The phone rang fifteen seconds later.
Seungho answered with a clipped, “Yes.”
Jaewan’s voice came sharp with restrained panic. “You’ve never missed a board review in ten years. What the hell is happening?”
“Don’t ask me to explain.”
“I’m not asking. I’m begging. Who the hell is he to you?”
Silence.
“You left Hye-jin on the curb like she was an Uber Eats order. Do you have any idea what kind of political fallout that’s causing? Her mother called your uncle. She’s threatening to cut ties.”
“He hasn’t eaten in three days.”
Jaewan went quiet.
“…Right,” he said eventually. “Okay. That’s… not okay. But I hear you.”
“I’ll be back when I’m needed.”
“You are needed.”
Seungho looked across the room, at the boy sleeping like something half-buried, half-blessing.
“I’m already where I need to be.”
Jaewan sighed, rubbed his temple audibly through the line. “Fine. But for fuck’s sake, keep your doors locked. And tell me if he—”
“I will.”
They hung up.
Then, another message came.
Short. Slicing.
HYE-JIN: I hope your friend was worth humiliating me for.
HYE-JIN: My mother is calling your uncle. I won’t stop her.
HYE-JIN: You looked at him like you’d seen someone come back from the dead.
Seungho didn’t reply. He stared at it for a long time. Then deleted it.
The phone vibrated again.
He flipped it face-down and left it there.
??????
That evening, he made porridge. Soft, plain, warm.
He set it on the low table with a new cup of tea. No gesture. No announcement. Just presence.
He didn’t watch, nor linger.
Later, the porridge remained untouched. But the spoon had shifted.
