Chapter Text
Year 1986, Texas
The radio comes on as Yoo Joonghyuk pulls out of the parking lot.
He notices because he didn’t mean to turn it on. His hand is still on the gearshift when the sound fills the car, low and familiar. He glances at the dashboard, considers changing it, then leaves it alone.
I, I will be king…
It’s Heroes. He’s heard it often enough that he doesn’t really listen to it anymore.
He drives west, away from downtown. The buildings thin out slowly — not really the kind of place you’d call small-town, but not the city either. Warehouses, storage lots,car shops with the bay doors still open. A liquor store with bars on the windows. A video rental place that looks like it’s had better times.
Traffic eases up and the sun sits low enough to be annoying, cutting straight across the road.
The clock reads 6:43.
He’s easing up to a red light when something moves near the corner of his vision. Squinting his eyes, Joonghyuk came to see two men by a loading dock.
One of them has the other backed against the wall, arm jammed across his chest. It didn’t look like a fight really. More like one sided bullying.
Joonghyuk’s foot stays on the brake.
The radio keeps playing.
We can be heroes…
The bigger man says something. The smaller one laughs —— and takes a hit for it. A solid punch to the ribs. He folded forward with a sound that was dulled by the traffic noise.
Joonghyuk tightens his grip on the wheel.
This is the point where you’re supposed to call it in. He knows that. He’s thought it before. There’s a phone in the console. You don’t get involved. You report and leave.
The smaller man spits on the ground.
There’s blood in it.
Joonghyuk pulls over.
The engine stays running. He gets out and shuts the door, a little harder than necessary. The heat feels worse outside the car. The bigger man turns, already irritated.
“Hey,” Joonghyuk says. “That’s enough.”
The man glares at him. “Mind your business.”
Joonghyuk steps closer. He keeps his voice even. “Back off.”
The smaller man straightens slowly. One arm stays tight against his side. Up close, Joonghyuk can see the split lip, the swelling along his cheek. The man looks at him- eyes moving over his clothes, his face, the car behind him.
“This isn’t worth it,” the smaller man says, breath a little rough but steady.
The big guy hesitates. Looks between them. Then he shoves the smaller one again, hard enough to make him stumble, and backs away.
“Watch yourself,” he mutters, before disappearing down the alley.
Joonghyuk waits until he’s gone.
“You hurt?” he asks.
The man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and hisses quietly. “Yeah. I’ll live.”
“You shouldn’t stay here.”
The man looks past him, down the street, then back. “You shouldn’t either.”
Joonghyuk frowns. “He could come back.”
“He won’t.” The man shifts his weight, careful with it. “He already got what he wanted.”
Joonghyuk doesn’t like that answer. “You live around here?”
The man tilts his head slightly. “You a cop?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
Joonghyuk exhales through his nose. “You were about to get seriously hurt.”
The man shrugs, a small movement. “Happens.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
They stand there for a moment. Joonghyuk becomes aware of how still the street has gotten all of a sudden. Only the music still playing faintly from his car. He notices the ring on his own hand when the man’s eyes flick down to it, then away again.
“You want a ride?” Joonghyuk asks.
The man looks at him properly this time. His gaze lingers, not curious so much as assessing.
“No,” he says.
Joonghyuk stiffens. “I didn’t—”
He didn’t continue.
Joonghyuk closes his mouth. After a beat, he nods. “Be careful.”
The man watches him turn away. “You too.”
Joonghyuk gets back into his car and pulls onto the road. He doesn’t check the mirror.
The song reaches its end just as the light turns green.
Just for one day…
He turns the radio off and drives the rest of the way home.
7:30 PM
By the time Yoo Joonghyuk pulls into the driveway, the sky has gone dark.
The porch light is on. It always was. He sits in the car for a moment longer than necessary, engine idling, hands still on the wheel. Then he turning it off and getting out.
The house smells warm and hearty.
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him, setting his keys in the bowl by the entryway. Shoes off. Jacket hung where it belongs as the routine took over before even having time to think about it.
“Hey,” Catherine calls from the kitchen.
“In here,” he answers, raising his voice just enough.
She’s at the stove when he comes in, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up. There’s a pan on the burner and something simmering that smells familiar. Comforting. She glances over her shoulder at him and smiles.
“You’re later than usual.”
“Traffic,” he says. Not untrue.
She nods, accepting it without question, and reaches for a spoon. “Dinner’s almost ready. Can you set the table?”
He does. Plates out, cutlery straightened, glasses filled. When he sits down, she brings the pan over and starts serving, careful not to spill.
“How was work?” she asks.
“Fine.”
She gives him a look — not accusing, just attentive. “Just fine?”
He exhales lightly. “Busy.”
That satisfies her. She sits across from him, folds her napkin into her lap. They eat for a few minutes in companionable silence. He realizes, halfway through, that he’s hungrier than he thought.
Catherine watches him absently while she eats, eyes flicking up every so often. He’s used to it. She notices things.
“Something happen?” she asks.
He pauses, fork hovering. “Not really.”
She waited.
“There was… an incident,” he says finally. “On the way home.”
Her expression sharpens slightly. “What kind of incident?”
He shrugs. “Two guys arguing. I stepped in.”
“You stepped in?” There’s concern there now, but not panic. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He sets his fork down. “The other guy was… in worse shape. I left before I really got involved in anything though.”
She studies him for a moment. “Do you know him?”
“No.”
“You didn’t get his name?”
“No.”
She nods slowly, like she’s filing it away. “You shouldn’t put yourself in situations like that.”
“I know.”
There’s a pause. She reaches across the table and touches his wrist briefly, grounding. “It was good of you to help.”
He doesn’t say anything to that.
After dinner, they clean up together. He washes, she dries. They’ve done it this way for years. When she bumps his shoulder lightly with her hip to get past him, he shifts without thinking.
In the bathroom, they brushed their teeth side by side. Exchanging eye contact in the mirror.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she says around toothpaste.
“Just tired.”
“Mmh.” She doesn’t push.
They change for bed. He folds his clothes neatly. She climbs under the covers first, already reaching to turn off the lamp. When he joins her, she curls in close, one arm draped over his chest.
“Good night, Joonghyuk.”
“Good night,” he says.
She’s asleep within minutes. He lies awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house — the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a car passing on the street.
Eventually, his breathing evens out too.
The day ends the way it always does.
Or did it really ?….
6:40 PM
Joonghyuk leaves work at the same time the next day.
He doesn’t plan it. He notices only when he’s already in the car, seatbelt fastened, engine running. The dashboard clock reads 6:42 again. He frowns at it briefly, then pulls out of the lot.
The radio stayed off this time.
He takes the same route without thinking about it. Or maybe he does think about it and decides not to examine why. The traffic is manageable. Warehouses. Car shops. The familiar stretch of road.
He tells himself it means nothing.
He sees him before the light even comes into view.
Same place. Near the loading dock. Leaning against the brick with one foot propped behind him, cigarette between his fingers. The bruises are worse today — darker, more defined. The split lip has scabbed over badly. He looked tired in a way that made his stomach drop.
Joonghyuk’s foot eases off the gas.
The light is red.
The man notices him almost immediately. His gaze lifts, sharp and assessing, then stills when he recognizes the car. His mouth curves, just slightly, like he’s amused by the repetition.
Joonghyuk rolls the window down.
“You look worse,” he says.
The man exhales smoke, unbothered. “Good evening to you too.”
“You should get that looked at.”
He snorts. “You offering medical advice now?”
“No.” Joonghyuk pauses. “Just-.”
The man tilts his head, studying him more openly today. “You always take this road?”
Joonghyuk hesitates. “Usually.”
“Yesterday didn’t scare you off?”
“Should it have?”
The man smiles faintly and taps ash onto the pavement. “Depends.”
"On what?” Joonghyuk asks.
Before the man could answer, a car behind him honks.
Joonghyuk glances up at the light. Still red. Another honk, louder this time, impatient.
“Looks green to me,” the man says, nodding past him.
Joonghyuk checks again. The light has changed. He should go. He knows that. Instead, he signals and pulls over to the curb, engine still running.
The man’s eyebrows lift. “Huh.”
Joonghyuk shuts the car off this time and steps out. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Which one?”
“Why you’re still here.”
The man shrugs. “Nowhere better to be.”
Joonghyuk studies him up close again. The swelling, the cigarette, the way he stands like he just expects things to come flying to him to fuck him over.
“You live like this?” Joonghyuk asks before he can soften it.
The man laughs quietly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.” He flicks his gaze down briefly, then back up. “You married?”
Joonghyuk stiffens, the topic switch irritating him. “Why?”
The man gestures with the cigarette. “Ring.”
Joonghyuk looks down at his hand, like it’s the first time he’s noticed it. “Yes.”
“I see.” The man nods once. “You have a habit of stopping for people you don’t know?”
“No.”
“Then I must be special.”
Joonghyuk doesn’t answer that.
A beat passes. Another car drives by, slower this time, the driver glancing at them and then away again.
“You shouldn’t be talking to me,” the man says, not unkindly.
Joonghyuk meets his eyes. “You shouldn’t still be standing here.”
“Yet here we are.”
The man takes one last drag from his cigarette and drops it, grinding it out with his shoe.
“You’re going to keep driving this way?“
Joonghyuk doesn’t deny it.
The man smiles again, not friendly, not unfriendly. Shit eating grin. “Then I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”
Joonghyuk feels something settle in his chest.
“Maybe,” he says.
He gets back into his car and pulls away before he can say anything else.
In the rearview mirror, the man is already lighting another cigarette.
6:58 PM
Dokja watches the car disappear before he looks away. It pulls back into traffic smoothly.
He exhales through his nose and shifts his weight off the wall.
Rich guy. Married, too—he’d seen the ring clearly this time. Gold band, clean, worn without fuss. Prestigious-looking, if that’s a thing you can clock from posture alone. The man probably used body wash that was worth his monthly income.
Yet here we are.
Dokja presses two fingers into his ribs and winced. The pain was worse today, settled in properly overnight. He’s not surprised. He rolls his shoulders once, testing, then fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it.
“Guess I’m special,” he mutters to no one.
He smokes it down to the filter, then flicks it away and heads down the street, away from the loading dock and toward the pub deeper into the streets, the one with the crooked sign and the door that sticks when it’s humid. Which is most days.
More like every day-
The place is already open. It always is.
The bell over the door jingles as he steps inside, and the smell hits him immediately—beer, cleaner, old wood soaked with years of spills. It’s dimmer than outside, cooler. A few regulars sit scattered at the bar, nursing drinks like it’s their job.
“Dokja,” a voice calls from behind the counter. “You look like hell.”
He grins, wide enough to pull at the split in his lip. “Good evening to you too, Mrs. Park.”
Mrs. Park snorts and sets down the glass she’s wiping. She’s small, bent a little with age, gray hair pulled back tight like it always is. She peers at him over her glasses, unimpressed.
“Sit,” she says. “Don’t bleed on my floor.”
“I wouldn’t dare Granny.” he says, sliding onto a stool anyway.
She clicks her tongue and reaches for a bottle. “You get into trouble again?”
“Trouble found me.”
“Trouble always finds you,” she replies, pouring him a drink he didn’t ask for. “Drink. Then go upstairs before you scare off my customers.”
He takes the glass and downs half of it in one go. The burn settled his mind.
“You work tonight?” she asks.
“If you need me.”
She eyes him, then sighs. “After closing. Floors need mopping.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “I’ll do it.”
That’s the arrangement. He doesn’t pay rent. He helps out when she asks. Cleans, carries crates, stands between her and the occasional loud idiot who thinks a small old woman running a pub is an invitation to cause trouble. She’s known him since he was barely tall enough to see over the counter. Knows his story in pieces.
He downs his drink and leaves the glass on the bar.
“Don’t stay up too late,” she says as he heads toward the back. “You look tired.”
“I am tired,” he replies.
Upstairs, the room is exactly what it always is. Small. One narrow bed. A table shoved against the wall. A window that doesn’t open properly. His things fit because he didn’t own much in the first place.
He stripped off his jacket and shirt carefully, checking the bruises in the mirror. They look worse than they felt earlier. He pressed a cloth against his lip, trying to stop the bleeding.
His mind drifts back, annoyingly, to the man in the car. The way he’d pulled over. The way he’d looked at him.
Married, Dokja thinks again, and snorts softly.
He lies down on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. The sounds of the pub drift up through the floor—voices, laughter, a chair scraping back. Normal noise. Familiar.
He closes his eyes.
Tomorrow will be the same as today. It always is.
When sleep crept up to him, Dokja remembered his duty.
Scrubbing the floor after closing.
"Fuck this…"