When the Door Opens, Something Looks Back. - White sheet

Chapter 56: When the Door Opens, Something Looks Back.

The door clicked open.

And the first thing I saw was... not some divine musical prodigy. Not a god among artists. Not the genius who apparently reshaped the entire industry.

Just a tall, slightly disheveled man with a notebook tucked under one arm, headphones dangling around his neck, and an expression that screamed:

I am in the wrong room and I don't know why.

He blinked at us—once, twice—slowly.

"Uh... Eiden?" he asked, voice unsure.

Eiden didn't even look surprised. "Yeah?"

"I—I was trying to say something important but..." His eyes swept over the crowded office again. "Why are there so many... humans?"

The entire engineering team stiffened.

Junhyeok looked personally offended.

Ji—eun choked on her own breath.

Luther's face froze as if he had just witnessed a glitch in reality.

I exhaled through my nose.

So this was "ATE."

The legendary composer.

The man whose name caused bidding wars.

...He looked like the kind of person who apologized to chairs after bumping into them.

Before I could finish processing it, Ji—eun shot up like a starstruck squirrel.

"ATE?! Is it is it really you?" she squeaked, hand over her mouth.

"Last time I checked... yes?" he replied gently.

"C—Can I can I please—autograph—I mean— can I have—can you—" Her hands trembled as she tried to form words.

"You're malfunctioning," I muttered.

"SHUT—I AM NOT—THIS IS NORMAL BEHAVIOR!" she hissed, then turned back to him with sparkling eyes. "Mr. ATE, sir, I swear I'm sane. Mostly. Sometimes."

He blinked. "Oh. Uh. Thank you?"

"I've admired your work since I was a kid," she rushed on. "Especially Celeste's Echo— the modulation in the bridge— it changed my life—"

He took her notebook with both hands, absurdly careful, as if he feared bending the pages. "I have to make sure the signature is neat," he murmured. "If it's cherished, I shouldn't make it crooked."

Ji—eun nearly passed out.

I raised a brow.

She wasn't faking that kind of shine.

Damn. I didn't know she had that in her.

ATE—Klyne—turned to the rest of us slowly.

"You're... Ren, right?" he asked.

"Unfortunately," I replied.

"What do you need from me?"

I met his eyes. "Let's cut to the chase."

Relief washed over him. "Oh thank god someone said it."

He leaned in slightly. "Alright. What do you want? Music? Consultation? Emotional support? I'm bad at the last one, but I can try."

This guy was nothing like the rumors. Rumors made him sound like a storm. This man was a polite... confused... gust of wind.

"I want to form a relationship with you," I said.

The room froze.

Klyne stared at me like I'd just proposed marriage.

Eiden dropped his stylus. Ji—eun's soul visibly left her body.

Luther coughed so hard he looked ready to ascend.

Junhyeok whispered, "No way he said that."

"I... don't swing that way," Klyne said carefully.

"That's not—Wait—fuck—" Heat hit my face. "I meant I want to deepen the bond between—no, that sounds wrong too—fuck—"

I wanted to strangle myself.

"Let me try again. This time without sounding like I want to hold hands."

Eiden facepalmed so loud it echoed.

"I want a political connection," I finally said. "A professional relationship. Preferably one that doesn't involve romance or handholding. Nothing physical. Nothing emotional. Nothing spiritual. Just business."

Klyne blinked. "Political connection. That makes more sense."

He relaxed—barely.

"My real name is Klyne. You can use that."

His eyes drifted toward the children on the other side of the room, watching with the blank calmness of tiny, judgmental wildlife.

"If it's political," he murmured, "then it affects the kids. So... I need to think."

"Is this safe?" he asked Eiden quietly.

"Safe enough."

"And legal?"

"Mostly."

Klyne stared at him. "...Mostly?"

After a long, suffering sigh, he nodded. "Fine. I don't mind building something professional. Just don't expect me to understand politics. I barely understand taxes."

Junhyeok groaned into his hands. Luther looked like his brain had blue—screened. Ji—eun was still frozen in place, clutching her signed notebook.

The kids, however, were entirely unfazed.

Nana was chewing on a pencil.

Jason was folding paper airplanes.

Liv was smiling at dust particles.

Sumi was organizing scattered files like a tiny CEO.

This was normal to them.

"Sir, you handle chaos quite well," Luther said carefully.

Klyne blinked. "Do I?"

"Yes, sir."

"No, they don't listen to me," he muttered.

"They probably do," Luther said.

Ren snorted.

Junhyeok looked at me like he wanted to throw me out a window. "Bro. What the hell was that wording? You sounded like you proposed."

"I know," I muttered.

"Ji—eun died."

"I KNOW."

"Speech therapy," he whispered dramatically. "Please."

"I will kick you."

Before Junhyeok could answer, Sumi piped up from her chair. "Kly, he didn't mean it romantically."

"Thank you," Klyne said, relieved.

Jason lifted his paper plane. "Can I go back to throwing?"

"No throwing at faces," Klyne said.

"No promises," Jason whispered.

Nana chewed her pencil thoughtfully. "Ren tried to marry dada."

"I DIDN'T—"

Liv smiled serenely. "It's okay. Words get tangled when hearts are busy."

I stared at her. "…Why are you like this?"

This man—ATE, Klyne—was supposed to be untouchable. A monster of perfection. A legend wrapped in myth.

But standing here?

He just looked like a soft man living in the center of a hurricane of children.

And somehow…

Getting close to him was going to be far more complicated than I'd expected.

The room finally settled.

Kids went back to being tiny agents of chaos.

The engineers whispered among themselves.

Ji—eun was still clutching her signed notebook like it contained salvation.

And Klyne...

Klyne looked like a man who had accidentally walked into the wrong universe.

He hovered near the table for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, as if trying to figure out whether sitting or standing was the safer choice.

"...So," he said quietly, "should we— talk? Professionally. Politically. Not romantically. Just to be clear."

I groaned into my hands. "Please stop reminding me."

"Sorry." He frowned. "It felt necessary."

"It wasn't."

"...Okay. Sorry again."

He sounded so genuinely apologetic that I had to look away.

This man was lethal.

Not physically.

But in his ability to disarm people without even trying.

I gestured toward the quieter corner of the room. "Fine. Let's talk."

Klyne nodded and followed, steps... uneven. Like he kept

forgetting how long his legs were.

When we stopped, he blinked at me slowly. "Is this a good distance? For conversation. I don't want to be too close. Or too far. Humans get weird about distances."

...We're fine," I said.

"Oh. Good."

He relaxed one shoulder. Then tensed again.

"I mean— good that we're fine. With distance."

"Klyne," I sighed, "just talk."

"Okay," he said, nodding fast. "Talking. Right."

Klyne cleared his throat. It didn't help him. He still looked one misstep away from collapsing into a puddle of uncertainty.

"So... political ties," he began carefully. "Why me?"

"You're powerful," I answered simply. "You're influential. Your work moves people."

He blinked. "I don't... feel powerful."

"That's not the question."

"Oh." He paused. "Then... thank you. I think."

I frowned. This was not how powerful men acted. Power chased most people.

Power should have avoided this man like he was cursed.

But it didn't.

Klyne shifted awkwardly. "Ren... your eyes move before your words do."

"...What?"

"You react first," he said softly. "Then you try to smother it with logic. It's like watching someone inhale a breath they never let out."

I narrowed my eyes. "Are you psychoanalyzing me?"

"Not intentionally," he said quickly. "It just... happens. Sorry."

"That makes it worse."

"I know."

He wasn't lying.

That was the worst part.

A silence settled between us.

Not uncomfortable—

just unfamiliar.

Klyne looked around the room absently, then back at me.

"You're quick," he said quietly. "Sharp. But... you're always holding your breath, Ren."

I stiffened.

He leaned slightly closer—still leaving space, still awkward—yet present.

"Try exhaling," he murmured. "Just once in a while."

I clicked my tongue. "You make it sound easy."

"It's not." He shrugged helplessly. "But... it's easier than pretending."

His eyes softened, in that strange, unreadable way of his.

"And you, Yamamichi... you're not built for pretending."

I had nothing to say to that.

For the first time in a long time, something inside me

shifted.

Not broken.

Not healed.

Just... moved.

A small crack.

A human one.

Trying to shake the feeling off, I changed the subject.

"What about you?" I asked. "You have any hobbies outside composing?"

He brightened instantly. "Oh! Yes. Many."

"Such as?"

"Well—" He raised one finger. Then froze. "...Um."

"What."

"I'm trying to remember... if I actually... like anything."

"You don't know your own hobbies?"

He grimaced. "I know the words. Not the feelings."

"What does that even mean?"

"I was told I enjoy tea. And gardening. And reading. And night walks. And puzzles." He hesitated. "I don't remember choosing them."

I went silent.

His face softened, almost apologetic. "I know that sounds strange."

"It sounds like someone programmed you," I muttered.

"...Yes. That's what I meant."

My mind stalled.

This man...

This awkward, gentle man...

Something was wrong with him.

Not in a broken way—in a manufactured way.

He smiled faintly. "But I do like the kids. That one's real."

"Are they all yours?"

"Oh no, no," he waved both hands. "I'm not the real Midas."

"I know," I said.

He blinked. "You... do?"

"Obviously. You're too awkward. Too polite. Too..." I gestured vaguely. "Human."

"That's the nicest insult anyone has ever given me."

"I wasn't trying to be nice."

"Oh." He thought about it.

"...Still the nicest."

I huffed out a breath.

And for a second—just one—I felt something loosen in my chest.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I really was always holding my breath.

"So what do you think of him?" I asked suddenly.

"The real Midas?"

"Yeah."

Klyne hesitated. I pressed on.

"He should take care of his kids more," I muttered. "He leaves all of this chaos on you. He's lazy. He throws out something good and everyone worships it. He deserves the praise, but he doesn't act like it. Doesn't hold responsibility."

Klyne didn't react at first.

Then—something shifted.

Not visibly. Not physically.

But in the air.

Every instinct in my body snapped to attention.

A primal jolt.

An evolutionary warning.

I felt my head freeze.

My muscles locked, refusing to look anywhere else.

I understood—instinctively, biologically—that if I looked away...

I would die.

Klyne tilted his head slightly.

Not threateningly.

Not cruelly.

Just... observing.

Like someone turning a page in a book.

His eyes flicked to me—a half—second glance—

And terror flooded my spine so fast I nearly choked.

A memory surfaced.

Golden eyes.

A presence that swallowed entire rooms.

I couldn't breathe.

"Ren," Klyne said quietly. "Don't say things you don't know."

I swallowed hard.

His tone wasn't threatening.

But my body didn't care.

"...I'll talk with the real deal," he said gently. "But don't repeat that. Not unless you're ready."

Only when he looked away did my lungs finally unlock. I exhaled sharply.

Klyne blinked, oblivious to the fear rattling in my bones. "Did I say something weird? People make that face when I say something weird."

I shook my head. "No. You're... normal."

"Ah." He nodded, relieved. "Good."

But the world still felt tilted.

And when the door finally opened—Klyne hesitated. I pressed on.