With one hand buried beneath the blanket, he toyed with the power of Darkness that everyone was so desperate to witness, quietly plotting how to tear this entire facility down.
If he wanted to take out every lab in the country, he’d probably need to leave some records intact—but no matter how he thought about it, that part wouldn’t be easy.
If it were just about destruction, he could do that easily.
I wonder if Tae-rim’s asleep by now.
He recalled Tae-rim’s tired face, the signs of sleepless nights etched into his features.
It felt good, imagining Tae-rim tossing and turning, maybe even longing for him. But he didn’t want Tae-rim to suffer. Not really.
Still… just this once, he had to endure it.
He’d known exactly what he was doing when he set this all in motion.
So there was no way he’d let this chance slip away.
He needed to escape before Tae-rim’s health started to deteriorate.
Seon Juho prayed, again and again, that Tae-rim would give in before that happened.
God, he missed him. So much it was unbearable.
***
Lee Ki-uk sat motionless, staring blankly at the screen of his laptop.
On it, a man tossed and turned in bed, clearly irritated by his inability to sleep, until finally giving up and sitting upright.
Lee Tae-rim. He’d been brought in as a hostage because he was Guide to Subject K. Lee Ki-uk hadn’t opposed the retrieval—he’d found it mildly interesting himself. But he hadn’t exactly supported it either.
Because the truth was, he still wasn’t sure what kind of person Subject K really was. Now that he’d seen the outside world, Subject K would no longer be the same. There was bound to be a significant difference from when he’d been just another specimen in the lab. Like Subject D before him, he might end up rebelling.
But not everyone shared Lee Ki-uk’s cautious nature. By majority vote, they decided to bring Subject K back, and Lee Ki-uk accepted the outcome with resignation.
To be honest, researching Awakened beings had nothing to do with him. Someone else was assigned to handle the retrieval, while he remained fully immersed in his own work.
In the worst-case scenario, he’d considered using the Gate generator to wipe out humanity. But the project had originally begun with the goal of erasing Gates, and that remained the core of his research.
So Lee Ki-uk had continued working on Gate erasure.
Subject K had been retrieved safely. District 1 had apparently taken severe damage during the operation—but that, too, was none of Lee Ki-uk’s concern.
The only thing that interested him was whether Subject K truly possessed erasure-type abilities. If he did, Lee Ki-uk wanted to scan the wavelength and incorporate the data into his own research. He had little interest in the Awakened themselves.
But then Dr. Kwak began recklessly opening Gates in the base because of Subject K. And as the person in charge of managing those Gates, Lee Ki-uk couldn’t afford to ignore it any longer.
This base was his fortress—his life’s work, built brick by brick for his own purposes. And now, that carefully constructed fortress was at risk of exposure because of one reckless woman. He couldn’t help but be furious.
He visited Dr. Kwak multiple times to warn her. But even though she knew she was being unreasonable, she stubbornly continued using Subject K to clear Gates. Her stubbornness had curdled into sheer arrogance.
Because of her, Lee Ki-uk ended up visiting her lab frequently—and by chance, he overheard the researchers complaining. That the Guide seemed crazy. That he was just a hostage acting like he owned the place. They grumbled that he was demanding too much.
Maybe that’s what sparked his curiosity. Dr. Han had also said the Guide was “special.”
So, on a whim, he pulled up the camera feed from the room where the Guide was being held. He told himself he’d just take a quick look, then turn it off.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
On the screen sat a woman from his memories. Perched quietly on the edge of the bed, lost in thought, staring into empty space.
Lee Ki-uk immediately pulled up Lee Tae-rim’s personal information. And his hunch was right—Lee Tae-rim was the son of his wife’s younger sister. In other words, his nephew.
And yet, astonishingly, the boy looked exactly like his wife. His wife and her sister had never resembled each other, so the likeness was nothing short of uncanny.
He wasn’t even a girl—he was a boy. And yet, his face carried her features so precisely, it was unsettling. Especially when he smiled—the resemblance was so strong, it gave Lee Ki-uk chills.
And so, without even realizing it, he began watching Lee Tae-rim. Just a little. Here and there.
He granted Tae-rim’s every request. Moved him to a room with a shower. Changed his monotonous diet of daily sandwiches to something better.
Dr. Kwak must’ve realized something was off, but whether it was because of the ongoing Gate experiments or something else, she didn’t interfere.
Thanks to that, Lee Ki-uk could watch Tae-rim without interruption. Seeing him alive, breathing, moving—it was strange. Fascinating, even.
Despite eating all his meals without fail, Tae-rim continued to lose weight. Maybe it was the lack of sleep?
Lee Ki-uk had considered turning off the lights in the room at night to help him rest, but he couldn’t. That wasn’t allowed. For some reason, it left him with a vague sense of regret.
All day, Lee Tae-rim either sat in a daze or tried desperately to sleep. The only time he ever smiled was when he met Subject K.
It was obvious—Tae-rim liked him. The way he smiled at Subject K was exactly how his wife used to smile at him.
So whenever Subject K was scheduled for a Guiding session, Lee Ki-uk always peeked into the room. Just to see that smile. That radiant, blooming smile like a flower in full bloom.
But after more than two weeks had passed, even when Tae-rim met Subject K, he no longer smiled the same way. Now his smiles carried sadness—pain. That once-vivid smile had vanished without a trace.
Lee Ki-uk didn’t know what he was feeling.
He didn’t particularly want to rescue Tae-rim from that place. Nor did he pity him.
He just… wanted to see that smile again. That smile that looked so much like hers. Just once more. Just one more time.
He turned his gaze to the framed photo on his desk—the woman smiling back at him from behind the glass.
Frozen in that moment forever, she looked as happy as ever. And as always, Lee Ki-uk smiled softly at his beautiful wife.
***
Seon Juho acted like nothing had happened.
Lee Tae-rim felt relieved—but also, just a little let down.
His heart had been racing just as hard, so how could Seon Juho brush it off so easily, like it was nothing?
Still, if Seon Juho had been flustered, Tae-rim probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it. He might’ve screamed like a madman.
Maybe the kiss had grounded him for a while—Seon Juho did seem a bit more collected afterward.
But that stability didn’t last. He was starting to unravel again.
The dark circles under his eyes had deepened. He clearly still wasn’t sleeping.
Espers were human too. When their basic needs weren’t met, things inevitably started to break down.
Just like they were for Tae-rim now.
