The light was set very low, but still bright enough to distinguish everything in the room. On the bedside table stood a tray bearing a glass bottle of water and a cup.
Just knowing that someone had anticipated my waking, lit a lamp, and prepared water for me gave me a small sense of strength.
I threw back the covers and set my feet down beside the bed—only then did I realize I was wearing pajamas. My hand moved of its own accord, stroking my chest and stomach. Had I changed into them myself before climbing into bed? No matter how hard I tried to piece it together, the last clear image I had was standing at the living-room entrance, saying, “Because I painted it,” to him.
My legs felt unsteady, so I eased myself through a full-body stretch. Though I’d suffered no physical injury, my bodily functions all seemed to creak and protest. This was far outside any ordinary experience.
I made the bed, slipped on a pair of indoor slippers that someone must have left for me, and stepped out into the room’s short hallway—still utterly unfamiliar. At its end I found a little gallery-like alcove with tall bookshelves and a cozy armchair, and in front of it a railing. Beyond the railing lay empty air.
The house was silent aside from a faint rain tapping outside. I approached the railing. I was on the second floor, looking down into the living room on the first. Fortunately, it was exactly as I’d expected: his home. At least I hadn’t awakened, memory wiped clean, in a place I truly didn’t know.
Unlike the dim bedroom, the living room was brightly illuminated. The sun had long since set; outside the full-width windows it was completely dark. He sat on the sofa, sipping something, gazing off in deep thought. There was no sign of Gwon Juhan or Yuni. And the painting that had hung over the sofa was gone.
Had it all been a dream—like Alice’s adventures in Wonderland? Of course not.
Following the railing with my fingertips, I found a stairwell: white steps with open risers, almost floating in midair. By the time I descended to the living-room entrance, he had turned ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) his gaze toward me.
One thing was certain: he’d been at my side during the gap in my memory. He must know what I said and did. That realization made facing him now all the more difficult and awkward—as though my greatest vulnerability had been exposed to someone I didn’t want seeing me at my weakest.
I couldn’t bring myself to step forward. I stood at the threshold, one hand pressed against the wall. He set his On the Rocks glass on the low table, rose, and walked toward me.
“You should stay in bed a little longer.”
His voice was low and husky, as if he’d held back speaking for a long time. He cleared his throat twice, as though loosening his neck.
“I’m... sorry. Earlier... I forced myself to eat that hamburger even though I had no appetite... maybe that wasn’t a great idea. I’ve been tense since yesterday, and I think I drank too much beer... I’m not usually fragile, so I don’t know why I fell apart...” I tried to appear all right, but instead blathered on in a way that wasn’t me. I hated the thought of him attributing this incident to my nerves. If he pressed me with questions, I had neither the courage to tell the truth nor the presence of mind to fabricate a lie.
He came forward until we were barely a step apart, stopped, frowned, and clicked his tongue.
“You don’t have to struggle to lie when you’re not well.”
...
“I won’t ask anything.”
His gaze dropped to my shoulder as he slowly swept a hand from his pocket to his chin. His expression was complicated—and not what I’d expected.
“I’m saying this because you seem anxious about your missing memories: you didn’t lose consciousness. You were having a panic-attack breathing pattern, so I intervened and supported you, but you walked back to the bedroom on your own. You didn’t make a spectacle of yourself.”
He was reassuring me that there’d been no embarrassing scene, yet his eyes remained fixed on my shoulder, stiff with unspoken worry or suspicion. A sudden chill ran through me, and I brushed the arm I’d had pressed against the wall.
“I’m sorry... for causing so much trouble.”
His gaze traveled from my shoulder back up to my face.
“I know you don’t think of me as overly affectionate, but I’m not cruel enough to let a sick person think they’re inconveniencing me. Don’t worry about that. I told Yuni and Juhan you weren’t feeling well and needed to rest inside.”
I murmured my thanks and nodded. His expression lightened a little.
“There’s egg porridge; eat a bit, then get more sleep.”
He turned toward the kitchen, but I reached out to stop him.
“No—I’m fine now. I’ll go.”
When he looked back, his frown had deepened into rough, almost hurt eyes—like I’d wounded him. He planted himself before me, arms crossed, staring down.
“Seo Ihyeon, you don’t remember how you were, right?”
...
“You know that hyperventilation can’t kill you, logically. But watching someone so desperate they think they’ll die... is honestly not a pleasant experience. If you truly hate burdening me, then rest here today, where I know you’re safe.”
He added that he’d told Chief Han the same—that I’d simply felt unwell and was resting. It was as if he knew every worry rattling around my head.
By lifting Phantom to its current heights and running it successfully, he’d proved himself a major success by any social measure. Yet never had I so keenly felt that he was ten years my senior as I did in that moment.
His expression and tone suggested he’d resolved not to let me leave tonight. Refusing such kindness isn’t always the polite choice.
After a moment’s silence beneath his furrowed brow, he sighed as though regretting his harsh words, then stepped forward, placed both hands gently on my shoulders, bent his waist, and brought his face close to mine. His hair was still slightly damp, as if he’d showered while I slept.
“Right now, getting you healthy is my priority. Don’t think about anything else. Try to switch off your mind completely—like flipping a switch. Can you do that?”
I couldn’t fully grasp what he meant by switching off my brain, but under his calm gaze and in that voice, I nodded.
He gave a faint smile, gripped my shoulder firmly for an instant, then released and stepped back.
“You probably won’t have much appetite, but eat at least a little. Do it for yourself.”
Turning away to lead the way, he repeated, “For yourself.” I chewed on how striking those words were as I moved the stiff weight of my legs and followed him.
Through the living room I went—where just moments before I couldn’t bring myself to take a single step—and around the corner into the kitchen. He seated me at the table, heated the porridge he’d prepared, and spooned it into a bowl.
When he asked if I wanted to eat back in my room, I shook my head. He set the tray before me with a slightly reluctant, worried look: a bowl of egg porridge flecked with diced carrot and zucchini; a small dish of stir-fried anchovies with almonds; and a tiny plate of salt.
Had he cooked all this himself—slicing carrot and zucchini? Meal-delivery is so good these days that it could have been ordered, but now wasn’t the time to question that.
I picked up a spoon. My mouth felt numb, as if anesthetized, so the flavors barely registered—but the porridge slid down smoothly.
He sat beside me at the corner of the table, watching me eat. In any other circumstance that scrutiny might’ve weighed on me, but now I was grateful. I had to acknowledge how weak I’d been.
“Whether mentally or physically, when you’re struggling it’s best to stick to your normal routine. If you skip meals because you’re not hungry, the gloomy parts of us find space to take over. Even if you can only manage a little, eating as usual shows that we haven’t given up on ourselves. That’s what matters.”
His words rang true: maintaining my pattern, persevering in the same shape. Better than “you’ll get through this” or “time heals,” it was practical counsel.
I paused, met his gaze, and saw this wasn’t empty comfort: he was speaking from his own experiences of enduring hardship. I nodded, and silently he smiled—an approving, almost proud smile.
“And... where are you going?” I asked, alarmed as he stood. My eyes must have shaken with uncertainty.
“I’ll get a blanket.”
I glanced at my trembling hand holding the spoon.
“I’m really not cold—”
Though I tried to insist I was fine and would manage, I couldn’t bear to be alone for even a moment. Yet I lacked the courage to ask him not to leave. He looked thoughtful, bit his lower lip, then instead of fetching a blanket he took off the sweatshirt he’d been wearing and held it out to me.
“No, really... I’m not cold.”
When I hesitated, he took action: in one smooth motion he slipped it over my head.
“You are cold. You couldn’t feel it, but your temperature’s dropped what with you being unwell and the rain outside. Just listen to me, okay?”
It felt awkward to take the sweatshirt back from him once it was around my neck. I set down my spoon and slipped my arms into its sleeves.
It was large on me—he stood a head taller and had a broader frame—but still the warmth it retained from his body was tremendous reassurance. Even facing someone so awkwardly unfamiliar, that human contact brought a measure of comfort.
He sat back down, holding back a smile that nearly broke into laughter. Having someone beside me, even quietly, helped as much as body heat. Had I returned to my room at Chief Han’s, the gloomy parts of me would have reclaimed me. I had to admit it.
I ate half the porridge and set down my spoon. He didn’t urge me to continue. As he rose to clear the tray, I moved to help—but he stopped me.
“Want to wash up?”
He placed the dishes in the sink and tapped his own cheek with an index finger, then asked. I suddenly realized I hadn’t removed my makeup.
“I’ll stay with you.”
I wanted to refuse, but in this condition, his absence in this unfamiliar house would only heighten my anxiety. I swallowed my pride and nodded.
He led me back down the hall to the room I’d woken in, where a bathroom was attached inside. It had a simple yet exotic resort-like feel—something that might conjure memories of a spa.
I brushed my teeth and washed my face and feet at a leisurely pace—three times slower than normal—while he leaned in the open doorway. Even knowing he was there, I checked in the mirror and over my shoulder several times; each time he offered a reassuring faint smile.
Towel in hand—and face freshly dried—I slowly returned to the bedroom. The indirect lighting made it dim again, as it had been when I first left.
Standing awkwardly in the empty space—save for the bed—I toyed with the towel in my hands. He approached and took it.
“Your bangs are still wet.”
With gentle hands, he brushed the moisture from my forehead. Through his direct interactions with Shushu I’d known there was more to him than blunt words and indifferent expressions, but I’d never imagined his gentle side could turn toward me. He hadn’t been so gracious before.
Was it because I was ill—and he was taking care of me?
It’s hard to remain indifferent to someone who’s suffering so badly they cling to life. Even I knew he wasn’t a complete cold-blooded hard-liner.
“Sleep in this room. I’ll take another room.”
...
Though he didn’t say it, the look on his face surely pleaded, I hope you don’t mind. I wondered if he’d teased me on purpose. That thought didn’t feel entirely off. Overhead, I heard the faint sound of his amusement.
“You seem like a different person when you’re sick.”
I wasn’t especially sick—though now I wasn’t so sure. Ached all over and didn’t know which part hurt most; nor had I wanted anyone to notice. Yet in saying that, he, too, seemed like a different person.
He bent at the waist, tilted his head to meet my eyes, and spoke softly.
“Do you wish I wouldn’t go? Do you want me to stay and sleep here with you?”
Before I could reply, he laughed—a self-deprecating chuckle—and straightened up. He crossed past me to the bed, threw back the covers, and arranged the pillows. Only then did I realize he’d been teasing in an intimate way, not out of malice but because my awareness was dulled.
“I’ll stay on the sofa until you fall asleep. Lie down.”
I owed him far more than simple thanks or apologies. In my current, unsettled state, obeying his every instruction felt like the least troublesome path.
