The Line Between Us: Part II

Chapter 11: End of the Tyrant

Inside the room, Joon-seok continued biting at the rope binding his hands, sweat soaking his face. Every muscle in his arms stretched painfully, trembling under the strain. Exhaustion weighed on him, but the approaching footsteps outside—and Do-hwan’s voice—spurred him to work faster.

The knots finally gave way. He dropped to the floor with a heavy thud, eyes wide as he stared at the door.

When it swung open, both Min-jae and Do-hwan scanned the room—but Joon-seok was already gone.

Relief washed over Min-jae’s face—finally, Do-hwan could no longer intimidate him. He had a plan now, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips. Behind him, panic flashed across Do-hwan’s features.

“젠장… 어디로 간 거야?!”
(“Shit… where did he go?”) Do-hwan muttered almost in a whisper, eyes wide.

Without wasting another second, Min-jae spun with sudden force, his left arm snapping around the rifle’s barrel, jamming the cold steel against his forearm as he pulled it close to gain control. In the next instant, his right elbow shot upward into Do-hwan’s face, tilting the man’s head back. Min-jae ripped the rifle free, reversed it in his hands, and leveled the muzzle straight at his opponent.

He gasped, forcing the words out:

“끝장이야, 이 개새끼야!”
(“You’re finished, you fucking bastard!”)

An asthma attack seized him, stealing his breath. His face flushed a deep red, veins standing out on his temples. Every inhale burned, yet he planted his feet firmly, trying to look unshakable in front of Do-hwan, even though he could barely breathe. His finger trembled, pressed against the trigger, but he forced it to stay relaxed.

Do-hwan saw him struggling to breathe—a perfect opening. He lunged for the rifle, and they grappled over it, shoving it back and forth. The weapon moved upward as they fought over it.

Ratatatatat!

Bullets tore into the ceiling, splintering the wood, leaving jagged holes where each shot struck, echoing through the room.

The struggle for the rifle raged on. With a final burst of strength, Min-jae wrenched it aside, sending the weapon clattering to the floor. Gritting his teeth, breath ragged, he drove his forehead into Do-hwan’s face. The man’s head snapped back, blood spilling from his nose.

But this time, Min-jae couldn’t strike again. His hand clutched at his chest, lungs burning, every breath stolen by the grip of his asthma.

Do-hwan regained his focus. Seeing Min-jae gasping for air, he lunged—one arm locking around his throat as he slammed him hard against the wall. His other hand clamped down, squeezing tighter, driving the breath from Min-jae’s body.

Min-jae’s face turned crimson, veins bulging at his temples and neck.

“죽어라, 이 개새끼야!”
(“You’re dead, you son of a bitch!”) Do-hwan snarled.

Min-jae clawed at his hands, tapping frantically, struggling for air—until suddenly Do-hwan was yanked backward.

Joon-seok.

He spun Do-hwan around and hammered his fists into the man’s face—blow after blow, relentless, fueled by rage. Joon-seok shouted as his knuckles cracked against bone. Do-hwan snapped his head side to side, spraying blood and sweat into the air.

Min-jae collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, chest heaving as he fought to breathe.

His gaze darted to the window. Air—he needed air.
Dragging himself across the floor, he clawed toward it, fingers trembling as they caught the sill. He hauled himself up with every ounce of strength left in him—only for his knees to buckle. He sagged forward, arms hanging limp over the frame, mouth open against the night air as he gasped desperately for breath.