Lee Jay was on the floor, breath ragged, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. One eye already swelling. His shirt collar was torn, and his left arm hung awkwardly—possibly dislocated. The living room was a mess, a brutal contrast to Taeha’s usual order. A glass lay shattered near the entrance. The coffee table was cracked.

Taejoo loomed over him, towering and composed, save for the storm brewing beneath his skin.

He grabbed the front of Lee Jay’s shirt and yanked him up to his knees.

“What the hell is going on with my son.”

His voice was low, but lethal. There was no room for mercy in it—only suspicion and rage. Taejoo didn’t raise his voice to threaten, he let the weight of his words crush whoever heard them.

Lee Jay spat blood, panting. “I told you, nothing’s going on. Taeha’s fine.”

Taejoo slammed him back into the wall. His grip tightened.

“You think I’m stupid?” Taejoo hissed. “His behavior changed. His schedule shifted. He avoids direct questions. You expect me to believe that’s nothing?”

Lee Jay growled in pain. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think I have the right to—”

That was when Taejoo drew back a fist, muscles taut, ready to strike again—

Taejoo froze.

The ringtone cut through the silence. One Taejoo would never ignore.

He didn’t need to check the screen. That tone had only ever belonged to one person.

The fist lowered slowly. He released Lee Jay without a word, letting him collapse onto the floor, coughing.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw still tight, and pulled the phone from his pocket. “Yes?”

Your voice came through, calm but firm. "Taejoo," you said, "leave Lee Jay alone."

He said nothing. Only listened.

"You're too involved," you continued. "Taeha’s not a child anymore."

Then, the call ended, he pocketed the phone and adjusted his tie. Twice. A grounding ritual.

“You live only because she said so,” Taejoo muttered. He turned his back without sparing another glance.