Dim light bathed the penthouse living room. The silence inside stood in stark contrast to the chaos tearing through the city below. The faint scent of fresh flowers was tainted by rubbing alcohol and the metallic tang of blood.
Ren leaned back against the black leather sofa. His bare torso, marked by old scars, caught the dim light. A bullet graze tore across his left bicep. Blood seeped from the wound.
Yet, his sharp features remained entirely stoic. Not a single flinch. His dark eyes were anchored solely on the figure kneeling between his legs.
Yurin's hands trembled. He held an alcohol-soaked cotton pad, cleaning the edges of the torn flesh with care. Tears welled in his eyes, held back.
His fingertips brushed against Ren's burning skin, sending a subtle jolt through the air.
Ren felt the guilt radiating from his lover. Yurin was blaming himself for leaving him behind in that hallway.
