There was a time I went to see Ji Chanwoo’s son.
There was only one hospital on board anyway, and since I’d heard his name from Ji Chanwoo while he was still alive, it wasn’t hard to find him. I knew he was unconscious, but I still wanted to visit at least once and tell him about his father.
And that’s when I heard something unexpected.
“You mean the patient under Min Sanghan’s guardianship, right? The thing is, visitors aren’t allowed in the ICU unless you’re family.”
“…What?”
“If you’re not related by blood…”
“Ah, no—wait. Who did you say the guardian was again?”
“Min Sanghan.”
At the time, the name caught me completely off guard.
Was it the same Min Sanghan I knew? And if it was, why was he the one looking after Ji Chanwoo’s son? Of course I was confused.
So I went straight to Min Sanghan and asked him myself.
“I heard… that it wasn’t just Jaejin and Heeseo. There was someone else who died in that accident. And apparently, that person had a sick child.”
Min Sanghan shook his head with a sorrowful expression.
“They say there’s no other family. It just broke my heart, you know?”
So he decided to step in and become the guardian himself.
“……”
I looked at Min Yugeon’s back as he hummed while preparing ingredients.
Min Sanghan might not have been a good father to Min Yugeon, but to someone else, he became the kind of adult they needed. Even I had received major help from him. During my parents’ funeral, when I restarted the Military Beast Project—his experience and support had been an enormous source of strength.
Still… it would’ve been best if he’d been someone that kid could lean on.
At least it was a relief he still maintained a good relationship with Lee Minha.
“You’re going to burn a hole in my back. What are you staring at?”
I only realized I’d been staring too long when he said that with a teasing laugh.
But how did he notice without even turning around?
Narrowing my eyes, I spoke.
“You’re just hyper-aware of me, that’s all.”
“Oh… That was sharp.”
Min Yugeon turned and flashed a cheeky grin at me.
I shook my head at his silly response but couldn’t help smiling back, despite myself.
***
Right after clocking in, I got a message from Min Sanghan asking if I’d join him for lunch. So when the lunch break rolled around, I left my team and headed for the Director’s office.
“You’re here, Team Leader Seo.”
The secretary stationed outside the office stood up, clearly pleased to see me.
“Hello.”
“You’re here for your lunch appointment with the Director, right?”
“Yes.”
“Please wait here for just a moment.”
The secretary knocked on the office door and stepped inside.
A few seconds later, Min Sanghan came out with his coat on, the secretary following behind him.
“Oh, Suho.”
“Director.”
“I made a reservation. Let’s head out.”
He gave me a few firm pats on the shoulder. I followed without a word.
It wasn’t like I’d never had lunch with him outside before. Back when I first joined the institute, Min Sanghan often took me out to eat. His treatment of me was so obviously preferential that it sparked rumors for quite some time.
But as I started building my foundational knowledge in Building A and adapting to life at the lab, those outings gradually became less frequent. After I was recognized as capable enough to lead a project and moved over to Building B, we hardly saw each other at all.
Part of it was that I’d become busier with growing responsibilities, but the truth was that Min Sanghan wasn’t exactly sitting around with nothing to do either. He had more lunch guests than he knew what to do with, yet still made time for me back then.
“It’s been a while since we had lunch like this, huh?”
As soon as we sat down at the reserved restaurant table outside the institute, Min Sanghan spoke. I wiped my hands with a cleansing tissue and nodded.
“It has.”
“Still gets my heart racing every time, you know—because of you.”
He pressed a hand to his chest and muttered with a grumble.
“The demonstration, I mean. What if you’d been seriously hurt?”
“It’s been days since it ended. Maybe you’re the one who should see a doctor.”
I answered in an even tone. Min Sanghan slowly lowered his hand.
“Heh, come on. It’s just a figure of speech.”
“I was just saying. And the demonstration… may have looked a bit extreme, but the fate of the entire project was riding on it. Without tangible results, nothing was going to move forward.”
The Captain had high hopes for the Military Beast Project that my mother and father had started, but when it came to my turn, she hadn’t reacted favorably. From her perspective, that made sense. My parents had spent years carrying the project forward, only to die without presenting any clear outcomes. Most of their accumulated data had been lost too.
That sense of futility and regret from back then must have lingered, making her skeptical about restarting the project.
Thanks to Min Sanghan’s efforts in persuading him, the project was allowed to resume—but I had to prove through the demonstration that his decision hadn’t been in vain.
“…Suho.”
Min Sanghan looked at me quietly.
“You’ve come a long way. And fast, too.”
“…”
“Just think about it—what your parents couldn’t achieve in over a decade, you’ve already brought to fruition. I think it’s time you let yourself breathe a little.”
I already had plenty of room to breathe. Involuntarily.
It was going to take a long time to reach my ultimate goal: the mass deployment of Military Beasts.
Just like Rai and Cat, forming an emotional bond with the monsters—the first step in cultivating a Military Beast—hadn’t been a problem. The real issue was whether we could guide those monsters to truly live and serve as Military Beasts.
No matter how much they fought to protect humans, if the only person they protected was me, it would all be meaningless.
I’m not a soldier. The beasts meant to become Military Beasts had to be capable of protecting the soldiers they would serve alongside.
My current job was to figure out how to make that happen—starting with Cat. The most immediate step was to keep working closely with the soldiers, gradually helping Cat restrain his aggression toward them. Just like Rai had done with my parents.
Of course, by that logic, he should’ve warmed up to my own team—whom he saw every day—first. But even that timeline was impossible to predict.
Whether I wanted to be or not, I was stuck in a slow phase.
“Hey, Suho.”
As if he knew exactly what I’d been thinking, Min Sanghan clicked his tongue.
“It’s good to live with a strong sense of purpose. But sometimes I get a little uneasy, watching you throw yourself into fulfilling your parents’ legacy so obsessively. Like you’re carrying some kind of burden you can’t shake.”
His voice carried a quiet sadness.
“Of course, if it were Heeseo and Jaejin, they’d be bursting with pride. I’m proud of you too, so they must be even more so.”
Ahem. Min Sanghan cleared his throat, then quickly grabbed his glass and took several gulps. The emotion was getting to him.
“But even so, they wouldn’t have wanted to see you living like this, always working. They’d want you to meet someone you love, lean on each other, take some time to rest now and then.”
He said it like someone who knew, as a parent. I watched him silently, listening. For the first time, I noticed how much whiter his hair had become, how much deeper the lines on his face had grown.
If my parents were still alive, they’d probably be nagging me with the same kind of affection in those same aging faces.
“I’m satisfied with the way I’m living right now.”
I answered honestly—to tell him not to worry.
“And I’ve got Yugeon beside me.”
“…I see.”
There was a slight delay before Min Sanghan responded. He stared down at the dishes on the table, then slowly lifted his gaze.
“How’s he doing?”
“No major issues. Hasn’t… contacted you yet?”
“Still the same.”
He gave a bitter smile.
“He must still resent me.”
“…”
“It’s my fault.”
He murmured.
“It all started from my own selfishness.”
Even as I looked at the deep regret in Min Sanghan’s face, I stayed quiet.
Should I take Min Yugeon’s side and criticize him? Or should I take Min Sanghan’s side and tell Yugeon to give his father another chance?
Even between people as close as us, family matters were still family matters. Anything beyond comfort turned into meddling.
And truthfully, I’d long believed that the rift between them was ultimately Min Sanghan’s doing. I didn’t dare open my mouth for fear I’d say something I couldn’t take back.
“Suho. I used to be just like you—blinded by one goal.”
As he spoke, he pushed a dish toward me—one he knew I liked.
“But once I achieved that dream, I realized I’d lost the thing that mattered most.”
Family. He didn’t need to say the word.
“But at least I still had you.”
I paused with my chopsticks halfway to the plate. He looked at me with eyes full of warmth.
“Even when a child becomes an adult, they never stop being a child in a parent’s eyes. I didn’t get to watch over Yugeon, but… seeing you grow here in the lab gave me a lot to reflect on.”
“…”
“You’re like a son to me, Suho.”
“…Director.”
“So if there’s anything you’re struggling with—anything you need—talk to me, anytime.”
I bowed my head.
“I will. Thank you.”
“Come on, I told you. When it’s just the two of us, drop the formalities.”
Min Sanghan shook his head with a helpless smile.
