6: (BREAKING POINT)

Seungbae moved forward. Blind, but not lost.

The air was thick, stale. The darkness clung to him, swallowing the edges of his vision, but he didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

His ears strained for any sound, any movement—any sign of them.

Bum was somewhere in this maze.

And so was he.

That bastard. That thing wearing a dead man's face.

Seungbae's pulse was steady now.

Calm. Controlled.

The anger had settled into something colder. Sharper.

He didn't care if this was some sick impersonation or—God help him—

something worse.

He was going to end this.

No more games.

No more running.

And if this thing thought he could keep playing with him, thought he could keep slipping through his fingers—

He was about to learn.

Seungbae wasn't playing anymore.

—

A sound.

Soft. Unsteady.

A breath.

Bum.

Seungbae's body went rigid, every sense locking in.

It was close.

He turned a corner—

And there he was.

Bum was slumped against the far wall, body trembling, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

He looked wrecked.

Seungbae's stomach twisted.

Bum's arms were wrapped tight around himself, his nails digging into his skin. His eyes were wide, glazed, locked onto something—**someone—**just ahead of him.

And there he stood.

That same goddamn smirk curling his lips.

Head tilted. Eyes glinting in the dark.

And Bum was looking at him.

Not in fear.

Not in anger.

But in something worse.

Recognition.

Seungbae moved before he could think.

A sharp step forward.

But that bastard was faster.

He crouched down, fingers brushing against Bum's cheek. Casual. Possessive.

Seungbae saw red.

"Get your hands off him."

The voice that left him was low. Dangerous.

The smirk widened.

"Why?" he murmured, dragging his thumb across Bum's jaw, slow and taunting.

"Look at him, Detective."

Seungbae didn't want to.

Didn't want to see what he already knew.

That Bum was still frozen.

That he still wasn't pulling away.

That some part of him—some sick, broken part—

Still wanted this.

His hands curled into fists.

The bastard's eyes flicked up, locking onto him.

A challenge. A dare.

"You don't get it, do you?" he murmured.

His voice was soft. Almost gentle.

Like a lover whispering something intimate.

Then—a chuckle.

Sharp. Amused.

"He still belongs to me."

Seungbae lunged.

—

His fist connected hard.

Bone met bone, a sickening crack splitting the air.

The bastard staggered, but Seungbae didn't stop. Didn't give him a second to recover.

He followed, landing another blow—harder.

Felt the skin split under his knuckles.

Felt the satisfaction of impact, of breaking something.

But then—

A sharp kick to his side.

Seungbae gritted his teeth, steadied himself.

But the bastard was already moving.

Fast. Too fast.

Predictable.

Seungbae dodged, barely, feeling the rush of air as a fist just missed his jaw.

Then he countered.

A sharp elbow to the ribs. A brutal twist of his opponent's arm.

And then—he had him.

Seungbae's grip locked tight around his throat, shoving him against the wall.

He heard the sharp gasp, saw the flicker of pain.

But the bastard just smiled.

Like this was amusing.

Like Seungbae could squeeze the life out of him, and he still wouldn't be afraid.

Seungbae's fingers twitched.

For one second—one sharp, blazing second—he considered it.

Ending it.

Here. Now.

Choking the breath out of that mocking, lying face.

But then—a sound.

Soft. Fragile.

"…Detective."

Seungbae's chest tightened.

Bum's voice.

Shaky. Uncertain.

And when Seungbae looked, really looked—

Bum was staring at him.

Not at the bastard.

At him.

And there was something lost in his eyes.

Something terrified.

Not of the man in front of him.

Of Seungbae.

The realization hit like a fist.

His grip loosened.

And in that split second—

A knee to his ribs.

A sharp shove.

Seungbae was thrown back.

The bastard didn't run.

Didn't move.

Just wiped the blood from his lip.

And smiled.

A slow, mocking thing.

And then—to Bum.

Soft. Knowing.

"Come home."

And Seungbae saw it.

The way Bum froze.

The way his breath hitched.

The way his fingers twitched—like he wanted to reach forward.

Seungbae felt something break in his chest.

No.

Not again.

He reached for him—

And the lights cut out.

Again.

—

Silence.

Then—

A door slamming shut.

Seungbae turned—too late.

The room was empty.

Bum was gone.

He stood there, breathing hard, the world spinning around him.

And for the first time in a long time—

Yang Seungbae felt helpless.

His hands trembled at his sides.

He clenched them. Steadied himself.

No.

He wasn't losing him.

Not to him.

Not again.

His jaw locked.

His eyes burned.

And then—

He turned.

And the hunt began again.

ー

Seungbae didn't waste time.

His body ached, ribs protesting with every breath, but he pushed forward, shoving through the exit into the freezing night air.

The alley was empty.

No footsteps.

No sounds.

But he knew.

He wasn't far behind.

He couldn't be.

His eyes swept the street. The roads were slick with rain, the dim glow of a broken streetlamp barely illuminating the pavement.

Then—a flicker of movement.

Across the street.

A dark figure, half-hidden in the shadows, a smaller form clinging to them.

Bum.

Seungbae's blood turned to fire.

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, cutting across the street—fast, reckless.

"BUM!"

His voice snapped through the cold air.

The figure stopped.

For a split second, Bum's head turned, his face barely visible in the dark.

Seungbae's chest tightened.

His eyes were wide, uncertain.

His lips parted—like he wanted to say something.

Like he was waiting for something.

Seungbae reached for him—

But the bastard pulled him back.

His grip was tight. Possessive.

And the look he shot Seungbae—

Mocking. Unbothered.

Like he already knew how this would end.

Seungbae's rage snapped.

He lunged.

But before he could reach them—

A car screeched into the street, cutting him off.

Seungbae barely dodged, the wind from the speeding vehicle whipping against his face.

By the time it passed—

They were gone.

Vanished into the night.

—

Seungbae stood there.

Chest heaving.

Rain soaking through his clothes.

The city blurred around him, neon signs flickering against the puddles at his feet.

And in the pit of his stomach—

A sinking, suffocating weight.

His hands clenched.

His breath was sharp, uneven.

He had been so close.

So fucking close.

And now—

He lost him.

Again.

Seungbae let out a slow, shaking breath.

Then—

He moved.

No hesitation.

No second-guessing.

He still had leads.

Still had places to tear apart, doors to kick down.

He would find them.

And this time—

He wasn't letting Bum go.

Not until he ended this.

Not until he knew, once and for all—

If he was saving him…

Or if Bum had already been lost.

ー

Seungbae didn't sleep.

Didn't stop.

Didn't breathe properly until he had something to chase.

And he did.

The grainy footage. The voice on the phone. The body that moved like a ghost through the streets.

He wasn't stupid.

This wasn't just some psycho playing dress-up.

This wasn't a game anymore.

Yoonbum was in danger.

And Seungbae refused to sit back and let it happen.

—

His apartment was a mess.

Newspapers, reports, old case files—every scrap of information he had ever gathered on Sangwoo—spread across the table, taped to the walls, pinned to the corkboard in his living room.

The fire. The remains. The inconsistencies.

He ran through every single thing that didn't add up.

There was no body.

The remains found in the house were unidentifiable.

No DNA. No dental records. Nothing concrete.

Just the word of a system that wanted the case closed.

And Seungbae—desperate for a goddamn win—believed it.

He let himself believe it.

His fingers twitched, pressing into the table's edge.

If Sangwoo was alive…

If he had been alive this whole time—

Then where the fuck had he been hiding?

And why now?

Why come back now?

His jaw clenched.

Because of Bum.

It was always because of Yoonbum.

—

The case files weren't enough.

He needed more.

More proof. More connections. More anything.

He grabbed his jacket, his badge, and his gun, and stormed out the door.

There was one place left to check.

The only place Sangwoo would ever call home.

The house.

Or what was left of it.

—

The ruins still smelled like burned wood and old blood.

The fire had taken almost everything.

Blackened walls, shattered glass, collapsed roofing—a corpse of a house.

Seungbae stepped inside.

Careful. Slow.

The floorboards creaked beneath his weight, ash and dust clinging to his boots.

His flashlight flickered against the ruined walls, the skeletal remains of the living room still too familiar.

The couch, half-burned.

The shattered coffee table.

The basement door.

Seungbae exhaled through his nose.

His body was tense, his grip firm on his gun.

He moved.

Down the stairs.

Step by step.

Into the dark.

—

The basement was almost untouched.

Like the fire never reached it.

Like something had been waiting for him.

Seungbae's breath slowed.

His flashlight traced the walls.

The chair.

The rusted chains.

The stains.

And then—

His light caught something new.

Something that shouldn't be there.

A jacket.

Neatly folded.

And next to it—

A phone.

Still charged.

Still active.

Seungbae's stomach twisted.

He grabbed it without thinking, his gloved fingers swiping the screen.

A locked screen.

A missed call.

From Bum.

Seungbae's pulse spiked.

His fingers moved on instinct, pocketing the phone before stepping back, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.

Bum had been here.

Recently.

Maybe hours ago.

Maybe less.

His grip tightened around his gun.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Slow.

Behind him.

Seungbae turned.

And there—standing in the doorway, watching him with eyes that burned like embers—

Was Oh Sangwoo.

Alive.

Smiling.

And holding a knife.

"Miss me, Detective?"

—

Seungbae moved.

No hesitation.

No questions.

He fired.

The bullet ripped through the space where Sangwoo had been—but he was already gone.

Fast.

Too fucking fast.

Seungbae barely had time to turn before something slammed into his ribs, sending him crashing against the basement wall.

His vision blurred.

The air ripped from his lungs.

He hit the ground hard, his gun skidding across the floor.

Sangwoo's laughter echoed in the room.

Low. Amused. So goddamn familiar.

"I was hoping you'd put up more of a fight," Sangwoo murmured, stepping closer, his knife gleaming in the dim light.

Seungbae pushed himself up, his breath ragged.

His ribs screamed.

But he didn't stop.

Couldn't.

He wouldn't die here.

Not like this.

Not by his hands.

—

Sangwoo crouched in front of him, tilting his head like he was studying him.

Like he was enjoying this.

And Seungbae—seething, bleeding, barely holding himself up—still met his gaze head-on.

Sangwoo grinned.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

His voice was mocking.

Light.

Like he wasn't holding a knife like it was an extension of himself.

Like he wasn't about to carve a piece of Seungbae open just to see him scream.

Seungbae's jaw tightened.

"I get it just fine," he growled, his voice sharp, dangerous.

"You're just another dead man walking."

Sangwoo stilled.

Then—

He laughed.

And the sound was wrong.

Like something crawling under Seungbae's skin.

"Dead?" Sangwoo mused, running his fingers along the edge of his blade.

Then he smirked.

"Tell that to Bum."

Seungbae's blood ran cold.

His body reacted before his mind did—

He lunged.

Fists swinging, legs bracing against the pain.

And for the first time—

Sangwoo looked surprised.

The impact sent them both crashing into the ground, the knife clattering across the floor.

Seungbae grabbed him by the collar, slamming his fist into Sangwoo's face once, twice—

Then Sangwoo's knee dug into his ribs.

Seungbae choked, his grip loosening—

And Sangwoo took his chance.

He twisted free, flipping their positions, pinning Seungbae beneath him.

His fingers wrapped around his throat.

Seungbae's breath hitched.

Sangwoo leaned in, his eyes glowing with something unhinged.

Something satisfied.

And then—

A voice.

Soft.

Trembling.

"…Sangwoo?"

The grip on his throat loosened.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

Seungbae took it.

He slammed his elbow into Sangwoo's ribs, twisting out from under him.

Both of them staggered, but only one of them had a weapon.

Sangwoo's knife was in his hands again before Seungbae could move.

But his eyes—

They weren't on Seungbae anymore.

They were on Bum.

Who stood at the top of the stairs.

Frozen.

Breath shaking.

Eyes locked onto Sangwoo's.

And the worst part?

The part that made Seungbae's stomach twist?

It wasn't just fear in Bum's expression.

It was relief.

Sangwoo smiled.

"There you are."

Seungbae's heart stopped.

Then—

The lights went out.

ー

Darkness swallowed the basement.

But Seungbae didn't need light to know what was happening.

He could hear it.

The sharp inhale from Bum.

The quiet, deliberate steps of Sangwoo.

The weight of something terrible about to happen.

Seungbae moved.

Blind, desperate, lungs burning—he lunged toward where Sangwoo had been.

But Sangwoo wasn't there anymore.

—

A shift in the air.

The whisper of a knife cutting through space.

Seungbae barely twisted in time—but not fast enough.

Pain slashed across his side.

He hissed, his breath sharp, fingers reaching—grabbing—something solid.

Sangwoo's wrist.

Seungbae held on tight, even as the knife dug in.

Sangwoo's breath was warm against his ear.

"Still got some fight in you?" he murmured, voice too close, too amused.

Seungbae grit his teeth.

Then slammed his forehead into Sangwoo's.

The impact cracked through the silence.

Sangwoo stumbled back.

And Seungbae—bleeding, barely standing—used that second to grab the knife.

Twist it.

Turn it.

He shoved Sangwoo back, hard, knife still in his grip.

But the moment he stepped forward, reaching for his gun—

A sharp gasp.

Not from Sangwoo.

From Bum.

Seungbae's heart plummeted.

He turned—

And saw Sangwoo's hand wrapped around Bum's wrist.

Bum, frozen.

Wide-eyed.

Not moving.

Not fighting.

Not running.

Just staring at Sangwoo like a man starving.

Sangwoo's grin widened.

"You came back," he murmured, voice too soft. Too satisfied.

Seungbae felt sick.

Sangwoo's fingers slid slowly down Bum's arm.

Gentle. Tender.

Like this wasn't a monster touching him.

Like this wasn't a goddamn nightmare playing out in real-time.

Bum was shaking.

But he wasn't moving away.

Why the fuck wasn't he moving away?

Seungbae took a step forward.

"Bum," he said, low, firm.

Bum flinched.

His head snapped toward Seungbae.

His expression—

It wasn't fear.

It was panic.

Like Seungbae was the problem.

Like Seungbae was the one making everything worse.

No.

No, no, no—

"Bum," Seungbae tried again, more urgent, his breath ragged.

"Sangwoo is dead. This isn't real. He's just—he's just some fucking psycho pretending to be him. You know that."

Bum's lips parted.

His breath hitched.

For a second—just a second—Seungbae saw doubt.

And then—

Sangwoo laughed.

Low, slow, dripping with victory.

"Bum," he said, voice silk and venom.

And the way he said it—like a promise, like a leash, like a home—

Seungbae saw everything slip.

Bum's face crumbled.

His knees gave out.

His body folded toward Sangwoo like he couldn't help it.

Like gravity itself was pulling him in.

And Sangwoo—smirking, triumphant—caught him.

Held him.

Pressed his lips against his temple like a reassurance.

Seungbae couldn't fucking breathe.

"Shh," Sangwoo whispered against Bum's skin. "It's alright. I've got you now."

And Bum—shaking, breaking, lost—

Let himself be held.

Seungbae's hands clenched into fists.

His chest felt too tight.

Everything in him screamed to rip Bum away.

To stop this.

To end this.

But Bum—goddamn, stupid, hopeless Bum—

Didn't want to be saved.

Not from this.

Not from him.

Seungbae's jaw locked.

His pulse was hammering against his skull, his body aching with how much he wanted to move.

To do anything.

To fix this.

But then—

Sangwoo lifted his gaze.

Met Seungbae's eyes.

And smirked.

Like he had already won.

Like Seungbae's fight—his blood, his struggle, his whole fucking war—had meant nothing.

And Seungbae—shaking, breathless, gripping his gun like a lifeline—

Realized something awful.

Something that made his stomach churn.

He wasn't fighting Sangwoo.

Not really.

He was fighting Bum.

Bum's ghosts.

Bum's choices.

Bum's twisted, sick, irreversible love.

And maybe—

Maybe Seungbae had already lost.

—

Sangwoo tugged Bum closer.

Pressed a hand to the back of his head, like he was soothing him.

Like Seungbae wasn't even fucking there.

And then—

He whispered, soft enough that only Bum could hear:

"Let's go home."

Bum's breath hitched.

His fingers curled into Sangwoo's jacket.

Seungbae saw the decision the second it was made.

And it was already too late.

Bum turned.

Looked at Seungbae.

And in a voice small, broken, but sure—

He said:

"I'm sorry, Detective."

Then—

He let Sangwoo lead him away.

And Seungbae?

Seungbae couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe.

Couldn't stop it.

All he could do—as Bum disappeared into the dark, fingers wrapped around a ghost's hand—

Was watch.