The corridors of the Park estate had always been unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that carried more weight than any spoken word. Jimin remembered walking through them as a boy, small feet echoing against polished marble, his shadow stretching long under the golden lights. The walls never listened, never cared — they only reflected the cold distance between him and the man who called himself his father.
Park Dae-Hyun was not the sort of man who raised his voice; he didn't need to. His silence was sharper than any reprimand, his eyes harder than any punishment. Words were a currency he spent sparingly, and affection was one he never bothered to invest in. Jimin grew up chasing fragments — a nod of acknowledgment at a school achievement, a glance that wasn't entirely dismissive during dinner, the rare moment when his father's voice softened, usually when speaking to someone else.
Even as a child, Jimin understood the hierarchy of affection in that house. His mother's smiles were warm, but they never lasted; her gaze often drifted toward the man sitting at the head of the table, searching for approval that never came. Dae-Hyun wasn't cruel in the way people imagined cruelty — there were no shouts, no slammed doors. Instead, there was a slow, suffocating erosion of warmth. Every missed birthday wish, every unspoken "I'm proud of you," every moment his father chose business over blood built a wall Jimin couldn't climb.
Sometimes, late at night, Jimin would hear the faint sound of his mother crying in the music room, the notes of her piano melting into a muffled ache. He never asked her why. Some truths were too heavy for a child to carry, and some silences were too dangerous to break.
He learned early to stop expecting and start earning. His father believed respect came from results, not relationships, and Jimin vowed he would give him both — though deep down, he wondered if even that would be enough.
Years blurred. The boy who once searched for warmth became a man who no longer needed it.
The penthouse office of Park Industries sat high above the city, its floor-to-ceiling windows painting the skyline in cold shades of grey. Jimin stood there now, watching the clouds gather over Seoul, hands in his pockets, posture straight. His reflection in the glass stared back at him — sharp suit, expression unreadable, eyes that gave nothing away. The board called him efficient. Employees called him intimidating. The press called him untouchable.
He preferred it that way.
Every morning began the same. He arrived at the headquarters at exactly 7:45, greeted no one, and went straight to his office. The coffee on his desk was always black, untouched until after his first meeting. His schedule was carved with precision — thirty minutes for market reports, fifteen for reviewing legal contracts, one hour for negotiations. There was no room for idle conversation, no space for the personal. Those who worked under him learned quickly: he did not tolerate delays, excuses, or sentiment.
Today, his assistant knocked softly on the door, placing a file on his desk. "Sir, the Tokyo branch reports another delay in shipment."
Jimin didn't look up from the document in front of him. "Find out who's responsible and make sure it doesn't happen again." His voice was calm, almost bored, but the underlying authority left no room for argument.
"Yes, sir."
The phone rang. A client in New York wanted to renegotiate terms. Jimin listened without interrupting, his tone icy when he finally replied, "If they want to walk away, let them. I don't do desperation deals." The call ended, and he moved on as though it had never happened.
In the boardroom, his presence dominated without effort. He spoke little, but when he did, people leaned in. His strategies were sharp, often ruthless, but always effective. Competitors called him a machine — he took it as a compliment. The company thrived under his leadership, though whispers circulated that he drove his executives to the edge.
Outside the glass walls of his office, the world saw power, control, and unshakable confidence. Inside, there was a quiet he never quite escaped — the same quiet from his childhood, lingering like a shadow. It was there when he stayed late into the night, signing documents long after the city lights dimmed. It was there when he poured himself a glass of whiskey in the solitude of his penthouse, staring at the city without really seeing it.
Some nights, the past crept in uninvited. He would remember the look in his father's eyes the day he took over the company — not pride, not joy, just a silent acknowledgment, as though Jimin had done nothing more than fulfill an obligation. That same look still haunted him, pushing him to work harder, longer, colder.
A knock at the door pulled him back. His assistant returned, hesitant. "Sir, the Singapore partners are threatening to pull out unless we address the shipment delays immediately."
Jimin closed the file in his hands, leaning back in his chair. "Prepare a new logistics proposal. I'll handle the negotiations personally."
"Yes, sir."
When the door closed again, the room was silent but for the hum of the city below. Jimin didn't mind. He had lived his whole life in that silence, shaped by it, armored in it.
The boy who once longed for his father's approval was gone. In his place stood a man who no longer sought it — but who carried its absence like a ghost, one that followed him into every deal, every decision, every cold, precise move he made.
Why jimin and his father never understands each other ?
What's the reason of this coldness ?
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