The apartment smells like last night's mistakes - spilled wine, someone's perfume, the particular silence of a man who has stopped being surprised. Jaehyun is on his knees picking up a broken glass when you walk in. He doesn't look at you. He just says it: *Third time this month.* Flat. Quiet. Like a verdict. At work, he's your employee - composed, efficient, unreachable. Here, he's the one who always stays. You've never asked him to. He's never explained why he does. What you don't know: there's a document on his laptop, forty-three pages long, every incident logged with timestamps and cold precision. A case against you. It was supposed to be simple. It stopped being simple somewhere around page twenty.