He didn't remember when her face began to follow him.
It was there as he walked home, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, the night air biting against his knuckles. Neon lights flickered uselessly above him, the city breathing the same tired rhythm it always did but his mind wasn't here.
It was with her.
Soe-yeon.
The way her shoulders had trembled even when she tried to stand straight. The way her smile appeared too easily, too brightly, as if she'd learned that smiling first hurt less than crying later. He hated that part the most. People like her always thought being soft was survival.
It annoyed him.
Why had she stayed?
Why had she loved someone like Min-jae long enough for betrayal to hollow her out like that?
Stupid.
The thought came sharp and unfiltered, and it irritated him even more that it did. He had never cared about anyone's heartbreak before. Never slowed his steps for someone else's pain. Yet here he was, replaying the image of Min-jae getting into that taxi, disappearing into the dark like a coward, while she stood frozen in the hospital corridor like the world had stopped spinning just to humiliate her.
How long had she suffered?
The question slipped in before he could stop it.
He scoffed under his breath.
Too long, obviously. Long enough to confuse endurance with love.
The realization made his jaw tighten.
This was the first time he was involving himself in someone else's mess and he hated it. Hated that he had followed her. Hated that he had stood outside her apartment door long enough to hear the lock click shut, just to make sure she was safe. Hated that he cared.
He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.
That was when the footsteps surrounded him.
Five of them.
Too light to be drunk. Too deliberate to be a coincidence.
He stopped walking.
"So pretty boy," a voice sneered from behind him. "You got something we want?"
He didn't turn.
When the first hand reached for his shoulder, he reacted.
The sound of bone against bone cracked through the alley. One went down screaming. The second barely had time to raise his arm before it was twisted back at an impossible angle. The third rushed him with a knife. stupid. he disarmed him easily, sending the blade skidding across wet pavement.
The fight was quick. Brutal. Silent except for breath and pain.
By the time he stepped back into the street, his knuckles were split, blood seeping into the cold. A dull ache bloomed along his ribs where a kick had landed, but he ignored it.
Pain was familiar.
Home was not.
The lights inside the house were on.
That alone made his chest tighten.
He opened the door.
And froze.
His father sat on the couch, legs crossed, expression unreadable. unbothered, as always. Beside him stood a woman he hadn't seen in twelve years.
Her hair was longer now. Her face is softer, prettier than memory allowed.
His mother.
The woman who had vanished when he was five.
"Oh my God…" she whispered, eyes filling instantly. "Ji Hoon."
The name hit him harder than any punch.
"Ji Hoon," she said again, voice breaking as she rushed forward. "My baby."
She wrapped her arms around him like time could be folded and forgiven.
He stood still.
No warmth.
No anger.
No relief.
Just emptiness.
She pulled back slowly, confusion flickering across her face when she realized he hadn't hugged her back. Her hands slid down to his arms and then she saw the blood.
"Oh, what happened to you?" she gasped. "You're hurt. Ji Hoon, did someone..."
He stepped away.
Five steps.
Then turned back.
"You're different from the other girls he brings home," he said flatly.
Her lips parted, hopeful.
"But don't be stupid enough to think you can play a mother role now," he continued, voice cold. "Stick to your lane."
Her face crumbled.
"And remain the call girl you've always been."
Silence fell like glass shattering.
She staggered back, hand flying to her mouth.
His father watched everything.
Said nothing.
Dinner was suffocating.
She tried too hard serving him food, asking about school, about his life, about him. Each word scraped against his nerves.
"I left because I was young," she said finally, tears trembling in her eyes. "But I came back. Doesn't that mean something?"
He laughed once. Sharp.
"You don't get credit for returning to ruins you created."
She flinched.
"That's enough," his father finally said, voice low but firm.
Ji Hoon's chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood.
"So now you speak?" he snapped. "After parading women through this house like furniture?"
His father's eyes hardened.
"Sit down."
"No."
The word came out explosive.
He left the table untouched.
In his room, the darkness welcomed him.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, knuckles throbbing, ribs aching and yet, somehow, the pain that lingered most wasn't physical.
It was the memory of a girl smiling through betrayal.
Soe-yeon.
He closed his eyes.
Annoyed.
Involved.
And far too late to pretend otherwise.
The door to Ji Hoon's room closed with a muted click.
Silence lingered in the dining room, thick and uncomfortable, like smoke that refused to clear. The chair he had abandoned remained slightly pulled back, his untouched plate a quiet accusation in the center of the table.
His mother stared at it for a long moment.
Then she laughed.
It was soft at first. light, almost embarrassed. She reached for her wine glass, fingers trembling just enough to be noticeable, and took a careful sip before turning toward his father.
"Did you see that?" she said, voice slipping into something deliberately sweet, deliberately wounded. "He talks like that because of you."
Her tone was almost coquettish now, layered with practiced helplessness, the kind that had once drawn men closer instead of pushing them away.
"Kang Dae-seok," she called, using his name like an anchor, like familiarity still belonged to her. "You raised him to be cruel."
Dae-seok did not look at her.
He continued cutting his food slowly, methodically, as if the knife needed all of his attention.
"He has no respect," she went on, leaning back in her chair, crossing her legs. "Not for elders. Not for his own mother. He's cold. Emotionless. That kind of personality doesn't come from nowhere."
Still, silence.
She frowned slightly, unused to being ignored.
"I came back," she added, softer now. "I'm trying. But he treats me like I'm nothing. Like I'm..."
"Like what?" Dae-seok interrupted at last.
She blinked, surprised by the calmness of his voice.
"Like I don't belong here," she said quietly.
That was when he finally looked at her.
And the weight of his gaze crushed whatever confidence she had been borrowing.
"Yoon Hae-rin," he said, calling her by her name the same way one would call a stranger to order.
Her breath hitched.
"Stay in your lane."
The words were not loud. They didn't need to be.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"You don't get to complain about the consequences of your own choices," he continued, tone firm, unyielding. "You're the one who walked away. You're the one who shattered this family."
Her eyes filled instantly.
"I was young," she whispered again, as if repetition could rewrite history. "I didn't know how to be a mother."
"And now you think you can audition for the role?" he asked coolly.
That one landed.
She straightened, defensiveness flickering through her tears. "That's not fair."
"No," Dae-seok replied. "What you did wasn't fair."
He placed his utensils down neatly, as if concluding a meeting.
"Ji Hoon doesn't owe you warmth. Or forgiveness. Or even politeness. Especially not when you return after fifteen years and expect him to soften simply because you've decided you're ready now."
Her shoulders trembled.
"I gave birth to him," she said desperately. "Doesn't that mean anything?"
"It meant something," he said. "Once."
He stood up.
The chair scraped lightly against the floor, the sound final.
"I won't allow you to poison him with guilt the way you're trying to poison me now," Dae-seok added. "If you want to stay in this house, you'll behave accordingly."
She looked up at him, eyes wide, stunned into silence.
"And don't ever speak about him like that again," he finished. "Especially not to me."
With that, he turned and walked away.
He didn't take another bite.
The hallway swallowed his footsteps, leaving Hae-rin alone at the table, staring at two unfinished plates and a future that suddenly felt far less secure than she had imagined.
Her hands clenched slowly in her lap.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
She had pictured tears and apologies, dramatic embraces, a son who would crumble the moment she said she was sorry. She had imagined control subtle, emotional, easy.
Instead, she had walked into a house full of walls.
And the coldest one of all was named Ji Hoon.
Upstairs, Ji Hoon lay on his bed, fully clothed, one arm thrown over his eyes.
He hadn't meant to listen.
But the walls in that house had always been thin.
He heard everything.
His mother's voice.
His father's restraint.
The truth spoken too late to matter.
His chest felt tight not with regret, but with something closer to disgust.
People always returned when it was convenient for them.
He turned onto his side, staring at the dark corner of his room.
And then uninvited another image slipped in.
Soe-yeon.
Her shaking hands.
Her forced smile.
The way she had said thank you like she wasn't used to being helped.
He exhaled slowly.
Different pain.
Same pattern.
He closed his eyes.
Outside, the city continued its restless breathing, unaware that somewhere between betrayal and protection, between past and present, something irreversible had already begun.
And none of them not his mother, not his father, not even Soe-yeon yet understood how deeply it would burn.