Chapter Text
The office smelled like old money and wood polish. Walls lined with leather-bound books he’d never read, portraits of past headmasters scowling down with severe forehead lines and eyes that said you don’t belong here.
Gi-hun tugged at the sleeves of his thrift-store blazer. Too tight. The collar was itchy. His tie was a sad thing from a donation bin; clip-on, crooked, almost apologetic. He had trimmed the stubble from his face in the mirror of a convenience store bathroom, but the bags under his eyes gave him away.
Still. He’d shown up.
For her.
A panel of administrators sat across the long oak conference table, neat folders in front of them. Resumes. Financial records. A few judgmental Post-it notes. But Gi-hun only saw him. Sitting at the end. Black suit, no shine. Crisp. Severe. A long overcoat draped over the back of his chair like it had weight. Hair sleeked back in a way that made his jawline look like it could cut glass. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t blink. His pen moved once on the page before him, then stopped.
Gi-hun cleared his throat. “I know I’m not the kind of candidate you were expecting.”
A snort from one of the women at the table. She didn’t bother to hide it behind her hand.
“But I’m not here to impress you with fancy words or fancy suits.” Gi-hun could swear the man at the end of the table sat up a little straighter in that moment.
“I’m here because my daughter deserves a shot. And she’s smart. Real smart. Better than me. Better than I ever was.” His voice caught, just for a second. He pushed through it. “I’ve made mistakes. I know that. But I’m trying now. I’m sober—six weeks.”
He lied. It was four.
“But I’m getting there. I have steady work. I pick her up after school every day. I make her dinner. I help her study. We're… learning how to make it work.”
His hands twisted in his lap. “I’m not asking you to look at me and see a good parent. I’m asking you to look at her. Look at her records and her recommendations. Give her a chance to be more than the neighborhood we live in. More than the daughter of a single-dad from Ssangmun-dong. She’ll thrive here, I know it.”
Silence.
The woman with the snort leaned forward. “Unfortunately, Mr. Seong, this school’s scholarship program requires partial financial contribution from the family. We do not offer full financial aid except in exceptional cases.”
Gi-hun’s stomach dropped. “I can pay something. Just… maybe not all at once.”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“How much are they asking?” The voice was low. Cool. The kind that cut straight through the polite fencing and landed clean between the ribs.
Gi-hun looked up.
The man in black. The one at the end. He hadn’t spoken the entire meeting. Now all eyes turned to him.
The woman faltered. “Director Hwang—”
“How much,” he repeated, voice still calm. Still soft. “Is he asking for?”
A pause. A glance at the folder. “Approximately eighty five percent tuition assistance.”
A beat.
Then: “Approve it.”
Gi-hun blinked.
The room tensed like a held breath.
“I’m sorry?” the woman said.
In-ho didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on Gi-hun; dark, unreadable, but not unkind. “You said you’re trying,” he said simply. “That’s enough for me.”
He should’ve said no. Every statistic and liability indicator said no. Every piece of data in that pristine folder screamed not worth the risk.
But the man’s eyes…
They weren’t desperate, exactly. But they were raw. Open wounds behind a brave face. Like he was used to people saying no, but still showed up anyway. And there was something stupidly noble in that. Something that shouldn’t move him, but did.
When In-ho stood from the table and walked past him, Gi-hun gave him a deep bow. Respectful. Grateful.
He didn’t know In-ho’d just compromised the school’s rigid financial protocols. Didn’t know In-ho had already overridden two policies just to even get him at the interview table at all.
And yet—
In-ho walked slower when he passed by. Just to see if the man smelled like alcohol.
(He didn’t.)
Gi-hun jogged a bit to follow the administrator out of the building, his paperwork clutched so tightly it was creased, his feet barely remembering how to walk. He turned at the steps, and there he was again.
Hwang In-ho.
Opening the door to a sleek black car that might’ve cost more than Gi-hun’s entire life. The wind caught the edge of his coat just enough to make him look like something out of a movie Gi-hun never had time to watch but would wolf-whistle at the poster for anyway.
When In-ho looked up, he caught Gi-hun’s stare.
Caught, Gi-hun froze.
Then bowed.
Once. Twice. A third time, deeper than before, as if gratitude could only be measured in angles.
In-ho’s brows twitched. “Please. Don’t do that.”
But Gi-hun couldn’t stop. His throat was tight, his chest too full. “You don’t know what you’ve done. You really don’t. She—she’s gonna go so far, and this… this is everything. I swear, I’ll make it count. I won’t let you down. I—”
“Enough.” In-ho’s voice wasn’t cruel, but clipped. Controlled. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do,” Gi-hun said, almost desperate. He looked up, eyes wet with a shine he tried to blink away. “You didn’t have to. But you did. I won’t forget it. Not ever.”
For a second, something passed through In-ho’s gaze—something caught between irritation and reluctant respect. He shifted, like the weight of the thanks pressed against him, uncomfortable in a way power never made him. “Just take care of your daughter.”
Gi-hun smiled, crooked and soft and boyish in a way that didn’t match the weary slump of his shoulders.
“Always.”
“Ga-yeong-ah!” Gi-hun’s voice cracked across the small apartment, the syllables bubbling out of him before he could steady them. He was clutching the acceptance letter like it might disintegrate if he breathed too hard. “Come here for a second!”
Her door creaked open. She padded out with her socks half-slipped off her heels, a pencil still hooked behind her ear, her expression wary. That look, too old for her age and braced for bad news, squeezed Gi-hun’s chest. She’d already learned not to expect much. Learned that hope usually stung.
He crouched, forcing his shaking hands to hold the letter steady. His throat tightened. “You’re in.”
She blinked. Once. Twice. Like she hadn’t heard him properly. “...What?”
“Your school,” he said, a grin tugging up almost painfully at his cheeks. “Your dream school. You got it. You’re going.”
For a heartbeat, she just stared. He could see her trying to do the math, trying to understand how her bumbling, too-tired father could possibly have pulled this off. Then the truth landed, and her face cracked wide open with disbelief and joy.
She slammed into him, arms around his neck, so hard it nearly knocked him back onto the floor. He clutched her tight, burying his face into her hair. She was warm and shaking and laughing into his shoulder, and he thought his heart might break clean open from the sound of it.
“You did it, Appa!” she whispered fiercely, as if she didn’t dare let go.
He closed his eyes, voice ragged. “No, baby. You did.”
But in the hollow of that embrace, where she couldn’t see, his chest burned with another truth: that none of it would’ve been possible without the quiet nod, the unexpected kindness of a man who had no reason to care.