There was a time when he had gone to find Ji Chanwoo’s son. Since there was only one hospital onboard anyway, and he’d once heard the name from Ji Chanwoo while he was alive, it hadn’t been difficult. He knew the boy was unconscious, but he had wanted to meet him at least once—to share stories about his father.
And there, he received unexpected news.
“You’re asking about the patient under Min Sanghan’s guardianship, correct? I’m sorry, but unless you’re a blood relative, you won’t be allowed to visit someone in the ICU.”
“What?”
“If you’re not related by blood…”
“Ah, no. What did you say the guardian’s name was again?”
“Min Sanghan.”
At the time, the name had come out of nowhere, leaving him speechless.
Was it the same Min Sanghan he knew? And if so, why was he the one looking after Ji Chanwoo’s son? Of course, he couldn’t help but question it.
He went straight to Min Sanghan for answers.
“I heard… besides Jaejin and Heeseo, there was another person who tragically died in an accident. And that person had a sick child.”
Min Sanghan shook his head regretfully.
“There’s no other family, apparently. And it just broke my heart.”
That’s why he had decided he’d become the guardian himself.
“……”
He gazed at Min Yugeon’s back as the boy hummed and prepared ingredients.
Min Sanghan might not have been a good father to Min Yugeon, but he had become a good adult figure to someone else. Even for him—he had received immense help on more than one occasion. With the funeral for his parents, and again during the process of restarting the Military Beast Project, Min Sanghan’s seasoned guidance and support had been invaluable.
Even so… it still would’ve been best if he’d become the kind of adult this kid could lean on.
At least it was a small relief that he and Lee Minha still maintained a good relationship.
“You’re gonna burn a hole in my back. What are you staring at so hard?”
It was only after hearing that teasing voice that he realized how long he’d been staring at the boy.
But how had he noticed without even turning around?
He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth.
“Maybe it’s because you’re overly conscious of me.”
“Ooh… sharp.”
Min Yugeon looked back and grinned.
He shook his head at the flippant reply, but ended up chuckling despite himself, a little wounded pride peeking through.
***
The moment he arrived at work, he got a message from Min Sanghan asking to have lunch together. So when the time came, he split off from his team and headed for the director’s office.
“You’re here, Team Leader Seo.”
The secretary stationed outside stood up with a bright smile.
“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 director’s door and stepped inside.
A moment later, Min Sanghan appeared, already in his coat, walking out with the secretary.
“Oh, Suho.”
“Director.”
“I made a reservation. Let’s go out.”
Min Sanghan patted his shoulder twice. Without a word, he followed behind.
It wasn’t that they had never gone out for lunch before. In fact, back when he first joined the lab, Min Sanghan had often taken him out to eat. His treatment had been so obviously special that there’d been ongoing complaints about favoritism for a while.
But as he gained more foundational knowledge in Building A and gradually adapted to life at the lab, those meals became less frequent. After earning the qualifications to lead a project and moving over to Building B, it became rare to even see his face.
He’d gotten busier with his growing responsibilities, but it wasn’t as if Min Sanghan had free time either. He had always had a full schedule of lunch guests, and yet had still made time for him.
“It’s been a while since we’ve eaten together like this, huh?”
Once they left the lab and were seated at the reserved restaurant, Min Sanghan struck up conversation right away. He nodded while wiping his hands with a wet napkin.
“Yeah, it has.”
“Still gets my heart racing, you know.”
Min Sanghan pressed a hand firmly to his chest, grumbling.
“The demo, I mean. What if you’d gotten seriously hurt?”
“It’s been days since it ended. Shouldn’t you be the one seeing a doctor?”
He replied in a flat tone. Min Sanghan slowly lowered his hand.
“Pfft, come on. I didn’t mean it literally.”
“I didn’t either. And the demo… it may have seemed a bit excessive, but this is about the survival of the project. We need tangible results to move forward.”
The commander had high hopes for the Military Beast Project that his mother and father had initiated, but truthfully, he hadn’t been very receptive when it became Suho’s turn. Thinking about it from the commander’s perspective, it was understandable. His parents had continued the project for years but died without producing any definitive results, and most of the accumulated research data had been lost. The frustration and regret he must’ve felt during that time probably lingered even after all those years, leaving him skeptical about restarting the project.
It was only thanks to Min Sanghan’s proactive persuasion that the restart had been approved—but even then, Suho had to prove through the demo that the decision wasn’t in vain.
“…Suho.”
Min Sanghan looked at him quietly.
“You’ve worked hard. Really hard—and fast.”
“……”
“Think about it. You achieved in a short time what your parents couldn’t in over a decade. I think it’s time you allowed yourself a little room to breathe.”
He already had plenty of breathing room—though it wasn’t by choice.
Reaching the ultimate goal of military beast commercialization would take time anyway. Just like Rai and Cat, establishing emotional synchronization with a monster—the first step to cultivating military beasts—hadn’t been the issue. The real question was whether these monsters could eventually be made to live as true military beasts.
No matter how hard they fought to protect humans, if “human” referred only to him, then it meant nothing.
He wasn’t a soldier. The monsters meant to become military beasts had to protect the soldiers they’d be paired with.
Finding the way to make that happen through Cat—that was his job now. For the time being, the most practical method was to stay by the soldiers’ side and help Cat gradually suppress his aggression toward them. The same way Rai had done with his parents.
Of course, by that logic, Cat should have first relaxed around his own team members whom he saw every day—but there was no telling when that time would come.
Even if he didn’t want to be relaxed, circumstances forced him to be.
“Hey, Suho.”
As if he knew exactly what Suho was thinking, Min Sanghan clicked his tongue.
“Having a strong sense of purpose in life is a good thing. But sometimes I worry that you’re too fixated on fulfilling your mom and dad’s wishes. Like you’re possessed by this sense of obligation.”
His voice carried a quiet sorrow.
“Of course, Heeseo and Jaejin would’ve been immensely proud of you. I’m proud too—so imagine how they would’ve felt.”
Ahem. Min Sanghan cleared his throat. Perhaps overwhelmed by emotion, he grabbed his water and drank it down in big gulps.
“Still, I don’t think they would’ve wanted you to spend your life doing nothing but work. They would’ve wanted you to meet someone you love, to lean on them, to take breaks now and then.”
He spoke like a parent himself, as if he knew exactly how they must have felt. Suho quietly listened, watching the man before him.
It was only now that he noticed how much whiter Min Sanghan’s hair had gotten, and how deep the wrinkles had grown.
If his parents had lived, wouldn’t they have grown old like this too, fussing over him with that same gentle affection?
“I’m content with the way I live now,” he said honestly, to reassure him.
“Yugeon’s with me too.”
“…Is that so.”
Min Sanghan replied a beat late. He stared at the dishes laid out on the table before slowly lifting his head.
“How’s he doing?”
“No issues. Hasn’t… reached out yet, I guess.”
“Still the same.”
Min Sanghan gave a bitter smile.
“He’s probably still resenting me.”
“……”
“It’s my fault.”
Min Sanghan murmured.
“All of it came from my own greed.”
Even as he looked at the sorrow weighing heavily on Min Sanghan’s face, Suho remained silent.
Should he side with Min Yugeon and blame Min Sanghan? Or take Min Sanghan’s side and urge Yugeon to see his father again?
No matter how close they were, family matters were still family matters. Anything beyond a few comforting words would be crossing the line—nothing more than a reckless intrusion.
Besides, he’d always believed the rift between the two had been Min Sanghan’s fault.
He didn’t want to risk saying something careless.
“Suho. I used to be like that too—only able to see one thing.”
Min Sanghan pushed a dish Suho liked closer to him, almost like he was saying eat while you listen.
“But once I achieved that dream, I realized I had lost the most important thing to me.”
Family. Even if he didn’t spell it out, it was obvious.
“But I still have you.”
Suho froze just as he was about to pick up his chopsticks. The warmth in Min Sanghan’s eyes swept over him.
“Even when a child becomes an adult, to a parent’s eyes, they’re never fully grown. I wasn’t there to watch Yugeon grow up… but seeing you mature here at the lab, it’s made me think a lot.”
“……”
“You’re like a son to me, Suho.”
“…Director.”
“So if there’s anything hard, anything you need, talk to me anytime.”
Suho gave a small nod.
“I will. Thank you.”
“When it’s just us, talk more casually, will you?”
Min Sanghan shook his head, helpless and fond, as though he’d already given up trying.
