Three Eight-Chapter 58

"......"

He wasn’t a boss, and he wasn’t a gangster either. So maybe Manager Yang was right—Mu-gyeong really was just some loaded rich guy with powerful connections. Even while staying at his hotel and exchanging secret messages, Hongju didn’t know a thing about him. Not that Mu-gyeong ever volunteered information, but then again, Hongju never really asked. So maybe it was only natural. Still, that cool voice echoed in his ears again.

“But weren’t you never in a position to ask for favors to begin with?”

Yeah. He wasn’t in a position to ask, or even to be curious.

“Let’s do rock-paper-scissors for cleanup too.”

“Hey, the youngest one should do it. We’re too old to be clearing dishes, aren’t we?”

“Fuck off, you sound like some boomer uncle. You’re all about equality when it’s time to pay.”

Ignoring the bickering, Hongju stood up. The short break was over. As he stepped over the threshold and walked down the quiet hallway, a sudden thought struck him. Was ‘Mu-gyeong’ even his real name?

Snow had started falling on his last collection run, and by now it had really piled up. The soles of his shoes squeaked as they crunched down over it. Hongju buried his nose in his scarf and lingered near a church. The person he needed to collect from was a pastor who worked out of a secluded alleyway church. A weekday afternoon. As Hongju entered the quiet building, he was greeted warmly—until he said he’d come from the House. The pastor’s face instantly changed, and he kept repeating that Hongju should leave quickly since evening service was coming up.

“Ugh, it’s cold.”

The pastor locked the door and occasionally peeked outside. Every time their eyes met, he waved frantically, clearly wanting Hongju to leave.

"...Amateur."

He swore up and down it was a one-time thing, but he really did look like someone who’d borrowed money for the first time. Honestly, he’d be better off paying something now and getting rid of Hongju. Otherwise, he'd only embarrass himself more when the worshippers arrived.

Hongju kept stamping footprints into the snow until service time approached. His feet eventually grew numb, and he pressed close to the church building. There was an awning at least—no snow fell on his head. He brushed off the snow that had already gathered in his hair and crouched down.

"......"

Inside, someone was practicing the accompaniment to a hymn. He didn’t know the song, but the melody was beautiful. The footprints he’d left had begun to fade under freshly fallen snow.

Enduring the sting of the cold, Hongju kept his gaze fixed on the snowy ground. A memory surfaced—a cartoon he’d seen as a child on TV. He couldn’t remember the name or the main character, but he vividly recalled the image of a child standing outside someone’s house in a blizzard. Just like him now. Impulsively, Hongju pulled out his phone and turned it on.

[It’s snowing a lot.]

As soon as he sent it, he wondered what the hell he was thinking. Panicking, he fumbled around the screen, but he didn’t know how to cancel a sent message. He stared at the still screen until his own face reflected faintly back at him, lips tightly bitten. Eventually, he turned the phone off again.

Maybe because it was nearly time for service, the pastor came back outside. Now dressed in a suit jacket, with his hair neatly done, he actually looked the part.

"Excuse me. Come back tomorrow, alright? It’s almost time for the evening service."

After spending half the day outside, his whole body was frozen stiff. Hongju slowly got to his feet, his lips numb and cracking.

"And why should I? Give me something now. At least a partial payment."

"Well, right now..."

The pastor glanced around nervously and fiddled with his glasses. He clearly didn’t want to cause a scene out front, and kept his voice low. Hongju wasn’t the type to struggle with guys like this. He shoved his hands into his pockets, buried his nose into his scarf again, and turned as if to walk straight into the church.

"Wait, wait! You can’t just go in there!"

The pastor tried to bark at him, still keeping his voice down. Hongju stared right into his face.

"I’m not leaving until I get my money."

"Ah, well, I—uh..."

Flustered, the pastor finally beckoned to him.

"Fine. Come over here."

It was a small terrace off to the side of the church. There was an awning, but nothing to block the wind. A sharp gust of snowy air whipped through them.

"Just... wait here quietly. Once service ends, something will come in. I’ll give you that much, at least."

Instead of replying, Hongju just went over and sat on the bench. Sitting around and making himself an eyesore was something he was exceptionally good at. The pastor grew increasingly agitated, then eventually disappeared around the back of the building.

Time passed. From the now-busy little church came occasional bursts of laughter. Voices singing, the pastor’s confident tone pleading for patience—all of it blended together. Hongju peeked through a small window, but he couldn’t see anything.

After the service, he received a little less than half of what was owed. Saying he’d come back again—on Sunday, not tomorrow—he headed for the hotel.

He should’ve dropped the collection money off at the House, but his body felt too heavy. The way he swiped the card and pressed the elevator button felt almost ridiculous to him. When he laughed to himself, the neatly dressed man beside him subtly stepped away.

"......"

Seeing him like that somehow made Mu-gyeong come to mind. Maybe because the man who used to show up at the House nearly every day, always saying the filthiest things, had suddenly stopped coming. For some reason, he was particularly curious about Mu-gyeong’s well-being. Even though he knew it wasn’t his place to care.

That night, Hongju fell ill. Cold sweat soaked his body, and he showered again before crawling under the covers. The air was warm, but his body kept shivering. He groaned for hours before finally passing out close to dawn.

His unconscious mind took him back to a day of heavy rain. Rain so fierce he couldn’t see ahead, beating down on his small, thin body. He pushed through it all, step by step.

"Haah... ha..."

He wasn’t even wearing proper shoes as he dashed through the mud. Something sharp jabbed into the sole of his foot, but he couldn’t stop. His breath was caught high in his throat, and his side burned like it’d been stabbed with a knife.

It had been after a long day of hawking gum around internet cafés and diners, when Hongju finally lay down to rest—only to overhear Guppping and Manager Yang talking.

"What about the brat if we go on a run?"

"Just leave him. He’s been worked to the bone all day—he won’t wake up in the middle anyway."

Back then, Hongju had still believed he might see his father if he went back to the neighborhood they used to live in. It had been so long, he could barely remember the way, but still—he ran. It wasn’t often the House was empty.

He hadn’t even heard the red tail lights closing in from behind in the dark. A van sped past and skidded to a stop right in front of him. Screeech! He slammed into the driver’s side door and fell hard to the ground.

"Where the fuck do you think you’re running off to, rat?"

The one who got out was Manager Yang. His uncovered right eye glinted viciously as it fixed on him. Hongju was gripped by a suffocating wave of fear.

"I–I just want to see my dad. I’ll come back after, I swear! I’ll come back and work!"

"Your dad, my ass."

Manager Yang grabbed a fistful of Hongju’s soaked hair. Then he slammed that small face—barely bigger than a palm—straight into the van door. The wet skin made the impact sound louder. It hurt worse too.

"Ugh."

"Hongju. I told you already, your dad’s not home right now. Your uncle’s in charge for now, so be a good boy, yeah? Your dad’ll come back after a hundred nights’ sleep, remember?"

Every time he chuckled, his gold tooth flashed. That smile was disgusting—Hongju squeezed his eyes shut. But no matter how many hundred nights passed, or a thousand, his father never came back.

"...Me."

At the sound of a faint voice, his lashes trembled. He twisted against the nightmare pulling him under, struggling to surface.

That’s when he felt it—a quiet pressure, gently holding his shoulder down. His limbs were numb, and there was no strength anywhere in his body. With great effort, Hongju pried open eyelids that felt like they weighed a ton.

"......."

His blurry vision slowly focused. The first thing he saw was the light overhead, too bright in the dark room. In the center of his gaze stood a neat, composed man, bathed in orange glow, looking down at him. It took Hongju several passes to trace his face and make sense of who ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) it was.

"You always wake up with eyes like that."

A voice from memory—one that had once frightened him but eventually became the only voice of hope. Hongju squeezed his eyes shut so hard his brows creased, then opened them again. The shadow hadn’t left.

"Did you seriously stop taking your meds like an idiot?"

Finally, it felt like his mind was being dragged up to shore. The fog lifted from his head, and clarity returned to his eyes. With a slow, heavy motion, Hongju pushed himself upright.

"President."

Maybe it was because he’d woken up from a nightmare to find Mu-gyeong beside him—but he felt more relieved than usual. For a boy as young as Hongju, debt was something that piled up with every breath he took. If he hadn’t met this man, maybe he really would’ve lived another thirty years in that downpour.

With trembling fingers, he grasped the sleeve of Mu-gyeong’s shirt. Mu-gyeong lowered his eyes to the small hand clinging to his clothes.

"You’ve been busy?"

"Why? Were you waiting for me?"

Was I waiting? If he said no, then why had he thought about Mu-gyeong so often? But if he said yes, that would be too presumptuous. He had no reason to wait. So he just clamped his mouth shut. Mu-gyeong tapped his overheated cheek lightly with the back of his hand.

"Was it me you were waiting for... or the money?"

Was it just his imagination, or did Mu-gyeong’s voice sound oddly amused as he asked again? When Hongju let go of the sleeve he’d been holding onto so tightly, his hand dropped like a stone. And then, from the narrow House to now, the question that had been bothering him finally slipped from his lips—before he could stop it.

"Is your name really Mu-gyeong? So your last name’s Mu?"

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At the sudden question, Mu-gyeong tilted his head, one eyebrow arching. His gaze swept down Hongju’s flushed, brightened face—sharp and unrelenting.

"Not sick—just drunk, huh?"

Muttering to himself, his words drifted low. Hongju didn’t seem to hear. He just blinked quietly, eyes clear and still.