The house was still. The soft hum of the city outside felt distant, muted, almost unreal. Kang Daehyun sat on the edge of the study desk, one hand pressing against the side of his torso where the knife had pierced him. The pain was sharp, relentless, a burning ache that twisted through his ribs and spread in waves across his shoulders.
He had already cleaned the wound minimally, just enough to prevent immediate infection, but the blood had seeped through the fabric of his long sleeve, leaving a dark, stubborn stain. He pressed harder, wincing, his teeth gritted against a groan that never escaped his lips.
Not here. Not in front of her. Not in front of Minjun.
He flexed his fingers slowly, the tremor in them betraying the exhaustion that ran deeper than his body. Every muscle screamed at him, his side throbbed painfully, and yet he refused to allow a sound, a whimper, anything that might reveal the truth of how much he had endured.
The wound burned with every shallow breath. His heartbeat pulsed in tandem with the pain—a cruel metronome reminding him of how fragile his control was. He tilted slightly, eyes scanning the dim study, long sleeves stretched over his arms like a fragile barrier. He could feel the bruises beneath them—the faint purples and reds from previous episodes—but now the knife wound demanded every ounce of attention.
I can't stop. I can't slow down. Not now. Minjun needs me. Sooah needs me. The world cannot see what she cannot understand. I have to endure this, every second, every day.
Nursing the Wound
He shifted carefully, pulling a clean cloth from the side table. With slow, precise movements, he dabbed at the wound, trying not to move too sharply. The pain flared, sharp enough to make him grunt quietly under his breath, but he swallowed it down. Every flare of agony was a reminder: he could not falter. He could not let himself bleed in front of her, even accidentally.
The wound throbbed with every heartbeat, deep and insistent, a reminder that even the strongest could be hurt. Yet he held himself steady, applying pressure, wrapping it with a spare cloth like a makeshift bandage. He could feel the strain in his arms, the way his muscles protested each motion.
And still, his mind raced. He thought of Minjun, asleep in his room, oblivious to the violence and chaos. He thought of Sooah, still recovering in fits and starts from her episodes, unaware of the injuries she had inflicted on the man who loved her. He thought of the fragile balance of their lives, the careful equilibrium that could shatter at any moment.
I have to survive this. I have no choice.
Internal Despair
Sitting back against the edge of the desk, he allowed himself a brief moment of closure. His breath was ragged, shallow, but he could not afford more than that. The stab, the bruises, the exhaustion—they were private. Private because the moment anyone else saw, the careful world he had built around Sooah and Minjun would collapse.
He thought of how cruel it would be if she knew. How her life's work, her leadership, her mind—all of it—was only sustainable because he carried the suffering alone. How much it would devastate her to see what her illness had forced upon him.
She cannot know. Not ever.
The pain radiated again, sharp and insistent, and he flexed his fingers, forcing himself to focus. Each breath was a challenge. Each motion was carefully calculated. He pressed the cloth harder against the wound, the sting of blood mixing with the dull ache of his muscles.
This is my life now. Pain, restraint, endurance. Silence. And hiding it all from the two people I live for.
The Quiet Resolve
Minutes passed—or was it hours? Time had no meaning when your life existed in fragments of pain and vigilance. Daehyun's mind wandered briefly to the nights he had spent restraining her, the bruises forming under his sleeves, the anger he could not release, the exhaustion he could not share.
And yet, he would endure. Every moment, every day. The stab in his side, the bruises along his arms, the unrelenting weight of responsibility—they were nothing compared to the cost of failing them.
He pressed the cloth against his side once more, wrapping it tightly, feeling the sting of blood and the ache of muscles. The pain would fade, the wound would heal, but the memory of every moment—every episode, every fear, every need to restrain her—would remain. And he would continue. Because there was no other choice.
I survive. I endure. I protect. For them. Always.
And with that thought, he straightened, sliding on his long sleeves carefully, hiding the evidence of pain, hiding the proof of suffering. He would move forward, as he always had, carrying every bruise, every stab, every ache inside him like a silent monument to a life no one could see.