Morning — 7:15 AM
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and chaos.
Eri had started it, because Eri always started it—reaching across the table for the last triangle of kimbap while Yeli's chopsticks were still mid-air.
"That's mine," Yeli said.
"You weren't holding it."
"I was going to."
"Going to isn't having."
"Give it back."
"Make me."
The kimbap hung between them, suspended by two pairs of chopsticks, rice grains falling onto the table like casualties.
Joey leaned back in her chair, coffee cup cradled in both hands. "This is better than morning drama."
"Joey-unnie," Yo Jimin said, not looking up from her phone. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make it worse."
Too late. Joey set down her cup and cleared her throat. "Technically, Eri found it first. But Yeli called dibs. In civilized society, dibs is legally binding."
"There is no dibs law," Park Minjeong said, spreading butter on her toast with mathematical precision. "Dibs is a social convention, not a legal framework."
"Minjeong-ah," Yo Jimin sighed.
"What? I'm just clarifying."
Yeli's chopsticks twisted, trying to dislodge Eri's grip. "Of course you're taking her side. You always take her side."
"I am not taking sides," Park Minjeong said. "I'm simply noting that possession is nine-tenths of the law, and Eri currently possesses the kimbap."
"Nine-tenths?" Eri's eyes lit up. "So there's still one-tenth for Yeli?"
"That's not how math works," Park Minjeong started.
"Everything is math with you," Yeli snapped. "Not everything needs numbers!"
"This actually does. Nine-tenths is a ratio—"
"Minjeong." Yo Jimin reached over and covered her sister's mouth. "Stop. Helping."
Ryan watched this from the doorway, shoulder against the frame, coffee in hand. He had learned not to intervene in breakfast disputes. They resolved faster without authority figures.
Eilen appeared beside him, hair still damp from the shower, wearing his sweater again—navy, too big, sleeves past her wrists. She smelled like his soap and her shampoo, a combination that still disoriented him.
"Again?" she asked, nodding toward the table.
"Kimbap."
"Ah."
"They'll finish in three minutes."
Eilen smiled. "Two. Yeli's losing grip."
She was right. Yeli's chopsticks slipped, and Eri immediately shoved the entire piece into her mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk.
"Done," Eri announced, muffled.
"Disgusting," Yeli said. But she was already reaching for the egg rolls, strategic retreat.
Joey clapped slowly. "Beautiful. Tragic. Someone should film this."
"Someone did," Wony said, holding up her phone. "I sent it to Ningyi. She's eating in her room."
"Wony!" Yeli protested.
"What? It's educational. 'How not to share breakfast.'"
Ningyi emerged from the hallway, phone in hand, still chewing. "I rate it seven out of ten. Needed more dramatic music."
"You're all terrible," Yeli said, but she was laughing now.
Ryan pushed off the doorway and walked to the head of the table. He didn't raise his voice. He simply pulled out his chair, the scrape of wood loud in the sudden quiet, and sat down.
Everyone stopped talking.
It wasn't anything he did. It was just... him. The way he moved, the way he occupied space, the way people had learned to pay attention when he decided to speak.
Eilen sat beside him, automatically, like she had always sat there. She reached for his coffee, took a sip, made a face. "Cold."
"I'll get more," he said.
"Sit. I'll do it." But she didn't move. She was watching him, reading something in his expression. "Oppa?"
Ryan looked around the table. Ten faces. Ten futures he had somehow become responsible for. He hadn't planned this. Hadn't planned any of it.
"Guys," he said.
Silence. Immediate and complete. Even Eri stopped chewing.
"I need to announce something."
---
7:25 AM
The kitchen was too quiet. Ryan could hear the refrigerator humming, the distant traffic from the main road, Yo Jimin's phone vibrating against the table.
"Yo Jimin," he said. "Eri. Park Minjeong. Ningyi."
Four straightened spines. Four pairs of eyes, wide and waiting.
"You four," Ryan continued, "will debut in 2019."
The silence held for one second. Two.
Then—explosion.
"Appa!" Eri shrieked, launching herself across the table. She hit his shoulder, arms wrapping around his neck, nearly knocking over his coffee. "When? What month? Concept? Are we—"
"Let him breathe," Yo Jimin said, but her voice was shaking, hands pressed flat against the table like she needed grounding. "Appa. 2019. Really?"
Ryan untangled Eri's arms from his throat. "Really. Lumina. I've been planning since summer."
"Since Luxembourg?" Park Minjeong asked, already calculating. "That's six months of preparation. Minimum viable product timeline for a four-member group is—"
"Minjeong," Ningyi said, and her voice was small. "Let Appa finish."
Ryan looked at her. Fifteen, caught between childhood and whatever came next. She was smiling, but her eyes were too bright, fixed on him with an intensity that made his chest tight.
"Wony," he said.
Wony looked up. She had been quiet since the announcement started, fingers wrapped around her phone, knuckles white.
"You're not debuting with them."
The words landed soft. Wony didn't flinch. She just... nodded, once, the way she did when she had already guessed the answer.
"Appa," Eri started, confused. "Why—"
"Survival show," Ryan said. "Our company. Production starts March 2018. You win, you debut. Two years, then you come back."
He watched Wony process this. Thirteen years old, already taller than Ningyi, with the kind of face that cameras loved and a discipline that came from somewhere deeper than training.
"After the two years," Ryan continued, "you come back. Solo, or group, whatever fits. But first, you win."
"Win," Wony repeated.
"Are you confident?"
She looked at him. Really looked. Then she smiled, small and fierce, nothing like the shy girl who had arrived at his door three years ago.
"Yes, Appa. I will become the winner."
"Wony-ah!" Ningyi launched herself across the table, nearly upending her milk. "You'll be amazing! I already know! I'll vote every day! Multiple accounts!"
"That's fraud," Park Minjeong noted.
"Legal fraud," Ningyi corrected, wiping her eyes. "Emotional support fraud."
"Not a thing."
"It is now."
Yo Jimin reached over and took Wony's hand, the way she did when she needed to say something important. "You'll train separately. Harder. Longer. But we'll help. All of us."
"Even me," Yeli said, finally contributing something useful. "I know survival shows. The editing, the camera angles, what makes people vote."
"You're an expert now?" Joey asked.
"I watched Produce 101. Four times. With notes."
"You took notes?"
"Strategic notes."
Eilen stood up. She walked around the table, stood behind Wony's chair, hands resting on the girl's shoulders. "Starting today," she said, "we adjust everything. Vocal training, dance, camera practice. I'll coordinate with your coaches."
"Eomma," Wony said, testing the word. Then, stronger: "Eomma. I'll work hard. I promise."
"I know." Eilen squeezed her shoulders. "That's why I'm not worried."
Ryan watched them—his family, his chaos, his responsibility—and felt something settle in his chest. Not peace. Something better. Purpose.
---
8:00 AM
The hallway sounded like a train station.
Yo Jimin was checking her bag for the third time, muttering about a chemistry quiz. Eri was arguing with Park Minjeong about whether they had time to stop for bubble tea. Ningyi was trying to fix Wony's collar, batting her sister's hands away.
"You'll wrinkle it."
"It's already wrinkled."
"Let me—"
"I'm fine!"
"Girls," Yeli said, and the word carried surprising weight. "Shoes. Coats. Now."
They froze. Looked at her.
Yeli stood by the door, arms crossed, every inch the responsible eldest sister despite chaos she cause in the house. She had appointed herself morning coordinator three days ago, after Yo Jimin forgot her laptop and Eri missed the bus.
"Yes, imo Yeli," Eri said, sweetly poisonous.
Yeli's eye twitched. "I'm not imo."
"You said so yourself. If Eilen-eomma is eomma, and you're her peer—"
"That was dinner. This is morning. Different rules."
"There are no rules for imo status," Park Minjeong said, pulling on her boots. "Once conferred, it's permanent. Like a title. Or a scar."
"Minjeong, I will—"
"Bus!" Yo Jimin shouted, grabbing her bag. "Bus in four minutes!"
Chaos resumed, compressed and urgent. Coats flew, zippers jammed, goodbyes shouted over shoulders. Ryan stood in the kitchen doorway, watching them funnel through the front door like water through a dam.
"Bye, Appa!"
"Bye, Eomma!"
"Wony, don't forget—"
"I know, I know!"
The door slammed. Then opened again. Wony's face appeared in the crack.
"Appa. I'll win. Really."
Ryan nodded. "I know."
She smiled, quick and blinding, and was gone.
Silence.
Eilen appeared beside him, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "They're loud."
"Very."
"I like it."
Ryan looked at her. "You do?"
"In Luxembourg," she said, watching the closed door, "it was just us. Quiet. Cold." She turned to him, expression soft. "This is better."
Ryan felt something loosen in his chest. "Yeah," he said. "It is."
---
10:00 AM — Sima Entertainment Office
Lee So-man's office hadn't changed in three years. Same wooden desk, same family photo slightly angled toward visitors, same view of Gangnam that suggested the city belonged to whoever sat in this chair.
Ryan didn't sit. He stood by the window, hands in his pockets, waiting.
Lee So-man entered precisely on time. He didn't apologize for the delay. He simply walked to his desk, sat down, and folded his hands.
"Mr. Ryan," he said. "Or should I say, Chairman?"
"Ryan is fine."
"Ryan, then." Lee So-man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "You have caused me considerable difficulty. Do you know how many calls I received about Eilen's disappearance? From sponsors, from broadcast stations, from—"
"Forty-seven," Ryan said.
Lee So-man paused. "Excuse me?"
"Forty-seven calls. I had Ji-eun count." Ryan turned from the window. "I also know your stock dropped twelve percent before recovering. I know Dispatch offered thirty million won for photos of us together. I know you considered releasing a statement about mental health leave before deciding against it."
Silence.
"You've done your research," Lee So-man said carefully.
"I always do." Ryan walked to the chair across from the desk. He didn't sit. He leaned against it, casual, in control. "I'm not here to apologize, Mr. Lee. I'm here to make an exchange."
"An exchange?"
"CF opportunities. One of my portfolio companies—beauty, lifestyle, luxury goods—needs faces. Your artists have them. Crimson Velvet, specifically. Eilen, if she chooses to continue."
Lee So-man's fingers tapped the desk once. Twice. "And in return?"
"Nothing for me." Ryan smiled, thin and sharp. "Everything for you. Revenue, brand alignment, market expansion. The opportunities will be exclusive for eighteen months. No other agency gets access."
"That's... generous."
"Strategic." Ryan straightened. "There's one more thing. I want you to consider becoming executive producer for Lumina. The group debuting 2019."
Lee So-man's expression shifted. Not surprise—calculation. "Your group."
"My daughters. Four of them. Plus others to be determined."
"Why would I agree to this?"
Ryan had expected the question. He reached into his jacket, withdrew a slim folder, placed it on the desk. "Concept. Sound. Visual identity. Target demographics. Competitive analysis showing why existing girl groups will plateau by 2020."
Lee So-man didn't open it. "You think you can build something better than Sima?"
"I think I can build something different. And I think you're curious enough to want to see it." Ryan walked to the door, hand on the handle. "You don't need to decide today. The CF deal stands regardless. Consider this... an invitation."
He left. Didn't look back.
In the elevator, descending, Ryan allowed himself a small smile. Lee So-man would open the folder. Would study it. Would call within forty-eight hours.
The seed was planted. Ryan had learned patience in Luxembourg. He could wait for it to grow.
---
Night — 10:45 PM
The house was finally quiet.
Ryan stood in the entryway, loosening his tie, listening to the silence. Somewhere upstairs, a door clicked shut—probably Yo Jimin, last to bed as always. The kitchen light was off. The living room, dark.
He found Eilen in the master bedroom, propped against pillows, reading something on her tablet. She had changed into sleep clothes—his t-shirt again, gray this time—and her hair was tied up messily, strands falling around her face.
She didn't look up when he entered. Just said, "You're late."
"Traffic."
"Liar. You stopped for snacks."
Ryan paused, hand halfway to his collar. "How did you—"
"Ji-eun texted me. 'Chairman bought rice cakes. The chewy kind. Should I tell him you already have some at home?'"
Ryan chuckled, low and surprised by the sound. He sat on the edge of the bed, started unbuttoning his shirt. "The meeting went well."
"I know. You smiled when you came in."
"I always smile."
"No. You smirk. You calculate. You..." She finally looked up, eyes warm in the lamplight. "You came home like someone who won something."
Ryan considered this. "I came home," he said simply.
Eilen set down her tablet. She rose slightly, leaned across the space between them, and kissed him. Light. Brief. A brush of lips that tasted like the lip balm she used before bed, mint and something sweet.
Then she settled back against her pillows, reopened her tablet, and continued reading like nothing had happened.
Ryan sat there, fingers frozen on his third button. He touched his lips, unconsciously, feeling the ghost of contact.
"What was that for?" he asked.
Eilen turned a page. "For coming home."
"I always come home."
"Then I'll always do it." She glanced at him, smile hidden but present. "Go shower. You smell like Lee So-man's office."
Ryan stood. Walked to the bathroom. Started the water, let it run hot until steam filled the small space, fogging the mirror.
He touched his lips again. Chuckled, quieter this time, the sound swallowed by the running water.
Outside, Eilen turned another page, humming something under her breath. A Crimson Velvet song, probably, or one of the girls' practice tracks. The sound was faint, muffled by the door, but present.
Ryan stepped under the spray. Closed his eyes. Let the heat work through his shoulders, his neck, the tension of the day dissolving into something softer.
Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked—someone getting water, or going to the bathroom, or simply moving in their sleep. The sound of life. Of people who belonged here. Who belonged to each other.
He stayed under the water until it ran cool, until his fingers wrinkled, until the steam began to fade.
Then he stepped out, dried off, changed into sleep clothes that Eilen had left folded on the counter. Navy cotton. Soft. Hers, probably, though she would claim they were his.
When he entered the bedroom, she had fallen asleep, tablet still glowing on her chest, glasses askew. Ryan gently removed both, set them on the nightstand, turned off the lamp.
In the dark, he lay beside her, feeling her warmth, listening to her breathe.
"Goodnight, oppa," she murmured, half-asleep.
"Goodnight," he said.
And meant it.