The restaurant was filled with the muted hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of silverware. Soft light fell across the snow-white tablecloths, reflecting off glass and metal, making everything feel slightly more solemn than usual. Yun Mi slowly set her glass down, and Ji-won involuntarily followed her movement—watching the way her slender fingers released the stem.
"So, how are you?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
Ji-won leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded hands.
"To be honest?" he drawled. "My day was abysmal until I met you. But now…" He flashed a wider, almost boyish smile. "Now, it's better. Much better."
"Oh wow," Yun Mi chuckled. "So I'm a form of therapy now?"
"The most effective kind," he replied without a hint of doubt. "My dear Yun Mi."
"You're being especially sweet today," she noted, arching an eyebrow.
"Then let's go on a date?" he countered immediately, seizing the moment. "A real one. Flowers, a beautiful dinner and stuff."
Yun Mi laughed, covering her mouth with her hand.
"If only your subordinates could see you now. To them, you're as cold as an ice block, acting like they've ruined your life. But look at you here—preening like a kitten."
"This version of me only exists for you," he said, his smile widening even further.
"Too generous," she snorted. "But you know that friends don't go on romantic dates."
The words hit him instantly. His shoulders slumped, his smile vanished, and his brows furrowed.
"Actually, no," she added after a brief pause. "Even brothers and sisters."
He wilted even more, letting out a performative sigh.
"You're stabbing me right in the heart, Yun Mi."
"You'll survive," she replied calmly. "You're being overly dramatic."
"It's not drama; it's feelings," he protested. "You're just heartless."
"Don't pout," she said. Noticing he had barely touched his food, she picked up her fork. "Here, eat something."
She moved a piece of meat from her plate to his. Ji-won looked at it like a man who had just been comforted in the most primitive way possible.
"You know you're bribing me with this kindness, right?"
"I know. And it's working."
"I'll try harder next time," he sighed, finally starting to eat. "But don't think I'm giving up that easily."
"You're incorrigible," she said, shaking her head.
"And yet, you still like spending time with me."
"That's not a valid metric," she parried.
He wrinkled his nose and grinned, and she couldn't help but smile back.
"Anyway," Yun Mi said, "tell me how the hotel project is coming along."
Ji-won brightened, launching into talk of plans and figures. He gestured, leaning in close one moment and reclining the next. In that moment, he seemed almost… ordinary. Not a director, not the heir to an empire, but just a man passionate about his work.
Time slipped away unnoticed.
When they rose from the table, Lee Yeo-jun was already standing nearby. He waited in silence, like a shadow, hands folded in front of him, his posture perfectly straight.
"Well, see you later, Ji-won," Yun Mi said.
"It was good seeing you," he replied.
They shared a warm, firm, friendly embrace. At that moment, Yeo-jun looked up. His eyes lingered on them a fraction longer than necessary, a faint, unreadable flicker passing through them. Almost instantly, he lowered his head as if nothing had happened.
As she walked away, Yun Mi turned and waved.
"Take care of yourself," she called out.
"You too," Ji-won replied.
He stood there with a faint smile, watching her leave.
Meanwhile, Lee Yeo-jun watched his boss—quietly, intently, as if he saw much more in the man than he ever allowed others to see.
The rest of the day dragged on irritatingly. Ji-won was the last to leave the building—not because he was staying late, but because he loathed crowds and hustle. He'd had a meeting that didn't end the way he'd planned. The air was thick, humid, and unseasonably warm, which only served to irritate him further.
"Bring the car closer next time," he snapped as he passed the driver.
"My apologies, Director. Security blocked the entrance," the driver replied, bowing his head.
Yeo-jun was already waiting by the open door—as always, half a step ahead, neat and composed.
"The next meeting is in forty minutes," he said as the car pulled away. "If there's traffic, we might be late."
"Then we won't sit in traffic," Ji-won replied coldly. "I don't intend to be late because of someone else's incompetence."
Yeo-jun gripped his folder a little tighter for a second, but said nothing.
The road gradually filled with other vehicles. The sky darkened too quickly. The first drops of rain hit the windshield—heavy and sparse.
"The rain is starting," the driver noted. "I would recommend—"
"Keep going," Ji-won interrupted, not looking up from his phone. "We're already losing time."
The drops came faster now. The wipers groaned, streaking the headlights into long ribbons of light. The car drove steadily, but tension hummed in every movement.
Yeo-jun looked out the window, then at Ji-won.
"Director Kim," he began cautiously, "perhaps we should reduce our speed slightly…"
"Are you the driver now?" Ji-won looked up. "Mind your own business."
The rain was now a solid wall, washing the road into a blurry streak of light. The car sped over the slick asphalt while Ji-won watched the droplets racing down the glass. Beside him, Yeo-jun held onto the grab handle, his eyes fixed tensely on the road.
"Faster," Ji-won said, his eyes still on the window. "We're late."
Suddenly, from the other side of the road, another vehicle swerved into their lane. Ji-won's driver jerked the steering wheel; the tires hydroplaned, and the car spun. A collision with the roadwork barriers seemed inevitable.
Instinctively, Ji-won felt that the impact would hit his side. His heart hammered; adrenaline surged. In that split second, barely conscious of his own cruelty, he reached out. His fingers clamped onto Yeo-jun's shoulder, crushing the fabric of his blazer, and hepulled the secretary toward himself, using the man's body to shield his own as he lurched into Yeo-jun's space.
The brunt of the impact hit Yeo-jun. Metal crumpled with a hollow crunch; glass exploded into a thousand shards. The car bucked so violently it knocked the breath from Ji-won's lungs.
The screech of brakes merged with the roar of rain and the sound of the crash. Ji-won was hit, but only a glancing blow—the pain was sharp and searing, but not fatal. Yeo-jun took the full force of the collision.
Blood on his face, abrasions, pain in his arm and body—all of it was the result of Ji-won's split-second, fateful movement.
Ji-won, despite seeing what had happened, felt almost nothing. His thoughts spun only around the damaged car, the logistics of the following day, and the impending hassle of dealing with the aftermath. Yeo-jun's condition did not concern him. All that mattered was his own safety and integrity.
The hospital greeted them with the sharp scent of antiseptic and blindingly bright lights. Everything was white and sterile.
Ji-won sat on an exam table, leaning back against the wall. His jacket had been removed, his shirt unbuttoned—dark bruises were blossoming on his skin, but there was little pain. Only an unpleasant heaviness in his chest and a dull ringing in his ears that wouldn't subside.
"Nothing serious," the doctor said, flipping through the chart. "Bruises, severe shock. You were lucky."
"Your driver has already been discharged," he added. "A few scratches, mostly shock."
"And…" Ji-won hesitated, as if he didn't want to continue, but asked anyway: "My secretary?"
The doctor paused, his gaze lingering on him for a second.
"Lee Yeo-jun?" he clarified. "He's been moved to the ICU."
The words were spoken calmly, almost matter-of-factly, but they made something inside Ji-won tighten unpleasantly.
"His condition is critical," the doctor continued. "Severe head trauma, internal injuries, multiple contusions."
Ji-won nodded slowly. His face remained flat, as if they weren't talking about the man who had been sitting right next to him hours ago.
"To be perfectly frank," the doctor said, closing the folder, "you should thank your secretary."
Ji-won looked up.
"Pardon me?"
"Based on the nature of the injuries, it's clear the primary impact was meant for you," the doctor explained. "Evidently, at the last moment before the crash, he lunged toward you, shielding you with his body. If not for that, your injuries would have been far more severe. He literally took the hit for you."
A moment of silence hung in the air. At the end of the hall, a monitor beeped; the rapid footsteps of a nurse echoed, but it all felt like background noise.
"Thank him?" Ji-won repeated softly.
"Yes," the doctor nodded. "He saved your life. Or at least spared you from catastrophic injury."
Ji-won looked away, staring at his hands. Dried, dark traces of someone else's blood were still visible on his knuckles.
"It is his duty," he finally said. His voice was level, without a tremor. "He is my secretary. There is nothing special about it."
The doctor froze.
"He is responsible for my safety," Ji-won continued, as if explaining the obvious. "For logistics, for risks. He simply did his job."
For several seconds, the doctor stared at him as if trying to discern if he was joking. Then, his expression hardened.
"A job is a job, Director Kim," he said dryly. "But I have a man lying in there between life and death. And believe me, there is no clause in any secretary's contract that says they have to die in their boss's place."
He turned and stepped toward the ICU corridor.
"We will notify you when there is an update," he said, no longer looking at Ji-won. "The police are waiting for you in the hallway."
Ji-won remained seated.
White walls, cold light, a silence in which his own breathing sounded far too loud. He ran a hand over his face, as if wiping away exhaustion, but inside, he was hollow. No relief, no panic—only a strange, pressing sensation he preferred to label as 'irritation.'
After giving his statement to the police, the man stood up, straightened his shirt sleeve, and looked toward the ICU doors.
The doors were closed.
The taxi stopped at the high gates. They swung open, and the car crawled onto the estate. The house greeted him with light.
"You can go," Ji-won said curtly, paying the fare.
He stepped out without looking back and headed for the entrance. The door opened automatically, letting him into the vastness and the silence.
The house was far too spacious for one person.
High ceilings, wide windows, expensive furniture arranged so perfectly it felt like a showroom rather than a home. No smell of food, no footsteps, no voices. Ji-won took off his shoes, tossed his keys onto the console, and walked further inside without turning on more lights—the ambient glow was enough.
He stopped in the living room, unbuckled his watch, and set it on the table. The glass was cracked. He frowned.
"Dammit."
He picked it up, turned it over, then set it aside without much regret. He'd buy a new one. A better one. This one was ruined anyway.
He went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and took a few sips. In the mirrored surface of the cabinet, he caught his reflection—whole, unharmed, just a bit disheveled with traces of exhaustion under his eyes.
His phone vibrated. A message from security.
"I'll have to hurry with finding a new secretary," he muttered to himself. "Meetings, schedules, negotiations tomorrow…"
The thought that someone else would have to hold his schedule in their head again, anticipate his desires, and be there at the right moment irritated him. Yeo-jun had done it well—perfectly, even. He'd worked for him for years; Ji-won had grown accustomed to him.
"How inconvenient," he said aloud.
It wasn't the situation itself that galled him, but the necessity of change. Searching for a new secretary meant time, interviews, mistakes. No one would understand him instantly and no one would know his habits as well.
He paced the room, then sat on the sofa, leaning back.
Lee Yeo-jun's name floated into his mind unexpectedly—not as a face, not as a person, but as a line item in a list of functions. He was convenient, efficient, but now… unavailable.
"It happens," Ji-won said quietly.
He didn't think about the ICU, the closed doors, or the doctor's words. He didn't think about how someone else's blood had ended up on his hands.
It didn't matter.
What mattered was this: who would open the doors for him now? Who would manage the schedule? Who would know exactly what coffee he wanted and exactly when?
He closed his eyes.
"I'll deal with it tomorrow," he said, as if closing a book.
The house remained silent.
He stood, walked through the house to the bedroom, and pulled off his shirt, tossing it onto a chair. He caught a glimpse of a bloodstain on the cuff—and without hesitation, threw the garment into the laundry basket.
A fresh one would be brought tomorrow anyway.
Suddenly, a faint noise echoed through the house—the ventilation, the soft click of the lighting system. He rolled his shoulder, slightly annoyed. Everything was going wrong. A second later, a strange heaviness settled in his head. It felt as if the walls were closing in, the air growing thick. He balled his hands into fists, thinking it was just fatigue, and stretched.
One second. Then another.
The world began to slide away from under him. Colors bled out, sound muffled, his breathing grew ragged.
"What…" he began, but the word wouldn't come.
His body stopped obeying. His feet, his hands, his back—everything dissolved into a soft, heavy, midnight-blue gloom that descended without warning.
He felt only one thing: his focus, his control—it was all vanishing. Thoughts and emotions disappeared, only emptiness remained.
A second. A pause. Darkness.
Ji-won lost consciousness.