The Kwon house was quiet in the way only disciplined homes were.
Not peaceful—just controlled.
Shoes lined the entryway in precise pairs. The air smelled faintly of soybean paste stew and steamed rice, warm and domestic, but the lights were bright enough to banish any softness from the space. Everything had its place. Nothing lingered where it wasn't supposed to.
Tae-Yang slipped his shoes off carefully, wincing as he bent.
The bruise along his ribs pulsed—a dull, patient ache. Not serious. He'd had worse. He tugged his jacket closed an inch more before stepping inside.
"Wash up." His father said without looking up.
Kwon Dae-Sik sat at the low dining table, back straight despite the long day, glasses perched low on his nose. He was already eating, posture immaculate, movements economical. Even at rest, he looked like a man braced against something invisible.
"Yes, sir."
Tae-Yang headed for the bathroom, splashing water on his face. The mirror showed him what he already knew: a faint discoloration along his collarbone, knuckles scraped raw, jaw tight in a way that hadn't relaxed since Byunha. He adjusted his shirt, rolling the sleeves down to hide the worst of it.
Strength doesn't complain, he reminded himself.
When he returned, his mother was setting the last dishes on the table. She didn't speak. She never did, not when it mattered.
But her hand brushed his wrist as she passed him a bowl of rice, fingers lingering just long enough to feel the heat under his skin. Her eyes flicked—quick, practiced—to his posture. To the stiffness he hadn't quite masked.
Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, and placed an extra piece of braised tofu into his bowl.
Eat. Recover. Endure.
Tae-Yang sat.
Across from him, his older brother leaned back in his chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. Kwon Seok-Jun smiled like he always did—easy, confident, sharpened at the edges.
"So," Seok-Jun said, tapping his chopsticks against his bowl, "did you fix your footwork yet?"
Tae-Yang didn't look up. "I'm eating."
"That bad, huh?" Seok-Jun chuckled. "You know, if you keep dragging your rear foot, you'll never generate real power. It's basic." Their father set his chopsticks down. The sound was soft. It still cut through the room.
"Show me." Dae-Hyun said.
Tae-Yang froze for half a second—just long enough to register the order—then stood. The dining area wasn't large, but it was clear. It always was. As if the house itself anticipated moments like this.
He positioned his feet automatically, body remembering what his mind tried not to. Left foot forward. Weight centered. Shoulders square.
His ribs flared with pain as he adjusted.
"Again." His father said.
Tae-Yang corrected, tightening his core, redistributing weight. He felt the bruise stretch, burn. "You're compensating." Dae-Hyun continued. "Your balance is off."
Seok-Jun smirked. "Guess street brawling doesn't teach fundamentals." That earned him a glance—but not from Tae-Yang. From their mother.
It was brief. Warning.
Seok-Jun raised his hands in mock surrender, still smiling. Tae-Yang inhaled slowly through his nose.
Fix it.
He shifted—micro-adjustments only. The kind you made when you couldn't afford to look weak. When mistakes were noted, logged, and remembered. His father studied him for a long moment.
"Hmph." Dae-Hyun finally said. "Better. Sit."
Tae-Yang obeyed, muscles relaxing the instant he was allowed to. He reached for his bowl with steady hands, ignoring the way his knuckles screamed.
Silence settled again, punctuated only by the clink of porcelain and the hum of the refrigerator.
Seok-Jun chewed thoughtfully, then leaned forward.
"You know," He said lightly, "the Seoryon clinics are recruiting early this year. If you're serious about proving yourself—"
"I am." Tae-Yang cut in.
The words came out sharper than he meant them to. His father's gaze snapped to him. Tae-Yang lowered his eyes immediately, jaw tight. "I mean—yes, sir." Seok-Jun's smile widened. "Careful. That tone might make it sound like you're desperate."
The room felt smaller.
Pressure pressed in from all sides—expectation, comparison, silence heavy with rules that had never been written down but were enforced all the same. Be better. Be useful. Don't waste space.
His mother stood, gathering empty dishes. As she passed behind him, she set a hand on his shoulder.
Just once.
Firm. Grounding.
He swallowed.
Strength isn't about winning, he thought. It's about permission. Permission to speak. Permission to take up a room. Permission to exist without apology. Tae-Yang finished his meal quietly.
When he stood to leave, the chair scraped just a little too loudly against the floor.
No one commented.
In his room later, door shut, he peeled off his shirt and assessed the damage under the dim light. Purple blooming across his ribs. Scrapes along his forearms. Nothing a few days wouldn't dull.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, breath slow and controlled.
He didn't feel angry. He felt focused.
Pressure didn't crush him. It shaped him. And one day, he'd be strong enough that no one would question why he was here.