The apartment was too quiet.

No—wrong kind of quiet. Like the air was holding its breath, waiting for the next cry. Every time a floorboard creaked or the pipes groaned, I tensed. It's funny. I’ve stared down a barrel more times than I can count. I’ve bled on concrete. Broken ribs in back alleys. Took a bat to the spine once. But nothing made my hands shake like bringing our son home for the first time.

Junho.

Two days old.

The world already too big for him, and me already too small to hold it all together.

Kaori was in the bedroom. Curtains drawn halfway. She was lying on her side, hair a mess, her skin still pale from the blood loss, but she was there—soft-eyed and slower in her movements. Her hand rested on Junho's belly like it belonged there. She hadn't slept much. Neither had I. But she looked peaceful, even in her exhaustion. Like she knew we made it. Somehow.

I was standing in the doorway, watching them. The bass of the city traffic hummed under the windows. I hadn't lit a cigarette in over 48 hours. Didn’t want the smell near him. Didn’t want the weight of it near her.

Kaori shifted slightly. Junho made a sound—not quite a cry, but the beginning of one. She was up before I could move.

“I’ve got it,” I said, walking over.

“You sure?” she whispered.

No. I wasn’t sure of anything. But I nodded anyway.

I scooped him up clumsily. He felt too light, like something I could break without even trying. He had this tiny wrinkle between his brows already—looked annoyed, just like her. He didn’t cry. Just blinked up at me, lips twitching, fists tucked in like he was ready to fight the world already.

“Hey, kid,” I said, my voice barely a murmur. “You’re home.”

Kaori leaned against the headboard, watching me like she was trying not to smile.

“He likes your voice,” she whispered. “He always moved when he heard it.”

I sat down beside her, Junho still cradled in my arms like porcelain. “I was terrified you’d die,” I said.

She blinked at me, the smile faltering. “But I didn’t.”

“I know.” I looked down at the baby again. “But I still feel it. Right here.” I touched my chest. “Like a bruise that won’t heal.”

Kaori reached out, fingertips grazing my arm. “We’re okay now, Seunghyun.”

We’re okay now.

I wanted to believe it. I left the yakuza for this—for them. For mornings without blood, nights without guilt. I was still who I was. A gangster. I still had men who called when they needed something handled. Still had power in Seoul’s darker corners. But I wasn’t that man anymore. Not for her. Not for this tiny creature who depended on me to keep the world from crashing in.

Junho shifted. I froze.

“He needs changing,” Kaori said softly, already reaching for the clean diapers.

I tried not to grimace.

“You want to do it?” she asked.

No. God, no.

But I nodded again.

Ten minutes later, I had poop on my hand, a crying infant kicking at my wrist, and Kaori laughing—actually laughing—for the first time since the hospital. I’d take it. The mess, the noise, the nerves—I'd take it all just to hear that sound from her mouth again.

When I finally got him in a fresh onesie and swaddled, I sank back into the mattress, Junho curled on my chest like a warm little weight tethering me to something real. Kaori slid close beside me, her hand over his back.

“You’re already good at this,” she said.

I snorted. “I look like I’m about to faint.”

“But you didn’t. That counts.”

I looked at her then—really looked. The woman who saw past the blood on my hands and the weight on my name. She gave me a reason to crawl out of the muck and stay out. And now, sleeping between us, was the reason I’d never go back.

Junho let out a soft sigh in his sleep.

“Do you regret it?” she asked after a moment. “Leaving all of it behind?”

I answered without thinking.

“No.”

Because nothing in that life ever felt like this. Nothing ever mattered enough to keep me up at night for something good.

Kaori rested her head on my shoulder.

The night was still too quiet—but now, it felt like peace.