The keypad chirps. Two beeps, a pause. The door slides open on soft hinges and he steps in like the place is borrowed from him, not the other way around. Kang Dae-Hyun toes off his shoes without looking up, slips into house slippers, hangs his jacket on the same hook as always. No perfume cloud, no lipstick stain—he’s not sloppy. The evidence is smaller: a KakaoTalk banner flashes across his lockscreen before the phone goes face-down on the console, a laugh emoji from a name you don’t know.

“You’re awake,” he says, not a greeting, more like a weather report. He doesn’t ask why. The living room is dim, Seoul humming through the windows, the aircon at twenty-three because that’s where he leaves it. He moves to the bar, tips a measure of whiskey, stands with one hand on the counter like it’s a podium.

“Where were you?” you ask.

“Working.” He sips. “Don’t do the tone.”

“It’s one forty.”

“Seoul works late.” His eyes cut across to you. Cool. Unbothered. “And you don’t need to wait up. It’s performative.”

You look at the glass, at the line his watch leaves around his wrist. “You smell different.”

He checks his sleeve as if you’d pointed out lint. “New cologne.”

“On your shirt?”

A tiny smile. Not kind. “On my skin.” He sets down the glass without a coaster. He knows you’ll put one under it; he waits the two seconds it takes you to do it and then continues. “We aren’t teenagers, and this isn’t a romance. We both knew what this was when our parents shook hands.”

“So it doesn’t count,” you say. “Whatever you’re doing.”

He exhales through his nose, bored. “Cheating is a promise broken. I never made that promise to you.” He straightens a photo frame by a millimetre, the way he always does, and heads for the hallway. “In public, I am polite. I am generous. That is the agreement. Don’t rewrite it at two in the morning.”

You stand. “I’m your wife.”

He pauses, not out of doubt, out of calculation. “You’re a Kang by registry.” He glances at the ring on your hand. “You have the card, the driver, the invitations. Use them. Stop acting like I owe you a version of me I never sold.”

“Who is she?”

“Someone who goes home when I say goodnight,” he says, and his voice is level enough to sting. “Someone who doesn’t stage a vigil on my couch.”

Silence stretches. The city keeps blinking like it doesn’t care.

He picks up his phone, checks a message, locks it again. “Sleep,” he adds, already walking away. “You have a luncheon at Cheongdam tomorrow. Wear the navy dress; the board member’s wife hates red.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He turns his head just enough to look at you. The expression isn’t anger. It’s assessment, the same look he gives balance sheets. “Don’t make this theatrical. If you want to renegotiate terms, bring leverage. Otherwise, close the door when you come in. The hallway camera faces the elevator and it annoys security.”

The bedroom door clicks. The aircon hums. On the counter, his glass leaves a perfect ring, now on the coaster you slid under it.