It was quiet in the room. Not the silence of a hospital, saturated with anxiety, but a true one—the kind that holds breath. Do-jun lay propped up on pillows. On his chest—the baby, sleeping, with a tiny mouth slightly open, as if it still didn't quite believe in its arrival. The warmth of the small body was felt through the fabric of the hospital gown. Every breath it took was a confirmation that this was not a dream.
Seungho stood by the door. His back was tense, his gaze—alert, like a predator accustomed to waiting for an attack. Outside the door, voices, camera flashes, someone's whisper, the sounds of heels on the tile could be heard.
The world already knew Yun was alive. But now, journalists had come to confirm—the one he protected was alive too.
When the door suddenly cracked open, Yun instantly placed himself between Do-jun and the doorway.
— Close it, — he threw out curtly.
The nurse froze, nodded in confusion, and the door softly closed back. Camera lights flashed through the glass—brightly, blindingly, as if the world outside wanted to burst in and touch someone else's happiness.
Yun stood, shielding them, his broad shoulders hiding the bed. He watched the shadows behind the door—and didn't move. Seconds dragged on until the sounds in the corridor gradually subsided.
He exhaled. He turned—and the world again narrowed to one frame: Do-jun, pale but alive, with the baby on his chest. The child stirred slightly, pressing closer, to the heart that beat quietly but steadily.
Yun walked over, sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbow on the mattress.
— He likes your heart, — he said, looking at his son.
— It's louder than mine.
Do-jun smiled—faintly, but brightly.
— I thought he was just stubborn, like you.
He reached out, touched Yun's fingers. The world outside was noisy, but inside this room, time stopped.
Yun leaned in, kissed his temple, then his lips. Warmth—not passion, but a return. A tiny, wordless anchor, in which there was not a trace of doubt: they were a family now.
⋆⋆⋆
Meanwhile, in the conference room, lawyers were preparing the protocol. A package lay on the table—thick, sealed by the prosecutor's office. Inside—the "black ledger," the chain of transfers, names, sums, signatures. Everyone who had covered Park's deals for years was now on one list.
One of the lawyers said quietly:
— This is it. We are closing it.
⋆⋆⋆
Yun checked his phone, standing by the room window. A new notification flashed on the screen. Sender—Hwan. The message was concise, as always: «Trade: family for silence.»
Yun stared at these three words for a long time. His palm clenched, the screen dimmed. He turned to the bed. Do-jun was sleeping, the baby was breathing evenly, the world inside this room was too vibrant to allow anyone to dictate rules to them again.
He walked to the door, quietly told the security:
— Prepare the hall. My statement is tomorrow. Publicly.
— Mr. Yun, are you sure?
— More than ever.
He returned to the bed. Do-jun partially opened his eyes, tiredly, but warmly.
— Is everything alright?
Yun nodded.
— Yes. Now—yes.
He lay down next to him, not touching, just nearby.