The sharp voice cut through the room like a blade, silencing everyone instantly.
Some of the soldiers wiped their damp faces with their sleeves, averting their eyes. Seoryeong stood frozen, her mind refusing to process what was happening. *Why did he have to appear now?* She didn't understand her own feelings—couldn't name the tightness in her chest or the heat behind her eyes. Roughly, she swiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks, leaving her skin raw.
*It's just the salt,* she told herself. *Constantly being submerged in the sea makes the saltwater stick.*
She clung to that excuse like a lifeline.
Wooshin's gaze swept across the room before settling on the young soldier near the door. "Dong Jiwoo. Close the infirmary door."
"Yes, Instructor!"
Jiwoo recognized the dismissal for what it was. Without a backward glance at Seoryeong—without risking involvement in whatever storm was brewing—she slipped out and pulled the door shut behind her.
The click of the latch echoed in the sudden stillness.
Seoryeong stood alone with him now, the silence pressing against her skin like something physical. She kept her jaw tight, her spine rigid, refusing to show weakness.
"Agent Han Seoryeong."
His voice was deceptively calm.
"Why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying."
Her tone came out flat. Defensive. She watched his brow rise—a subtle movement, almost amused—but there was nothing playful in the way he examined her. His usual languid demeanor had vanished entirely. In its place was something sharp, assessing, *dangerous.*
His gaze traveled over her reddened eyes, the damp tracks on her cheeks. She caught him inhaling slightly, and heat crawled up her neck when she realized what he must be noticing: the clean scent of bath soap clinging to her skin.
*She had showered.*
And he—
Wooshin looked like he hadn't slept in days. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his uniform rumpled, and beneath the clinical smell of the infirmary, there was something else. Something unwashed. Human. *A week's worth of neglect.*
Jiwoo's words echoed in her mind: *He carried you here.*
She should thank him. She *knew* she should. But the words lodged in her throat, trapped by the memory of how he'd looked at her before—that cold disdain he reserved for female soldiers, the way he seemed to find her very existence an inconvenience.
So she said nothing.
"If you're not crying—"
The perfect instructor finally spoke again, and this time a cynical smile curved his lips.
"—then why are only your eyelashes wet when you didn't even wash your face?"
He enunciated each word with deliberate, mocking precision.
"Did the person who just left *lick* your eyeballs?"
"…!"
"Did she at least wipe your eyes with a wet towel?"
"…"
"Don't let your pride get the better of you in front of your instructor, Agent Han."
That condescending tone scraped against her nerves like sandpaper. Before she could stop herself, the retort flew from her lips:
"I really wasn't crying. It was just water. Like a cold sweat—I just released cold water."
Wooshin bit his lower lip.
And then—impossibly—he *laughed.*
It was a low, bitten-off sound, half-swallowed before it could fully escape. But she saw it: the slight shake of his shoulders, the flash of something almost human in his expression.
Just as quickly, it vanished. His face smoothed into professional neutrality.
"So. How are you feeling?"
"Filthy," Seoryeong said flatly. "And sore. I want to take a shower." She was already moving, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and reaching to straighten the tangled sheets. "May I go shower now?"
The moment she became consciously aware of her own state—the pungent smell clinging to her skin, the grime she could *feel* in every pore—her stomach turned. She needed hot water. She needed to scrub herself clean until nothing remained of the past week.
But Wooshin's hand closed around the metal bed frame, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. He leaned down, bringing his face level with hers, and his searching gaze locked onto her eyes.
"Where are you going to shower?"
"The bathroom," she said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "What did you think—that I'd go to the sea?"
"I'm sorry, but starting today, Agent Han Seoryeong is prohibited from using the dormitory bathrooms."
"*What?*"
Her face twisted with disbelief. She had an *arrangement.* An unspoken agreement with the other soldiers—she would use the bathrooms only after they'd finished, taking the last slot, showering alone. It was inconvenient, humiliating even, but she had accepted it.
And Wooshin *knew* about it. He knew everything that happened in this facility.
So why—
"I know you were sharing times with the other soldiers," he said, his voice carrying an edge she couldn't quite identify. "But don't do that anymore."
"May I know *why?*"
Instead of answering, Wooshin reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. He tossed it onto the bed beside her.
"This is the instructor's mistake," he said quietly. "For thinking Agent Han Seoryeong was the most vulnerable one here."
"What?"
"When in reality—" His jaw tightened. "—it's the exact opposite."
*What is he talking about?*
Seoryeong stared at the wadded paper, then slowly began to unfold it. The creases were deep, pressed into the fibers with tremendous force, as if he had crushed it in his fist over and over again. As the paper flattened, recognition struck her like a physical blow.
It was the page he had torn from her notebook last week.
Her own handwriting stared back at her.
> *'Prospective husband?' 'Prospective husband!'*
> *SEX, sex, sexual compatibility, one-night stand, candidate list*
> *'Oral check?' 'Try tying and touching!' 'Attack?'*
> *'No, start with stimulation.' 'Eliminate based on length.'*
> *'Bring a measuring tape.'*
> *Seduction, dating app.*
And there, at the bottom—crude drawings of curved genitals, sketched with the careless hand of someone not fully conscious.
Heat flooded Seoryeong's face. She looked like exactly what her words suggested: someone whose head was filled with nothing but dirty thoughts. A woman obsessed with sex, with bodies, with hunting down men like prey.
*I wrote all of this in my sleep.*
The realization made her want to crawl out of her own skin. Facing her subconscious thoughts—seeing them laid bare in black ink—was worse than any physical wound.
She forced herself to meet Wooshin's gaze. His expression was carved from stone.
"So," he said softly. "When candidates appear, you'll feed them? Give them water? Keep them with you for *days?*"
"…?"
"You asked me what you should do to find your husband." His voice dropped lower. "Do you remember that, Agent Han?"
She remembered.
"Your eyes shone so brightly then." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I wanted to *gouge them out.*"
The words were delivered with a gentle smile—but nothing about them felt like a compliment. His gaze bore into her skull as if he could see through bone and tissue to the thoughts writhing beneath.
"What exactly is the heinous plan you've concocted, Agent Han Seoryeong?"
---
*Oh.*
It clicked into place—the misunderstanding that had been building since that conversation. She *had* asked him about capturing people. About keeping them contained. About what it took to make someone stay.
But the subject was completely different.
The person she wanted to abduct was an NIS executive. Not a romantic prospect. Not someone for *sexual* purposes.
She opened her mouth to explain, but hesitation flickered across her face—and Wooshin saw it.
His expression shuttered.
A cold laugh escaped him, sharp and humorless, and this time there was no trace of amusement. Blood vessels stood out in the whites of his eyes, threading through the gray like fractures in ice. He stared at her without blinking, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, and something in that stare made Seoryeong's stomach clench.
He looked *unhinged.*
Wooshin began to pace. His large frame moved through the empty infirmary with predatory tension, each step radiating a dangerous energy that made Seoryeong want to press herself against the wall. He dragged his hand through his hair, exhaled sharply, then stopped.
And *shouted.*
"If you can find that damn husband of yours—is there *anything* you wouldn't do?!"
Seoryeong didn't answer.
"So is *that* your deepest desire?" His voice cracked with fury. "To be slept with by another man?"
"Why are you talking like that?"
She glared at him, anger finally rising to meet his—but before she could say anything more, Wooshin moved.
He crossed the distance between them in two strides. His hands closed around her shoulders and *shoved.*
Seoryeong—already unsteady, already weak—fell back onto the mattress with a breathless cry. The metal frame groaned beneath the impact. And then he was *on top of her,* his weight pinning her down, his face inches from her own.
"Huh—!"
The air left her lungs.
She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell sweat and exhaustion and something darker beneath. His breath fanned across her lips, hot and ragged, and behind those black-rimmed glasses, she knew—*she knew*—that his gray irises would be gleaming like knife blades.
"What if you end up having sex with me," he breathed, "and it turns out I resemble your husband?"
"…!"
His knee pressed between her thighs—hard, unyielding, deliberate. The mattress dipped beneath them as he shifted his weight, trapping her completely.
"Does that put me on your list of prospective husbands?"
"…!"
"Is this what you're looking for?" His voice was ice and venom. "This form? Lying beneath a man like this?" His hand shot out, gripping her chin with bruising force, wrenching her gaze upward. "*Open your eyes.*"
She had no choice but to look.
Her vision traced up his face involuntarily: the furrowed brows, the sharp brow bones casting shadows across his features, the straight line of his nose. And those eyes—cruel and handsome and filled with something that burned.
*He looks nothing like Kim Hyun.*
The thought surfaced unbidden. She had traced her husband's face a thousand times with her fingertips, memorizing every curve and plane. Lee Wooshin was an entirely different creature. A foreign face. A foreign presence.
From the very beginning, his appearance had never overlapped with her husband's figure—not even for a moment.
But his dominance, his fury, the way he held her down like she was something to be conquered—
Humiliation crawled through her veins.
Their gazes locked. The air between them crackled with tension, thick and unbreathable.
"I thought you were just full of poison," Wooshin said quietly. "But why are you acting like an innocent?" His grip on her chin tightened. "Do you think sleeping with another man will make you understand? Do you think *love* can show you the answer?"
He leaned closer. His lips nearly brushed her ear.
"**Wake up, Seoryeong.** Nothing is easier to fake than sex."
"…!"
"You know that yourself." His voice dropped to a whisper. "From sleeping with your husband."
---
Seoryeong thrashed beneath him, her hands shoving uselessly against his chest. She didn't want to hear this. She *couldn't* hear this—
But his palm pressed down on her shoulder, pinning her harder into the mattress. His skin radiated heat, burning through the thin fabric of her clothes.
"With over seventy sex positions out there," he continued, relentless, "do you think men can't pretend to enjoy it? Your belief that love can find your husband—" He laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "—it's *ridiculous.* It makes me angry just *looking* at you."
Something shifted in his expression.
And suddenly, Seoryeong saw it: the fracture lines in his composure. The way his fury seemed to reach *past* her, aimed at something she couldn't see.
*Why is he so angry?*
The question surfaced slowly, rising through the chaos of her thoughts like a bubble through dark water.
*Could his anger have nothing to do with me at all?*
She watched him—really watched him—and saw the rawness beneath the cruelty. The way his chest heaved. The shadows carved into his face. The desperation that flickered in his eyes before he could smother it.
*Could it be... that he also lost someone overnight?*
The thought hit her like a blow to the chest.
*And maybe he's already given up looking. While I haven't. Maybe that's why he hates me every time he sees me—because I remind him of what he stopped fighting for.*
Seoryeong blinked slowly, letting the fragments of understanding settle into place. She didn't speak. She barely breathed.
"Even after being treated like this," Wooshin said, his voice hoarse now, stripped of its earlier venom, "if you think love is all-powerful, you'll make the wrong decision because of that bizarre belief. Things like that will blind your eyes. Make you lose your judgment."
He exhaled sharply.
"Just like that damn sex list."
His face was still flushed with anger—but beneath it, something else flickered. Something wounded.
The cynicism that radiated from him, the outbursts of emotion he couldn't quite contain—
*They touched her heart.*
Strangely. Unexpectedly.
And then—
"I'll help you."
Seoryeong's breath caught.
His sharp gaze softened, just slightly. Just enough.
"I'll help you find your husband."
"…!"
Her eyes went wide, her lips parting in shock. *Lee Wooshin... will help me find my husband?*
It was the last thing she had expected. The absolute last thing.
But even as he made the promise, his expression remained cynical—mocking, almost, as if he found the whole situation beneath him. She couldn't tell if it was kindness or a threat. Couldn't tell if he meant to save her or destroy her.
"I'll bring you someone who looks exactly like your husband," he said quietly. "From head to toe."
Her wet eyelashes stopped dripping. The tears dried on her skin.
"Whatever I say after this—" His gaze locked onto hers, unreadable and absolute. "—don't resist."
A pause.
"That's my condition."