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It started like any other day. No warning. No omen. Just the quiet hum of morning air and the familiar weight of survival settling into the room.
Breakfast was uneventful—instant rice, overcooked eggs, Hyunsung fussing over the yolks like it still mattered, his chopsticks hovering as he adjusted them. The kids hovered at the edge of sleep, quiet and slow. Joonghyuk sat rigid, staring past the table like the world had personally offended him, his grip on his utensils unmoving even as time passed. Dokja picked at his food, unreadable, gaze lowered, the motion repetitive without progress.
Sooyoung sat cross-legged on the table, eating straight from the pan she’d stolen, one foot nudging an empty plate aside without looking.
“You’re a menace,” Heewon said.
“This is effective use of freewill,” Sooyoung replied easily, not even pausing between bites.
The system chimed.
⚙️ A new subscenario has arrived.
⸢Subscenario – ‘Absolute Transparency’ has begun.⸥
You must not speak falsely.
Omission, concealment, and emotional suppression will be bypassed automatically.
Duration: 24 hours.
…
Disclosure is now inevitable.
Silence followed. It lingered just long enough to feel deliberate, as if the room itself had paused to listen.
“So… lie detector mode?” Han Sooyoung said, her tone light, but her fingers slowed where they held the pan.
Kim Dokja studied the scenario window and said quietly, “Sounds worse than that.”
No one listened closely enough.
Heewon exhaled, shaking her head as if to dismiss it, but her hand stalled halfway through buttering toast, the knife hovering just above the surface. Something in her expression tightened before she could stop it.
“I don’t know if I trust your decisions anymore, Dokja.”
The knife slipped from her fingers, clattering against the table.
The room stilled.
“I mean—I do,” she added quickly, voice pulled thin, her hand hovering uselessly where the knife had been. “Usually. I just… don’t know when you’re telling us everything. Or when you’re using us to finish the story in your head.”
She blinked, as if the words had startled her mid-thought, her gaze dropping like she could take them back by simply not looking at him.
Sooyoung laughed—sharp, immediate. “Wow. Starting strong.”
“I didn’t mean to—” Heewon swallowed, fingers curling faintly against the edge of the table. “No. I did. I just didn’t mean to say it out loud.”
“What? Even personal thoughts aren’t off limits?” Jihye asked, her gaze flicking between them.
No one answered.
The silence didn’t stretch so much as settle—something heavier, deliberate. Locked in.
Sooyoung tilted her head at the question, considering it. Then—
“Hmm… everyone’s thinking something all the time, but we didn’t all blurt it out just now.”
She leaned back, her grin slipping back into place like she’d cracked something open. It didn’t quite reach her shoulders; there was still a trace of tension there, coiled tight.
“Let me try something.”
She turned to Joonghyuk. “You look like a depressed priest in the mornings.”
No reaction.
“Personally I think you insult people in your head.”
“He insults people to their face,” Kim Dokja Adds
“Some deserve it.” Joonghyuk parries, throwing Kim Dokja a look
A few quiet laughs slipped through, uneven, brief—enough to ease the pressure for half a second before it settled again.
Sooyoung turned to Dokja, eyes glinting, something sharper beneath the humor now.
“And you,” she said lightly, “look like you haven’t slept in a week. Which is funny, because—”
Their eyes met from across the table. Her voice caught.
The rest didn’t belong to her.
“—I check every night if you’re still breathing.”
Sooyoung froze, her smile still caught halfway across her face, the edges trembling where it hadn’t quite settled.
“I—” she started, but it kept coming.
“I check when you fall asleep. Because you get too still.” Her voice thinned, dragged forward, each word landing heavier than the last. “Sometimes I can’t tell. So I wait.”
No one moved.
“And if I don’t hear it right away… I check again.”
Her grip tightened around the pan, knuckles whitening where her fingers pressed into the metal.
“I meant to insult you,” she said, the laugh breaking wrong, catching halfway before it could form.
No one laughed.
Dokja stood.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just fast enough to feel like escape, his chair shifting back with a muted scrape as he pushed it away.
“I need air.”
He left without looking back, his steps measured but quicker than usual, like he’d already decided not to stop.
The door closed, and something in the room split cleanly in half.
No one tried to follow.
They didn’t stay either.
Chairs scraped. Excuses broke apart mid-sentence. Hyunsung stood too quickly, nearly knocking his bowl as he reached for it. Heewon disappeared without finishing her sentence. The kids moved together, hands brushing, holding for a fraction longer than usual before they slipped out.
Sooyoung stayed a second too long, the pan still in her hands, her grip not loosening.
Then she set it down harder than necessary, the sound sharper than anything else that had been said, and walked out.
The safehouse didn’t recover.
It rearranged itself around the absence of speech.
Doors closed faster, the hinges catching just a fraction louder than before. Footsteps turned before they reached corners, hesitation visible in the shift of weight before direction changed. People paused outside rooms, hands hovering near doorframes or handles, then pulled back without knocking. The quiet wasn’t calm—it was strained, stretched thin over something waiting to break, every movement slightly delayed as if everyone was listening for something they didn’t want to hear.
Joonghyuk didn’t avoid it.
He followed Dokja.
Relentless.
“Did you plan the sixth scenario from the start?”
No answer.
“Did you let me die because it made a better story?”
Silence.
“Why don’t you trust me with the truth?”
Dokja didn’t speak, his pace steady but not hurried, each turn taken without looking back.
Not because he wouldn’t—but because if he did, it wouldn’t stop.
So he kept moving, cutting through corridors, taking longer routes that doubled back on themselves, choosing narrower paths over open ones, his shoulder brushing once against a wall he didn’t bother to correct for.
Avoiding everyone.
Especially Sooyoung.
Because Joonghyuk wanted answers.
But Sooyoung might hear them.
And that was worse.
Sooyoung didn’t stop walking until the corridors narrowed and the light thinned, the noise of the safehouse fading behind her step by step. She ducked into a storage room no one used anymore, the door closing with a dull, uneven click behind her as she pressed her back against the wall, shoulders hitting harder than she intended, like it might steady something that refused to settle.
She hadn’t chosen to say it.
That was the part that stuck.
Han Sooyoung always chose.
She chose what to say, what to hide, twisting it into something easier to carry… shaping words before they ever reached her mouth. She hid behind sarcasm, behind noise, behind the easy deflection of humor that let her step away before anything could land.
Now there was no buffer.
No delay.
No control.
The worst part was knowing that wasn’t even the worst thing she could have said.
“I don’t lie,” she muttered to herself, voice hollow in the dark, the words sounding thinner the moment they left her mouth. “I narrate.”
The words didn’t hold.
She dragged a hand over her face, fingers pressing briefly at her eyes before dropping, exhaling sharply through her nose as if she could force the rest of it back down.
“I care too much,” she said instead, quieter now, her shoulders tightening around it as if bracing for something that didn’t come.
So she stayed there.
Still.
Quiet.
Afraid of what would come out next.
__
Dokja disappeared just as efficiently.
Not to make a point. Not to punish her.
To contain it.
The words had been there, waiting, pressing against the back of his teeth the second she spoke, close enough to surface if he’d let them.
I look at you when you’re not looking.
I always have.
He had stood up before they could.
Now he moved through the back corridors like a ghost, keeping distance from everyone, from anything that might force him into a conversation he couldn’t control. His steps stayed even, unhurried, but he cut corners tighter than necessary, choosing narrower paths, brushing past doorframes without slowing, as if the lack of space made it easier to keep everything contained.
Joonghyuk followed anyway.
Of course he did.
This was a scenario where no one could lie.
Joonghyuk wasn’t going to waste that.
Footsteps behind him—measured, consistent, never quite close enough to force a stop, but never far enough to ignore. Turning corners. Closing distance.
“Who are you really?”
Dokja didn’t answer, his gaze fixed ahead, the rhythm of his steps unchanged.
He couldn’t.
Because if he did, it wouldn’t stop there.
And if Sooyoung heard it—
His jaw tightened briefly, the motion small enough to miss if you weren’t looking.
He didn’t know what would be left.
They found each other anyway.
The storage room beneath the observatory was barely large enough for one person, the low ceiling pressing the air downward, stale and unmoving, forgotten things stacked into corners where no one had bothered to clear them.
Sooyoung slipped inside first, shutting the door behind her with a dull click, the sound quieter than it should have been.
Then her flashlight caught on him.
Dokja looked up from where he sat, back against the wall, one knee drawn slightly inward to make space that didn’t exist.
A beat passed.
“Seriously?” she said, the word landing sharper than she intended.
“I was here first.”
“I need it more.”
“Lying’s off today.”
"Clearly"
She let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh but didn’t, dropping down across from him anyway, her shoulder brushing lightly against the stacked clutter as she settled in. The space between them felt smaller than it should have, not because it had changed, but because neither of them moved to create any more of it.
Neither of them spoke, the silence holding differently now—less avoidance, more containment.
Then—
“This was supposed to be funny.”
Dokja exhaled softly, the sound quiet enough to miss if she hadn’t been listening for it. “Not for us.”
__
The space was too small for three people. The storage room beneath the observatory had barely been enough for one—low ceiling, stale air, broken panels jutting out at uneven angles, dust clinging to everything. Even breathing felt intrusive, like it disturbed something that preferred to remain untouched. Dokja had chosen it for that reason: no room for conversation, no room to be cornered. Sooyoung had taken the remaining space anyway, folding herself into it without asking, her shoulder settling against a stack of discarded panels she didn’t bother to move, and for a while, it worked.
Until footsteps stopped outside the door.
Not passing. Waiting.
Then Joonghyuk stepped in.
He didn’t hesitate or acknowledge how little space there was; his gaze went straight to Dokja as if the room would simply adjust around him. “I want to talk,” he said, not as a request but as a statement already decided. His eyes shifted once, briefly, to Sooyoung. “Leave.”
Sooyoung didn’t move, her weight staying where it was, one foot pressing lightly against the floor to steady herself in the cramped space.
Joonghyuk didn’t repeat himself. He simply ignored her and stepped forward, closing what little distance existed until the room itself seemed to compress around them, the air thinning between bodies that had nowhere to go. Dokja didn’t stand—there wasn’t enough room for that without forcing contact—so Joonghyuk remained standing, which made it worse.
“This is the only time I get this,” Joonghyuk said, voice even, controlled, his grip tightening just slightly at his side as he spoke. “A version of you that can’t hide behind half-truths. No omissions. No adjustments.” The scenario pressed faintly at the edges of the room, a low, constant presence that made the silence heavier. “I’ve been working alone long before you showed up. I don’t rely on variables I can’t predict. I don’t hand my life to someone I don’t understand.” His gaze didn’t leave Dokja. “And now there are others. That’s not just my life anymore.”
Silence held, dense in the confined air, no one shifting enough to break it.
“You’re unpredictable,” Joonghyuk continued, quieter now but sharper for it, each word landing with more precision than force. “You manipulate outcomes, you withhold information, you decide things before anyone else even knows there’s a decision to make. So this is the only time I can see what you actually are—when you can’t choose what to show me.” A brief pause, his hand settling more firmly at his side before he continued. “I want assurance that you can be trusted until the end.”
His hand moved.
It wasn’t fast or overtly threatening, but in a space like this it didn’t need to be—his fingers settling at the hilt of his sword, thumb brushing once against the guard, was enough to change the air completely.
Sooyoung moved at the same time, not back but forward, closing the narrow gap in a single step and placing herself between them. The motion was small but immediate, her balance shifting onto the front of her foot as her hand lifted, a dagger already in place, angled in front of Dokja without hesitation, her grip firm before the movement fully finished. Joonghyuk didn’t look at the blade first; he glanced at her instead, expression flattening, his gaze lingering just long enough to register the decision.
“Move.”
“No.” She didn’t look at him when she said it.
His gaze returned to Dokja. “This doesn’t involve you.”
“It does now.”
“Leave.”
The word came sharper this time, final in a way that carried more weight than volume. Sooyoung didn’t move, didn’t lower the dagger, didn’t shift her stance, her grip tightening a fraction as the space between them held. The refusal settled as firmly as the command.
Joonghyuk’s grip tightened at his hilt, the motion small but deliberate.
That was all it took.
Dokja moved.
There was no visible transition, no defensive adjustment or warning. One moment he was still, the next the stillness was gone—his hand already there, striking cleanly to knock Joonghyuk’s grip off the sword before it could draw, the contact sharp enough to break the motion at its start. The movement didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate; his other hand followed through at close range, catching Joonghyuk’s shoulder, fingers pressing just enough to force him half a step back. In a room this small, that was enough—the distance created was minimal, but it held, cutting off anything that might have followed.
Everything stilled.
Because Dokja hadn’t moved Sooyoung aside, hadn’t pulled her back or cleared her from the line of movement—he had gone straight for Joonghyuk.
His hand remained at Joonghyuk’s shoulder for a fraction longer than necessary, the pressure steady, unmoving, before releasing. The space opened just enough for breath, but not enough for distance. Joonghyuk’s gaze shifted—not to Dokja first, but to Sooyoung—lingering there a moment longer than it should have, then returning, slower this time, his focus tightening rather than widening.
“…You’d go that far.”
Dokja didn’t answer. He didn’t step back either, his posture unchanged, weight settled where it had landed.
Sooyoung lowered her dagger slightly, not sheathing it, just easing the immediate tension enough to breathe, her grip loosening a fraction before tightening again, her eyes flicking once toward Dokja and holding there for a beat before she looked away. Joonghyuk’s gaze followed that movement, tracking it, measuring, reframing, the shift in his stance subtle but present as something in him settled—not softened, not resolved, but fixed.
“…Then you’ve already decided.” A brief pause, his grip loosening at his side as the thought completed. “…Good.”
The word didn’t carry further. It held where it was.
He stepped back, and in a space like this, even that felt like distance, the pressure easing without disappearing. “Next time,” he said, turning toward the doorway, his gaze not returning, “don’t decide things for me.” He left without waiting for an answer, the room not expanding after his exit so much as holding what remained behind, the air slow to readjust.
Sooyoung exhaled first, sharper than she meant to, her shoulders dropping a fraction as her grip loosened on the dagger, the tension draining just enough to register. “You heard him,” she said.
Dokja’s shoulders eased slightly, the shift small but visible. “I did.”
A pause settled between them, neither of them moving to break it.
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
Neither of them moved. The space hadn’t changed, not really—but something in it held differently now, quieter, set in place without being named, and neither of them reached for it.
___
The observatory opened above them, the night stretched wide and sharp, but it wasn’t the sky that held attention—it was the industrial complex below, lit in harsh gold and white, bright enough to rival it. Light spilled unevenly across steel and smoke, flickering where it shouldn’t, turning the horizon into something restless.
Sooyoung dropped down first, leaning back against the low concrete ledge, arms braced behind her as she looked out over the lights, her weight settling through her palms as if testing the surface before committing to stillness. “You always pick dramatic places,” she said, more out of habit than complaint. Dokja joined her a moment later, lowering himself into place beside her in the same position, close enough that the space between them felt intentional but unacknowledged, his hand braced against the concrete just within reach of hers without quite touching. The concrete still held a trace of warmth from the day, and for a while neither of them spoke, the quiet no longer pressing the way it had before but settling into something that didn’t need to be filled, their breathing evening out without either of them noticing.
At the edge of their vision, the system flickered faintly, a constant presence rather than an interruption, the countdown continuing somewhere beyond what either of them bothered to track. Sooyoung shifted slightly, her hand sliding a fraction along the concrete as she exhaled, her fingers brushing grit aside without looking. “About earlier,” she said, not looking at him, her tone already leaning toward dismissal before the words fully formed. “That wasn’t—” She paused, the sentence losing shape before it could settle, her fingers flexing once against the surface. “I wasn’t trying to make it weird. It just—”
Her hand brushed against his.
It was slight, almost nothing, but it interrupted the thought before it could finish. She stilled, the rest of her words hovering unfinished, her fingers tensing for a fraction of a second as if deciding whether to pull back, and before she could, his hand moved—quiet, unhurried, shifting just enough to settle over hers as if the motion had been waiting for the contact rather than initiating it.
The contact held.
Not accidental anymore.
Sooyoung’s breath caught just slightly, her shoulders tightening before easing a fraction, the unfinished sentence dissolving without resistance. She didn’t try to recover it, her gaze remaining fixed outward, though her focus no longer followed anything below. Something in her expression shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible, the tension at the edge of her mouth softening before settling again. Her fingers didn’t move.
Neither did his.
Below them, the complex continued to burn, relentless and bright, the light reflecting unevenly across metal and smoke. Above, the sky was beginning to lighten at the edges, the first hints of dawn dulling the contrast between shadow and light, turning the horizon from sharp black into something quieter, more gradual.
The system flickered again at the edge of their vision.
Neither of them looked.
Time moved.
They didn’t.
The wind passed through once, softer now, carrying the faint chill of early morning, brushing against their sleeves, lifting a loose strand of hair before letting it fall again.
They stayed where they were, shoulders aligned, hands resting against the concrete with his covering hers, the contact steady without pressure, unchanged by the passing minutes, unbothered by the system lingering just out of focus.
And for once—
nothing demanded anything from them.
Six hours left.
More than enough.
Neither of them seemed in a hurry.
They didn’t need the system to force it anymore.