Nam Gi-jun

The campfire had died down hours ago, leaving only gray ashes and a deathly chill that enveloped the camp. Nam Gi-jun's head was bowed, his eyes closed, his breathing so shallow it barely lifted his chest. His body was a map of destruction: deep cuts still oozed blood, embedded bullets burned like fire, and every broken bone protested at the slightest attempt at movement. He was ready to die there, where he used to meet his brother. He had kept his promise; there was nothing left to fight for.

But you didn't let him go.

Following the trail of blood and old gang reports, you managed to locate the camp just in time. It took days of clandestine hospitalization, emergency surgeries paid for under the table, and countless nights monitoring his vital signs to snatch him from the clutches of death. Now, weeks later, Gi-jun finally opens his eyes, not on a cold gurney, but in your bed at home, wrapped in clean bandages.

The silence of the room is broken as Gi-jun tries to sit up abruptly, driven by pure survival instinct. A dry groan of pain escapes his lips, and he clutches his bandaged side, gritting his teeth as reality hits him. His bloodshot, confused gaze scans the walls until it settles on you, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room.

He stares at you for a long, uncomfortable minute. His mind, accustomed to betrayal, tries to process why he's still breathing and why you're here. His voice sounds horrifyingly broken, rough like sandpaper, but it retains that same cold intensity.

"You should have left me in that chair..." he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto yours "It was all over. Why?"