Juwon's body ached with a deep, telling throb, a constant reminder of the previous night with Taemin. He moved carefully down the opulent hallway of the Park residence, his gait a subtle, stiff-legged limp he tried desperately to mask. He held his posture rigid, his face a neutral mask, refusing to let any of the passing staff see his discomfort.
He stopped before the heavy, dark wood door of his father's study. Taking a steadying breath, he knocked softly.
"Enter." The voice from within was not an invitation. It was a command, cold and flat.
Juwon pushed the door open. The study was all dark wood and leather, smelling of old books and expensive cigars. His father, Mr. Park, was not seated behind his monumental desk. He was standing before the fireplace, his back to the door, his posture radiating a tension that made the air in the room feel thick and suffocating.
"You wanted to see me, Father?" Juwon's voice was smaller than he intended, barely more than a respectful murmur.
Mr. Park did not turn around. The silence stretched, each second a weight pressing down on Juwon's shoulders. He could feel his heart beginning to drum a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This wasn't the usual summons. This was something else.
"Father?" Juwon ventured again, his courage wavering.
Slowly, Mr. Park turned. His face was a mask of controlled, seething fury. His eyes, dark and sharp, pinned Juwon to the spot. All the confidence Juwon had felt on the phone with Taemin evaporated instantly. Under that gaze, he wasn't a man; he was a boy, a scared toddler facing a wrathful giant. His father was the one person in this world whose anger he truly, viscerally feared.
"Who," Mr. Park began, his voice a low, dangerous whisper that was far more terrifying than a shout, "have you been spending your time with?"
The question was a trap. Juwon's mind raced, scrambling for a safe answer, any answer that wasn't the truth. He forced his face into a semblance of confused innocence.
"N-no one, Father. I've just… been studying. Keeping to myself." The lie tasted like ash on his tongue.
The movement was too fast to anticipate. Mr. Park's hand snapped out, a blur of motion. The crack of the slap echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. Pain exploded across Juwon's cheek, sharp and stunning. He staggered back, his hand flying to his face, eyes wide with shock and welling with involuntary tears.
"Do not," Mr. Park snarled, the controlled fury finally breaking through, "lie to me."
Before Juwon could form a plea, another blow landed. Harder. This one caught him across the same cheek, the force of it whipping his head to the side and sending him crashing to the polished floor. The impact jarred his already sore body, a fresh wave of pain radiating from his back. Tears, now beyond his control, spilled hot and fast down his stinging face. He looked up, his vision blurry, at the towering figure of his father.
"Why…" Juwon choked out, his voice broken. "Why are you doing this?"
In answer, Mr. Park reached onto his desk, snatched up a thick manila envelope, and hurled it at him. Photographs spilled out across the floor, fanning around Juwon like accusing ghosts.
His blood ran cold.
There they were. Him and Taemin. Last night. Captured in grainy, long-lens detail. Their hands linked as they walked through the dimly lit park. Taemin laughing, his head thrown back. Juwon pulling him close, his own smile soft and private. A moment of stolen happiness, now violated and laid bare on the cold, hard floor.
Mr. Park loomed over him, his voice dripping with a disgust so profound it felt like a physical blow. "I have been suspicious of you. So I sent men to keep an eye on you. And last night… they saw you. Clinging to the youngest Lee son."
He leaned down, his shadow engulfing Juwon. "How could you be so stupid? How could you forget what they are? They are not friends. They are not lovers. They are rivals. Our rivals. Everything we have worked for, everything we are, and you debase yourself with their filth?"
The word "cruel" did not begin to describe the look in Mr. Park's eyes. It was a glacial, utter contempt that saw not a son, but a stain on the family's honor.
"You think this is a game?" Mr. Park's voice was a low, venomous hiss. "You think your little… indiscretions… are without consequence?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed a heavy, leather-bound ledger from his desk and brought it down sharply across Juwon's shoulders. The blow was meant to humiliate more than injure, a brutal punctuation to his words. Juwon cried out, curling in on himself on the floor, the photographs crinkling beneath him.
"Every smile you gave him," Mr. Park seethed, "every secret touch, was a betrayal. You were not just sneaking around. You were handing that family a weapon. Do you think the mighty Lee patriarch would hesitate to use this against me? To blackmail us? To laugh at us?"
He began to pace slowly around Juwon's crumpled form, a predator circling wounded prey. "I have spent a lifetime building what we have. A lifetime ensuring the Park name commands respect, not ridicule. And you… you would throw it all away for a pretty face from a family that would see us ruined."
Juwon tried to speak, to form some defense, but only a choked sob escaped his raw throat. He clutched at the photos, as if he could somehow push them back into the envelope, back into the shadows where they belonged.
"Look at you," his father's voice dripped with scorn. "Sniveling on the floor. Is this the man who defies his family? You are not a man. You are a foolish child. A weak, sentimental fool."
He stopped pacing and stood directly over Juwon. "It ends. Now. You will not see him. You will not call him. You will not even think his name. If I so much as suspect you have tried to contact him, the consequences will make this feel like a kindness. Do you understand?"
Juwon could only nod, his face pressed against the cold floor, tears pooling beneath his cheek. The pain in his back was a distant echo compared to the crushing weight of his father's words, the systematic dismantling of his happiness.
He finally turned his back, dismissing Juwon as if he were nothing more than a resolved problem. "Get out of my sight. And clean yourself up. You look pathetic."
The words were the final, cruel blow. Juwon pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest. He didn't look at his father. He couldn't. He gathered the damning photographs with trembling hands, his vision blurred by tears, and stumbled out of the study, leaving the door slightly ajar.
He barely made it to his room before his legs gave out. He collapsed against the door, sliding down to the floor, the photographs scattering around him once more. He drew his knees to his chest, buried his face in his arms, and wept—not just from the pain or the fear, but from the utter annihilation of the fragile hope he and Taemin had dared to nurture. It was over. His father had not just forbidden it; he had made it feel dirty, shameful, and stupid. And the worst part was, in that moment, under the weight of that contempt, Juwon believed him.
The heavy door to Mr. Lee's bedroom clicked shut, sealing Eunjae out in the opulent hallway. The silence that followed was heavier than any shouted accusation. Inside, the air was thick with the cloying scent of medicinal balm and manufactured suffering.
Mr. Lee lay propped against a mountain of silk pillows in the center of his enormous bed, the very picture of a wronged patriarch. He let out a low, theatrical groan, one hand draped over his forehead.
Daon stood rigidly at his father's bedside, his back to the door, to Eunjae, to everything except the performance in front of him. His shoulders were a tight, straight line under his tailored suit jacket, his fists clenched at his sides. The image of his father collapsing, of Eunjae's outstretched hand, played on a loop in his mind, smothering the memory of their morning kiss, of Eunjae's playful laughter.
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door. "Daon?"Eunjae's voice was muffled through the wood, laced with a pain that was entirely real. "Please. Let me explain. You have to let me explain."
Daon flinched but didn't turn. He stared at a fixed point on the far wall, his jaw working.
Mr. Lee let out another pained sigh, louder this time. "You see?" he whispered to Daon, his voice a frail thread. "He cannot even give me peace in my own sickroom. The disrespect... it is boundless."
The knob turned slowly, and the door opened just a crack. Eunjae stood in the doorway, his face pale, eyes red-rimmed and desperate. He took a single, tentative step into the room, his gaze fixed on Daon's unyielding back.
"Daon, look at me," Eunjae pleaded, his voice breaking. "It was a trick. He grabbed me, he pulled my hand—"
"Enough." Daon's voice was not loud, but it was cold. A shard of ice that cut through Eunjae's words. He finally turned his head, just slightly, and the look he gave Eunjae over his shoulder was not one of anger, but of profound, gut-wrenching disappointment. "Haven't you done enough? Look at him."
Eunjae followed his gaze to Mr. Lee, who chose that moment to cough weakly into a handkerchief. The act was flawless.
"I didn't hurt him!" Eunjae insisted, taking another step forward, his hands outstretched in a helpless gesture. "Why won't you believe me?"
"Because I saw what I saw!" Daon finally turned fully to face him, and the dam broke. The coldness evaporated, replaced by a hot, frustrated fury. "I defended you! I stood against my own family for you! And you... you attack my father? In our own home?"
"It wasn't an attack!"
"What would you call it, then?" Daon shot back, his voice rising. "A friendly gesture? He is on his bed, Eunjae!"
Mr. Lee watched from his pillows, a faint, satisfied glint in his eyes hidden behind a mask of pain. His son was doing exactly what was needed.
Eunjae stared at Daon, seeing the man he loved completely blinded by filial duty and a cleverly staged scene. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a hollow, chilling despair. Daon wasn't listening. He had already chosen which truth to believe.
"Get out," Mr. Lee murmured, not looking at Eunjae, speaking only to Daon. "Please, son. Just make him go. I cannot bear it."
Daon's expression hardened again at his father's plea. He looked at Eunjae, his eyes now completely closed off. "You heard him. Leave."
The finality in that single word was devastating. Eunjae took a stumbling step back, the rejection a physical blow. He looked from Daon's hardened face to Mr. Lee's feigned weakness, and the horrible reality settled in: he had lost.
Without another word, Eunjae turned and walked out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. He stood alone in the silent hallway, the sound of his own heartbreak echoing in the vast, empty space.
Inside the bedroom, Daon let out a long, shaky breath, running a hand over his face. Mr. Lee reached out and patted his arm.
"You did the right thing, son," he said, his voice already sounding stronger. "It is a painful but necessary lesson. Some people... they simply do not belong in a family like ours."
Daon didn't reply. He just stared at the door where Eunjae had vanished, the ghost of his husband's heartbroken expression seared into his mind, a tiny, persistent seed of doubt beginning to take root in the fertile ground of his father's lies.
Eunjae stood frozen in the grand hallway, the sting of Daon's rejection still fresh. He felt unmoored, a ghost in the house he was supposed to call home. His feet, heavy with dejection, began to carry him back toward the room he shared with Daon—a space that now felt more like a battleground than a sanctuary.
He stopped mid-stride. The front door, a massive structure of dark wood and polished brass, was swinging open. The figure that stumbled through was a shocking, almost surreal sight.
Taekyun.
But not the Taekyun anyone knew. This man was disheveled, his usually impeccable suit jacket hanging open, his tie loosened and askew. His steps were an uncoordinated shuffle, his balance precarious. He reeked of expensive whiskey and despair. Eunjae's eyes widened. It was a rare, almost unheard-of sight: Lee Taekyun, the controlled and stoic heir, utterly, publicly drunk.
Eunjae instinctively stepped back into the shadow of a large marble column, his own personal anguish momentarily eclipsed by sheer curiosity. His mind flashed back to that morning: Taekyun, looking haggard and guilty, slipping out of Rinwoo's room. Now, here he was, drunk out of his mind. The connection was undeniable, and Eunjae needed to know why.
He watched, silent and unseen, as a flustered servant rushed forward. "Young Master,let me help you to your room," the servant pleaded, trying to take Taekyun's arm.
Taekyun shoved him away with a grunt, the motion clumsy but forceful. "Don't… touch me," he slurred, his words thick and barely intelligible. "I can walk."
He couldn't. He took two stumbling steps toward the grand staircase, his hand missing the banister entirely. With a sigh of resignation, the servant cautiously moved in again, offering a steadying shoulder. This time, Taekyun didn't fight it, allowing himself to be half-dragged, half-carried up the stairs.
Eunjae followed, his steps silent on the plush runner, keeping a careful distance. His frown deepened. This was not the path to Taekyun's own wing.
At the top of the stairs, the servant naturally turned left, toward Taekyun's suite. "No,"Taekyun mumbled, shaking his head with great effort. He pointed a wavering finger down the opposite hallway. "There."
The servant hesitated, confused. "But, Young Master, your room is—"
"I said there!" Taekyun's voice, though slurred, held a sharp edge of desperation. He pushed the servant away once more, lurching forward on his own.
Eunjae's breath hitched. He knew that hallway. He knew the room at the end of it.
With a determination that only deep inebriation or profound grief could provide, Taekyun staggered toward Rinwoo's door. He fumbled with the handle, finally shoving it open and stumbling inside. In his state, he forgot to close it, leaving it slightly ajar.
Eunjae crept closer, his heart pounding in his ears. He peered through the crack in the door.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window. Taekyun stood for a moment in the center of the room, swaying slightly. Then, he took a deep, ragged breath, as if he were drowning and this was his first gasp of air.
He fell forward, not onto the bed, but onto it, his body collapsing across the neatly spread duvet. And then he did something that made Eunjae's blood run cold.
He grabbed Rinwoo's pillow, clutching it to his chest, and then buried his face in the blanket that was still folded at the foot of the bed. He curled around them, his entire body folding in on itself, clinging to the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping him from being swept away.
He was seeking Rinwoo's scent. A lifeline.
Eunjae froze, his earlier curiosity evaporating, replaced by a white-hot, furious disbelief. This man. This cruel, dismissive, emotionally barren man who had treated Rinwoo like a ghost, an inconvenience, a placeholder—now he was here, drunk and desolate, clinging to the remnants of the man he had destroyed.
The hypocrisy was breathtaking. The audacity was enraging.
All the protectiveness Eunjae felt for Rinwoo, all the frustration at the injustice his friend had endured, coalesced into a pure, incandescent rage. He couldn't stand to watch another second.
He turned on his heel, his own hurt from Daon now completely overshadowed by this fresh fury for Rinwoo's sake. He stormed down the hall to his own room, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving Taekyun alone in the dark, desperately holding onto the ghost of the husband he had failed to love.
The slam of a distant door echoed faintly down the hall, but Taekyun didn't hear it. The world had shrunk to the four walls of this moonlit room and the fading scent on the fabric clutched in his fists.
He buried his face deeper into the pillow, inhaling desperately. But it was slipping away. Each breath brought less of him and more of the sterile, empty smell of a room too long unoccupied. A low, guttural sound of protest escaped him, a sob muffled by the cotton.
He curled tighter around the blanket, his body aching with a pain that had nothing to do with the alcohol coursing through his veins. It was a deep, hollow throbbing in his chest, behind his eyes, in the very marrow of his bones.
"Rinwoo..."
The name was a ragged whisper, torn from a place of raw, unguarded need. It was a prayer and a confession.
"My head hurts, Rinwoo..."
The words were slurred, childish in their simplicity. It was the complaint of a man who, in his deepest despair, had regressed to a state of pure, uncomplicated want. He wasn't the powerful Lee heir in that moment. He was just a man in pain, calling for the one person he instinctively believed could make it better.
He didn't realize he was speaking aloud. He didn't realize the depth of the vulnerability he was displaying alone in the dark. The alcohol had dissolved the rigid walls of his control, leaving only the exposed nerve endings of his regret.
"Please..."
It was less than a whisper, a breath against the fabric. He was calling for a ghost. Begging for comfort from the very peace he had shattered. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if by sheer force of will he could conjure the feeling of a cool hand on his forehead, a soft voice telling him it would be alright—the comforts he had never once offered when Rinwoo was actually there.
But the room offered no answers. The scent on the blanket was almost gone. The only thing that remained was the relentless, pounding ache in his skull and the crushing, silent weight of his own solitude. He clung tighter, as if he could physically stop the last traces of Rinwoo from disappearing forever, murmuring the name of the man he'd driven away into the unforgiving silence of the night.
The air at the mountain shrine was thin and carried a chill, the silence broken only by the whisper of the wind through ancient pines. Outside, under the vast, star-dusted sky, Beom Seok had set a low table for dinner. Steam rose from a simple, hearty stew, but the atmosphere was far from warm.
Master Hwang sat cross-legged, his wrinkled hands resting on his knees. His eyes, usually holding the depth of calm centuries, were clouded with a deep, silent worry. He and Beom Seok ate without speaking, their attention fractured. Every few moments, their gazes would drift, pulled like magnets toward the closed door of Rinwoo's room.
Inside, the room was dark. Rinwoo lay on his futon, curled on his side, facing the wall. He was still, too still. The only movement was the faint, ragged rise and fall of his shoulders with each shallow breath. The pristine white sleeve of his robe was marred by a shocking, rust-colored stain. Blood. It had seeped into the fabric just minutes before, a sudden, silent nosebleed he had wiped away with a trembling hand, too weary and too defeated to even be startled by it. He just stared at the red on white for a long moment before letting his arm fall back to the futon, too exhausted to care.
The quiet clink of their bowls seemed deafening. Beom Seok finally set his chopsticks down with a sigh he couldn't hold in. He looked at Master Hwang, who gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
Pushing himself up, Beom Seok crossed the short distance to Rinwoo's door. He raised his hand to knock, then hesitated, his fist hovering. He took a quiet breath.
"Rinwoo?" he called softly, his voice unnaturally gentle. "Dinner is ready. You should eat something."
A long silence followed. Beom Seok was about to call again when a voice, so thin and weak it was barely a whisper, filtered through the wood.
"I'm not hungry."
The words were flat, devoid of any energy. Beom Seok's brow furrowed. "You need to keep your strength up. Just a little—"
"I'm tired," the voice interrupted, even weaker this time, fraying at the edges. "I just want to sleep."
The finality in that frail statement was a wall. Beom Seok stood frozen before the locked door, a hundred questions dying on his tongue. He couldn't ask about the shouting from earlier. He couldn't ask if he was okay. He couldn't force his way in. All he could hear was the profound exhaustion, the utter surrender in that voice.
He swallowed hard, the knot of worry in his own stomach tightening. "Okay," he murmured, the word feeling useless and inadequate. "Rest well, then."
There was no response. Only a deep, echoing silence from the other side of the door.
Beom Seok turned and walked slowly back to the table, meeting Master Hwang's knowing, grim eyes. He didn't need to say anything. The old monk had heard it all. They both looked once more at the closed door, behind which Rinwoo lay bleeding and broken, not from a visible wound, but from one that ran so deep it was leaching out of him. Their dinner sat between them, forgotten and growing cold.
Inside the room, Rinwoo lay perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the rough-hewn wooden beams of the ceiling. His eyes were half-open, glazed with a fatigue that went far beyond the physical. The rust-colored stain on his sleeve was a dull accusation in the moonlight.
What is happening to me?
The question echoed in the hollow silence of his mind. He had done everything right. He had left. He had returned to the peace of the mountain, to the safety of his grandfather's care. He was supposed to forget. The pain was supposed to stay back in that gilded cage of the Lee estate, not follow him up here, not seep into the sacred quiet of the shrine.
He tried to forget Taekyun. He clenched his eyes shut, willing the memory of his face—the cold eyes, the dismissive smirk—to dissolve into nothing. But it was like trying to hold water in his fists; the harder he tried, the faster it slipped through, leaving him with only the damp, cold feeling of failure.
He thought peace would be automatic. A reward for finally walking away. Instead, he felt… nothing. A vast, empty expanse where his heart used to be, punctuated only by these sudden, violent physical betrayals like the nosebleed. A hollow shell, going through the motions of living.
A traitorous thought whispered through the emptiness: What is he doing right now?
Is he suffering, too? Does he feel even a fraction of this crushing weight? Or is he with Yuna? Is he laughing with her, free of the burden of a husband he never wanted?
A sound escaped Rinwoo's lips then—a dry, broken laugh that held no humor. It was a laugh of sheer, utter disbelief at the cruel joke of his own life.
He stared up at the ceiling as if it might hold answers. He had never been an ungrateful person. He was simple. Nice. Easy-going. The quiet one.
He never complained when his mother died, leaving him alone in the world. He simply learned to be smaller, to take up less space. He never complained when the other children teased him,pointing and whispering that he had no father, no proper surname, just a grandfather who was a strange old monk. He just smiled softly and looked at his feet. He never complained when Master Hwang revealed his fate was tied to Lee Taekyun.He accepted it with a quiet nod, a sense of duty overriding any personal desire. He never complained when he met Taekyun and saw the instant disdain in his eyes.He told himself he could earn his respect. He never complained through every cold word,every ignored birthday, every night spent waiting up in a empty, cold bed. He made excuses. He's busy. The company is demanding. It's not his fault. He never complained when Taekyun treated him worse than a servant,worse than a slave—with a slave, at least, the master might acknowledge their existence. Taekyun simply looked through him.
He had borne it all with a silence he mistook for strength.
And now, lying in the aftermath of his escape, he was finally breaking. And the only thing he could do was laugh at the absurdity of it all. The nice, simple, easy-going boy who never complained was shattering into a thousand pieces, and the only witness was the moon and the ghost of a man who never once saw his worth. The laughter died in his throat, turning into a silent, shuddering gasp for air as the tears he had never allowed himself to cry finally began to fall.
The door to Juwon's bedroom opened with a soft, whisper-quiet sigh. It wasn't the harsh, commanding intrusion of his father. It was different.
Juwon didn't lift his head from where it was buried in the silk duvet, his body wracked with silent, shuddering sobs. The humiliation, the fear, and the crushing loss of Taemin were a vortex pulling him under. He didn't care who it was.
Then, he heard the faint, familiar whir of a motor and the soft roll of wheels on the plush carpet.
His breath hitched. He knew that sound.
A moment later, a gentle, cool hand settled on his trembling back. The touch was feather-light, full of a love so profound it made his tears fall harder. He didn't look up, but he instinctively shifted, turning his body and letting his head fall into her lap, seeking the sanctuary he had known since childhood.
His mother said nothing. She simply let him cry, her thin, delicate hand moving in slow, soothing circles on his back. The scent of her light lavender perfume, a constant his whole life, mixed with the salt of his tears.
She knew. Of course she knew. A mother always knows. She had seen the secret lightness in his step these past weeks, the hidden smiles he thought no one noticed. She had also seen the shadow in her husband's eyes, the calculating coldness that meant he was planning something. She had known a collision was inevitable, and her heart had ached in advance for her son.
But she refused to speak of it. To give voice to her husband's cruelty or to Juwon's forbidden love was to make it more real, more dangerous. Her world was a tightrope walk of maintaining peace, of offering comfort in the silent spaces where her power began and ended.
So, she did what she had always done. She provided a harbor in the storm.
"Shhh, my boy," she murmured, her voice a soft, melodic balm. "It's alright. Let it out. Mother is here."
Her fingers gently carded through his hair, pushing the damp strands from his forehead.
"The world is so heavy sometimes, isn't it?" she whispered, not asking for an answer. "But this weight won't last forever. Nothing does. Just breathe, Juwon-ah. Just breathe for me."
She offered no solutions. She made no promises she couldn't keep. She didn't condemn her husband or validate Juwon's heartbreak. She simply existed as a place of unconditional, silent solace. She absorbed his tears into the fabric of her dress and his silent screams into the quiet strength of her presence, a fragile shield against the harshness of the world her husband ruled. In the oppressive silence of the Park estate, her quiet comfort was the only rebellion she could offer.