Joo Won returned to his apartment after Hana left. He advanced towards the cake.
His gaze drifted across the room, past the expensive, unloved furniture, and landed on the one object that held meaning: the cake box from Ji Woo. He advanced towards the cake.
"Ji Woo..." he began, his voice a hushed, raw whisper in the empty room. He spoke to the cake as if it were the friend himself, a conduit for words he could never say aloud. "Thank you that you reached out to me because of this... because of his birthday. But....how will I save you now?"
He sat there for a long moment. Joo Won got to live again. Even if it was just for a little while.
With reverent care, he sliced a single, small piece from Ji Woo's cake and dedicated it to friendship and a small piece from Hana's cake, dedicating it Bae Hoon wishing him a happy birthday. He ate it slowly, savoring every sweet crumb, a taste of friendship and a memory of a life that once was. Then, with the tenderness of someone preserving a sacred relic, he carefully wrapped the rest and placed it in the freezer—a secret treasure, a tangible piece of warmth to return to on the cold, lonely nights and dread that were yet to come.
Today was Bae Hoon's birthday, which meant Joo Won was not needed, not wanted, nowhere. The world expected the heir to be celebrated; the Hwangs required his absence.
He decided the only way to endure the day was to sleep through it. But as he moved through the living room, his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the couch. The memory struck him with physical force: the feel of Hana's soft skin, the taste of her lips, the electric charge that had shattered his carefully constructed control. A faint, involuntary blush warmed his cheeks.
The warmth was instantly doused by the cold splash of reality that followed. He saw her shocked expression after his revealing his secret, the deliberate, chilling formality in her voice when she called him "Joo Won-ssi." The honorifics had built a wall between them higher than any the Chairman had ever constructed.
A wave of self-pity washed over him. What a complicated, miserable life, he thought, the weight of it pressing down on him. She represented everything warm and bright and normal—everything his existence was not. He had no right to pull her into his darkness, to tangle her in his web of lies.
The desire that had flared so powerfully now seemed like a selfish mistake. He resolved to apologize the next time he saw her. He would retreat behind the mask of Hwang Bae Hoon, the distant and polite heir, and lock away the part of him that was still Joo Won, the boy who longed for her.
Seeking oblivion, he shook a sleeping pill into his palm. Without water, he swallowed it dry, its bitter taste a fitting end to the night. Then he retreated into the bedroom, closing the door on the world, and surrendered himself to a deep, chemical sleep.
The next day was Christmas. In the world of the Hwangs, this meant one thing: the annual Christmas gala, a glittering spectacle meticulously designed to showcase their immense wealth, far-reaching influence, and their prized son—Bae Hoon. For years, he had been the centerpiece of this charade, ordered to stand for countless photos, endure the hollow well-wishing of business partners, and play the part of the perfect heir.
But this year was different. This year, he had failed. He had not won the competition, and in the eyes of the Chairman, that failure had rendered him unworthy of being paraded. The failure of Joo Won was the failure of their dear Bae Hoon. To parade him now would be to risk a whisper, a veiled smirk from a guest.
And for the first time, Joo Won was profoundly relieved due to his own disgrace.
Comfort settled over him. He was spared. Spared from the exhausting theater of it all—the fake smiles plastered on the faces of the Hwangs' guests, the stiff, customary Christmas photo in front of the towering tree, the empty hugs and hollow compliments. He was free from the gossiping middle-aged women whose eyes always lingered on him a little too long, their gazes sharp and calculating, like foxes eyeing a choice piece of meat.
Being forgotten, he realized, was a far greater gift than any that would be exchanged at that party. For the first Christmas in years, he was granted the peace of his own silence. He slept through the Christmas Eve, so he was recharged completely. He planned to make good food today and eat. He thought to himself what he should make, pasta? He remembered Hana's compliments.
The blush vanished as quickly as it came. His smile faded. No. Not pasta. Pasta was no longer just a dish; it had become inextricably linked to her—to a moment of connection that had ended in disaster. To make it now would feel like trying to recreate a warmth that had turned to ice.
He couldn't let a memory hold that kind of power over him. He needed to reclaim his kitchen, his peace.
He turned away from the thought, opening the refrigerator to see what else he could find. Today's meal would be something new, something that belonged only to him.
His eyes landed on a container of well-fermented kimchi nestled in the back of his refrigerator given by the old cleaning lady from the office. She was so touched that Bae Hoon helped her, even though it was for a little while, she gave him her very own home-made kimchi. Its pungent, familiar scent wafted out when he opened the lid, a smell that spoke of comfort, of resilience, of something deeply and authentically Korean. It was the opposite of the Hwangs' western delicacies. It was real.
Kimchi jjigae, he decided. A stew for one.
The process was methodical, almost meditative. He chopped a portion of pork belly, the firm texture satisfying under his knife. He sliced tofu into neat, white cubes and minced a clove of garlic. In a sturdy pot, he sautéed the pork until it rendered its fat and turned golden, then added the kimchi, letting it sizzle and soften, its vibrant red color deepening.
The apartment began to fill with a rich, spicy, and deeply savory aroma—a stark contrast to the sterile, perfumed air he usually breathed. He added water, a spoonful of gochujang for depth, and let it all come to a boil before gently adding the tofu and a handful of sliced green onions.
As the stew simmered, he prepared a single bowl of rice, the cooker humming softly. He set a simple placemat on the counter, just one set of chopsticks, one spoon.
When the jjigae was ready, he ladled it into a large, earthenware bowl, the broth bubbling and red, packed with kimchi, tofu, and pork. He carried it to the counter and sat alone.
He remembered the polaroid given by Hana kept on the table in front of the couch. He walked over and picked it up, his fingers brushing over its plastic casing. Then he saw it: the first photo, lay on the table uncared for, slightly hazy and captured in the soft light just before their world had tilted into passion. It was a picture of Hana, her expression a beautiful mix of surprise and warmth, a moment frozen in time before everything became complicated.
Her words echoed in his mind: "Any time you accomplish something good, eat something delicious, have a truly good day... capture it."
A small, private smile touched his lips. He had accomplished something today. He had chosen himself. He had made something delicious, for no one else but himself.
Raising the camera, he pointed it at the steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae.
He took the first spoonful. It was hot, spicy, deeply flavorful, and utterly comforting. It was a taste that elevated him above everything. In this bowl was no pretense, no performance for guests. It was just him, Joo Won, nourishing himself. It was a quiet act of defiance and self-preservation. For the first time in a long time, on a day meant for family, he felt, in his solitude, truly and completely full.
He was working on some pending tasks from their gaming project after his breakfast. Then he went to make lunch around 10am. He decided to make Coq au Vin.
It was a dish he'd learned in the quiet, lonely years in the U.S., a recipe he'd practiced until his hands could perform the steps without his mind's participation. It was a ritual of precision, a welcome distraction from the gilded cage of his existence.
He descended into the building's subterranean gourmet market. He moved with purpose unlike most shoppers. He selected a good Burgundy wine. He chose pearl onions, mushrooms with tight, firm caps, and a whole chicken, which he would break down himself. The act of selecting each ingredient was a meditation.
Back in his kitchen, he set to work. The first step was the most cathartic: segmenting the chicken. He laid the whole bird on the cutting board, its skin pale and smooth. With a sharp chef's knife, he began. The thwack of the blade through cartilage and joint was a satisfying, concrete sound in the silent apartment. He separated the legs, the wings, the breasts, each cut clean and deliberate. It was a quiet act of control.
He salted the pieces generously, then seared them in a heavy Dutch oven until the skin was a deep, golden brown, the rendered fat sizzling in the pot. The rich, savory smell began to replace the sterile air. He set the chicken aside and in the same pot, sautéed the bacon lardons until they were crisp, their smoky fat perfuming the entire kitchen. Next came the pearl onions and mushrooms, tossed and glazed until they were tender and fragrant.
The wine came next. He poured the entire bottle into the pot, the deep ruby liquid splashing against the sides, releasing a sharp, alcoholic aroma that quickly mellowed as it hit the hot base. He added a spoonful of tomato paste, a bouquet garni of thyme and bay leaf, and then returned the chicken to the pot, submerging it in the deepening, burgundy-hued sauce.
He brought it to a bare simmer, then covered it. The hardest part began: the waiting. For the next two hours, the apartment filled with the most incredible aroma—a complex symphony of rich red wine, earthy mushrooms, savory chicken, and smoky bacon. It was a smell that felt both foreign and comforting, a world away from the spices of Korean cooking, yet just as soulful.
When he finally lifted the lid, the sauce had reduced to a glossy, deep brown glaze, clinging to the fall-off-the-bone tender chicken. He plated a piece of the dark meat, spooning over the onions, mushrooms, and a generous amount of sauce.
He sat at the counter alone, the steam rising into his face. He took a bite. The chicken was impossibly tender, the sauce rich and complex, a perfect balance of wine, meat, and earth. It was flawless.
Oh a photo. He almost forgot.
Click, a blank film came out.