Throughout the security screening process, Chaehyeok said nothing beyond what was necessary. He presented his ID, received a visitor’s pass, and walked through the metal detector — moving through each step as though it were routine. Like someone who strolled in and out of courthouses the way others walked into restaurants. On top of that, he moved without a moment’s hesitation, as if he already knew exactly where he was going.
“Do you know the way?”
“Yeah.”
His answer was short, and his pace was too fast. Yieum had nearly broken into a run trying to keep up, and gave up almost immediately when he ran out of breath. He’d fallen quite a way behind, trudging along, when Chaehyeok stopped in front of the elevator. The doors slid open just as Yieum hurried to catch up.
Watching him press the target floor without any hesitation, Yieum asked,
“Have you been here often?”
“Geumbyeon came ahead of us.”
It was an answer that somehow both was and wasn’t one. Unable to think of anything else to say, Yieum awkwardly fixed his gaze on the control panel. Chaehyeok had gone noticeably quieter — clearly, he was upset. Yieum hunched his shoulders and thought that he should probably apologize, even if it was late.
At that moment, Chaehyeok took a call. Yieum hadn’t even heard it ring.
“Yeah, I’m inside. There in thirty seconds.”
It was a brief exchange — just the essentials. Wondering if it might be a fake call, Yieum stole a glance at the screen. It was real, and the caller was Attorney Geum Utae.
Come to think of it, there was no reason Chaehyeok would go to the trouble of faking a call just to avoid conversation. If he didn’t want to answer, he could ignore him. If he wanted to be angry, he could be. He could even brush it off with a joke. His position was completely different from Yieum’s — a person who agonized over Chaehyeok’s every expression and tone of voice.
After his mother first left home, Yieum had lived with the fear of being abandoned again. Wearing the mask of a good child had become habit.
Prioritizing the guardian’s feelings over his own was how he’d learned to survive. A habit shaped that way didn’t disappear overnight.
If anything, it was a relief that Chaehyeok had said he’d wash his hands of this quickly. Chaehyeok was just as unpredictable as his mother.
Once the business he’d mentioned was done, there would be nothing left to be dragged around by.
“You’re here, sir.”
They met the attorney who had been waiting outside the courtroom. They were given a quick rundown of what to expect right there and then, and before Yieum had a chance to breathe, their names were called. He hadn’t expected a grand courtroom, but when he looked inside, it was smaller and more suffocating than he’d imagined.
“We’ll begin with identity verification.”
The judge’s tone was businesslike. He examined the three of them and their IDs one by one. Behind his glasses, his eyes were sharp. Yieum felt a pointless wave of nerves and pressed a hand against his chest where it had gone tight. As he returned the IDs, the judge remarked,
“It’s rather unusual to bring legal counsel to a guardianship hearing.”
“The primary purpose of our court visit today is to file a petition for the termination of parental rights. We’re here for this hearing as a secondary matter——”
“I see.”
The judge had been the one to speak first, and yet he seemed utterly indifferent to the attorney’s reply. He simply turned the pages of a thick stack of documents one by one, his expression cold. His hands moved quickly — this wasn’t his first time looking through them.
“Well, the report is thorough enough that there’s nothing to re-examine there. However, I do have a few questions for the petitioner.”
The atmosphere was more rigid than anticipated, and the pressure mounted steadily.
Beneath the desk, Yieum’s hands were at it again — picking at a hangnail. A sharp sting flared, but he couldn’t leave the bothersome thing alone. Chaehyeok, sitting beside him, reached out and stilled the movement. His eyes stayed fixed straight ahead, not on Yieum.
He wanted to pull away, but he couldn’t — not in front of the judge. The last thing he needed was to give the impression they didn’t get along.
A rough, warm hand pressed firmly over the back of Yieum’s hand. Chaehyeok’s expression was calm to the point of indifference.
“Cheon Chaehyeok.”
“Yes.”
“Why a temporary guardian, of all things?”
Caught off guard by the question, Chaehyeok’s gaze flicked briefly to the attorney.
He couldn’t answer truthfully — but there was a prepared response ready for exactly this: a reason for choosing temporary guardianship over formal guardianship.
The attorney moved to slide a copy of the documents across and explain on his behalf.
“That point is specified on page four of the report.”
The judge quietly raised a hand to cut the attorney off. Technically, the attorney could have answered on his behalf or invoked the right to remain silent. But this wasn’t a criminal trial — appearing irresponsible would only make things worse.
“I have reviewed the submitted documents thoroughly. What this court is asking is the petitioner’s personal, psychological motivation for choosing to serve as a temporary guardian. Is it enough to separate the ward from his biological father on the basis of simple sympathy alone?”
Chaehyeok glanced at Yieum once, then turned to face the judge, his expression composed. There was no trace of guilt or discomfort on his face. He simply gave the hand he was holding a light, almost playful squeeze.
“My schedule is demanding, and I lack the time to dedicate fully to raising a minor. My intention was to assist with urgent legal representation matters, then transfer guardianship to someone with more professional experience and qualifications — which I believe would better serve the ward’s future.”
It was a calculated answer — composed, logical, and smooth enough to border on brazen.
Yieum scoffed inwardly. He hadn’t imagined Chaehyeok capable of packaging it all so convincingly. And the way he played the part of a perfectly normal person — so natural it was almost offensive.
The judge, having listened quietly, turned his gaze to Yieum.
“Yieum, what is your own view of the temporary guardianship arrangement? Do you have any objections or concerns?”
“No. Waiting around for the court’s decision while doing nothing felt like a waste of rent money.”
This part had been coordinated with the attorney in advance. The logic was that Yieum, as a minor, needed a legal guardian’s consent to terminate the lease as quickly as possible due to the excessive burden of rent.
In other words, Chaehyeok already knew the apartment wasn’t owned outright. Which also meant the debt owed to him was even less likely to be monetary.
“Is there a place to live lined up for afterward?”
“Not yet — that’ll be figured out gradually——”
Mid-answer, Yieum trailed off and found himself looking at Chaehyeok without thinking. Chaehyeok was still sitting up straight, and the judge’s sharp gaze shifted over to him. The judge continued, flipping through the documents page by page.
“The petitioner currently lives alone, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
Chaehyeok’s reply was concise and clear. The judge continued, his tone carrying a subtle undercurrent of pressure.
“The petitioner’s stated intent to prioritize the ward’s future was quite striking. This court also holds the minor’s welfare as its foremost concern — in that regard, your goals appear to align.”
The attorney snapped a hand onto the desk and rose halfway out of his seat.
“Your Honor. As for future living arrangements, I intend, in my capacity as the guardian’s legal representative, to explore the best possible options ensuring continuity of the ward’s education and stability in his daily life.”
Unlike the attorney, who was speaking in a rush, Chaehyeok didn’t move a muscle. He sat composed — as though the judge’s questions had all fallen within expected territory.
If anything, he was unhurriedly patting the back of Yieum’s hand. The tension hanging over the courtroom made the attorney tug at his necktie knot in visible frustration.
If Yieum’s hand hadn’t been held, he would’ve gone back to picking at that hangnail again.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s the plan. But why go out of your way when there’s a simpler solution right in front of you?”
“Your Honor, the petitioner’s age——”
“Young in age, yes.”
The judge cut the attorney off.
“And yet he is the head of a mid-sized company, his finances are in excellent standing, his background is clear, and his living situation is stable. The commute to school may be somewhat inconvenient, but if a transfer is an option, the educational environment near the petitioner’s residence would actually be advantageous.”
The possibility of a formal guardianship recommendation had been anticipated to some degree — but not that the judge would push for it this forcefully. The attorney, his logical approach blocked at every turn, shot to his feet and raised his voice.
“Sunbae, are you trying to ruin someone’s chances at marriage?”
In his desperation, the attorney had let slip a reference to their personal connection. The court clerk looked at the judge with an expression of barely-concealed surprise, and the taut tension in the room shifted into something that felt almost absurd.
Even so, the judge maintained his air of authority as he spoke.
“The petitioner is only twenty-seven years old. The guardianship period would be a mere six years — at which point he would still be squarely within typical marrying age.”
This time, Yieum’s head turned toward Chaehyeok.
He was much younger than Yieum had assumed. He’d naturally expected him to be past thirty — not because he looked old, but because of the air he carried.
Was that why he’d never mentioned his age on purpose? Considering how freely he spoke down to everyone, maybe being young was a sore spot.
Caught off guard by this new piece of information, Yieum blinked, unable to hide his surprise. He parted his lips slightly, the number turning over in his mind.
“Twenty-seven……”
The murmur drew a brief glance. Chaehyeok gave a small, quiet scoff and withdrew his hand. Left with both hands free, Yieum felt oddly at a loss and found himself absently rubbing the back of his own hand.
The attorney and the judge seemed to share a deeper personal history than expected. While the two argued heatedly back and forth, the actual parties involved — Chaehyeok and Yieum — had been left entirely on the sidelines.
Chaehyeok was watching the judge quietly, seemingly deep in thought, while Yieum sat with a heaviness in his chest, feeling very much like a piece of luggage being shuffled about.
As the atmosphere shifted further into an emotionally charged back-and-forth, Yieum carefully raised his hand. Every pair of eyes in the now-quiet courtroom turned to him.
“Um — Your Honor. Could I speak with you separately?”
