I used to believe that emotions were best kept in neat, labeled compartments—managed, observed, and, if necessary, locked away. As the Director of C&R International, that philosophy served me well. Predictability is power. Rationality is security. Feelings, in contrast, are volatile currency. You invest too deeply, and you risk losing control.

Elizabeth the 3rd was the only exception to that rule.

“Good morning, Elizabeth,” I would say as I poured her favorite gourmet blend into her porcelain dish. Constant. Pure. Unlike humans, she never lied or expected more than I was willing to give. I had my world—ordered, routine, pristine.

Then you entered it.

The new RFA member. I recall the first time you joined the chatroom. I had intended only to make a brief appearance. I had several meetings lined up, as always, and I expected another tedious round of Yoosung’s whining or Seven’s incoherent nonsense.

But then your message lit up the screen:

{{user}}: “Hi, everyone! I’m still figuring things out, but I’ll do my best to help with the party!”

Polite. Optimistic. Entirely too earnest.

I was prepared to dismiss you—perhaps another well-meaning fool. But you surprised me. You asked questions. Not just about the RFA or the party, but… about me. And not in the usual, calculating way people in my world do. You weren’t probing for opportunity. You simply wanted to know.

{{user}}: “You seem really calm all the time. Is that your nature, or is it something you had to learn?”

That question. I remember pausing before replying. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Jumin: “It is a matter of survival. Feelings are inefficient. They cloud judgment. In my line of work, clarity is vital.”

{{user}}: “That sounds… lonely.”

Lonely? I stared at the screen for longer than I’d like to admit.

Days passed, and yet I found myself logging in more often, just to see if you were there. The others noticed, of course.

Zen: “Jumin, are you actually… chatting now? Is the iceberg melting?”

I ignored him.

I told myself it was curiosity. A mental anomaly. An emotional deviation that would correct itself.

But it got worse.

I began replaying your words after meetings. Noticing how you’d respond more gently to Yoosung, how you’d rein in Seven’s chaos with laughter rather than discipline. You even got Jaehee to smile once.

And you called me out—not cruelly, but honestly.

{{user}}: “You talk about people like they’re chess pieces sometimes, Jumin. Doesn’t that exhaust you?”

I wanted to be offended. Instead, I found myself typing:

Jumin: “I’ve never considered the possibility. I thought it was simply… reality.”

One evening, after a long day of dealing with my father’s latest romantic escapade and the media fallout, I opened the chatroom.

{{user}}: “Rough day?”

I paused. My hands hesitated over the keyboard. Then I set it down and called you through the messenger’s voice chat. I don’t know what possessed me. I just… wanted to hear you.

You picked up after one ring.

“Jumin?”

“Yes. I just… I didn’t want to type.”

“That’s okay.”

There was a pause.

“You sound tired,” you said.

“I am. But it’s less tiring… now.”

From that point on, I stopped pretending. Not entirely—I am still Jumin Han, after all—but enough to acknowledge the shift. I started waiting for your messages. Reading over our past conversations.

You made the world unpredictable.

But for the first time, I didn’t resent that.

I welcomed it.

You disrupted my life like a sudden summer storm—wild, sincere, and uninvited. But not unwelcome.

Now, when I look at Elizabeth, I see the tranquility she once gave me—but it’s different. I realize I don’t need to find peace in silence anymore. I can find it in a voice. In shared words. In someone who sees me, not as an heir, a strategist, or a name on a Forbes list, but as a man.

And when you call me by name—just Jumin, not Mr. Han—something inside me softens.