The heavy oak doors of the penthouse swing open, and for a split second, I expect Gureum to come skidding across the polished marble, his tail thumping against the walls. But the foyer is silent. The air is cold, smelling faintly of lemon polish and a sterile emptiness that makes my lungs ache.
Min-ho steps inside, his movements stiff. He's wearing a fresh suit So-hee had delivered to the hospital—charcoal grey, sharp enough to cut glass. He looks like the man I married, but the way he's glancing around the room is all wrong. He's looking at the hand-painted vase we bought in Gyeongju as if it's a suspicious piece of evidence.
"This is it?" he asks. His voice echoes in the high-ceilinged space. "This is where I've been living for three years?"
"Our home," I say, stepping in behind him. I'm still in my sling, my shoulder throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Ji-hoon is right behind me, carrying Min-ho's discharge papers like a shield.
Min-ho ignores me. He walks toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Han River. "I always wanted a view, but I envisioned something more... professional. This looks like a set for a luxury lifestyle magazine."
"You chose the curtains, Min-ho," I say, trying to inject some warmth into the air. "You said the linen filtered the morning light perfectly so it wouldn't hit your eyes while you drank your coffee."
He turns to me, his lip curling in a slight, mocking sneer. "Did I? Or did you just tell me that so often I eventually stopped arguing? It's amazing how much 'history' you've managed to cram into four walls."
"Min-ho, let's just get you settled," Ji-hoon interjects, sensing the rising heat in my chest. "The doctors said rest is the priority. Your brain needs familiar surroundings to trigger the neural pathways."
"Familiar?" Min-ho scoffs, walking into the kitchen. He runs a finger along the edge of the granite island. He spots the espresso machine—the expensive Italian one I bought him for his promotion. He stares at it for a long beat. "I don't even know how to turn this thing on."
"The silver lever on the side," I whisper. "Two pumps for a long shot. You like it with a dash of cinnamon."
He pulls his hand away as if the machine were hot. "I take my coffee black. From a drip machine. Like a normal person."
He continues his tour, drifting through the living room. He stops at the bookshelf. Thousands of volumes—legal thrillers, philosophy, and a tiny section of poetry I convinced him to read. He pulls out a book, a leather-bound copy of The Art of War. He opens the front cover.
I hold my breath. I know what's written there. 'To my fiercest warrior and my softest heart. Happy 1st Anniversary. I am always your shield. — Hana.'
Min-ho stares at the handwriting. His jaw tightens so hard I can hear his teeth grind. He slams the book shut and shoves it back onto the shelf so hard the other books rattle.
"Stop it," he hisses, spinning around to face me. "Stop watching me like I'm a specimen in a jar! I can feel your eyes on me, waiting for me to trip over a memory."
"I'm just glad you're home," I say, my voice trembling. "I thought... at the pier, I thought I'd never bring you back here."
"The pier." He walks toward me, his shadow falling over me, tall and intimidating. "Everyone keeps talking about the pier. The 'incident.' The 'attack.' But all I see when I look at you, Lee Hana, is a woman who is remarkably comfortable with a gun and a bloody shoulder. How does a 'simple wife' know how to take out three armed men?"
"I told you, I was a Protection Officer—"
"And I told you I don't believe you!" he roars. "In 2021, I was dating a woman who knew the difference between a salad fork and a dessert fork. I wasn't married to a mercenary who treats my home like a safe house!"
"Min-ho, that's enough," Ji-hoon says, stepping between us. "She saved your life. Whether you remember it or not, those are the facts."
"Facts can be manipulated, Ji-hoon. You of all people should know that." Min-ho turns away, heading down the hallway toward the master suite. "I'm going to change. I want these hospital-smelling clothes off my back."
I follow him, despite the invisible "Keep Out" sign he's radiating. I can't help it. I need to see him in our space. I need to see if the bed—the place where we've spent a thousand nights tangled together—can do what the doctors couldn't.
He pushes open the double doors to the bedroom.
The room is bathed in the soft, amber glow of the setting sun. The sheets are silk, navy blue, pulled taut. On the nightstand, his reading glasses sit next to a half-finished glass of water from the night of the anniversary.
Min-ho stops in the center of the room. He looks at the walk-in closet, where his suits hang alongside my dresses. He looks at the vanity, where my perfume sits next to his aftershave.
Then, he looks at the bed.
He doesn't look nostalgic. He looks repulsed. He recoils, stepping back toward the door as if the furniture itself were a trap.
"This is too much," he mutters, his voice thick with a sudden, sharp anxiety. "The intimacy... it's suffocating. I feel like I'm trespassing in someone else's skin."
"It's your skin, Min-ho," I say, stepping into the room. "Look at the nightstand. Look at the drawer."
I walk over and pull open his side drawer. Inside is a small, velvet-lined box. I open it, revealing a collection of dried pressed flowers—every single bouquet he ever bought me, he kept a petal from.
"You did this," I say, my heart breaking. "You said you wanted to keep the scent of our happiness locked away so you could breathe it in when the world got too loud."
Min-ho stares at the petals. For a second, his expression falters. A flicker of something—sadness? Doubt?—crosses his face. He reaches out, his fingers hovering over the box.
Then, he looks at me. He sees the hope in my eyes, the desperate, clawing need for him to recognize me.
And he shuts down. The ice returns, thicker than ever.
"You're very good at this," he says, his voice a low, dangerous hum. "The props, the sentimental stories. You almost had me for a second. But you forgot one thing, Hana."
"What?"
"I am a man of logic. And logically, a man doesn't change this much in five years. A man doesn't go from loving a woman like So-hee—elegant, refined, transparent—to marrying a shadow. A woman who hides weapons in the glove box and 'sweeps' a hospital room for bugs."
"I hid those things to protect you from the very woman you think is 'transparent'!" I'm crying now, the tears hot and angry on my cheeks. "So-hee is the daughter of the man you were trying to put in prison! She didn't come to that hospital because she loves you; she came because her father needs to know if you still have the Red File!"
"And where is it?" Min-ho challenges, stepping closer. "If I'm this great crusader, where is the evidence? Where is the file?"
"I don't know!" I scream. "You hid it! You wouldn't even tell me because you said the less I knew, the safer I'd be! Well, look at us now, Min-ho! You're 'safe' because you've forgotten everything, and I'm the one bleeding out in the hallway while your enemy whispers sweet nothings in your ear!"
Min-ho stares at me, his chest heaving. The silence that follows is deafening. Ji-hoon is standing in the doorway, his head bowed, unable to watch the carnage of our marriage.
Min-ho's gaze wanders. He's looking for a way out, a way to discredit the reality surrounding him. His eyes travel up the wall, past the minimalist headboard, to the centerpiece of the room.
The wedding portrait.
It's huge—a 40x60 canvas. We're standing on a cliff in Jeju. It was a private ceremony, just us and the crashing waves. He's wearing a tuxedo, his hair slightly tousled by the wind. He's holding me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder, his eyes closed as he smiles with a profound, quiet ecstasy. I'm looking at the camera, radiant in a simple lace gown, my hand over his on my waist.
It is the image of a man who has found his soul.
Min-ho stares at it. He doesn't move. He doesn't blink. The sunset light catches the canvas, making the colors bleed into a warm, hazy glow.
He stands there for what feels like an eternity. I wait, my breath hitched in my throat. This is it. No one can fake that look. No one can hire an actor to look at a woman with that much pure, unshielded adoration.
Slowly, Min-ho raises his hand. He points a long, trembling finger at his own face in the portrait.
His voice, when it finally comes, isn't cold anymore. It's something much worse. It's hollow. It's the voice of a man who has looked into the abyss and found himself staring back.
He turns his head slightly, looking at me with a gaze that makes my soul wither.
"It's a beautiful piece of art, Hana. Truly." He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he studies the curve of his own smile in the photo. "But tell me one thing..."
My heart thunders. "Anything, Min-ho."
He gestures vaguely at the radiant, happy man on the wall, then back to the sterile, empty room.
"How much did you pay the photographer to make me look that happy?"