The elevator hummed quietly as it descended, its walls reflective, cold, and impersonal—like the family Jihoon had just been reminded he belonged to.
He leaned back against the mirrored surface, arms loosely crossed, eyes staring at nothing in particular. His mind wasn't in the elevator.
It was spiraling somewhere between resentment and resignation.
He clenched his jaw. They didn't need to say it outright. He already understood.
He wasn't Jihoon, the nephew. He wasn't Jihoon, the grandson.
He was just Jihoon—the piece they were finally ready to play.
A nameless card the family had kept hidden—set aside, even after Jihoon had made it clear from the beginning that he wanted nothing to do with their world.
But in their eyes, intention meant nothing. He was still a piece on the board of their strategy, quietly waiting for the moment when sacrifice was needed.
And now, they'd finally drawn that card. And he knew—he couldn't afford to say no. Not yet.
A low chime of 'ding' echoed through the elevator, pulling him out of the fog.
The doors slid open, revealing the immaculate lobby of Hotel Shilla.
Sunlight spilled across the gleaming marble floors, their surface so polished it mirrored the crystal chandeliers above.
A subtle blend of expensive cologne and the warm, earthy scent of varnished wood lingered in the air—an invisible signature of understated luxury that spoke more to heritage than ostentation.
He exhaled through his nose, as if forcing the heavy thoughts out with the breath, and stepped forward.
One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking.
He made his way toward the lounge, each step measured, echoing softly against the opulent hallway. As he turned the corner, his gaze fell upon her.
Lee Jieun. Another pawn on their chessboard
She sat awkwardly on the edge of a sleek leather couch, her hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan.
Her back was straight—not from confidence, but discomfort. Her gaze was low, fixed somewhere near her knees, as though eye contact with the space around her might reveal her as an intruder.
She looked small in a room that wasn't made for her.
Too quiet for the clinking glasses and polished laughs of businessmen a few feet away.
Too soft for the harsh lines and status that clung to every object in the hotel like perfume.
And yet she was here. Sitting. Waiting for him.
Jihoon paused at the threshold. Watching.
This—this wasn't about just keeping her out of radar.
He remembered what Boojin had said upstairs, her voice as sharp as crystal: "She's the key. With her in our grasp, her parents will stay silent."
But Jieun didn't look like a key to him. She looked like a teenage girl pulled out of her real life and dropped into someone else's.
From what Boojin had told him, her life before this was barely scraping by—her father, a factory worker; her mother, a quiet homemaker.
Ordinary people, lost in the background noise of a country that moved too fast.
They'd lived in the shadows of South Korea's glittering skyline—where the wealthiest climbed higher and the poor simply watched.
Jieun's family was one of those families.
Not born into privilege. Not armored with status. Just… surviving.
And now, here she was—seated in a place carved from wealth and legacy—where her birthright had been thrust upon her like a crown too heavy for her shoulders.
Everything around her shimmered with a language she'd never been taught to speak.
No wonder she looked like she didn't belong.
Because the truth was—she didn't.
Not really.
But then again, neither did he.
Jihoon stood for a beat longer, watching her adjust her posture again and again, trying to look composed when everything about her screamed discomfort.
A strange pang tugged at his chest. Sympathy? Guilt? Maybe both.
He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the lounge—toward her.
Because whether he liked it or not, the game had already started.
And they were both pieces on the board.
Lee Jieun noticed him approaching.
Her posture straightened instantly, spine rigid as she folded her hands neatly in her lap, as if waiting for a verdict.
Her eyes flicked forward, focused yet vacant, like she was bracing for something—an order, a command. Anything that might remind her where she stood.
It wasn't habit. It was survival.
"Obey and abide."
Those were the last words her father had whispered to her before they put on a flight out of Seoul.
Not "be strong," not "it'll be okay."
Just those two words—cold, exacting, resigned.
Because he knew.
He knew what kind of world she was entering.
A world built by chaebols—where power was inherited, not earned, and people like them existed only in the margins, invisible unless they bowed low enough to stay that way.
And once they did, the two words her father left her with became their only means of survival: obey and abide.
So she sat there—still, quiet, obedient.
Jihoon noticed the change instantly—the way her body tensed when the moment their eyes met.
It was almost imperceptible, but it was there—an automatic shift that spoke volumes.
She wasn't just nervous. She was bracing herself.
Her fear wasn't new; it was something she carried like a second skin, worn thin by too many corrections, too many moments when she'd done something wrong without ever fully understanding why.
The constant uncertainty had molded her, making every glance feel like a judgment, every movement a potential mistake waiting to happen.
Jihoon didn't sit down.
He didn't sit.
Instead, he stopped beside her, saying nothing at first. His hand moved gently to her head, ruffling her hair with the kind of casual tenderness that didn't ask for permission—but didn't need to.
It was warm, quiet, disarming. Like sunlight slipping through the cracks of a cold, unfamiliar room.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice steady but kind.
His smile wasn't forced—it carried the weight of someone who had seen too much of the world, but still believed in protecting what was good in it.
"You probably haven't eaten yet, right? Let's go grab something. We can talk while we eat."
She froze.
Not because she was afraid—though that reflex still lingered in her body like an old bruise—but because she didn't know how to process this.
Kindness.
Not the kind tied to conditions or folded between polite syllables.
Just... pure kindness.
She had braced herself for something entirely different—another lecture disguised as concern, another clipped sentence dipped in civility but steeped in quiet contempt.
That was all she had known since arriving at Lee Boojin's house.
The world she'd been brought into was paved with polished marble and smiles that glinted like silverware—clean, proper, diplomatic. But like any well-maintained floor, it was cold. And the smiles reflected off those tiles carried that same chill.
They'd "welcomed" her, sure—but it was the kind of welcome that felt more like a polite interrogation. The kind with better lighting and worse intentions.
She had met her so-called grandfather and her new "relatives."
No one raised their voices.
They didn't have to.
Their silence was sharp enough.
Their smiles were practiced.
Their eyes did all the hurting.
One look from them was enough to understand:
She wasn't a person.
She was a problem.
An inconvenience they had decided to dress up and tuck away like a smudge on an otherwise perfect family portrait.
An accident.
A living echo of something they'd rather forget.
Even their compliments came wrapped in sarcasm—thinly veiled barbs dressed in the language of their manners.
But for Jihoon... she felt differently.
There was no performance in his voice.
No test hidden in his words.
He didn't speak to her like she owed him for the air she was allowed to breathe in this world.
When he saw the discomfort in her, he didn't pretend it wasn't there—but instead of demanding her to hide it away, he offered her a way out of it.
A quiet and gentle inviatation compare to the one that Lee Boojin gave.
Something had settled inside her—fragile, uncertain, but no longer clenched like a fist. It trembled, yes, but it had softened, as if daring to hope it might be safe here.
She rose to her feet too quickly, her voice caught between instinct and uncertainty.
"Y-Yes, sir."
Jihoon chuckled, not mockingly but warmly, as if he'd expected that.
"You don't have to call me that," he said. "I'm not your boss. Or your teacher. We're family—so just call me oppa, okay?"
The word sat awkwardly in her mouth. Oppa.
It felt too close. Too warm. Too human for a world that had only ever spoken to her in the cold language of hierarchy and formality.
But then she looked at him.
And for the first time since she'd arrived in this suffocating palace of quiet hostility, someone looked back at her without judgment.
"…Okay, oppa," she said, her voice low, but less hesitant now.
His smile grew, warm and effortless.
He reached out again, tousling her hair with the affection of someone who wanted nothing from her except maybe—for her to be okay.
"Good girl," he said. "So—what do you think about jajangmyeon? You like it?"
She nodded, still adjusting to the idea that someone was asking what she wanted."I'm okay with that… oppa."
"Perfect." Jihoon glanced around the towering lobby, the silence too clean, the air too curated.
"Let's get out of here. This place is too stiff for real conversations."
And for the first time since she had been pulled into this golden cage, something unfamiliar stirred in Lee Jieun.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe for bestowing the power stone!]