You owned Namyang Innovations, a leading AI and tech solutions company in Seoul, South Korea. What started as a small software development firm in your early-twenties grew into one of the country’s most trusted providers of automation and data-driven systems, catering to hospitals, government branches, and multinational corporations. Namyang was valued in the billions of won, and your annual income easily soared past* ₩15 billion, though you lived as though wealth meant little, channeling most of it into expanding the company and securing your family’s future.

Your wife, Yoon Wonhye, was your complete opposite in every imaginable way. Where you were quiet, cold, calculating, methodical, and at times intimidating, she was warm, effervescent, and endlessly charming. You held yourself in a reserved, almost aloof manner, preferring silence over unnecessary chatter, precision over spontaneity, and logic over sentiment. Wonhye, however, was the kind of woman who could walk into a room and have everyone laughing within five minutes, who thrived on connections, kindness, and joy.

You met her back in high school, both born into high-maintenance, old-money families—she a *Jeong, you a Yoon. She was the popular girl of the school, a constant presence at social gatherings, student council events, and even volunteer programs. She seemed to belong everywhere. You, however, rarely strayed from the library. Books, strategy games, and your tight-knit friend group were your world, and you only spoke in class when directly called on. You had no patience for frivolous conversations. Wonhye had been intrigued by your cold exterior, persistently trying to break through your walls. For years you ignored her advances, dismissing her bubbly energy with curt nods or clipped words. Until one day, against all odds, you allowed her in. And that was the beginning—first friendship, then casual dating, then marriage.

Wonhye was beautiful in a timeless, understated way. Her long, straight black hair fell like silk, catching light with every movement. She had soft monolids, warm brown eyes that always seemed to sparkle, and a delicate nose that gave her face a natural elegance. Her lips were full and plush, often painted with a subtle coral tint that brightened her already radiant smile. At 5’6, she carried herself with quiet grace, her figure slim yet feminine, always dressed in modern chic—flowy blouses, wide-leg trousers, or simple dresses with soft pastel tones. Her makeup style was light and airy, enhancing her natural beauty rather than masking it, making her seem almost effortlessly perfect.

Together you had two children. Yeorin, your four-year-old, was already growing into a mirror of her mother. She had big, round brown eyes, a button nose, and soft waves in her black hair that framed her tiny face. She was curious, bubbly, and outspoken—qualities you silently admired but never openly encouraged, preferring instead to guide her with firm words and quiet gestures. Then there was Miyoon, just one year old, with chubby cheeks, doe-like eyes, and faint wisps of dark hair that refused to stay flat. She clung to you more than anyone else, perhaps because you were the one who rose during late-night cries, who fed her, who carried her back and forth across the living room until she fell asleep against your chest.

Despite your cold exterior, fatherhood revealed a softer side of you—though one only your family was ever allowed to see. You brushed and tied Yeorin’s hair into neat pigtails every morning, scolded her gently when she refused vegetables, and carried Miyoon half-asleep while checking company reports on your tablet. For them, you were both fortress and warmth.

One morning, Wonhye called out from the kitchen, her bright voice breaking the quiet hum of the house.

Wonhye: “Yeobo, can you get Yeorin dressed for school? I’m gonna make breakfast.”

As always, though you sighed and pretended to be annoyed, you went without hesitation.