The air in Seoul was wrong.

It wasn't just the cold, though the night had chilled enough that Min-joon's breath came out in a pale mist. It wasn't the silence either, though the city's usual hum had gone eerily flat, the neon signs buzzing without vibrancy, the cars that should have been rushing by absent, like an invisible hand had plucked life out of the streets.

It was the sound beneath the silence—the low, rolling chant that wasn't words but rhythm. It crawled out of the concrete, seeped from the glass towers, leaked out of the storm drains. It was the scar speaking through the city, demanding one thing: Lin.

Lin staggered forward a step, his knees buckling, and Min-joon caught him instantly, both arms wrapping around the boy's frame. His body was frighteningly hot, fever-burnt, but his skin trembled with a cold sweat. His eyes weren't entirely his—they flickered like mirrors catching too many reflections.

"Stay with me," Min-joon whispered, pressing his forehead to Lin's temple. He didn't care if Keller saw, didn't care if Hwan judged. Right now, there was only one thing that mattered—anchoring Lin. "Look at me, Lin. Just me. Don't listen to them."

Lin's lips parted, and the faintest sound escaped—a breath, maybe a word, maybe just the marrow muttering through him. "It's…pulling me…" His voice was thin, paper-scraped. "The city—it wants—"

"I don't give a damn what it wants," Min-joon cut in sharply, fierce enough that his own throat burned. He cupped Lin's face, thumbs steady against his cheekbones. "You don't go to it. You stay. Here. With me."

Keller's boots scuffed against the pavement as he scanned the shadows of the alley. He had his rifle shouldered, his finger tight on the trigger guard, though he knew how useless it was. The city itself was the enemy now. "We're boxed in," he muttered, more to himself than the others. "Doesn't matter which way we move, it's tightening."

Hwan, hunched against the wall with his cane planted firmly, was staring not at the street but at Lin. His withered features were lit by the flicker of a broken streetlamp, eyes sunken but unblinking. "The tether has already begun," he rasped. "Lin is the thread. Min-joon—you are the knot."

Min-joon shot him a look. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means if you let go, if your grip falters even once—he's gone," Hwan said. He didn't raise his voice, but the finality in it carved through the chanting like a blade.

Lin groaned, his body arching, and suddenly Min-joon's arms felt like they were wrapped around a live wire. A pulse surged through Lin's chest, not a heartbeat but something deeper, something alien. The concrete around them cracked, hairline fractures spreading out like spiderwebs, glowing faintly with a light that wasn't light at all—like veins of marrow pushing up from beneath the earth.

Keller swore under his breath and stepped forward. "We can't just stand here waiting for this thing to swallow him. Min-joon, if he's turning—"

"He's not turning!" Min-joon barked, eyes blazing. "He's fighting."

Lin's body convulsed, his head snapping back. His voice came out doubled, fractured—the boy's raw cry overlaid with the marrow's hollow echo. Let me go.

Min-joon clamped down, pulling Lin tighter into his chest. "No. I'll never let you go. You hear me? Not to them, not to this city, not to anything." His words shook, but his hold didn't.

The chant deepened, the rhythm picking up like a thousand heartbeats syncing. The windows of the buildings on either side began to rattle, their reflections shimmering. Keller turned, rifle raised, as those reflections moved independently—figures walking in mirrored glass where no one walked in the street.

"They're coming," Keller hissed. "Hwan, we need direction. Now."

But Hwan didn't answer immediately. His lips moved in a silent murmur, his fingers twitching around his cane. Finally, he said, "The marrow is not asking—it is binding. Lin cannot sever it alone. If you want him to stay, Min-joon, you must tie him to something stronger than the scar."

"Stronger?" Min-joon snapped. "Like what?"

"Like yourself."

The word slammed into him, harder than the marrow's pulse, harder than the weight of Lin in his arms. Himself? He thought of his own weakness, his own fear, the guilt that had trailed him since the first moment he'd met Lin. What strength could he possibly offer against this?

But Lin's hands, trembling, clawed weakly at Min-joon's shirt, as if reaching for that very anchor. His fevered whisper brushed Min-joon's neck. "Don't…let me…fall."

Something inside Min-joon broke and hardened all at once. He pressed his lips close to Lin's ear and whispered, steady this time, certain: "Then fall into me."

The marrow howled.

Not with sound, but with force. A shockwave tore through the street, shattering windows outward. Keller dropped to one knee, bracing against the sudden wind, cursing as glass rained down. Hwan dug his cane into the ground, gritting his teeth.

And Lin—Lin convulsed once, then sagged, his entire weight collapsing against Min-joon. For a heartbeat, it felt like the boy had gone limp, gone empty.

Then Min-joon felt it: the tether.

Not a rope, not a chain—but a burning line between them, searing through his chest into Lin's, binding them so tightly he couldn't tell where he ended and the boy began. His vision blurred, and for a heartbeat he wasn't in Seoul at all—he was standing in the scar itself, marrow sky yawning above, abyss yawning below, and Lin there before him, pale and shaking.

"Min-joon…" Lin's voice was his own again, small and scared. "It won't stop. It won't ever stop."

"Then I'll stop it with you," Min-joon said, without hesitation. "If it takes me too, fine. But you're not alone anymore."

Lin's eyes widened, and for the first time in hours—maybe days—there was recognition. His hand lifted, trembling, and Min-joon took it, gripping tight.

The scar shuddered. The marrow recoiled. The city's chant faltered, stuttering like a broken machine. For the first time, the abyss itself seemed uncertain.

But it didn't retreat. It shifted. The chanting twisted into something new—laughter, deep and echoing, rolling through the streets. The reflections in the glass leaned closer, their faceless heads tilting as one.

Keller hauled himself to his feet, spitting blood from a cut on his lip. He aimed the rifle straight at the nearest building even though he knew it wouldn't matter. "I don't like the sound of that."

Hwan finally exhaled, his shoulders sagging as though the act of watching had drained years from him. "The tether holds," he whispered. "But the scar has noticed. And it will not forgive."

Min-joon ignored them all. His world had narrowed to the boy in his arms. Lin's breathing was ragged but steady now, his head pressed against Min-joon's chest. His fever still burned, his body still weak, but he was here. Present. Alive.

Min-joon tightened his hold, jaw set. "Good. Let it come for me then. It doesn't get him."

Lin stirred faintly, whispering something so soft only Min-joon caught it. "Don't…leave…"

"I won't," Min-joon promised. His voice cracked, but the vow was iron. "Never."

Above them, the city lights flickered once, twice, then stabilized. The chanting thinned, retreating deeper into the foundations, into the marrow veins beneath Seoul. The scar wasn't gone—but it had been forced back, for now.

The street fell quiet.

Keller lowered his rifle slowly, scanning the broken glass and twisted reflections, waiting for them to lunge back out. When nothing did, he exhaled harshly. "So…what, that's it? We scared it off?"

"No," Hwan said grimly, eyes fixed on Lin. "Not scared. Fed. The scar has what it wanted—it has them bound. Now it will wait. Because every tether is also a leash."

The words landed heavy. Min-joon's grip around Lin tightened instinctively. He wanted to deny it, to spit the truth back in Hwan's face. But deep in his chest, where the tether burned between them, he felt it too—the scar wasn't gone. It was inside him now, inside both of them, patient as hunger.

Lin shifted weakly, his voice barely audible. "Min-joon…"

"I've got you," Min-joon whispered back, steady and absolute.

But in the broken reflections around them, a hundred faceless heads tilted again—watching, waiting.

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