Sinseonggak, a tucked-away Chinese restaurant in the heart of Mapo district, had been serving Korean-style Chinese cuisine since the 80s.
The laminated menus were worn, the tables slightly chipped, and the smell of stir-fried garlic and soy clung to the air like a memory that refused to fade.
It wasn't glamorous. But it was real. And Jihoon needed the real now.
Here, in a corner booth beneath a faded painting of a mountain range, sat two people—though one of them didn't quite seem to belong to the world they'd been thrown into.
Jihoon ate comfortably, his chopsticks clicking rhythmically against the bowl as he devoured his jajangmyeon with the ease of someone who had learned to find small joys amid the chaos.
Across from him sat Jieun—still stiff, still unsure, still learning how to exist in a world she hadn't asked to be part of.
She ate slowly, awkwardly, her eyes alwyas flicking up occasionally to watch Jihoon, as if she is unsure whether she was doing something wrong or unsure if she was allowed to enjoy the food.
Jihoon noticed, of course.
But he didn't say anything.
She needed time.
He remembered that feeling well—being dropped into the middle of someone else's chessboard, expected to play your part while pretending not to notice that the rules had been written by someone else.
The difference was, he had started to learn how to move diagonally, dodging their traps before getting cornered. But Jieun… she was still trying to figure out what piece she even was.
He finished first, placing his chopsticks down and leaning back, watching her quietly.
He didn't rush her. Didn't push her. Just waited.
Eventually, she slurped the last noodle and gently set her chopsticks beside her bowl. She wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin, her movements small and careful.
Jihoon smiled, not the charming grin he wore in front of executives or family members, but something softer—warm, real.
"Take your time," he said, then after a beat, added, "Jieun-ah, where are you attending middle school right now?"
She blinked, startled by the question, and then answered politely, "It's near my neighborhood, oppa."
Jihoon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Do you like it there?" he asked.
"Because if you don't, we can look into transferring you to a school near my place. You'll be living with me for now."
Her fingers fidgeted against the hem of her shirt. She looked down, unsure of what to say.
A thousand thoughts raced through her mind—what would her father say? What would the family want? Was she even allowed to choose?
Jihoon saw it all—the hesitation, the fear of saying the wrong thing.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"Hey," he said gently. "You don't need to worry about them. It's just us now. I'm your legal guardian, which means the decisions—we make them together. Not them. Okay?"
His words, simple as they were, carried a kind of permission she'd never expect to have.
Jieun looked up, searching his face for sarcasm or hidden expectations. But all she found was sincerity.
"If… if possible," she said softly, "I'd like to stay at my current school."
"Then that's what we'll do," Jihoon replied without hesitation, his smile unwavering. "No changes."
It was a small victory. But to Jieun, it felt like the first time someone had asked what she wanted since being thrown into these circumstances.
Not ordered, not dictated—asked.
The power of that moment lay in a single word Jihoon kept using: we.
It wasn't just her decision. And it wasn't just his. It was theirs.
That word would come to define their bond—slowly, quietly, and steadily.
Jihoon leaned back, casually glancing at the clock. "Did you bring your luggage with you?" he asked.
"Um… I'm not sure," she replied. "Mrs. Boojin told me to go to the hotel. She said her staff would take care of the rest."
"Hm," Jihoon said, nodding. "Then she probably arranged to have your stuff delivered to my place. But either way—you're moving into a new home, right? That calls for some new things."
Jieun blinked. "Like… what kind of things?"
Jihoon grinned. "Clothes. Supplies. Decorations for your room. Groceries for tonight's dinner. You know—stuff that makes a place feel like yours."
She hesitated, caught between gratitude and discomfort. The idea of spending so much money—on herself—felt unnatural and almost wrong.
Jihoon saw the conflict in her eyes and softened his tone. "It's okay," he said. "You don't have to say anything. I'm your oppa now. So let me do what oppas do, alright?"
Before she could protest nor reject, Jihoon already stood up and came around to her side of the table.
He then gently ruffled her hair with a grin.
"Come on. If we wait too long, dinner's gonna turn into supper."
Dongdaemun was bustling, chaotic in all the right ways.
Jihoon led her through shops and stalls, picking out things she needed—and more than a few things she didn't.
Every time she hesitated at a price tag, he waved her off.
At first, Jieun felt overwhelmed. The brands were too luxurious. The price tags, astronomical. Back in her old life, she'd worked part-time at a local bakery just to help her mother pay the bills.
Spending this kind of money felt… obscene.
But Jihoon wasn't doing it to show off.
He didn't care about designer labels or price tags—he cared about her. He just wanted to give her the best he could.
And slowly, she began to see that.
Somewhere between trying on a pair of sneakers and picking out a soft blanket for her new room, something in her started to loosen. She began to relax. She even started choosing her own things—not just what looked expensive, but what she actually liked.
Jihoon watched her quietly, a kind of warmth blooming in his chest.
He'd never really had a family. His mother had died before he could remember, and his father… was little more than a ghost behind a locked door. The rest of his relatives spoke only in terms of duty, legacy, and reputation—never love.
But now, with Jieun, there was something different. Something he hadn't realized he'd been missing until now—a reason to care. A reason to come home. A reason he'd never found in his past life.
And so, even if his instincts screamed at every swipe of the card, Jihoon didn't flinch.
Not today.
Today, he had a sister. Today, they were writing their own rules.
And even God might wonder—given Jihoon's stingy nature—whether he'd regret spending so freely.
They spent the entire evening hopping from store to store, arms slowly filling with shopping bags until they looked more like moving coat racks than two people enjoying a night out.
By the time they returned home, it was already well past ten.
The city lights outside Jihoon's apartment window flickered lazily, casting soft glows across the living room.
They barely managed to kick off their shoes before collapsing onto the couch, limbs tangled and breath heavy.
Jieun let out a groan that sounded more like a dying cat. "I can't feel my legs."
Jihoon dropped beside her with a theatrical huff, his head lolling back against the cushions. "Maybe they're too short to be seen."
She didn't respond. No laughter, no protest.
Just a shared silence—the kind that settles over two people who've truly spent all their energy.
Their postures were far from dignified. Both had their legs unceremoniously stretched across the coffee table, spines molded to the couch as if gravity had finally claimed them completely.
With the elegance of a sloth, Jihoon extended an arm toward the remote resting just out of reach. His fingers wiggled in the air... missed... and gave up with a sigh.
He sighed dramatically. "Jieun-ah, oppa's too tired to make dinner. What do you say we order take-out?"
"I second that motion," she muttered, eyes closed. "My body's staging a protest."
"Great. Fried chicken it is." He turned to her, eyes lighting up just a bit. "With beer, of course. Nothing hits like chicken and beer after surviving a war."
Jieun cracked one eye open and rolled it. "Oppa, I'm still underage."
Jihoon puffed up his chest with mock pride. "But your noble oppa is now eighteen. A certified adult in the eyes of the nation. Surely he deserves one can of happiness?"
She smirked. "You mean a reward for my suffering?"
"Exactly," Jihoon replied with a wink. "See? You're catching on fast."
That same grin had followed her around all day—through the shopping, the teasing, the silly jokes about designer handbags and ridiculous price tags.
At first, she'd been cautious, reserved. But somewhere between the third store and the overpriced cafe latte, she realized something important:
Jihoon didn't treat her like a charity case, or a secret to be hidden.
He treated her like a sibling.
Not carefully. Not delicately. Not like someone tiptoeing around broken glass.
He teased her, laughed with her, poked fun at her indecisiveness, and called her out when she took too long deciding between nearly identical sweaters.
It was infuriating. It was hilarious. It was... comforting.
He made her feel like she belonged.
Jihoon snapped his fingers dramatically. "Alright. As the legal adult and ruler of this humble domain, I shall take on the noble task of ordering food."
"And as the maknae of the household, you shall retrieve it from the gates of destiny when it arrives."
Jieun turned to him with wide, mock-offended eyes. "YA! Oppa! That's child labor! You're exploiting your underage cousin!"
He waved her off like a royal too busy for nonsense. "Oh please, don't be dramatic. It builds character—maybe even pumps up the calcium in those little bones of yours. You'll thank me when you're tall enough to reach the top shelf."
Her mouth dropped open in fake indignation. Without hesitation, she grabbed the nearest couch pillow and hurled it at his head.
It hit with a dull thud.
Jihoon, completely unfazed, picked up the same pillow, shoved her backward until she was lying flat on the couch, and reached across the coffee table for a stray brush.
"Wait—what are you—OPPA—NO—!"
Too late.
Jihoon's fingers, aided by the brush, found her feet and began tickling mercilessly.
"STOP! IT TICKLES!" Jieun shrieked, thrashing and laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "OPPA! I'M BEGGING YOU—STOP!"
"Will you go get the food later?"
"YES! YES, I SWEAR!"
Satisfied with the answer, he finally let her go.
Jieun scrambled to sit upright, her hair is in a mess, her face flushed from laughing, and eyes narrowed in fake vengeance.
Without missing a beat, she grabbed the pillow again, preparing to launch a counterattack.
But Jihoon, having lived twice and survived far worse than an angry teenage girl with a pillow, sensed danger immediately.
The moment he let her go, he was already on his feet, sprinting toward his bedroom like the adult he thought he was.
And just before slamming the door behind him, he peeked his head out with a smug grin and a sly glint in his eyes he said. "Jieun-ah… don't forget to call me when the food arrives. Your oppa is very hungry~"
From the couch, Jieun launched the pillow like a missile.
It hit the closed door and bounced harmlessly to the floor.
Thud.
The pillow hit the door a second too late.
Jieun stood in the middle of the living room, panting from mock combat and laughter, and for the first time in a long time, she felt something unexpected—normalcy.
She wasn't just surviving anymore.
She was living.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe and DaoistaLrAXA for bestowing the power stone!]