He tried to stop crying as quickly as possible, but it was useless. It was already unfair enough that he had been dragged into this fictional world against his will, but now the man wearing his only friend's face seemed ready to devour him at any given moment. The tangled mess of sorrow and fear pressed heavily against his chest.
But above all, he felt pathetic—so arrogant for believing he had the future figured out, so selfish for throwing a childish tantrum and ultimately disrupting him. He had ruined an important deal, so of course, he deserved to be scolded.
A cold gaze clung to his tear-streaked cheeks. It was a stripped-down, emotionless stare, sharp and unyielding, making him want to shrink away. But if he moved even slightly, he might brush against the knife's edge, leaving him with no choice but to endure it. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Heemin forced himself to speak.
"I just..."
"Just what."
"...I just wanted to see you."
In this strange yet familiar world, Cha Iheon was the only person he could truly rely on. In reality, he was the kind of man Heemin would never have associated with—someone who waded through filth for a living. But this was fiction. His line of work didn’t matter here.
He never intended to interfere with his business. It was just that Iheon's indifference, shattering his fragile belief that he would be looked after, left Heemin feeling unsettled.
That didn’t mean he wanted the same suffocating, obsessive attention that Seo Heemin had received. But since they lived under the same roof, was it so wrong to want to see each other and have a conversation?
And, if possible, maybe even slowly erase the hatred Iheon harbored inside him.
Something flickered across Iheon's face. A hint of unfamiliar emotion passed through his dark, lightless eyes—like the first glimmer of dawn on a pitch-black horizon. But Heemin was too preoccupied to notice, his tears dripping onto the floor as he continued.
"If I didn’t do something like this, you wouldn’t even look at me. I just... I didn’t want to be ignored anymore. I just wanted to talk to you. ...I’m sorry."
He had known it was an important meeting, but he hadn’t realized he was in the middle of a late-night business deal. His mind had been so consumed with tomorrow’s inauguration that he had completely disregarded the fact that Iheon was part of the criminal underworld.
With each word, Iheon’s grip on his collar gradually loosened. Through the tears clinging to his lashes, Heemin caught sight of his expression—flat, devoid of color.
Gone was the wild predator baring its fangs, the creature running purely on instinct. His eyes blinked, once, twice. When the last of Heemin’s tears fell, Iheon’s gaze reflected back at him in a way that felt oddly similar to that night—when Heemin had treated his wounded hand.
Not warm, by any means. But at the very least, he wasn’t pushing him away.
"Secretary Jung."
"Yes, sir."
"Leave us."
"Understood."
Secretary Jung bowed slightly to both of them before stepping away. The sound of the front door clicking shut filled the silence, and only then did Iheon pull the knife from the wall.
A clean, vertical line was left behind on the dark wallpaper. A small crack in the otherwise impenetrable barrier—much like the man before him.
"Seo Heemin."
Iheon tossed the knife into the sink and called his name in a low, subdued voice. Wiping his damp eyes with the back of his hand, Heemin immediately responded, "Yes!" and, without thinking, hurried to stand in front of him.
"You seem to have momentarily forgotten your place. You were sold to me. You belong to me. You have no right to summon me. Understand?"
"Then what am I supposed to do when I want to see you? Just wait forever?"
"Still talking back."
"I'm not talking back. I'm just asking."
"You must have a death wish."
"N-No! I don’t! I'll shut up now."
Dropping his head low, he made a show of reflecting on his actions. It was the same tactic he used whenever his sisters scolded him.
"Don’t ever pull something this stupid again."
"I won’t."
"And don’t argue with me."
"Yes."
This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.
Though his words were harsh, the bite in his tone was noticeably absent. After scolding him thoroughly, Iheon opened the refrigerator as if to cool off.
"Where the hell is the water?"
The neatly arranged rows of Еvian bottles had all been replaced with barley tea. His brow furrowed deeply, his jaw already set in irritation.
"Oh, well, um... I thought the water tasted kind of greasy, so I switched it to barley tea..."
Iheon slammed the refrigerator door shut, looking distinctly unimpressed. He then strode over to the cabinet, retrieving a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Apparently, he found the idea of drinking filtered water more offensive than alcohol.
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Why not just drink the barley tea? It’s good for you, and it tastes fine.
Hovering anxiously, Heemin hesitated before cautiously offering, "Do you want me to make you something to eat?"
"No."
Iheon poured himself a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid cascaded smoothly into the glass, shimmering like silk under the light.
"You’re going to ruin your stomach if you only drink."
"You, cook?" He scoffed, rolling the glass between his fingers. "Even after ten years, I doubt you could make anything edible. Or are you planning to poison me?"
"What? Poison? What are you even saying? I'm just trying to make sure you don’t destroy your stomach. And for the record, I'm not that Seo Heemin."
The original Seo Heemin, at thirty years old, had been a pampered young master who didn’t know the first thing about housework. But he was different. He had been doing chores since middle school, and by high school, he was cooking for his family.
Of course, he wasn’t on the level of a professional like Ms. Ahn, but he took pride in his ability to handle household tasks. To earn his sisters’ affection—and, more importantly, their allowance—he had watched countless cooking tutorials and honed his skills.
With a determined air, Heemin opened the refrigerator. Where the Еvian bottles had once been, there were now neatly arranged ingredients. He scanned them carefully, trying to think of something quick, simple, and presentable.
Iheon, being the textbook tyrant seme type, ate with refinement, consuming only moderate portions. Anything messy or overly spicy would likely be met with disgust.
After some thought, Heemin pulled out a pack of bacon and a bundle of enoki mushrooms from the back drawer. He decided on bacon-wrapped enoki mushrooms, a dish that could be eaten cleanly with chopsticks.
Taking the knife Iheon had tossed into the sink, he thoroughly scrubbed it clean before trimming the base of the enoki mushrooms. He then carefully separated them into small bunches, preparing them for wrapping.
As he rolled the bacon diagonally around the mushrooms, he felt a presence watching him. The weight of skepticism and mild curiosity lingered behind him. It seemed like Iheon was observing to see just how competent he actually was.
Glancing over his shoulder, Heemin met his gaze. Iheon tapped his glass rhythmically, studying him with unreadable eyes.
He was drinking whiskey while using Heemin as his appetizer. How infuriating.
Just wait until you taste this.
This dish was his specialty, perfected through years of serving his sisters whenever they cracked open beers after work.
Working swiftly, Heemin grilled the rolls to golden perfection. Once done, he sprinkled a touch of parsley and herb salt for the finishing touch.
Plating it carefully, he set the dish down. The rich, savory aroma wafted up.
"It’s ready."
He arranged the table, bringing out chopsticks and an extra glass. In the time he had been cooking, Iheon had already drunk quite a bit. And yet, he didn’t seem even remotely intoxicated. A bit disappointing.
Taking a seat across from him, Heemin held out his empty glass.
Iheon’s handsome brow twitched.
"Pour me a drink, too."
"Drink barley tea, kid."
"I'm a full-grown adult."
Heemin firmly placed his glass in front of the whiskey bottle. According to his eldest sister—an expert in socializing—drinking together was the fastest way to break the ice. As long as he didn’t get drunk and embarrass himself, it was a good strategy.
Faced with his unwavering persistence, Iheon reluctantly poured him a drink. Instead of proposing a toast—he’d only get ignored—Heemin simply clinked his glass lightly against Iheon’s before taking a sip.
The rich, aged malt aroma filled his senses. Unlike the sharp sting of soju, it was deep and refined.
But—
"Ugh. Why does this taste so bad?"
His throat burned. His stomach felt like it was on fire.
As he choked down the alcohol, trying to cleanse his palate with food, Iheon looked him dead in the eye and said,
"I’m attending the inauguration of Shinwon Cement’s new CEO tomorrow."
Had he been the original Seo Heemin, who firmly believed that Cha Iheon was responsible for his father’s death, he would have shattered the whiskey bottle on the spot.
But Heemin already knew the truth.
Instead of reacting, he simply stared at him in silence.