warnings: angst, parental neglect (father), emotional abuse, favoritism trauma, childhood wounds, grief, self-worth issues, abandonment, sibling resentment, quiet depression themes, humor to cover insecurity, heavy family drama, slow emotional healing
small note: we’re almost done with the series i swear on my life
Morning arrives quietly over the city, all pale winter light and slow traffic, the kind of morning that looks gentle until you remember how many people are already at war before 9 a.m.
The law firm occupies the entire twentieth floor of a glass building downtown, the kind with mirrored windows that turn the sky into something unreachable and cold. From the street, it looks impersonal, corporate, expensive in a way that doesn’t try too hard.
Inside, however, it is almost deceptively warm.
Dark wood floors. Soft lamps instead of harsh fluorescents. Bookshelves lined with thick legal volumes that look actually read instead of decorative. A coffee machine that cost more than most people’s rent.
The plaque near the reception desk reads:
Choi & Jeong, Attorneys at Law.
Clean. Minimal. No first names. Reputation speaks louder than branding. They don’t advertise. They don’t need to.
If you end up here, it’s because someone powerful told you, These are the ones you hire when you absolutely cannot afford to lose.
San unlocks the door at 7:12 a.m., as he always does.
The office is still quiet, the city barely awake below them, and for a moment there is only the soft hum of the HVAC and the distant echo of his footsteps as he walks down the hallway toward his office.
He shrugs off his coat, rolls up the sleeves of his button-down, and stretches with slow, practiced motions.
Then he sets a stack of case files on his desk and opens the first one.
By the time Yunho arrives, the coffee is already brewing. He doesn’t knock when he enters San’s office. He never has.
“You’re here early,” Yunho says softly.
San doesn’t look up. “Could say the same to you.”
Yunho hums, setting two cups down.
They work like this most mornings.
The kind of silence that only exists between people who don’t need to perform around each other.
Not just business partners or friends. Something steadier. Something older.
Yunho leans back against the desk, blowing gently across his coffee.
“…Jongho called me last night,” he says.
San pauses mid-page. That’s all it takes.
Because Jongho never calls unless something matters.
The paper stops moving. San finally looks up.
Yunho stares into his cup for a long moment, like he’s replaying something he wishes he could unsee.
“…Hongjoong went to see Mingi.”
“Pretended to apologize.”
The room feels colder already.
“…Pretended,” San repeats.
“Asked him for money. Mingi refused.”
Not confusion or disbelief. Just— stillness. Like the entire room forgot how to breathe. San slowly sets the file down.
His voice is barely there.
Like the word itself hurt coming out.
“Mingi cried,” Yunho says again, softer this time. “Jongho said he’s never seen it before. I haven’t either.”
Something dark flickers behind San’s eyes.
Anyone who knows him would recognize it instantly.
The one opposing counsel whispers about. The one who smiles politely while dismantling entire companies.
“…What did Hongjoong say to him?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t think it was one thing,” Yunho replies. “I think it was everything. Years of it.”
San exhales through his nose, slow and sharp.
“…We should’ve stepped in more when we were kids.”
“I thought staying neutral would keep the peace.”
The kind filled with regret.
“I hate that he thought he had to handle it alone,” Yunho says.
“…If anyone ever tries something like that again,” he says, “I won’t be neutral.”
Before Yunho can respond—
Both of them glance toward the door.
San straightens automatically. “Come in.”
Seonghwa steps inside. Perfect as always. Pressed coat. Immaculate hair. Expression carefully composed. But there’s tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.
“…Sorry to come by without an appointment,” he says politely. “Do you have a minute?”
Yunho smiles automatically. “For you? Always.”
San gestures to the chair. “Sit.”
Seonghwa does, smoothing his sleeves like he’s preparing for something unpleasant.
“I actually came because I need legal representation,” he says.
Yunho and San share a quick look. Professional mode. Instinctive.
“Of course,” Yunho says. “What’s going on?”
“…It’s about Mingi. And Jongho.”
“…Go on,” he says evenly.
“We’re planning to sue them.”
Yunho blinks. “…I’m sorry?”
“Hongjoong told us some things yesterday,” Seonghwa continues. “Apparently Mingi approached him for money and there were some… questionable financial pressures involved. Manipulation. Coercion. Possibly misrepresentation of assets.”
Each word sounds rehearsed like he practiced saying them in the car.
“We think they might be leveraging their inheritance unfairly. Taking advantage of us.”
Yunho stares at him. Then looks at San. Then back at Seonghwa.
“…Who told you this?” Yunho asks slowly.
Seonghwa frowns. “Hongjoong. Why?”
San leans back in his chair and folds his hands.
“…That’s not what happened.”
Seonghwa blinks. “…What?”
“…Hongjoong went to Mingi pretending to apologize,” he says quietly. “He asked him for money. When Mingi refused, he left.”
The words land like a gunshot.
“…That’s not possible,” he whispers.
“I was there,” Yunho says. “I saw him.”
San adds softly, “Jongho called him because he didn’t know what to do. Apparently he sounded like he was ready to kill someone.”
Seonghwa’s composure cracks.
“…Hongjoong said Mingi manipulated him,” he murmurs.
“No,” San says flatly. “Hongjoong lied to you.”
Seonghwa stares at the floor like it might open and swallow him whole. Pieces clicking together. The fake urgency. The twisted wording. The way Hongjoong avoided eye contact.
“…He used me,” Seonghwa says quietly.
It sounds like it hurts more than anger.
San nods once. “And legally? Even if we wanted to take the case—”
He slides a folder aside.
“Conflict of interest,” Yunho says gently. “We already know the truth. And we’re not suing our own brother for something he didn’t do.”
Something in Seonghwa’s expression changes.
“…I didn’t know,” he whispers.
Because if he’d known, would he have still gone along with it?
Seonghwa isn’t sure. That realization terrifies him.
“…Thank you for telling me,” he says finally. His voice is smaller now. Less polished. “I need to… talk to Hongjoong.”
“…Be careful,” he says quietly.
The door closes behind him. The office goes quiet again. Yunho exhales slowly.
“…This family is going to implode.”
San stares out the window at the city below.
“…Then we make sure Mingi and Jongho don’t get buried when it does.”
And for the first time all morning— they’re not thinking like lawyers. They’re thinking like brothers.
The house used to feel bigger when they were children.
Not grand in the way magazines described wealth, not elegant or warm or lovingly decorated, but large in that strange, echoing way that made every footstep sound like it didn’t belong to you.
Too many rooms that stayed dark even during the day.
The kind of house where you learned, very early, how to be quiet.
Afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows in pale gold stripes, catching dust in the air like floating stars.
Somewhere downstairs, a clock ticked.
Yunho lay flat on his stomach on the living room rug, chin propped in his hands, watching San struggle to stack wooden blocks into a tower that kept leaning dangerously to one side.
“You’re putting the heavy ones on top,” Yunho said, laughing softly.
“I’m experimenting,” San muttered, tongue poking out in concentration. “Architecture is about risk.”
“It’s about not letting it fall.”
The tower wobbled. Tilted. Collapsed spectacularly. Blocks clattered across the hardwood floor.
Both of them burst into giggles so loud it echoed off the walls.
For a moment, it felt normal. Like they were just kids. Not heirs. Not sons competing for attention. Not pieces on some invisible chessboard their father had set up.
San rolled onto his back, still laughing, staring up at the ceiling.
Yunho reached for the blocks—
Sharp voice from down the hall. Laughter, but not the fun kind. The kind that cuts. Both of them froze. They recognized those voices.
“…seriously, why does he even eat with us?” someone scoffed.
Another voice— “He acts like he belongs here.”
“And Dad keeps talking to him. It’s weird.”
“…maybe if his mom didn’t—”
The rest dissolved into whispering and snickering.
San’s smile faded first. Yunho sat up slowly. They both knew. Without saying it.
They found him near the dining room doorway.
Too tall for his age already, all long limbs and awkward shoulders, standing there like he didn’t know where to put himself.
Hongjoong blocked the hallway. Seonghwa leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Wooyoung perched on the table, swinging his legs.
Not physically. Just socially. Emotionally.
“—we’re just saying it’s weird,” Hongjoong was saying. “Dad never talks to us like that.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Mingi said quietly.
He wasn’t defensive or angry.
Like he genuinely didn’t understand what crime he’d committed.
“That’s the problem,” Wooyoung snapped. “You don’t do anything and he still likes you.”
Seonghwa’s voice was softer, but it hurt more.
“…Why are you even here, Mingi?”
The question hung in the air.
Too cruel for kids their age.
Yunho stepped forward without thinking.
“Hey,” he said gently. “What’s going on?”
All three boys turned and their expressions changed immediately. Guarded.
“This doesn’t involve you,” Hongjoong said flatly. San hovered beside Yunho, heart pounding.
“We’re just talking,” Seonghwa added. “Go play.”
A line drawn in the sand.
San felt it then—that quiet, terrifying calculation kids make.
If we step in… they’ll turn on us too.
And none of them were as quiet as Mingi. None of them were as good at taking hits silently.
Yunho hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough.
“…Come on,” San whispered, tugging his sleeve.
Mingi was still standing there. Hands at his sides. Head slightly bowed. Not fighting and defending himself. Just… enduring. Like always.
They told themselves it wasn’t their business. They told themselves it would pass. They told themselves Mingi was strong. They told themselves a lot of things.
Later, while walking back toward the stairs, San slowed when he heard quiet footsteps ahead.
He stopped and peeked around the corner.
Mingi again, walking fast. Head down. Shoulders tight as if he moved quickly enough, nothing could touch him. He ducked into the laundry room.
The door didn’t close all the way.
San didn’t mean to listen. But then—
Tiny. Round-cheeked. Still clutching a juice box. He slipped inside after him.
“I’m fine,” Mingi said immediately. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”
San could see him now. Back against the counter, hands gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white. Eyes glossy, rapidly blinking back tears.
Because crying would make it worse. Because crying meant losing.
Silence. Then, small and stubborn—
Jongho stared at him for a long moment.
Then did something simple. He stepped forward and grabbed Mingi’s sleeve.
“…Then I’ll stay anyway.”
“Because they’re annoying,” Jongho said matter-of-factly. “And you look sad.”
“…Okay,” Jongho said. “Then I’ll stay because I want to.”
Like it was the easiest decision in the world and choosing sides didn’t cost anything.
Because it really was that simple and they hadn’t done it. Jongho puffed up his chest.
“If they’re mean again, I’ll yell at them.”
Mingi huffed a weak laugh. “You’re smaller than them.”
“…That’s not how that works.”
“I’ll still protect you.”
Mingi looked at him for a long time. Then finally smiled. Soft and grateful. The kind of smile he almost never showed at the dinner table.
San stepped back quietly, heart heavy.
Because in that moment he realized something awful: the youngest brother—
Had more courage than he did.
Wooyoung never did anything casually.
Even something as simple as lunch had an aesthetic.
The restaurant he picked sat on the corner of a busy downtown street, all glass walls and warm lighting, the kind of place influencers pretended they discovered first. The sign outside was written in soft gold lettering, minimalist and expensive without trying too hard.
Inside, everything smelled like citrus and espresso.
Servers dressed like they were attending fashion week.
Which meant it was exactly Wooyoung.
He had arrived twenty minutes early, of course.
Sunglasses perched in his hair. Designer jacket draped over the chair beside him. Phone facedown on the table like he was daring the world to interrupt him.
From the outside, he looked perfectly put together.
Like money clung to him naturally.
Like he’d never struggled a day in his life.
Only he knew how many credit cards were nearly maxed out.
How many investments had quietly tanked.
How many nights he stayed awake calculating how long he could maintain this image before everything cracked.
Looking rich was expensive.
Being rich was different.
And lately he wasn’t sure which one he actually was anymore.
Group chat — Lunch idiots
If I get stood up I’m keying both your cars
Can’t make it today. Client meeting came up.
Wooyoung rolled his eyes immediately.
Yunho and San worked too much. Everyone knew that. But still.
At least one of them had priorities.
Yeosang was halfway down the block when his phone rang.
He answered without thinking.
“Are you heading to lunch with Wooyoung right now?” Yunho asked.
His voice was lower than usual. Quieter. Not his normal sunshine tone.
Yeosang slowed his steps.
City noise hummed through the line.
“…Can you listen for a second?” Yunho said.
Something about the way he said it made Yeosang’s breath stutter.
“I told Wooyoung I had a client,” Yunho continued. “That’s not true.”
“…So you’re ditching us,” Yeosang said lightly.
Yeosang blinked. “…What?”
“I need you to tell him something for me. Because if I say it, he’ll think I’m being dramatic.”
That was… not what Yeosang expected.
“When Hongjoong met Mingi the other day,” Yunho said carefully, “he didn’t go to make peace.”
Yeosang frowned. “…I thought he did.”
“No. He faked an apology. Asked Mingi for money.”
Yeosang stopped walking entirely now. Cars passed. People brushed by. The world kept moving.
“…Asked him for money?” he repeated.
“…Hongjoong told Wooyoung and Seonghwa that Mingi pressured him. Manipulated him. That’s why they’re talking about suing.”
Yeosang’s brain felt like it was buffering. “…Wait. Suing who?”
“I know,” Yunho said softly. “That’s the problem.”
Yeosang leaned against a lamppost, trying to piece it together.
Hongjoong. Lawsuit. Manipulation. Money.
It felt messy. Complicated. Like adult stuff he didn’t want to think about.
“…So what actually happened?” he asked.
Yunho went quiet for a second. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Smaller.
Not just the conversation.
Something inside Yeosang.
“Mingi cried,” Yunho repeated. “Jongho called me at two in the morning because he didn’t know what to do.”
The image hit him instantly.
Mingi—quiet, gentle, always smiling softly like nothing ever touched him—crying?
It felt wrong as if gravity started reversing. “…That’s not possible,” Yeosang said.
Yeosang’s throat tightened. Because suddenly all the confusing adult stuff didn’t matter anymore.
The lawsuit. The money. The lies. None of it mattered.
Someone hurt Mingi enough to make him cry.
“…Hongjoong did that?” he asked.
A long pause. Then Yunho said quietly, “…Wooyoung deserves to know the truth.”
Yeosang nodded automatically, even though Yunho couldn’t see him.
Wooyoung looks up when Yeosang walks in.
“Finally,” he says dramatically. “I was about to order without you out of spite.”
Yeosang slides into the chair across from him. Normally he’d tease back. Today he doesn’t.
Wooyoung notices immediately.
“…Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”
Yeosang stares at the menu but doesn’t see a single word.
“…Did Hongjoong talk to you recently?” he asks.
Wooyoung snorts. “Yeah. Yesterday. Why?”
“That Mingi’s being shady with money and that we should sue before he screws us over.” He shrugs. “Honestly? Sounds about right.”
Yeosang’s hands curl into his sleeves.
“…That’s not what happened,” he says quietly.
“Yunho called me earlier.”
“Oh god. Did he start lecturing you about ‘family communication’ again?”
Something in Yeosang’s tone makes Wooyoung actually look at him.
“He didn’t go to apologize,” Yeosang says. “He went to ask Mingi for money. When Mingi said no, he twisted it.”
“…That doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s not what he told me.”
“…Then what actually happened?”
Yeosang hesitates because even saying it feels unreal. Like speaking a ghost’s name.
“…Mingi cried,” he says softly.
Wooyoung laughs automatically, a short, disbelieving sound.
“Jongho called Yunho at two in the morning.”
“Because he didn’t know what to do.” Silence stretches between them.
“…Mingi doesn’t cry,” Wooyoung says quietly.
It sounds less like denial now and more like fear.
“…I’ve literally never seen him cry.”
Wooyoung stares down at the table.
At his perfectly manicured nails. At his reflection in the marble. And suddenly all he can picture is— eight-year-old Mingi getting the biggest piece of chicken and everyone snapping at him.
Mingi laughing awkwardly like it didn’t matter.
Mingi saying “it’s fine” every single time.
Mingi never fighting back.
“…Hongjoong lied to me,” Wooyoung whispers.
Not angry. Just stunned. Like the betrayal hit deeper than expected. Yeosang nods.
Then Wooyoung’s jaw tightens, eyes sharpening.
“Oh, he’s dead,” he mutters.
“No, because what the hell?” he snaps. “You don’t get to use me to attack him. Not Mingi. Not over a lie.”
For once, the anger isn’t flashy.
Which is somehow scarier.
“He made him cry?” Wooyoung says again, softer. “That’s insane.”
Wooyoung grabs his phone, already typing.
“…If Hongjoong thinks I’m suing them after this, he’s out of his mind.”
And for the first time in a long time— their anger isn’t pointed at Mingi. It’s pointed somewhere else. Where it probably should’ve been all along.
By the time they were in their mid teens, cruelty had stopped looking like cruelty.
Like something you did automatically, the same way you tossed your backpack onto the floor or kicked off your shoes by the door.
It wasn’t screaming or fists or dramatic fights like in movies.
The house was loud that evening.
Not with warmth or laughter.
Television somewhere downstairs. Cutlery clinking in the kitchen. The faint hum of the air conditioner that never seemed to turn off.
Wooyoung sprawled across the living room couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, scrolling through his phone and half-listening to Hongjoong and Seonghwa argue about something dumb and competitive, something about grades or investments or who their father had talked to longer that morning.
It was always something like that.
Everything was a competition in this house.
Breathing probably counted if you did it loud enough.
“—I’m just saying,” Hongjoong snapped, pacing near the coffee table, “he doesn’t talk to us like that.”
Seonghwa sighed, tired. “Can we not do this again—”
“I’m serious. Have you noticed it? Every time Mingi walks into a room—”
Wooyoung didn’t even look up.
The topic change was predictable.
“Mingi this, Mingi that,” he groaned lazily. “Can we pick a new obsession? It’s getting old.”
But even as he said it, he knew he’d still follow along.
Because it was easier to laugh with Hongjoong than to sit alone.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. All three of them looked up automatically.
Already taller than all of them.
Too tall for the space, like he hadn’t figured out how to fold himself smaller yet. Sleeves pushed over his hands. Head slightly ducked like he was trying not to take up too much air.
He was just walking to the kitchen.
Hongjoong’s jaw tightened immediately.
“…There he is,” he whispered.
Seonghwa rubbed his temples. “Hyung, don’t—”
But it was already too late.
“Hey,” Hongjoong called out.
Mingi paused mid-step and turned. “…Yeah?”
Wooyoung would remember that forever.
The way he said it. Soft. Polite. Like he genuinely expected someone to need something normal from him. Like he never once expected danger.
Hongjoong leaned back against the table. Predatory.
Mingi hesitated then slowly walked over. Wooyoung watched him approach and felt something weird twist in his stomach.
Nothing had even happened yet.
“Did Dad talk to you today?” Hongjoong asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe ten minutes?”
Hongjoong laughed, but there was nothing funny in it.
“Ten minutes,” he repeated.
Seonghwa shifted uncomfortably. Wooyoung stared at the ceiling.
“What did you talk about?” Hongjoong pressed.
“…School. Stocks. Just stuff.”
“Just stuff,” Hongjoong mocked. “That’s crazy because I tried talking to him and he told me he was busy.”
Not smug. Not proud. Just confused like he didn’t understand why this was a problem. That innocence pissed Hongjoong off more than anything.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Hongjoong said quietly.
“This,” Hongjoong snapped, gesturing at him like he was something dirty on the floor. “You acting like you belong here.”
Even Wooyoung felt that one.
“…I do belong here,” Mingi said softly.
Not defensive. Just factual. Hongjoong stepped closer.
Silence. Mingi didn’t answer. They all knew.
Seonghwa finally spoke. “Hongjoong, drop it.”
But Hongjoong didn’t even look at him.
“You know what everyone thinks, right?” Hongjoong said.
“That you’re only here because Dad couldn’t keep it in his pants.”
The words hit like glass shattering.
Wooyoung sat up immediately. “Hyung,” he said, sharply.
Seonghwa’s head snapped up. “That’s way too far.”
But Hongjoong kept going, voice low and vicious now.
“You’re not even really one of us. You’re just his mistake.”
Wooyoung felt something cold crawl up his spine.
This wasn’t teasing anymore. This wasn’t a joke.This was mean.
He looked at Mingi, expecting him to argue. Or snap. Or at least look angry.
Instead— Mingi just stood there.
Hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes lowered like he’d already heard worse in his own head.
“…I know,” he said quietly.
There was no fighting or desperate denial. Just:
Wooyoung’s stomach dropped.
Because that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. They were supposed to laugh. He was supposed to roll his eyes. It wasn’t supposed to sound like that.
Seonghwa stepped in quickly. “Okay, that’s enough. Come on, seriously.”
“Yeah,” Wooyoung added, voice awkward. “Chill. That’s a joke, right?”
But even as he said it, it didn’t feel like one anymore.
Hongjoong scoffed and waved them off.
“Whatever. Go. You’re depressing.”
Mingi nodded once. “…Okay.”
No anger. No tears. Nothing. Like he’d already detached before it could hurt.
Wooyoung watched him disappear down the hallway. That weird feeling in him growing heavier.
“…That was too much,” he said.
Hongjoong shrugged. “He’s fine.”
“Yeah…” Wooyoung said automatically. Because Mingi hadn’t cried. Hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t done anything. He looked fine.
He told himself that all night.
He’s fine. He said he’s fine. So it must be fine. It had to be.
Because if it wasn’t—then that meant they weren’t just teasing. They were hurting him.
And that was way harder to live with.
Years later, sitting at that stupidly expensive lunch table, staring down at his untouched food while Yeosang’s voice echoed in his head—Mingi cried—Wooyoung suddenly remembered that night with perfect clarity.
The way Mingi said I know.
The way he walked away. The way his shoulders looked just a little too tight.
And for the first time—Wooyoung wondered if he’d ever actually been fine at all.
The house is too quiet when Yeosang gets home. Not peaceful. Not comforting. Just… empty.
The kind of quiet that makes every small sound feel louder than it should be.
The soft click of the door shutting behind him echoes down the hallway. His shoes against the marble. The faint hum of the refrigerator. Somewhere upstairs, the air conditioner kicking on. It’s a big house.
It always feels like he’s borrowing it instead of living in it.
He drops his keys into the dish by the door and they clatter too sharply.
He flinches. He doesn’t know why he feels so off. Lunch with Wooyoung should’ve been normal. Annoying, loud, dramatic—sure. But normal. Instead—
The words haven’t stopped replaying in his head.
After all of those years watching him take the verbal beating—sometimes being the cause of it—the thought of Mingi losing his composure has officially been creeping in as the family’s kryptonite.
It’s like someone telling him the sky turned green or that gravity stopped working.
Mingi doesn’t cry. Mingi smiles. Mingi nods. Mingi says it’s fine. Always fine.
So why does his head hurt like something terrible happened?
Yeosang walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, stares inside. Closes it. He’s not hungry. He shouldn’t feel this unsettled. Nothing even happened to him.
So why does it feel like something broke?
He ends up at the long dining table with his laptop, the screen lighting up his face in the dim room. For a moment, he just sits there, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“…What does suing even mean…” he murmurs to himself.
It feels stupid to say out loud.
Everyone else talks about this stuff like it’s normal.
Investments. Contracts. Lawsuits. Mergers.
Like it’s just everyday vocabulary.
But Yeosang has always had someone else handle it. Managers. Advisors. Lawyers. He signs where they tell him to sign. Smiles where they tell him to smile. He never needed to understand the ugly parts.
He types slowly: what happens when someone sues you
Search. Pages load with legal jargon everywhere. His brows knit together.
“…Plaintiff… defendant… civil court…”
He scrolls. Reads. Clicks another link. Then another. And slowly—the words start making sense.
Financial damages. Asset freezing. Court investigations. Subpoenas. Public records. Reputation loss.
If Hongjoong actually sues Mingi and Jongho—it’s not just an argument. It’s not just drama. It’s not just threatening letters.
It’s—lawyers digging through their lives. Bank accounts exposed. Every decision questioned. Months. Maybe years of stress. Money drained just defending themselves. Even if they win. Even if they did nothing wrong. They still lose something.
Time. Peace. Trust. And Mingi… Yeosang swallows hard.
Mingi already works himself sick.
Already barely sleeps. Already treats life like one long responsibility.
What would this do to him?
He scrolls again then finds it.
One line that makes his chest go cold.
Civil litigation is often used strategically to pressure or intimidate the opposing party into settlement, even when the legal claim is weak.
He stares at it. Reads it twice. Three times.
“…Intimidate,” he repeats.
So it’s not even always about being right. Sometimes it’s just about scaring someone. Cornering them. Making them tired enough to give up.
His hands slowly slide away from the keyboard.
Because suddenly he understands. This isn’t business—it’s bullying. Just… with paperwork and expensive suits.
And that thought hits him harder than anything else tonight. Because—
That’s exactly what they used to do. Before he can stop himself, another memory creeps in.
Hongjoong laughing too harshly. Mingi standing there, quiet. Always quiet. Wooyoung joking. Seonghwa half-heartedly telling them to stop. And Yeosang—
Watching. Not saying anything. Because it didn’t involve him. Because Mingi said he was fine. Because it wasn’t that serious.
But now—sitting alone at his dining table, legal definitions glowing on the screen—it doesn’t look harmless anymore. It looks systematic. Targeted.
Hongjoong had always been… harsher with Mingi.
Meaner. More personal. Not teasing. Attacking. The jokes were never jokes.
They were resentments wearing a smile.
And Yeosang thinks about today. About what Hongjoong might’ve sounded like when convincing Wooyoung and Seonghwa.
Like he was suggesting lunch and not war. Yeosang exhales.
“…He’s always been like this,” he whispers.
And somehow he never noticed. Or maybe he noticed and just didn’t want to look too closely. Because looking too closely would mean admitting:
They weren’t just kids being dumb.
They hurt him. Over and over. And he let it happen.
The house feels even bigger now. Colder. He closes the laptop slowly. The click sounds definitive. He pulls out his phone.
Stares at Mingi’s contact.
He hasn’t talked to him one-on-one in months.
Because it was easier to assume:
He’s fine. He’s always fine.
“…You’re not fine at all, are you…” he mumbles.
For the first time in his life, Yeosang feels something unfamiliar toward Hongjoong.
Because if Hongjoong is willing to destroy Mingi legally—
He was always capable of worse than Yeosang wanted to believe. And maybe the scariest part is—
It took Mingi finally breaking down for him to finally see it.
Jongho is ten the first time he realizes he hates loud rooms.
Too many voices. Too many expectations. Too many chances to say the wrong thing.
Dinner at their house is always loud. Not happy loud but sharp loud. Forks hitting plates. Chairs scraping. Their father talking like everything is a performance review.
“You should be first in your class.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Nothing is ever just neutral—it’s pass or fail.
Jongho sits stiffly at the table, back straight, hands folded. Report card tucked inside his hoodie pocket like it’s something dangerous. Because it is.
He stared at it for ten minutes before coming downstairs like maybe the number would change if he hated it hard enough.
Now it feels like it’s burning through the fabric. He can already hear the disappointed silence. Which is worse than yelling.
Across the table—Mingi notices. Jongho hasn’t touched his food or spoken. Keeps pressing his palm against his pocket like he’s checking something’s still there and is bracing for impact. Mingi tilts his head slightly.
Their father finishes eating first and sets his chopsticks down, looking around the table.
“Grades came out today, didn’t they?”
Everyone freezes like prey. One by one, the brothers slide their papers over.
Numbers. Percentages. Rankings. Their father scans them. Nods. Hums. Neutral. Neutral is good. Neutral means safe. Then—
“Jongho.” Too gentle. Always too gentle before something bad. “Yours?”
Jongho reaches into his pocket slowly, hands shaking. He hates that they’re shaking. He hates that anyone can see. He slides the paper forward, ears ringing, staring at the table.
He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t breathe. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting—
But before their father can grab it another paper lands on top of his. Soft. Casual like it’s nothing.
“I did worse this time,” Mingi says quietly.
Everyone looks at him. Including Jongho.
Mingi never does worse. He always has perfect scores across the board without even trying—another reason his brothers hate him.
Their father frowns and pulls Mingi’s paper instead, scanning it. “…What happened here?”
Jongho blinks, leaning in slightly, and almost gasps at the number.
That makes no sense. Mingi loves literature. He reads novels under the blanket with a flashlight. He corrects teachers sometimes. There’s no way.
“I dunno,” Mingi shrugs with a small, sheepish smile. “I guess I didn’t study enough.”
It’s such a bad lie, an obvious one and everyone at the table knows it.
But their father sighs. Disappointed. Focus locked.
“Unacceptable,” he says flatly. “I know you’re much smarter than this. Stop getting lazy.”
The worst word in the house.
“I’m sorry,” Mingi says softly. Head bowed. Taking it. Just taking it.
The attention shifts completely. Lecture mode, advice, criticism, future talk. All aimed at Mingi. Jongho’s paper never even gets picked up. Still sitting there, half-hidden and forgotten.
Jongho stares at Mingi the entire time, waiting for him to argue. To defend himself. To say it’s wrong. But he doesn’t. He just nods.
Calm and accepting like he deserves it. Later that night, Jongho sneaks into Mingi’s room—doesn’t knock. Mingi’s sitting on the floor, back against the bed, homework open like nothing happened.
Like he didn’t just get verbally torn apart for twenty minutes.
“…Hyung,” Jongho says quietly.
Mingi looks up and smiles immediately—soft and warm like he wasn’t just humiliated.
“…You didn’t get a 78.” Not a question. Mingi pauses then looks back at his notebook.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence. Then “…I switched them. I saw your grade when you came home and I printed out another sheet with another grade on it,” Mingi says lightly. Like it’s obvious and it’s nothing. “You looked scared.”
That’s it. That’s the reason. Not heroic. Not dramatic. Just: you looked scared.
“…Dad would’ve yelled at me,” he whispers.
“…He yelled at you instead.”
Mingi shrugs.“Doesn’t bother me as much.”
Which is such a lie. They both know it. But he says it like a fact and he’s already decided his pain weighs less. Jongho’s hands curl into fists.
Mingi smiles, teasing. “You’re the youngest. It’s my job.”
“I know,” Mingi says gently. “But I want to.”
Years later, Jongho will remember this night and realize: that wasn’t the only time. It happened constantly.
Teachers. Dinner. Their father. Their brothers. Somehow the heat always slid onto Mingi.
Like he stepped into it on purpose and he thought: better me than him.
And nobody noticed because Mingi never made it look like a sacrifice. He made it look like a coincidence.
Jongho just sits down next to him on the floor, close enough for their shoulders touch.
“…If you do that again,” he mutters, voice thick, “I’m fighting them.”
Mingi laughs softly. “Okay, tough guy.”
And he bumps their shoulders together gently like a promise.
Morning arrives gray and cold, the kind of winter morning where the sky looks unfinished — a flat wash of pale clouds stretched too thin, like someone forgot to add color. The light that filters through Hongjoong’s curtains is dull and lifeless, more shadow than sun.
He hates mornings like this.
They make everything feel heavier. Quieter. Like the air itself is pressing down on his shoulders. Like the world is holding its breath waiting for something bad to happen.
He tells himself he’s being dramatic.
He doesn’t believe himself.
Still, he dresses carefully.
Pressed coat, the wool sharp and structured across his shoulders. Dark slacks without a single wrinkle. Rings polished until they catch what little light there is. His hair styled just enough to look effortless, like he didn’t try at all.
Because if you look put together, people assume you are.
He learned that young. Learned that nobody questions a man who looks expensive.
Even when he’s falling apart underneath.
The café sits on a quiet corner downtown, tucked neatly between an abstract art gallery and a bookstore no one actually buys books from. The kind of place that survives purely on aesthetic and old money loyalty.
Tables spaced just far enough apart that no one can overhear you unless you want them to.
Privacy you don’t have to ask for.
The kind of place their father used to favor for “casual” meetings — the ones that somehow ended with million-dollar deals and three ruined competitors.
Hongjoong used to sit beside him during those meetings. Silent. Still. Observant. A child playing statue while men twice his age talked about acquisitions like they were talking about the weather.
How to talk without saying anything.
How to smile without meaning it.
How to twist a conversation until the other person thought losing was their idea.
He arrives ten minutes early as always. Being late means losing control of the room — walking into something already in motion, already decided.
And Hongjoong never loses control.
He orders a coffee he doesn’t plan to drink and takes a seat facing the door, back straight, coat folded neatly beside him like a placeholder.
A strange knot forms low in his stomach, tight and unwelcome.
Just Jongho. Quiet, boring, predictable Jongho. Not a threat.
The bell above the door rings and Hongjoong looks up automatically, immediately regretting it.
Because Jongho doesn’t walk into rooms.
Steady, like gravity bends around him instead of the other way around.
Black coat. Plain hoodie underneath—too big on him like it isn’t his and he’s borrowing it from someone else—hands shoved casually into his pockets. No jewelry. No flash. No effort.
Subtly. Instinctively. Chairs shift. Paths clear. Even strangers step aside without realizing they’re doing it. It’s almost annoying.
Everything is annoying in this family.
Hongjoong spent years learning how to command attention — posture, voice, presence, calculated charm.
Jongho does it by accident.
Their eyes meet and Jongho gives him a single respectful nod.
“Hey,” Hongjoong replies easily, slipping on a smile like it belongs there. “Long time.”
Jongho sits across from him and orders black coffee. No sugar or milk. Of course. He’s always hated unnecessary things.
For a while, it’s painfully normal.
Market trends. Investment updates. A startup Jongho quietly acquired last week like it was nothing. Numbers. Strategy. Casual success. Hongjoong even laughs once, the sound surprising himself.
The tension in his shoulders loosens. Maybe this isn’t what he thought. Maybe Jongho just wanted to talk and he’s overreacting. Maybe—
The porcelain cup clicks softly against the saucer. Jongho sets it down perfectly straight, aligning it with the edge of the table like he’s measuring something.
Then he finally looks at him. Not through him. Not past him.
“Before anything else,” Jongho says calmly, voice even, controlled, “tell me what happened when you met Mingi.”
No lead-in or warning. Just straight to the throat. Hongjoong blinks. For half a second, his mind goes blank.
“Start from the beginning.”
“If you lie,” he says quietly, “I’ll know.”
Not angry or threatening, but it’s enough to make Hongjoong feel uneasy. He forces out a laugh, light and disbelieving.
Jongho says nothing. Instead he just watches him. Waiting like a judge and an executioner giving him a chance to confess before the blade falls. So Hongjoong does what he does best.
“I apologized,” he says smoothly. “We talked about childhood stuff. Cleared the air. It was fine. He seemed fine.”
The story comes out clean. Harmless. Polished. Perfect. A version of the truth with all the sharp edges sanded down.
Hongjoong’s smile drops immediately. “I just told you—”
“You asked him for money.” Not a question.
His fingers tighten around his cup until the ceramic bites into his skin. “…Excuse me?”
“You asked him for money,” Jongho repeats. “After pretending to apologize.”
The world tilts slightly. “How would you even—”
“He told me.” A beat. “I was there after.” Jongho leans back, eyes never leaving him. “Do you know what he did right after you left?”
Hongjoong doesn’t answer. He can’t.
“He opened his laptop,” Jongho continues. “Tried to work. Like nothing happened.”
“And his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.”
The image hits harder than it should. Too vivid, real and uncomfortable in a way numbers and deals have never been. Then Jongho says it. Quietly, like the thought of it hurt him physically.
The clink of dishes. The low music. The hum of conversation. All of it fades into nothing. Hongjoong just stares at him.
“He broke down,” Jongho says. “Couldn’t breathe.” His jaw clenches, just barely. “I’ve known him my whole life.”
“I’ve never seen him cry.”
And for the first time that morning—for the first time in a long time—
Hongjoong feels something crack inside his chest. Not fear or anger but something worse.
Before Hongjoong hated Mingi— before the cold looks, before the sharp words, before the quiet cruelty— there was a house.
And a conversation he was never meant to hear.
The house is too big for sound to travel properly. Voices don’t echo. They sink. Get swallowed by thick carpets and tall ceilings and expensive walls.
It’s the kind of house that feels more like a hotel than a home. Everything polished and staged. Nothing warm.
Their father likes it that way.
“Mess looks cheap,” he always said.
Hongjoong is seven. Old enough to understand when adults whisper. Young enough to still be curious.
Which is a dangerous combination.
He’s supposed to be upstairs. Homework finished. Piano practice done. His brothers already asleep. The hallway lights dimmed low like the house is powering down for the night. But Hongjoong is thirsty.
So he carefully pads downstairs in socks. He’s always careful. He almost walks straight into the living room.
His father’s voice. Sharp yet lower than usual. Not angry. Worse.
“…how long has she been sick?”
A pause. Another voice. A man Hongjoong recognizes vaguely. One of his father’s assistants.
“Stage three. Maybe four. Doctors aren’t optimistic.”
“…She’s been raising him alone,” the assistant says. “No support. No money. She refused to contact you at first.”
Hongjoong doesn’t understand. Not yet. But his chest already hurts as if his body knows before his brain does.
“I told her I’d handle it,” his father says flatly. “Arrange the transfer. Bring him here.”
Transfer? Like a package?
“He’s your son, sir,” the assistant says carefully.
The words land like glass shattering.
Hongjoong’s brain stutters.
That doesn’t make sense. He’s the son. Seonghwa is the son. The others. There are seven. There are only supposed to be seven.
“She never told the current wife,” the assistant continues. “If this becomes public—”
“It won’t,” his father snaps. “Handle it quietly.”
A long pause. Then quieter, almost annoyed. Always annoyed.
Not sad. Not worried. Not guilty. Just inconvenient.
Hongjoong’s throat closes as something ugly and hot crawls up his chest. He doesn’t fully understand cheating or affairs or adults in general.
But he understands one thing very clearly: someone else exists. Another kid. Another son. Proof that his father—that his family—isn’t what he thought it was.
And suddenly everything feels fake.
The house. The dinners. The “perfect family” photos. His mother smiling too wide. All of it.
Upstairs, a door opens. His mother’s footsteps. Soft. Sleepy.
“Are you still working?” she asks gently.
Hongjoong hears his father’s voice change instantly. Warm. Smooth. Effortless.
Like nothing happened and he didn’t just rearrange someone’s life downstairs. Like he didn’t just say inconvenient about a dying woman.
Hongjoong stands there in the dark hallway, hands shaking. And for the first time in his life— he hates his father a little. But he doesn’t know how to hate him safely. So his brain does something easier. Something simpler.
It finds someone else to blame.
If that boy didn’t exist… none of this would happen.
The next day— it rains, the sky gray and cold. The whole house feels quieter than usual like it knows something’s coming.
A black car pulls into the driveway. Hongjoong watches from the second-floor window, heart pounding, palms sweaty.
He doesn’t know what he expects.
Someone loud. Messy. Obvious. Someone who looks wrong. Someone easy to hate. Instead—
The door opens and a kid steps out. Small. Skinny. Oversized cardigan. Backpack that looks too big for him. Hair messy like it wasn’t styled.
Like no one tried very hard.
Their father walks him inside with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He’s…
And that—that makes something snap.
Because that softness? That’s supposed to belong to them. Not him.
Inside, the house staff move quietly. Whispers. Doors closing. No one explains anything. No one ever explains anything. Adults just rearrange the world and expect kids to accept it. Later—
Hongjoong finds him sitting alone near the back garden, backpack still on like he doesn’t plan on staying long and is ready to leave at any second.
The kid looks up when Hongjoong approaches.
“…Hi,” he says softly. “I’m Mingi.”
Like he’s introducing himself at school and this isn’t the most awkward situation in the world.
Same eyes as their father.
Same stupid soft expression.
Proof—walking proof—of everything wrong.
“My mom said this is my dad’s house,” Mingi continues quietly. “So I’m gonna live here now. I won’t bother anyone. I promise.”
Something childish and furious boils over. Because he’s acting grateful like this is charity.
When he’s the reason everything feels broken.
“You ruined everything,” Hongjoong blurts. Mingi blinks.
“You made my family a mess.”
“You shouldn’t have been born,” Hongjoong snaps.
The words come out too fast.
Even he’s a little shocked.
“If you didn’t exist, my dad wouldn’t lie. My mom wouldn’t cry. None of this would happen.”
Mingi’s hands tighten on his backpack straps, almost biting into his skin. He looks like he might cry. But he doesn’t.
Like he’s used to being blamed and this isn’t new.
And somehow that makes Hongjoong angrier.
So he steps closer. Voice low.
“If you’re going to ruin our lives,” he whispers, “I’m going to do the same to you.”
Mingi just whispers “…Okay.”
And for some reason— that hurts worse than if he’d fought back.
That’s the day it starts. Not with shouting. Not with punches. Just a quiet decision from an seven-year-old boy:
If you’re the reason my family hurts… then I’ll make sure you hurt too.
And neither of them ever forget it.
ok i hope you guys like this one i swear we’re almost done<3
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