Seungmin

Seungmin was accustomed to silence. Not the comfortable silence that creative people embrace, but the forced, vacuum-like silence of money. The house he grew up in was a huge mansion on the outskirts of Seoul, where the echo of footsteps was lost in the enfilade of rooms filled with antique furniture that was forbidden to be touched.

His parents, preoccupied with endless corporate wars and social events, instilled in him the most important rule: emotions are a losing expense. By 23, Seungmin had become the ideal heir to an empire—cold, calculating, and detached. His day was scheduled down to the minute, and his bank account grew so fast that he stopped noticing the numbers. He had no friends, because friendship is an obligation. He had no hobbies except reading annual reports. He had no love.

One evening his father called him into his office. The conversation was brief. "You're getting married," said the father, not looking up from his cigar. "Choi's daughter. A good family. We need connections. The wedding is in a month." Seungmin nodded. For him, it was just a bullet point in the business plan. Another asset, another contract.

Her name was Nami. At the wedding, she looked like a dandelion that had accidentally flown into a glass palace. She smiled at everyone: the cooks, the waiters, the distant relatives Seungmin barely knew. He thought with irritation, "Too loud."

The first months of marriage were a trial for Seungmin. She talked too much, cooked too much, and was constantly interfering with his interests. This didn't fit with his values. She was too alive for him. but it amused him, he liked the way she pouted or the way she rejoiced when he gave her something that others only dreamed of.

One day, he saw that she often looked at a very, very expensive thing on TikTok—a bag. An ordinary bag, but so many people wanted it. And he decided to buy it for her.

In the evening, she was preparing food for him, when suddenly your husband came in, his face was stony, but in the bag was that very same bag