When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

Chapter 56

The night draped over the city like a velvet cloak, its golden lights twinkling beneath the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows. The air inside felt different now—like it had been rearranged after years of suffocation.

We had talked.

Not in a way where words spilled out in desperate explanations, but in a way where silence sat between us, heavy and meaningful. My father—my real father—had listened to me. Listened as I told him how they treated me. How they crushed every piece of me under their shoes, how they turned me into a ghost in my own home. How they convinced me I was nothing, over and over again, until I started to believe it.

And he hadn’t interrupted. Not once.

When I finally asked where he had been all these years, why he never came back for me, his eyes darkened—but he only said, “You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll tell you when the time comes.”

It had left a bitter taste in my mouth. A thousand questions flooded my mind, but I pushed them aside. He was here now. That was what mattered.

And now, as the night deepened, I found myself standing behind him, a cutting machine in hand.

My father was seated comfortably on a leather salon chair, the kind that was part of the penthouse’s built-in grooming space. The mirror in front of him reflected his long, unkempt hair—strands of gray blending with his natural black. He looked like a warrior who had seen too many battles, his face lined with exhaustion but still strong.

I turned the machine on with a buzz, and he raised an eyebrow. "Do you even know how to cut men’s hair?"

I smirked, tilting my head. "Nope."

His eyes widened slightly, and then he burst out laughing. "Ah, I see. So you’re just going to experiment on your poor old man?"

"That’s the plan."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You really are my daughter."

Something warm bloomed in my chest at that.

I carefully lifted the strands of his overgrown hair, running my fingers through them before guiding the clipper along the edges. His hair was thick, a little rough from neglect, but as I trimmed away the excess, his face slowly reemerged from underneath.

"You know," he mused, "you used to sit on my lap and pretend to cut my hair when you were little. You'd use those tiny plastic scissors from your toy set, and I'd act like you were a professional stylist."

I blinked, pausing mid-trim. "I did?"

He hummed. "Mhm. You were serious about it too. Even told me you'd open a salon someday."

A small, unexpected laugh escaped me. "I don’t remember that."

"Well, I do." His voice softened. "I remember everything."

My hands faltered slightly.

Everything.

The word settled between us, heavier than I could handle.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and continued cutting, focusing on the rhythm of the buzzing machine, the strands falling away, revealing the man beneath. The father I lost.

The father I got back.

As I neared the end, I took a step back, inspecting my work. "There. Much better."

He ran a hand through his now shorter hair, nodding in approval. "Not bad for a first-timer."

I smirked. "Of course. I’m a natural."