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JIN DO-JUN STOPPED in front of his grandfather’s office door and knocked softly, his hand hesitating to simply push the half-open door. Although he had entered that place countless times, the solid wood seemed to weigh tons under his palm this time. He had an urgent matter to discuss, something he believed to be essential for his plans, but as he glimpsed the scene on the other side, everything in his mind vanished.
There was Jin Yang-cheol, the imposing patriarch who ruled the Soonyang Group with an iron fist, asleep in his armchair. Not in his bed, surrounded by the comfort and protection that his fortune could provide, but there, in his sanctuary of work. His body leaned to the side, partially covered by a soft blue blanket that seemed out of place in the stern environment. The contrast was so stark that Do-jun needed a few seconds to take in the scene. His body appeared smaller, almost lost in the leather armchair that had always been a symbol of his authority.
He looked... old.
It was a cruel thought, but true. Yang-cheol, who had always been a symbol of relentless strength and unquestionable authority, now seemed small. Not just physically but in essence. There was something vulnerable about that moment, something Do-jun had never seen before. The paleness of his skin, the lines marking his face like the rings of a tree that had weathered many storms, and the labored breathing — all signs that the illness was slowly consuming him. Under the soft light of the desk lamp illuminating the deep lines of his face, he seemed like just a man at the mercy of time. The light blanket covered part of his body but could not hide the fragility imposed by his condition.
Do-jun stood still for a moment, observing. He had never allowed his emotions to dominate him before; resentment and determination had always been his weapons against pain. But now, something different stirred within him. Something he was reluctant to name.
He stepped in quietly, closing the door behind him, the sound of the latch echoing softly through the office. He stopped in the middle of the room, looking at his grandfather with a mixture of respect and anguish.
For years, Do-jun had had a complicated relationship with that man. Jin Yang-cheol was the head of a family whose hands were stained with betrayal, greed, and destruction — he was responsible, directly or indirectly, for the corrupt system that had led to his death as Yoon Hyun-woo. Revenge against the Soonyang Group had been his purpose, his guiding star.
And yet, here he was, unable to think of revenge as he looked at the sleeping man.
It was as if the veil of rancor that had kept him focused on his vengeance had been torn away, exposing a raw emotion: love. Not idealized or romantic love, but a primal and undeniable love, like that of a child for an adult who, despite their imperfections, had been a point of reference in their life.
He’s going to die.
The thought struck him like a punch, leaving him stunned. Do-jun had known this for some time. Everyone did. But knowing something and confronting it were completely different things. His grandfather’s health had only worsened, but seeing him like this, so fragile, made this reality unbearable. The man who had taught him to be shrewd, to understand the game of power, and to survive in a cruel world was disappearing before his eyes.
His feet guided him slowly to the armchair, each step bringing him closer to a whirlwind of conflicting memories and emotions: Yang-cheol’s firm gaze when Do-jun had proposed daring investments; his restrained but genuine smile when he delivered extraordinary results; and even the moments when they had sharp but controlled conversations, as though the threats of betrayal and mistrust between grandfather and grandson were unspoken yet ever-present.
He stopped in front of the armchair, observing his grandfather’s face closely. His breathing was slow but irregular, a constant reminder of the internal battle he was fighting. Do-jun noticed how his grandfather’s fingers clung to the arm of the chair, even unconsciously, as if he were struggling not to lose control, not even in his dreams.
A lump formed in his throat. He wanted to say something, do something, but he felt completely powerless. For the first time in a long time, he was not the prodigious young man with a plan. He was just a lost child, confronted with the possibility of losing someone who, despite everything, meant so much to him.
Slowly, he knelt beside the armchair. His eyes burned with tears he didn’t want to shed but couldn’t hold back. Do-jun lowered his head until it rested on Yang-cheol’s knees. It was an instinctive, childlike gesture, something he hadn’t done in years. Perhaps he had never done it, at least not consciously. But in that moment, he was not the ambitious grandson, the calculating heir, or the man with a mission for revenge. He was just a scared boy, faced with the frailty of someone who, in his mind, should have been eternal.
He didn’t even notice when it happened. First, his eyes welled up, blurring his vision. Then, tears silently streamed down his face, soaking the fabric of Yang-cheol’s pants. He pressed his lips together to stifle any sound, but his chest ached with an intensity he hadn’t felt since he was a child.
“Grandpa...” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
He didn’t know why he was crying so much. Perhaps it was the accumulation of years of resentment, hurt, and, ironically, love.
It was a complicated love, marked by flaws and disappointments, but still genuine. Jin Yang-cheol had never been an affectionate grandfather, but in his stern way, he had always shown that he saw something special in Do-jun. Perhaps that was what made it so difficult: the thought of losing that unique bond, of watching such a central figure in his life disappear.
The silence of the office seemed to absorb all his pain as he clutched his grandfather’s knees, seeking comfort in his presence. Do-jun pressed his warm cheeks against Yang-cheol’s thighs with force, as if trying to anchor himself to him, to stop time from taking him away. His sobs were low, almost inaudible, but each one seemed to reverberate in his chest.
Minutes turned into an indeterminate amount of time. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, crying softly. The pressure in his chest gradually subsided, giving way to a profound exhaustion. Before he realized it, he had fallen asleep in that position, his face still resting on Yang-cheol’s lap.
When Yang-cheol awoke, his first reaction was one of alertness. He sensed something different, something that was not part of his meticulously controlled routine. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the soft light of the desk lamp. As he opened his eyes, he saw the top of Do-jun’s head, his black hair reflecting the gentle glow of the office lamp.
His grandson was sleeping on his lap.
For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Jin Yang-cheol was not a man accustomed to displays of affection, much less to scenes like this. His entire life had been built on strength, discipline, and the denial of weaknesses. But as he looked at Do-jun, something inside him cracked, something in his hardened heart warmed at the sight of his grandson there, so unlike any of his other descendants.
Do-jun was the only one who seemed to genuinely care. He knew that. It wasn’t just about business or succession; it was something deeper. A bond that went beyond blood.
Yang-cheol lifted his hand slowly, hesitantly. He touched Do-jun’s hair, feeling the softness of the strands. The touch was light, almost imperceptible, as though he feared waking him. The hair was as soft as he remembered from when Do-jun was a child. Yang-cheol smiled to himself, a rare and solitary smile.
He recalled a distant moment, years ago, when Do-jun was a boy and one afternoon had fallen asleep on his lap after spending hours explaining why he wanted to build something "grand" when he grew up. At the time, Yang-cheol had found the gesture amusing yet endearing, but he hadn’t pushed him away. He had never told Do-jun this, but that had been one of the most precious moments of his life.
And now, here he was again. The same gesture, the same sense of quiet. But this time, there was something more. A weight. The awareness that time was no longer an ally and that these moments were numbered.
Yang-cheol let his hand rest softly on his grandson’s hair for a few more seconds before withdrawing it. He knew these moments were rare and that he couldn’t afford to grow too attached. After all, he wouldn’t be here much longer.
When Do-jun began to stir, Yang-cheol quickly withdrew his hand and closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He didn’t want his grandson to notice the moment of tenderness. It wasn’t in his nature to show vulnerability, even to someone who wouldn’t judge him for it. But it didn’t matter; the grandson soon calmed again, sighing as though he understood what was happening and could finally breathe in peace.
Yang-cheol closed his eyes again, not because he was tired, but because he wanted to hold onto that moment in his memory.
Hours later, Do-jun awoke, feeling the warmth of his grandfather’s body before realizing where he was. He blinked a few times to adjust his vision and slowly pulled away. His eyes were swollen, and his body ached from having been in such an uncomfortable position.
Noticing that his grandfather was still asleep, he stood up carefully to avoid waking him. Before leaving, he leaned over Yang-cheol and placed a light kiss on his forehead.
“Hold on for me, Grandpa,” he whispered, his voice laden with emotion.
As he left the office, Yang-cheol opened his eyes for a brief moment and smiled. He knew time was against them, but for now, that embrace under the silence had said everything they needed to say to each other, and the gesture was enough.