Seungho’s voice dropped, steady and low. He began to re-braid the hair. Slowly. The same order as before. Gold thread. Blue bead. The soda tab at the end, pressed flat, gleaming like a coin in temple light.
Each twist was deliberate, every fold of hair a vow remade.
When he finished, the braid lay new again — imperfect, trembling, but whole.
Hetied it off with the same half-ripped ribbon and smoothed it once with his palm.
They sat like that for a long time, the vents whispering heat, the floor cold through his slacks.
Haneul’s head rested against the porcelain, eyes half-closed.
Seungho stayed on the tiles, one hand over the rim of the tub, fingers brushing the braid he’d just remade — as if to reassure both of them that the memory, this time, would hold.
??????
Chapter 22 — Five Minutes
The Jang residence sat on a quiet hill above Seongbuk-dong, its perimeter hedged in yew trees and wealth too old to advertise itself. Marble lion heads flanked the wrought iron gates. Beyond them, the driveway curled like a serpent toward the main house — a sprawling estate dressed in muted grandeur, all aged brick and manicured restraint.
At 9:03 p.m., the gates opened without question.
Because when the intercom crackled and the doorman asked for a name, the man standing at the entrance gave it calmly:
“Yeol Seungho.”
And that was enough.
He came alone. No overcoat. No entourage. Just a tailored black suit with matte buttons and a wristwatch that gleamed like surgical steel under the porch light. The silence that walked beside him was thicker than storm clouds, heavier than thunder. Even the servants slowed in his wake.
The butler met him at the entrance, visibly uncertain. “Mr. Yeol, we… weren’t expecting—”
“I won’t take more than five minutes,” Seungho said.
His voice was mild. Even pleasant. But something in it emptied the room of breath.
He stepped into the house without waiting for permission.
The Jang residence was a museum of inheritance: antique vases, lacquered scroll chests, ancestral portraits watching fromabove the molding. The floors shone like frozen rivers. Somewhere deep in the house, porcelain clinked and distant laughter echoed — a dinner party in progress. It faded to a hush the moment Seungho was announced.
Mr. and Mrs. Jang appeared in the foyer with cautious smiles and practiced elegance. Her dress was plum silk. His tie was paisley and perfect. They recognized him instantly.
“CEO Yeol,” Mrs. Jang said, hands clasped tightly. “What an… unexpected visit.”
Seungho inclined his head. “I apologize for the hour.”
Polite. Crisp. Unassailable.
“But your son,” he continued, “laid hands on someone under my protection.”
The smiles faltered.
“I believe that earns me five minutes of your time.”
He did not sit. He did not take the tea offered. Instead, he removed an envelope from the inside of his coat and placed it on the low table between them like a scalpel laid on stainless steel.
“I’ll be brief.”
His voice was steady. Measured. Not cold — clinical.
