The atmosphere in the grand dining hall shifted instantly as the family took their designated seats.
Jin-hyun's father, Park Jin-su—the primary owner of Kirin Arts High School and a prominent member of the Seoul Arts High Foundation Council—sat directly across the table from his brother, Chairman Park Jin-ho.
When Jin-hyun formally introduced me, I bowed deeply from my seat, offering a genuine word of gratitude.
"Mr. Park, thank you very much for approving my admission and exchange scholarship to Kirin Arts. It has given me an incredible opportunity."
Park Jin-su didn't smile. He merely tilted his head, his cold, dark eyes—nearly identical to Jin-hyun's, but entirely stripped of warmth or humor—scanning my face.
"You do not need to thank me, Mr. Motuzenko," Park Jin-su said, his voice flat, measured, and dangerously distant. He didn't even look at his brother as he flicked his gaze across the table. "I am not the one who signed off on your final clearance."
He looked at Park Jin-ho. The brief, silent exchange between the two brothers carried an aura so frosty and indifferent it sent a chill straight down my spine.
I looked at Jin-hyun, then back at his father. Park Jin-su gave off the impression of an intensely cold, calculating man—an ominous presence whose detachment felt almost unnatural. For the first time since arriving in Korea, I didn't envy the unimaginable wealth surrounding me. Having a loving, loud, and protective family like the Lees was worth infinitely more than sitting in a palace built on frozen stone.
'Though...' I cautioned myself internally, taking a subtle breath, maybe he's only acting like this because he's sitting directly across from his primary rival. His enemy. I still didn't fully comprehend how deep the roots of hatred ran between these two brothers, but the tension in the room was thick enough to slice with a steak knife.
As the meal progressed, the passive-aggressive jabs between Park Jin-su and Park Jin-ho began to escalate, their polite corporate jargon laced with razor-sharp venom over foundation management and Kirin's budget allocations.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
CLINK.
The sharp, crystal chime of a silver fork striking a glass cut through the hall.
Absolute silence fell over the table instantly.
The sound originated from right beside me—the head of the family.
Grandpa slowly shook his head, looking down the length of the long oak table with a heavy, profound sigh.
"You haven't changed at all... my dear sons." He paused, setting his fork down. "Let us eat first."
He offered a brief nod toward the head steward.
At once, four uniformed maids emerged from the side pantries like a synchronized dance ensemble, moving fluidly around the massive table to serve the first course. I sat rigidly in my chair, feeling profoundly uncomfortable and awkward.
I usually served my own plate; having personal attendants hovering over my shoulders just to dish out salad felt entirely unnatural.
'Jin-hyun's definition of a 'casual family dinner' is severely distorted,' I groaned internally. The normalcy of this dynasty differed radically from an ordinary household, carrying the heavy, gilded burdens of a real chaebol clan.
Course after course arrived with military precision. When everyone finished the main entrée, the maids cleared the plates and served delicate desserts, followed by pouring glasses of deep crimson wine for the adults and teenagers.
I noticed something strange across the table: Kang Min-ah was finishing every single bite on her plate, leaving almost nothing behind. From our lunches at Kirin, I knew the Database Queen wasn't usually a heavy eater, but here, she ate with disciplined, almost mechanical focus.
By the time the final course was cleared even I carried a slight, heavy fullness in my stomach. It wasn't quite the extreme, overfed state my Ukrainian grandmother routinely induced with mashed potatoes and varenyky, but I definitely knew I'd have to wait a couple of minutes before attempting any pull-ups.
I wasn't a big fan of red wine, preferring simple water, but looking at the rigid hierarchy of the table, I didn't dare refuse the glass poured before me.
I took a polite, subtle sip.
Park Jin-su set his wine glass down, his cold eyes fixing on me across the candlelight.
"So, Mr. Motuzenko," Jin-su started, his measured tone breaking the silence. "I heard that your group won the Autumn Festival at Kirin. I even heard you were the one who gathered the band together."
Before I could formulate an administrative response, Park Jin-ho leaned forward from his seat, a subtle, patronizing smirk catching his lips.
"Ah, yes. I was there at the amphitheatre myself," Park Jin-ho chimed in, swirling his crimson wine. "They were hardly brilliant from a technical standpoint, but... I suppose they had a rather youthful, fresh sound."
Chairman Park Jin-ho shifted his gaze straight to mine, his eyes narrowing with a sharp, heavy expectation.
"Of course," the Chairman added smoothly, "when Jin-woo finally wakes up... I assume you will gracefully step back and give up the space you took as the frontman."