(no) Strings Attached

Soft Crash

"On a Saturday? You have free time and this is how you use it?"

Seonghwa blinked, groggy, the warmth from sleep ripped out of him in seconds. "I—I worked late. I was planning to—"

"Excuses."

His mother's voice cut through like a dagger. She was already picking at the mess on his desk, turning over the crumpled protein bar wrapper, the empty meal box.

Her lips curled.

"Clearly, you've been 'busy.'"

There was something venomous in her tone. Not angry. Disappointed. But not in the kind that mourns. In the kind that blames.

"You know what's worse?" she continued, facing him now. "We got an email. One of your professors said they saw you hanging around that boy again. That—what was his name?"

"Hongjoong," his father snapped, eyes narrowing. "That same degenerate from high school. We warned you about him."

They looked at him like he was filth. Like the air in the room was dirty just from his choices.

"I thought we agreed he was out of your life."

Seonghwa, still reeling, voice low: "He's... not what you think."

Wrong answer.

His father's gaze sharpened.

"What did you say?"

"I just mean—he's not—he's been helping me."

Helping.

The word sounded like a curse in their ears.

"Oh, I'm sure he has," his mother scoffed.

"Helping you skip meals, slack on studies, sleep in until eight."

"And look at yourself," his father added coldly. "Eyes sunken, skin like you haven't showered in days. You think this is how a future leader looks? You think we raised you for this?"

Seonghwa's lips parted. No excuses came. Just one soft truth.

"He's the only one who treats me like I'm not a tool."

The silence was immediate. Heavy. Like ice cracking.

Then—
SMACK.

His father's hand struck so fast, so hard, it knocked the words right off his tongue. His cheek exploded in red. His lower lip split. Blood tasted like metal against his teeth.

"You will not speak to us that way," the man growled. "And you will not disgrace our name by crawling back to lowlifes who belong nowhere."

Seonghwa's vision blurred. Not from tears—his eyes didn't dare cry—but from the ringing in his ears.

"You are not allowed to fail, Seonghwa," his mother added, her voice sharper now. "You don't get to ruin our image because of some charity case you're pitying."

Hongjoong's voice—kind, sharp, real—echoed faintly in his mind.

He's kind. Not disposable.

But here—right now—Seonghwa felt nothing but discarded.

Just another investment gone wrong. He wiped at his lip with the back of his hand. Stayed silent. Like a proper son.

"We've spoken to your advisor," his mother continued coolly. "Your schedule will be restructured. No more after-dinner breaks. You'll study until 9 p.m. We expect to see improvement. Or we're pulling your tuition."

"You've got a lot of cleaning up to do. Especially with your appearance."

His father adjusted his coat like he hadn't just struck his child. His mother brushed invisible lint off her pristine sleeve.