The rest of the day moved on like nothing unusual had happened, which was exactly how school liked it. By lunch break, the earlier commotion had already transformed into gossip, exaggerated and reshaped with every retelling.
"So she's really Hoyeol-hyung's cousin?"
"Yeah, apparently."
"Her parents died like… three weeks ago or something."
"That's rough."
They sat clustered around desks pushed together, half-eaten lunches spread out in front of them. Hoyeol leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes half-closed as if he wasn't listening, but the slight tension in his jaw said otherwise.
"She's staying with you now?" someone asked.
Hoyeol nodded. "No other relatives nearby. What was I supposed to do, leave her alone?"
A few approving murmurs followed.
"Respect."
"She seems quiet."
"She better not get bullied again."
Taehyun listened quietly, chin resting on his palm. The noise faded into the background as one sentence repeated itself in his head.
Her parents died.
The classroom dissolved.
Rain poured from a colorless sky. The world smelled like wet concrete and rust. A tall shadow loomed over him, face blackened, distorted, screaming words that cut deeper than any slap ever could. A hand shoved him forward, hard enough that he almost fell.
You ruined my life.
Thunder cracked. His chest felt too tight to breathe—
"Taehyun?"
He blinked.
The classroom snapped back into focus. Someone was waving a hand in front of his face.
"You zoning out again," his benchmate said. "You good?"
Taehyun straightened, forcing his shoulders loose. "Yeah."
Hoyeol glanced at him. "You sure?"
Taehyun nodded once, then looked away. "That's sad," he said quietly.
No one pushed further. The conversation drifted somewhere else, lighter topics taking over, and the bell rang not long after, rescuing everyone from thoughts they didn't want to sit with.
After school, the mood shifted entirely.
They crammed into a small karaoke bar a few streets away, the kind that smelled faintly of soda and old microphones. Music blasted through thin walls, laughter echoing down the hallway as someone butchered a love song dramatically off-key.
Taehyun sat on the couch, drink in hand, watching his friends argue over whose turn it was next.
"Sing," someone shoved the mic toward him.
"No."
"Coward."
"Real men don't scream into microphones."
Hoyeol laughed. "He's lying. He just doesn't want to embarrass himself."
"Like you have standards," Taehyun shot back.
The room erupted.
For a while, there was nothing else. No weight. No memories. Just noise, dumb jokes, and the comfort of being normal.
Taehyun stood up before it got too late. "I'm heading out."
"Aww, already?"
"Party pooper."
He waved them off and slipped outside, the city swallowing him once again. Neon signs reflected off wet asphalt as he walked, expression calm, steps unhurried. A taxi ride later, the noise of the streets faded into silence as the elevator carried him upward.
The penthouse floor opened into a space that felt entirely different from the world below.
Warm lights illuminated a wide hall, modern and understated. Leather couches were arranged in a loose circle, glass tables between them. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked central Seoul, the city glittering like something distant and untouchable.
Fifteen people were already seated.
The moment Taehyun stepped in, every single one of them stood and bowed deeply.
"Good evening."
"Welcome."
Taehyun stopped just inside the door, eyes sweeping over them lazily.
"…You're all too polite," he said.
Everyone chuckled softly.
Hoyeol, seated casually with one leg crossed over the other, didn't move an inch.
Taehyun glanced at him. "Hey," he said, mock-serious. "At least respect your elders."
Hoyeol snorted. "You're younger than half the people in this room."
Laughter spread, easy and familiar. The tension dissolved instantly as Taehyun took his seat at the center couch, posture relaxed, elbows resting loosely on his knees.
"Alright," he said. "Garam Street."
One of the men leaned forward, pushing a tablet onto the table. "Clean operation. Two distribution points shut down. No civilian injuries."
Another added, "Evidence was handed over anonymously. Police moved in within the hour."
"And the payout?" Taehyun asked.
"Transferred. Same as last time."
Screens lit up, figures scrolling past—numbers that meant very different things depending on who was looking. To outsiders, Garam Street had simply gotten quieter. To those in this room, it was another knot untangled.
"They're getting closer," someone said. "Police presence is heavier this week."
Taehyun nodded. "Let them be."
One by one, the people around him spoke—heads of logistics, finance, intel, territory management. None of them talked about selling, dealing, or expanding influence. Instead, they discussed routes shut down, gangs dismantled, anonymous tips sent, and money funneled through legal channels as rewards and compensation.
They weren't criminals.
They were cleaners.
Taehyun listened, occasionally interjecting, occasionally teasing, the atmosphere calm but sharp, like a blade resting in its sheath. From the windows behind him, Seoul continued to glow, unaware of how much of its shadow was being quietly rearranged.
When the meeting wound down, he leaned back, gaze drifting toward the city.
Earlier that day, in a classroom full of noise, someone had said that's sad.
Now, surrounded by people who bowed to him without hesitation, the words echoed again—soft, distant, unresolved.
The night stretched on, silent and watchful.
And somewhere between those two worlds, Yoon Taehyun existed comfortably in both.