The night Oh Jihoon was born, the rain came down in sheets so thick it blurred the neon lights of Seoul into a watercolor smear. The kind of rain that made even the drunks stagger a little faster toward shelter and gave the streets the feel of a half-forgotten dream. Inside a cramped, third-floor apartment above a worn-out bar in Mapo, Oh Yejun screamed into a threadbare pillow, her nails clawing at the stained mattress as waves of pain tore through her body.
No one held her hand. No one whispered encouragement. No husband, no mother, no friend. Just a disinterested midwife from the neighborhood clinic who accepted cash up front and barely looked Yejun in the eye. The woman worked with the resigned professionalism of someone who had seen too many births like this—no records, no fathers, no future.
The moment the baby's first wail pierced the air, Yejun did not smile. She did not cry in joy. She looked at the wriggling, blood-slick infant with a stare that trembled between awe and disgust, like she had summoned a spirit she wasn't sure she wanted.
"A boy," the midwife muttered, already reaching for her gloves and plastic basin. "Healthy. He'll live."
He'll live. The words echoed in Yejun's mind, strange and cold. She should be grateful—this was her ticket. Her bargaining chip. Her revenge. She didn't need love. She needed recognition. Power. Her foot in the golden door she'd been scratching at for years.
"Jihoon," she whispered, more to herself than the child. "You're going to get us everything they denied me."
**
Oh Yejun had been beautiful once.
Not the soft, innocent beauty that wilted under harsh lights—but a hard, attention-grabbing allure, the kind that turned heads even in the gloom of a red-light bar. Her laughter could be sharp as broken glass or sweet as honey, depending on the customer and the price. For a time, men showered her with compliments and cheap roses, but it was Yeon Sunghan who made her believe she was destined for more.
Sunghan had walked into her bar dressed in tailored perfection—chaebol royalty in human form. Older, polished, married. But he saw her. Chose her. For over a year, he came to her apartment like a thief in the night, bringing promises and perfume, and when she grew bold enough to mention his wife, he'd kiss her until she forgot her name.
When she got pregnant, Yejun believed it was fate. The child would bind him to her. She'd move out of the slums, shed her past like a snakeskin, and become someone respected. Someone feared. She imagined a future where her son sat at the family table of the Yeon household, wearing custom-tailored suits and sipping wine aged older than himself.
She called Sunghan one rain-soaked morning, voice trembling with excitement.
"I'm pregnant."
Silence. Then, a long breath.
"That's not possible," he said flatly. "Take care of it."
Take. Care. Of. It.
The words struck harder than any slap. Her breath caught in her throat. "You said you loved me."
"I said what you wanted to hear. I have a family, Yejun. A name. This conversation never happened."
Click.
**
But she didn't take care of it.
She carried Jihoon like a banner, storming into the gilded lobby of the Yeon Group headquarters three months later, her belly pronounced, dressed in the most elegant knock-off designer coat she could afford. She demanded to see Sunghan. She shouted until security dragged her out.
The humiliation stung like acid, but her resolve only hardened. She tried again. And again.
Letters. Photos. DNA test threats. Legal paperwork—though she could barely afford a lawyer, and none would take her seriously.
Sunghan never responded. His wife, Choi Minae, did.
A single envelope arrived one afternoon, slipped under her door without a knock. Inside: a blank check, a confidentiality contract, and a photo of Choi Minae smiling coldly beside her two small children.
The message was clear.
Stay silent. Take the money. Your child means nothing.
Yejun stared at the photo until her vision blurred. The little toddler girl—Yeon Heesa—which presumably at the age of 1, looked pristine in a velvet dress, her short hair flowed like a porcelain doll. On the other hand, the young boy—Yeon Sungjae—already carried the weight of lineage in his eyes despite of his young age of 5. Perfect children. Perfect family.
There was no room for a mistake like Jihoon.
**
Oh Jihoon never cried much as a baby. Maybe he understood, somehow, that silence was the safest choice. Yejun cared for him in the mechanical way one waters a plant—enough to keep it alive, never enough to let it thrive.
At first, she tried to maintain the illusion of maternal affection. She cooed at him when visitors were present. She bought a second-hand stroller and pushed it around the nicer neighborhoods, daring people to question her place among them. But the stares always lingered. The whispers always cut.
By the time Jihoon was two, the mask had started to slip.
Yejun drank more. She started serving tables at night to cover debts, her dreams rotting like fruit left too long in the sun. The apartment filled with cigarette smoke and broken promises. Jihoon learned to shrink into corners. He learned that his mother's footsteps could mean warmth—or fury.
"You ruined everything," she spat once, gripping his tiny shoulders too tightly. "You were supposed to save me."
He didn't know what "supposed to" meant. But he knew it hurt.
**
As Jihoon grew, so did the silence in their home. Yejun stopped pretending altogether. She treated her son as an inconvenience, a reminder of a humiliation she could never wash away. She hit him when she was drunk. She ignored him when she was sober.
At age five, Jihoon learned how to microwave ramen. At age six, he learned to lie to the school nurse. At age seven, he learned that crying only made her angrier.
Yet he never ran away. Where would he go?
Hope was a dangerous thing. And Jihoon, despite everything, still hoped.
He hoped she would change. That she'd smile one morning and say she loved him. That his father, Sunghan would appear one day in a black car and say, "I made a mistake. Come home, son."
He watched rich families on TV dramas and believed—just for a moment—that maybe he was one of them. Maybe he was just lost.
Maybe someone was coming for him.
**
They never did.
And when Jihoon was ten, Yejun disappeared.
No note. No warning. Just an empty closet and an ashtray full of lipstick-stained butts. A neighbor said she'd seen Yejun leaving in the car of a rich-looking man. Laughed and said she finally found someone to sponsor her. No one bothered to ask about the boy she left behind.
It took social services a week to find Jihoon alone in the apartment. Malnourished. Quiet. He didn't cry when they took him away. He didn't speak at all.
He was sent to a state-run orphanage on the outskirts of Seoul—an overworked, underfunded place where the older kids ruled and the staff barely cared. Jihoon became invisible. He ate quickly. Slept lightly. He learned that kindness was usually a trick.
They beat him sometimes. Took his food. Mocked the way he spoke—too soft, too slow. But he endured. He had learned from the best.
Yejun hadn't taught him love. She had taught him how to survive.
**
In school, Jihoon kept his head down. He listened more than he spoke. He sat in the back, scribbling notes on dog-eared textbooks. Teachers noted his intelligence but never pressed too hard. He was just another scholarship case. Another unwanted child.
He never told anyone who his father was. He barely believed it himself. The name "Yeon Sunghan" sat in his throat like a stone. Heavy. Unswallowable.
Sometimes, at night, Jihoon would sneak into the orphanage's tiny computer lab and search the Yeon family online. He watched videos of young Sungjae giving speeches at elite schools. He saved photos of Heesa attending fashion shows for exposure with her parents and sibling even with such a young age. He read articles about Sunghan's business deals, mergers, charity appearances.
In every image, they looked untouchable. Perfect. Complete.
He would trace the screen with his fingers and whisper, "Do you even know I exist?"
**
When Jihoon turned fifteen, he thought he had learned everything there was to know about rejection. But fate wasn't done with him yet.
That year, he transferred to a prestigious public high school after scoring high on a national exam. The school was filled with rich kids—sons of CEOs, daughters of politicians. Jihoon knew he didn't belong. His uniform was second-hand. His shoes had holes. He carried his books in a canvas bag he'd stitched himself.
Still, he studied. Endured. Hoped.
That's when Kang Taeho appeared.
Tall. Charismatic. Effortlessly powerful. Taeho was the kind of person everyone orbited around, even the teachers. And for some reason, he noticed Jihoon.
Noticed him. Spoke to him. Sat beside him.
Jihoon didn't dare believe it. But it was real—Taeho smiled at him. Asked about his drawings. Shared his umbrella.
And Jihoon, starved for affection, started to hope again.
But hope—like every fragile thing in Jihoon's life—was always destined to shatter.
**
For now, though, he was just a boy.
A boy who had learned too soon that some children are born into love, and others are born into leverage.
He was the latter.
Oh Jihoon, the unwanted child.
But his story—his pain, his quiet strength, and the cruel twist of fate that would bind him to the very people who rejected him—was only beginning