The sun bled its gold across the Kang estate, but the morning was not warm.
Not in the air.Not in the house.And certainly not in Soo-Ah's heart.
She waited at the head of the breakfast table, a crystal carafe of pomegranate juice untouched beside her, and her expression taut with a fury that simmered just beneath the surface. She had spent all night tossing between indignation and anxiety, her mind clawing at fragments of memories, piecing together every moment that hinted at how much he had unraveled and how masterfully he had stitched the ruin back together.
It was past 7 AM when she heard the steady rhythm of his footsteps approaching.
No sluggishness.No guilt.Not even the faintest echo of discomfort.
He entered the room in a three-piece charcoal suit, tie already immaculately knotted, shirt perfectly pressed, hair slicked back like he had time to court kings and burn empires before breakfast. He looked not like a man who had been scolded the night before — or even a man who had shattered glass in silence — but like some mythic automaton carved from marble and programmed to dominate the world.
"Morning," he said, as he passed by her chair and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
Soo-Ah flinched.
That simple, casual affection — as if nothing had happened — scraped against her nerves like rusted wire.
"You're fine," she said bitterly, refusing to return his greeting. "You're completely fine. Aren't you?"
He turned to her, blinking, brow raised — the very image of calm confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't play stupid," she snapped. "Last night. The party. What you said about being insane. The glass. The way you just... smirked through everything. You acted like it was all a joke. You think this is funny?"
And still, Dae-Hyun smiled.
Not with cruelty.Not mockery.Just with that same gentle, infuriating, empty calm.
"I was joking," he said softly. "I'm sorry if it upset you. I didn't mean to. I… didn't think it mattered anymore. Yesterday's just… yesterday."
He reached for his coffee, as if that explained everything.
As if the madness could be rinsed off like night sweat.
As if her pain — his pain — wasn't rotting in the walls between them.
Soo-Ah's eyes narrowed, and she pushed back her chair so forcefully it screeched.
"I don't get it," she said. "I don't get how you can joke about it and go back to being… this. Like you're not cracked down the middle. Like everything is fine. Are you seriously okay? Or have you just… lost the ability to care?"
He took a sip of his coffee. No rush. No irritation. Just unhurried stillness.
Then, gently, he placed the cup down, his eyes finally rising to meet hers. That gaze — that cold, infinite thing she had never seen before the accident — washed over her like a winter tide.
"Soo-Ah," he said, voice low. "You think I'm fine?"
She hesitated.
Yes.No.She didn't know anymore.
"You're acting like nothing happened," she said, quieter now. "Like you're not hurting at all. It's unnatural."
"I assure you," he replied, folding his hands before him, "I am not fine. I've simply become… disciplined."
"Disciplined?" she echoed, disbelieving.
He gave a small laugh, almost childlike, but it died quickly.
"I'm joking again," he said, offering a brief apologetic smile. "Bad habit, I suppose."
She looked at him for a long moment. Really looked. His posture. His breathing. His tone. His word choice. There was nothing erratic. Nothing disjointed. No signs of delusion, mania, or paranoia. If anything, he seemed more stable than anyone she had ever met — more than her father, more than CEOs, more than world leaders.
And that's what made it so much worse.
He had burned his madness into silence.
She didn't know — and he would never tell her — that his spiral had ended not in healing, but in subjugation. That he had trained his grief to kneel before him. That his mind had grown so vast, so calculated, so meticulously architected, that not even the most brilliant psychiatrist could diagnose him anymore. Not because he wasn't insane…
…but because his insanity was smarter than their science.
He had transcended the cracks.
And he would never burden her with that truth.
Instead, he reached for her hand, lifting it with featherlight grace, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For last night. For frightening you. I shouldn't have said it. I don't want to fight."
She watched him, her heart a tangle of disbelief and unwanted affection.
"…If you're lying to me," she whispered, "I'll never forgive you."
"I'm not lying," he said.
He wasn't.
Not in words.
Only in omission.
Because some truths weren't meant to be shared — not with the woman you love. Especially not when you're the one person who knows that the mask you wear is the only thing keeping your world intact.
And so, he smiled.And she, though still angry, didn't pull away.And together, they finished breakfast, surrounded by quiet chandeliers and heavy silences.
But the glass he shattered last night had not been replaced. And the blood on the cuff of his sleeve, though faint, remained.
A reminder.
He was not fine.
He was just functioning.
And sometimes, that was far more terrifying.