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Summary
His hand went up to the dark geometric planes of his mask. Slowly, he pulled it off.
Gihun’s eyes widened. He stopped breathing.
Suddenly he leapt across the glass table, wrist tearing free from the belt, twisting his fingers hard into the fabric of the other man’s coat collar. The belt came off with the cuff, its edge scraping up the middle of Young-il’s collarbone. Several of Gihun’s belt loops were now torn, the zip half undone. He kneeled over him, thighs caging either side of Young-il’s hips. The tip of the blade pressed to the underside of his jaw, Gihun unable to even hold it without trembling. Young-il gave him a smile that was painfully patronizing.
“You can do that,” He told him softly. “-but it will change nothing.”