The emotion in Mu-ryeong’s clear eyes was nothing but concern. His brows were drawn tight with tension, but the corners of his eyes softened, making his expression impossibly gentle. He had the kind of face that seemed incapable of saying anything cruel, and his voice carried nothing but genuine worry.

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

If Hwan-young had to put into words how baffled he was in that moment, he probably wouldn’t find the right words in his lifetime. The way Mu-ryeong’s gaze carefully examined him, as if his well-being truly mattered, was so overwhelmingly kind that it made him feel an inexplicable discomfort.

"Why do you say things like that?"

Then, Mu-ryeong took his hands in his own—warm, soft, deliberate. Hwan-young instinctively tried to pull away, but instead of letting go, Mu-ryeong tightened his grip, holding on with both hands.

Without a doubt, this was the first time someone had touched him so easily. The first time someone’s warmth had felt this searing. The first time someone’s hands had been so careful. No—had he ever even held someone’s hand before?

It felt like he might burn. If he held on even a second longer, he might end up with scars. The spiritual energy radiating from Mu-ryeong was fresh, clean, overwhelming—and even the sensation of his mind emptying from it felt unbearably unsettling.