(The theme of this story is dark)
The café door chimed softly as Ziyan stepped inside, and in an instant, the atmosphere shifted.
Heads turned. Conversations faltered.
A whisper rose from one corner—
"Hey… it's him."
Another voice followed, hushed but sharp—
"Yeah, it's really him."
"Why is he here?"
Ziyan ignored them.
His gaze swept across the café, slow and deliberate, as if he were searching for something—or someone.
His expression remained unreadable, though the faint tension in his jaw betrayed his irritation at the murmurs surrounding him.
"Hey, I'm here."
The voice cut through the noise.
Ziyan turned.
In the far corner, partially veiled by dim lighting, sat a man.
He was dressed entirely in black—a coat draped over a simple T-shirt—his posture relaxed, almost careless.
His hair was messy, falling across his forehead, and though his face carried a certain kindness, there was arrogance in his eyes that made him impossible to ignore.
Handsome… but unsettling.
Ziyan walked toward him, ignoring the whispers that followed in his wake.
"Should I ask him for an autograph?" someone whispered nearby.
"Don't. Haven't you heard what happened last month?"
The gossip scraped against Ziyan's nerves, but he said nothing. Instead, he stopped at the table, his presence heavy.
"Why did you call me here? Huh?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he raised his hand casually.
"Waiter."
The waiter approached, clearly nervous.
"Yes, sir… how can I help you?"
The man smiled—a calm, almost dangerous smile.
"Tell everyone to leave."
The waiter froze. "S-sir… how can I—?"
"Just do as I say," the man interrupted softly, his tone dropping. "Or you know what will happen."
Fear flickered across the waiter's face. Within minutes, the café was filled with protests.
"What? Why?"
"Can't they go somewhere else?"
But one by one, the customers left, their complaints fading into silence.
Soon, the café was empty.
"Are you going to keep standing?" the man said, gesturing to the chair. "Sit, Mr. Ziyan."
Ziyan sat, his eyes never leaving the man.
"So… why did you call me here, Mr. Ryu?"
Ryu smiled faintly.
"Nothing important. I just wanted to see your face." He paused, then leaned slightly forward. "And… to talk about something."
Ziyan's expression hardened.
"Do you remember the case," Ryu continued, his tone turning serious, "of a man who died nineteen years ago? He fell from the stairs in his own house."
Ziyan's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. So?"
Ryu's smile deepened, but his eyes remained cold.
"There was a theory… that it wasn't an accident. That it was murder."
Silence stretched between them.
"And the killer," Ryu said softly, "was his own son."
Ziyan's eyes sharpened.
"And that son," Ryu finished, locking eyes with him, "was you."
A pause.
Then Ziyan spoke, his voice calm but edged. "What are you implying? That I killed my father? Why would I do that?"
Ryu leaned back, exhaling lightly.
"Relax. It's just a theory. And no one would believe it anyway." His lips curved faintly. "After all… you were only thirteen."
Ziyan said nothing.
Ryu's gaze drifted toward the window.
"Your father was a remarkable man," he continued, quieter now. "A novelist. I used to admire him… more than anyone." He let out a small sigh. "The day he died… it shook me."
Ziyan glanced down at the glass of water on the table.
"Why did you want to be like him?" he asked.
Ryu didn't look at him.
"Because he was a great man."
A faint smile touched Ziyan's lips.
"A great man… huh?"
Night fell heavy and silent.
Roselia stood before the mirror in her room, her reflection staring back at her—beautiful, yet distant, as though her soul had long since withdrawn from her body.
The door creaked open.
She turned.
Hayuel entered, his steps uneven, his presence suffocating. The sharp smell of alcohol filled the room instantly.
She frowned. "Are you drunk?"
"No," he muttered, swaying slightly. "Just… a little."
Before she could react, he stumbled forward and wrapped his arms around her.
Roselia stiffened. The scent made her uneasy.
"Hey… darling," he murmured. "Why don't you love me?"
She blinked, confused. "What?"
His grip tightened.
"I said—why don't you love me?!" he shouted, his voice suddenly exploding with rage.
His hand shot up, gripping her face harshly, forcing her back until she hit the wall.
"Hayuel, stop—don't!"
But he didn't stop.
"Why don't you love me?! You should love me!" he screamed. "I bought you! You're mine!"
His hand slid to her neck, tightening.
Roselia struggled, her breath catching, her vision blurring.
"I'm tired of you," he spat. "Beautiful Roselia… but empty. No emotions. No life. Just… boring!"
Suddenly, he let go.
She collapsed to the floor, coughing desperately, clutching her throat as she tried to breathe.
"Why are you like this…?" she managed, her voice shaking.
He tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"You can't… buy everything with money…"
For a moment, there was silence.
Then he laughed—a low, mocking sound.
He grabbed her wrist and dragged her onto the bed, his grip rough. His hand covered her mouth, silencing her.
"You think too highly of yourself," he growled. "You live like a queen because of me… and you can't even do what I want?"
His voice darkened.
"There are women out there who would beg for this life."
Roselia's eyes burned with anger. She shoved his hand away.
"What woman would want this?" she shot back. "Who would love being beaten up by her husband? Who would love a man who only cares about money… and nothing else?"
His expression twisted with fury.
"You don't understand the world," he said coldly. "This world is cruel. And people like me… we can buy anything."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Anything."
To be continued…