When Han Sooyoung returned into the restored 1864 world line, the first thing she noticed was the quiet.
Not the kind of silence that came with destruction or loss. Not the grave hush of an ex-scenario world, holding its breath before the next cruel trial.
No, this was a different kind of silence—peaceful, stubborn, almost unfamiliar.
She was dazed by it.
The government people called it "reconstruction," like stitching over a scar and pretending the skin had always been smooth. They handed her forms and talked in bright voices about reintegration programs, about "valuable insights from returnees." One of them offered her a brochure. She set it on fire with her fingertip.
But none of that mattered.
Because the second she heard the rumor—that he had returned—her world tilted.
Kim Dokja was awake.
Not comatose. Not buried in a hospital bed. Not trapped in a worldline that existed in a story she had failed to finish.
He was back.
And she hadn't written the ending yet.
The apartment door opened with a soft click.
He was sitting on the balcony.
Back turned to her, legs crossed, a steaming mug of something cheap in his hand. His shoulders were thinner than she remembered. His hair a little longer.
Still somehow unmistakably, irritatingly him.
She stood there for a full ten seconds, unable to speak.
"You just going to stare at me all day?" His voice was quiet. Dry.
Her heart skipped like a badly tuned metronome.
"I thought you'd be asleep forever," she muttered, stepping inside.
He didn't turn around. "But less entertaining, right?"
She wanted to hit him.
Or maybe cry.
Instead, she dropped her bag onto his kitchen table and kicked off her boots like she owned the place.
"You're making coffee now? Is that a constellation thing?"
"I like the taste."
"Liar."
He finally turned to look at her. And the moment their eyes met, her carefully rehearsed sarcasm cracked like brittle glass.
"You're really here."
The bastard didn't even blink. "So are you."
They didn't talk about what it meant—not yet.
But word got around quickly.
Lee Jihye was the first to barge into the apartment two days later, slamming the door hard enough to make the windows rattle.
"Ahjussi!" she yelled, eyes wide with disbelief and something that looked suspiciously like tears. "What the hell?!"
Kim Dokja had just taken a bite of toast. He chewed slowly, eyes darting to Sooyoung like he expected her to do something.
She didn't. She wanted to see this.
Jihye stormed over and punched him. In the shoulder. Then again in the arm. Then she hugged him.
"You stupid, suicidal jerk."
"I missed you too."
Yoo Sangah came next, knocking politely like the world hadn't shattered and remade itself again. She stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her.
"It's really you," she whispered.
Kim Dokja tried to make a joke—something about ghosts and workplace etiquette.
Sangah didn't laugh. She stepped forward and hugged him like someone who had already mourned twice.
Han Sooyoung looked away then, biting the inside of her cheek.
When Yoo Joonghyuk appeared, the room fell into silence.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stared at Kim Dokja with that signature, blade-sharp glare of his.
Then:
"You're late."
Kim Dokja's lips curved into something like a smile. "Had to take the scenic route."
Joonghyuk's fist moved before anyone could stop him. It stopped just short of Dokja's face.
"Don't do it again," he growled.
Dokja nodded. Not flinching. Not smiling anymore.
"I won't."
That night, Han Sooyoung stood in Kim Dokja's hospital room, looking up at a sky that didn't burn anymore.
The stars looked fake. Like someone had painted them in after the fact.
She heard the door behind her creak open.
He didn't say anything. Just stood beside her, holding two cups of coffee.
"You remember the promise?" she asked after a long while.
"I do."
"I haven't written the ending yet."
"You don't have to rush."
She exhaled, feeling the weight of years press against her ribs.
"I didn't know what kind of story it would become without you."
He handed her the cup. Their fingers brushed.
"Then write it now," he said. "With me in it."
Han Sooyoung didn't answer right away.
But she took the cup.
And this time, she didn't look away.
They came the next day. Together, like they always used to.
Han Sooyoung heard them in the hallway first—quiet footsteps, a nervous cough, a rustling paper bag. She didn't move from where she sat on the armrest of Kim Dokja's couch, phone dangling loosely in her fingers. He was back on the balcony, pretending not to eavesdrop.
The knock was soft.
Then Shin Yoosung's voice, trembling.
"…Dokja-ssi?"
The door creaked open. No one had locked it. None of them really did anymore.
Shin Yoosung stepped in first. Her hair was longer now, pulled into a messy braid over her shoulder. She looked more mature—but not in the way time made someone grow. She had the look of someone who had endured.
Behind her came Lee Hyunsung, broad shoulders tense like he was bracing for a war. Jung Heewon followed, arms crossed and jaw clenched tight, and Lee Gilyoung trailed after, holding something in his hands—some kind of small, homemade terrarium, filled with moss and glittering stones.
For a moment, none of them said a word.
Then Yoosung saw him.
She ran.
"Ajusshi—!"
Her arms wrapped around Kim Dokja with a force that nearly knocked him back into the balcony door. She clung to him like someone afraid he might vanish again if she blinked.
He didn't say anything. Just held her, one hand awkwardly patting her back.
"I thought… I thought you were gone," she sobbed into his chest. "I thought we lost you. We were all so sure—"
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to disappear."
Hyunsung approached slower. He looked like he'd aged a decade in a year—eyes sunken, shoulders heavier than they should have been.
"Kim Dokja-ssi," he said, voice breaking just a little.
Kim Dokja looked up and met his eyes.
And Hyunsung, dependable and steady, dropped to one knee in front of him and bowed his head.
"Welcome back, leader."
Dokja blinked, stunned. "I was never—"
"You were," Hyunsung interrupted gently. "Even if you didn't want to be."
Heewon scoffed and punched Dokja in the arm before he could say anything sentimental. Hard.
"You idiot," she snapped, voice trembling. "You had one job. Survive."
He rubbed his arm, grimacing. "I did."
"Barely." She looked like she might hit him again, then pulled him into a one-armed hug instead. "If you go off and die again, I swear I'll find a way to kill you myself."
Behind them, Gilyoung stood frozen in the doorway.
Dokja saw him and stepped forward slowly.
"…..Gilyoung-ah."
The boy's lower lip quivered. He didn't speak. Just stepped forward and gently pressed the terrarium into Dokja's hands.
"I made this," he whispered. "It's got a new species. They only grow near the Han River now. I wanted you to see them."
Dokja crouched so they were eye level. He held the little terrarium like it was sacred.
"Thank you," he said. "I'll take good care of them."
And Gilyoung broke down, clinging to him with shaking shoulders.
The apartment was too small for all that grief and love. Too quiet for the way their hearts beat like war drums. Too still for the storm of years they'd carried.
Sooyoung didn't move. She watched from the couch, hands curled tight in her sleeves.
It felt like watching a family reassemble itself from broken glass. Sharp. Painful. Beautiful.
After a while, someone put on the kettle. Someone else found leftover snacks. Yoosung curled up on the floor, Gilyoung sitting beside her, Hyunsung leaning against the kitchen counter like a sentry at rest. Heewon stole half of Dokja's toast, muttering something about back pay for emotional damages.
Kim Dokja didn't say much. He just sat among them, like someone trying to memorize the shape of his place in the world.
And for the first time in a very long time…
He looked like he believed he had one.
After a while, someone put on water for tea. The apartment, still cramped and a little too cold, began to feel lived in again. Someone took off their coat. Someone else sat cross-legged on the floor. The air smelled faintly of burnt toast and dust and the kind of fragile hope none of them had dared to name for a long time.
They stayed late.
The kind of late that made the air thick and the silences weighty instead of awkward. And one by one, they carved out moments with Kim Dokja—brief, private fragments of a past that had once splintered and scattered.
Lee Hyunsung's moment came in the kitchen.
He offered to help with dishes, and Dokja, who barely remembered how to say no to Hyunsung, nodded without thinking. The two of them stood by the sink, quiet except for the running water and the occasional clink of ceramic.
"You've lost weight," Hyunsung said eventually.
Dokja glanced sideways. "So have you."
Hyunsung chuckled softly. "Not quite the same. I stayed here. You… disappeared."
There was no accusation in his voice. Just the heavy ache of someone who had built an altar out of guilt.
"I kept thinking," Hyunsung continued, scrubbing a cup with too much force, "if I could have done something to change things."
"You couldn't have," Dokja said. "It was never your fault., you were an incredible shield"
Hyunsung nodded slowly, like he'd heard that a thousand times, but hearing it from Dokja made it hit different. He turned the faucet off and handed over the last dish.
Then he hesitated.
And reached out, gently squeezing Dokja's shoulder.
"You don't have to carry everything alone anymore."
Dokja didn't answer. But his hands trembled slightly as he dried the last plate.
Jung Heewon pulled him aside in the hallway.
Not roughly. Not to punch him again.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking tired in the way only ex-executioners could look—like she was still waiting for someone to give her orders, for someone to break the rules so she could feel righteous again.
"You know," she said, "I lit a candle for you."
He raised an eyebrow. "That religious of you?"
"Shut up." But she smiled faintly. "It was one of those dumb little floating ones. Yoo Sangah brought it back from a trip to Jeju. Said it was good luck."
He didn't know what to say to that. What could you say to the person who'd watched you die….and die again?
Heewon didn't wait.
"I kept it lit for weeks," she muttered. "Even after everyone told me you were gone for good. I left it burning until the wax ran out. It felt stupid. But it also felt like—if I stopped, it'd be admitting you were really gone."
Dokja swallowed hard. "Thank you."
Heewon bumped her shoulder into his. Not hard. Not soft either.
"Next time you plan on dying for someone, I will tie you to your statue in the industrial complex" with eyes that promised only certainty about her intention…..she was deadly serious.
Shin Yoosung cornered him by the windowsill.
She was quiet now. The earlier tears were gone, but her hands still shook a little.
"You didn't say goodbye," she said.
Her voice was sharper than before—no longer the innocent girl he remembered from the early days. She had grown. Into her own strength. Into her own grief.
"I couldn't," he replied, honest and raw. "If I had, I might've stayed."
"That would've been better."
"Not for the story."
"To hell with the story."
They stared at each other, both stubborn and full of ghosts.
Then she sighed and reached into her bag. Pulled out a thin, hand-stitched notebook. The cover was worn and full of childish drawings—stars, dragons, tiny stick-figure people with spiky hair.
"I started this while you were gone," she said. "I wrote down everything I remembered. About you. About us."
Dokja opened it slowly, flipping through page after page of chaotic memories scrawled in clumsy handwriting.
"I didn't want to forget you."
He looked up, heart full.
"You didn't."
Lee Gilyoung waited until the others weren't watching.
He didn't talk much anymore. Not since the scenarios ended. His bugs had all gone quiet too, no longer whispering secrets or threats. He'd grown tall. Taller than Dokja remembered. But his eyes were still wide with wonder and pain.
"Ajusshi," he said, clutching the terrarium. "Do you really like it?"
Dokja smiled. "I love it."
Gilyoung hesitated. "They're safe now. The insects. They're not hunted anymore. People started protecting them because of what we did. There are even books."
"I'm glad."
The boy looked down, fidgeting. "I don't know if I should be happy you're back."
Dokja blinked. "Why?"
"Because you came back hurt. And tired. And maybe it would've been kinder if we just remembered you… the way you were."
The words pierced like knives.
Dokja knelt again, lowering himself to Gilyoung's level.
"I don't want to be a memory anymore," he said.
Gilyoung didn't respond. Just threw his arms around him and held on tight.
Yoo Sangah met him on the rooftop.
She'd stepped out for air, and he'd followed, two cups of tea in hand. The city stretched below them—soft and lit with electricity again. No monsters. No screaming. Just blinking neon.
"Still afraid of heights?" he asked.
"Not anymore," she said, taking the cup from him. "I've fallen too many times for it to scare me."
He laughed, soft and surprised.
They stood in silence for a while.
"I used to imagine seeing you again," she said. "But I never got it right. You always looked the same. But you… feel different."
"I am."
"That's not a bad thing."
He glanced at her.
"You always believed in me," he said. "Even when I didn't."
"I still do."
That was Yoo Sangah—gentle, quiet, unwavering.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asked. "The world before?"
He thought about it. Then shook his head.
"No. I miss the people who were in it. But not the world."
She smiled, eyes soft.
"Then maybe we can build a better one."
Yoo Joonghyuk stayed after the others had gone.
He didn't sit. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the ever-present scowl still on his face.
Dokja didn't say anything. He just looked at him, like he was seeing a friend across lifetimes again.
"I thought I'd have to kill you myself," Joonghyuk muttered.
"That would've made it the third time," Dokja joked.
"Fourth."
They stared at each other.
"I meant to tell you something," Joonghyuk said, voice quiet now.
"What?"
"You were right."
That made Dokja still.
"About what?"
"Everything."
It was the closest thing Yoo Joonghyuk had ever said to thank you.
Kim Dokja smiled, small and tired and real.
"I know."
Later, when the apartment finally emptied and the door clicked shut behind the last pair of footsteps, Han Sooyoung didn't say anything for a long time.
She sat beside him again. On the couch. Two cups of coffee cooling between them.
"I saw you today," she said.
"I was here the whole time."
"No," she shook her head. "I saw you. The real you. The bastard who read every word and never skipped a single line."
He looked at her. And this time, he didn't deflect with a joke.
"I'm still reading," he said. "You haven't written the ending yet."
She turned to him, eyes dark and quiet.
"I will."
And this time, when their hands touched, he didn't let go.