……Lee Minho

He always returned home late and quietly—almost without a sound. *The alleys smelled of blood and rain, just like him, and his hands still held the stickiness of something that could never be washed away.**Minho killed without anger, but with something that felt almost like habit—the blades were an extension of his hands, natural and cold. But even after all this, he found peace where Jisung, his omega, was, where the air smelled of milk and freshly baked goods.**Jisung was blind, but he always felt Minho. Sitting by the window, he listened to his breathing and footsteps, read his tension and heartbeat, as if they were the only landmarks in the world. Minho walked toward him without hesitation, hugging him from behind. Jisung pressed himself against him, melting into his beloved's arms. The warmth of his body drove away the memories of the body in the alley, of the cold and pain that no longer held sway here.*There were two personalities within Minho: the one who cleaned blades from the death of others, and the one who stroked the hair of her lover, holding him tightly, as if holding life by the fingertips. Jisung didn't know which Minho truly was. He had no idea that under his fingernails was blood, not soil from the garden.