The dawn came, but it didn't feel like morning.

Seoul's skyline usually blazed awake with light—office towers flaring to life, traffic veins clogged with commuters, neon signs flickering off as daylight took over. Today, the city rose under a pall, as though the night had only dimmed rather than lifted. The sky had color, but it was thin, sickly. The streets stirred, but the rhythm was offbeat, a syncopation that grated on the ear.

Lin opened his eyes to this broken morning, though he wished he hadn't. His body ached in places he didn't know could ache, like every bone had been torn out and shoved back at the wrong angles. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. He blinked, and for a moment, the ceiling above him was not the cracked plaster of the safehouse but the yawning, marrow-lit cavern of the scar.

He gasped, shoving himself halfway upright, before a steady hand pressed him back down.

"Easy." Min-joon's voice was rough with exhaustion, but firm. He was sitting beside Lin's futon on the floor, his clothes rumpled, his eyes ringed with sleepless dark. "You're still burning up. Don't try to move yet."

Lin turned his head, and the sight struck him harder than the fever: Min-joon hadn't left his side. Not even for a moment. His hand was still on Lin's chest, right over where the tether burned unseen, like he feared letting go would unmake the boy entirely.

"Min…" Lin's throat scraped dryly. His lips barely shaped the name.

"I'm here." Min-joon didn't hesitate, leaning close enough that his presence filled Lin's vision. "I'm not going anywhere."

The words steadied Lin, but only slightly. Because beneath them, deeper than sound, he could feel the truth of what had happened the night before: the tether was real. It pulsed between them even now, a hot, invisible thread seared into his marrow. It anchored him, yes—but it also dragged. Every time Min-joon shifted, Lin felt it, like their souls had been stapled together.

Keller's boots scuffed against the floorboards as he paced the perimeter of the safehouse. The room was cramped, barely bigger than a single classroom, with peeling paint and dust-thick curtains pulled over the windows. He'd shoved furniture against the door during the night, though he knew it wouldn't stop what they were up against.

"City's too quiet," Keller muttered. His voice was low, gravel-rasped from hours of muttering to himself. "Been watching since dawn—traffic's running, people are moving, but it's…wrong. Nobody looks at each other. Like they're all walking in sync, but to a beat I can't hear."

"You can hear it," Hwan corrected. The old man sat hunched in the corner, cane across his lap, his breath thin. He hadn't slept either. "You just don't know you're hearing it. The tether hums through everything now. Even the ordinary. Especially the ordinary."

Keller shot him a look. "You saying the whole damn city's compromised?"

"I'm saying," Hwan replied, "that Seoul isn't just Seoul anymore. Part of the scar has been drawn through." His eyes shifted toward Lin. "Through him."

Lin flinched. The words hit too close, scraping raw against the fever haze still clouding his head. He wanted to deny it, to tell them he wasn't some cursed gate, that he hadn't brought the abyss with him. But the tether pulsed in his chest like a mocking heartbeat.

Min-joon's hand pressed firmer against him. "Don't listen," he murmured. "Don't let him put that on you."

Lin looked up at him, and for a moment he almost believed it—that maybe he wasn't to blame, maybe he was just caught. But then the room's shadows shifted in the corners, curling too slowly, and Lin felt the marrow's breath slide against his ear like a whisper only he could hear.

Through you.

He clenched his fists in the blankets, eyes squeezing shut.

Min-joon saw the strain ripple through him and leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper meant only for Lin. "It doesn't own you. I don't care what it says. You're here, with me. Nothing else matters."

Something eased in Lin's chest—not much, but enough to let him breathe again. He nodded faintly, though his voice refused him.

Keller stopped pacing and glanced toward them. "What matters is whether he can move," he said, blunt as always. "If this thing is bleeding through him, we can't sit here like targets. We've gotta relocate before the city closes in."

"You'll tear him apart if you push him," Min-joon snapped without looking up. His hand hadn't left Lin once. "He needs time."

"Time we don't have," Keller retorted. "Whatever tethering stunt you pulled last night might've kept him from going under, but it also painted a giant bullseye on us. I've been in too many cities about to fall, and trust me—this one's circling the drain."

Hwan coughed, dry and sharp, before rasping, "He's not wrong."

Min-joon finally looked up, eyes blazing. "So what, you're saying we cut and run? Leave him half-dead on his feet?"

"No," Hwan said. His voice was quiet but firm. "I'm saying the tether's not just saving him—it's feeding the scar. You think you bound him to yourself? Perhaps. But the scar bound itself to both of you. It can reach him anywhere now. And through him…you."

Min-joon froze. The words crawled down his spine, colder than the marrow's whisper. He didn't want to believe them, but the burning line in his chest throbbed in response, undeniable.

Lin stirred weakly, eyes half-lidded. "He's…right." His voice was a fragile scrape. "It's…in both of us."

"No." Min-joon's voice cut hard, leaving no space for doubt. "It's not in us. We're in each other. That's the difference."

For a moment, silence stretched. Even Keller didn't have a retort.

Then, faintly, something rattled in the walls. A skittering, like rats in the plaster. But it wasn't rodents. It was too rhythmic, too deliberate—like fingertips dragging along from inside the drywall.

Everyone stilled. Keller raised his rifle, eyes darting. "Contact?"

Lin's head turned toward the wall without meaning to. His gaze locked on a hairline crack that hadn't been there before, spidering outward. From it, the faintest gleam leaked—not light, not shadow, but marrow-glow.

His chest seized. The tether flared hot. His hand clutched at Min-joon's shirt. "It's here," he whispered, terror threading his voice. "It's…moving through."

The crack widened with a sound like tearing cloth. Something shifted behind the wall, pressing forward. Not a hand. Not a face. A presence.

Min-joon wrapped both arms around Lin, pulling him close, shielding him even from the sight. "Stay with me," he hissed. His own chest burned with the tether's heat, his vision swimming.

The crack pulsed once, twice, then split—before collapsing shut again. Silence fell.

But the damage was done.

Hwan gripped his cane so hard his knuckles whitened. "Now you see," he whispered. "The scar isn't behind us. It's here. Every tether is a door. And last night, we opened it."

No one spoke. The only sound was Lin's ragged breathing against Min-joon's chest, and the faint, mocking hum beneath Seoul's morning.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.