It began like any other day.
A Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday — the kind of day that is unremarkable in its very perfection. The kind of day no one remembers until memory rewrites it in the ink of blood and regret.
The sky over the Kang estate was a burnished gold that morning, the autumn sun filtering gently through the mist rising from the pine trees that lined the hills. The world outside remained distant — far beyond the electrified fences, the private security, the buffer of wealth that insulated the family from the mundane cruelties of life.
Dae-Hyun awoke late, his limbs heavy with comfort, the warmth of the duvet cocooning him in half-sleep. The bed beside him was empty, but not cold — Soo-Ah had risen early, as she always did, to meditate in the south garden. She liked the quiet of dawn, the hush before the machines of the world began to stir. A habit from her boarding school days in Switzerland, she once told him.
He lay still for a few more moments, eyes half-lidded, listening.
Somewhere down the corridor, a high, joyous peal of laughter rang out — Min-Jun's voice, unmistakable. That bubbling, unselfconscious glee only children possess. Dae-Hyun smiled and stretched, the sound tugging him out of slumber like gravity. He rose and slipped into a robe, the silk whispering against his skin as he padded barefoot across imported oak floors toward the nursery.
Min-Jun was bouncing in Soo-Ah's arms, clad in a pale blue romper with tiny bear ears stitched into the hood. His chubby fingers were tugging at her necklace — a slim, silver chain that had once belonged to her mother — and she was laughing softly, trying to pry his grip loose.
"There's the prince," she said as she saw Dae-Hyun, her face lighting up in that way that still made his breath catch. "And here's the little tyrant."
Dae-Hyun bent down and kissed his son's forehead, then Soo-Ah's cheek. He could still smell her lavender perfume — subtle, restrained. Regal.
"Today's the big day," she said, as she adjusted Min-Jun's tiny shoes. "His twelve-month vaccinations. He's going to hate it."
Dae-Hyun groaned theatrically. "Can't we just bribe the pediatrician to say he got them?"
Soo-Ah rolled her eyes. "Yes, let's raise our son to be immunocompromised and privileged. Very on brand."
Dae-Hyun grinned, but there was a flicker of discomfort in his chest. The hospital was a forty-minute drive, even with the convoy — and the thought of his son crying, being poked with needles — it unsettled him. He had never been good with distress. He had never been taught how to witness it.
"You want to come with us?" Soo-Ah asked, noticing the flicker behind his eyes.
He hesitated. He had a strategy meeting that morning — something his father had insisted he attend, even though Dae-Hyun rarely contributed more than vague affirmations. But he looked at Min-Jun's face — round, unbothered, his tiny hand now gripping a toy giraffe — and guilt began to rise.
Soo-Ah touched his arm, gentle. "It's fine, really. We'll be back before lunch."
"Promise?" he asked.
She smiled. "I always do."
And so, just before 10 a.m., she bundled Min-Jun into the custom child seat of their armored Rolls-Royce Cullinan. The nanny climbed into the front beside the driver, and the convoy rolled quietly down the private road, past the gates, into the waking world.
Dae-Hyun stood on the veranda, still in his robe, waving.
Soo-Ah blew him a kiss through the tinted glass. Min-Jun smacked his palm against the window, his tiny mouth open in a laugh too wide for his face. And then they turned the corner, disappeared down the hill, swallowed by trees.
That was the last time he saw them alive.
The call came an hour later.
The voice on the other end was calm — too calm — a hospital administrator trained for crisis.
"There's been an accident, sir. A multi-vehicle collision on the Expressway 1 near the Mapo Bridge. The vehicle transporting your wife and child was involved. We are still assessing—"
He did not wait to hear the rest. The phone slipped from his hand. For a moment, there was silence. Not the kind of silence that holds peace, but the kind that precedes a scream. He staggered backward, knocking over the breakfast tray. Silver cutlery clattered to the floor, but it sounded distant, as if occurring in another reality entirely.
The drive to the hospital was a blur. The convoy broke every traffic law in the city. By the time he arrived at the ER, he was already shaking.
The rest came in pieces, as if through water:
"Your son was pronounced dead at the scene."
"Instant. No suffering. Likely didn't feel—"
"Your wife is alive… but…"
"Severe cranial trauma."
"Induced coma. Swelling is critical. There's… there's minimal activity. We'll do everything we can, but…"
The words didn't make sense. They were shards. Sounds. Static.
His son was gone. Not sick. Not hurt. Not unconscious.
Gone.
His wife was still here, but not.
The difference tore him apart.
He stumbled into the ICU hours later, past security, past staff. Soo-Ah lay on the bed, her head wrapped in gauze, tubes snaking down her throat, machines beeping in sterile rhythm. Her body, still beautiful, but slack. Her lips slightly parted. Her chest rising and falling only because machines commanded it to.
Dae-Hyun fell to his knees at her bedside and screamed.
It was not a scream of anger. It was not even human.
It was the sound of a man whose soul had been torn open like paper — fragile, weak, and irreparable.