Chapter 29

Though his face remained impassive and he replied attentively to every word his brother uttered, Se-gyeom’s gaze was quietly tracking Shin’s every subtle movement.

Se-woong stirred the ice in his plastic cup with the straw. An iced beverage was something a determined adult could finish in mere gulps, leaving only traces of pale brown liquid clinging to the cubes.

The conversation between the two taciturn brothers resembled the iced drink. Exchanging a few mundane remarks quickly exhausted their repertoire, and changing topics never sustained long momentum. Brothers were relations that required no elaborate explanation, after all.

“What happened to your hand?” Se-gyeom asked suddenly.

“My hand? Ah.”

Se-gyeom caught Se-woong’s hand as it toyed with the cup, inspecting it from side to side. The flesh adjacent to the fingernail was taut and swollen from relentless picking. The torn skin remained raw and exposed without showing signs of healing.

“What is this?” Se-gyeom scolded. “You didn’t apply any ointment, did you?”

“It heals on its own if I just leave it be,” Se-woong mumbled defensively.

Se-gyeom shook his head firmly. “It’ll fester. Go to a clinic tomorrow and get antibiotics.”

“Why would I go to a hospital for something like this?” Se-woong scoffed lightly. “Next you’ll tell me to book an outpatient appointment for a paper cut.”

Se-gyeom tapped the table firmly. “Don’t you remember back then? When you stepped on a nail playing soccer? You’ll end up suffering if tetanus sets in.”

When they were children, Se-woong had been vocal about his hurts, throwing tantrums demanding pampering whenever he fell ill. Yet at some point, he had stopped showing any outward sign of pain. It was likely after their parents passed away.

At the time, Se-gyeom, a high school senior, and Se-hwan, a medical student, had no luxury to drown in grief. Even with their parents gone, college entrance exams loomed, and medical coursework and clinical assignments marched relentlessly forward. Neither Se-gyeom nor Se-hwan had possessed the emotional margin to tend to their youngest brother’s sorrow.

Circumstances remained little changed even after Se-gyeom entered university. When Se-hwan contemplated taking a leave of absence over astronomical medical tuition, Se-gyeom multiplied his private tutoring jobs. Meanwhile, Se-woong entered high school alone, kept watch over the empty house, and grew increasingly taciturn.

Initially, Se-gyeom had failed to pay special attention to him as well, never imagining a grown boy required doting care.

Then came the incident where Se-woong returned home with a punctured foot from a nail at school. Having gone to bed without treatment, his foot had swelled astronomically by the following morning. Too reluctant to trouble Se-gyeom—who arrived home past midnight after exhausting tutoring shifts—he had simply endured the throbbing agony in silence through the night.

With Se-woong’s foot swollen to the size of a child’s head and unable to stand, Se-gyeom had hoisted him onto his back and sprinted to the nearest emergency clinic.

From that night onward, checking on his sleeping brother became Se-gyeom’s nightly ritual. Only after ensuring his youngest sibling was not concealing an illness or nursing hidden wounds could he rest in peace himself.

Quietly maturing into an upright young man, Se-woong relied on Se-gyeom, while Se-gyeom felt profound ache for a brother who hesitated even to voice his pain. The years those two spent guarding a home once bustling with five family members inevitably forged an exceptionally tender bond.

As Se-hwan began his internship and residency, the hours Se-woong and Se-gyeom spent alone together grew even more frequent. Only after Se-woong entered the Military Academy and moved into Hwarang Hall did Se-gyeom finally commence his own studies in earnest, enlisting late into the military only after Se-woong received his officer’s commission.

Though Se-gyeom maintained that his sacrifices were neither burdensome support nor noble concessions, Se-woong, on the receiving end, could never see it that way.

“Hyung, isn’t it getting too late?” Se-woong urged softly. “Don’t worry about my hand—head home quickly. My sister-in-law must be waiting, so stop hanging around here.”

Having no way of knowing where Lee Young was or what she was doing, Se-woong worried for his sister-in-law. In truth, his concern was directed not at his sister-in-law, but at a brother who had traveled all the way here at night merely to see him.

Se-woong sincerely hoped his brother would maintain a happier marriage. For that to happen, his relationship with his wife needed to flourish. That this very wife happened to be the older sister of Lee Shin sitting right beside him was an irony beyond laughter. What a tangled mess.

“When do you clock out, Se-woong?” Se-gyeom asked.

“I have a bit more work left,” Se-woong answered. “Still, I should be home before midnight.”

“Shall we head back together then? You could sleep at home for once before commuting—”

“My brother-in-law has to pull an all-nighter tonight,” Shin interjected, checking his wristwatch. “You must not have heard. Se-woong, you have a zero-six-hundred briefing on Subject 330 tomorrow morning.”

Having silently kept his seat until now, Shin cut into the exchange. His coffee remained virtually untouched. Se-woong had deliberately ordered decaf, but he could not tell whether Shin’s notoriously fastidious palate had detected it, or if he assumed it contained caffeine and refrained.

“Zero six hundred?” Se-woong blurted in surprise.

Dropping the formal speech he had maintained upon entering the cafe, Se-woong spoke with informal ease. Being outside headquarters in a private setting while Shin wore civilian clothes meant no one would fault him, yet lowering his voice remained an unavoidable reflex.

A 0600 briefing implied senior executive attendance. Yet the Chairman had a luncheon scheduled with the Veterans Association leadership, and the 330 TF lieutenant colonel was renowned for never holding meetings outside official duty hours.

Noticing his suspicious frown, Shin silently mouthed the words, Any problem? Se-woong shook his head in defeat.

“Woong-ah, head back inside,” Se-gyeom conceded. “I had no idea you’d have to work through the night.”

Se-woong let out a low sigh. “I didn’t know either. Hyung, come by the house with sister-in-law next time. Eldest hyung mentioned the dumplings at the new Chinese restaurant in front of our place are fantastic.”

Harboring no particular culinary passion, Se-woong’s incessant chatter about good food was merely his way of expressing affection. Remembering how they had struggled together, he simply wished to see his brother well-fed. Instead of answering, Se-gyeom warmly cupped the back of Se-woong’s neck before releasing him.

Then he extended his hand toward Shin as well.

“Take care, brother-in-law,” Se-gyeom offered warmly. “We’ll see each other again soon for my father-in-law’s birthday.”

Shin dipped his chin politely. “I shall see you then.”

At the firm grip Shin applied to the handshake, fine creases briefly formed over the bridge of Se-gyeom’s nose.

“Major,” Se-woong called out, catching up with him.

The moment they crossed the JCS gate, Se-woong reflexively reverted to formal honorifics as though swapping out his brain. Having grown accustomed to the shift, he transitioned effortlessly. In the past, he had hesitated slightly before raising his register, but even that pause had vanished.

Se-woong pressed, “Please brief me on the zero-six-hundred meeting in detail, sir.”

“We have one,” Shin replied without breaking stride.

“I am asking what it entails, sir,” Se-woong pressed. “For a zero-six-hundred meeting tomorrow, the fact that no notice has been issued—”

Shin cut in evenly, “Captain Cha and I are conducting it together. Listening to the 330 interrogation recordings all night, analyzing the findings, and formulating counter-strategies. Satisfied?”

“No, sir, that’s…” Se-woong stammered.

Shin narrowed his eyes. “Insubordination?”

Se-woong pressed his palms hard against his eyes. The skin around his clamped lips turned pale. Framed this way, he could conclude only that Shin had concocted this pretense solely to stop him from heading home with his second brother. Given how much Shin despised his closeness with Se-gyeom, it was entirely within character. How on earth were they supposed to remain friends like this?

“Ha… Of course not, sir,” Se-woong conceded with a weary sigh. “Regardless, the autopsy report from the Forensic Institute has been updated, so you need to review it.”

Shin nodded in remembrance. “Ah, you mentioned it arrived. The livor mortis matched cyanide poisoning, so what else did they find?”

“They reported white nodules throughout the liver, sir.”

Shin looked startled. “Meaning cancer? Isn’t he far too young for hepatic carcinoma? Any signs of treatment?”

“No chemotherapy traces, but surgical intervention had been performed,” Se-woong explained. “There were peritoneal adhesions, and narcotics were detected… presumably administered as pain relief.”

If the deceased had been a terminal cancer patient, the likelihood of him being an operational spy plummeted even further. Would they dispatch someone with numbered days to perish valiantly? Rather, faced with impending mortality, he was far more prone to act erratically. At such a tender age, his will to survive would have burned all the more fiercely.

“Having too many complicated backstories is never ideal,” Shin murmured.

He spoke while thrusting both hands deep into his trouser pockets.

Se-woong silently echoed Shin’s words in his mind. Having too many complicated backstories is never ideal… Indeed.

Feeling the chill wind howling between the military buildings, Se-woong pulled the coat’s lapels tight. Shin’s distinctive, weighty scent lingered richly across the fabric. Despite his vigorous refusals out of fear that someone might see them, Shin had insisted on draping it over him, claiming no one would pass by at this late hour, and even if they did, no soul would recognize whose coat it was.

“Shin-ah,” Se-woong called out quietly.

Just as Shin had noted, not a soul was visible along the dimly illuminated pathway. Only branches swaying restlessly in the wind accompanied them. The lights in the distant main headquarters were largely extinguished as well.

Stopping beside him, Se-woong asked gently, “Are you doing all right?”

Walking alongside him, Shin halted in his tracks. Se-woong worried that Shin must be freezing with only a thin blazer on, having surrendered his heavy coat. He knew well that Shin rarely caught cold, preferring winter training solely because he detested sweating. Even so, Se-woong could not help worrying.

“I’m not doing fine,” Se-woong admitted softly.

Walking into the shadowed stretch of the pathway, Shin asked, “…What isn’t?”

“Why pretend not to know when you’re always so sharp?” Se-woong retorted.

Having halted alongside him, Se-woong was the first to resume walking. He tilted his head back as he walked, but the expanse above was pitch-black. Spotting a faint flicker of light after straining his eyes, he wished it were a star rather than an artificial satellite—hoping for at least that much romance in an otherwise bleak reality.

“Seeing you together with my second brother, watching you go on matchmaking dates with women… staying friends with you, all of it,” Se-woong admitted, his voice tightening. “I’m still not okay with any of it. It feels so pathetic that I didn’t want to show it.”

“…And if you aren’t?” Shin inquired in a low rasp.

Softly, Se-woong pleaded, “Just give me a little time.”

Once, he would have wagered his very organs that they could never be friends. The realization that even such conviction was entirely futile coaxed a hollow laugh from his lips.

They said that upon receiving a terminal diagnosis, one first enters denial, followed by anger, then bargains with reality, sinks into depression, and finally reaches acceptance.

Se-woong reflected that accepting a breakup followed an identical trajectory. Right now, he stood somewhere between depression and acceptance, leaning considerably closer to the latter. Things were destined to end this way regardless. Telling himself that Lee Shin had simply returned to his rightful place made the bitter unfairness slightly easier to swallow.