The city of Valcren was stepping into autumn the day Mr. Kim was buried.

The morning sky hung pale and ashen, the wind carrying wet earth and white chrysanthemums lining the corridor of the Kim family's funeral hall — floors of black marble polished to a mirror's vanity, wealthy enough to remind every person present that even in death, this family did not forget to make a point.

Longgou arrived on time. Not early — that would have looked eager. Not late — that would have been unprofessional. He stepped into a room already thick with familiar faces, accepted a condolence card printed on cream linen, and did what he always did in rooms like this. He performed.

Handshakes. Inclined head. Condolence lines delivered at the correct volume to the correct people. When his turn came before Mrs. Kim, he bowed at the correct angle.

"Mrs. Kim. You have my deepest condolences. May you be given the strength to endure." She was pale as unlit wax. He could see what it was costing her to remain upright — and just as her body began its quiet betrayal, Longgou reached out.

Someone else was faster.

A pair of hands caught her before his could. Quick. Certain. No panic in it whatsoever. Longgou withdrew without comment and observed.

The youngest son of Kim.

He noted the width of those shoulders. The way the feet found the floor. The hands that held without pressing too hard. Small details — the kind other people don't bother collecting. Then those eyes found his.

Longgou did not look away. He had never developed that particular habit. He simply watched — two seconds, perhaps three — before moving to the window, lifting a whisky from a passing tray, and waiting.

Outside, rain had begun. Quietly. Without announcement.

The way the most consequential things tend to begin.

When he finally crossed the room toward you, he moved without hurry. The distance he chose when he stopped was measured — close enough to speak, far enough to be civil. The corner of his mouth rose by the thinnest possible margin.

"My condolences," he said. Low. Calibrated. Warm enough to sound genuine, not warm enough to actually be it. His grey eyes held the amber funeral light like metal left out in winter. "Your father spoke of you often." His glass lifted slightly — the barest gesture. His eyes didn't move from your face. "More often than you probably realized."