Chapter 18 – The Shower Is Cursed
The forth morning after the bridge came quiet as a held breath.
Outside, the world was slate and white. Snow lined the balcony railings. The Han River flowed like dull mercury under a lid of clouds. Inside, the apartment barely stirred.
Except—
Something shifted under the blanket.
A rustle. A groan.
And then: movement.
Haneul sat up on the couch like someone waking from a century-long spell. His hair was a nest of tangled silver. The oversized blanket had slid halfway to the floor. He blinked, sniffed the air—and recoiled.
“Fuck.”
He brought his arm up to his nose and gagged.
“I smell like a raccoon’s armpit.”
He stumbled upright, blanket dropping. His t-shirt stuck to his chest with dried sweat. His socks were inside out. He swayed once, then beelined for the bathroom, nearly tripping over his own foot.
Seungho stood near the kitchen counter, a mug in hand. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair tied back. Controlled. Distant.
Their eyes met for half a second.
Haneul scowled, then turned toward the bathroom again.
This time, slower.
He stepped into the space like it might bite him. The room was nearly too pristine to be real—marble countertops, warm under-lighting, mirrors without smudges. Everything gleamed.
He narrowed his eyes at the folded pile of black clothes laid neatly near the sink. Crisp. Minimalist. Folded like a religious offering.
He turned, scowling, and instead of “thank you”, he shouted toward the hallway:
“Hey, skyscraper!”
A pause.
"Those folded like you’ve got OCD. They for me?"
Seungho’s voice came from the hallway, even and unreadable. “They’re clean. Yours if you want.”
Haneul clicked his tongue. “I’m not getting in that fucking indoor lake. I’ll drown.”
He eyed the tub suspiciously. It stretched like a luxury koi pond, the kind of thing only rich people or Bond villains used. No way in hell. He moved toward the shower instead, locating the digital control panel built into the wall.
“Huh.”
His fingers hovered over the glass. No knobs. No levers. Just smooth black touchpad.
“…High-tech bullshit.”
He poked it.
Nothing.
He poked it again.
Still nothing.
He grunted. “What kind of sadist builds a shower you need a damn user manual for—”
Third try. A beep. Then an explosion of freezing water.
“FUCK!”
The cold smacked into his skin like knives. He shrieked, flailed backward, slipped on the wet tile, kicked the glass, and knocked over a bottle of Seungho’s shampoo.
“THIS BATHROOM IS CURSED!” he bellowed, soaking wet and furious, banging on the wall like he was trying to summon a priest.
In the hallway, Seungho froze.
The thuds. The snarls. The curses.
He had negotiated with corrupt foreign diplomats. He had stayed calm under televised board meetings with hostile shareholders. But nothing in his CEO training had prepared him for a man screaming bloody murder at a shower panel.
The bathroom door flew open.
And out came Haneul.
Dripping. Naked. Radiating fury.
His braid clung to his neck in wet strands. Water glistened on lean, pale muscle, on sharp collarbones and tense thighs. His skin flushed from cold, chest heaving. Eyes sparking.
He stomped into the hallway, dripping on the floor with zero shame, teeth bared.
“Fix it,” he growled.
Seungho blinked.
“You heard me,” Haneul said. “Fix the fucking water. Like a normal person. No AI toilet interfaces. No black mirror bullshit. Just make it hot.”
Seungho cleared his throat. Took one step forward. “You have to hold the touch panel down for three seconds. It’s designed to prevent scalding.”
“Then it was designed by a fucking sadist,” Haneul spat.
Seungho’s eyes did not lower. Not once. He nodded solemnly. “I’ll reset the temperature.”
And like a monk walking into hell, he brushed past the dripping chaos, tapped the wall panel with the calm of a man disarming a bomb, and walked out without another word.
Haneul stared after him, chest still rising and falling, water pooling at his feet.
Then, in a smaller voice:
“…Sadist with perfect hair.”
??????
Ten minutes later, he emerged with a towel around his waist and an expression that said don’t even think about it.
He went back into the bathroom, brushed his teeth with too much toothpaste, opened every drawer, and peeked inside every cabinet.
All spotless.
Marble countertops. Built-in drawers. Tidy rows of linen. The whole place smelled like restraint.
Every container aligned. Minimalist. Too clean. Suspiciously clean.
“Not even a single embarrassing thing,” he thought, scowling.
One drawer had nothing but black razors. Another had Q-tips. One had a folded silk eye-mask and an unopened toothbrush, probably placed there just in case someone stayed over.
He paused at that one.
Frowned.
Closed it again.
In the mirror, his own reflection looked back—dripping, messy, bruised around the eyes, but somehow… more alive.
??????
That night, the city exhaled under snow.
And Seungho dreamt.
Of heat. Of rain. Of laughter tangled in the wind.
Hands bruised from swords, mapping skin and teeth.
A boy sat curled in his lap—bare skin on stone, braid wet and winding around Seungho’s wrist like a leash. The boy was laughing, or howling, head thrown back with thunder behind his teeth. There was blood somewhere. And salt. And the taste of grief on his tongue.
Seungho gripped his waist tighter.
“Sky,” he whispered. “Don’t go.”
The boy turned.
But his face was already fading.
??????
Seungho woke with a gasp.
2:17 a.m.
His heart thundered in his chest.
His skin was flushed. His hands clenched the sheets.
And he was hard. So hard it hurt. The heat and desire felt ancient.
He sat up. Swore under his breath. Got out of bed, paced once toward the window, and stared out at the snow-brushed skyline like it might offer answers.
Nothing.
Just the cold breath of February. And the memory of warmth where it shouldn’t be.
He exhaled.
And muttered to no one:
“… what the hell is happening to me.”
??????