Snake Venom Ch 123

Chapter 123

“I’m the only damn sucker here. A sucker.”

His heart slammed against his ribs, throat bobbing under the burn of tension. A bead of cold sweat slid along his jawline. The man’s harsh breaths growled just in front of him—so close he could have reached out and touched him had there not been a wall and metal between them.

“Tch. Damn it.”

Yeonwoo’s eyes jolted. Fine red capillaries spread like cracks across the whites.

“This damn cover always falls off.”

Metal scraped against concrete as the man picked up the dropped vent cover. The sharp noise cut through the silence like a blade.

Clack. The cover slid neatly back into place. Yeonwoo didn’t so much as move a muscle. A familiar dread rose in choking waves—the kind he’d lived with for far too long.

Another man entered.

“H-Hey, h-hyung. T-The boss said it’s not that one. T-The real sample’s in the i-inside storage.”

His timid stammer felt bizarrely out of place in such a vicious den. The moment his hand left the vent, an explosive roar followed.

“Are you stupid? Speak properly!”

The eruption was violent enough to make even a listener flinch. Footsteps pounded—heavy, sharp, angry. Each curse was punctuated by a thud, as if he were smashing whatever lay in reach.

Then silence. Their steps faded down the hall.

Yeonwoo pressed the camera against his chest. His palm was soaked, slick with sweat.

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

His heart battered his ribs like it wanted out. His body trembled uncontrollably. No matter how many times he repeated the reassurance, shock clung to him like ice.

Team leader.

Just whispering Cheon Wooshin’s name in his mind steadied him. He swallowed, bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until pain jolted through him, and forced his quaking muscles to obey.

Cheon Wooshin stood guard in front of the vent. Narrow enough for only one slim body to fit. The moment Yeonwoo disappeared inside that dark throat of metal, time itself seemed to stop around him.

He listened. Nothing. No rustle, no scrape, no cry. If something happened inside, there was no way to know unless Yeonwoo signaled. Yet Yeonwoo never lost his way—his instincts were keener than any. Silence should mean safety.

Yet unease clung to Wooshin, persistent and biting.

His fingertips flexed uselessly in the air before curling into fists. He breathed slow, as though filtering every particle of air. He was the one who sent Yeonwoo into the serpent’s throat. There was no room to waver—not even with this foreign unease gnawing at him from the inside.

His gaze lifted to the ceiling. If they remained teammates, moments like this would repeat. He could not imagine pushing Yeonwoo out of his sphere—not when every instinct screamed to keep him near. All the more reason to build a flawless justification for keeping him close forever.

A faint stir echoed from the vent. Wooshin removed the cover. A shadow shifted in the darkness before Yeonwoo emerged—scuffled movement, breath rough, a strained little gasp. As soon as his head and shoulders surfaced, Wooshin reached without hesitation and hauled him in—steady, firm.

Surprised, Yeonwoo stiffened. Their eyes met—his lashes fluttering fast, grit and sweat streaked across his face.

The moment his feet touched the ground, he shuffled backward—awkward, flustered. Wooshin’s brow darkened in faint displeasure. Yet Yeonwoo lifted his head—and his eyes shone, bright like lit glass.

“I found it.”

Dust smeared his face; sweat glued his hair to his forehead. Clothes clung damp to his skin. He looked exhausted, disheveled—yet Wooshin couldn’t look away, gaze rooted like tar.

“You were right, team leader.”

He didn’t seem to notice Wooshin staring. His breath was still uneven, voice trembling with raw excitement. Wooshin steadied his own breath.

“What should I buy you this time?”

Yeonwoo blinked, then let out a small laugh—soft, startled. He lifted a hand to hide his face, gaze dropping as if overwhelmed by the question. A simple thing, yet answered with such earnest, almost shy deliberation that Wooshin’s eyes narrowed again—caught, unable to look away.

“You really… never change.”

He raised his head, and his smile burst open like a secret treasure revealed. Pure delight sparkled in his expression—hopeful, grateful, childlike.

“I’ll have whatever you like.”

His eyes were luminous.

— Alpha Team, hold at B-floor. Beta Team, join the head lead in sector 3-1 on the same level.

At Wooshin’s command, a silent wave rolled through the club.

In the private upper floors, the deafening lower floors, stairwells and parking garages—those disguised as janitors, guests, drunks—all shifted, poised to strike.

Outside, tension rippled through the line of patrons. One man peeled away casually. Then another. A third. It looked natural—smoking, a phone call—but every step had purpose.

Inside, team members gathered. Their composure cut sharply through the chaos of lights and sound—clean, precise. A few patrons turned curious eyes toward them—and promptly forgot, lost to music and drugs.

Wooshin and Yeonwoo stood at the first entry point to the factory—the same door the waiter had vanished through. While waiting, Yeonwoo relayed what he heard—voices, deadlines, venom scent. Every sense he’d used had become evidence.

A guard rounded the corner, breathless. His colleague had failed to report; he’d come to check. CCTV tampering by Doyoung and broken comms only heightened his alarm.

“Who are you? This area is restricted.”

“I know,” Wooshin answered, bored.

Then footfalls—Suho’s group arrived. The guard’s eyes widened.

“You—what, ugh—!”

His hand never reached his earpiece. One of Suho’s men seized him, slammed him down. Wooshin nodded once to Suho and opened the door.

“Seal all vents first.”

Outside, a black van rolled to a soft stop. No sirens. Armed officers poured out.

They split into formation, checking gear. The security guards at the entrance froze under their silent, lethal presence. Murmurs rose as the officers announced early closure due to an internal incident. Complaints flickered—but went unanswered.

Soon, handcuffed figures emerged—dozens. Factory heads, supervisors. Some fought. Some sagged, broken.

The crowd murmured, the truth dawning in waves.

At the end of the line walked Cheon Wooshin—and beside him, Lee Yeonwoo. A waiting officer briefed Wooshin on the exterior situation. His black gaze swept the building—from basement concrete to rooftop neon—calculating, measuring, deciding even now.