Chapter 3: The Perfect Brother
971 Words
She woke to silence, not sirens.
The sheets around her were too soft, the pillow too clean. For a moment, she lay still, eyes open, heart waiting for the sound of claws on tile or the scream of sky alarms. But nothing came.
Only birdsong. Distant. Polite.
The room smelled of lavender and paper.
Yena sat up slowly.
The unfamiliar body moved more easily today. Muscles she didn’t own obeyed her commands with polished grace. It was unnerving. She felt like a stranger driving someone else’s luxury car—smooth, sleek, and waiting to crash.
Sunlight fell in slanted gold across the floor. A crisp button-up shirt and black trousers had been laid out for her on the bench at the foot of the bed, already ironed. When she peeled back the curtains, the window opened onto an immaculately pruned garden with koi ponds and stone lanterns. A gardener bowed when he saw her face.
She blinked, nodded back reflexively, and pulled the curtain shut.
Kindness made her nervous.
---
The dining hall was bathed in early light.
Yena hesitated at the threshold. The room felt too big for three people. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, a table long enough to seat a committee. The scent of tea, eggs, and citrus wafted through the air.
A young maid pulled out her chair. “Good morning, young master.”
Yena mumbled something noncommittal.
Ha-eun was already seated, nibbling toast with one hand and scrolling a tablet with the other. She looked up, bright-eyed. “Oppa! You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“You always say that,” Ha-eun said, not looking up.
Min-woo arrived three minutes later.
No footsteps warned of him—he simply appeared at the archway, dressed in tailored charcoal, tie knotted with practiced precision. He walked with the self-assurance of someone used to never being interrupted.
“Morning,” he said, not to either of them in particular.
Yena nodded. Ha-eun muttered a greeting.
Min-woo sat. A maid placed a French press in front of him. He poured, sipped once, and opened a folded report from his briefcase. Every movement was elegant, economic. Deadly.
Yena tried to eat without drawing attention. Her body didn’t know how to hold silverware like this. Her grip was too tight. Her motions too clean. She didn’t fidget, didn’t slump.
That was mistake number one.
Min-woo’s gaze flicked up from his papers. Just a glance. Not long. But precise.
She adjusted, subtly. Slouched slightly. Smiled—no teeth. Tried to soften her jaw.
Mistake number two.
“You’re very alert this morning,” Min-woo said mildly.
“Trying something new,” she replied, keeping her tone even.
Min-woo hummed. “It suits you. Ha-eun, did Seo-jun always butter his toast counterclockwise?”
“I… never really paid attention,” Ha-eun said, glancing between them.
“Strange,” Min-woo murmured, eyes returning to the report. “I always notice little things.”
---
She didn’t flinch when the butler appeared beside her at mid-morning with a message.
“Young Master Min-woo would like to speak with you in his study.”
Yena’s grip on the porcelain cup didn’t tighten. She set it down smoothly.
“I’ll go now.”
The butler bowed.
She considered pretending to be ill. Or slipping away. But she knew that wouldn’t work.
Predators didn’t like runners.
---
Min-woo’s study was on the third floor. Dark wood. Thick carpets. Antique shelves lined with books and artifacts. The air smelled like cedar and old paper.
He was already inside, seated in a high-backed leather chair behind a glass desk. No computer. Just a notebook, open to a half-written page.
Yena stepped in and closed the door behind her.
“Sit,” Min-woo said. Not an order. A suggestion sharpened into command.
She did.
He didn’t offer tea. That felt intentional.
“You look better today,” he said, watching her.
“I feel better,” she answered.
He leaned back in his chair, arms relaxed.
“I was worried, you know.”
She tilted her head. “You hide it well.”
Min-woo gave a soft chuckle. “That’s my job. Yours is to stop giving people reasons to whisper.”
“I collapsed,” she said. “That happens.”
“It never happened before.” His gaze cut into her. “And now it has. Along with your posture changing. Your voice deepening. Your eating habits. Your sleep cycle.”
She didn’t reply.
“You were fragile,” Min-woo said slowly. “Timid. Brilliant, yes. But like glass. And now you move like someone who’s fought something.”
She stared at him.
He smiled. Not warmly.
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just… curious.”
“People change,” she said carefully.
“They do,” he agreed. “But not overnight.”
Silence stretched.
Min-woo folded his hands. “Are you in pain, Seo-jun?”
Yena blinked. “No.”
“Are you lying to me?”
Pause.
“No.”
He smiled again, this time showing teeth.
“Then we’re fine.”
She stood. “If that’s all—”
Min-woo’s voice stopped her at the door.
“Seo-jun.”
She turned.
“Whatever you’ve become,” he said softly, “don’t surprise me again.”
Their eyes met. The space between them felt razor-thin.
Then she left.
---
In the hallway, her legs felt like stone. She walked with control, but her chest was tight.
He didn’t know. Not fully.
But he knew enough to watch.
She looked down at her unfamiliar hand on the bannister.
This body is mine now, she thought. And if I want to keep it, I need to be perfect.
She turned toward the stairs.
Outside the window, clouds were gathering.
The light in them flickered red.
..........
- Writer
