Chapter 2:

Indifference

V hesitated at the entrance, heart stuttering with anticipation he tried to smother. With emotions he kept at bay, hoping the dam he built for two years wouldn’t start spilling over.

The bar looked almost exactly the same. Warm amber lights spilling over polished wood, the low hum of a playlist that hadn’t changed in years, the faint scent of whiskey and citrus lingering in the air. V paused just inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust, letting his pulse settle. For a moment, he almost expected the noise of the whole group to greet him but the room was quieter than he imagined.

Only Han, Hana, and Soojin were there, gathered at a long table near the back. Han was already halfway through a beer, Hana had her elbows propped on the table scrolling her phone, and Soojin waved first, smiling in that open, disarming way she always did.

“You’re early,” Soojin said as he walked over. “The others will be late, but they’re coming. Don’t look so tense. It’s just us.”

He managed a smile, sliding into the seat. It felt strange, being here again, in a space so familiar it nearly mocked him. The posters on the walls, the worn booths, even the way Han tipped his glass back too far when he drank. For a moment, he almost believed the world had waited for him, paused until he returned.

They congratulated him in their own ways. Hana first, blunt as ever, lowering her phone. “You really killed it in that film.” She smirked, tilting her head. “You know we still haven’t worked together, right? No excuses this time. When you’re ready, let’s make it happen.”

Her words landed somewhere between teasing and serious, and for a fleeting moment V could imagine it. Hana behind the camera, him in front of it, something tangible built between them instead of years lost. He swallowed the thought before it settled. “Yeah. We should.”

Han followed, clapping him too hard on the back. “Knew you’d blow up. Took the world long enough to catch up.” Soojin softened their rough edges, warmth in her voice as she told him how proud she was, how much he’d been missed.

The words pressed against him like a weight. Not regret. He wouldn’t allow that. Just pressure. The kind of pressure he could ignore if he kept his mask steady.

Talk drifted easily, circling from his film to what they had been busy with. Soojin, now leading the LMC, the Little Miracles Collective, the charity Minho had started years ago, spoke with her usual quiet energy, describing their latest project for children’s hospitals. V listened, nodding, but didn’t let it in too deeply. LMC had been their shared cause. After Minho, Soojin had taken it further than V expected. And his expectation was through the roof. She was florist by day, an organizer in every other spare hour. She carried more weight than anyone else at the table.

Han teased her about overworking, grinning in that lazy way of his. He worked as a programmer, consulting for some big agency, though he made it sound like a side hobby. His twin, Hana, sharper than she looked, rolled her eyes every time he undersold it, tossing in a sarcastic jab or two before steering the conversation back to photography, exhibitions, assignments she was buried under.

A little while later, Suhyun slipped in, apologizing for being late. She hugged him tightly, called him a ghost for disappearing, then joined the chorus of congratulations and then laughing about the endless spreadsheets and deadlines that came with working for Haneul Group. Their lives had kept moving, threads weaving tighter without him.

And then the door opened again.

Kaimin Shin.

For a split second, V’s mind betrayed him. All the versions of this moment he had tried to not imagine but failed flickering in and out like broken film reels.

Kaimin looking up, startled, eyes widening in recognition before softening into something like relief.

Kaimin crossing the room in three strides, tugging him into an embrace that erased every year apart.

Kaimin laughing in disbelief, shaking his head, calling him an idiot for staying away so long.

Kaimin saying his name, just once, with the weight of everything they’d lost folded inside it.

But then came the darker reels, the ones he dreaded most:

Kaimin’s voice breaking into a shout—“Where the hell were you?”

Kaimin slamming a glass down hard enough to crack, demanding “Do you have any idea what you left behind?”

Kaimin standing before him, eyes blazing, asking the one question V could never answer—“Why now? Why not then?”

Kaimin turning on him in front of everyone, fury stripping away every layer of composure, every mask, until there was nothing left but hurt.

The clash of those imagined scenes left V unsteady. He realized he was holding his breath until he finally let it out, a shaky, uneven exhale that seemed louder than it should have. His chest tightened, the air rushing back in too quickly, almost painful. For a second, he couldn’t tell if it was relief or dread that had kept him still, waiting for what this version would be.

Kaimin walked in, his presence as steady and unobtrusive as always. He exchanged a few words with one of the staff, adjusted something at the bar, then finally approached their table. His expression didn’t shift, not even when his eyes landed on V.

V’s pulse tripped, his breath snagging on something he hadn’t let himself feel in years. For two years, he had tried not to remember the way his voice sounded, the shape of his hands, the things that had been left unsaid, buried under work, under the lights of Hong Kong. But there had been nights when he failed. He’d opened a browser, typed Kaimin’s name into the search bar, letters glowing back at him in the dark. But each time, before he could press enter, he’d stopped. His finger frozen above the key, heart hammering like a warning.

Because he knew if he saw even a glimpse, an article, a photo, a headline, he might break.

So he never committed. He erased the letters again and again.

And now, here he was, real.

Kaimin set a wine glass down on the table, not in front of V specifically, but in the center where anyone could take it. “Welcome back,” he said, voice level, as if V had only been gone a week. His gaze slid over him without pause, no extra weight, no recognition beyond the surface. Indifference so sharp it cut.

Han, who once never let the chance slip to tease the two of them, was quiet. V caught his glances, as if watching both of them carefully. But Han didn’t say anything. No jokes, no pointed remarks. Only silence. And that silence was louder than any teasing had ever been.

The night carried on. Food kept coming, glasses kept refilling, and for a while V could almost believe the years hadn’t carved themselves between them.

Almost.

Kaimin barely spoke. He answered Hana when she asked about the bar’s business, gave Suhyun a short, practical reply about new drinks added to the menu. His face stayed neutral through it all, serious, reserved, never hostile, never cold enough to push anyone away, and not once did he let the curve of a smile slip through.

Not once did he look at V for more than necessary.

V forced himself not to notice, not to trace the angle of his jaw beneath the bar’s warm lights, not to remember what his laughter sounded like when it came easy. He told himself to focus on Han’s story, on Hana’s chatter, on Suhyun’s terrible joke.

Then Kaimin checked his watch. Subtle at first, a glance, then a second, longer one.

He straightened, setting his glass down with a quiet tap. V realized just then than instead of wine, Kaimin had been drinking mocktails.

“I should get going. Early start tomorrow.”

Han groaned, throwing his arm across the back of the booth. “Of course. Our heir, always busy, always important.” He leaned forward, grin crooked. “Or—” his voice pitched sly, “—someone’s waiting at home?”

That got the table’s attention. Hana smirked, Suhyun perked up with a half-drunk laugh.

But Kaimin didn’t take the bait. He only looked at Han with that same measured calm, neither denying nor confirming, as if the tease had slid right past him. “Just work,” he said finally.

Then, as though remembering something, his gaze flicked toward V. Brief, direct. “Congratulations,” he said. “On the film.”

The words were polite and simple. Nothing to hold onto.

And then he left with unhurried and steady footsteps and the door swung shut without a single backward glance.

For a moment, the table lingered in silence.

Then Han let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Still the same, huh?” He shot V a look, half teasing, half searching. “Bet he didn’t even smile when he watched your movie.”

Hana laughed, Suhyun snorted into her drink, and the chatter picked up again.

And then the words slipped out before he could catch them. “How’s… Kaimin been?”

The table stilled. Not loudly, not obviously, but in the way a room quiets when something dangerous brushes too close. Hana, a bit confused, glanced at Soojin who suddenly found the bottom of her drink very interesting. Suhyun’s brow knitted.

Han’s gaze locked on him. There was no warmth in it, not for a heartbeat. A sharpness flickered there, like a knife catching light. And then it was gone, replaced by that same casual smile he always wore.

“Still breathing. Still Haneul’s heir. Still pretending like the rest of the world doesn’t exist,” Han said. He swirled the liquid in his glass, eyes never leaving V. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

The words landed heavier than the alcohol burning in V’s chest.

Before he could think of a reply, Soojin set her glass down with a quiet clink. Her tone was mild, but there was no mistaking the undertone. “If you wanted to know, you could’ve asked him.”

V’s throat tightened. A dozen words scrambled at the back of his tongue, but before he could force any of them out, Hana leaned forward, throwing her hands up dramatically.

“Wow,” she said, as if scandalized. “Two years gone and the first person you ask about isn’t Soojin, Han, me, or Suyun? But Kaimin? I’m hurt. Really hurt.” Her pout was exaggerated, almost comical, though her eyes flicked between them as if trying to break the tension she never knew the cause. “Do we not exist anymore, V? Should we start charging appearance fees to get your attention?”

Suhyun laughed too quickly, clutching at her chest like he’d been wounded too. “Yeah, no love for us. Figures.”

The air eased with their theatrics, the sting softened by the shift in tone. Conversation picked up again as though nothing had happened.

Yet Kaimin’s indifference lingered like a flicker in the corner of his mind. V almost laughed to himself at the irony. Outbursts would be better than this silence. Fury, accusations, even hatred. At least those would mean he still existed in Kaimin’s world. At least they would be proof that something between them had once mattered enough to wound.

But this polite distance cut sharper than anger ever could. It was erasure masquerading as composure. V forced his gaze down to his drink, watching the amber liquid ripple in the glass as though it might steady him.

He reminded himself that he wished for this. This was the status quo he wanted. And he should live with it without lingering feelings.