Almost blind | Haobin

55| hot chocolate |55

"Since the winter break, you've been totally out of it," Gunwook muttered, frustrated, as he dropped down onto the bench beside Hanbin. His breath came out in visible puffs from the cold gym air, his face still flushed and damp with sweat from the intense basketball drills the coach had just run them through. Meanwhile, Hanbin hadn't even bothered to break a sweat.

The familiar echo of sneakers squeaking against the hardwood floor and the rhythmic pounding of a basketball filled the gym, but Hanbin barely reacted. He sat hunched over a messy pile of papers on his lap, his brows furrowed in deep concentration, as if he were dissecting the meaning of life itself rather than just reading names.

"You're supposed to be here to train, not... obsess over whatever that is," Gunwook added, squinting at the crumpled papers in Hanbin's hands. "What even is all that?"

Hanbin didn't answer right away. A bright yellow highlighter was clenched between his teeth, and his fingers flipped rapidly through the documents before circling a name with urgency. His eyes were sharp-tired, but filled with something fiery beneath. Determination? Desperation? Gunwook couldn't quite tell.

"This," Hanbin said, pulling the highlighter from his mouth and tapping the papers, "is more important than basketball right now."

Gunwook blinked. "You? Saying something's more important than basketball? What the hell happened to you?"

Hanbin let out a short breath, almost a laugh-but it held no humor. He flipped a page and shoved it toward Gunwook. "My dad gave me this. It's a list of patients from the mental hospital. Ones currently admitted, and ones who've been discharged in the past few years."

"Okay... and?" Gunwook's face scrunched up in confusion.

"I'm looking for names-specifically, patients who were under Dr. Julson's care," Hanbin said, voice tightening like a wire pulled too far. "If you see any names listed with him as their assigned psychiatrist, circle them."

Gunwook stared at him. "What? Why?"

Hanbin's gaze flicked to his teammate for a moment-haunted, exhausted, full of something Gunwook couldn't name-but he didn't elaborate. "Just do it."

There was a beat of silence before Gunwook finally rolled his eyes, snatched a pen from Hanbin's gym bag, and began scanning the list. "You're weird, man," he muttered. "But I guess I'll help you."

Weird didn't even begin to cover it. Hanbin, who normally dominated the court, didn't even glance at it once today. He hadn't responded to the coach yelling his name. Hadn't bantered with the other players. It was like he wasn't even in the room. His entire focus was buried in names on paper, eyes moving too fast, too wild.

But Gunwook could tell-whatever this was, it wasn't a game to him. It was personal.

Hanbin hadn't told him why. Not here. Not in the gym, surrounded by echoes and sweat and too many ears. But it was obvious that something had cracked over winter break. Something serious. Something heavy enough to pull Hanbin-the most competitive person he knew-completely out of the game.

What Gunwook didn't know was that this had nothing to do with basketball. That miles away from free throws and drills, a boy named Hao was curled up in bed, too sick and numb to come to school. That Hanbin had spent the last two nights holding him while he cried until his body couldn't cry anymore. That his dad-Gyuvin, had slid him that list of names because Hanbin had begged him to.

Because Hanbin was chasing something. A thread. A truth. Something that could prove Hao wasn't the only one. That maybe-just maybe-Dr. Julson had left a pattern of scars on more than one soul. That this monster didn't only hurt once.