??????
Haneul hadn’t moved in hours.
Not since dawn, not since the day before. Not really.
Curled on the couch, limbs tucked in like a closing flower. He hadn’t changed clothes. Hadn’t asked for any. The same sweat-soaked shirt clung to his collarbone. His braid, half-unraveled, lay limp against his neck, the beads and soda can tabs and colorful strings dull against oily strands.
The blanket was tangled at his knees. The tea cup on the table was untouched, but the steam had long gone. The rim was dry, the scent of lavender now just a memory caught in ceramic.
Once, Seungho walked past and thought the boy wasn’t breathing.
Hewas.
Barely.
??????
The penthouse was not meant for living.
Not really.
It was meant for clean suits, quiet returns, a single glass of whisky before bed. Servants padding around from time to time to wipe surfaces clean before being dismissed for weeks at a time.
Yet Seungho made it work.
The kitchen counter became his desk. His laptop glowed cold against the stone. A bluetooth earpiece blinked in his ear. Stock reports, quarterly breakdowns, legal counsel—all spoke to him in loops.
And he nodded, answered, all while watching Haneul from the corner of his eye.
“Move the Lotte proposal to next week.”
“No, I’ll review it remotely.”
“Yes. Everything’s under control.”
At one point, Haneul shifted under the blanket—just a twitch of a shoulder.
It took every drop of Seungho’s control not to look.
??????
The messages started just after 10am.
JAEWAN: Three board meetings. Two negotiations. A live interview.
JAEWAN: All rescheduled.
JAEWAN: While you nest like a brooding falcon.
JAEWAN: Are you trying to get yourself deposed?
Seungho didn’t respond at first.
Then:
SEUNGHO: He’s still not eating.
JAEWAN: So what, you’re playing Florence Nightingale with a trauma ghost?
