Chapter Text
Kim Dokja was ten when his mother began to smile again.
At first he didn’t notice. The apartment was usually too quiet for smiles to mean anything. But one evening she came home humming, a paper bag swinging from her wrist, her lipstick fresh and bright. The light from the hallway cut across her face and for the first time in a long while, she looked almost happy.
Dokja froze in the living room doorway, a book open in his hands. He didn’t know if happiness was something he was supposed to answer. So he stood there until she noticed him.
“What are you staring at?” she asked, but her voice wasn’t sharp. It was distracted, lighter somehow, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
He shook his head. She brushed past him and disappeared into the kitchen, humming a tune that didn’t belong to their small, grey home.
The days that followed carried that same strange rhythm.
She came home later, always humming, sometimes with new clothes or a faint perfume he didn’t recognize. The air felt less heavy. Dokja sat on the couch, pretending to read, waiting for the weight to return. It never did. Not quite.
He learned to keep quiet when she was in a good mood. Silence kept the calm from breaking. He would turn the pages slowly, listening to her hum fade in and out between the thin apartment walls.
On the seventh morning, she woke him early. The air smelled like her perfume, sharp and floral. She dressed him carefully, shirt tucked, hair brushed back, a new jacket buttoned to his chin.
“Remember,” she said, tugging the fabric smooth at his shoulders. “Smile. Only speak when you’re spoken to.”
Her hands were gentle but firm. When she leaned close, he could see her reflection in his wide eyes, focused like she was arranging a display.
“Don’t ruin this,” she added softly. “Not today.”
She reached for a small jar from her vanity and touched something cool and scented to his forehead. The skin tingled.
“There,” she murmured, satisfied. “No one will notice a thing.”
Dokja didn’t ask what she meant. He only nodded, because that was always the right answer. The foundation smelled faintly of flowers and strangers.
Outside, the morning light spilled through the curtains, bright and heavy. He thought it looked too clean for the day to end well.
.
.
.
The restaurant was louder than Dokja expected. The kind of place where plates whispered against porcelain and the hum of conversation never really stopped. Every sound felt polished, rehearsed.
He sat beside his mother at a small round table. The linen beneath his fingers was too clean, the glass too clear. He kept both hands in his lap. The candlelight turned the silverware into thin lines of fire.
“Sit up straight,” his mother murmured without looking at him. Her eyes were on the entrance.
He adjusted his posture, the collar of his shirt scratching faintly against his neck. The smell of her perfume hovered close. Sweet, cloying, the scent she only wore when she wanted to be admired.
For a while she said nothing. Her reflection shimmered in the wineglass: lipstick perfect, smile waiting to be used.
Then she glanced at him. “We’re waiting for someone. When he comes, you’ll smile, understand?”
Dokja nodded. He wasn’t sure who he was, but the rule was clear enough. Rules were always simple if you didn’t question them.
Minutes passed. He watched people come and go, waiters gliding like ghosts between tables. His mother checked her phone twice, then smoothed the napkin in her lap for the third time.
When the man finally appeared at the doorway, her whole posture changed. The tension in her shoulders eased, and she drew in a breath that almost sounded like relief.
Her fingers found Dokja’s arm under the table. Soft at first, then a warning pinch.
“Smile,” she whispered.
So he did.
The man walked toward them, unhurried. His smile reached his eyes, and when he stopped by their table, the light from the chandelier caught the silver at his temples.
“Ah,” he said, voice warm, measured. “You must be Dokja.”
Dokja blinked up at him. “Yes, ahjussi.”
The man laughed softly. “Ahjussi? I’m not that old yet.”
His mother laughed too, a sound too bright for the quiet space between them. The man pulled out a chair, and suddenly the table felt smaller.
They talked. The adults first, about work, traffic, some restaurant he owned shares in. Dokja listened, eyes lowered, counting how often his mother laughed at things that weren’t funny.
Then the man turned to him. “Your mother tells me you like to read.”
Dokja hesitated, then nodded. “I like books with monsters.”
“Oh?” The man’s smile deepened. “And why’s that?”
“They’re not always bad,” Dokja said carefully. “Sometimes they just don’t know how to be anything else.”
There was a short pause. Something flickered in the man’s eyes, but he only chuckled. “That’s an interesting way to see the world.”
His mother’s hand came down on his shoulder, light but firm. “He reads too much sometimes.”
“Reading’s good for him,” the man said, still smiling.
Dokja smiled too, because it felt like the right moment. His cheeks hurt from holding it in place.
After dessert arrived, his mother leaned forward. “And where’s Joonghyuk?”
The man sighed, amused. “Ah, he refused to come. Says he has cram school. You know how boys are.”
“Of course,” she said. “Middle school soon, isn’t he?”
He nodded, pride softening his expression. They slipped into easy talk again, schools, education, futures. The kind of things adults used to fill silences.
Dokja let their voices fade into background noise. He traced the rim of his glass with a fingertip, listening to the faint ring it made.
Something inside him settled as he watched them: the way his mother leaned forward, the way the man’s gaze softened. He didn’t need anyone to explain it. He already knew what happened when his mother smiled like that.
This was a new beginning.
And new beginnings always came with rules.
He smiled again, just like she’d taught him. The candlelight danced in his glass, trembling with every heartbeat.
.
.
.
Dokja didn’t remember when his mother got married.
One morning she simply told him to pack his things.
He didn’t have much. A few shirts, two pairs of pants, and the small stack of books he kept beside his bed. He packed them neatly, one by one, like performing a ritual he didn’t understand. The air in their tiny apartment was stale with the scent of detergent and cold rice.
When they stepped out, a black sedan was waiting by the curb, gleaming like something out of a commercial. The man from the restaurant, Yoo Jinseok, if Dokja remembered correctly. He stood beside it, smiling as if this was all perfectly natural.
His mother’s hand found his shoulder, her nails pressing lightly through the thin fabric of his white T-shirt. “Smile,” she whispered lowly, her lips curved in a way that didn’t reach her eyes.
Dokja obeyed.
“Ready?” Jinseok asked, his voice warm and pleasant.
Dokja watched Jinseok open the trunk and take his small bag, pretending not to notice the way the man’s gaze softened when it landed on him. They exchanged a few words. Grown-up words, polite and empty. Dokja only heard the rhythm of them, like footsteps echoing down a long hallway.
Inside the car, his mother sat in the front beside Jinseok, laughing at something he said. Dokja sat alone in the back seat, small and quiet, his knees drawn close together.
The city slid past outside the window, all glass and noise and sunlight that hurt his eyes. He didn’t ask where they were going.
He pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane and watched the buildings blur, one after another, until the reflection staring back at him was someone he barely recognized.
The hum of the car engine filled the silence.
From the front seat, his mother’s laughter rose and fell like a practiced melody. Too light, too easy.
“Dokja,” came the voice from the driver’s seat.
He was startled a little. Yoo Jinseok was watching him through the rearview mirror, his smile still there, gentle and patient.
“You like to read, don’t you?”
For a heartbeat, Dokja just stared. The question felt strange, like it wasn’t meant for him. Then, remembering his mother’s hand and the faint half-moon marks her nails had left on his shoulder, he sat straighter and smiled.
“Yes,” he said, his voice bright and careful. “I read a lot, ahjussi.”
“Ah,” Jinseok’s eyes softened. “That’s a good habit. Joonghyuk isn’t much of a reader, he prefers doing things, not just thinking about them.”
He chuckled quietly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “He’s twelve now. At that age, boys like him have too much pride. He doesn’t talk much, and sometimes he might seem cold, but he’s a good kid. You’ll see. He just… doesn’t know how to express himself properly.”
Dokja nodded, the polite smile never leaving his face. “I’ll try my best, sir.”
Outside, the scenery had changed. The streets grew quieter and wider, the kind with trees neatly lining the sidewalks and houses spaced far apart.
And then the car slowed.
Ahead stood a tall iron gate, black and gleaming. It opened soundlessly as they approached, like something alive obeying a silent command.
Dokja’s reflection flashed in the window. Small face, polite smile, wide eyes that didn’t quite reach the light.
The car rolled to a stop before a house that looked too large to be real.
It wasn’t like the buildings in the city, this one breathed in silence. Smooth marble steps climbed toward double doors framed by tall glass windows. The garden was perfectly trimmed, not a single leaf out of place.
“Here we are,” Jinseok said as he stepped out.
Dokja followed his mother’s lead, clutching the strap of his small bag as if afraid it might be taken from him. The air smelled faintly of pine and something expensive, polished wood maybe.
“Do you like it?” Jinseok asked kindly, his smile still easy.
Dokja nodded. “It’s… big.”
Jinseok laughed softly, patting his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”
They walked through the doors into a hallway of white and beige, the sound of their footsteps echoing against marble. The space felt heavy, filled with things that didn’t quite belong to people, only to the idea of them.
His mother’s tone grew lighter, her laughter more fluid as she spoke with Jinseok about furniture, about routines, about the new beginning they would all share.
Dokja let the words pass over him, his gaze tracing the high ceiling, the glint of sunlight reflected off crystal fixtures.
Then, at the far end of the hall, he saw someone.
A boy, standing half-hidden by the stairway.
He was taller than Dokja expected, dressed in a simple T-shirt and sweatpants. His hair was slightly messy, his expression unreadable, eyes sharp even in stillness.
Their gazes met for a moment.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching. Not with curiosity, but the assessing quiet stare of someone who already understood too much.
Before Dokja could look away, his mother’s hand settled lightly on his back, guiding him forward.
“Go on,” she said softly, her voice honeyed for the adults nearby. “Say hello.”
Dokja turned back toward the boy, forcing that perfect small smile that always made things easier.
“Hi… I'm Kim Dokja,” he said.
Joonghyuk didn’t respond. But his dark eyes flicked down, to the fading bruise near Dokja’s temple, half-hidden under the foundation, then back up again.
The silence that followed was so still it almost rang.
.
.
.
The days that followed slipped into something that looked like normal.
Dokja had a new room, larger than anything he’d ever had before. Too large, maybe. The kind of room that swallowed small sounds and made his breathing echo faintly against the walls.
He went to school every morning, returned every afternoon, did his homework at the desk by the window.
Yoo Jinseok left early and came home late, his face always tired but kind. His mother no longer worked. She said she didn’t need to.
Yoo Joonghyuk was rarely home. He spent most of his time at school, moving between clubs, sports, and study groups that seemed to fill every corner of his day.
When he did come home, the house felt different. Quieter and steadier, as if even the walls knew better than to make a sound.
They barely spoke. Sometimes, when they passed in the hallway, Dokja would feel the weight of Joonghyuk’s gaze linger for a second too long sharply.
Always, it found the same place, his wrist, where the edge of a bruise peeked out from beneath his sleeve.
Dokja would tug the fabric down, hiding it quickly.
Joonghyuk never said anything.
And Dokja never asked him to.
For a while, Dokja thought that meant things would finally be quiet, that he could grow into this new life without bruises, without fear.
He was wrong.
It only happened when Jinseok and Joonghyuk weren’t home. The air in the house would shift, heavy and waiting.
Sometimes it was a broken glass. Sometimes it was a forgotten chore, a misplaced book, a tone of voice too hesitant.
And then her voice would turn sharp, her hand faster than his breath.
Afterward, she always had reasons.
If you keep acting like this, what will he think of you?
Do you want him to send us back to that filthy apartment?
Dokja never argued. Never cried.
He had learned long ago that noise only made things worse.
Once, a maid had seen it happen.
A bottle of sauce had slipped from Dokja’s hand and spilled onto the pale carpet. Thick red, impossible to hide.
His mother’s hand had found his arm at once, nails digging deep into the soft skin just above his elbow.
The maid froze in the doorway, wide-eyed, mop in hand.
Dokja met her gaze silently, almost pleading without meaning to.
Then Sookyung’s voice, calm and precise:
“Clean it up,” she said, without looking away from him. “And leave us.”
The maid obeyed. Of course she did.
She cleaned the stain, gathered her things, and disappeared down the hall.
Dokja didn’t blame her.
In this house, obedience was the only kind of safety anyone had.
Over time, he learned that help would never come.
The maids who witnessed his mother’s outbursts always looked away, their eyes sliding past him as if he were a shadow on the wall. No one said a word. No one told the master of the house. Perhaps because it wasn’t Joonghyuk they saw, the real son of this home, the heir, the boy whose name carried weight. It was just him. A stranger who happened to live under the same roof.
So Dokja stopped expecting anyone to save him.
That afternoon after school, the house was unusually quiet. The air smelled faintly of furniture polish and something floral. His steps were light as he approached Jinseok’s study, a place he’d been told never to enter. But the shelves inside were filled with rows and rows of books, their spines lined like soldiers, and temptation outweighed fear.
He told himself he’d only borrow one. Just one book. No one would even notice.
His fingers brushed against the spine of a novel he couldn’t name, and he tucked it under his arm. Then he turned to leave… too quickly. His elbow caught the edge of a vase.
It shattered against the floor, a sound sharp and violent in the silence.
Dokja froze. His heart leapt into his throat. The book slipped from his grasp as he dropped to his knees, desperately trying to gather the shards with trembling hands. The glass bit into his skin, but he didn’t stop. The sting didn’t matter. All that mattered was making it disappear. The sound, the proof, the mess.
He didn’t even hear the footsteps until the door burst open.
A blow landed hard against the back of his head, blinding him for a second. He fell forward, the impact driving shards into his palms, his elbows, his knees. His mother’s voice filled the room, shrill and venomous.
“What did I tell you about touching things that aren’t yours?”
Another hit. Then another. Dokja curled into himself, arms wrapped around his head. The world blurred into the sound of her breathing and the dull throb in his skull.
And then…
“What the hell are you doing?”
The voice was unfamiliar. Cold and clear.
Sookyung stopped. Her hand froze midair. Dokja didn’t dare look up. He only saw the shadow in the doorway. Framed by the afternoon light.
Joonghyuk stood there, still wearing his uniform, his bag slung loosely over one shoulder. His eyes lingered, not on his stepbrother, but on his mother.
It was the first time Dokja ever heard him speak.
Sookyung’s face twisted for a fraction of a second. Surprise, then panic, then the quick assembly of a smile.
“Joonghyuk-ah,” she said softly, almost sweetly, “you’re misunderstanding. Dokja was playing around in your father’s study when he shouldn’t have. He broke something important, and I was only… correcting him. I didn’t mean to—”
Her voice faltered, thin and trembling around the edges. She looked smaller somehow, caught in the act.
Dokja stayed still on the floor, watching her. He could tell when she was lying, the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, the way her hands clenched too tightly. She wasn’t afraid of hurting him. She was afraid of losing this house, this safety, this illusion of a new life. Maybe she thought Joonghyuk would tell his father. Maybe she imagined them both being cast out.
Joonghyuk’s expression didn’t change. His gaze flicked from her to Dokja. The bleeding palms, the trembling shoulders, then back again.
“You don’t teach a child a lesson by hitting them,” he said flatly. His tone wasn’t angry, just cold and steady. Like he was stating a fact.
For a moment, no one spoke.
It was the first time anyone had ever stood between Dokja and his mother.
Sookyung opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Whatever she saw in Joonghyuk’s face silenced her.
Without another word, Joonghyuk stepped forward. His hand wrapped around Dokja’s wrist, firm but not harsh, and pulled him up. Dokja staggered, his knees unsteady, and Joonghyuk didn’t slow down. He simply dragged him toward the door.
Outside, a few maids had gathered, drawn by the noise. Their eyes darted between the two boys.
“Get the first-aid kit,” Joonghyuk ordered, his voice sharp enough to make them scatter.
Dokja tilted his head slightly, watching their joined hands as they moved down the hall. The grip was strong but careful and steadying. It didn’t bruise. It didn’t hurt.
It was… new.
He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until they reached his room. The door shut softly behind them. A maid entered a moment later, hurried and pale, clutching a white box in her hands.
Joonghyuk released him only then.
And when Dokja looked down at the faint red mark on his wrist, he thought… how strange it felt, to be touched without pain.
Joonghyuk dropped his schoolbag onto the edge of the bed and rolled up his sleeves without a word. The maid hovered uncertainly by the door until he glanced at her, sharp and expectant. She hurried forward, opening the white box with trembling hands.
Dokja sat on the edge of the mattress, his legs dangling, watching in silence as Joonghyuk knelt in front of him. The boy’s expression was cool, concentrated like he was studying a puzzle, not a person. He picked up Dokja’s hand, turning it over carefully. Tiny shards of glass still clung to the skin.
Joonghyuk didn’t flinch at the blood. He plucked each fragment out with quiet precision, then dabbed at the cuts with antiseptic. The maid knelt beside them, cleaning the scrapes on Dokja’s knees and shins.
Dokja didn’t move. He didn’t even twitch when the alcohol stung.
The room was quiet except for the soft rustle of bandages and the sound of water running in a basin.
After a long moment, Joonghyuk asked with his eyes still on Dokja’s hand, voice low, “Does this happen often?”
Dokja blinked, as if unsure what the question meant. Then after a pause that felt too long, he said, “…Yes.”
Joonghyuk’s gaze lifted, finally meeting his. There was no surprise there, only a sharp and heavy stillness. Then his attention shifted to the maid.
“You knew about this?”
The woman froze, her face draining of color. “Y–Yes, young master.”
For a second, no one breathed. The air thickened between them, filled with the quiet hum of something unspoken.
Joonghyuk pressed the final bandage over Dokja’s palm, slow and deliberate. His hands lingered a moment longer than they needed to.
“Leave us,” he said quietly.
The maid hesitated, glancing between them, then bowed and slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. The click of the latch seemed to make the silence heavier.
Joonghyuk straightened, his shadow stretching across the carpet.
“I’ll tell abeoji,” he said.
Dokja looked up at him, eyes wide and uncertain. He couldn’t understand it, why Joonghyuk sounded angry, why his jaw was set like that. It wasn’t Joonghyuk who had been hit.
“Please don’t,” Dokja said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.
Joonghyuk frowned. “Why?”
“She’ll only be worse next time,” Dokja murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor. “If he knows… she’ll take it out on me.”
For a long moment, Joonghyuk said nothing. His fingers flexed at his side, the tendons in his hand sharp against pale skin. He looked like he wanted to argue, to break something just to make sense of it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was tight.
“Then don’t just stand there next time.”
Dokja blinked at him, confused. He didn’t know what that meant, what else was he supposed to do?
Joonghyuk slung his bag over his shoulder, turning toward the door.
“You fool,” he muttered, not unkindly but like the words had been dragged out of him.
And then he left, leaving Dokja sitting there in the quiet, his palm throbbing beneath the neat white bandage.
.
.
.
The next day, Dokja couldn’t stop staring at the bandage on his palm.
Sometimes he pressed his thumb against it, just to feel the faint sting beneath, proof that Joonghyuk’s touch had been real.
Would he ever do it again, Dokja wondered? Would he still stand up for him if he saw?
But Joonghyuk went back to being silent.
He passed Dokja in the halls without a word, without even a glance, except for the brief flicker of his sharp eyes, before he disappeared into his room again.
Something twisted in Dokja’s chest.
That evening, he came home to find Joonghyuk’s shoes already by the door.
His heart gave a confused small flutter.
In the living room, his mother was seated comfortably on the couch, phone in hand, a cup of tea balanced on the table beside her. The picture of calm.
Dokja paused in the doorway, watching her.
He didn’t want to be invisible again.
So he stepped forward, close enough for her to look up from her screen.
When his hand brushed against the edge of the teacup, it toppled easily. The sharp sound of shattering glass filled the quiet room.
Sookyung’s head snapped toward him, fury flashing in her eyes. But for a split second, her gaze flicked upward, toward the floor above, where Joonghyuk’s room was.
She hesitated.
Dokja saw it.
He stood still, looking up at her with an expression far too calm for a child.
A silent dare passed between them. Go ahead. Hit me. He’ll hear.
But her hands stayed frozen at her sides.
So Dokja moved first.
He reached for the teapot on the table and poured what was left of the warm tea over his own chest. It wasn’t boiling anymore, but hot enough to sting, to redden. Just enough to make it believable.
Then he threw the teapot down. It shattered into pieces. Louder… sharper than before.
Sookyung’s eyes widened. “Kim Dokja—!”
He stepped closer slowly, and took her trembling hand. Guiding it up, gently pressing it against his own neck. His voice trembled perfectly, soft and frightened, like he had rehearsed this pain a thousand times.
“I’m sorry, eomma... please... I didn’t mean to—”
His breath hitched, barely audible. “It’s my fault. Please don’t tell him.”
Footsteps echoed from upstairs.
Sookyung froze, eyes darting toward the staircase. Dokja’s lips quivered as tears spilled down his cheeks, and hidden beneath that mask of fear was the faintest trace of a smile.
The sound of quick footsteps came from the stairs.
Sookyung’s hand snapped away from Dokja’s neck just as Joonghyuk appeared in the doorway. His eyes flicked from the broken teapot to the dark stain spreading across Dokja’s shirt.
“What happened?”
His voice wasn’t loud, but the sharpness in it made Sookyung flinch.
“I—he spilled the tea. It was an accident,” she stammered.
Dokja’s lower lip trembled. His eyes were glossy with tears, darted to Joonghyuk for only a second before falling back to the floor. Every detail of his small posture looked believable. The shaking shoulders, the wet lashes, the quiet gulp in his throat.
Joonghyuk stepped forward. The smell of burnt tea and porcelain dust hung heavy in the air. “You’re hurt,” he said quietly, reaching for Dokja’s wrist.
Sookyung tried to interject, but Joonghyuk’s glance silenced her. Without a word, he checked Dokja’s arm, his sleeve, the faint red marks on his chest.
“It’s fine,” Dokja whispered. “I was clumsy.”
But Joonghyuk didn’t answer. He stood up, eyes moving from the shattered teapot to the trembling woman still holding her phone.
When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to Dokja.
“Next time,” he said to Sookyung, “don’t let him pour tea by himself.”
And then he turned to leave, his hand brushing lightly against Dokja’s shoulder. A silent question, a fleeting comfort.
Dokja didn’t move. He watched Joonghyuk’s back as he walked away, and for a moment, the tremble in his lips stopped.
Because in that silence, in that single brush of contact, he could almost feel the same thing again… the gentleness that didn’t hurt.
.
.
.
That night, the house was silent.
The only sound came from the rain tapping against the windowpane and the faint hum of the heater in the corner. Dokja sat on the edge of his bed, still wearing the shirt that smelled faintly of tea. The damp patch had already dried into something sticky and uncomfortable, but he didn’t move to change it.
His gaze lingered on the clean white bandage across his palm.
The same one Joonghyuk had wrapped just days ago.
He traced the edge of it with his thumb, slow and careful, as if he could still feel the weight of those fingers pressing against his skin, firm, certain, and gentle. It almost hurt how clear the memory was.
He’d grown used to flinching. To shrinking away before anyone could touch him.
But that one moment, that single quiet moment when Joonghyuk didn’t hurt him… had carved itself into his chest like a wound that refused to heal.
He wondered what it would take to feel it again.
Maybe if Joonghyuk saw him like that once more… trembling, small, needing to be saved, maybe then he’d look at Dokja again.
The thought made his throat tighten.
He pressed his palm flat against his chest, right over his heart.
It thudded too fast. Too loud.
Dokja didn’t know whether it was fear or longing anymore.
All he knew was that he couldn’t stop remembering the warmth in Joonghyuk’s hand.
The only touch in this house that hadn’t left a bruise.
.
.
.
The next morning, the house returned to its usual rhythm.
Footsteps in the hallway. The distant clatter of dishes. The low hum of conversation that never quite reached Dokja’s door.
He stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling.
The rain had stopped, but the sky outside was still gray.
He could hear Joonghyuk moving in the next room. The sound of a zipper, the quiet click of a door closing.
When Dokja finally went downstairs, the dining room was already occupied.
Joonghyuk sat at the table with a book open in front of him, eyes flicking over the same page again and again without reading.
Sookyung poured tea with the same poised grace she used in front of guests, her thin smile tight at the corners.
And at the head of the table, Yoo Jinseok sat behind a newspaper, glasses low on his nose. The smell of black coffee drifted in the air.
“Morning,” Jinseok said mildly, not looking up. “You’re up late, Dokja.”
“Yes,” Dokja murmured, sliding into his seat. The tea in his cup trembled with each small movement of his hands.
Joonghyuk turned a page that didn’t need turning. Jinseok glanced at him briefly. “You’ve got fencing practice after school today?”
“Mm.”
“That’s a yes, I assume.”
Another small sound, “Hm.”
Jinseok gave a quiet huff that was almost amusement. “You and your words, Joonghyuk. You’ll have to use more of them someday.”
Sookyung laughed softly, too softly. “He’s just focused, dear. Like his father.”
The paper rustled. “Let’s hope so.”
No one spoke after that.
Dokja thought Joonghyuk might glance at him, maybe just once.
He didn’t.
And that silence, that simple silence, felt louder than any slap.
Dokja’s gaze dropped to his palm, to the faint trace of the bandages.
It was almost invisible now.
As if it had never happened at all.
He realized something then.
That kindness, that look in Joonghyuk’s eyes wasn’t a promise.
It was a mistake.
A single moment that would never come back on its own.
So if he wanted it again, he’d have to make it happen.
Force it, if he had to.
Because Joonghyuk only looked at him when he was broken.
And maybe, Dokja thought, he could live with that.
So Dokja started to notice the patterns.
Joonghyuk left for school at 7:10 every morning, with him. A driver waited, always punctual. They didn’t go to the same school, Joonghyuk’s uniform was darker, sharper, with a crest stitched neatly over the pocket, but they shared the same ride.
The driver always dropped Dokja off first.
Every morning, Dokja watched Joonghyuk through the reflection in the window. The boy never looked his way, eyes fixed outside, jaw tight in quiet thought.
Then Joonghyuk came home between four and five, sometimes later if there was club practice.
He didn’t go straight to his room, he paused in the kitchen for a glass of water, sometimes an apple, before climbing the stairs.
He never spoke to Dokja at all.
But Dokja watched.
From the second-floor landing, from behind doorways, from the reflection in the hallway mirror.
He memorized the sound of Joonghyuk’s footsteps, the soft thud, the faint scrape of a chair when he sat at his desk.
The low hum of music through the wall at night.
The brief flash of light under his door before it went dark again.
Sometimes, Dokja wondered if things would be different if they attended the same school. Maybe then Joonghyuk would have no choice but to see him, to notice him again. The thought lingered, persistent, until it turned into something sharper, something like a plan.
That night, as his mother chatted casually with Jinseok in the living room, Dokja approached them. He made sure his steps were small and hesitant, the kind that made adults soften before he even spoke. His head was bowed low, small fingers nervously twisting the hem of his shirt.
“Eomma,” he said quietly, voice trembling. “Can I… not go to school tomorrow?”
The words froze both of them mid-conversation. Sookyung’s eyes widened, a flicker of irritation passing over her face before she caught herself. Jinseok though, looked genuinely surprised. His voice came out warm and concerned.
“Why, Dokja? Did something happen at school?”
Dokja hesitated just long enough to make it believable, before whispering, “Abeoji…”
It was the first time he’d ever called Jinseok that. The sound of it made both adults flinch.
Slowly, Dokja lifted the hem of his shirt. Faint bruises covered his stomach and ribs, some still yellowing, others fresh. He saw Sookyung’s breath hitch, her hand twitch slightly on her lap.
“There’s… a bad kid at school,” Dokja murmured. “He tore my books. Poured water on my bag. He said I should just disappear.”
Jinseok’s expression hardened, the easy warmth replaced by concern. “Who did this?” he asked. “Tell me his name, Dokja.”
Dokja shook his head quickly, eyes wide, fearful. “If I say… they’ll hurt me more. I just—” he paused, lowering his gaze again, “I just want to go to a school where it’s safe. Maybe then… I can make friends.”
For a moment, silence filled the room. Jinseok leaned back, thoughtful, while behind him, Sookyung’s lips curled into a small knowing smile, the kind that never reached her eyes. She understood.
And Dokja, standing there with trembling hands and glassy eyes, felt the faint thrill of something dangerous settling beneath his ribs.
Jinseok was silent for a while, thumb pressed against his chin as he considered. Dokja kept his gaze down, but his ears caught every quiet shift in the room. The faint exhale, the rustle of fabric, the low hum of thought.
Then Jinseok said softly, almost to himself, “Maybe… you could transfer to Joonghyuk’s school. It’s a good environment, and if you’re together, maybe it’ll help both of you.”
Dokja lifted his head slightly, eyes wide in feigned surprise.
Jinseok smiled gently. “Joonghyuk’s a bit quiet, but I’m sure he’ll look after you once you’re there.”
Across from him, Sookyung’s expression stiffened. “But it’s the middle of the semester,” she said. “Transferring now would be complicated. The paperwork, the tuition—”
“It’s not impossible,” Jinseok interrupted, his voice calm but final. “If it helps Dokja feel safe, it’s worth the effort.”
Sookyung’s lips parted, as if to argue, but she stopped when Jinseok turned toward her, his tone kind, but his decision already made.
“I’ll ask Assistant Park to handle it,” he continued. “She can contact the administration and arrange everything. I’ll be tied up with meetings for the next few days.”
Sookyung only nodded, her jaw tight. Dokja watched her from the corner of his eye. The faint twitch of her fingers, the way she forced a smile before lowering her gaze.
Then Jinseok turned back to Dokja, his voice softening again. “You don’t have to worry about anything, son. We’ll fix this. Everything’s going to be fine.”
He reached out, brushing a hand gently over Dokja’s hair, the kind of touch that should’ve felt comforting.
Dokja nodded obediently, murmuring a small thank you. He kept his expression timid and grateful, exactly what Jinseok needed to see.
“Go on,” Jinseok said, smiling faintly. “It’s late. You should get some sleep.”
Dokja bowed his head and turned toward the stairs.
He didn’t smile until he was out of sight.
.
.
.
Dokja sat on the edge of his bed, his small hands resting on his knees. The house had gone quiet again, the kind of quiet that only came after anger was forced down and locked away.
He didn’t have to wait long.
The door opened without a sound.
Sookyung stood in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed neatly over her chest. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air, sharp and expensive.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then her voice cut through the silence, smooth and low.
“Where did you learn something like that?” she asked. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Dokja looked up at her, expression unreadable.
She took a step closer, her heels clicking softly against the floor. “You should be careful, Dokja. If you try something like this again…” Her gaze flicked to the faint line of a bandage still peeking from his sleeve. “…you’ll find out what happens when you go too far.”
She turned to leave, satisfied that the warning had been delivered.
But then, behind her, Dokja spoke.
“I learned it from you, eomma.”
Her hand froze on the doorknob.
“You once told me,” Dokja continued quietly, his voice almost tender, “if you want something, you have to work for it.”
The words hung between them, soft but heavy, a mirror of her own lessons turned back at her.
Sookyung didn’t reply.
She simply stood there, shoulders tense, before finally walking away.
The door clicked shut.
Dokja sat still for a long time after that, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall. Then slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.
Just wait, he thought.
Soon they’d be in the same school, the same hallways.There would be mornings, lunches, quiet moments that no one could interrupt.
And Joonghyuk would have to look at him again.
Not because of pity.
Not because of blood.
But because there would be nowhere else to look.
Outside, the rain tapped softly against the window, like a steady patient hand.
Dokja closed his eyes.
For the first time in a long while, he slept easily.
Dreaming of proximity, of attention, of a boy who would one day have no choice but to see him.