[tw: drug dealing, drug addiction, mentioned self-harm, mentioned sexual content, psychological abuse, mention of death]

☾

Usually, he would just scroll through the list of recent calls, but on that day, he found himself struggling to locate the number. He hadn't saved it in his contacts—a small act of defiance that he still clung to after all these years. The absence of a name next to the number was like the last flicker of hope, a tiny ember that one day, he wouldn't need to dial it anymore. Yet... how many years had it been? He couldn't remember. But on that night, too, he couldn't help the sigh that escaped his lips as the metallic ring of the call echoed in his ear.

The long, unbearable toot-toot of the dial tone finally ceased, replaced by a sweet, gentle voice on the other end. Wooyoung swallowed hard before whispering into the microphone.

"Hey, it's me—" He paused, hesitant. "Do you have it?"

Wooyoung was always a little taken aback whenever he heard Yunho's voice. It was always so calm, so sweet, a tone that didn't quite match the image he had of the boy or the dangerous nature of what he did for a living. That first meeting had been a surprise, too—Yunho's demeanor didn't align with the ruthless world he inhabited.

He owed Seonghwa for that connection, though. Seonghwa had always been the one to know the right people, to have the right answers when things got tough. After all, Seonghwa was a star at The Nest. Unlike Wooyoung, who kept his head down and did what he had to do, Seonghwa thrived in the spotlight. He was the kind of person who drew others in effortlessly, whether on stage or off. There was an intoxicating energy about him, a mix of charisma and raw allure that made him the club's favorite.

Despite Gege's strict set of rules for his workers, Seonghwa operated in his own orbit, bending them with a charm that no one else could replicate. Where others were forbidden from indulging in more than a single drink offered by a customer, Seonghwa could sip on champagne or take a shot or two without repercussions. Xiaolong trusted the boy so much that most of the times he looked the other way when it came to his habits—especially his love for getting high before his shows. It wasn't just a vice; it was part of his ritual, a way to elevate his performances to a level that kept the audience enthralled. And for that, he relied on Yunho.

Wooyoung couldn't count the number of times Seonghwa had pulled him out of a tight spot—and not just him. He realized that if it wasn't for Seonghwa, Yeosang wouldn't still be with them. Wooyoung hadn't been there when it happened, but he'd heard the story—Hongjoong had a big mouth, and while Seonghwa never bragged about his powerful connections or the help they brought, Hongjoong couldn't stop praising his best friend. It was Seonghwa who managed to locate Yeosang after days of futile searching—he simply dialed the right number, and an address appeared in his messages within a few hours.

Again, it was Seonghwa who introduced him to Yunho, saving Wooyoung from the necessity of venturing into the creepiest parts of the city, forced to rely on shady, dangerous characters. Yunho was a safer option, someone Wooyoung could trust. For better or worse, that connection had become one Wooyoung had grown to rely on, despite what it represented. Yunho was different. There was something about him that Wooyoung couldn't quite pin down, something that made him uneasy yet strangely comforted at the same time. Perhaps it was the dichotomy of his personality—soft-spoken and kind, yet involved in a world that was anything but.

Yunho was probably only a few years older than Wooyoung, with an appearance that was almost disarmingly gentle. His soft brown eyes held a warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold, transactional world they were both a part of. His smile was a subtle thing, rarely fully formed, but when it did appear, it had a way of putting people at ease—at least, those he cared about. Yunho dressed simply, in well-worn hoodies and jeans that helped him blend in, making him appear harmless, almost innocent. But Wooyoung knew better. Yunho could switch in an instant, from the quiet boy-next-door to someone whose gaze could freeze you in place. Wooyoung had seen that shift, had watched Yunho deal with threats or complications with a calm ruthlessness that left no room for doubt. Yet for reasons Wooyoung couldn't quite grasp, Yunho had always treated him with a strange kindness, a softness that felt out of place in their world. There was an unspoken understanding between them, one that Wooyoung couldn't fully decode but had come to rely on nonetheless.

The line crackled slightly, bringing Wooyoung back to the present. Yunho's voice cut through the static, clear and reassuring.

"I have it. Where should we meet?"

Wooyoung exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening just a bit, "The usual place," he replied, his voice steady, though his heart was anything but "I'll be there in thirty"

As he ended the call, Wooyoung stared at the phone in his hand for a moment longer, his thumb hovering over the option to save the number. But, as always, he hesitated, then locked the screen without doing it. It was better this way, or so he kept telling himself. Better to keep that last shred of distance, that last sliver of denial. But deep down, he knew the truth—he wasn't ready to let go. Not yet. The drugs weren't for him, but that didn't make the weight on his shoulders any lighter. The burden he carried was just as heavy, just as suffocating, as if he were the one who needed the escape.

With a sigh, he grabbed his jacket, the familiar weight of it settling on his shoulders as he stepped out into the night, heading toward the rendezvous point. The streets were quiet, the air thick with the promise of rain, and Wooyoung couldn't shake the hopeless desire that this meeting would finally be the last one.

The night air clung to Wooyoung as he made his way through the streets, the cold sinking deep into his bones despite the jacket wrapped tightly around him. His breath formed clouds in the chilly air, each exhale a small reminder of the weight pressing down on him. He turned down a quieter street, the lights dimming as he approached Yunho's apartment building. It was a small, unassuming building nestled between a closed bakery and a hardware store, the kind of place you'd walk past without a second thought. But Wooyoung knew it well, had been here more times than he cared to admit. The front door buzzed as he pushed it open, stepping into the narrow hallway that led to the stairs.

Yunho's apartment was on the third floor. Wooyoung climbed the steps slowly, each one feeling heavier than the last. By the time he reached the door, the tension in his chest had settled into a dull ache. He raised a hand to knock, but the door opened before his knuckles could connect.

Yunho stood in the doorway, a small smile on his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes "Wooyoung," he greeted softly, stepping aside to let him in.

Wooyoung nodded in return, slipping past him into the warmth of the apartment. It was always a jarring contrast, stepping into Yunho's place after coming in from the cold. The apartment was tidy, almost meticulously so, with everything in its place. The living room was small but cozy, with a worn but comfortable-looking couch against one wall and a low coffee table in front of it. The faint scent of something sweet lingered in the air, a stark difference from the cold, sterile smell of the city outside.

As he stepped inside, Wooyoung couldn't help but take in the surroundings—the neat stacks of books on the shelf, the clean surfaces, the soft light from a lamp in the corner. It was so... normal. So unlike the world they both operated in. The warmth of the apartment did little to ease the chill that had settled in his chest, though, the contrast only making his own situation feel more desperate. Yunho closed the door behind him, locking it with a quiet click.

"It's been a while," he said, walking over to a small cabinet and pulling out a bag. He held it out to Wooyoung, his expression neutral but with a hint of concern in his eyes, "I was starting to think you'd found someone else"

Wooyoung shook his head, taking the bag from Yunho's hand "No, just... didn't have the money," he replied, his voice steady despite the unease gnawing at him, "Last night I managed to make some"

As he said it, a shiver ran down his spine, the memory of the night before creeping into his mind. He hadn't been able to avoid Woobin any longer. The man had been insistent, and as promised, he had shown up at The Nest. Wooyoung needed the money and knew he couldn't keep running away. Fortunately, their encounter had been brief. Woobin didn't ask him to leave the club but booked a private session instead, "I don't have much time," he had stated, forcing Wooyoung to his knees as he unzipped his pants.

Wooyoung shivered at the memory of the man's hands on his head, his mind not even remotely clouded as he wished it could be. But luckily, it didn't last long. Soon enough, Woobin had cum down his throat, pushing him away and tossing a wad of cash at him. The man didn't say much, didn't hurl his usual insults, but still the encounter left Wooyoung feeling hollow and dirty, as if something vital had been drained from him. Yet, despite it all, Wooyoung had done what he had to do, used enough to that constant ache to be able to ignore it for a while—until he would be able to lock himself in the safety of a toilet, razor blade in hand, looking for a short moment of solace. He had thanked the man and picked up the scattered bills from the floor. He behaved. He always did.

He handed Yunho the money, the crisp bills feeling heavy in his hand as he passed them over. Yunho accepted them with a nod, but his gaze lingered on Wooyoung for a moment longer than usual.

"You sure this isn't for you?" Yunho asked, his tone gentle but probing. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—worry, maybe even guilt, "You don't look so good, Wooyoung. I'm just... concerned"

Wooyoung hesitated, the words catching in his throat. It would have been easy to lie, to deflect, but something in Yunho's gaze made it hard to brush him off completely. He didn't understand why everyone seemed so worried, why did they care? Did he look so pitiful to other people's eyes? He felt a wave of disgust washing over him but he decided to ignore it, just shrugging. He couldn't bring himself to share the truth, he wouldn't. Not with Yunho, not with anyone.

"It's not for me," he confirmed quietly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil inside. He didn't elaborate, didn't offer any explanation.

Yunho seemed to sense the unspoken tension, his gaze softening. "You know, if you ever need anything... more than just this... you can talk to me"

The sincerity in Yunho's voice caught Wooyoung off guard, making his heart skip a beat. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words tangled in his throat, caught in the web of confusion and fear that always seemed to surround these moments.

"I'm fine," he finally managed, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue, "Thanks, Yunho"

Yunho nodded, not pressing further, but the concern in his eyes didn't fade. "Take care of yourself, Wooyoung"

Wooyoung offered a weak smile before turning to leave, the warmth of the apartment already beginning to fade from his skin as he stepped back into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, and the the warmth of Yunho's apartment faded quickly as Wooyoung stepped back into the biting cold of the night. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, the chill seeping into his bones as he walked to the curb. The streets were mostly empty, the quiet hum of the city a distant murmur in the background. He hesitated for a moment before raising his hand to flag down a taxi, the thought of walking all the way to his destination too daunting in the freezing air.

A taxi pulled up, its tires crunching against the pavement, and Wooyoung slid into the backseat. The driver didn't say a word at first, just glanced at him in the rearview mirror. When Wooyoung gave the address, the driver's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of disapproval or maybe caution passing across his face. It was clear the driver recognized the destination—an area known for its rough edges and dangerous reputation. For a moment, Wooyoung thought the driver might refuse the fare, but after a brief hesitation, the man shrugged and started the meter.

The car started moving, and Wooyoung leaned back against the seat, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past. The ride wasn't long, but it felt endless. Each passing street brought him closer to a place he wished he could avoid, but he knew he couldn't. The keys in his pocket felt like a lead weight, dragging him down as the taxi wound its way through the darker, more run-down parts of the city. The buildings outside grew older, more decrepit, as they approached the edge of the neighborhood.

When the taxi finally stopped, Wooyoung handed the driver some cash without looking at the amount and stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. The building in front of him was a stark contrast to the clean, warm apartment he'd just left behind. It was an old, decrepit structure, the kind of place that looked like it had been forgotten by time. The paint on the walls was peeling, and the smell of mildew clung to the air. As he climbed the stairs, he could hear the creaks and groans of the worn-out wood beneath his feet. The door to the apartment was chipped and scratched, the numbers barely hanging on.

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, the smell hitting him like a wall. It was a mix of stale air, old cigarettes, and something he couldn't quite place—something that made his stomach turn. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from a small lamp in the corner that cast long, eerie shadows across the cluttered floor. The place was a mess, papers and clothes strewn everywhere, the sink in the kitchenette overflowing with dirty dishes.

Wooyoung stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The air was heavy, thick with an oppressive sense of decay. He couldn't help the wave of repulsion that washed over him, the urge to turn and run overwhelming. But he stayed, rooted to the spot by a sense of obligation he couldn't shake.

He owed her. He owed her more than he could ever repay.

A voice, faint and weak, called his name from the back room, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. It was a woman's voice, familiar yet distant, as if it belonged to someone from a different lifetime. Wooyoung swallowed hard, his hand tightening around the package in his pocket as he made his way toward the voice. The hallway was dark, the walls closing in on him as he walked, each step echoing in the silence. The door at the end was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out into the hallway.

He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, before pushing the door open. The room beyond was small, cramped, the air thick with the smell of sweat and sickness. A figure laid on the bed, barely more than a shadow in the dim light, her eyes half-open as she turned to look at him.

"Wooyoung..." the voice whispered, frail yet dripping with resentment and bitterness, "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about your poor mother" she accused, her tone sharp as she weakly pushed herself up to sit on the dirty mattress. "I wouldn't be surprised though..." she added, her voice filled with contempt, "I bet you didn't care about Kyungmin either"

Wooyoung's heart clenched at the mention of Kyungmin. The guilt was a familiar, gnawing presence, a constant reminder of his past mistakes. He had loved Kyungmin deeply—more than he ever thought possible—but it hadn't been enough. The weight of that loss was a heavy burden he could never shake off. It was his own irresponsibility and selfishness that had led to Kyungmin's death. This guilt was relentless, keeping him awake at night and haunting him like a monstrous shadow during the day. If he hadn't been so absorbed in his own struggles, perhaps Kyungmin would still be alive. The harsh reality of his actions was inescapable, and his mother's words only served to twist the knife deeper, deepening the wound he could never heal.

"I haven't forgotten," Wooyoung said quietly, his voice almost lost in the oppressive silence. He stepped further into the room, pulling the bag from his pocket, his fingers trembling as he extended it toward her.

His mother's eyes flickered with a brief, cold satisfaction as she took the bag from his hand, "You think you can just show up whenever you feel like it and fix everything?" she spat, her tone laced with bitterness, "My little diamond would have never let me down like this. He would have made sure I had everything I needed"

Wooyoung looked away, unable to bear the harsh light of her accusations. The room seemed to close in on him, the stench of neglect and despair mingling with the biting cold of his guilt. He watched as she tore open the paper, her fingers eagerly reaching inside, and retrieved another small plastic bag with vial and a needle. Her hands were unsteady, but her eyes were sharp with a desperate need.

Without a word, she prepared the injection, the needle glinting ominously in the dim light. Wooyoung's stomach turned as he watched her draw the liquid into the syringe. He turned his gaze to the corner of the room, unable to stomach the sight of the needle piercing her skin. The scene was too familiar, too painful. The barbiturates were prescribed for her anxiety at first, but her addiction had turned them into a crutch she could no longer live without. The sight of her using them so casually, so destructively, was a stark reminder of how far she had fallen.

She had always been vulnerable to these substances, but Wooyoung had realized too late that the distant looks, the constant fatigue, and the tremors that had always accompanied her since Wooyoung could remember were symptoms of her addiction. Even when she lived under the same roof as Wooyoung, these signs had been present. The image of his mother, once possibly salvageable, brought him back to his teenage years. He remembered the night she had fled vividly: the emptiness of the house, the silence that filled the space, and the chaotic mess scattered around. He recalled Kyungmin's small, frightened voice and the guilt that pressed against his heart for the first time as his father's blows took his breath away. The desperation that came with knowing their mother was gone was a memory that would never fade.

Wooyoung had thought he'd never see her again, but he was wrong. Days later, she returned, walking silently into the house, expecting to find no one there. She was accompanied by a stranger, a man who had no place in their lives, though Wooyoung had only noticed him seconds later due to the overwhelming excitement of seeing his mother. She was startled when Wooyoung appeared, calling her name and hugging her tightly. He wasn't supposed to be there; he should have been at school, like Kyungmin, but he was too bruised to be seen in public.

"You came back! You came to take us!" he had exclaimed, his voice filled with hopeful excitement. He had hoped she would rescue them from their misery, but instead, she looked at him with disdain.

"You're just a burden, Wooyoung," she had said, her voice initially cold and indifferent but softening when she saw the shock on her son's face, "I've finally found a chance for a better life. I'll be a star. This man will help me become an actress. Do you understand? I'll be famous, Wooyoung! If you come with me, I won't have time for my career. Do you understand?" Wooyoung had nodded, dazed by her words, "You and Kyungmin can fend for yourselves until I'm rich enough to take care of you. You'll manage until then, won't you? I'll come for you when the time is right. I won't leave you!"

A bundle of lies, but Wooyoung couldn't see through them at the time. His hope for salvation was too strong. Without it, he couldn't survive the world of violence and anger that enveloped him. It took years to accept that he would never see her again. Or so he thought...

A low, guttural sound from his mother brought him back to the present. She had finally injected the drug, and a shuddering moan escaped her lips as the high began to take hold. Her once-prescribed medication had become a source of escape, not relief, and Wooyoung knew she was trapped in a cycle of dependence that was slowly destroying her. He stood there, grappling with the crushing knowledge that he was enabling her slow descent into self-destruction. The guilt weighed heavily on him, a relentless burden that pressed down on his shoulders. Every moment he spent here, every drug he provided, was a tacit agreement to her self-destructive path. He knew, with an unshakable clarity, that he was contributing to her decline. Yet, despite this awareness, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

The need for her approval, for a semblance of love that had always eluded him, bound him to her in a way he couldn't fully understand. It was a desperate, almost primal urge—to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be loved by the one person who should have cared for him unconditionally. Every time she looked at him with that mixture of resentment and need, he felt a flicker of hope, however faint, that maybe this time she would show him the affection he craved. But deep down, he knew she would never truly offer the gratitude or warmth he sought.

His mother's approval was something he had chased since childhood, a fleeting dream that had always seemed just out of reach. He remembered the early days of his youth, when her rare moments of affection were like precious gems he clung to, even as they were overshadowed by her neglect and the harshness that followed. Now, as an adult, he was still chasing that elusive approval, that unreachable love. Each act of kindness, each sacrifice he made for her, was a desperate attempt to fill the void left by her absence of affection.

He was trapped in a cycle of guilt and longing, enabling her addiction while hoping, against all evidence, that somehow it would earn him the love and approval he had been denied for so long. It was a cruel paradox: the more he gave, the more he seemed to diminish in her eyes, yet he couldn't bring himself to stop. Each time he left her, he felt a profound sense of failure, a belief that he had once again fallen short of being the son she wanted, or at least the son she could acknowledge.

Standing there, he was caught in a web of his own making, unable to break free from the cycle of enabling her destruction while clinging to the hope of earning her love. It was a painful irony: the more he tried to save her, the more he became entangled in his own need for validation. He knew he was allowing her to slowly kill herself, but the echo of her love, so desperately sought, kept him bound to this destructive path, even as he faced the painful truth that it would never be enough.

As the woman sank deeper into her drug-induced stupor, he turned to leave, his heart heavy with the weight of his failures and regrets. She was already too out of it, so Wooyoung silently left another stack of bills on top of the worn-out dresser, hoping it would be enough for her to get by over the next few weeks. He sighed, ready to leave but as he moved toward the door, his mother, still partially conscious, managed to slur out one final insult, "You're just like your father," she mumbled, her words barely coherent but dripping with the same venom she had always used to control him, "A disappointment. You should have died instead of my precious little diamond"

The words cut deep, and Wooyoung felt a familiar sting of hurt. He had hoped, despite everything, that she might show some sign of appreciation or affection. But instead, her parting shot was another cruel reminder of his inadequacy, of the guilt that he had to live with. He closed the door behind him with a somber understanding: there was not a day he didn't wish he had been the one to die instead of Kyungmin. But time could not be reversed, and all that remained was the endless cycle of self-punishment that he had condemned himself to. It was the least he deserved.

He stepped out into the cold night, the door closing behind him with a finality that mirrored his sense of defeat. The street outside was empty, the darkness reflecting the void he felt inside. As he walked away, his steps were heavy, burdened by the knowledge that no matter how much he tried, he would never be able to fill the void in his mother's heart—or in his own.

The dimly lit streets of the shady district gradually gave way to the brighter, more trafficked avenues. The contrast was stark, the busier streets seeming almost foreign to him after the oppressive quiet of the dark alleys. Wooyoung raised his hand, hailing a taxi with a tired wave. The cab pulled over, and he climbed in, leaning against the window as the car pulled away. The hum of the engine and the rhythmic passing of streetlights began to lull him, his exhaustion finally catching up with him.

Just as he was about to drift off, his phone vibrated, jolting him awake. He fumbled for it, half-expecting it to be Yeosang checking in on him. But as he glanced at the screen, the name that appeared was San's. As he stared at it the memories of that night came back—the conversation at the pub, the presence of San. Wooyoung's thoughts drifted back to the boy. They'd talked until dawn, their words slipping easily between them like the smooth flow of liquor, soft and warm. It wasn't something Wooyoung had expected to happen. In fact, he'd been ready to write off the night after Woobin had shown up, his sharp words cutting into Wooyoung's already frayed mind. Yet, somehow, in the presence of a boy he barely knew, Wooyoung had felt something new. Or maybe something old, long forgotten.

Safety.

That thought alone made his stomach twist. He barely knew San, had only met him couple of times, and yet, talking to him had dulled the edges of the thoughts that usually tore him apart. Wooyoung hadn't even noticed at first, but as that night went on the aching need to cut himself, to let the sharp pain rip through him until the numbness followed, had faded into the background. It was a startling realization. For a few precious hours, he had forgotten the ugly things that usually haunted him. Woobin's sneering face outside the pub, the need to punish himself for... existing. They had all been pushed aside.

But that sense of peace was more terrifying than comforting because Wooyoung knew better than to trust it. The higher you climbed, the harder you hit the ground when you fell. And Wooyoung had fallen enough times to know that the ground was always waiting for him. He couldn't let himself believe in anything else.

San's message popped up: "Don't take me for desperate, okay maybe a little bit, but I really want to see you again" the words were light-hearted yet earnest, a stark contrast to the heaviness of Wooyoung's mood.

San had been texting him non-stop for the past two days. Wooyoung had been ignoring them, convinced that it was better for San to stay away from him. He didn't want to drag anyone else into his troubles or let them worry about him. But tonight, the temptation to reply felt overwhelming.

He started typing a response, fingers moving hesitantly over the screen. The "Wooyoung is typing..." indicator flashed, and just as he was about to hit send, another message from San appeared: "I can't believe you're actually typing! 😂 Did I break you? Or are you just playing hard to get?" The playful tone and San's infectious enthusiasm brought a genuine smile to Wooyoung's lips.

He chuckled, the sound a rare, surprising release of tension. For a brief moment, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift. Feeling a strange mix of relief and reluctance, he composed his reply.

His thumbs danced over the screen: "You're persistent, I'll give you that"

San's response was almost immediate: "Does it mean you're finally giving in? When are you free?"

Wooyoung's smile grew wider: "I never said that, don't get too excited!"

"Aww, come on! I was ready to serenade you with a pizza and bad jokes. Can't you spare me a night of your company?" the casual and upbeat tone of San's message made Wooyoung's laugh again.

He typed back: "Pizza and bad jokes, huh? I guess that could be entertaining"

San's reply came with a flurry of enthusiasm: "I promise it will be worth it, even better than me strumming my guitar. How about next Friday?"

Wooyoung hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. For a moment, the idea of seeing San and having a break from his usual torment felt tempting. But he needed to be careful. San knew about his life, he looked shocked when Wooyoung told him about his job, but he had replied without any judgment in his voice. But Wooyoung was what he was and he didn't expect that San would contact him again, so it had been a shock when San's first message had popped on Wooyoung's screen: "I'd love to see you again sometime" he couldn't believe his eyes nor stop the racing of his heart, but he didn't reply, because he knew San deserved better. He thought San would give up, but he didn't and the more San insisted, the more Wooyoung's resolve wavered. He thought about how happy he had felt that night, how light it had been, and for an instant, he wondered if it was right to be a little selfish.

"Next Friday sounds like a plan. But don't expect too much from me. I'm not exactly in a party mood" he hit send and a mixture of guilt and relief took hold of his heart.

It was just a dinner, nothing serious. He could handle it. Even if he met San, he didn't need to open up, didn't have to share all the shadows of his life. Being with San could be a chance to take a break from all of it, and he would keep the dark parts of his life away from the boy. He was good at hiding things; it wouldn't be a problem.

San's response was quick and cheerful: "Fair enough. I'll take what I can get. Can't wait to see you! 😄 Goodnight, Wooyoung"

Wooyoung's smile lingered as he read San's final message. It was a simple gesture, but it had managed to brighten his mood, if only slightly. The warmth of San's enthusiasm was a stark contrast to the cold, empty feeling that usually engulfed him. He felt a rare sense of anticipation, a brief escape from his usual gloom. Friday would come soon.

As he put his phone away and settled back into his seat, the shadows that surrounded him seemed a little less oppressive. The contrast between the dark, heavy reality he faced and the fleeting spark of happiness from San's messages was striking. For now, that brief moment of lightness was enough, he thought as he closed his eyes and let himslef drift back to sleep.

☾

A/N— Omg, only one chapter to the end of the first part, I can't believe it. I hope you are enjoying it so far. This first part was more of an introduction to San and Wooyoung's world and as you may have noticed they didn't really have a chance to be together. The next chapter will wrap everything up, then I will be on abroad for work for couple of weeks so I won't be able to post. When I come back we will start with the second part and... I'M SO EXCITED! 

Please let me know your thoughts and expectations so far, every comment is highly appreciated!