The club throbbed like a living thing—bass waves crashing through my chest, neon lights slicing the darkness into electrified shards. A haze of sweat and cheap tequila clung to every surface, thick enough to taste. Paris in all its reckless glory: my nightly rebellion against anything resembling responsibility.
I propped myself at the bar, gripping a glass of tequila so cold it seared my fingers. Alexandre, my self-appointed wingman, materialized beside me with that trademark grin.
"Solo mission tonight, Yul? Where's your little bird?" he teased, voice low amid the roar.
I shrugged, lifting my glass in a careless salute. "Keeping the party alive for both of us."
He laughed, loud enough to turn heads. "Jerk. But I like you."
Maybe he was right. But right now, I didn't care. Too many nights spent chasing oblivion to bother with self‑reflection.
My phone buzzed—a staccato jab through the fog. I checked the screen: Dad. The sight of his name felt like an excavation, digging up every regret I'd buried.
I answered. No preamble. No warmth.
"Come home tomorrow," he said, voice calm enough to crack bone. "We need to talk."
That was all. A sentence loaded with thunder.
I tossed back the tequila, slammed down the glass, and vanished into the night.
–––
The cab was nearly silent as it sped through empty streets. Paris at dawn felt lonely, its beauty sour in the cold light. I stared out the window, watching graffiti‑tagged walls slip by. Every mural, every lamppost reminded me of laughter I'd never hear again—scripts of a life I was quitting.
A memory stabbed me: dancing barefoot on Pont Alexandre III, the Seine shimmering beneath footlights, Alexandre's wild laugh rising to meet the moon. I swallowed hard. That was Paris. Now it felt like someone else's dream.
At my apartment door, Dad waited like a sentry. His suit was immaculate, his posture rigid—everything about him screamed authority.
"Yul," he said softly.
The apartment smelled faintly of stale perfume and last night's mistakes. I sank onto the couch, chest tight.
"What are you doing?" he asked, kneeling to meet my eyes.
I closed my fists. "Living."
He shook his head. "Your grandfather called today. He needs you in Seoul. He's unwell."
The understatement pierced me. Grandfather never admitted weakness.
"How soon?" I whispered.
"By tomorrow evening," Dad said.
I stood, legs wobbling. "That soon?"
He nodded. "Ticket's on your desk. Be ready to leave by noon."
I felt the walls close in. "I'll go."
Anything to avoid the lecture that simmered beneath his calm.
–––
My room was a mess of clothes and empty bottles—the carnage of my personal revolt. Yet the ticket lay on top of my suitcase like a white flag. I packed in silence, shoving shirts, underwear, chargers. No time for nostalgia.
Every piece I folded reminded me of Paris: the leather jacket from Rue Saint‑Denis, the silk shirt from that five‑star Christmas party. Now destined to sit unused in a drawer.
The taxi arrived at Charles de Gaulle. Dawn light filtered through glass walls, sterile and unfeeling. I checked in under my family name—Kang Yul, heir to a dynasty I'd run from.
Security was a blur: remove shoes, empty pockets, scan boarding pass. I walked onto the jet bridge like a ghost.
In the cabin, I claimed a window seat. The hum of the engines vibrated through my bones. Cloud shadows raced past, and for a moment, I closed my eyes and pretended I was still in Paris, still free.
But dreams evaporate at 30,000 feet.
I flipped through the inflight magazine, landing on an article about Seoul's tech boom. I'd missed so much. My phone was silent—no messages, no calls.
When the flight attendants dimmed the cabin lights, I leaned my head against the window. The warm hum lulled me into a half‑lit reverie. I thought of Alexandre's grin one last time before the darkness swallowed me.
–––
I woke to a jolt as the plane's wheels screeched against tarmac. Seoul. The air smelled of jade and smog—sharp, familiar, unforgiving.
Immigration was a maze of suits and scanners. I showed my passport, tried not to meet anyone's eyes. Behind me, families reunited. Babies wailed. I felt out of place, a prodigal son late to his own homecoming.
Outside customs, a black sedan idled. The driver tipped his head, wordless. The back seat swallowed me in leather and dead silence.
"Welcome home, Mr. Kang," he finally said.
I closed my eyes, tasting guilt. Home had a different flavor now: expectations and history.
–––
The city pulsed past—neon signs for 24‑hour coffee shops, LED billboards for K‑dramas, traffic thick as soup. The highway led to the hills where the Kang estate sat like a fortress.
At the gates, guards saluted me with rigid precision. A red carpet of cobblestones guided me to the front steps. The mansion loomed—an ivory monolith of marble columns and wrought‑iron filigree.
I paused, the weight of lineage heavy in my chest. A gust of wind rattled the front door. Inside, silence reigned.
I stepped into the entrance hall. Multi‑toned marble floors, high ceilings, a crystal chandelier that scattered light like diamonds. Portraits of stone‑faced ancestors lined the walls, eyes following me.
My footsteps echoed as I crossed the vast hall. Each tap on polished stone was an announcement: Yul Kang has returned.
In the corner, a grandfather clock ticked. Its pendulum swung like a metronome counting down my time.
I followed the corridor to the study. The door was ajar, light spilling out.
Through the gap, I saw him—Grandfather—seated behind his massive mahogany desk, back to me. His shoulders were broad, his posture kingly. He reminded me of a hawk poised on a cliff—unwavering gaze unseen.
I cleared my throat.
He didn't turn. Simply said, "You're late."
The words struck like a gavel. Verdict delivered.
My throat went dry. I stepped forward, every fiber of me straining for the right words.
This wasn't just a conversation. It was a reckoning.
My journey had just begun.