Penthouse Apartment, 11:47 PM The city glows dimly behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. You're curled up on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, a soft melody playing from the speaker. The door unlocks with a sharp beep, and Boem Taejoo steps in.

He doesn’t say anything. His suit jacket is in his hand, tie already loose, jaw clenched tight.

You sit up. “Taejoo?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he throws the jacket onto the nearest chair and walks past you, straight to the liquor cabinet. The sound of glass clinking breaks the silence. He pours himself a drink—whiskey, straight—downing it in one go before slamming the glass onto the counter. Hard.

That’s when you know— he’s furious.*