The phone left on the table suddenly came to life. A thin vibrating sound cut through the silence of the room. Minjun flinched, and his heart started beating faster, as if anticipating something important. He glanced at the screen and froze.
The name on the display was one he couldn't ignore - Secretary Lim.
Everything in his chest tightened, as if someone had abruptly opened a window, letting in an icy wind. The room seemed to have lost its warmth, and even the soft light of the lamp became dimmer.
"Hello?" Minjun's voice came out evenly, but the tremor at the end of the word gave away his inner tension.
"Good morning, Mr. Kim," the secretary's calm, measured voice said. It was too familiar - soft in tone, but always with a shadow of a command behind every word. "Your father is interested in your plans. He expects you to return home by the end of the week. If you refuse, he will come for you personally."
Minjun's heart ached. His fingers tightened around the mug of tea. The drink was still hot, but the warmth no longer brought comfort, only intensified the anxiety.
The past flashed before his eyes.
The living room of his parents' house, too large, too cold. The polished floor, the shine of the furniture, and the light of the chandelier cutting his eyes. His parents, sitting opposite him - his father with a heavy, unrelenting gaze and his mother, full of restrained disappointment. Their voices sounded like hammers hitting glass:
"You're too soft."
"You can't handle it."
"You must obey."
He had stood there then, all hunched over, his trembling hands clutching his bag strap. Words were jumbled, his throat tightened, and all he could say was: "I want to do it myself. I need my own life."
And in response - the coldness: "If you won't obey, then leave."
Minjun almost choked on the rush of memories.
"I understand," he finally said, trying to make his voice sound firmer. "But I've already settled here. My studies, my job, my home... I'm trying to be independent."
There was a short pause on the other end.
"Mr. Kim," the secretary's voice became softer, but that only made it feel heavier. "Your father thinks your life is too unpredictable. He... is worried about you."
Minjun closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Memories of the cold house came in waves, but along with them, other pictures appeared: the first time he opened the door to his apartment, the scent of paint and new furniture. The way he put together the bookshelf with his own hands. The way he chose the dishes, the lamps, the curtains himself. Every little thing was proof: he could live on his own.
"I understand my father's concern," he said slowly, each word as if he were laying a brick. "But it's important for me to stay here. This is my choice. I'm not abandoning my family. But right now, I need to take responsibility for my own life."
Silence hung on the line. Only the secretary's faint breathing proved that the connection hadn't been cut off.
"You sound convincing," a voice finally said. "But be aware: your father is determined. He is waiting for your answer."
"I understand," Minjun said quietly.
He ended the call and put the phone on the table. A second later, the full weight of it washed over him. Minjun closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. His heart was still beating fast, but the warmth gradually returned to his fingers.
He got up and walked to the bookshelf. He ran his hand over the spines of the books - feeling the familiar roughness of the paper, the coolness of the covers. He had arranged every book himself. He had bought every mug in the kitchen himself. He had chosen every lamp himself. All of this was his life, his small world.
He sat on the windowsill, took the mug, and stared at the street. Sunlight reflected in the wet asphalt. People were rushing about their business, and the city was breathing calmly and evenly.
Minjun remembered the morning after he moved: the scent of fresh bread from the nearby bakery, his first attempt at making soup in the empty kitchen, that strange lightness when he realized - no one was dictating to him how to live.
Yes, the memory of being thrown out still stung. But now it wasn't just fear. It was a lesson. And strength.
He looked at the phone, then back at the street. A strange sense of confidence lit up in his chest.
Minjun ran his palm over the window glass, as if leaving a trace of the words he hadn't dared to say into the phone:
"I can live the way I want to."
His voice sounded quiet, but firm.
And at that moment, he heard the familiar sound of footsteps behind him.
"Minjun?" Hyuk's voice was cautious but warm.
Minjun turned around. Hyuk was standing in the doorway with his bag slung over his shoulder, a little messy after being outside. His eyes - a saturated blue color - lingered on Minjun's face, as if reading every emotion.
"You... you look like the whole world is on your shoulders," he said, walking closer.
Minjun wanted to answer, but the words got stuck. All the tension accumulated from the call suddenly broke through. He stepped toward him and simply pressed his forehead against Hyuk's shoulder.
He silently hugged him, firmly and confidently, holding him with one arm and stroking his back with the other.
Minjun closed his eyes. The scent of rain on Hyuk's clothes, the warmth of his hands, his steady breathing - all of it instantly dispelled the last remnants of the coldness of his father's words.
And for the first time that day, Minjun felt: he truly had a home. Not walls. A person.
This is a translation of the provided text from Russian to English. Please note that the explicit content in Chapter 29 has been translated directly.