Choi San, a revered and feared mafia boss, reigns over Seoul's underworld with an iron fist, his influence extending seamlessly across both legal and illegal domains. But his empire is shaken to its core when his beloved daughter, Eun-ji, is kidnapp...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The first light of dawn crept into the room, casting pale streaks across the walls that felt almost intrusive. The house was silent except for the quiet rustling sounds coming from the kitchen. Yeosang moved with a practiced ease, shuffling around the space as he prepared breakfast. The clink of plates, the soft sizzle of eggs in the pan, and the gentle scrape of a spatula were the only signs of life in the otherwise still morning.
But I stayed hidden under the covers, curled into myself with the weight of exhaustion pressing down like a suffocating blanket. My body felt heavy, sick to my stomach, as if the events of the night before had left a tangible mark on me. The air felt thick, making each breath a conscious effort. The thought of food made my insides churn, and I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to block out the soft sounds drifting in from the kitchen.
The smell of coffee reached me, bitter and comforting, a reminder of mornings that had once felt warm and safe. But this morning was different. The ache in my chest had dulled to a hollow, gnawing pain, and the blanket felt like the only shield I had left against the raw world outside it.
"Woonie?" Yeosang's voice was gentle, a careful knock at the barrier I'd put up between us. He didn't expect an answer; he knew I wouldn't respond. I could picture him standing there, spatula in hand, his eyes filled with concern as he waited for a sign that I was ready to rejoin the world. But I wasn't, not yet.
The silence stretched out, heavy and unbroken. I heard the faint clatter of dishes as Yeosang moved around the kitchen, cleaning up even though he knew I wouldn't come out to eat. Guilt twisted in my gut, making the nausea worse. I hated that he was here, taking care of me when I felt like nothing but a shell of myself. But I hated the idea of him leaving even more.
I curled up tighter, pulling the blanket over my head, shutting out the thin light that seeped into the room. The quiet sound of Yeosang's movements in the kitchen was steady, grounding, even as I fought against the storm churning inside me. I pressed my face deeper into the pillow, the fabric damp from tears I hadn't realized were still falling. The memories of San, the way he looked at me, the things I said—all of it looped in my mind, relentless.
The soft creak of the floorboards signaled that Yeosang was coming closer. He didn't speak, didn't try to coax me out from under the covers. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing, his calm and steady, mine shaky and uneven.
"I made breakfast," he said finally, his voice low and patient. "It's there when you're ready."
I swallowed hard, my throat tight and raw. "I'm not hungry," I whispered, barely audible, but I knew he heard me.
He didn't push, didn't tell me to eat or lecture me about taking care of myself. He just sat there, his presence a quiet reminder that I wasn't alone, even if I felt like I was unraveling.
