It was almost dawn when Hye-mi came home. The air was heavy, still. The front door creaked when he opened it — that kind of sound that made your chest tighten because you knew someone was awake.
The lights were off. But Joon-ho was there. Standing in the middle of the living room, barely a shape in the dark, the faint glow from the street catching his face — that cold, sharp look.
For a second, Hye-mi didn't breathe. He just stood there in his heels, dress torn near the hem, wig slightly crooked. His hands trembled as he set the purse down on the floor.
Then he lowered himself slowly, knees touching the cold tiles, and bowed his head. "...I'm sorry," he whispered.
Joon-ho didn't move. Didn't say a word at first. Just stared — long enough for the silence to start feeling like punishment.
Finally, his voice came. Low, controlled.
"What did you do out there, Hye-mi?"
Nothing. Not even a sound from Hye-mi.
