Work Text:
The last place Park Moondae expected to be summoned was the Image Strategy Department of the National Intelligence Service.
Park Moondae was used to classified documents, encrypted intel chains, and the hum of surveillance servers during the hours when everything else came to a stop. He was not used to lace curtains, satin ribbons, and an explosion of pastel colour across a mission dossier.
Director Jeong pushed a glossy brochure across the table.
On the cover: THE HEIR’S CHOICE — A National Courtship Event
Below it, in elegant lettering:
Featuring Seon Ahyeon
The only son of Seon Industries is looking for a partner, and you could be the lucky one!!!!
A beautiful boy with hair kissed by the sun, soft eyes and a gentle smile stared up from the page.
Moondae blinked. “…Sir?”
“We received a direct request from the Seon family,” Director Jeong said, his tone grave. “Hybrid security issue. High stakes.”
He tapped the brochure.
“Threat of kidnapping.”
Moondae straightened. “Target?”
“Seon Ahyeon himself.”
Ahyeon. The timid but politically important heir was about to be put on national television to choose a romantic partner from thirty candidates. A ridiculous idea for privacy. An excellent opportunity for criminals.
“Why are we involved?” Moondae asked.
“The Seons are offering full cooperation and a sizable… donation to the government,” the director muttered. “And the threat is credible. They received several messages promising to abduct their son during filming.”
Moondae exhaled. “So you’re assigning me to surveillance of the broadcast?”
“No.”
The director slid another document forward.
Moondae stared.
His own forged profile gazed back at him.
Bachelor Candidate #18
Name: Ryu Moondae
Background: Likes to read, quiet type
Occupation: Freelancer
Persona: Shy. Observant. Charming. Ambivert.
Observant was true.
The rest was creative fiction.
“…You’re putting me in the marriage selection pool,” Moondae said flatly.
“You’ll be undercover as a potential suitor,” Director Jeong confirmed. “You will protect Seon Ahyeon from the inside. Identify the kidnapping faction. Neutralise them.”
Moondae lowered his head onto the table.
The director waited patiently for the quiet groan to pass.
“You’ll be undercover as a participant,” the director said. “You must remain by Ahyeon’s side long enough to identify the threat.”
Moondae exhaled slowly. “…This is entrapment.”
“This is patriotism.”
“It’s entrapment.”
But the mission was necessary. And unavoidable.
The selection estate sits on the edge of Seoul like a storybook palace that got bored with being mythical and decided to go corporate. It’s all white stone, tall windows, and hedges trimmed so sharply that even Moondae feels judged by them as he walks past.
He arrives with a small backpack, an expression set to “mild civilian confusion,” and the posture of a man who has never held a gun in his life. A total lie, but that’s the whole point.
The other candidates look like they’ve been bred in velvet-lined petri dishes. Polished. Perfumed. Practically glowing. Moondae blends in only because he has perfected the art of appearing so unremarkable that people naturally forget he exists.
The check-in process feels like a hotel lobby collided with a game show. A staff member scans his documents, hands him a badge, and ushers him toward a lounge area where the contestants wait.
The cameras are rolling already.
Fantastic.
He sits quietly, cataloguing faces like a librarian sorting books.
There’s the fitness influencer with shoulders wide enough to block a solar eclipse. A shy model who clings to his scarf as if it’s emotional support fabric. Three heirs from minor conglomerates. One theatre kid who keeps talking in stage voice.
Moondae hums a little, pretending to be intimidated.
He’s actually mapping exits, guard rotations, and blind spots between flower arrangements.
Then someone enters.
Not the person he’s undercover for, not yet.
This is one of the coordinators, a smooth-talking man with a mic clipped to his lapel and a smile that looks stapled on.
“Welcome, gentlemen! Soon, you’ll meet Seon Ahyeon. Please keep the energy high. We’re filming an introduction scene, so reactions matter.”
Moondae fights the urge to roll his eyes. He beams instead. Weakly. Convincingly. Just like his character sheet stated he should.
The room buzzes with chatter.
Someone whispers, “Do you think Ahyeon-ssi is really as pretty as they say?”
Another responds, “My cousin saw him at a charity gala. Said he looks unreal. Like he might float.”
Moondae doesn’t join. But he listens because information gathering was the most important part of being undercover, especially in a case like this.
Then the double doors open.
The room inhales.
Seon Ahyeon walks in flanked by two guards, a soft spotlight trailing him through skylight slants. He’s dressed in a pale suit that makes him look like the human version of a well-behaved sunrise. Soft smile, careful posture, eyes that move too quickly for someone who’s supposed to be carefree.
He’s scared.
Moondae sees that instantly, the way fear flickers like a secret flame behind his lashes.
Interesting.
Seon Ahyeon greets the group politely, voice calm, trained. Years of being watched have sculpted him into something precise.
When his eyes pass over Moondae, there’s a tiny hitch. A flicker of confusion, like Seon Ahyeon can sense the shape of the lie that Moondae is wearing like borrowed clothing.
Moondae looks away first.
No need to draw attention.
The introductions begin. One by one, contestants step up to make their first impression on camera. Compliments fly like petals in a spring breeze. Some are sweet. Some are clumsy. One tries a joke that dies a loud, horrible death.
Moondae waits until he’s pushed into line.
The coordinator makes a gesture. “Candidate eighteen.”
Moondae steps forward slowly.
Ahyeon watches him with quiet curiosity.
Moondae bows. “Ryu Moondae. Twenty-five. I… uh… like reading.”
A simple, boring line. The safest camouflage.
Some of the other men look relieved. He’s no threat in the romance department.
Good.
But Seon Ahyeon tilts his head, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with legs.
Moondae feels it again. That flicker. Like Ahyeon has learned to look for danger in people the same way Moondae does.
A match of instincts.
Dangerous.
The coordinator calls for group shots. Candidates rearrange themselves, trying to get closer to Seon Ahyeon without seeming too eager. Moondae stays at the outer edge until a production assistant nudges him inward.
Seon Ahyeon’s gaze keeps floating back to him, not frequently enough to be obvious, but enough for Moondae to note it.
Either Seon Ahyeon recognises the NIS gloss in his stance, or he’s already started forming attachments based on comfort.
Neither option is ideal.
As the filming wraps, staff guide the contestants to their dorm rooms.
Moondae gets a modest, corner room with a single bed, a tall mirror, a desk that looks too fancy to actually write on, and a view of the estate gardens.
He sits on the bed and picks apart the day in his mind.
The security is tight, but not tight enough. The cameras are everywhere, but none are in the blind spots he could exploit. The threat is still out there, planning to kidnap Seon Ahyeon.
And Seon Ahyeon…
Ahyeon looked at him like he might be a safe harbour and perhaps just his type.
Moondae sighs and leans back, eyes tracing the ornate ceiling.
This assignment already feels like trouble. The pleasant, expensive kind of trouble that ruins lives.
Morning in the estate tastes like money.
Even the sunlight feels expensive, sliding through the windows in neat, golden stripes as if it, too, went through a screening process to be allowed in. Moondae wakes early because agents don’t sleep deeply on missions and because the walls here feel too thin. Secrets could leak through them with the slightest breath.
The hallway outside his room is already alive with footsteps. Candidates are sprinting to early grooming sessions. Hair stylists flock past like migrating birds armed with curling irons. Someone is crying because the moisturiser provided isn’t “hydrating enough for camera lighting.”
Moondae, invisible in a crowd of loud peacocks, slips toward the breakfast hall.
It smells of pastries, fruit, and desperation.
Most of the contestants are trying too hard not to look nervous. Others are trying too hard to look photogenic while being nervous. A few seem genuinely happy to be here, which Moondae finds slightly concerning.
He piles food on his plate like an ordinary twenty-something. A small, harmless heap of eggs and toast. He sits in a corner with the comfort of a man used to observing, not participating.
He’s halfway through his toast when someone sits directly across from him.
Seon Ahyeon.
No entourage. No guards.
Just Ahyeon, his soft hair tucked neatly behind one ear and his breakfast untouched.
Moondae freezes for half a second. The reaction is small enough to hide, large enough for him to scold himself internally.
“Good morning,” Ahyeon says, voice quiet but shaped with that careful politeness taught to heirs and diplomats.
Moondae nods. “Morning.”
Ahyeon’s gaze dips to his toast, then back up. “You don’t… look like the others.”
Moondae’s heart skips. “Is that good or bad?”
“Neither.” Ahyeon tilts his head, thoughtful. “Just true.”
Moondae nearly snorts.
Here he is, undercover, trying to blend like a plain white sock in a drawer of silk ties… and yet Ahyeon has already circled him mentally with a highlighter.
He takes a sip of water to buy time. “I’m not very interesting.”
“Most dangerous people never think they’re interesting,” Ahyeon says, voice so light that it almost sounds like a passing remark.
Moondae almost chokes.
Before he can recover, the cameramen sweep into the breakfast hall like a well-practised swarm.
“Ahyeon-ssi! Candidates! We’re beginning the morning activity shortly. Please finish eating and move to the garden terrace.”
Ahyeon rises gracefully. “See you later, Moondae-ssi.”
As he walks away, Moondae feels the strange weight of being seen.
Troubling.
He finishes breakfast quickly and follows the crowd out to the terrace.
Today’s activity is something the production team calls Charm Trials, which sounds like a high school drama club and a corporate team-building exercise had a confused child.
The host stands at the centre, beaming at the cameras. “Today, each candidate must impress Ahyeon-ssi with a short self-introduction skit! Humour, talent, creativity, sincerity… all welcome!”
Moondae suppresses the urge to shoot the man.
The other contestants were thrilled. One immediately begins stretching his hamstrings. Another pulls out a guitar. Someone else practices finger hearts as if life depended on it.
Moondae stands at the back, contemplating faking an ankle injury.
The host continues. “Ahyeon-ssi will sit on the judging seat over here,” he gestures toward a small, elegant chair on the terrace, “and react naturally!”
Ahyeon is guided into place. He smiles, but the nervous twitch in his fingers gives him away.
He’s more anxious today.
Moondae notes it with a quiet thrum of concern.
The performances begin.
A muscular heir performs a dramatic poem comparing Ahyeon to the moon.
A model juggles apples with surprising skill.
The theatre kid sings three lines from a musical, cracks on the high note, and bows anyway.
Ahyeon smiles politely through every act, but his eyes keep drifting.
Toward Moondae.
When Moondae’s turn arrives, he steps forward with the hesitant energy of a man walking into traffic.
The host beams. “Candidate eighteen! Show us what makes you stand out!”
Absolutely nothing, Moondae wants to say.
Instead, he clears his throat. “Uh. I don’t really have… a talent.”
A few contestants snicker.
“But,” Moondae continues, “I can…”
His brain scratches through possible options.
Gun disassembly? Illegal.
Combat flips? Suspicious.
Advanced driving? Wrong vibe.
He settles on the safest choice.
“…make paper cranes.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
Then someone in the back whispers, “Seriously?”
Moondae shrugs, pulls a small square of paper from his pocket, and folds.
He works slowly. Carefully. Hands steady.
There’s a quiet kind of grace in it, simple and clean.
When he finishes, he holds the crane out. “For Seon Ahyeon-ssi.”
The production team collectively melts.
The cameras swoon.
Ahyeon… blinks. Then stands, walks over, and accepts the crane like it’s something precious.
“It’s cute,” he says softly.
Moondae nods. “Some people think it’s stupid.”
Ahyeon shakes his head. “I don’t.”
For one dangerous second, their eyes meet.
Ahyeon’s gaze holds warmth. Gratitude. Something else Moondae refuses to name.
The host swoops in before the moment can stretch too far. “Lovely! Thank you, candidate, eighteen!”
Moondae steps back.
As the activities move on, he keeps his expression blank… but his mind is buzzing.
Because Ahyeon is getting attached.
Because Ahyeon is too perceptive.
Because connections make missions messy.
Because feelings get people killed.
And because, in that moment with the paper crane, Moondae felt a ripple in the air.
Like this assignment has already begun to bend in ways he didn’t plan.
The afternoon schedule is called a ‘Free Social Interaction Block’, which is a polite way of saying: Throw thirty competitive adults into one garden, and let them emotionally maul each other for screen time.
The garden is massive, paved with marble paths and decorated with geometric rose bushes. Candidates spill across the estate like expensive marbles, bright and polished and absolutely ready to roll into trouble.
Moondae keeps to the edges, scanning faces, gauging risks, cataloguing anyone whose smile seems too sharp or whose hands stay too close to their pockets.
He’s evaluating a suspiciously bulky wristwatch on candidate #11 when he hears a voice bursting with sunshine-level confidence:
“Hey! Candidate eighteen!”
Moondae turns.
A boy waves at him from across the lawn, practically skipping toward him. His grin is wide, his hair styled like he personally bribed gravity to behave, and his aura is bright enough to power a small village.
“I’m Cha Eugene,” he says, stopping only a foot away. “Your paper crane thing earlier? That was adorable.”
Moondae blinks. “…Thank you?”
Eugene beams harder. “You’re welcome! You look like you’re alone, so I’m gonna bring you to my friends.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Moondae replies.
Eugene ignores him completely. “Come meet my team.”
“My wha—”
Too late. Eugene grabs Moondae’s wrist like they’re lifelong besties and drags him into a little cluster of three other boys.
One of them, tall and sharp-featured, raises an eyebrow as they approach.
“I see you’ve collected someone again.”
“I didn’t collect him!” Eugene protests. “We’re bonding.”
The tall one sighs. “We met him four seconds ago.”
Eugene gestures dramatically toward the unimpressed man. “This is Bae Sejin. He seems cold, but he’s warm on the inside.”
Sejin doesn’t even blink. “I’m not warm.”
The third boy—soft-eyed, gentle, wearing an oversized cardigan he definitely brought from home—waves timidly.
“S-sorry about them,” he murmurs. “I’m Kim Raebin.”
Moondae nods politely. “I’m Park Moondae.”
Eugene drops onto a garden bench and pats the seat next to him insistently.
“You can sit here! We don’t bite.”
Sejin adds, deadpan, “He bites.” He points at Eugene.
“Only snacks,” Eugene argues. Then brightens. “Are you a snack?”
Moondae stares.
Eugene gasps. “That sounded wrong. I meant—like—metaphorically—”
Raebin flails. “Eugene-hyung, please stop talking.”
Moondae feels a headache forming.
Before he can decide whether to stay or retreat, another presence approaches.
Moondae doesn't need to look up to know who it is. The shift in the air is enough.
Seon Ahyeon.
Ahyeon steps into the shade of the garden archway, soft hair stirring with the breeze. Today’s outfit is cream-toned again, matching the roses behind him. He looks like a painting. A shy one. One that’s trying very hard not to be the centre of attention.
His eyes land on Moondae almost immediately.
“Ah,” Eugene whispers excitedly. “The heir is here.”
Sejin elbows him. “Have some dignity.”
Ahyeon walks toward their group, hands clasped gently in front of them.
“Hello,” he says, bowing slightly. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“You’re not!” Eugene chirps at lightning speed.
Moondae, noticeably quieter, inclines his head.
“Hello, Ahyeon-ssi.”
Ahyeon’s gaze softens in a way that should not be directed toward someone he met yesterday.
He glances at the other boys.
“You’re all part of the same team?”
Eugene nods. “We debuted together. Well—kind of debuted.”
He scratches his cheek sheepishly. “We’re not super famous yet. This was actually one of the PR stunts that our marketing head suggested. ”
“You’re working hard,” Ahyeon says gently, sincerity woven through his voice.
It makes Eugene nearly combust on the spot.
Sejin bows. “We will do our best. Thank you for your support, Ahyeon-ssi.”
Raebin bows too, almost ninety degrees. “We hope to improve steadily—”
“Raebin, breathe,” Eugene says, patting the boy’s back.
Ahyeon smiles at all of them… but lingers on Moondae.
“I enjoyed your performance this morning,” Ahyeon says.
Eugene’s head snaps toward Moondae so fast it’s a miracle his neck survives. Sejin’s expression sharpens, eyes flicking between the two boys with subtle calculation.
Moondae clears his throat. “It wasn’t really a performance.”
“It felt sincere,” Ahyeon replies.
Eugene whispers loudly, “Oh, he likes you.”
Sejin elbows him again.
Ahyeon’s cheeks flush faint pink. “I didn’t mean to… make things awkward.”
“You didn’t,” Moondae says.
Which is technically true. Ahyeon didn’t make it awkward.
The cameras did. The candidates hovering nearby as vultures did.
And Moondae’s own chest tightening in ways he does not approve of absolutely did.
Another candidate approaches the group, clearing his throat with importance.
“Ahyeon-ssi,” the man says, bowing. “May I request a short conversation? The cameras want to capture your thoughts on today’s introductions.”
Ahyeon nods politely.
But then—
He turns to Moondae.
“Would you… Accompany me? If you’re comfortable.”
Eugene explodes silently beside him, fists shaking like he’s celebrating an Olympic win.
Sejin’s brows flick upward.
Raebin stares with wide, trembling awe.
The candidate who asked looks offended.
Moondae keeps his facial expressionless. “If that’s what you want.”
Ahyeon smiles, tiny and bright and devastating.
“Yes.”
They walk away together, the cameras following like obedient shadows.
Behind them, Eugene whispers, “Sejin-hyung, am I hallucinating?”
“No,” Sejin replies. “But Moondae might.”
Raebin nods vigorously. “I think candidate eighteen is… very doomed.”
And somewhere in the middle of the garden, as Ahyeon leads him through sunlight and blooming roses, Moondae privately agrees.
He is very, very doomed.
The production team calls the next segment “Private Reflection Interviews.” Which means the estate’s courtyard fills with staff herding contestants like overpriced sheep toward individual camera tents to spill their shallowest thoughts.
Ahyeon should be going too. But instead, he stands with Moondae in a quieter stretch of the garden pathway, where the roses thin out and the afternoon sun warms the stone tiles.
The camera staff waits a respectful distance away. Ahyeon had requested it.
“Are you comfortable here?” he asks Moondae softly.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Moondae replies.
Ahyeon’s eyes widen a bit, then soften.
“…Maybe.”
There’s a long pause. Moondae doesn’t mind the silence, but Ahyeon fidgets, twisting a silver ring on his finger.
“You’re… different,” Ahyeon says finally.
Moondae raises an eyebrow. “Different from what?”
“Everyone.” Ahyeon’s voice is barely above a murmur. “They all want to impress me. But you… don’t. It’s refreshing.”
Refreshing. He’s never been called that to his face. It has always been ‘cold’ but never ‘refreshing’.
Moondae shifts his weight subtly, scanning the perimeter. The garden is calm. But calm is what comes right before trouble.
“What is it like?” Ahyeon asks suddenly.
Moondae looks at him. “What?”
Ahyeon clasps his hands behind his back. “Being here. On a show like this. Competing.”
For a moment, Moondae almost answers honestly. Then he remembers he’s undercover.
“It’s… new,” he says.
Ahyeon smiles gently. “You don’t talk much.”
“You talk enough for both of us.”
Ahyeon’s laugh is soft and startled, like a bird taking flight. Moondae feels it somewhere inconvenient in his chest.
Before he can retreat emotionally or physically, a voice rings out across the garden.
“Moondae-hyung!”
Three figures approach like a small, eager parade and a small frown takes its place on Moondae’s face.
The boy band that came here for publicity.
Eugene waves wildly. Raebin clutches a tray of iced drinks like an offering.
Sejin walks behind them, resigned to his fate as babysitter.
“We brought beverages!” Raebin says. “I thought Ahyeon-ssi might like a peach tea, so I—”
Ahyeon lights up. “Peach tea? That’s my favourite.”
Raebin beams, face turning red from pride. “R-really?! I didn’t know, I just guessed—”
Eugene pats his shoulder. “Good instincts, baby genius.”
Sejin offers the tray to Ahyeon and Moondae with the calm efficiency of someone used to containing chaos. “Would you like one?”
Moondae nods and takes an iced drink. Ahyeon chooses a peach tea and murmurs a soft “Thank you.”
All of them watch him drink it like they’re witnessing royalty accept a sacred relic.
Ahyeon seems shy but pleased, which makes Raebin almost cry.
But Moondae’s attention catches on something else.
Movement. Farther in the garden.
A shadow ducking behind a hedge, wrong height, wrong posture, wrong pace.
A civilian? A staff member? A contestant trying to spy?
Moondae subtly angles his body, blocking Ahyeon’s view.
“Moondae-hyung?” Eugene asks.
“Stay here,” Moondae says.
“Why? Where are you—”
Moondae is already walking.
He circles the hedge quietly. Carefully. Hand drifting toward his pocket where a small, disguised tactical pen rests. Not a gun, not here, but enough.
He spots the figure crouched behind a rose trellis.
Dark jacket. Camera equipment. Face covered partially by a cap.
Not production staff. Wrong badge.
“Hey,” Moondae says sharply.
The man startles, dropping something metallic with a soft clink.
When Moondae steps closer, he sees it.
A tiny sensor device.
A tracker.
The man scrambles backwards. “I—this—it’s—it’s not what it looks like!”
“It looks like you’re planting illegal equipment on private property,” Moondae replies coldly.
The man’s eyes dart left, then right, then—
He runs.
Moondae chases him for three steps before calculating that pursuit beyond camera sightlines will cause more problems than solutions.
So he memorises the man’s build. His gait. His shoes. Everything.
And then he lets him escape over the garden wall.
Moondae returns to the group.
Ahyeon looks worried. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Moondae says.
Sejin narrows his eyes. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Moondae lies smoothly. “Just a staff member who didn’t want to be seen.”
Eugene frowns. “You look like you saw something creepy.”
Raebin holds his cup like a nervous squirrel. “Was it a ghost?”
“No,” Moondae says.
But Ahyeon keeps staring at him with a strange, perceptive tension in his gaze.
“You don’t have to protect me from everything,” Ahyeon whispers.
Moondae looks at him, startled by how direct the words are.
“I’m not,” he says.
“You are,” Ahyeon replies softly.
“And I… don’t dislike it.”
Eugene squeaks audibly. Raebin nearly drops the tray. Sejin pinches the bridge of his nose.
Moondae stays still.
Emotionally frozen. Externally calm. Internally swearing.
Because Ahyeon is getting closer. Because danger is circling. Because someone planted a device meant for kidnapping operations.
And because Moondae feels himself reacting.
Not as an agent.
But as something much, much more reckless.
The Selection House always felt loud, but tonight the noise had teeth.
Every footstep snapped. Every whisper dug in. Every candidate either paced themselves into a trench on the hardwood floors or sat stiff-backed on the couches like they were waiting for a doctor to tell them whether or not they were dying.
Moondae had seen interrogation rooms with better vibes.
He leaned against a pillar, pretending to scroll on his phone. The staff had instructed candidates not to use electronics, but no one dared approach the guy with the rumoured bad temper and worse sleeping habits. His cover personality was paying off.
Ahyeon hadn’t arrived yet. Which already made Moondae uneasy.
The elimination stage was visible at the front of the hall. A long curved table, spotlights overhead, and a backdrop playing the Selection House logo in a slow, pulsing shimmer. Staff moved crisply as dominoes, testing mics, adjusting cue cards, and placing water bottles on the judges’ table.
His other ‘friends’ huddled nearby. They were a messy mix of nerves and bravado.
“Bro, if I get kicked, I’m suing,” Sejin muttered, tugging at the collar of his jacket.
“You can’t sue for being mid,” Eugene said, lounging like a cat who’d stolen a sunbeam.
“Hey. I am distinctly above mid.”
Moondae half listened. This was good. People being loud meant they weren’t watching him too closely.
Then Raebin sidled up to him, hands stuffed in pockets. “You look like you’re overthinking something,” he said.
Moondae didn’t look up. “Nothing. Don’t worry.”
“Oh. That’s worse.”
Raebin didn’t push further. He just stood next to him in that easy way he had, like leaning on Moondae was a normal and acceptable life choice. Moondae wasn’t sure if that meant Raebin trusted him, or if Raebin just didn’t understand personal space. Hard to tell yet.
A staff member’s voice finally cut through.
“All candidates, please line up. Seon Ahyeon-ssi will join you shortly.”
Moondae’s spine straightened on instinct. He didn’t move first. Can’t be too eager.
The line formed. Hiis ‘friends’ clustered together, though Eugene waved Moondae in with a tilt of his chin.
“You’ll look less like a serial killer if you stand with us,” he whispered.
“That’s not necessarily better,” Sejin muttered.
Moondae took the offered space anyway.
A low murmur swept the room. Ahyeon was entering from the far side, walking behind his manager and a slim security aide whom Moondae recognised from the earlier briefing. Ahyeon himself looked calm, polished, and bright in the stage lights. But close up, Moondae caught the way the boy’s finger twitched at his cuff. A stress tell.
When Ahyeon reached the front, his gaze flickered over the line of candidates. It paused on Moondae for a hair shorter than a breath, but the warmth there was unmistakable.
Moondae looked away first. He always did.
The host stepped up. Cameras swung into place like a row of metallic birds.
“Welcome to the first elimination ceremony of the Crown Selection Program…”
Moondae tuned out the scripted opener. He watched the exits. The camera crew. The overhead rigging. The space under the judges’ table, where a device could be planted if someone got creative.
So far, everything looked clean.
The names started being called.
Some were smiles and sighs of relief. Some were stiff bows and shaky breaths. A few were forced bravado, hiding the sting.
Then—
“Candidate 22… Kim Jihwan.”
A slim figure stepped forward. The one who’d spent the whole week watching everyone with sharp, quiet eyes while Moondae did the same.
As Jihwan walked, his gaze slid across the line and snagged on Moondae. Not curious. Not friendly.
Suspicious.
Moondae’s muscles pulled tight beneath his neutral expression.
Jihwan held his gaze one second too long. A silent comment passed between them. I see you. And I don’t buy what you’re selling.
Great. Just what Moondae needed. A perceptive bachelor.
The ceremony continued. His ‘friends’ were safe across the board. They celebrated each other with shoulder bumps and whispered jokes.
When Moondae’s turn finally came, the host announced,
“Candidate 18… Ryu Moondae.”
There was a brief pause in the room. Even the cameras felt like they blinked at him.
Moondae stepped forward, movements calm and measured, though a few candidates watched him like someone had let a wolf into the garden.
He bowed. The judges nodded. Ahyeon’s eyes softened at him from across the stage.
But another flash caught Moondae’s attention.
Jihwan again. Narrowed eyes. A smirk that wasn’t kind.
After the final names were called and the unlucky candidates escorted away, the air thinned. Conversations returned like someone had pressed play after a long, tense pause.
Te: Stars drifted toward Moondae again.
“Congrats, bro,” Sejin said, clapping him on the back like he’d known him for years.
“Yeah,” Eugene added. “Now we get to keep using you as emotional support. You should charge for it.”
Raebin grinned. “He’s too scary to charge. You should tip him for the privilege.”
Moondae managed a tiny huff of amusement. They were ridiculous, but good. Familiar chaos. It tugged at feelings he hadn’t meant to grow.
Just as he was starting to relax, Jihwan approached.
Of course.
He stood at a careful distance. Enough to not attract attention. Close enough to speak.
“You’re very interesting, Candidate 18,” he said lightly.
Moondae met his gaze. “That’s subjective.”
“Mm.” Jihwan tilted his head. “What did you say your profession was again?”
“Freelancer.”
“That’s convenient.”
Moondae didn’t blink. “So is being nosy.”
Jihwan’s smile sharpened.
“It’s elimination night. People show their real colours.”
Before Moondae could answer, Ahyeon’s voice called his name from across the room.
Not loud. Not formal. Warm.
Moondae turned, and Ahyeon lifted a small wave, asking him wordlessly to come over. His manager stood beside him, watching the room for threats.
Jihwan followed Moondae’s gaze, hummed, and stepped back into the crowd.
Eugene, Raebin and Sejin shot him questioning looks, but Moondae only said, “Later.”
He made his way toward Ahyeon, feeling two gazes digging into his back. One soft, one sharp.
Tonight had gone well.
But the cracks were starting to show.
And Moondae wasn’t sure which would break first, the Selection House’s security or his cover.
The Selection House always quieted down after midnight. Not peacefully. More like a beast settling its weight, eyes still open, tail curled around its paws.
Moondae liked it that way.
He slipped out of his room with the calm efficiency of someone who was supposed to be asleep. The hallway lights were dimmed to a warm, buttery glow, and most cameras had already rotated into their nighttime angle cycles. Staff patrolled lazily.
Everyone here assumed the danger existed somewhere outside.
Moondae knew better.
He passed the glass walls overlooking the courtyard, then took the emergency stairs two at a time. His steps made almost no sound. The only noise was the faint hum of distant air vents and the soft rustle of night wind through the trees.
He reached the back corridor leading toward the staging wing. And there, like a neon sign someone forgot to turn off, was a problem.
Someone had left the maintenance closet cracked open.
Only by a few centimetres, but someone like Moondae noticed these things the way other people noticed their own breathing.
He approached, slowly. Listening.
Inside, silence reigned.
He nudged it wider.
Cleaning supplies. A toolbox. A service ladder. And a device tucked behind the mop bucket.
Boxy. Metal edges. No markings. And a wired component half-hidden by towels.
Moondae crouched and swept his thumb lightly across a seam.
Not a bomb, he deduced. No explosive signature, no heat, no residue.
A surveillance tap.
Someone wanted extra eyes on the candidates.
Someone not officially on staff.
Moondae flicked the device off with two precise motions, then tucked it back where he found it. Destroying it was useless. He wanted whoever planted it to think it was still functioning.
Better bait than ashes.
As he turned to leave, he caught the faint reflection of someone at the end of the hallway.
Jihwan.
Of course.
His expression was unreadable. Like he’d shown up by accident. Like he hadn’t just watched Moondae fiddle with an illegal surveillance tap.
Moondae stood, posture calm.
Jihwan lifted a hand in greeting.
“You can’t sleep either?”
“No.”
“Insomnia?”
“Something like that.”
Jihwan leaned one shoulder against the wall. “You really don’t like talking about yourself.”
“I don’t see why you want to.”
Jihwan smiled slowly and pointed. “Because it’s fun.”
Moondae stepped past him. Not rushed. Not defensive. Just certain.
“Find another hobby.”
Jihwan’s voice followed him.
“Some people talk like that when they’re hiding something.”
Moondae didn’t turn around.
“Some people imagine too much.”
He kept walking until he was sure he wasn’t being tailed. Only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding.
This was bad.
Not dangerous-yet bad. But inconvenient and bad. The kind of bad that came wrapped in curiosity and good eyesight.
Jihwan wasn’t the bomber. Moondae’s instincts screamed that.
But he could blow Moondae’s cover if he pushed too far.
Great. A nosy bachelor candidate with functioning brain cells. His least favourite species.
Moondae slipped through a staff-only door on his way back. He needed to patrol the perimeter cameras before dawn.
Except someone was already there.
His ‘friends’ because in all his lifetime, he had never been friends with people who genuinely liked him.
All of them.
Eugene, Sejin, and Raebin were sitting on the floor in a triangle, sharing a bag of chips like schoolboys at a sleepover gone rogue. They froze when Moondae opened the door.
Raebin blinked. “Are… you a ghost?”
Eugene frowned at him. “No, idiot. He’s just quiet.”
Sejin squinted. “Wait. If this isn’t your room, why are you here? Are we trespassing? Are you trespassing? Are we all criminals now?”
Moondae stared at them.
Eugene lifted the chip bag. “Want some? Raebin stole it from the snack prep room.”
Raebin whined. “Hey! That was going to be our secret crime!”
Moondae blinked once. “…You’re eating stolen snacks in a restricted area?”
Sejin nodded proudly. “Team bonding.”
Raebin patted the floor beside him. “Come sit. You look stressed.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Yeah,” Eugene chimed in. “You look like a guy who wants to punch a wall. Or commit tax fraud. Or both.”
Sejin nodded. “Mood, honestly.”
Moondae was silent. His instinct was to leave. This was wasting time.
But then Raebin held the chip bag up higher. His smile was annoyingly earnest.
“You can sit near us without saying anything. We don’t mind.”
Moondae’s jaw loosened before he even meant it to.
He sat.
They didn’t cheer. Didn’t tease. Just shifted to make space for him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Eugene nudged the bag at him. “You’re officially included now. No backing out.”
Raebin grinned. “Welcome to the club of insomnia and bad choices.”
Sejin sighed. “Finally, someone weirder than us.”
Moondae didn’t take a chip, but he let the warmth of their chaotic presence settle in the room. He didn’t stay long. Just a few minutes.
It was enough.
On his way out, Eugene called after him.
“You know—if someone’s bothering you, you can tell us. We’ll beat them up.”
Raebin gasped. “Like a gang?”
“Yes,” Sejin said gravely. “A very underfunded gang.”
Moondae paused with his hand on the door.
“…I’ll keep that in mind.”
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, their muffled voices rose into soft laughter.
And Moondae let himself breathe.
Somewhere between the midnight patrols, hidden devices, and suspicious bachelors… he had found something dangerous.
An attachment.
He shoved it down and continued to the next camera checkpoint.
He couldn’t afford softness.
Not when someone out there wanted to take Seon Ahyeon.
Not when his heart had started to pick favourites.
The producers insisted on early-morning filming that day.
Which meant the entire house was running on four hours of sleep, caffeine, and luck.
The candidates gathered outside for a “light outdoor challenge” involving sports day activities and Ahyeon giving encouraging commentary. It sounded harmless, but Moondae’s instincts prickled under his skin like static.
The air was too still.
The staff is too tense.
And Ahyeon… looked pale, though he smiled for the cameras.
Moondae stayed close. Not suspiciously close. Just close enough that he could grab Ahyeon’s collar again if someone tried anything.
Sejin whined at the lineup. “Why is the first game dodgeball? Who hates us?”
Eugene shrugged. “Probably the nation.”
Raebin held up a fist. “We can overcome anything.”
“You say that, but you can’t dodge,” Eugene muttered.
Moondae almost smiled. Almost.
The whistle blew, the cameras rolled, and the candidates stormed the field in a burst of shouts, colour, and the flapping noise of cheap sports jerseys.
Moondae kept his eyes sweeping the perimeter. Anyone approaching too casually. Anyone lingering where they shouldn’t.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing—
Until the wrong door opened.
The back maintenance exit is behind the bleachers. It was supposed to be locked. Restricted access. Only staff used it, and even then, only with an ID card.
But it opened.
Quietly. A shadow slipping out. Carrying something under their hoodie.
Something too heavy to be a phone. Too long to be a snack bag. Too deliberate to be innocent.
Moondae was moving before he realised it. His body recognised the threat faster than his conscious mind did.
He crossed the field in clean, slicing strides. Calm enough that cameras wouldn’t panic, fast enough that the shadow froze, startled.
The hooded figure grasped whatever was under their jacket tightly.
And bolted.
Moondae didn’t chase immediately. He shouted across the field.
“Ahyeon-ssi. Move back.”
His tone cut clean through the cheerful filming ambience. Sharp. Commanding. Wrong for a bachelor's candidate.
But Ahyeon reacted instantly, stepping behind the nearest staff member. His manager grabbed him and pulled him even further.
Moondae sprinted.
The shadow ran toward the north fence, steps sloppy, desperate. They shoved something into the gap under a storage shed.
Moondae closed the distance in seconds.
His hand shot out like a trap snapping shut.
He slammed the person into the fence.
The figure thrashed, panicked.
“Let go, let go—!”
“Stay still,” Moondae said. Calm. Unshakable. Cold enough to make even the wind hesitate.
“What—what are you—! I didn’t do anything!”
Moondae twisted the hood back.
Not a staff member. Not a candidate.
A young man. Early twenties. Red face, shaking hands.
The type sent to plant something while the real perpetrator hid behind layers.
Moondae pressed an elbow to the guy’s shoulder, restraining him with surgical precision.
“What did you put under the shed?”
“N-nothing!”
“Try again.”
The guy’s voice cracked. “—I-I don’t know what’s inside, I was just told to leave it—”
There.
Moondae didn’t wait for more.
He yanked the guy away, threw him onto the ground, and pinned him with a knee to the back without so much as a grunt. Then he reached under the shed’s gap and pulled out the object.
A metal cylinder.
Not a bomb, he mentally catalogued.
A smoke canister, military-grade.
To cause panic. Confusion. Then grab the target in chaos.
The plan was dirty but effective.
Moondae turned the canister over in his gloved hand, reading the scratched-off serial code.
The candidate yard had fallen silent.
Everyone was staring.
His acquaintances were halfway between “terrified” and “our weird friend has superpowers.”
Raebin’s jaw hung open. “Hyung… what the hell?”
Eugene whispered, “Moondae’s a secret kung-fu accountant or something.”
Sejin blinked rapidly. “Should we be impressed? Or scared?”
Moondae ignored them. He hauled the would-be runner upright and dragged him toward the staff.
But then he heard it.
A panicked little exhale.
Ahyeon.
He was standing a few meters away, hand clutched against his chest. His manager is holding his arm. His eyes were wide and locked on Moondae. On the strength in his hands. On the expression, Moondae hadn’t had time to school into normalcy.
Ahyeon looked at him like he’d just watched a stranger emerge from Moondae’s skin.
Moondae softened his shoulders immediately. Gentled his grip. Made his expression blank.
He had to. He needed to look like Candidate 18 again.
Not the operative who could break someone’s arm in five seconds.
Moondae handed the trembling man over to producers and security. They swarmed around him, shouting questions, dragging the stranger toward the building.
The yard remained frozen.
Eugene finally found his voice.
“Dude. That was… insane. Where did you learn to do that?”
Moondae said nothing.
Raebin nudged his shoulder. “Are you secretly a gangster? Blink twice if you’re part of an underground fight club.”
Sejin clutched him dramatically. “No. Blink if you’re escaping from a dark past.”
Moondae stayed still.
“I saw the door open,” he said quietly. “I reacted.”
“Reacted?” Eugene sputtered. “You tackled him like a drama stuntman who doesn’t fear death!”
Raebin nodded hard. “It was awesome. But also scary. But also awesome.”
Ahyeon finally approached.
His steps were soft. Careful. Almost hesitant.
“Moondae-ssi,” he said. Voice quiet. “Are you… Alright?”
Moondae looked at him. Really looked.
Ahyeon wasn’t scared of him. He was scared for himself.
Moondae’s chest tightened.
“I’m fine,” he said, steady as stone.
Ahyeon exhaled with relief, though a flicker of worry remained in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Moondae’s fingers twitched.
He bowed his head slightly. Just enough.
“It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t anything.
This was the first crack in the bomber’s plan and the first time Moondae’s acquaintances and Ahyeon had seen him without his mask.
Now the question remained:
Could he keep the mask on?
Or had today made everyone suspect that Candidate 18 was far more than he pretended to be?
By the next morning, the Selection House had learned how to whisper.
No one talked openly about the incident from the field, but it lived in the walls now, tucked into the pauses between conversations and the way people glanced twice at exits. Staff moved with tighter smiles. Security doubled without announcement. The cameras kept rolling, but their angles shifted, careful and alert, like they were learning fear in real time.
Moondae woke before his alarm and lay still for several minutes, listening to the house breathe. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed too loudly. Somewhere else, a door closed too carefully. He catalogued the sounds automatically, then forced himself to stop. He couldn’t patrol forever without someone noticing. He couldn’t afford to look like he was waiting for something to go wrong.
When he finally left his room, he felt the weight of eyes on him immediately.
Not hostile. Not admiring. Curious, uneasy, quietly measuring.
The incident had changed the way people looked at him. Not because he had tackled someone, but because he had done it without panic, without hesitation, and without needing instructions. Candidates whispered that he’d moved as he’d rehearsed it. Staff watched him like they were recalculating where he fit in their mental hierarchy. One or two people smiled at him too brightly, trying to decide whether to align themselves with whatever they thought he was.
Moondae kept his expression neutral and his steps unremarkable.
In the breakfast lounge, three familiar figures waved him over.
They weren’t officially introduced as anything more than contestants, but even a blind man could see the way they moved together. The subtle harmony in their timing. The way one passed a cup without looking and another caught it without missing a beat. An unknown boy band, clearly, still carrying their stage instincts even in a place like this.
Sejin sat upright at the table, posture neat, eyes sharp. Eugene sprawled across two chairs like gravity was optional, chewing on toast and talking at the same time. Raebin hovered between them, carefully arranging cutlery like the table might judge him if it wasn’t symmetrical.
“Morning,” Eugene said brightly. “You’re alive. Good sign.”
Moondae sat across from them. “Disappointed?”
“A little,” Eugene replied. “It would’ve been exciting.”
Raebin looked horrified. “Don’t say that! We’re glad you’re okay. I was worried all night.”
Sejin studied Moondae over the rim of his coffee. “You didn’t look shaken yesterday.”
“I wasn’t,” Moondae said simply.
There it was. Not bravado. Not denial. Just truth, stated plainly.
Sejin’s eyes narrowed, not suspiciously, but thoughtfully, as if filing the information away for later. Eugene, predictably, leaned forward with interest.
“You know,” he said, lowering his voice theatrically, “people are saying you’re secretly from the military. Or a bodyguard. Or a disgraced action movie star hiding from the public eye.”
Raebin gasped. “Eugene!”
“What? I said disgraced. That’s sympathetic.”
Moondae took a sip of water. “People say things when they don’t understand what they saw.”
“And what did we see?” Sejin asked.
Moondae met his gaze. He considered lying. Then considered what these three had seen with their own eyes. He chose the narrow truth instead.
“Someone doing what needed to be done.”
Raebin relaxed visibly at that, shoulders dropping as if he’d been holding his breath. Eugene grinned, satisfied. Sejin nodded once, slow and measured.
“That’ll do,” Sejin said. “We weren’t asking for a confession.”
The morning schedule was reshuffled after that. Group activities were shortened. Outdoor filming was cancelled. The house felt like it was being kept indoors, not for convenience, but containment.
It was during one of those forced quiet hours that Ahyeon asked to speak with Moondae.
Not publicly. Not dramatically. Just a small message passed through a staff member, requesting his presence in one of the unused sitting rooms on the east wing. Moondae arrived first and stood by the window, watching sunlight spill over the trimmed gardens below.
Ahyeon entered a minute later.
He wasn’t dressed for cameras. No tailored jacket, no careful styling. Just soft colours and sleeves pushed up to his elbows, like he wanted to feel less contained by the world today. When he saw Moondae, he smiled, but it wasn’t the practised kind. It was quiet. Earnest. Relieved.
“Thank you for coming,” Ahyeon said.
“Of course.”
They sat across from each other, not too close, not too far. The space between them felt intentional, respectful.
“I want to clear up any doubts between us,” Ahyeon said after a moment, fingers resting lightly against his cup. “This program… people assume it’s about romance. But that isn’t what I’m looking for.”
Moondae didn’t interrupt. He already knew this wasn’t a confession.
“I grew up surrounded by people who wanted something from me,” Ahyeon continued. “Approval. Access. Association. I agreed to this because I wanted to meet people who could sit beside me without reaching.”
He looked up then, eyes steady.
“You do that.”
Moondae felt something in his chest loosen, not dangerously, but enough to matter.
“I don’t think of you as someone I need to impress,” Ahyeon added. “And I don’t feel like you’re trying to win me. That makes it easier to breathe.”
Moondae inclined his head slightly. “I’m not very good at competing for attention.”
“That’s why I trust you,” Ahyeon said, simply.
Trust. The word settled between them with real weight.
Outside the sitting room, the house continued its careful dance of cameras and schedules and security briefings. Somewhere beyond the walls, a threat still waited, patient and unfinished. Moondae knew the job wasn’t over. If anything, it was tightening.
But in this quiet room, with no audience and no script, Ahyeon had offered him something simpler and far more dangerous than romance.
Friendship. Genuine. Unarmed.
Moondae accepted it without ceremony.
He would protect that, too.
The live event was sold as a celebration.
A final gathering before the next phase of the program, complete with an audience, press coverage, and a carefully staged illusion of safety. The estate glittered under floodlights, every path illuminated, every surface polished until it reflected confidence in the cameras. If danger existed, the show intended to drown it in spectacle.
Moondae hated spectacles.
He stood among the candidates in the wings of the outdoor pavilion, hands folded loosely in front of him, posture relaxed enough to look unremarkable. To anyone watching, Candidate 18 looked calm. Maybe even bored. But beneath the surface, his mind was moving quickly, fitting pieces together that had refused to align until now.
The surveillance tap.
The runner with the smoke canister.
The way security had tightened everywhere except the underground service routes.
The fact that tonight’s event placed Ahyeon on a raised stage with controlled exits and a timed blackout for fireworks.
It wasn’t subtle anymore. It was arrogant.
Moondae’s earpiece vibrated once. A coded pulse, routed through a civilian channel so old it barely registered as intelligence tech. He didn’t touch it. He didn’t need to. The message was clear enough.
Tonight.
Ahyeon stood at the centre of the pavilion, smiling for the crowd, voice steady as he thanked the audience for their support. He looked composed, but Moondae caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze searched instinctively for familiar faces. When his eyes found Moondae in the wings, the tension eased just a fraction.
That was the moment Moondae knew.
This was no longer just an assignment.
The unknown boy band was stationed nearby, officially placed there for camera reactions and candid shots. Sejin noticed first. He always did. His eyes flicked toward Moondae, sharp and questioning, and Moondae answered with the smallest possible shake of his head. Not now.
Eugene, oblivious as ever, leaned toward Raebin and whispered something animated, probably about the fireworks. Raebin nodded along, smiling nervously, hands clasped too tightly.
The countdown began.
Ten.
Moondae shifted his weight, scanning the perimeter one last time.
Nine.
A flicker near the western service tunnel. Too fast. Too coordinated.
Eight.
Moondae stepped forward.
Seven.
The lights dimmed.
Six.
The first firework screamed into the sky.
Five.
Smoke bloomed near the stage, thick and artificial, spilling low and fast. Not decorative. Tactical.
Four.
The crowd gasped.
Three.
Moondae was already running.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate. He vaulted the barrier between the wings and the stage in a single, fluid motion, landing hard and moving faster than the cameras could follow. Someone lunged toward Ahyeon through the smoke, gloved hands reaching, face hidden.
Moondae intercepted them mid-stride.
The impact sent both of them crashing to the ground. Moondae rolled, using momentum, wrenching the attacker’s arm back at an angle that forced compliance without breaking it. Another figure emerged from the haze, and Moondae moved without thinking, kicking out low, sweeping their legs, driving an elbow into their chest.
Security was too slow, as it always was.
Moondae pulled Ahyeon behind him, one arm braced protectively across his chest, body angled to shield him from the chaos. He felt Ahyeon’s breath hitch, heard the sharp intake of air as reality caught up.
“It’s okay,” Moondae said, voice steady even as the world fractured around them. “Stay behind me.”
The third attacker didn’t get close.
Sejin did.
He stepped into the path with brutal decisiveness, shoving the man off balance long enough for Moondae to finish the job. Eugene grabbed Raebin and dragged him out of harm’s way, yelling something incoherent but heartfelt. For a split second, the illusion shattered completely, and all that remained were people reacting on instinct.
The smoke cleared.
Sirens wailed.
Security swarmed.
Moondae stood slowly, hands raised, breathing controlled. His jacket was torn, knuckles bruised, expression stripped bare of any pretence. Cameras zoomed in. There was no hiding it now.
Ahyeon stared at him.
Not in fear. In understanding.
Later, much later, after statements were taken and suspects detained and the event officially labelled a “security breach handled swiftly,” Moondae sat in a quiet room with no cameras and too much white space. His superiors’ voices echoed in his head, distant and already moving on to the next crisis.
The door opened softly.
Ahyeon stepped inside.
“I figured,” he said gently, closing the door behind him, “that if anyone deserved the truth, it should be me.”
Moondae nodded once. He didn’t offer excuses. He didn’t soften the reality.
“I was assigned to protect you,” he said. “I didn’t expect… this.”
Ahyeon smiled faintly. “You didn’t expect to make genuine connections. You're kind of like me in that case.”
“No,” Moondae admitted. “I didn’t.”
They sat across from each other again, just like before, but the space felt different now. Earned.
“You never treated me like a prize,” Ahyeon said. “You treated me like a person. That mattered more than you know.”
Moondae inclined his head. “I’m glad.”
Outside, the unknown boy band waited. Sejin met Moondae’s gaze through the glass and nodded once, a quiet acknowledgement of shared responsibility. Eugene flashed a grin and a thumbs-up. Raebin waved shyly.
Moondae exhaled.
The threat was over.
The mask was gone.
The story, for once, ended cleanly.
And for the first time in a long while, Moondae allowed himself to stay still.
The Selection House emptied slowly.
Not all at once, not with a dramatic farewell, but in stages. Equipment trucks rolled out at dawn. Set pieces vanished overnight. The gardens, once trimmed for the camera’s approval, were allowed to grow a little uneven again. Without the lights and lenses, the place looked smaller. More honest.
Moondae returned one last time in civilian clothes.
No badge. No earpiece. No prim and proper suit. Just himself, moving through familiar corridors that no longer required vigilance. The silence felt different now. Not like a looming cloud of doom.
Ahyeon met him near the east wing, where they had spoken without an audience for the first time. He was dressed simply again, hair unstyled, posture relaxed in a way Moondae hadn’t seen before.
“They’re finally letting me breathe,” Ahyeon said with a small smile. “No more programs. No more schedules decided by committees.”
Moondae nodded. “You handled it well.”
“I had help.”
They walked together through the garden paths, unhurried. The conversation drifted easily, unburdened by roles. Ahyeon talked about wanting to travel anonymously, just once. Moondae mentioned thinking about a long leave he’d been postponing for years. Neither promised anything beyond the moment.
At the gate, Ahyeon stopped.
“You didn’t just protect me,” he said. “You gave me proof that someone can stand beside me without wanting to own me. I think that will stay with me longer than the danger ever could.”
Moondae inclined his head, accepting the gratitude without deflecting it.
“I’m glad I could be that person.”
They parted without ceremony.
Across the street, a familiar car honked obnoxiously.
Eugene leaned out the window, waving both arms. “HYUNG! ARE YOU DONE BEING MYSTERIOUS YET?”
Raebin sat in the back seat, holding a bag that looked suspiciously like snacks for a long drive. He waved shyly when he caught Moondae’s eye. Sejin, in the passenger seat, gave a nod that said more than words ever would.
Moondae crossed the street and got in.
As the car pulled away, the Selection House receded in the rearview mirror, just another building now. Just another place where something almost went wrong and didn’t.
Moondae rested his head against the window, watching the city come back into focus.
The mission was complete. The threat was neutralised.
The friendships, improbably, remained.
For the first time in a long while, he wasn't alone, standing ramrod straight, just waiting for a mission to come and put some emotions in him. He had new friends, and these friends were going to keep him.
And that, he thought, was enough.