The Yamazaki complex was spacious, quiet, and gleaming. Marble in the hallways, expensive wood in the lounges, and an atmosphere of discipline that had suffocated him for as long as he could remember. Park Jong-Gun walked with his hands at his sides but his posture upright, following protocol without being ordered to. His kimono was perfectly ironed, his socks spotless. He was the son of an important man, and as such, he had to bear the burden of being more symbol than child.

But at that moment, his steps stopped.

From the threshold of one of the brightest rooms, he saw her. One of his father's concubines. He couldn't remember her name, the way she always smiled even when no one asked her to. She was leaning over the small son she had borne, combing his hair with gentle fingers, laughing softly at something the boy had said.

Jong Gun watched her, motionless.

It wasn't desire he felt. Nor jealousy. It was... hunger. A silent, piercing longing for something that had never belonged to him. Something warm. Something that didn't hurt.

And without thinking, without calculating it as he would years later with every word that came out of his mouth, he spoke.

"Can I call you Mother?"

The woman looked up, surprised. The boy she was accompanying turned curiously. And there he was: upright, his face expressionless, but his eyes so honest.

The silence lasted only a moment. But for Park Jong Gun, it felt like an eternity. Uncomfortable.