Chapter 2

The only sound in the penthouse was the metallic, rhythmic clink of a silver spoon against the rim of a ceramic bowl. It was a small sound, domestic and harmless, but in the cavernous silence of the apartment, it rang out like a gavel striking a judge’s block.

Han Jun-woo sat at the kitchen island, his shoulders hunched inward as if trying to make himself disappear. He stared down into the bowl of soup. The ox blood and cabbage soup was a rich, rusty red, the ultimate comfort food, the kind his stepfather used to order for him after late-night study sessions, the kind that promised to knit a fraying body back together.

It was delicious. It was perfect. And Jun hated every mouthful.

Every swallow felt like swallowing crushed glass, scratching its way down his throat, because of who had cooked it.

Han Min-jae sat at the opposite end of the vast island, a monolith of silence. He was reading news reports on a tablet, his posture impeccable, his spine not touching the back of the stool. A cup of black coffee sat untouched beside his right hand, no steam rising from it anymore.

Min wasn't looking at Jun. He hadn't looked at him since he placed the bowl down. Yet, his presence filled the room like a gas leak—odourless, invisible, and suffocatingly lethal. It pressed against Jun’s skin, a physical weight that made the fine hairs on his arms stand up.

Jun risked a glance upward through his lashes. Min looked like a statue carved from obsidian and ice. The morning light, filtered through the rain-streaked floor-to-ceiling windows, washed him in cold greys. He was wearing a fresh white shirt now, crisp and unwrinkled, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, the kind of muscle built through violence. He hated to admit it, but the sight of those sleeve tattoos pushed Min's sexiness to a 100/10. Every time he saw Min on his private social media page, he tried to make out the tattoos.

Jun quickly looked back down at his soup, his heart doing a nervous flutter in his chest. He felt absurdly small. He was wearing Min’s shirt, which engulfed his slender frame, the cuffs rolling down over his hands, the hem hitting his thighs. He felt like a child again, transported back eighteen years to the long mahogany dining table in the Main House, terrified to let his spoon scrape the bowl lest he draw the attention of the "real" son. The son who belonged. 

The silence stretched, pulling tight like a wire ready to snap. Jun couldn't take it anymore. He needed to break the tension before it strangled him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture that felt too unrefined for this sterile, museum-like kitchen, and pushed the bowl away.

"I'm done," Jun muttered. His voice sounded thin, raspy from the alcohol and the fear.

Min didn't look up from the tablet. His finger swiped across the glass screen with a slow, deliberate movement.

"Shower," Min said. The word was a command, not a suggestion. "Third door on the left. There are fresh clothes on the vanity."

Jun slid off the stool, his bare feet hitting the cold tile. He felt exposed, vulnerable in the oversized shirt. He wanted his armour back. He wanted his own scent, his own fabric, his own identity.

"I don't need your clothes," Jun said, trying to inject a steeliness into his voice that he didn't feel. "I want my own. The ones I wore yesterday."

Min finally stopped reading. He didn't turn his head immediately. He took a slow breath, then rotated on the stool to face Jun. His face was a blank slate, a perfect mask of indifference that gave nothing away.

"I threw them out," Min said calmly.

Jun froze. The air left his lungs. "You... what?"

"They were covered in bile, stale alcohol, and the filth of a club floor," Min said, his voice level. He reached for his coffee and took a sip, his eyes never leaving Jun’s face. "They were unsalvageable. I had the housekeeper dispose of them while you were unconscious."

A flush of heat, hotter than the hangover, shot up Jun’s neck. He was so embarrassed to think about what Min must have witnessed. But as suddenly as he felt the embarrassment, the jagged feeling of grief spiked through the embarrassment and that is all he could feel.

"You had no right!" Jun snapped, his voice rising, cracking with emotion. "You had absolutely no right to touch my things!"

Min arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "It was a shirt, Jun-woo. A ruined one. Do not be dramatic."

"It wasn't just a shirt!" Jun shouted. His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling. "My Dad gave me that shirt! It was the last birthday gift he gave me before I left for New York. He picked it out himself!"

The words hung in the air, vibrating with pain. Dad. Not "Step-father." Not "The Chairman." Dad. The man who had loved Jun.

At the mention of the title, Min’s head whipped up slightly, a microscopic jerk of reaction. For a fraction of a second, so fast that if Jun had blinked, he would have missed it, the stoic mask cracked.

Min flinched.

A tiny wince tightened the corner of his left eye, near the scar. His jaw muscle jumped, clenching hard. It was the look of a man who had been slapped across the face with an open palm.

But before Jun could process it, before he could wonder why Min looked like that, the expression was gone.

Smooth marble replaced the crack. The eyes went dead again. The jaw relaxed. Min set the coffee cup down with a soft clack.

"It was a piece of fabric," Min said. His voice was devoid of inflection now, stripped of any humanity. Cold. Robotic. "Material objects can be replaced. Dignity cannot. You looked like a vagrant, you know what, you should thank me, I did you a favour."

The dismissal was like a physical shove. Jun felt tears pricking his eyes, tears of frustration and of powerlessness. He hated this. He hated how Min could reduce him to a sobbing child with just a few cold sentences.

"I never asked for your favors!" Jun hissed, stepping forward. He wanted to shake Min, to scream, to make him feel something. "I never asked for your help! I don't want your clothes. I don't want your soup. I don't want your charity. I just want to get as far away from you as possible!"

Min stared at him without blinking. He sat there, agonizingly still, absorbing Jun’s anger like a black hole absorbing light. He didn't yell back or try to defend himself. He just watched, his gaze heavy and unreadable.

"Then shower," Min said softly. "Dress. And leave. A driver is waiting downstairs."

Jun stood there, breathing hard, his chest heaving. He felt foolish. He was screaming at a wall.

"I will return the clothes," Jun said through gritted teeth, his voice shaking. "I will pay you back for the soup. I don't want to owe you a single thing. Not a second of time. Do you understand me?"

Min turned back to his tablet, effectively dismissing Jun’s existence.

"Fine," Min said to the screen. "Just go."

Jun stared at Min’s broad back for one second longer, a mix of hatred and confusion swirling in his gut. Then, he spun around and stormed toward the hallway. He slammed the bathroom door shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the sterile, empty apartment.

Min didn't flinch.

Twenty minutes later, the front door clicked shut. The electronic lock engaged with a cheerful, mocking beep.

Min sat at the kitchen island. He hadn't moved.

The silence rushed back into the penthouse, heavier than before. It was a physical weight, pressing down on his shoulders, filling his ears with a ringing emptiness.

He waited. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three.

He waited until he heard the soft, distant hum of the elevator descending, carrying Jun away from him. Carrying Jun back to the safety of the world that didn't include Min.

Then, and only then, did the strings holding Han Min-jae together snap.

He let out a breath he felt he had been holding for twelve hours. His posture collapsed. He slumped forward, his elbows hitting the cold granite countertop with a thud, and he buried his face in his large hands.

"Fuck," he whispered into his palms. The word was wet, broken.

The warmth of Jun’s presence was fading from the room, dissipating into the air conditioning. But the scent lingered and itt was torture. The smell of the citrus shampoo Jun used, the same one he had used since high school, mixed with the faint, warm musk of Min’s own sandalwood shirt that Jun had been wearing.

It was the smell of a life Min couldn't have.

"Idiot," Min whispered to the empty room, his voice harsh with self-loathing. "You absolute idiot."

He rubbed his face aggressively, trying to scrub away the exhaustion, but the fatigue went bone-deep.

He hated him. He told himself that every single day. It was his mantra. I hate Han Jun-woo. He hated his wide, doe-like eyes that looked at the world with such naive hope. He hated his trembling mouth that couldn't hide a single emotion. He hated his tanned skin, which reflected the sunlight like an Egyptian prince. He hated his curly hair that he had spent a good part of the ride back to his apartment twirling around his fingers. He hated the way Jun walked, the way he laughed, the way he existed.

He hated what he and his mum represented, the living, breathing testament to the Chairman’s betrayal.

Min closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into his sockets until he saw stars. But the darkness behind his eyelids wasn't empty. It was full of ghosts.

The memory clawed its way up from the depths of his psyche, unbidden and sharp as a razor blade.

He was ten years old. It was November and it was raining.

It always seemed to be raining in his memories of that year. The sky had been weeping since the day his mother was put in the ground.

She had been dead for four months. Just four months. The dirt on her grave hadn't even settled. The flowers were barely withered.

Min had been called into his father’s study. The room smelled of old leather and expensive scotch—the scent of his father’s power. The Chairman was sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, looking happier than Min had ever seen him. He was smiling. Actually smiling.

“Min-jae,” his father had said. He wasn't looking at Min. He was looking at a framed photograph on his desk. “You’re going to have a new mother. And a brother. They are moving in next week.”

Min had felt his world shatter. The floor seemed to drop out from under his small sneakers. “But... Father... Mom...”

The change was instantaneous. The smile vanished from the Chairman’s face, replaced by a sneer that Min knew better than his own reflection. His father’s hand slammed onto the desk, rattling the crystal decanter.

“Your mother is dead because you are weak!” his father had roared. The sound was like thunder in the small room.

Min flinched, shrinking back, but his father crossed the room in two terrifying strides. He grabbed Min by the shoulders, his fingers digging into the tender flesh, shaking him hard. Min’s head snapped back and forth.

“She was soft! Like you!” the Chairman spat, his face inches from Min’s. “You think crying brings people back? You think weakness is a virtue? She died because she couldn't survive this world. Because she was always protecting you.”

Min had bitten his tongue until he tasted copper, desperate to stop the tears that threatened to spill. Crying meant punishment. Crying meant he was weak.

“This woman,” his father hissed, his breath smelling of stale whiskey, “would make you happy. Her son is respectful. He is just like you too but he isn’t a mafia heir. You will welcome them. You will be a brother. ”

And he had. Min had watched from the shadows of the landing a week later.

He watched his father open the door. He watched his father lift a tiny, three-year-old Jun into the air. Jun was laughing—a bell-like, joyous sound that Min had never earned. He watched his father hug the new wife, Mi-ran, looking at her with an adoration, a warmth, a love that he had never, not once, shown Min’s mother.

Jun had been so small. So pretty. The perfect doll for a new family. The replacement.

Min had packed his own bags that night. He was ten years old, but he knew he was homeless. He had forged his father’s signature on the boarding school application form, his father had pushed to him and his mum since he was 6 years old. He left the next morning. If he was a ghost, he would haunt somewhere else. He would make himself strong. He would make himself into something that didn't need love. And that is what he did, he convinced the driver and with just his father’s name and a piece of paper, disappeared (not entirely, his father found him the very next day) from their lives.

Min opened his eyes in the penthouse kitchen. The memory receded, leaving him cold and shaking.

His hands were trembling. The great Han Min-jae, the "Prince of Darkness," the ruthlessly efficient CEO, was shaking like a leaf because he had shared a bowl of soup with his stepbrother.

He stood up abruptly, the stool screeching against the floor. He picked up Jun’s empty bowl.

He walked to the trash can, his foot hovering over the pedal. He should throw it out. He should smash it. He should erase every trace of this morning.

He paused.

He couldn't do it.

With a groan of frustration, he turned to the sink. He placed the bowl gently in the basin and turned on the tap. He watched the water swirl, clear and cold, wishing it could wash away the rot in his chest. Wishing he could scrub the image of Jun’s terrified eyes from his mind.

"You're safe," Min whispered to the running water. "I made sure you're safe. That's all that matters."

..............................................................................................................................................................................................................................

The Han Mansion in Seongbuk-dong was a fortress masked as a home. High walls, manicured gardens that looked too perfect to be real, and a silence that weighed tons.

The black sedan pulled up to the main entrance. The driver, a man Min employed, opened the door.

Jun stepped out. The humid air hit him, but he felt cold. He was wearing the clothes Min had provided—black slacks that fit impeccably and a soft grey turtleneck. It was creepy how well they fit. Min must have known his measurements. Or perhaps Min just knew everything.

He walked through the heavy double doors. The staff lined up in the foyer, bowing low in unison.

"Welcome home, Young Master Jun-woo."

"Thank you," Jun murmured, keeping his head down. He didn't feel like a master at all, he felt like an intruder.

He headed for the drawing room, his footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rugs.

"Junie!"

The voice was ragged, filled with exhaustion. Jun looked up.

His mother, Han Mi-ran, rushed forward from the drawing room. She was a beautiful woman, elegant in her grief. She wore mourning black, a simple, severe dress that highlighted her pale skin. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from days of weeping.

"Mom," Jun exhaled, the tension in his shoulders breaking.

He let her pull him into a fragrant embrace. She smelled of lilies and expensive perfume, the scent of his childhood comfort. He buried his face in her shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Oh, thank god," she sobbed softly, her hand stroking the back of his head. "I was so worried. You didn't come home last night. Mr. Song called, he said the meeting is at four... where were you? Felix came back hours ago, but no one knew where you were."

Jun pulled back gently, holding her hands. "I'm sorry, Mom. I... I ran into Min-jae."

At the name, he expected her to stiffen. 

Instead, as usual, Mi-ran’s face softened. Her brow furrowed with genuine concern.

"That boy," she sighed, a strange note of sadness in her voice. "How is he doing? Did he look... is he eating?"

Jun blinked, taken aback. "Mom? Why are you asking that? You should be asking if he hurt me. If he said anything cruel."

Mi-ran looked at him, her eyes searching his face. She reached up and brushed a stray curl of hair from his forehead.

"You are no longer a boy, Jun," she said softly. "You must learn to read the meaning behind the actions, not just the tone. Min is... Min carries a heavy burden."

Jun frowned, pulling his hands away. This was wrong. "He’s the head of the company now, Mom. He loves the burden, and he treated your son like dirt this morning."

He walked over to the sofa and collapsed onto it, running a hand through his hair.

"He... he helped me," Jun admitted, the words tasting sour. "I got drunk. I blacked out. He took me to his penthouse. He gave me soup, and then gave me these clothes."

Mi-ran looked at the clothes, and a faint, sad smile touched her lips. "He helped you."

"He acted like he was taking out the trash!" Jun snapped. "He said he was only doing it because he was 'obligated.' Because I’m a liability."

"Jun," Mi-ran said, her voice firm now. She walked over and sat beside him. "Min-jae doesn't help anyone unless he wants to. If he saved you, it’s not an obligation. He doesn't care about obligation. He defied his father for years."

"He hates us!" Jun cried, his frustration boiling over. "You know that! He’s never considered us family. He treats his own sister, Ji-yoon, like a stranger. Why would he care about me? Why are you defending him?"

Mi-ran looked down at her hands, twisting her wedding ring, the ring given to her by the man who was now missing.

"I don't know everything, Jun," she whispered. "But I know that hate and hurt look very similar from a distance. Min... Min was a child who lost his mother, and then lost his father to us. We cannot forget that."

Jun opened his mouth to argue, to list the grievances, the cold stares, the silence.

"Who can’t we forget? The Prince of Darkness?"

A loud, theatrical voice boomed from the stairs, shattering the heavy atmosphere.

Jun whipped his head around.

Mateo "Felix" Hernandez was descending the grand staircase. He looked like a wreck, but a fashionable one. He was wearing a silk robe that definitely belonged to a guest suite, embossed with the Han crest. His curly hair was a bird's nest of chaos, sticking up in every direction. He held a delicate teacup in one hand and was clutching his temple with the other.

"Felix!" Jun jumped up, relief flooding him. "You’re alive." He smiled broadly.

"Barely," Felix groaned. He reached the bottom of the stairs and winced at the daylight streaming in from the foyer. "I woke up in a bed that costs more than my entire college tuition. The mattress memory foam has better recall than I do."

He shuffled over, blinking blearily. "Also, there was a man. A very scary man. He had no neck, Jun. Just muscle from chin to shoulder. He looked like he ate rocks for breakfast. He told me to 'stay put' until you arrived. Then he gave me aspirin and vanished like a ninja."

Jun couldn't help it. A small smile tugged at his lips. "Probably one of Min’s men"

He turned to Jun’s mother and bowed dramatically, despite his robe. "Mrs. Han! You look radiant. Grief is terrible, truly, a tragedy. But black? It is stunning on you. Very Chanel. Very 'widow of mystery'."

Mi-ran blinked, startled out of her melancholic mood. Then, she let out a wet, genuine laugh. She covered her mouth. "Oh, Felix. You haven't changed a bit. Still a charmer."

"Never, ma'am," Felix winked at Jun. "So? The Evil Stepbrother? Did he eat you? Do you have all your limbs? Did he breathe fire?"

"I'm fine," Jun said, though the skin on his waist still tingled where Min’s arm had held him. The memory of Min’s body on top of his on the couch flashed through his mind—the heat, the smell of sandalwood. He shoved it down. "He was... Min. Cold and bossy. A total jerk."

"Standard operating procedure," Felix shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. "At least you didn't get the 'No Neck' treatment."

Mi-ran clapped her hands together. The sound was sharp, signaling the end of the reprieve. The levity vanished from the room as quickly as it had arrived.

"Alright. Enough," she said, standing up and smoothing her dress. Her face hardened into the mask of the Madam of the House. "Go prepare, both of you. You cannot meet the family looking like... this."

She gestured to Felix’s robe and Jun’s borrowed clothes.

"Mr. Song will be here at four," she continued, her voice tight with anxiety. "Jun’s step-brothers and their mom, are coming too. We need to be ready. We need to present a united front. They will try to pick the carcass clean if we show any weakness."

Jun looked at the antique grandfather clock standing in the corner. Its pendulum swung back and forth, counting down the seconds.

Five hours.

Five hours until the will reading. Five hours until the family was in one room and until he had to sit across a table from Han Min-jae again.

His stomach twisted violently. He wasn't sure if it was fear of the Vultures, grief for his step-father, or the terrifying, confused realization that he wanted to see Min again just to figure out why he had flinched.

"Let's go," Jun said quietly. "We have a war to prepare for."