Ryu Kyung-min arrived at the hospital at noon, as he had told himself he would. He stepped into the antiseptic corridor with purpose, the weight of the night’s humiliation still humid on his skin. He had come to see Lee Jun-seo — neurosurgeon, respected chief, husband of Hwa-young, father to Tae-jun and Min-jun — with a message: the boy was out of line, and something had to be done.
Jun-seo’s operating room door remained closed. Hours passed.
At one, Kyung-min pressed his suit-clad hands to the glass and waited. At two, he drifted down the corridor, feigning patience. At three, the flicker of anger became noticeable; at four, he was escorted into Jun-seo’s office.
Jun-seo stepped out of scrubs slowly, wiping his hands, deliberately unhurried. He looked at Kyung-min, cool and composed.
“Oh — brother-in-law,” Jun-seo said, mildly. “I had a very important operation. I had to finish it.”
Kyung-min didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Let me get this straight. Your son Tae-jun is going overboard. He’s crossing lines, corrosive and reckless. Tell your boys to leave Korea — go back where they were staying. That’s the best thing for everyone.”
Jun-seo let the corner of his mouth lift in a slow smile. “Who sets the limits, Kyung-min? You? Me? Or the Chairman?” He folded his hands. “And the Chairman himself — he told me the boys were to remain. That is an elder’s order. My sons will obey.”
For a moment Kyung-min’s face hardened. The words he had rehearsed spent their breath. “Then don’t blame me if another accident happens,” he said quietly. “If anything happens to your boys, don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
Jun-seo’s jaw tightened, but his face stayed polite. As Kyung-min turned to go, Jun-seo called after him, soft and low — a string of Mandarin that sounded like a proverb more than a threat.
“惹我者，屋漏將傾。”28Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWdCzn8IPT2
Kyung-min frowned at the foreign cadence and the measured calm behind it. He didn’t understand fully — only that Jun-seo meant more than the words themselves. Jun-seo watched him leave, a private smirk ghosting his lips. In the hush after the man’s footsteps, Jun-seo crossed to the desk, pulled a low drawer, and tapped the encrypted line on the phone hidden there.
“Come,” he said into the receiver. “The boys need you.”
He leaned back, hands behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, and let his mind map the next moves. The hospital corridor outside hummed like the rest of the city — unaware, relentless.
That night, a message went out from the Chairman’s secretary: tomorrow, the chair of Ryu Cultural Innovations will be announced. The family read the summons like a spell.
At dinner, the room swelled with low voices. Ryu Jin-woo glared at his father between bites. “How did you choose who to call, Father? Who are you even thinking of?” he demanded.
Tae-ho’s old eyes were sharp. “Why would I discuss that with you?” he clipped.
“Because—” Jin-woo began, but Hyun-seok was already cutting in, smug and impatient. “Let the old man do as he pleases. Don’t be greedy, Jin-woo.”
A quarrel flickered, words sharp as knives, then burned out under the weight of grief and nerves.
Later, in the small sanctuary of their shared room, the two brothers born of another name — the Ryu–Lee boys — sat whispering.
“Hyung,” Min-jun asked, uncertainty thin in his voice, “who will Grandpa choose?”
Tae-jun folded his hands on his knees, thinking. “Someone who will protect us. Someone who would give her life for us.” He paused. “Someone who knows words and the press. Someone who used to speak for others.”
Min-jun blinked, eyes widening. “Grandma?”
Tae-jun’s mouth twitched into something like approval. “She will not leave us. She will protect us. She has only us.”
Morning’s announcement cut through the mansion like an axe: Choi Eun-ha was appointed Chairwoman of Ryu Cultural Innovations.
Every face in the dining hall registered shock — except for the two boys and their small circle. Min-jun looked at Tae-jun, vindication and relief mingling on his features. Tae-jun offered no triumph; his mask never broke.
Eun-ha moved through the room like a calm tide, folding her arms around the boys, murmuring, “Grandma will never leave you, my boys.” The line landed like iron and a blessing both — and the family’s factions shifted in its wake.
Da-eun came to Tae-jun that afternoon, still pale from sleep and last night’s terror. She had clutched the Oh family contract in a folder — the one that would legitimize a biotech partnership, and which Tae-jun had demanded. She handed it over with shaking fingers.
Tae-jun took the papers, his eyes cool. He slid across a sealed envelope — DNA reports — and unfolded them. Her face went slack as he scanned the pages and looked up.
She opened the folder. Nothing. She had been fooled, and in the lying silence her knees nearly gave.
“You… you tricked me,” she whispered.
“I made you confess,” Tae-jun said without malice. “You gave everything away.”
"Don’t — please don’t tell.” Her voice cracked, and she looked at him, at once pleading and furious and utterly small.
“You do what you must,” Tae-jun said, voice steady. “Tomorrow, I’ll return these.” He rose and walked away like a man who had merely paid a debt.
Later, Tae-jun met Ha-neul to talk about SNU. She took him around the campus with the easy confidence of a student who belonged. Introductions were made, girls giggled and whispered, flirted tacitly with his polite smiles — “Is he single?” they mouthed as Ha-neul pulled him along.
He answered with a quiet charm. “I have other places to be,” he told the group, masking the undercurrent that kept him restless. Ha-neul beamed at him. “Call me later. I’ll come.”
On his way to the economics department, he walked into a lecture already in progress. The head of the department — Ryu Sang-ho — paused, surprised to see his nephew in the doorway. After class, Sang-ho found him waiting.
“You’re in business classes,” Sang-ho said, conversationally. “You do know the economy’s in a fragile state. Inflation, supply chains, the market — this is not a time for mistakes.”
Tae-jun nodded, listening. They spoke in broad terms, about tides and cycles and policy. At the end, Tae-jun folded his hands, and offered a statement that sounded like a lesson on markets — yet carried a sting if one read between the lines.
“When a household mixes secrets like currencies,” he said softly, “one day the exchange rate collapses. A wife can become another man’s wife — and when that happens, some children find themselves motherless. Markets correct for truth. Those who ignore it suffer the price.”
Sang-ho’s brow creased at the odd metaphor. He smiled thinly, not catching the meaning beneath the economics talk. Tae-jun’s eyes were flat and calm; he watched the older man go, and the phrase sat in the air like an accusation in silk.
Back at the mansion that evening, Tae-jun sat across from Min-jun in the small study. Paperwork lay on the table — lists of names, subtle notes of relation and temperament.
“Min-jun,” Tae-jun said, voice steady. “I need you to find something out for me.”
Min-jun looked up, alert.
“Among the first son’s children — Se-jun and Hae-rin — and the second son’s children — Min-jae and Do-hyun — who is the real strategist? Who thinks three moves ahead? Use any method. Speak to people, watch them, listen to office meetings, whatever it takes.”
Min-jun nodded, excitement and dread flickering on his face. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
Tae-jun watched his little brother, a rare softness in his expression. “We need to know who will skillfully play, and who will only shout. This house rewards the clever.”
Outside, the air felt loaded with electricity — the city breathing like a held thing. Inside the mansion, alliances were rearranging, and the appointed chairwoman had only just taken the stage. The pieces on Tae-jun’s invisible board were beginning to move.
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and then Add to home screen.