One Day, A Gangster… Chapter 9.2

The midnight commotion was settled by the manager’s mediation. The guy claiming ownership of the wireless earbuds quickly backed off under the manager’s questioning, saying he might’ve mistaken them. Jinwoo, too, agreed not to report the incident at the manager’s request, since causing a stir over such a matter in a workplace adhering to the mandatory employment system for trait-holders would be troublesome. 

However, he insisted on clear punishment for being physically threatened. Pilsung’s subordinate, bound by Pilsung’s order to stay by Wooyoon’s side, stubbornly refused the manager’s suggestion to quit, showing unwavering resolve to keep showing up. And in the end, all the blame arrows turned back to Wooyoon.

Seating Wooyoon in the warehouse where he’d first interviewed, the manager checked his wristwatch past midnight and shook his head.

“Phew… My head hurts, my head hurts…”

“……”

“There’s a wage gap with betas, but I’ll let the pay you’ve already received slide as is. Your trait isn’t even registered—if this blows up, it’s trouble for both of us, right, Nam Wooyoon? Take that alpha and get out.”

The manager gestured with his eyes toward Pilsung’s subordinate waiting outside the warehouse. Wooyoon, head bowed and listening silently, fiddled with the broken strap of his bag and spoke.

“I didn’t… do anything wrong… It’s just a misunderstanding.”

“Didn’t you give them reason to misunderstand, Nam Wooyoon?”

“……”

Looking up at the manager, Wooyoon met his gaze—exasperated, as if fed up—and closed the mouth he’d opened to protest. His throat felt blocked. Even opening it wide wouldn’t let his voice out, so he just nodded faintly.

Pilsung’s subordinate, waiting outside, walked Wooyoon home. Keeping a few steps’ distance, he escorted him to the basement stairs and left without hesitation, as if his assigned task was done.

Kicking off his worn sneakers into the shoe rack, Wooyoon entered his tiny room without turning on the lights and strode straight to the wardrobe. Opening the door, he stepped inside. Curling up tightly and crouching, he hugged his bag to his chest. Only then did the sobs he’d been holding back with all his might burst out with a “Hic.” His under-eyes trembled hotly.

“Hic! Ugh, ugh…!”

Thick tears split into streams, rolling down his cheeks. In the dark, he scrunched his face and shook his shoulders freely. As if sensing his heart, the open wardrobe door creaked with an old, feeble sound and shut on its own.

Would it have been better to stay locked in this safe space forever? Should he have only admired the world beyond through TV and phone screens? Wooyoon curled his toes to avoid the light seeping through the narrow door gap.

He resented everything, everyone. Even his forgotten parents became objects of hate. Eventually, like others, he turned the arrow of blame on himself. With no one else nearby to fault, it was natural. If Pilsung were here, he’d have blamed him—raged that it was all the fault of this thug who appeared out of nowhere. He’d have pouted, maybe even vented.

His throat choked with sorrow. Clutching his painfully tightening Adam’s apple with one hand, Wooyoon buried his face in the ruined bag and wept.

Dress shoes descending the stairs stopped before the shoe rack. One of Wooyoon’s old sneakers lay overturned beneath it. Pilsung could vividly picture how angrily he’d flung open the door to enter. Straightening Wooyoon’s shoes neatly, Pilsung quietly pulled open the unlocked iron door.

He surveyed the tiny room in the pre-dawn light. The thin blanket remained folded as it was, and the fan wasn’t running. In the stifling, humid air—unventilated and reeking of musty mold—Pilsung’s eyes, searching for Wooyoon, landed on the wardrobe.

“……”

Opening the door revealed Wooyoon, asleep against the wardrobe wall. Lowering himself to crouch before it, Pilsung gazed at the face sleeping in a tight ball, legs unable to stretch out. Wet lashes, still damp, suggested he’d stopped crying not long ago.

“Tch…”

Pilsung clicked his tongue softly. Hearing about Wooyoon’s ordeal over the phone, he’d floored the accelerator to Seoul. Driving, he’d slammed his head with his hand several times.

I shouldn’t have let him take that part-time job. I knew this would happen to Nam Wooyoon.

Pilsung knew all too well what it took to survive alone in the world. He’d thought giving Wooyoon that chance to learn was right. Wrong. Seeing Wooyoon tense or smile over little things had seemed enjoyable, so he’d let it be—only for it to spiral into this mess, as he’d feared.

Why’s Nam Wooyoon alone? I’m fucking sticking by him.

The harshness of the world, human selfishness—the petty, filthy things one needs to know to survive alone. Nam Wooyoon doesn’t need to know them.

With a thick fingertip, Pilsung brushed Wooyoon’s bangs, wet with sweat or tears.

“……”

Careful not to wake him, just tapping his hair, Pilsung’s hand drifted to the wardrobe’s side. His fingers cautiously traced the surface Wooyoon leaned against. The wood, etched with countless nail marks, felt rough and uneven.

He pictured Wooyoon—locked in here during every heat, writhing in agony, too defeated to resist, only scratching the walls.

Feeling Wooyoon’s cruel, lonely times through his fingertips, Pilsung clenched his jaw so hard the muscles bulged.

Nam Wooyoon really doesn’t need to know anything. Maybe he already knows too much.

Recalling Nam Hee-jae—caught fleeing to join the thug Joo Tae-sung, sparking his rage—Pilsung cupped Wooyoon’s cheek with a large palm, gazing at the sleeping face with pity. As he stroked it, Wooyoon’s closed eyelids fluttered open. Pilsung softened his dark, furrowed expression and spoke.

“Awake?”

“……”

“Your boyfriend’s here. Wait long?”

Even hearing the low voice, Wooyoon blinked slowly, wondering if it was a dream. His swollen, double-lidded eyes stared blankly at Pilsung before twisting fiercely.

“Why would I wait for you?”

His voice, hoarse from crying, cracked pitifully. He’d meant to sound cold, resentful of Pilsung’s self-imposed boyfriend duties and sporadic disappearances, but the pent-up hurt from days without him overwhelmed his control. Instead of snapping more, Wooyoon shut his mouth.

He’d planned to unload all his irritation on Baek Pilsung’s return, but oddly, he wasn’t annoyed. Just glad. That was all.

He had so much to say, yet nothing came out, so Wooyoon stayed silent, frowning. Pilsung spread his arms.

“Come out. What’s so great about crawling into that dark, stuffy hole?”

Pitying Wooyoon’s droopy eyes scanning the wardrobe, Pilsung clicked his tongue bitterly again. Poor, foolish Nam Wooyoon, hiding in a familiar place after being hurt. Timid little things always dart to unreachable spots at the slightest noise—after such a big ordeal, of course he wouldn’t come out. Unaware his safe haven was what sickened him.

Even with Pilsung’s arms open, Wooyoon lingered in the wardrobe, scratched with vivid nail marks, hesitant. Pilsung coaxed him gently.

“Want me to kill the bastard who made you jobless?”

His sulky eyes widened. Pilsung drove the point home.

“The jerk who framed you as a thief, the hypocrite who judged you, the asshole who unfairly took your livelihood. Pick one. Whose neck should I snap?”

Without sunglasses, his lethal gaze shone through. Whatever it was, he’d do it. Wooyoon wound the broken bag strap around his finger, narrowing his brow.

— This is why people get prejudiced against trait-holders. Think about why society discriminates against you!

— Didn’t you give them reason to misunderstand, Nam Wooyoon?

Mulling over yesterday’s reprimands, Wooyoon muttered softly.

“Killing someone… Why say such scary things… Are you some thug?”

“Then I’m a thug, what else? Are you?”

Stunned, Pilsung retorted, finding Wooyoon’s odd remark cute, swearing with a “Fuck” and laughing. Wooyoon glared fiercely. Worried Pilsung, not even an alpha, might face baseless misunderstandings like him, he’d tried to care, but Pilsung’s playful jab at his words irked him. No apology for disappearing—just grinning at him—it grated. The pure joy faded, replaced by grumbling.

“If you’re gonna wake me up and say weird stuff, leave.”

“Come out first. Sleeping in there, you’ll fucking croak without even knowing it. Get out quick before I drag you.”

“……”

Wooyoon glanced at the hand extended toward him. Maybe staying out of the wardrobe forever was better. The gloomy thoughts clouding his mind before sleep had lightened—like rain washing them away.

Anyway, Baek Pilsung’s back, so the boredom’s over, right…?

Blinking swollen eyes at Pilsung disapprovingly, Wooyoon gripped the broken-strapped bag and stepped out. Feeling hot and strange, he didn’t take Pilsung’s hand.

Turning on the fan, lukewarm air blew through his sweat-damp hair. Curling up on the bare floor without a blanket, Wooyoon closed his eyes, ignoring Pilsung watching him from behind as if alone. Unlike earlier, when exhaustion from crying knocked him out, a deep sleep crept in. The chest once stabbed with grievance and sorrow now felt calm.

“Hey, uh… how was my singing?”

“……”

“Hey.”

“……”

“Hey! Nam Wooyoon, are you really asleep?”

Pilsung’s faint voice mixed with the old fan’s motor hum, calling him repeatedly despite knowing no reply would come. Finding it funny, Wooyoon softly lifted his lips in a sleepy smile.