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.
