Chapter 115: The Things We Don’t Say

“Not that.”

“……”

“Not ‘I’m sorry.’ Can’t you say you missed me?”

At Yu Hee-ro’s words, Sung Ji-woo bit down hard on his lower lip. When he had left Yu Hee-ro on his own, and when Yu Hee-ro had come looking for him again, Yu Hee-ro had said the same thing back then.

I came, so hurry up and welcome me.

There hadn’t been a single word of resentment. And even now, it was the same. Yu Hee-ro was always—

Thankfully, Yu Hee-ro couldn’t see him right now. Sung Ji-woo had no idea what kind of expression he was making himself. It was probably something broken, something he wouldn’t even recognize.

“…Hyung. I’m anxious right now. I can’t hear your voice, so I’m anxious.”

Yu Hee-ro clutched pitifully at Sung Ji-woo’s hand, still resting on his shoulder. The warmth in his palm felt like it might disappear at any moment. Even while being together like this, that formless longing only kept growing.

“…Yeah. I missed you.”

“……”

The words slipped out softly, like a breath. Yu Hee-ro froze, stopping his breathing altogether. As if he wouldn’t allow even the smallest noise to escape, he didn’t blink, didn’t move.

“I was worried too.”

Yu Hee-ro’s breath trembled, thin and fragile, like a sob.

“Did you wait long?”

“…I didn’t wait that long. I just missed you a lot.”

To convey his feelings without any distortion, Yu Hee-ro corrected Sung Ji-woo’s question before answering. Sung Ji-woo studied Yu Hee-ro’s face as he stared down at the table, head bowed.

He’d felt it when he touched his shoulder earlier, but it was clear now—he’d lost weight. The lines of his face had grown sharper. He’d expected it, yet seeing how gaunt he was with his own eyes made it impossible to hide his distress.

Sung Ji-woo couldn’t even imagine what Yu Hee-ro had endured while holding out in this place. That was why he couldn’t bring himself to say, Today was hard because you weren’t here.

For a moment, Sung Ji-woo thought about what Yu Hee-ro was enduring. Beneath the slightly rolled-up sleeve of the hospital gown, dense injection marks were visible.

They were scars he hadn’t seen the last time Yu Hee-ro had been taken away. Staring at the red dots scattered across his pallid skin, Sung Ji-woo closed his eyes.

“Even now…”

Yu Hee-ro’s voice rang low. Sung Ji-woo lifted his gaze again, fixing it on Yu Hee-ro’s profile.

“I miss you.”

For a split second, it felt like their eyes met. But of course, that was just Sung Ji-woo’s illusion. Yu Hee-ro was looking at his own reflection in the lounge window.

“But still, I’m glad.”

“…Why?”

“Because you missed me too—and right now, hyung, you can see me.”

Perhaps Yu Hee-ro had turned his head not to see Sung Ji-woo, but to show himself to him. That thought crossed Sung Ji-woo’s mind.

“Then it’s okay if I’m the only one missing you now.”

Letting out a deep breath, Sung Ji-woo lightly brushed Yu Hee-ro’s cheek. Startled by the sudden contact, Yu Hee-ro flinched—but once he realized whose touch it was, he leaned into it slightly.

“Do I look okay?”

“Yeah. You’re looking me in the eyes right now.”

“That’s a relief.”

Like he was acting cute, Yu Hee-ro rubbed his cheek against Sung Ji-woo’s palm. He looked like a puppy waiting for its owner’s affection.

Sung Ji-woo’s hand moved a little higher, lightly brushing through Yu Hee-ro’s hair.

“It’s all turned black.”

“…Is it ugly?”

“Now that I look closer, your eyes have turned black too.”

As if he’d been waiting for that, Yu Hee-ro closed his eyes. Sung Ji-woo chuckled softly at the black eyes disappearing behind his lids.

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

“……”

“It suits you too. I guess that’s what happens when you’re good-looking.”

At the half-joking, half-sincere remark, Yu Hee-ro’s eyelids slowly lifted. His eyes darted left and right, gauging Sung Ji-woo’s reaction, before the corners of his lips curved upward.

“I’m still pretty, right?”

“What do you mean, still?”

So he was confidently asserting that he’d been pretty before? Sung Ji-woo was a little taken aback. Yu Hee-ro was even smiling with his eyes now.

“I was pretty to begin with.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re still pretty. Very pretty.”

With the attitude of humoring someone already down, Sung Ji-woo played along. That alone seemed to satisfy Yu Hee-ro, who beamed brightly in response.

It was a face he hadn’t seen in a long time—clear, unguarded. Looking at him like this, he was unmistakably still Yu Hee-ro. Worn down and sharp-edged, yes—but still Yu Hee-ro.

Only then did Sung Ji-woo feel a bit more at ease. He’s not hurt beyond recovery, he thought.

There were things Sung Ji-woo couldn’t do anything about—Yu Hee-ro being hurt, being exhausted—but he hoped that when Yu Hee-ro finally came back, he’d be able to live as he had before. He knew it was selfish, but if this incident completely broke Yu Hee-ro, Sung Ji-woo didn’t think he could endure it.

Why hadn’t Yu Hee-ro been honest with him? If he’d said something—anything—they might not have ended up in a situation this bad.

He’d even had the chance to speak, yet Yu Hee-ro had avoided it, made it impossible for Sung Ji-woo to even ask.

That hurt. And it stung, too—especially ironic, considering Sung Ji-woo himself had been the one to draw the line in their relationship first.

Over the past few days, Sung Ji-woo had thought about the reason over and over, eventually concluding that it was because he hadn’t given Yu Hee-ro enough trust. And yet, he couldn’t accept that conclusion, turning away from it again and again.

He’d chewed on it, alone, and ended up hurting himself.

There were no words that could define the relationship between him and Yu Hee-ro—and by the time he vaguely realized that, everything had already gone wrong.

Even knowing he had no right to feel this way, the sense of disappointment still surged up uncontrollably.

“…Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting?”

Sung Ji-woo tried to sound as casual as possible. Like a light question, stripped of all the tangled emotions inside it, leaving only the bare sentence behind.

“Hyung.”

Yu Hee-ro turned his head forward again. After a brief silence, as if choosing his words, he slowly opened his mouth.

“I didn’t want to say it.”

“……”

At his calm tone, Sung Ji-woo bit down hard on the tender flesh inside his mouth.

“…Why?”

Even though he knew there was nothing to gain from asking further, the question slipped from his lips on its own.

“Because I didn’t want you to pity me.”

“……”

“I don’t want feelings like that getting mixed into what we have.”

“……”

And Yu Hee-ro’s answer was something Sung Ji-woo had never expected.

“People who know my circumstances fall into two groups. They either pity me—or they hate me.”

“……”

“And I didn’t want you to belong to either. That’s why I didn’t say anything. It’s something I have to bear anyway, and it’s… my fate.”

A hint of resignation flickered in Yu Hee-ro’s eyes as he said the word fate.

What on earth did you go through, to say something like that with that expression?

Sung Ji-woo swallowed and thought carefully about what he should say to Yu Hee-ro.

“Hee-ro, fate can be changed.”

Sung Ji-woo had seen it clearly—the fate he’d changed with his own hands, the future that had now become the present.

At those words, Yu Hee-ro twisted his face into a smile. It was impossible to tell whether he was laughing or crying.

“Hyung, fate doesn’t change. But… new fates do come along.”

Like giving poison and medicine at the same time, he added, the rest of his words fading away.

“I think you’re my new fate.”

“……”

“So I just accept everything. If this is fate, and that is fate too… and if you’re among those fates, hyung—then I can accept it all.”

Interpreting Yu Hee-ro’s words was always difficult, but this time especially so. Sung Ji-woo’s lips parted, yet no more words came out.

Yu Hee-ro always spoke of him in such grand terms, but Sung Ji-woo only felt cowardly and small.

And a part of him felt guilty, too. Because he still didn’t have the courage to call Yu Hee-ro his fate.

After taking a deep breath, Sung Ji-woo changed the subject. Instead of a well-intentioned lie, he chose silence.

“…I left something under the table.”

At those words, Yu Hee-ro didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even look under the table—he just stared into empty space, like someone who heard nothing, saw nothing.

Suppressing the turmoil inside him, Sung Ji-woo quickly poured out what he’d been simulating in his head the entire way here.

“I’ll keep it simple. I want you to put on the equipment in there and go to where the second experiment is being conducted.”

“……”

“Pass me the information about the experiment.”

“……”

Yu Hee-ro must have known. That the one who needed that information wasn’t Sung Ji-woo.

If this had truly been a plan purely for the greater good, Sung Ji-woo might not have gotten involved at all. Park Su-jin seemed to care about Yu Hee-ro the most—but for Sung Ji-woo, there was something even more important.

To cut the leash the Association had around Yu Hee-ro’s neck—

“We need as much information as possible.”

In truth, getting Yu Hee-ro out of this place wouldn’t have been difficult. It might have caused some trouble, but officially, the Association wasn’t in a position to pressure an individual hunter. As long as Sung Ji-woo didn’t expose a weakness first, they wouldn’t be able to act recklessly.

If it came down to it, he was even willing to sue the Association. There had been real cases where people had won lawsuits over excessive interference and coercion.

Even so, the reason Sung Ji-woo was currently taking a submissive stance toward the Association was because of the information they held—information he didn’t have.

Information that could either save Yu Hee-ro… or kill him. And for that, he needed Park Su-jin, who could analyze it.

To get that, he had to help make Park Su-jin’s plan succeed.

That said, he didn’t want to force Yu Hee-ro into anything he didn’t want to do. Whatever the choice was, it had to be Yu Hee-ro’s.

“After you do that…”

“……”

“Can I… be with you again, hyung?”

“…Probably.”

“I understand.”

It wasn’t an answer saying he would do it, nor that he wouldn’t. Yu Hee-ro simply said he understood. Watching him fall silent, Sung Ji-woo judged that he’d need time to think.

“Before you go.”

Yu Hee-ro spoke urgently, realizing Sung Ji-woo was about to leave.

“Could you hug me once?”

“……”

“I held back really well, missing you. I’m still holding back right now.”

Yu Hee-ro was still staring straight ahead. After hesitating, Sung Ji-woo lightly wrapped his arms around him from behind. He heard Yu Hee-ro swallow his breath.

“This isn’t pity.”

Leaving only those words behind, Sung Ji-woo departed, his footsteps silent. Only after the sound had completely faded did Yu Hee-ro finally exhale, closing his eyes.

“……”

Sung Ji-woo was still a terribly cruel person.