the message is written on a white note, as compact as a business card, passed on to the kang butler. on the front, in black ink with the bleed of a fountain pen, reads ‘I wonder how daddy likes it?’ red lipstick is kissed onto the back.
Even though Kang Soohyun lived a 'separated' life from his parents, the tendrils of their influence and wealth still stained him. The high-end apartment in a part of the city most people can't even afford to look at, the knowing look in people's eyes when he introduces himself, and of course, the scattering of staff who swear they aren't reporting his movements and whereabouts to his parents every Sunday morning. He's learned to stop fighting the bad attempts at familial espionage and just start testing the limits to how much bullshitting he can feed the butler they've sent him until they snap and try and call him again.
When he received the note, no bigger than a business card, he thought it was another vague attempt at reaching out to him again. He didn't bother looking up from his morning cup of tea when he reaches for it, waving away the butler so he could focus on his breakfast. Mr. Kim shuffled back to the living room, leaving Soohyun alone in the dining room. He barely registered that it was written in a fountain pen, with all the flourish of someone very much used to the writing instrument.
The note is ignored until he is nearly finished eating, metal chopsticks reaching for the last piece of kimchi to finish his bowl of rice. It's only then that he truly processed the words.
I wonder how daddy likes it?
Soohyun wasn't the type to jump to conclusions, but ever since that black box showed up on his doorstep, on Woosung's doorstep, he's found himself second-guessing everything that found its way into his lap.
He thought of the secret slipped into his inbox, the note that says do with this what you will. He thought of an appointment with a psychologist, the slip of his tongue leading to an admission of guilt. There wasn't a name, just hints. Enough for someone with a brain to piece together something damning.
So the note wasn't something just for him. So this wasn't just him.
He crumbles up the card, dropping it in his lukewarm tea. He watches as the paper wets and disintegrates in his cup. He picks up his teacup and throws it at the wall and screams.
.
.
.
No.
That wasn't right. That would be reckless and stupid.
He looked down at the pristine card in his hand with its annoying little message, the porcelain teacup with cooling tea. He imagined setting the note on fire. He imagined being cruel and forcing someone to eat it. He imagined tearing it into pieces and leaving it for someone else to clean up. He imagined screaming expletives loud enough for a noise complaint.
No. He couldn't afford to be reckless. He wasn't—
No. He stared for a moment longer. He flipped the card over, revealing a bright red lipstick kiss. A calling card. Or a taunt. If he knew more about makeup, he might be able to recognize the name of the color, maybe even attach it to a person. Instead, he thought of crucifixes, bloody hands, and the smell of perfume that isn't his own.
the following words are written on a pastel pink postcard, the letters written in bright red ink. ‘ it seems like we are more alike than i thought … though you seem to be just a little bit worse than me. ’
* / ATARAXY’S DIVINE MURMUR, working away beneath the thick splendour of doheum’s life and inevitably pushing him to be. . somewhat complacent. he’s poised at the cynosure of the jeong lineage, the damn paradigm to callousness. what on earth could a spider with a web this large have to fear? he’ll gorge on anything unfortunate enough to fall into it. ( I &. there’s no elegy for a man like this. ) though there’s something to be said about the state of his fragile comfort; to be said about ANYONE this high to the peak of the world. oh, hasn’t he always been on top? his lifestyle swollen by atrocity, it’s eked out a home through each pump of his heart && it takes some particular brand of ROT to no longer bat an eye. he, unflinching in the eye of loss, has had no reason for worry.
between the gold-freckled cathedrals of untarnished PR, the operations beneath the jeong name are sealed from the outside gaze.
* / UNTIL THEY AREN’T.
a resounding cold echoes through seoul, though he’s saturated in warmth inside, it will soon find its way into his very home.
—— THORNY BRAMBLE, MEET THE GARDEN GLOVE.
when the roseate card first comes to him, it's awfully benign—- innocent enough to pass through razor-edged cognizance. what’s this? he’s still nursing several generous fingers of whiskey, expression waxing and waning between a state of concentration and confusion. is this the aftermath of his latest fling? ( that lass from ITALY, if memory serves. ) she sure changed her tune quick and he’d thought their parting to be nothing if not pleasant.
no, much too vague to be from her. one of those small fry gangs trying to pick a fight, maybe? he’d had countless of these clandestine notes over the years though most had some malignant foot note attached, some condition in the fine print with the goal of twisting his arm. ( he twists theirs instead, silly merry-go-round. ) it’s always amateur at best in toiling some reaction from his senticous heart but this one? he’s got some hazy intuition hissing of some otherwise, of something else.
