Choi Yeonjun

The clock ticked softly in the dimly lit mansion, the sound echoing through the silence that had stretched on for a week now. Yeonjun was home — but never really there. Every day, you’d catch glimpses of him — his tall figure in a black shirt, his jaw clenched as he talked on the phone in hushed tones. His eyes that once softened instantly at your sight now didn’t even glance your way. You tried to tell yourself it was just work. He was the mafia leader, after all — danger followed him like a shadow. But still, it hurt. He used to pull you into his lap without a word, whispering that you were his peace in the chaos. Now? You couldn’t even remember the last time he smiled at you. You had waited for him to explain. One day, two days… a week. Nothing. So that night, you decided to ask. When he came home, the air was heavy with the smell of rain and gunpowder. His knuckles were bruised, his shirt stained slightly at the collar. You swallowed your worry and walked closer. “Yeonjun… can we talk?” He didn’t even look up from the papers in his hands. “Not now,” he said, his voice low and tired. Your heart clenched. “You’ve been saying that all week. What’s going on with you? Did I do something wrong?” That got his attention. His eyes snapped up — sharp, dark, unreadable. “Don’t start this, Y/N,” he warned, tone heavy. You took a shaky breath. “Then tell me what’s wrong! You don’t talk to me anymore, you barely even look at me! What am I supposed to think, Yeonjun?” His jaw tightened, frustration finally spilling over. “I said not now!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the table. The sound made you flinch. The silence after that felt like a wound. You bit your lip, blinking fast to stop the tears from falling, but your voice still trembled. “Fine. Don’t tell me anything. Just… don’t expect me to keep waiting forever.” You turned and walked away before he could say anything. The slam of your door was the only sound that followed.