Chapter Text
The morning sun stretched across the long windows of Seungcheol’s office, golden lines cutting through the dust in the air. He didn’t bother drawing the blinds—he liked the heat on his back while he worked. His calloused fingers traced along the thick blueprint spread over the mahogany table, red ink scrawled with annotations, steel reinforcement notes, new elevator shaft designs. His pen paused near the southeast corner of the building draft. Load-bearing calculations were slightly off. He tapped the paper with the pen’s cap, jaw clenched.
He hadn’t slept well. Another night of dreaming about Jeonghan’s voice.
“—Seungcheolie, you’re still overworking, huh? You’ll grow old before me.”
That gentle, teasing tone. Always soft, like he wasn’t even trying, but could undo Seungcheol in seconds.
He sat back in the heavy leather chair, exhaling long through his nose. A few seconds passed. He blinked, shook his head, and sat forward again. Focus. Work came first. Always had.
The office was quiet except for the distant thrum of machinery downstairs. The 15-floor building, still under partial development, was nestled deep in the countryside where noise was a luxury. It was a project he designed years ago, meant to become a private training and wellness complex for elite athletes—fully self-sustaining, secluded, eco-backed. Something ambitious. Something only he could build.
But lately, nothing felt right. Markets were twitchy. The construction industry felt like it was holding its breath. And Jeonghan—
God, Jeonghan had been acting strange.
The ringtone broke his thoughts. His phone vibrated on the desk, sliding slightly.
[JEONGHAN 💭]
Seungcheol’s chest tightened. He hesitated, hand hovering. Then picked up.
“Yo.”
“Cheol.” Jeonghan’s voice was too quiet. Calm. But not normal.
Like someone trying very hard not to let you hear them panic.
Seungcheol sat straighter. “You okay?”
A soft breath on the other side. Static. Airport announcements in the distance.
“I need you to listen carefully, and not hang up.”
Cheol’s brows drew low. “…Alright.”
“There’s something going on in the States. Joshua got access to government quarantine logs. And some… experimental reports from the lab he consults with.”
“Quarantine?”
“It’s not public yet. The US is trying to contain it, but it’s not working. And Korea’s government—Cheol, they know. They’re just not saying anything. Trying to buy time.”
Seungcheol stood up slowly. A terrible coldness sank into his gut.
Jeonghan kept going. His voice steadier now, more focused. “I’m flying back in five days. I’ll bring Joshua with me. But I need you to do something for me.”
“What is it?” Cheol asked, already knowing—anything. Anything.
“Take care of Chan. Keep him away from Seoul. Away from the cities. Away from anyone who starts acting strange. I already booked his ticket. He’ll arrive at your building tomorrow night.”
Silence stretched long and stiff between them.
Seungcheol scoffed faintly. “Yah… this is one of your pranks?”
“Cheol.”
No teasing. No laughter.
Just his name, said like a final card placed face-down.
The breath caught in Seungcheol’s throat.
“I’m not joking,” Jeonghan whispered. “You’re the only one I trust.”
“…You’re scaring me, Hannie.”
“You should be scared.”
The line crackled softly. The distant airport sounds got louder—final call announcements, the clatter of luggage wheels. Jeonghan sighed, voice slightly thinner.
“Use your building. You built it away from people for a reason. You always said you wanted it to last even through an earthquake. Make it last through this.”
Seungcheol stared at the glass windows behind his desk. Snow hadn’t started yet, but the clouds today looked sick. Grey. Bloated. Off.
“I’ll do it,” he said finally. Voice quiet. Steady.
Then softer, almost inaudible:
“Just come back alive, Jeonghan.”
A pause.
“…I’ll try.”
And the line went dead.
⸻
Cheol didn’t move for five full minutes.
Didn’t breathe deeply. Didn’t sit. Didn’t blink much.
Then he grabbed his landline and buzzed the whole executive floor.
“Effective immediately, all company projects are suspended. Call every team head. Clear our schedules. No one is to speak publicly about this. I want full confidentiality.”
He hung up before anyone could ask questions.
A different phone. His private line.
He called his financial advisor. “Sell everything.”
“Sir?”
“Shares. Crypto. Liquidate everything I can access in under 48 hours. Transfer to cash and assets I can hold.”
His voice was steel.
“Now.”
He stood in the center of his empire—quiet, unfinished steel and cement rising into a clouded sky—and decided this place would not be a dream anymore.
It would be the last safe place in Korea.
____
Seungcheol called Vernon and Mingyu . His two closest men.
Not just colleagues—they were like brothers.
He raised them into the business. Mingyu was all brawn and golden-retriever energy, but quick with his hands and sharper than people gave him credit for. Vernon was quiet, steady, technical, and never questioned Cheol’s logic, only refined it.
They walked into his office with coffees in hand, grinning.
“Boss, what’s up?” Vernon asked.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Mingyu said, half-laughing. “Don’t tell me you pulled an all-nighter again.”
Cheol didn’t return the smile.
He stood behind his desk, arms crossed.
“I’m shutting the company down.”
The silence was instant.
Vernon blinked. “What?”
Mingyu frowned. “Wait—what do you mean, like… today?”
“I mean now.” Seungcheol stepped closer, voice firm. “We stop all construction. No new clients. We liquidate supplies. We prepare this building.”
“For what?”
“For long-term survival.”
___
The sky was shifting by the hour now.
At noon, the sun was pale behind thin clouds.
But by 2PM, the gray had deepened, and sharp flurries started dancing in the air. It wasn’t a full snow yet—just teasing. Thin, delicate trails that never touched the ground. The kind of weather you wouldn’t notice unless you stood very still.
Seungcheol stood outside the building, coat collar high, arms crossed, breath fogging in front of him. He hadn’t left this place all day. But now he was at the gates, watching the countryside road.
Waiting.
For a small black car.
For the boy Jeonghan trusted more than anyone in the world.
Chan.
___
The vehicle rolled to a stop slowly, tires crunching on cold gravel. The driver didn’t get out—he simply nodded once at Cheol through the window, then unlocked the back.
The door opened.
And out stepped Chan—his suitcase in one hand, his body wrapped in a soft, too-thin jacket. His face was pale. Eyes red like he hadn’t slept.
Cheol immediately stepped forward.
“Chan.”
The younger boy looked up.
And for a second, his lip trembled.
But he didn’t cry. He just nodded, small and quick, clutching the suitcase tighter.
“I’m here,” he said quietly.
Cheol didn’t know what to say.
He wasn’t good with soft things. Emotions. Comfort.
So he did what he could.
He walked forward, and took the suitcase from his hand.
“Come in,” he said gently. “It’s warm inside.”
___
Seungcheol had already cleared out an entire floor the night before—a former employee lounge with old couches and a mini kitchen. Now, it was clean, quiet, and stocked with warm blankets and space heaters.
Chan sat on one of the couches, legs tucked in, fingers curled around a cup of hot chocolate Mingyu had made.
He didn’t speak much.
He just kept glancing at the snow outside the tall, reinforced windows. The new bulletproof glass was already installed—Cheol had paid a fortune for it. But Chan didn’t know that. All he saw was sky and frost.
“You hungry?” Mingyu asked, crouching beside him. “We got pork belly downstairs.”
Chan shook his head.
“Want me to steal Cheol’s snacks for you?”
That earned the smallest flicker of a smile.
___
Seungcheol was riding up alone to the 13th floor again.
His phone in one hand, his mind somewhere far away.
He kept hearing Jeonghan’s voice in his head:
“You’re the only one I trust.”
It echoed every time the elevator chimed.
The higher he rose, the more pressure built in his chest.
This wasn’t about friendship anymore.
Not even about love.
This was about promise.
A promise he couldn’t afford to fail.
___
He stood again in front of the windows.
Snow was falling harder now.
Behind him, Vernon came in quietly. “Hyung. The team from the coast called. They’ll arrive by tomorrow morning.”
Seungcheol nodded once.
“Glass?”
“All getting replaced. Full bulletproof specs. They’re asking why though.”
“Tell them I have enemies,” he muttered. “Tell them I’m afraid for my employees.”
Vernon hesitated, then leaned against the wall.
“We really doing this, huh?”
Seungcheol didn’t answer.
He was looking out the window again.
“Jeonghan’s gonna come back into a whole new world,” Vernon said quietly.
“Not a new world,” Cheol replied.
“A safe one.”
___
They all sat together that night—on mismatched chairs in a break room.
Mingyu had cooked: grilled meat, instant rice, some soup. The air smelled like soy sauce and garlic.
Chan ate slowly, eyes tired, but his cheeks were pink again from the warmth.
Vernon cracked a dumb joke about rationing toilet paper.
Mingyu said, “I call dibs on the water tank if you all die.”
Cheol didn’t laugh.
But when Chan laughed quietly behind his chopsticks, Cheol’s gaze softened.
Just a little.