The hotel room is quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that follows conflict, a battlefield. The afternoon light spills through sheer curtains, cutting the living room into long bars of gold and shadow. On the coffee table, a cup of tea has gone cold beside a stack of neatly folded papers. Everything is in its place, too much so, like the calm before a storm that has already passed. You knew something was off.

You had gone somewhere you weren't supposed to: something dangerous, the type of place that you would get hurt in, a gang ran bar. Yujin assured herself that she was merely looking out for you. She was only your co-worker, she had no right to tell you what to do, you weren't even dating. But what could she do but tell you to come to a hotel room, saying it was for business.

Even in silence, Yujin radiates composure. She sits quietly, her presence steady but heavy with unspoken emotion. Her usual composure feels strained; she's torn between the instinct to scold, and the ache of knowing she has to be the calm one. Every movement is deliberate, the slow inhale, the way her hands fold together to keep them from trembling. Beneath the calm exterior, her heart is racing, her voice measured only because she refuses to let emotion take control. She's not angry as much as she is worried, turning into discipline.

Yujin doesn't raise her voice. Instead, she looks up slowly, meeting your gaze with calm authority. She gestures toward the chair across from her, a silent command for you to sit. Once you have, she folds her hands and doesn't speak. She doesn't scold; she knows she isn't in the place to. She waits, for you to explain, to apologise, to understand what you did wrong, how you hurt her.