Yet somehow, overlapping with the image of his uncle who had silently kept his mouth shut without apologizing to the very end, another image appeared. Several years ago, at his father’s funeral, his uncle sat in a corner of the mourning hall, unmoving. For a long time, he stared at the floor, lost in thought, occasionally glancing at his father’s memorial photo as if remembering something. Until the hearse left, his uncle remained seated just like that.

His uncle never apologized. He lost the chance to apologize forever. Perhaps, Tae-ui thought, that was the punishment that smart but clumsy man had imposed on himself.

“Uncle... If you don’t apologize, I will remember it forever and keep bringing it up every time I see you...”

Tae-ui murmured with his eyes closed. He lacked the strength to get angry or to burst out in rage. This unidentifiable, unpleasant feeling.

He groaned, wondering when the pounding headache in his head would finally disappear, pulling the blanket over himself.

Then, from the opposite side of the hallway, footsteps approached, and the door suddenly swung open. Without knocking, the person who barged in was met with Tae-ui glaring, having pulled the blanket only down to just below his nose.

“Tae-ui hyung.”

But as soon as he saw who had entered, Tae-ui’s harsh gaze softened. Slowly sitting up in bed, he asked the unexpected visitor with curiosity,

“Shin Lu... What brings you here?”

Standing in front of the door as if blocking the way, Shin Lu called Tae-ui’s name once, then fell silent. His face was pale and frozen.

“Shin...”

Before Tae-ui could say his name again, Shin Lu strode toward the bed, grabbed Tae-ui’s collar, and pulled him sharply. Tae-ui’s expression tightened slightly.

“Shin Lu... What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Shin Lu’s face was less than a hand’s breadth away. His blue lips trembled as if wanting to say something, twitching and then stopping.

Tae-ui’s face hardened. He had never seen Shin Lu like this before. More than Shin Lu grabbing his collar, it was the strange expression that felt alien—as if he was a stranger. No... this was a stranger.

“...No.”

Shin Lu whispered something so faint Tae-ui couldn’t catch it. He frowned slightly.

Shin Lu’s pale face was expressionless, stiff like a wax doll, devoid of life or feeling. Tae-ui recognized this face. It was a dangerous one.

“Shin Lu, let go.”

Tae-ui placed his hand gently but firmly over Shin Lu’s hand on his collar. But Shin Lu ignored it. Tae-ui’s voice seemed not to reach him. He didn’t even notice Tae-ui holding his hand.

“Hyung... Did you... sleep with Riegrow... Ilay Riegrow, that man...?”

A faint voice came from his pale lips. Thin and quiet as the wind, but it struck Tae-ui’s eardrums clearly.

Where had he heard such a thing, and why now—of all times, when he looked so exhausted and close to breaking down?

At the moment he registered Shin Lu’s words, Tae-ui’s face stiffened. Suddenly, a lump of rage he had forgotten blocked his chest. The unpleasant memory resurfaced. It wasn’t because he had physically been with Ilay Riegrow. It was that man’s ruthless nature, cruel hands, indifferent eyes—all mixed together to create an unbearable disgust that twisted Tae-ui’s heart.

Seeing Tae-ui’s expression harden, Shin Lu lost his words. His unblinking gaze slowly contorted.

“...Why did you do it?”

“Shin Lu.”

“No... That man is no good. Why didn’t you tell me? I told you to look only at me. I said I wanted you to be only with me!”

“Shin Lu!”

Tae-ui’s hand clenched harder on Shin Lu’s collar. He suddenly thought that maybe Shin Lu was trying to choke him. The thought chilled his chest instantly. Shin Lu was indeed trying to choke Tae-ui. His eyes were half-crazed.

His eyes were bloodshot, wet and glistening, silently screaming in hatred at Tae-ui.

“Shin Lu, snap out of it! Shin Lu!”

Tae-ui shouted, but it was useless. It seemed he couldn’t hear. Or perhaps he pretended not to.

The grip was terrifyingly strong. Tae-ui tried with all his strength to pry the hand off his collar, but it would not let go.

“I thought it was a lie. I thought it couldn’t be true. I didn’t understand why you slept with that man, why those disgusting rumors were circulating. You like me, right? I like you too. But if you didn’t do that to me, why did you do it to him? It doesn’t make sense!”

Shin Lu’s voice was more growl than words, teeth clenched. Suddenly, the hand on Tae-ui’s collar pushed him, and he fell onto the bed behind him. Shin Lu fell on top of him, still holding tight.

“...!”

Tae-ui swallowed a groan. His legs cracked, the old injury flaring like fire below the knees.

Before Tae-ui could cry out, Shin Lu was straddling him.

“Hyung, don’t you like me? You said you liked me. Then why him? That man is no good. I told you I hate him!”

Shin Lu tugged on Tae-ui’s collar. With a ripping sound, the front of his shirt tore off easily. The cold air touched his bare skin.

Seeing Tae-ui exposed, Shin Lu pounced like a wild beast on prey, biting his collarbone as if to devour him.

“Shin Lu... Shin Lu, calm down. Step back a moment.”

Tae-ui grabbed Shin Lu’s head and spoke, but Shin Lu didn’t answer. As if trying to mark his territory, he bit Tae-ui’s exposed body recklessly.

Tae-ui gritted his teeth. If he didn’t, sighs, curses, or tears might break out from that mouth. His head throbbed painfully. The strange man on top was very heavy. His chest felt blocked, making it hard to breathe. It felt as if the whole world was cruelly tormenting him.

“Shin Lu... don’t.”

Tae-ui whispered weakly, barely audible. He honestly wanted to cry. To wail like a child, give up everything, and never come out from hiding.

But he couldn’t, because this man, though strange, was Shin Lu.

Tae-ui knew he should be sorry to Shin Lu. His body had betrayed the one he loved. He had repeatedly been with others and felt pleasure. And now, his mind too had abandoned Shin Lu. Tae-ui realized at that moment that though he still loved and cherished Shin Lu, he could not accept everything about him. Not with the heart Shin Lu hoped for.

The heart was faded, the emotions dimmed.

Tae-ui called Shin Lu’s name quietly, like a sigh. But Shin Lu, the once lovely youth now strange and distant, bit Tae-ui’s shoulder and spoke through clenched teeth.

“That man is no good. I hate that man more than anyone. He deceived me and mocked me. To watch that man take you... I can’t allow it. Maybe with another guy it would be different, but with him, absolutely not...!”

The moment those words reached Tae-ui’s ears, his heart froze. His head chilled like cold water poured over it.

He had felt this before, long ago, faint and small, but the color of that feeling was the same. When Shin Lu had bargained with Ilay for Tae-ui’s life—not for Tae-ui’s sake, but for his own—trying to intervene in Tae-ui’s life.

“...!!”

He heard a short, single cry from Shin Lu.

In that brief moment, Tae-ui forgot what he was thinking.

When he came to his senses—not fully aware, white light flashing in his head, his heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears—he was half-sitting on the bed, looking down at Shin Lu, who was sprawled on the floor.

He must have hit Shin Lu’s head unintentionally. Shin Lu struggled to steady his shaking gaze, clutching his head with all his might. He seemed utterly shocked that Tae-ui had hit him.

His unstable eyes looked at Tae-ui as if in disbelief.

“Did I look that pathetic?”

For the first time, Tae-ui realized how dry his voice could be. A brittle, scratchy tone escaped from his pale lips. He suddenly laughed—but the bitter smile vanished before it fully formed.

“What the hell is going on... Have they all looked down on me like this? Do I even have my own will? Can they swing me around as they please and treat me however they want, and I won’t have feelings? No anger, no wounds...? I’m not that strong.”

His voice weakened. The last words almost dissolved inside his mouth. Yet strangely, though his strength waned, his anger did not subside. The quiet withering body burned the surrounding emotions slowly like a glowing ember.

“...I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to stay here. I have to leave.”

Tae-ui muttered bitterly to himself.

Shin Lu stared at him, frozen, his pale face crumbling as if a terribly fearful nightmare had come true. His lips trembled, then whispered faintly,

“You can’t leave... You can’t go. You haven’t even gotten permission from the Director... So you can’t leave. You can’t just quit being a member of UNHRDO on your own.”

The voice clung like a child’s plea, barely saying anything else. Tae-ui smiled bitterly.

Director. Permission. UNHRDO. What did any of that matter? His heart had already left this place; what could hold him here?

“Is that so...? Then I’ll just tell the Director myself. Then I can leave immediately.”

“Tae-ui hyung!”

Shin Lu’s voice screamed like a shout. Tae-ui ignored it and stormed out of his room without looking back.

 

The anger filling Tae-ui to the very top of his head was not solely Shin Lu’s fault. People rarely explode with anger from just one fact. It is often a small trigger that sets off a long-accumulated buildup. Most of the few times Tae-ui had exploded in his life were such cases.

When things he had long suppressed stacked up until he could no longer hold them back, even a trivial or ridiculous event would suddenly cause that anger to burst out. Later, it often seemed absurd. Ignorant people would ask why one would get angry over such a petty matter. The thing that opened the floodgates of rage was truly a small matter.

Perhaps even now it was like that. In truth, Tae-ui was not angry enough at Shin Lu himself to explode like this. That anger was not built by Shin Lu. Nor was it only because of Ilay, or other colleagues, or his uncle. Yet at the same time, it was all their fault.

Impatient to wait for the elevator, Tae-ui strode up the stairs, gritting his teeth as a headache that had seemed to ease with medicine returned fiercely. The leg that had tangled when he fell on the bed earlier ached painfully with each step, as if he had twisted his ankle.

At this point, it was beyond anger—it was laughable.

What is this? Nothing is going right. His mind was a mess, his body a wreck. He couldn’t even pull himself together. Nor was there anyone to do it for him. Tae-ui was abandoned here alone.

“Ha. Tae-ui. What is this... venting anger, unable to steady yourself. You’re far from being human.”

But no matter how many days you try to be human and hold back, if you pile it up, eventually it has to explode. The key is not to let it build up in the first place—but that’s not something you can control.

Limping his aching ankle, Tae-ui climbed nonstop to the ground floor. He paused to sigh. Though a few floors hardly made him out of breath, he took several deep breaths. Suddenly, he murmured, “Ah, I see.”

Right. Now I know. Now I know the name of this feeling.

Unpleasant and boiling with rage, yet powerless to appeal anywhere. Wanting to scream or shout but lacking the strength. Wanting to hide somewhere alone and never come out.

Tae-ui was exhausted.

Truly, utterly worn out.

If anyone blamed him later for whining over such trivial matters, once he regained his strength he might grab that bastard’s collar and give him a good beating.

Physical fatigue was bearable, but mental exhaustion was hard to endure. Now, exhausted, there was no brother silently waiting at home to greet him, sitting across from him and drinking the unshared drinks.

No place to lean on, no one to confide in, no one reliable sitting by his side.

After a long breath, Tae-ui wiped dry tears with the back of his hand and stepped forward. He no longer cared. No matter what his uncle said, no matter who became the next director, no matter who transferred to which branch, it was none of his business anymore.

People’s lives and work flow toward what they must be. If it was meant to be, it would happen regardless of help or hindrance. If it wasn’t, no help would make it so.

“If it’s my uncle, even if the person he serves gets demoted somewhere far away, he’s someone who would survive on his own... Then why would I be needed?”

No one was listening, but Tae-ui muttered to himself. Now that he thought about it, it was true. That uncle wouldn’t let anyone’s help or hindrance disturb his life path. He would find some new way and navigate it skillfully.

Dragging his aching ankle, Tae-ui walked down the hall as the director’s office approached.

He had been there once before, at Ilay’s commissioning ceremony. A mere member barging in there was inappropriate, but Tae-ui no longer cared about that.

The promise with his uncle was over. The petty remaining deadlines no longer mattered. They probably didn’t matter to his uncle either.

If the director had the authority to grant “permission” to leave this place, he would meet the director and say so himself. That he wanted to quit UNHRDO and leave.

Normally, Tae-ui wouldn’t meet the director personally. When a member requests, the instructor above accepts it and only formally obtains the director’s approval. But now, none of that procedure crossed his mind.

He stopped in front of the director’s office door and took a breath. Then he knocked. The thick, heavy wooden door echoed with a low, heavy sound.

Tae-ui pressed his ear to the door, waiting for an invitation inside, but no sound came.

He knocked again. Still no response.

Only then did he think the director might not be there. Actually, it made sense. The day’s work hadn’t started yet. It was too early for anyone to be in the director’s office, but he hadn’t thought of that.

His chest was full of rage, and he had come running recklessly.

Tae-ui let out a hollow sigh. He felt ridiculous, like a fool.

For a while, he stared at the door handle, gently pushing it. Expecting it to be locked, the door opened easily.

“...Excuse me. Assistant Instructor Jeong Tae-ui.”

He spoke softly from outside, unsure if anyone was inside. Though the door was open and his voice surely echoed within, there was no reply. The room was indeed empty.

Hesitating, Tae-ui stepped inside. At any rate, he was prepared to meet the director, even ready to grab his collar and happily be kicked out of this branch. He could have even stormed into the director’s bedroom. Come to think of it, wasn’t the director’s room connected to the office?

No one was inside the office. Yet as if someone had just left briefly, a large desk lamp was lit. Did the director keep it on overnight, even without anyone there? Tae-ui recalled hearing the director was a workaholic, tirelessly absorbed in work day and night. Maybe he had gone nearby for a short while.

Tae-ui hesitated briefly. Then his eyes caught two doors aligned inside the director’s office. One led to the bathroom, the other to the director’s private room.

Without hesitation, Tae-ui headed toward them. He briefly wondered if it was too much trouble, but having come this far, he could not turn back.

His mind cleared a bit, and he wasn’t entirely regretful. Turning back now might be even more ridiculous if he ran into someone else.

Actually, it was irrational for a mere member to barge into the director’s office with such a trivial personal request. He could be fired on the spot. Of course, Tae-ui wanted to be fired, so that would be good—but he knew very well this was inappropriate and rude.

If he met the director, he would start by apologizing. But what if he walked in and found the director naked or in some embarrassing # Nоvеlight # situation? Such worries naturally came to mind as Tae-ui stood at the door and knocked again, this time more cautiously.

“Director, Assistant Instructor Jeong Tae-ui. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to see you.”

He spoke politely and waited, but once again, there was no answer. Tae-ui frowned. Was the director not even in the private room? Well, since the light was on, maybe he had just stepped out.

Suddenly his strength drained. Exhausted and having exploded with rage a moment ago, Tae-ui found it so disheartening that the director was nowhere to be found. Could anything be more draining than this?

He sighed and knocked on the silent wooden door again.

“Director...”

Muttering the name with no reply, his eyes wandered to a button beside the door. Earlier, he had been too angry to notice, but now he saw a button next to the door.

At first, he thought it was a doorbell.

He pressed it.

But the moment he pressed it, he tilted his head. No sound came, and the button didn’t feel like a doorbell but rather...

Before he could think further, the door silently slid open. The wooden door glided to the side, revealing the inside.

An elevator.

Tae-ui blinked once, twice, standing still. Why was there an elevator here?

Then again, this was the director’s room. It wasn’t strange to have a direct elevator to other floors. Moreover, this elevator might lead directly to the director’s private room below.

As Tae-ui tilted his head, the wooden door that looked like a normal door quietly closed again.

Tae-ui frowned.

Something felt off.

He didn’t know what.

But something caught on.

It wasn’t a good feeling.

He wanted to go back. Somehow this elevator, this wooden door itself, felt ominous. It seemed as if something not meant to ride it was inside.

“...”

Yet even with that thought, Tae-ui pressed the button again. Like before, the wooden door slid open to reveal the elevator.

It was silent. Tae-ui suddenly felt the stillness. He was alone in this room.

The wooden door slid to close once more, but Tae-ui unconsciously stopped it with his hand.

The door, caught on an obstacle, opened again.

Tae-ui stepped inside, then took one step further. At that moment, behind him, the elevator doors closed as if waiting.

He turned to look at the elevator. It was like any other—there was a fluorescent panel indicating floors, and buttons to select the destination.

The only difference was that there was only one button.

It was an elevator that went only to one place.

It could not access any other place in the branch.

It was a machine only going between this floor and the director’s office.

Tae-ui pondered briefly and pressed the button without any numbers or labels.

His body felt a slight float, and the elevator began to move downward.

Though the button had no numbers, the fluorescent panel showed numbers.

As the elevator descended, the numbers rose one by one—from the ground floor marked with the letter G, then 1, 2, 3, heading underground.

The numbers stopped at 4.

The elevator stopped.

A heavy weight pressed briefly beneath his feet, then lifted.

Tae-ui stared at the fluorescent number.

It was basement floor 4.

A place known to be blocked off without an entrance.

The stairway entrance was marked no entry and closed off, and elevators did not stop there.

But here, the elevator stopped.

The doors opened.

Troublesome, he thought.

Instinctively, Tae-ui felt he should not get off here.

There are things in this world better left unknown.

And Tae-ui’s instinct clearly warned him that this was such a place.

A wall blocked a few steps ahead in front of the elevator.

If he didn’t get off, there was nothing but the wall.

Yes, nothing but the wall.

If he went back up now, it could be as if nothing had happened.

Tae-ui waited for the door to close.

If it closed by itself, he intended to press the ground floor button.

Something whispered inside his head not to get off here.

But no matter how long he waited, the door did not close.

After a long wait, counting from one to twenty, the door still didn’t close.

Tae-ui quietly sighed.

Apparently, on this floor, the door only closes if the close button is pressed.

His finger lingered on the button.

He looked up.

The elevator’s white fluorescent light shone down.

Lowering his head, the wall still blocked his view like a partition.

“There’s nothing good in knowing. I know. I know.”

Tae-ui muttered, not sure to whom.

Then he thought: maybe this whole floor was decorated like a huge house, where the director lived comfortably.

Nearly a hundred members shared the basement 6th floor, but for the director, no one would blame him if he used an entire floor alone.