CAPTURING REDEMPTION

CHAPTER 7: THE WOUNDED LION AND THE PREYING SNAKE

It was one of those nights when a tanned man—widely famous for his talent and celebrated in public circles—would come barging into his own home, the door slamming behind him with a resounding echo that reverberated through the grand, empty hall. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, were now wild with an uncontainable fury. The expansive space, adorned with luxurious furnishings and priceless artworks, became a silent witness to his wrath as he yelled into the void, his voice filled with a mix of frustration, anger, and despair.

"Fuck!"

"Who the fuck does he think he his?"

"Bastard! Does he not understand Korean? Did he really said he liked me? Like that? Fucking hell! I hate him! Man, I should have killed him!"

"Fuck this thing man! Ah, I just wish that idiotic weirdo dies in a car crash or something!"

The echoes of his shouts bounced off the marble floors and high ceilings, creating a haunting symphony of rage that filled the house. It was one of those nights when the veneer of rationality, which he so carefully maintained in public, shattered into a thousand pieces, giving way to an unmanageable anger that consumed him entirely. His carefully cultivated image of control and sophistication crumbled in these private moments, revealing the turmoil that lurked beneath the surface.

The house helpers, well-versed in the rituals of these stormy nights, would retreat into the farthest corners of the mansion, their hearts pounding with anxiety. They knew better than to intervene, having learned through painful experience that any attempt to calm him would only draw his ire. They would hide themselves in the servant quarters, the kitchens, or any room with a lockable door, praying for the storm to pass without causing too much damage.

Meanwhile, the man would unleash his fury on anything within reach. Expensive vases, invaluable furniture, and delicate glassware became victims of his rage, shattered and scattered across the floor in a chaotic mosaic of destruction. The sound of breaking glass and splintering wood accompanied his tirade, each crash punctuating his shouted grievances. The elegant decor, once a testament to his success and refined taste, lay in ruins around him, a stark contrast to the composed exterior he presented to the world.

Occasionally, in a fit of blind anger, he would throw objects at invisible adversaries, the force of his throws reflecting the intensity of his inner turmoil. Anyone who dared to approach him, be it out of concern or duty, would quickly retreat under the onslaught of his rage-filled ruckus. His anger was a force of nature, unpredictable and destructive, leaving those around him feeling helpless and afraid.

As the hours wore on, the initial burst of fury would gradually subside, giving way to a hollow, exhausted silence. The man would stand amid the wreckage of his own making, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his anger spent. The once-opulent hall, now littered with the remnants of his rage, bore silent witness to the dichotomy of his existence—a life of public adoration and private torment.

That's how Kwon Taekjoo had handled things which were emotionally taxing, always.

As rational and strategical as he was, Kwon Taekjoo was human enough to let the walls hear his feelings, if not other people.

Simply because, as the saying goes, "hell is other people." And for sure it was not about comparison when it applied to the notorious celebrity.

"Are you done?"

Then, the man Kwon Taekjoo had once loved appeared, his cold, heavy voice cutting through the wrecked walls like a knife through butter. Within seconds, the house helpers, who had been hiding wherever they could find cover, emerged like ants out of molehills, standing around the newcomer—bowing and trembling in their boots. The man, whose presence was as calm as the surface of a serene ocean, walked with an air of casual authority. His hands were hidden behind his back, and his grey suit gave him a broader, more imposing build.