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The sky over Seoul was no longer the color of dried blood. There were no more flickering system messages in the periphery of his vision, no more constellations clamoring for bloody entertainment, and no more deafening explosions at the break of every dawn. The world had returned to a semblance of peace—or at least, it was doing a very convincing job of pretending. Yet, for Kim Dokja, this stillness was a new kind of torture he hadn't quite learned how to navigate.
He stood on the balcony of the apartment unit they now shared. The autumn night air was biting, a cold that seeped through his thin sweater and settled in his bones, but he didn’t move. His pale hands gripped the iron railing, eyes fixed on the city lights that flickered to life one by one, like stars fallen to earth. Inside, behind the closed glass sliding doors, he could hear the steady, rhythmic sound of a knife hitting a wooden cutting board. It was precise, relentless, and achingly familiar. It was the sound of Yoo Joonghyuk’s existence.
Dokja exhaled, a small cloud of white vapor escaping his lips. He often wondered, across the millions of regression turns that man had endured, was there ever a single moment where Yoo Joonghyuk felt truly at peace? Or was peace, for someone like him, merely a brief intermission before the next inevitable tragedy?
"Get inside. You’ll get sick."
The voice was low, heavy, and lacked any pretense of politeness. Dokja didn't need to turn around to know that Yoo Joonghyuk was standing in the doorway, wearing a black apron over a simple grey sweatshirt—a sight that still felt profoundly surreal to Dokja, even after everything they had been through.
"I was just getting some fresh air, Joonghyuk-ah," Dokja replied, a faint, weary smile playing on his lips—the kind of smile that usually made Joonghyuk want to reach for his sword.
"Fresh air isn't supposed to be freezing," Joonghyuk countered coldly. He stepped forward, his large, calloused hand—a hand that had cleaved through thousands of monsters—grabbing Dokja’s shoulder and firmly steering him back inside. "The food is ready."
Dokja allowed himself to be led into the warmth of the apartment. The rich aroma of broth and spices immediately hit his senses, momentarily dizzying him. Yoo Joonghyuk had prepared Murim dumpling soup. It was a dish that required hours of simmering to perfect, a level of dedication only someone obsessed with absolute perfection would bother with.
They sat across from each other at the small wooden dining table. No words were exchanged. In a world where they once had to speak constantly just to survive, this silence at the dinner table was a luxury they were still learning to afford. Dokja took a sip of the broth. The heat spread through his chest, thawing a bit of the persistent chill he had carried since returning from the Final Scenario.
"Well?" Joonghyuk asked curtly. His eyes were fixed on his own bowl, but Dokja knew the man was waiting for a verdict.
"It’s good. As always," Dokja smiled, more sincerely this time. "You’re really wasting your talent by not opening a restaurant, Joonghyuk-ah. You could be the number one chef in the world without having to kill a single monster."
Joonghyuk let out a soft huff, a sound that almost bordered on a laugh if you knew him well enough. "This world doesn't need a 'number one chef.' It only needs people who stop looking for trouble."
"And you think I’m the trouble?"
"You are the source of all trouble."
Dokja let out a soft chuckle, a fragile sound in the quiet room. He watched Yoo Joonghyuk. The warm yellow light from the hanging lamp softened the harsh lines of the man’s face. There was a faint crease in Joonghyuk’s forehead that never truly went away—a residual weight from the hundreds of lives he had carried alone. Dokja felt a strange thrum in his chest—guilt, gratitude, and something far deeper that he didn't dare give a name to.
For years, Kim Dokja was just a reader. He saw Yoo Joonghyuk as a hero, a subject of observation, a symbol of resilience. But now, the man before him was agonizingly real. He breathed, he cooked, he got annoyed, and he was here.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Joonghyuk set his spoon down, his gaze narrowing.
"Just thinking..." Dokja hesitated. "Do you regret it? There are no more regressions. No more power to reset if you make a mistake. This is your last life, Joonghyuk-ah."
Joonghyuk went still. He stared at the remaining broth in his bowl with an expression that was impossible to decipher. His hand, resting on the table, tightened into a slow fist.
"I stopped wanting to reset a long time ago," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "The mistakes in this life... at least they are real. I don't have to watch the same people die over and over in different ways." His eyes drifted up, locking onto Dokja’s. "Especially you."
Dokja felt his throat tighten. He quickly looked away, suddenly finding the chopped green onions in his bowl incredibly fascinating. "I won't die that easily. You know how slippery I am."
"You are the most skilled person I know at destroying yourself for the sake of others," Joonghyuk cut him off, his tone sharp. "If you plan on making another ridiculous sacrifice in a world that is already at peace, I will kill you myself."
"How cruel," Dokja murmured, though he knew it was Joonghyuk’s way of saying 'don't leave me.'
After dinner, Dokja insisted on doing the dishes. Joonghyuk initially refused, claiming Dokja would probably break the plates with his weak hands, but he eventually relented and sat on the sofa, methodically cleaning his sword—a hard habit to break.
Dokja watched Joonghyuk’s back from the kitchen. It was broad and solid, yet it looked incredibly lonely. He remembered the ring he had once been given. It wasn't a ring in the romantic sense of the trashy novels Han Sooyoung liked to tease them about, but it was a promise. A bond that transcended the need for words.
He dried his hands and walked slowly toward the sofa. Without a word, he sat at the opposite end, keeping a safe distance but close enough to feel the man's presence. The television was on, displaying news about the reconstruction of District 7, but neither of them was actually watching.
"Joonghyuk-ah," Dokja called out.
"Hm."
"Thank you."
Joonghyuk stopped polishing his blade. "For what?"
"For not giving up on me. Back on that train... and every moment after."
Silence reclaimed the room, but this time it felt heavier, more intimate. Joonghyuk set the sword down on the coffee table and leaned back. He turned toward Dokja, his expression softening—a rare sight reserved only for a select few.
"I didn't do it for you," Joonghyuk lied, a lie they had both tacitly agreed to accept. "I did it because I needed someone who knows exactly how exhausting this world is."
Dokja smiled. He reached out, his fingers almost brushing the sleeve of Joonghyuk’s sweatshirt before he started to pull back. However, Joonghyuk moved faster. He caught Dokja’s hand, holding it with a grip that was firm but not painful—enough to signal that he wasn't letting go.
Joonghyuk’s hand was warm and rough, a stark contrast to Dokja’s cool, smooth skin. To Dokja, this touch felt more real than the millions of paragraphs he had ever read. It was proof that they had reached the end of their story, and the beginning of something unwritten.
"Dokja," Joonghyuk’s voice was softer now. "Go to sleep. You look like a ghost."
"A handsome ghost, you mean?" Dokja tried to joke to mask the erratic thumping of his heart.
Joonghyuk didn't bite. He simply pulled Dokja a little closer, until their shoulders were touching. "Just a ghost that needs rest."
They sat there for a long time, letting the minutes pass without the fear of the next scenario. Outside, the world might still be full of chaos and uncertainty. People were still struggling to rebuild their lives, and the shadows of the past would likely haunt their nightmares forever.
But inside this small apartment, on a sofa that creaked slightly, two men who had crossed space and time had finally found a place to stop.
Kim Dokja leaned his head against Joonghyuk’s shoulder. He felt a wave of drowsiness hit him—a pleasant exhaustion that only comes when one feels truly safe. Before his eyes closed completely, he saw their reflection in the glass window—two figures leaning on each other, one reader and one protagonist, who were now simply two human beings.
"Goodnight, Joonghyuk-ah," Dokja whispered.
There was no verbal response, only a gentle squeeze from Joonghyuk’s hand still holding his, and the steady, rhythmic breathing that became the most beautiful lullaby Kim Dokja had ever heard.
Tomorrow, they would wake up again. Tomorrow, they might bicker about who has to buy groceries or who forgot to turn off the lights. But it didn't matter. Because tomorrow, and the days after that, were part of a story he didn't have to read through a screen. It was a story he would live, step by step, alongside the man who refused to let him disappear between the lines.
And for Kim Dokja, that was more than enough. Eternity no longer felt terrifying if he didn't have to walk through it alone. In the remnants of these quiet days, he found that the happiest ending wasn't a victory over gods, but the ability to close his eyes without fear of losing the person beside him when dawn finally arrived.
Under the quiet Seoul moon, the reader finally fell asleep, guarded by his most loyal protagonist.
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