“Hey, Chief Seo. I didn’t mishear that… did I?”
“No, Young Master. Unfortunately, you heard right.”
Lee Han-seo murmured, momentarily stunned. Chief Seo, his expression frozen into a frigid mask, seemed just as taken aback. Even in hindsight, it was absurd. “Who the hell does he think he is?” Saying something so insolent, so brazen, right in front of Lee Han-seo, of all people—that was something no one in this country would dare. Chief Seo had half a mind to throw those exact words right back at the man who’d spoken them, but seeing that Han-seo, the one actually insulted, was already schooling his features and steadying his demeanor, he decided to take a step back.
A moment later, the heavy double doors began to part slowly, and a middle-aged man with a dignified air and silver hair stepped inside. Beside him was a middle-aged woman, her expression prim and tight. Right behind them came the man who had uttered those disrespectful words.
…They were actually invited, right?
Han-seo kept the smile on his face, but the thought echoed bitterly in his head. His own father’s sharp-edged face, his mother’s cold gaze, and even his older brother’s sour scowl—none of them bore even the faintest resemblance to Park Woo-jun. The difference in appearance was one thing, but more than that, the entire atmosphere they carried—the way they held themselves—was oil and water compared to Woo-jun. Completely incompatible.
“Welcome. I hope the trip wasn’t too troublesome.”
No—he needed to check himself. He couldn’t let prejudice take root, especially not here. These were Park Woo-jun’s immediate family, after all. With a warm, practiced smile, Han-seo bowed first.
They must have known exactly who he was. Even if they’d spent the past few years overseas, there was no way they hadn’t heard of Lee Han-seo. As soon as he bowed, the couple’s faces lit up. Not with genuine delight, though—there was a smugness to their expressions, a haughty air just barely hidden behind their smiles. Han-seo pretended not to notice. He was long used to tolerating people who cloaked themselves in artifice. And yet, part of him hoped this unpleasant first impression was just a misunderstanding.
Just like how Park Woo-jun had so effortlessly become part of his family, Han-seo had wanted to blend naturally into his.
It was a quiet, aching sort of devotion—a need to repay everything Woo-jun had given him, twofold, with everything he had.
“Thanks for the invitation. It’s been a while since I came home, but thanks to you, the trip was smooth.”
“Indeed. You’re quite the thoughtful young man.”
Oh? And now we’re skipping honorifics on a first meeting?
The tyrant buried deep in Han-seo stirred, rising like a serpent uncoiling, but he held himself back. Patience, Han-seo. They’re Woo-jun’s parents. His mom and dad…
In all his life, not even the most esteemed elders—aware that he was Chairman Choi’s maternal grandson and the country’s only S-Class Guide—had dared to speak informally to him on a first meeting. This really was a first.
“Haha… Please, take a seat. You must be hungry.”
“Sure. Let’s see, should our Junie sit first? Where would you like to sit, sweetheart?”
He’d chosen a round table with no head seat, thinking it would feel more relaxed with fewer guests. Turned out, that had been the right call. The older brother, supposedly just two years older than Woo-jun and nearing thirty, plopped himself down in the best seat like a spoiled child clinging to his mother’s skirts.
Park Seon-jun, was it? Just one letter different in name, yet they couldn’t be more opposite. Han-seo found himself wondering—did other people see him like this? The thought made him resolve, uncharacteristically, to tone down his own clinginess around Woo-jun and his parents when others were around.
Once everyone was seated, the Korean course meal began. Knowing how long they’d been abroad, he’d asked his grandfather’s personal chef to prepare a menu with comforting, familiar flavors. The meal started with a refreshing pomegranate sikhye, followed by fragrant abalone and pine mushroom rice, and gleaming grilled sweetfish. Every dish was perfect. Pleased with the result, Han-seo pushed aside his earlier irritation and began to enjoy the food.
But the guests’ expressions remained unimpressed.
“What the hell is this…? You invited us all the way here just to serve us this? I thought we were getting something special. But it’s just soybean paste soup and rice…”
He might’ve meant it as a mutter, but the table wasn’t that big—and everyone, including the staff standing nearby, heard it loud and clear. Even the parents, who moments ago had cooed over their grown son like a toddler, looked a little embarrassed now. They covered it with exaggerated slurping noises as they ate the soup, muttering something about how delicious it was.
Of course it was delicious. The light soybean paste soup, made with clam broth and amaranth greens, had received glowing praise from the Prime Minister himself—who visited Chairman Choi every New Year without fail.
“I must’ve missed the mark with your tastes. I’m sorry if the meal wasn’t to your liking.”
“Ah, uh… yeah…”
Just endure it, Han-seo… He’s Woo-jun’s brother…
With a sigh, Han-seo gave up on trying to build any real relationship with Woo-jun’s family. He’d hoped, but no. This just wasn’t going to work. Better to finish his meal and leave it at that. From then on, he didn’t say another word to them—save for a brief goodbye—and quietly polished off his food. The pine-scented braised pork and the sweet cinnamon punch at the end wrapped up the meal perfectly.
***
Still, the discomfort lingered. The food had been more than enough to fill him, and convincing himself he wouldn’t be seeing those people again made their tactless behavior easier to stomach. But something still stuck in his chest.
Having asked the chef to pack up the evening’s menu, Han-seo arrived back at his place, still wearing a slightly sour expression. He was about to punch in the code, but before he could finish, the door flung open.
“Han-seo!”
A familiar voice, warm and cheerful, rang out—and there stood Park Woo-jun, fresh out of the shower with a damp towel draped over his head.
“You’re back?”
“Yeah…”
Park Woo-jun’s face, as he asked whether Han-seo had gotten back safely, was still bright and gentle—like a full Chuseok moon hanging in the sky. Strictly speaking, it should’ve been Han-seo asking him that question, considering Woo-jun was the one who’d just come out of a dungeon after four days. But somehow, drained in every possible way, Han-seo just gave a small nod and staggered forward, collapsing straight into his boyfriend’s open arms.
The solid feel of Woo-jun’s chest through the soft homewear was so comforting that Han-seo nuzzled his cheek against it. Above his head, a quiet laugh fluttered down. Woo-jun, as if he already knew exactly what had happened, gently rubbed his back with a warm, sweeping hand.
“You really had a rough time, huh? I told you—you didn’t have to meet them if it was too much.”
“N-no, I mean… they’re your family, so I figured I should. But…”
“But?”
“Mm…”
No matter how he worded it, it would just sound like he was badmouthing them. Han-seo glanced up at Woo-jun’s face, then bit his lower lip and shook his head.
“Never mind. Let’s just say… it probably would’ve been easier going into the dungeon with you.”
Even if you know something in theory, people can’t truly understand it unless they experience it for themselves. That had always been the case for Han-seo, especially when it came to family. The few friends he’d made before entering the Center had all come from the same upper-class world—children of privilege, just like him. There’d never been a reason, or a chance, for his perspective to grow beyond that narrow frame.
And so, Woo-jun had known—knew from the start—that there was no stopping Han-seo’s insistence. That desire to meet his family properly, greet them face-to-face, share a meal together… it couldn’t be reasoned away unless Woo-jun bared every ugly, shameful part of himself. In that sense, maybe it had been a small stroke of luck that a dungeon had opened right as his family returned to Korea. Because if Woo-jun had been there at the dinner… the hurt Han-seo felt might’ve cut even deeper. To them, Park Woo-jun would always be the scorned, unloved black sheep.
“Pfft. My poor Han-seo. You went through all that, huh? You really don’t need to think about them anymore, okay?”
“Yeah… okay…”
Han-seo, visibly deflated, let out a small whimper and kept stealing glances at Woo-jun’s face—something very unlike him. He clearly had something more to say. Woo-jun picked him up effortlessly and carried him into the kitchen. After unpacking the food into the fridge, they sat down together on the couch. Only after a long silence did Han-seo finally speak, his voice low and hesitant.
“Hey… Can I ask you something?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you… happen to contact your family right after you landed?”
“When would I have had time, baby? I’ve been in the dungeon nonstop since I got back.”
“Yeah… I figured…”
“Why? Did something happen? Did my brother say something?”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just… the more I think about it, the weirder it feels.”
“What does?”
“Your family.”
“…Yeah?”
“Not a single one of them asked how you were doing.”
