The monotonous tapping of the rain outside now reminded Sang-woo of someone's final minutes—seconds, even—ticking by on the clock.

And it seems like the person, or rather, the thing dying, was what little dignity and self-control he had left when it came to you.

He stood outside his apartment door. The peep hole was still a bit uneven, and the last "5" on the number of the apartment—"505"—was tilted a bit to the right side.

It brought him a weird sense of unease and comfort that both warmed his stomach—mixing with the alcohol he had consumed that night—to know that nothing has changed here since he has been gone in his life.

He also smiled bitterly, yet briefly, at the thought that quite a few things had changed in his—and not to the better side.

Longer nights spent in the office, harsher tones used to dismiss the morons who were still dumb or inexperienced enough to try to flirt with him. More cigarettes mercilessly stubbed-out in the ashtray in the gnawing emptiness of his apartment and more empty glasses of whiskey waiting for him on the kitchen counter.

And it seems like he definitely wasn't the one they were all waiting for.

He knocked, raising his hand that was wet with rain and dirty with grime, to the door. Two times—as usual, yet perhaps the slight tremble of his fingers has made the usually sharp, decisive and completely detached movement now seem... tense. Impatient.

Desperate.

He heard the soft padding of footsteps on the other side. Silence. Then, a peak into the peep hole, judging by the way the small hole brightened and then darkened again. He couldn't see him.

Yet he knew he saw him. And he probably looked like a mess.

His coat's collar bunched up around his neck, the usually-impeccably styled hair now ruffled and messy, making the absolutely exhausted middle-aged businessman now look almost boyish. Almost. His suit was wrinkled and wet, a few stains of dirt on his usually-polished-until-shining shoes.

He didn't look like the usual Sang-woo. But he sure as hell felt like him. Felt like he hadn't in a pretty long fucking time.

Finally, the door opened, and Sang-woo's breath involuntarily caught in his throat at the sight. At the sight of him. You. His... or rather, once-his you.

"You," Sang-woo breathed, a bit surprised himself at the unexpected roughness in his voice, that he sensed probably wasn't caused by the pack of cigarettes he smoked earlier.

Then, a lump formed in his throat. He was usually so eloquent, so easily disarming in the way he spoke—his tone controlled, measured, like he owned everything in the world.

Everything, it seems, except you.

He forced himself to speak, mentally recoiling at the sheer desperation in his hoarse, deep voice,

"Let me in."