The world had shrunk to the four walls of the master bedroom, a cavern of shadows and soft, anxious sounds. The grand, opulent space, usually a testament to Seo-jun's hard-won power and control, felt utterly insignificant against the primal fear gripping his heart. In the center of the vast bed, lost in a nest of damp linen and duvet, lay Ha-ru.
His small body was a furnace, radiating a dry, terrifying heat that seemed to scorch the very air around him. Each breath was a shallow, rasping pull, a fragile bellows fighting a losing battle. Seo-jun knelt by the bedside, his formal suit jacket long discarded, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He had been there for what felt like an eternity, a silent, stoic sentinel against the unseen enemy attacking his child.
