Ji-eun met her gaze, his own eyes like chips of flint. The distance between them—the bloody courtyard and the peaceful hanok—felt like an uncrossable chasm.
"This world doesn't let you stop," he replied, his voice low and final. "It's the only thing it understands."
He walked past her, back into the shadows of the house, leaving her standing alone in the doorway, the scent of blood and cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air.
—
The hospital room was silent save for the steady beep of the heart monitor. Min Jae sat propped against the pillows, his gaze distant and confused as he stared at his own hands, as if trying to recognize them. Tae Hyun sat in the chair beside the bed, his own posture rigid with a mixture of hope and profound anxiety.
"Min Jae," Tae Hyun began, his voice softer than it had ever been in a boardroom. "I am your father."
