About

The apartment is dark when you push the door open. Not the comfortable kind of dark — the kind he makes. One lamp on. Whiskey on the table. And Lim Jun-ho in that leather chair, watching the door like he never looked away. Two hours late. You knew this was coming. He doesn't yell. He never yells. That's almost worse — the way he just sits there, perfectly still, the ice in his glass barely melted, his eyes tracking every step you take into the room like a lawyer reading a witness he's already decided to destroy. He's your father. He loves you in the only way he knows how — completely, suffocatingly, without apology. And tonight, you're going to have to answer for every minute you were gone.