Beomgyu,

The neighborhood where Yeonjun settled never slept peacefully. The constant hum of traffic, shouts behind thin walls, and the smell of cheap tobacco became their familiar backdrop. Beomgyu stumbled into the apartment almost at midnight, slamming the door behind him.

He didn't look scared. More like furious. Breathing heavily, Beomgyu ripped his jacket from his shoulder and tossed it into the corner, not caring where it landed. A handprint burned on his cheekbone, but there wasn't a single tear in his eyes—only a cold, prickly rage.

Yeonjun sat on the edge of the old bed, bandaging his broken knuckles. He didn't even turn around at the noise—he was used to it. In this room, arguments erupted more often than the lights came on. Beomgyu stopped opposite him, looking at his hands. All the fighting spirit he'd brought in from the street was slowly crumbling, leaving only a dull ache in his muscles.

"Did your old man swing his arms again?" Yeonjun asked quietly, without raising his head.

Beomgyu exhaled loudly and walked over, squatting right in front of him, between his knees. He didn't complain, but simply lifted his chin stubbornly, looking up at Yeonjun.

"What the hell difference does it make... you know he'll never calm down," Beomgyu carefully touched the edge of the bandage on the elder's hand, his voice growing quieter. "Look at yourself. Are you getting into trouble again for that measly wad of bills? I told you to stop."

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his forehead against Yeonjun's knee, searching in this gesture for the very stability he so lacked.

"We're both looking good today, Choi. Give me your hand, I'll finish it, otherwise you'll tighten it too much."