“You’re gripping the seat for dear life”
Haneul didn’t look at him. “Just don’t talk to me right now.”
A beat.
Then: “If this thing crashes, I’m blaming you. And haunting you.”
“Duly noted,” Seungho said, amused.
The plane rumbled. Engines whirred. The overhead bins trembled like they were trying not to get involved. Haneul’s jaw locked.
When the aircraft finally tilted up into the sky, Haneul let out a quiet, vicious string of curses in at least three languages. His hand gripped the armrest so hard his knuckles turned pale.
Seungho reached over, but not to soothe. To slide a can of Fanta into Haneul’s hand. Cold. Unopened. “Drink. Distract your brain.”
Haneul narrowed his eyes at the bright orange can like it had offended his ancestors.
“Fizzy poison,” he muttered. But he took it.
One row ahead, a cluster of Yeol Holdings executives were chattering loudly about seafood and golf. Haneul recognized the voice of one in particular—the man with the jowls. Mr. Kang. Shareholder. Senior executive. The one whose face he’d once slapped into a different tax bracket during the infamous Yeol Holdings shareholder gala, almost a year ago.
The one Seungho had never wanted to host. The one that ended with broken glass, Haneul’s fury, and Junseo’s shame tucked into a silence that never fully lifted.
Junseo was dead now.
And that bastard was still laughing.
Haneul moved his head slowly. Confirmed it. Yup. Still slimy. Still talking too loud.
Seungho saw the flicker of recognition on Haneul’s face. “Ignore him.”
But Haneul’s grin was already curving. “Sure,” he said sweetly.
Five minutes later, as the flight attendant passed by, Haneul rose just enough to lean forward—then let the open can of Fanta slip from his fingers.
It landed squarely in the man’s crotch.
The hiss of carbonation. The sudden damp patch spreading like karmic retribution across pale slacks.
The executive jolted upright with a yelp, arms flailing, sputtering. “What the hell—?!”
Haneul blinked, all innocent.
“Oops.”
Seungho choked on air.
The man turned, face red and sticky. “You little—”
“Finish that sentence,” came Seungho’s voice.
Cold. Clipped. Razor-edged and lethal.
“Finish it,” Seungho said again, eyes like fire-glass. “And I’ll make sure your name’s scrubbed from every executive roster by next quarter.”
Mr. Kang froze. Mouth open. Damp trousers clinging to his thighs.
Haneul didn’t flinch. He just smiled—wide, vicious, and beautiful.
