HMN C23

Chapter 23

Wiping his forehead roughly with the back of his hand, Daeyoung slowly pushed the cart toward the eel restaurant. Asking one of the employees outside about the boss’s whereabouts, he received a quick gesture inward.

“The owner of the local specialty shop said he borrowed your storage, right? Where exactly is that?”

“Ah, this? It’s just down there—not far.”

From the very back of the restaurant, the middle-aged owner appeared, swaying on his feet. He was already half-drunk, his face and neck flushed red. Patting his rounded belly, he fished for something in his pocket as he talked.

“I run this place, and that one down the alley there—the dried fish pub, and the frozen pork belly joint at the corner, too. My son-in-law came by for a drink, and then…”

“Oh… really?”

As they walked together down the narrow alley, the man kept chatting between hiccups, proudly introducing himself. But none of it really registered in Daeyoung’s ears. The cart he was dragging rattled heavily behind him, far too laden and awkward for one person alone. The storage was at the back of a building far down the lane—behind the business district, away from the fair stalls.

“There’s a basement here. I use it for my restaurant’s supplies—it’s clean. Here, take the key, hardworking student.”

Patting his shoulder encouragement, the boss whistled his way back up the alley. Daeyoung looked up at the old brick storefront before leaning to peer down the basement steps.

“Wow… how am I supposed to get all this down there?”

Naturally, a small, aging building like this wouldn’t have an elevator. Can’t I just leave it aside and sell it tomorrow? The weather was still cool enough—it’d be fine, wouldn’t it?

Though it was only late afternoon, the descending stairway already looked dark and sunless. Clicking his tongue, Daeyoung steeled his resolve.

“Let’s go.”

He decided to move one box at a time. Ideally, he would’ve stacked two or three, but if he fell even once, he’d end up paying for all the broken stock—a loss he couldn’t afford. Grunting under the weight, Daeyoung carried one box down the steps and took out the key.

“Huh… this really doesn’t fit right.”

Creak, creak.

The ancient metal handle resisted, and the key scraped and slipped inside. After a few attempts, twisting and jiggling, it finally caught and turned. With both hands, he pulled; the heavy steel door groaned open at last.

“Jeez…”

Contrary to his doubts about such an old building, the basement was surprisingly neat. The owner hadn’t exaggerated—stacked boxes lined the walls in tidy rows, all long-lasting goods, clearly organized for storage. The air was cooler than outside, exactly as intended.

“Good. Let’s move fast and get some rest.”

Maybe, if he finished early, he could even take a short break. Propping one box against the doorway so the heavy door wouldn’t keep swinging shut, he climbed the stairs again.

Thud.

“Ah! Damn, this is hard work!”

By the third trip, his legs gave out. He collapsed onto a step, panting. The stone stairs were steep, the boxes heavy, and the endless up-and-down grind was brutal. Just five minutes, he decided. Leaning his head back against the wall, he felt sweat cooling on his skin, only for heat to rise all over again.

Everything hurt—legs, back, shoulders—but worst of all was his wrist. It had been through strain for days, but today’s abuse had it grinding like a rusted screw every time he tried to rotate it.

He thought about checking his phone to pass the time, only to remember he’d shoved it into his bag back on the truck to lighten his load. Too tired to fetch it, he sighed.

“Thought you’d run off, but here you are, hiding.”

Startled at the voice, Daeyoung whipped his head around. Of all people, it had to be him. Just when he thought the chatterbox had finally left, Go Chiwoo appeared again. Instead of relief at the extra help, Daeyoung felt only the creeping dread of what trouble this guy would stir now.

“How’d you even know I was here?”

“My eyesight’s good.”

He could’ve just said he’d seen him walk this way, but of course he had to squeeze in self-flattery. Daeyoung had thought he’d met all kinds during his all-boys high school years, but this was a whole new species. Suppressing a sigh, he stood up—too drained to argue.

“Move.”

Go Chiwoo still unsettled him. Not that there’d ever been a time he didn’t, but ever since their last conversation at the café—especially so.

“That’s what we call delusions of self-importance.”

“You think everyone’s talking about you, don’t you? Like you’re all they ever notice.”

Every word he spoke seemed designed to grate. Flicking his hand impatiently, Daeyoung brushed past him toward the stacked boxes.

“If you’ve satisfied yourself that I’m not slacking, then leave. You were plenty chatty before.”

“You think I enjoy being here? Can’t you see how this place disgusts me?”

Rather than forcing small talk or lifting anything, apparently even standing near heavy labor was suffering for this self-proclaimed prince.

“Didn’t notice.”

Daeyoung muttered lazily without even meeting his gaze. From above, Go Chiwoo watched him work—those messy clothes, the streaks of sweat on his temples, the white gleam of his forehead where his hair had fallen back.

Every volunteer gig probably looked like this, but something about this guy—this one—was different.

Out there, most volunteers half-heartedly shuffled boxes, pretending effort while gossiping or sneaking breaks. But this one? Hopelessly earnest. His forearms, slender and taped with patches, twisted as he lifted. Even beneath his gloves, Daeyoung’s fingers flashed with medical tape or plasters, layered where the skin must’ve split. Not strong, not built—just stubborn.

An irritating type. What recognition did he expect from all this needless effort? Egotistical, neurotic, spooked by rumors and whispers, twitching at phantom judgment—and yet, mindlessly devoted to work no one noticed.

“What are you doing?”

As Go Chiwoo hefted two boxes, Daeyoung paused mid-step up the stairs.

“Thought I’d help. You’ll brag later that you did it all yourself. Where do these go?”

Even his offers of help sounded arrogant. Scowling up at the annoyingly graceful face, Daeyoung pointed below.

“…Inside, you’ll see where I’ve stacked the rest.”

Still—the guy’s height had its uses. Carrying two boxes at once, Chiwoo looked annoyingly stable. Daeyoung tried the same and gave up at half the weight. Fine. I’ll stick to humble worker bee.

Thunk.

Before long, the last few boxes from the cart were piled neatly inside the basement. Go Chiwoo placed the final one—taken from the door where Daeyoung had propped it—and stood behind him. Daeyoung stayed crouched, fiddling with the floor.

“What now?”

Setting down what he carried, Chiwoo followed his gaze.

“This—one of the boxes tore open when I put it down. Something fell out.”

Judging by the sticky puddle spreading nearby, whatever had been inside was shattered. He sighed, dragging it aside so it wouldn’t soak the rest. A sweet, fruity smell filled the air. Must’ve been fruit syrup—or liquor, maybe some homebrew specialty. He’d wondered why that particular box had been so heavy.

“Got anything to wipe this with?”

While Daeyoung looked around, Chiwoo’s eyes scanned the crown of his head—the soft hair clinging slightly with sweat—and then slid lower, tracing the nape of his neck. Pale. Too pale. He’d even done military service; how could someone stay this white? Had he grown up under a roof his whole life? Impossible.

Daeyoung found a roll of paper towels and crouched to mop the mess. The damp air stirred, carrying the faint scent of him—soap, detergent, something clean beneath the warehouse’s thick smell of dust and metal. Chiwoo frowned without knowing why. The contradiction clawed at him.

Warehouses always smelled—of decay, concrete, and rust—but here, that sharp note of him sliced through everything. A purity out of place. The irritation of it tightened in Chiwoo’s chest, making his throat twitch as he realized Daeyoung was now crouched literally at his feet.

“Go Chiwoo.”

“……”

Even when his name was called, Chiwoo didn’t answer. Am I just… thirsty? He blinked. Realization hit, and with an irritable breath he looked down.

“I’m not asking you to help, but could you at least move your feet? Go if you’re done.”

“…I was about to.”

Casting a glance at the puddle ending at his toes, Chiwoo turned crisply on his heel. Daeyoung rolled his eyes at the pompous movement.

“What is this even—plum wine, maybe?”

The label on the box said only Local Specialty Gift Set and was sealed too tightly to read the bottle. After wiping the floor dry, Daeyoung straightened, figuring he’d have to explain the damage to the owner later.

Clack. Clack.

Gathering up the paper towels, he glanced toward the door. Chiwoo was jiggling the handle. It had stuck earlier, and Daeyoung had suspected the prince wouldn’t manage it. Sure enough, the man turned with a frown.

“It won’t open.”

“……”

Of course not.

Striding over, Daeyoung tossed his trash aside and motioned for him to step aside.

“Right, right. Let the servant do it. I’ll open it, Your Highness.”

With mocking flourish, he gripped the handle and twisted firmly, shoving the door forward.

Thump.

Thunk.

“…What the hell?”

The door didn’t budge. Frowning, he braced his shoulder and shoved repeatedly, the handle rattling but refusing to turn. Only his arm burned with the effort.

“Huh? That’s weird.”

He’d struggled opening it before, but never this badly. Back then at least it had felt like it might give; now it was locked solid, fused into place. A chill crept up his spine.