(Seojoon's pov)
The cafe was nearly empty now — the kind of place where I was with my ex husband's current lover and time moved slower than the heartbeat of the city.
My coffee had gone cold an hour ago. I hadn't touched it since I began speaking.
And she hadn't said a word.
Minji sat across from me, her back straight but fragile. Her lipstick had faded. Her fingers were laced around her cup, knuckles white, as though it was the only thing keeping her steady.
Her death yellowish eyes stare as if I was going to make the volcano erupt.
When I finally stopped talking, the silence between us grew too heavy to breathe in.
I stared down at the table, my voice rough. "That's… everything."
No reaction. No disbelief. Not even pity. Just silence.
And then, quietly, she said:
"You don't have to explain any more."
Her voice was soft — too soft.
It wasn't disbelief. It was familiarity. The kind of tone only someone who already knew the truth could have.
I looked up, confused. "You—what do you mean?"
Her eyes flicked toward me, calm but glistening. "I know what kind of man Kang Taejun is."
Something in her tone made my stomach twist.
She reached up to adjust her sleeve — and that's when I saw it: a faint, yellowish bruise wrapping her wrist like a cruel reminder.
My breath caught. "He did that to you?"
Her hand froze mid-motion. For a moment, she didn't answer — then she gave a small, broken laugh. "It doesn't matter. He likes to remind me that I'm his wife when I forget to act like one."
I gripped the edge of the table, my nails digging into the wood. "Minji—"
"It's fine." Her voice trembled, but she forced a faint smile. "You learn to keep your head down, to speak softly, to pretend his anger isn't your fault."
Her smile cracked. "That's how you survive him."
My chest felt tight. I'd seen that look before — in the mirror, years ago. That hollow, quiet endurance.
She already knew. She'd known for years.
We sat there, two ghosts breathing in the scent of rain and bitter coffee.
Then she said something that pulled the floor out from under me.
"I knew Jihwa wasn't mine."
My heart stopped. "What?"
Her gaze didn't waver. Her eyes were tired, but there was no shame in them. Only sadness. "From the first day Kang Taejun brought him home. He told me the baby belonged to a relative — that his parents had died. But Taejun isn't the kind of man who raises other people's children out of kindness."
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. "Then why—?"
She smiled faintly — not bitterly, not proudly — just… softly. "Because the baby wouldn't stop crying. Because Taejun looked at him like he was a nuisance, like something he could throw away. And I thought, if I didn't hold him, he'd never stop being afraid."
Her eyes glistened as she continued, "So I did. I held him. I called him mine. I knew he wasn't — but I couldn't let him grow up unloved."
Something broke inside me.
All the anger I'd held toward her — every drop of hatred that had curdled in my heart for years — it cracked apart with those words.
I leaned forward, voice trembling. "I… I used to hate you."
Minji blinked, startled but silent.
"I hated you," I repeated, each word rougher than the last. "When Jihwa said your name, when he called you Mommy, when he said you smiled when he drew you pictures… I hated you for it. Because I wasn't there. Because he loved you."
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling silently down her cheeks. "Seojoon…"
"I thought you'd stolen him," I whispered. "That you were part of it — part of Kang's lie. But you—"
My voice cracked. "You saved him."
She pressed a trembling hand over her mouth, trying to stop her sob, but it escaped anyway. "I tried," she said weakly. "Every time Taejun raised his voice, I'd send Jihwa to his room, tell him to cover his ears. He used to ask who was his real mom. At that time I didn't know."
My chest caved in on itself. "He asked that…?"
She nodded, tears falling freely now. "And I didn't know what to say. So I told him maybe you were somewhere far away, working hard to come back."
That broke me. Completely.
I covered my face with my hand, a soft sound slipping past my throat — half sob, half breath. "Thank you," I managed. "For raising him. For not stealing him from me."
Minji shook her head. "No… thank you for bringing him into the world. For giving him something pure before Taejun could destroy it."
We sat there — broken people who'd loved the same child in different ways — and for the first time, I didn't feel hatred toward her.
Only grief.
And gratitude.
The rain outside hit the window harder, streaking down like it was trying to blur the world beyond.
In that dim little café, under the hum of dying lights, I realized we weren't strangers at all.
We were survivors of the same storm.
For a long while, neither of us spoke.
Only the steady drumming of rain filled the space between us — rhythmic, relentless, like a heartbeat that refused to stop.
Minji's tears had dried, but her eyes were still red, like she survived an earthquake.
I finally broke the silence, my voice low. "How long has he been hurting you?"
She didn't flinch. "Since the wedding."
A bitter smile touched her lips. "Maybe even before that — just in smaller ways. He never loved me, you know. I was… convenient."
She stared down at her hands. I noticed faint bruises along her forearm now, the kind that come from being grabbed too tightly.
My stomach turned, but I didn't interrupt.
"He liked to remind me what I owed him," she continued softly. "Every time I said something he didn't like, every time I tried to leave. He'd smile first… then apologize after."
Her voice broke. "It's strange — the way he can make you feel sorry for being afraid of him."
I closed my eyes, jaw clenching. "He's always been good at that."
Her eyes flicked up. "You too?"
I laughed weakly — a bitter, hollow sound. "He used to say I should be grateful he didn't throw me out the first time he bought me."
Her expression froze.
"He said I owed him for every meal, every roof, every breath." I looked down at my trembling hands. "When he hit me, he'd say it was my fault for not smiling right."
She swallowed hard. "He hasn't changed."
"No," I said. "He never will."
For a while, we just sat there, two people who'd survived the same poison — just in different doses.
The air felt heavier, but less lonely.
Minji finally spoke again, her voice trembling. "Do you… do you hate him?"
I looked up slowly. "I used to. Every day. I dreamed of watching him lose everything, of seeing him crawl."
I sighed, leaning back, my chest tight. "But hate doesn't burn forever. I had Jihwa besides me. After a while, it just… turns cold. Now I just want him to stop taking from people and perhaps take revenge."
She nodded slowly, her gaze distant. "He took everything from me too. My family name, my peace… even my reflection."
She laughed quietly, without joy. "Sometimes I don't even recognize myself in the mirror. I see his fingerprints more than my own face."
I didn't know what to say. My throat burned. So I just reached across the table, hesitated for a moment, and touched her hand.
Her fingers were cold.
But she didn't pull away.
"He doesn't own that reflection," I said quietly. "He doesn't own you."
Her lips trembled. "Then why does it still feel like he does?"
I had no answer. So I just held her hand a little tighter.
For a moment, we sat in that silence — the kind of silence that holds pain, not emptiness.
Two people who'd both been broken by the same hands, finally looking at each other without fear or pretense.
Then Minji whispered, barely audible, "You said you don't hate him anymore."
I nodded.
"So what do you feel now?"
I stared at the rain sliding down the window.
"…Tired," I said finally. "Tired of running from what he left behind."
She smiled faintly. "I think I'm tired too."
Then her expression hardened, something cold and focused replacing the sorrow in her eyes. "But maybe I'm also… ready."
I frowned slightly. "Ready?"
She leaned back, her hand slipping from mine, voice suddenly steady.
"He's not going to stop unless someone makes him."
"Minji—"
She cut me off sharply, eyes fierce through the exhaustion.
"You think he'll just change? That he'll wake up one day and regret everything? No. Men like him don't feel guilt. They only understand loss. You wanted revenge. That is why you reached out to me."
I saw not the frightened woman Kang had broken, but someone who'd learned to survive him — someone who wanted to end it.
I looked at her quietly. "True but—"
She gave a small, broken laugh. "No but maybe it'll remind him he doesn't own every story he ruins."
The conviction in her voice made something inside me stir — not hatred, not hope, but something sharp and alive.
I didn't realize I was shaking until she said softly, "You've already lost everything he could take, haven't you?"
I nodded once. "Everything but the memory and my son."
"Then let's make him lose that too."
She said it calmly, like a prayer.
Outside, lightning flashed across the glass — brief and bright, like the moment before a promise.
Minji sat across from me, her eyes still swollen, but something inside them had changed.
The tremble in her hands was gone. The fear had turned into something quieter… darker.
"Seojoon," she said, her voice calm, almost too calm. "You said once that he took everything from you."
I didn't answer.
She leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on mine.
"What if we take something back?"
The words cut through me.
I stared at her — really stared.
There was no desperation in her tone now, no hysteria. Just a slow, deliberate fire.
The kind that doesn't flare up… it burns steady.
"Minji," I said slowly, "you don't know what you're saying."
She smiled faintly. "Don't I?"
Her fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup. "You think I haven't imagined it? Every night, I picture him losing that smug smile. The way he looks when he realizes he's finally powerless."
Her voice dropped lower.
"You wanted that once too, didn't you?"
I didn't answer — because she was right.
Once, I'd dreamt of it. Of making Kang feel the same helplessness he'd carved into me.
But the years had drained that fire… or maybe I'd just buried it too deep to find again.
"I did come for revenge," I said quietly.
Then she leaned closer, her whisper trembling, but certain.
" Justice… maybe that's still possible."
Something cold slid down my spine. "Justice?"
"Yes."
She looked out the window — at the rain, the street, the blur of headlights.
"For Jihwa. For you. For every person he's broken and my son."
My throat tightened at my son's name.
"I don't want him dragged into this," I said immediately, too sharply.
Her eyes softened. "I'm not saying that."
Then, after a beat — "But you know what will happen if Taejun stays in control. You've seen what he's capable of."
I turned away, breathing unsteady.
Memories flickered — bruises, slammed doors, the sound of a belt snapping against air before it met skin.
And behind it all, Jihwa's small voice, trembling:
"Papa , does he still hurt you?'
I swallowed hard.
"…He doesn't deserve peace," I muttered.
When I looked back, Minji was smiling — not kindly, not cruelly. Just knowingly.
"Then help me," she said.
The rain outside grew heavier, blurring the world beyond the glass.
A slow, rhythmic pounding, like the world was holding its breath.
I stared at her hand as it slid across the table — open, waiting.
If I took it, there would be no turning back.
If I didn't… Kang would go on untouched, free to destroy someone else.
My hand hovered.
For a moment, all I could hear was the rain, my heartbeat, the faint crackle of the café's old neon sign.
Then I said softly, "What do you plan to do?"
Her lips curved, not into a smile, but something far more haunting.
"Everything he's done to us," she whispered.
"But slower."
And just like that — the lights flickered.
Once. Twice.
Then the café went dark.
The sound of the rain swallowed everything.
And in that darkness, I felt her fingers brush mine — warm, trembling — before I finally, slowly, closed my hand around hers.