Chapter 64: Polished Teeth and Blunt Statements
The house emptied the way it always did—quietly, without ceremony.
Footsteps faded down the hall. Doors closed. The hum of daily routines resumed elsewhere, leaving behind the soft echo of a space that had briefly held too many people, too many conversations layered over one another.
Ren lingered near the window, watching the morning light stretch thin across the floor. Dust floated lazily in the air, turning gold where the sun caught it. He hadn't realized how tense his shoulders were until the silence settled and his body finally allowed itself to sag.
Then a phone buzzed.
Junhyeok glanced at the screen, expression shifting in a way Ren had learned to recognize—professional, alert, already several steps ahead of the present moment.
"…Yes," Junhyeok said, voice low. "Understood."
He ended the call and turned toward Ji-eun.
"We need to leave," he said simply.
Ji-eun sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Already?"
"A dealer," Junhyeok continued. "He specifically requested… heirs."
Ren stiffened at the word.
Ji-eun looked at him then, eyes sharp but not unkind. Measuring. Calculating. "Grandkids and successors," she clarified. "Appearances matter to people like him."
Junhyeok adjusted his gloves. "He insisted."
For a moment, Ren almost thought they'd tell him to stay behind. That he was unnecessary. Extra.
Instead, Ji-eun spoke again.
"Ren," she said. "You're coming with us."
The sentence landed heavier than expected.
Not an invitation. Not a suggestion. A decision.
Ren nodded before he could overthink it.
"Okay."
The car was already waiting when they stepped outside.
Luther leaned against the driver's door, posture casual in the way only someone who'd already done this a thousand times could manage. He straightened when he saw them, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Ready to be miserable?" he asked cheerfully.
Junhyeok paused mid-step. "You're driving?"
"Unfortunately."
"You still don't have your license."
Luther opened the door anyway. "And yet, here we are."
Ji-eun smirked faintly as she slid into the back seat. Ren followed, sitting across from Junhyeok. The leather was cool beneath his palms, grounding in a way he hadn't expected.
As the car pulled away, Luther glanced at Junhyeok through the mirror.
"One day," Luther said, "you'll trust me."
"One day," Junhyeok replied evenly, "you'll pass the test."
Ren almost smiled.
---
The city blurred past the windows—glass towers, muted storefronts, reflections stacked on reflections. The farther they went, the more Ren felt something settle into place. Not comfort. Not confidence.
Readiness.
Junhyeok broke the silence.
"The woman we're meeting," he said, eyes forward, "is dangerous in the most tedious way possible."
Ji-eun leaned back, arms crossed. "She thinks subtlety is beneath her."
"She's clever," Junhyeok continued. "Too clever for her own good. Every sentence is a trap. Every compliment is conditional."
Ren listened closely.
"She will smile," Junhyeok said, "and she will expect you to mistake that for kindness."
Ren nodded.
"She respects power," Ji-eun added. "But only the kind she believes she understands."
Junhyeok glanced at Ren then. "Do not overexplain yourself. Do not rush to fill silence. And above all—do not react."
The words sank in slowly.
Ren felt something unfamiliar stir—not fear, but orientation. Like being handed a map instead of a weapon.
This wasn't about strength. Or presence. Or dominating the room.
This was about restraint.
The adult voice didn't speak yet. But its outline was there, traced in Junhyeok's calm, in Ji-eun's precision. In the unspoken rule that survival here meant knowing when not to move.
The car slowed.
Luther whistled softly. "Well. That's obnoxious."
Ren looked up.
The building ahead rose clean and sharp, all glass and stone, designed to intimidate without ever appearing vulgar. Valets moved with practiced efficiency. Everything about the place screamed control.
They stepped out one by one.
Ren paused at the curb, taking it in.
For just a second, a childish thought flickered—'I don't belong here.'
Not fear. Just the quiet awareness of standing in shoes that didn't quite feel his yet.
Junhyeok adjusted his coat and glanced back at him.
"Stay close," he said—not as an order, but a fact.
Ren inhaled.
Then he stepped forward.
Together, they walked toward polished teeth and blunt statements, into a room that would try to define him before he spoke.
And this time—
He was ready to let it try.
.
.
.
.
The meeting room was already occupied when they entered.
Long table. Dark wood polished to a mirror sheen. Water glasses placed with surgical precision. The city hung behind the floor-to-ceiling windows like a backdrop meant to remind everyone inside who owned the skyline.
Empty seats waited at the far end.
Too many of them.
They sat.
Minutes passed.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
No one spoke.
Ren became acutely aware of his breathing, of the way his knee wanted to bounce under the table and how he forced it still. This place demanded stillness. Even impatience had to be dignified.
Ji-eun didn't check her phone.
Junhyeok didn't shift once.
Thirty minutes in, the door opened.
The woman arrived as if time had bent itself around her inconvenience.
Heels clicked sharply against the floor—measured, unhurried. She wore confidence like a tailored coat, the kind that didn't bother disguising arrogance because it had never been punished for it.
She didn't apologize.
Didn't acknowledge the wait.
She sat.
Then, finally, she smiled.
"Let's begin," she said, as if she hadn't just tested everyone in the room.
Ren felt it immediately—the spike of irritation, sharp and sour. Everyone else did too. He could feel it, the collective tightening in shoulders, the restrained urge to bristle.
No one said a word.
Power, he realized, wasn't just about control.
It was about knowing you could disrespect someone—and they'd swallow it.
Then the discussion began.
And it moved fast.
Too fast.
From one topic to another.
Numbers slid across the table like blades. Supply routes. Resource quotas. Future leverage disguised as "mutual interest." Every sentence carried weight, and every pause was a provocation.
Ji-eun took the lead.
Her voice was calm, almost gentle, but every word landed exactly where it needed to. She framed concessions as generosity. Compromises as inevitabilities. She spoke like someone who knew the outcome before the conversation even started.
Ren almost forgot about his first encounter with Ji-eun.
'If I had met her in a different situation —'
Different outcomes circled in front of his vision. What if he met her and didn't help her find that thing, would their relationship not progress this fast?
Or if Junhyeok hadn't arrived when Ji-eun was about to attack, then would she tell him to come here with her?
He doesn't know.
And he doesn't want to know.
He shifted his focus on the present.
Junhyeok watched.
Where Ji-eun advanced, Junhyeok guarded.
When the woman hinted at exclusivity, Junhyeok redirected to legal precedent.
When another representative pushed timelines, Junhyeok countered with logistics that hadn't been mentioned—but had been prepared.
Ren noticed it all.
The gaps.
The traps.
The way blind spots opened and closed like jaws.
His phone vibrated once.
A message from Luther.
Don't talk. Just analyze.
Ren almost snorted.
As if he'd survive talking.
He leaned back slightly, eyes drifting from face to face. He felt small suddenly—not weak, but unfinished. Like a child sitting at the adults' table, feet not quite touching the ground.
'Why am I even here?'
The thought came unbidden, sharp with frustration.
'I haven't even finished high school.'
This wasn't his world. These weren't his rules. Every decision here echoed outward, affecting thousands, millions—people who'd never know his name but would live with the consequences of what was decided in this room.
And yet—
He was here.
Because of blood.
Because of legacy.
Because choosing not to choose was still a choice.
Ren exhaled quietly.
Consequences.
That word stuck.
Every move Ji-eun made carried them. Every correction Junhyeok slipped in prevented them. Power wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
It was patient.
It waited for you to mess up.
Ren watched the woman closely now—the way her smile tightened when a tactic failed, the way her fingers tapped once when she didn't get the reaction she wanted.
She wasn't invincible.
Just unchallenged.
The realization didn't make Ren feel stronger.
It made him feel… sober.
This was the price of standing anywhere near the center of things. You didn't get to pretend ignorance. You didn't get to opt out just because you were young or unsure.
He sighed, barely audible.
Not in defeat.
In understanding.
The meeting pressed on, tension coiled and controlled, and Ren stayed silent—watching, learning, letting the weight of consequence settle where it belonged.
Not on his shoulders.
Not yet.
But close enough to feel the heat.
The woman's gaze slid to Ren.
"You've been awfully quiet," she said, lips curving. "For someone whose name is on half the papers in this room."
The temperature shifted.
Ji-eun didn't stop her.
Junhyeok didn't interrupt.
This was deliberate.
Ren felt it—the pressure, the expectation. The table had subtly turned so that the weight of the room leaned toward him.
He stood.
Before anyone could comment, he casually reached back, placed his phone on the chair, screen down, and tapped once. The softest vibration. Voice record on.
No one noticed.
He straightened, hands relaxed at his sides, posture loose in a way that didn't look practiced—but was.
"You wanted me to speak?" Ren asked.
The woman smiled wider. "I insist."
She came at him immediately.
Questions stacked on questions. Hypotheticals dressed as concern. Framed dilemmas that tried to force him into choosing the lesser loss. She spoke fast, confident that inexperience would make him stumble.
Ren didn't.
He answered slowly.
Too slowly to be cornered.
Each response slid just off-center—never agreeing, never outright refusing. He redirected assumptions, corrected phrasing, questioned premises without challenging authority. He let her finish, then dismantled the conclusion instead of the argument.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
A trap appeared—Ren stepped around it.
Another—he reframed it as a liability on their end.
Junhyeok's eyes sharpened.
Ji-eun didn't look at Ren—but the corner of her mouth lifted.
The woman's smile thinned.
"So," she said lightly, tapping her pen, "this composure is new. Roward Academy must have been… formative for you. Especially your first year."
Ren froze.
Not from pain.
From surprise.
That didn't happen.
Not like that.
In his previous life, he'd been invisible. Curled into himself. Untouched, unnoticed, uncared for. No bullying worth naming. No scenes worth remembering.
'This was… new.'
He processed it in a breath.
Then looked at her.
Directly.
"That's interesting," Ren said. His voice was calm, almost curious. "You dug into my past instead of my arguments."
A pause.
He tilted his head slightly. Not defensive. Evaluating.
"It's kind of amusing," he continued, "that you'd resort to dragging up supposed trauma to gain leverage in a room like this."
Her pen stopped.
"If you had something stronger," Ren added, gently, "you would've used it."
Silence pressed in.
He didn't raise his voice.
Didn't need to.
"And honestly," he finished, eyes steady, "this is probably why you asked me to be here in the first place."
A beat.
"No?"
No one spoke.
The woman leaned back, lips tight, eyes sharp—but the momentum was gone. Whatever she'd intended to do with him had failed.
Ren sat down.
Meeting over.
.
.
.
.
Ji-eun was laughing so hard she had to lean forward in the car, her back leaned against the hood of the car.
"Did you see her face?" she managed between breaths. "I swear, someone should've taken a picture."
Junhyeok, calm as ever, raised his phone. "Already did."
He turned the screen toward Luther.
The image was perfect—mid-expression, confidence collapsing into irritation.
Luther whistled. "That's frame-worthy."
They stood outside a Tarbucks, neon buzzing faintly overhead, grease-stained wrappers spread across the small outdoor table. Burgers half-gone. Fries disappearing fast.
Luther looked at Ren. "I'm proud of you," he said simply. "And I'm pretty sure Mister Harate feels the same."
Ren smiled.
Didn't say anything.
He took another bite of his burger, chewing slowly, the noise of the city washing over them—grounded, ordinary, real.
And for once—
Enough.