Lately, because Ryu Soh-an had been acting alone so often, his friends began to question what he was up to. He brushed it off, saying the Center was keeping him busy, but he knew if he wasn’t careful, someone might start following him.
“Take care on your way.”
“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After saying goodbye to Hayan, Soh-an left the mansion. When he had first visited, the garden had been barren, but now, even though it wasn’t yet the season for flowers and the air still lacked brightness, unfamiliar plants had taken root here and there.
Some of them, he’d planted together with Nabin. His steps slowed as memories surfaced: Nabin’s small hands gripping a trowel, digging with all his strength. Soh-an’s lips twisted with quiet sorrow.
Nabin’s image blurred into the face of the one he was about to meet. Just thinking of that person left his chest unbearably heavy. If God were standing before him, he would’ve cursed Him for letting things come to this.
Almost as if mocking him, his phone vibrated. The screen lit up with the words My Brother. Closing his eyes, Soh-an tried hard to calm the turmoil inside.
“Hey, Somin.”
Thankfully, his voice came out warm and gentle, as usual.
—Hyung, why aren’t you here yet?
“I just wrapped up. Did you already arrive?”
No matter how conflicted his heart was, what haunted him hadn’t happened in this world yet. And Ryu Somin… Somin was more precious to him than life itself.
His brother’s voice was bubbling with excitement. For Somin, today was special—after so long of barely seeing his brother, they finally had a day to themselves.
—Yeah. Hurry up.
“I’m on my way. I won’t take long. Don’t just wait outside—go sit in a café nearby, okay?”
—Got it.
Even after the call ended, Soh-an kept staring at the black screen, his reflection staring back. A face weighed down with enough grief to carry the world.
***
“Hyung, over here!”
Somin stood with a bright smile, waving. Walking over, Soh-an forced his stiff lips into something resembling warmth. Ever since glimpsing Nabin’s memories, he had to consciously manage his expressions around his brother.
Before, smiles had come naturally the moment he saw him. But after seeing what he should never have seen, another version of Somin—different, darker—kept overlapping the innocent boy standing before him.
In those memories, his appearance hadn’t changed much. The only difference was that the baby fat had melted away, leaving his jawline sharper.
Anyone else would never be able to tell the difference between the Somin waving now and the Somin inside Nabin’s recollections. That’s how pure his smile still looked.
But Soh-an saw it. In those memories, the eyes that watched Nabin weren’t innocent at all—they brimmed with jealousy and malice.
Every time he recalled that, a chill ran down his spine. This was his brother, yes—but the disconnect between the Somin he knew and the one he had glimpsed left a scar in his mind.
“What are you thinking about?”
“…Huh?”
These days, he often found himself staring at Somin absentmindedly—stopping in his tracks, standing in the middle of the road, eyes fixed on his brother in silence. Strange enough that Somin was bound to notice.
“Ah, sorry. I must be tired lately.”
It was the excuse he always gave. But he had underestimated Somin. Just as Soh-an knew his little brother better than anyone, Somin also knew his only brother inside and out.
“Liar. You don’t even realize it, do you? When you’re tired, the skin under your eye twitches. But it’s not twitching now.”
“…Oh.”
He hadn’t known that. Reflexively, he touched beneath his eye. Just as Somin said, it was perfectly still.
And truthfully, he had no real reason to be exhausted. He had been postponing dispatch missions with his friends just to treat Nabin every day.
His friends fought recklessly, never caring for themselves. Whenever they went together, it was always Soh-an who ended up exhausted, worn out from shielding them. Now, unless a patient’s condition was critical, he pushed those missions aside.
Even the Center Director had agreed—Nabin’s treatment came first. Before, Soh-an had been dispatched constantly. His rare ability was in demand everywhere.
These quieter days were something he hadn’t had in years. Treating Nabin wasn’t easy, but it took less than an hour each day.
The real drain was mental: being pulled into Nabin’s memories and emotions during treatment. And after, he lingered at the mansion simply because he enjoyed being there with Nabin.
Even with that, it was less than four hours a day. But since his absence raised questions from both Somin and his friends, he fabricated schedules to cover his tracks.
Other patients also needed regular treatment. He used them as cover, mixing their visits around trips to Hayan’s mansion.
Even the Administration Office believed he was still being dispatched daily. That deception was only possible with the Center Director’s help.
Every day, he feared someone might follow him and stumble across Nabin. Today’s outing with Somin was also meant to ease suspicion.
“…Hyung, you’ve really been strange lately.”
So much for his efforts. Blood could see through all pretenses. The twin-like azure eyes staring up at him had darkened, clouded as though under storm.
The things in Nabin’s memories hadn’t happened here—not yet. Whether it was the future or another world, even if Somin had done those things there, the Somin before him was still the innocent brother he knew.
To remind himself of that, Soh-an cupped his brother’s face in both hands.
“Sorry. I’ve been acting strange, haven’t I? Making my Somin worry… I’m a failure as a brother.”
He rubbed his nose gently against Somin’s, the same way he always had since childhood whenever he wanted to apologize.
Somin would always smile then, forgiving him instantly, eyes curving into crescents. That brilliant smile pressed down against the unease in Soh-an’s heart.
“Today’s my birthday, you know. You kept me waiting. Honestly… I was about to feel hurt.”
Somin smiled at his brother’s playfulness but still voiced his frustration. Today was his birthday.
He had been so frail that doctors once said he wouldn’t live past twenty. But medical advances, treatments, and devices made from monster byproducts had steadily improved.
And with Soh-an’s manifestation as an S-rank Esper, affording those treatments was finally possible.
Somin hadn’t turned twenty yet, but the hospital was optimistic now—he could live a full life.
He had spent most of his childhood confined to hospital beds. It hadn’t been long since he could even walk around like this. His lungs had been especially weak; without purified air in a special ward, he couldn’t go anywhere crowded without an oxygen mask.
“You didn’t come here alone, did you?”
“No. Yishin-hyung brought me. He stayed with me until you came, but then the Center called him back.”
“I see.”
Somin’s recovery had only been possible because of the friends who loved him as much as Soh-an did. Before his brother manifested, the medical costs had been crushing. Without their help, Somin might never have made it to his teenage years.
They weren’t the type to look after others, but somehow they had cared for Somin as if he were their own brother. Soh-an’s gratitude toward them was natural.
Even after seeing their uglier sides in Nabin’s memories, he couldn’t sever ties. He repeated to himself: That hasn’t happened yet. Not here. Not now. And when the disgust rose inside him, he pushed it back down again and again.
“Hyung, you promised me a present. Let’s go already. I have to be back before dinner. Jigang-hyung said he’d cook everything I wanted tonight. He even promised lobster!”
Among those they lived with, Han Jigang was the best cook—and all because of Somin. Treatments sapped his strength, and he needed nutritious meals, but he was picky, barely touching most food.
Unfortunately, Soh-an was hopeless in the kitchen. Gong Min and Tae Yishin managed well enough, but Jigang, surprisingly, was the most talented.
He could already picture him bustling about the kitchen, a comically small apron stretched across his large frame, preparing a feast.
“Alright. Let’s get moving.”
Soh-an fought hard to keep Nabin’s memories from bleeding into his own. During treatment, his patients’ emotions and recollections always seeped in, vivid as his own. But usually, by the next day, they faded away.
He had trained himself to sift through them like a sieve, discarding what wasn’t his—his way of protecting himself.
