# Chapter 31
Someone must have been tangled up with the researchers, rolling and tumbling, because the sound of objects crashing to the floor echoed loudly all at once.
BANG! Yeo Dowoon’s lips curled into a smirk at the sight of a man kicking open the laboratory door.
“Wow, Captain…”
He had known this would happen.
The pain that had been gnawing at his hands and feet suddenly vanished—as expected, it seemed Kwon Jeonghoo’s psychic manipulation had taken effect on him.
“You really can’t tell work from personal business, can you?”
Despite Yeo Dowoon’s sharp rebuke, Kwon Jeonghoo stood frozen in place, silent for a long while. Dowoon wondered if he was unusually shocked, so he called out again, “Captain?”—only for Jeonghoo to abruptly cover his own mouth. Dowoon caught sight of the blood trickling between his fingers and snapped furiously:
“You can’t even handle it—!”
“…Let’s go.”
Spit. Kwon Jeonghoo spat out a wad of saliva, half of it blood, onto the laboratory floor, then wiped his lips irritably. Through the gap in the door, Dowoon could see the researchers who had been blocking Jeonghoo’s path—now writhing under the effects of his psychic manipulation. Dowoon rattled the restraints binding him and said:
“How am I supposed to break these things and escape? They’re made to hold Espers.”
Jeonghoo replied dismissively:
“Who told you to break them?”
Clank. Dowoon stared at his suddenly freed limbs in bewilderment. Only after stepping outside the lab did he realize Jeonghoo had used the researchers to release his restraints. The researcher who had injected him with a needle was now clutching a trash can, retching violently—clearly overwhelmed by the unfamiliar psychic assault.
Freedom was sweet, but the situation was so unexpected that Dowoon couldn’t help but ask skeptically:
“Didn’t you teach me not to do things I can’t handle the consequences for?”
“I did.”
The indifferent response left Dowoon dumbfounded. He pressed further:
“So this is something you can handle—”
But before he could finish, Kwon Jeonghoo yanked Dowoon’s arm toward him. The sudden movement sent a sharp, lingering pain shooting through his limb—fresh from where the needle had been torn out. Jeonghoo rolled up the sleeve of Dowoon’s prison-like lab coat, examining the puncture wound in his forearm, and said:
“Your berserk risk was normal, and Cha Haseong agreed to the cooperation request.”
Dowoon had never heard of this before. Before he could demand an explanation, Jeonghoo cupped his face gently with both hands and muttered:
“It’s obvious you were locked up in this damn place just so they could try to kill you…”
“…”
“If I just stood by and watched, I wouldn’t be your superior, Yeo Dowoon.”
The last words were forced out, as if barely suppressing a surge of emotion. Silence stretched between them, taut as a wire about to snap.
Was that why? Dowoon found himself recalling a voice he shouldn’t have—one he instinctively knew.
“…Fuck, hyung.”
<…Leave it.>
A stifling heat pressed down on his chest, as if the air itself had turned thick and suffocating.
<Please… just leave my hands alone…>
“Do you remember me touching your memories?”
“…”
“You do.”
Though the voice was muffled, as if drowned in static, Dowoon couldn’t shake the chilling realization that clung to him like a thread.
“Give it back.”
His palms grew clammy, his breath shallow, his jaw clenched. He knew he must look pathetic, but he couldn’t control himself. He grabbed Jeonghoo desperately, and the weight of his grip made Jeonghoo pull him close, almost crushing him against his waist. Jeonghoo studied him, as if checking for signs of berserking, and explained calmly:
“It’s the drugs.”
“…”
“They pumped you full of stuff to raise your berserk risk, then tried to force you into excitement to modify your contract.”
Dowoon knew he wasn’t stupid enough to believe Jeonghoo was making excuses. But he also knew Jeonghoo hadn’t given him a straight answer. He shoved Jeonghoo away, turning his back with a cold expression—
“…I’m sorry, Dowoon-ah.”
Dry lips pressed against his, as if Jeonghoo had found an oasis in a desert. Forgetting they were in the middle of a base, Jeonghoo wrapped his arms around Dowoon’s waist, refusing to let him escape, and forced his tongue between his lips.
“Ngh, ugh—!”
Thud! Dowoon’s back hit the concrete wall. The kiss was nothing like the gentle ones Cha Haseong had given him—this was violent, aggressive. Wet, obscene sounds filled the air, shameless and lewd.
Smack. Suck.
Dowoon gasped for breath as Jeonghoo’s tongue invaded his mouth. When he started to choke, Jeonghoo shifted, trailing his lips down to Dowoon’s throat, licking slowly.
“Ahh, hyung, wait—!”
His fingers dug into Jeonghoo’s back, clawing at his dress shirt. Saliva dripped down his chin, unswallowed. Rough fingers pried Dowoon’s mouth open again, forcing his tongue inside. Only when Dowoon twisted his head away with a desperate “Hah!” did Jeonghoo finally pull back.
“Ugh… you pervert…”
“I know.”
Jeonghoo pressed his lips to the corner of Dowoon’s blurred, teary eyes, unfazed by the insult.
“I’ve always been like this.”
Dowoon’s body sagged against him, overwhelmed by the psychic resonance. And just like that, Jeonghoo erased his memories for the second time.
***
The cold sweat must have been the reason his shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin, sticky and suffocating. Dowoon jolted awake, gasping like a marathon runner at the finish line.
“Hah, hah.”
His ragged breaths filled the darkened room. He shoved the blanket off and sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
“What the hell was that dream…”
He didn’t remember the details, but he knew it had been disgusting—so revolting he didn’t even want to recall it. All that lingered was the memory of skin melting like lava, grotesque and horrifying. His head throbbed as if he’d swallowed a dozen ice cubes whole.
Dowoon wasn’t used to headaches—unless it was the kind of pain that made him feel like his limbs were being sawed off. He dragged himself to the kitchen, hoping a drink might dull the ache.
But then—
Sizzle… Crackle…
A sound he never expected to hear in his own home seeped into his half-awake consciousness.
“Uh…?”
He yanked his shirt off over his head and stumbled out of his room—only to freeze. The scene before him was so surreal, his expression slackened into something foolish.
What the hell is going on?
Dowoon’s eyes darted around the kitchen. He stopped undressing mid-motion, staring at the back of someone standing there. The shoulders were broad, making the red apron strings look unusually thin. The rich aroma of cooking food assaulted his senses, and when the person turned—holding a whisk—Dowoon’s vision blurred.
“You slept in late.”
Only then did Dowoon’s scattered mind snap back into place at the sound of that voice.
But he couldn’t ask the question burning in his mind: Why the hell are you in my house, in my kitchen, cooking in an apron?
…I’m screwed.
He could only swallow bitterly, thinking of the living room—where Cha Haseong’s rejected gifts were displayed like museum pieces. The grand piano Haseong had returned sat in the middle of the monochrome space, and the bare walls were lined with the paintings he’d refused.
Fuck! I’m really screwed.
Dowoon cleared his throat and pulled his shirt back on, trying to act natural.
“…Why are you here?”
“I was dragged here.”
Dowoon’s heart stopped.
Did I sleepwalk and kidnap him? Did I force Cha Haseong here against his will?
But then the man smirked lazily, and Dowoon’s heart lurched back to life. Cha Haseong checked the pans on the stove and said smoothly:
“I didn’t drag myself here.”
“…”
“Orders from above. They told me to come, so I came. That’s how it is for working people, right?”
He poured batter into one pan, then sprinkled some unidentifiable powder into another, already sizzling.
