Page 64 of Lethal in Pink

My father turns a page. The newsprint snaps in the quiet.

“One semester,” he says to the paper. “That was the expectation.”

“That wasn't the agreement,” I reply, keeping my voice flat. “The agreement was that I would finish my degree at Blackthorn rather than with private tutors here. The location was explicitly agreed upon.”

The location was agreed upon—a year-and-a-half concession my parents had reluctantly granted in this very house after I begged them for a single goddamn chance to live out from behind a billboard. But my father had treated Blackthorn like an expensive, temporary phase. He assumed a few months under an alias in California would cure my restlessness—that I’d get the desire for a 'normal life' out of my system, realize how inconvenient living sixteen hours away was, and quietly return to Seoul to finish his tailored SNU program under private tutors right here in this house before stepping into Crown & Throne.

He didn't account for me actually building a life there. He didn't account for how much I needed to stay Jae Kim.

He didn't account for Amiyah.

But neither did I.

My father sets his chopsticks down. The polished wood touches the porcelain with a soft, final click.

“You’ve had your time away,” he says. “You’ve proved whatever point you were trying to make.”

“I wasn't making a point,” I growl, my jaw clenching tight enough to ache. “I’m finishing my education. I have one year left at Blackthorn, and I intend to complete it.”

“At a school that takes you sixteen hours away from your actual responsibilities,” my father says, his voice dangerously even. “We tolerated the arrangement because we expected you to come to your senses once the novelty wore off.”

“It’s not a novelty,” I say, my voice clipped. “And it’s not about running away from responsibilities. It’s about having responsibilities that are actually mine.”

My mother sets her chopsticks down with meticulous care, her expression fragile. “Hyunjae…is it us? Did we make it so unbearable here that you’re fighting this hard just to stay across an ocean?”

“It’s not about you,” I say, turning back to my father. “I want a life of my own. I want to build my own practice after I graduate.”

My father lets out a short, quiet exhale—not a laugh, but the breath of a man listening to a kid describe a fairy tale.

“A private practice,” he says smoothly, leaning back. “And tell me, Hyunjae—how do you plan to run a clinic while sitting on the board of Crown & Throne? Where in your schedule does surgery fit between tour dates, brand obligations, and managing an international media empire?”

“I’ll make time,” I say.

“It is a blueprint for failure,” my father counters, his eyes dark and unyielding. “You are asking to trade a global legacy for a fantasy that the paparazzi will crush within a week. The second a lens finds your clinic, your quiet little dream becomes a spectacle. Your patients become headlines. You cannot hide behind a stethoscope, Hyunjae. You are Kai Ryu.”

The name lands on the table like a lead weight.

I don't raise my voice. I don't give him the reaction he wants, and I sure as hell don't start screaming like I would have a year ago. I just sit there, my hands flat against my thighs, holding his gaze without flinching.

“I’m Jae,” I say softly. “And I’m finishing my degree.”

My mother looks between the two of us, taking in the wall I’ve built around myself over eight months in California. She doesn't push further, but the quiet that settles over the table feels heavier now—loaded with the realization that no matter what bullshit they built for me in this house, I’m still looking for a way out.

My father picks up his chopsticks again. The pickled radish makes a crisp crunch between his teeth.

The argument is over. It always ends like this—not with a resolution, but with a quiet standoff where no one moves. I pick up my spoon, but my hand betrays me—a sudden, involuntary tremor in my wrist that makes the metal rattle against the rim.

Damn it.

I set it back down.

My mother reaches for the teapot, pouring herself a cup of barley tea. Steam coils into the air between us.

I push my chair back, the legs gliding without a sound across the floor.

“I have prep for the term,” I say, keeping my hands in my pockets so they can't see my knuckles turned white.

Neither of them looks up.