A fleeting moment

FIVE YEARS AGO

BREAKING NEWS

"South Korea mourns today as Minister Park Sanghoon has passed away in what authorities are calling natural causes. The nation stands in solemn remembrance of his years of service, and our thoughts go out to his family and loved ones. Meanwhile, a swift transition has taken place—Han Tae-Won, a respected figure within the political sphere, has been officially appointed as the new Minister of National Affairs. His nomination has been met with widespread approval from key government officials, signaling a smooth continuation of leadership. Minister Han is expected to address the nation shortly…"

The TV flickered, the polished newsroom setting casting an artificial glow over the mournful expressions of the anchors. The broadcast shifted, cutting to live coverage of the funeral procession. A grand, state-funded ceremony—full of mourners in black, of bowed heads and whispered condolences.

At the front of it all stood Han Tae-Won, dressed in the finest black suit his newfound power could buy, posture firm, expression perfectly composed. He lowered his head just enough to sell the grief, just enough to look like a man mourning the death of his predecessor, not a man celebrating his ascension.

And then, with practiced sorrow, he spoke.

"Minister Park was a pillar of our government, a man who dedicated his life to the prosperity of this nation. His loss is an immeasurable tragedy. As we move forward, it is my honor—and my solemn duty—to continue his legacy. To lead with integrity, strength, and the unwavering commitment to a better, stronger South Korea."

A pause. A subtle breath.

"May he rest in peace."

The cameras zoomed in. The country watched. And just like that—

The stage was set.

The mask was secured.

And Han Tae-Won was no longer a desperate politician groveling for power.

He was power.

Outside the ceremony, beyond the reach of cameras and mourning eyes—

A soft click. A sharp inhale. The slow burn of tobacco curling through the cold air.

Kang Minjae exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching the grand display unfold from a distance. His posture was relaxed, his expression unreadable, his suit tailored to perfection as he leaned against the sleek black frame of his car.

Beside him, Joon lit his own cigarette, the cherry glow burning bright against the muted sky.

"Pathetic." Minjae muttered, his voice low, smooth, entirely unimpressed.

Joon snorted, exhaling sharply. "What, the speech?"

Minjae hummed, tilting his head slightly as he watched the screens broadcasting Han's perfectly scripted condolences. The man had spent years climbing his way to this moment—lying, bowing, kneeling, clawing. And now? He stood at the peak of it all, basking in the applause, in the trust of a nation too blind to know who really pulled the strings.

Minjae took another slow drag of his cigarette, letting the silence stretch between them before finally exhaling.

"He almost sounded convincing," he mused. "Almost."

Joon scoffed. "Guess that means we trained him well."

Minjae chuckled. "I suppose so."

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, eyes still fixed on the screen, on the image of Han standing tall, thanking officials, shaking hands, accepting the weight of the nation on his shoulders as if he had earned it on his own.

But he hadn't.

Minjae knew the truth. The Minister's seat didn't belong to Han Tae-Won.

It belonged to the Kang name.

Han was just renting it.

And someday, when he outlived his usefulness?

Minjae would take it back.

His smirk deepened slightly at the thought.

"Politics" Joon muttered, shaking his head as he took another drag, "is just a more expensive version of gang wars."

Minjae exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his gaze still locked on the ceremony, on the man standing center stage.

"No" he murmured, voice soft but absolute.

"It's a slower version."

Joon smirked. "Less blood?"

Minjae let out a low chuckle. "Not less. Just cleaner."

The funeral ended with the expected fanfare—formal bows, silent departures, the press capturing the last moments of grief before moving on to the next headline, the next distraction.

The world had already accepted its new Minister.

Han Tae-Won had won.

Or at least, he thought he had.

But then—

A small shift.

A fleeting moment.

A presence.

Minjae took one last, final drag of his cigarette before exhaling—slow, patient, unbothered. And as he turned his gaze away from the screen, letting the scene of carefully orchestrated mourning fade from his attention— Something else caught it. Or rather—someone.

It was a glimpse.

Just a second.

A passing movement in the crowd.

But for a moment, the world sharpened.

A figure moved past him—just barely brushing by. A girl.

A delicate frame. Dark waves of hair, soft brown, light catching in golden strands like honey kissed by the sun. A quiet grace in her steps, an almost absentminded presence as she passed, unaware of the weight of the world shifting, tilting, bending around her.

And her eyes.

Big. Wide. Blue as the sky on the first cold day of autumn. The kind of blue that didn't belong in a world like this. The kind of blue that didn't belong anywhere near a man like him.

And yet—

Minjae paused.

Just for a second.

Just for a fleeting, meaningless second.

Something in his chest twisted.

A brief flicker of something unrecognizable, something irrelevant, something he ignored the moment it appeared.

She was gone. The moment passed. The shift disappeared. And the world kept moving.

Joon let out a low sigh, rolling his shoulders. "Fucking politics."

Minjae scoffed, dragging his gaze away from the empty space where she had been.

"Hm."

And just like that, it was forgotten.

Or so he thought.

Because neither of them knew. Neither of them could have possibly known..

That years from now, that fleeting moment

That insignificant girl

Would become his greatest ruin.

༺♰༻

The house was too big.

Too grand.

Too empty.

Yeijin sat curled up in the wide bay window of her new bedroom, knees drawn to her chest as she stared out at the perfectly trimmed garden below.

It was beautiful.

Every inch of it was meticulously designed, expensive, curated for aesthetics and status. The house—no, the estate—was the same. A sprawling mansion built in one of the wealthiest districts in Seoul, far from the modest home she had grown up in.

She should have been grateful.

Her father had become Minister of National Affairs. Their family had risen to a level of wealth and power she could never have imagined before. They were now untouchable. Respected. Feared.

So why did it all feel so…

Lonely?

She sighed, pressing her forehead against the cool glass.

It wasn't just the house. It was everything.

It was the way her father had suddenly become a ghost in his own home—constantly at meetings, always busy, barely sparing her a glance when he did come home. It was the way her mother, once a simple woman who found joy in tending to their small garden, now spent hours socializing with other political wives, carefully crafting the perfect image of a Minister's spouse. It was the way people looked at her now. Or rather—the way they didn't.

She had noticed it the very first day she returned to school. The silence. The distance. The way her friends had shifted from casual, warm interactions to something cold, careful, and painfully polite.

Before, they had been equals.

They had gone shopping together, taken weekend trips to Jeju, gossiped about boys and complained about exams. They had laughed freely, thrown arms around each other, been normal.

But now—

Now they bowed.

They used honorifics they had never used before.

They whispered when she entered the room, exchanging glances as if uncertain how to approach her. Even during lunch, when she sat at their usual table, the conversation felt forced. "Your house must be beautiful, Yeijin-ah" one of them had said, smiling, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. Another girl had nodded, too eagerly. "I heard your father is going to be one of the most powerful men in the country!"

"Must be amazing.." someone else murmured.

Amazing?

Yeijin had forced a smile.

"It's… nice."

Nice.

It wasn't nice.

It was suffocating.

Even tennis—her escape, her solace—felt different now. She still played, still showed up to the private club her friends belonged to, still held a racket and tried to pretend everything was the same.

But it wasn't.

The games were shorter.

No one laughed as much.

And when she won, instead of the usual teasing and playful competitiveness, her opponent had simply bowed and said, "You were excellent, Yeijin-ssi."

Yeijin-ssi.

Not Yeijin-ah.

Not Yeijin, the girl they had grown up with.

Just Yeijin, the Minister's daughter.

The moment she had stepped off the court, she had overheard them whispering.

"She has a professional coach now, doesn't she?"

"I heard her father pays for a private trainer."

"Of course she won. Look at the kind of money they have now."

Her chest ached.

She wanted to tell them—Nothing has changed!

I'm still me.

I'm still Yeijin.

I still love coffee dates and silly movies and the way we used to laugh until our stomachs hurt.

But none of them looked at her like that anymore. None of them saw her anymore.

They only saw what her father had become.

And that meant…

She was alone.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

"Yeijin-ssi" a deep voice called from the hallway. "It's time to leave for school." She closed her eyes for a second before uncurling herself from the window seat.

"Coming" she called back, slipping on her uniform blazer. The drive to school was quiet. She sat in the back of the sleek black car, her driver focused on the road, the radio playing soft classical music.

Before, she used to take the subway.

She used to walk, headphones in, a coffee in hand, stopping by her favorite bakery to grab a pastry before class.

Now?

Now she had a government-assigned chauffeur. Now people stared when she stepped out of the car, whispering as she walked through the gates.

Now, no one approached her first.

Now, she felt like she was watching her life from behind a glass wall.

She hated this.

She hated how something as simple as a title, as a change in status, had erased everything that made her feel like herself.

She hated that her father had dragged her into this world of politics, where even friendships were just transactions, where loyalty was tied to status, where no one was truly sincere. She hated that her name wasn't hers anymore.

She was Han Yeijin, the Minister's daughter.

Not Yeijin, the girl who loved music.

Not Yeijin, the girl who dreamed of seeing the world.

Not Yeijin, the girl who just wanted to be seen for who she was.

Just a title.

Just another pawn in a game she never agreed to play. And the worst part? There was nothing she could do about it.

The car pulled up to the school gates. She exhaled slowly, smoothing her skirt, forcing a smile. Because that was all she could do now.

Smile.

Bow.

Play the role.

And pretend she wasn't disappearing.

༺♰༻

The dining hall was too grand.

Too vast, too extravagant, too meticulously designed for the sole purpose of looking impressive.

The long mahogany table stretched down the center, polished to a perfect gleam, reflecting the golden light of the chandelier above. Not a single speck of dust. Not a single thing out of place.

The food was already being placed before them—a lavish spread of delicacies that looked more like art than actual meals. Porcelain plates rimmed with gold, silver utensils polished to perfection, crystal glasses filled with the finest imported wine.

Everything was orchestrated.

Everything was flawless.

And yet—

Yeijin had never felt more suffocated.

She sat stiffly, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes lowered as the servants moved around them in silent efficiency. No one spoke. No one was allowed to speak.

It had been this way ever since her father became Minister.

Dinner was no longer just a meal.

It was a performance.

Her father sat at the head of the table, posture perfect, commanding, effortless. Dressed in an expensive charcoal suit, his presence alone was enough to make the air in the room feel heavy.

Her mother sat beside him, her hair styled to perfection, makeup flawless, smile painted on.

She hadn't touched the food yet—not until he did.

Because everything revolved around him now.

Yeijin clenched her hands beneath the table, eyes flickering to the massive oil painting that had been hung on the far wall.

A portrait of their family.

Her father, standing at the center—commanding, powerful.

Her mother, beside him—elegant, poised, obedient.

And Yeijin—seated slightly in front, smiling, the perfect daughter of a perfect family.

A lie.

A carefully constructed lie.

The way their real family had been swallowed whole and replaced by this.

She had barely seen her father before his appointment. Now she saw him every day. But not in the way she wanted. Not as her father.

As the Minister.

As the man who had built an empire from ambition, from control, from the ability to bend people to his will.

"Eat."his voice finally broke the silence, deep and authoritative. Her mother picked up her utensils immediately, taking the first delicate bite.

Yeijin did the same.

The food was perfect.

It tasted like nothing.

She barely had the appetite to swallow, but she knew better than to leave her plate untouched. She had learned her lesson. The first time she had refused to eat, her father had stared at her—long, calculated, unimpressed. Then he had dismissed the entire meal, ordered the servants to clear everything, and made them all sit in silence for two hours until she had apologized.

After that, she forced herself to eat.

She had no choice.

Her father sipped his wine, his sharp gaze flickering toward her.

"You seem quiet tonight, Yeijin."

She tensed.

Lowered her gaze.

"I'm just tired" she murmured.

Her father scoffed.

"Tired?" he echoed, setting down his glass with a sharp clink.

Yeijin's stomach tightened.

"You live in luxury, child" he continued. "You don't work. You don't struggle. You don't suffer. And yet, you're tired?"

His tone was laced with disdain. Her mother didn't say a word. Because she never did.

Yeijin swallowed, pushing a piece of food around her plate. "I didn't mean it like that." Her father huffed, shaking his head. "Always so ungrateful."

She froze.

"Excuse me?"

"You sit there, frowning at the meal I paid for, in the house I built, surrounded by the wealth I secured for you, and you can't even smile for your own father?"

Yeijin's breath caught.

"I—"

"Look at you" he cut her off. "Sulking like a child. When I have done everything for you!"

His voice boomed against the walls. Her mother flinched, lowering her gaze. The servants didn't react. Because they had seen it all before. Yeijin clenched her hands under the table.

"You think this life is easy?" her father continued, voice dark, filled with self-righteous fury. "Do you think I climbed to the top because it was handed to me? I worked, I sacrificed, I bled for this family!" His hand slammed against the table, making the wine in his glass tremble.

Yeijin bit the inside of her cheek.

"Everything I have built" he seethed, "everything I have done—it was for you. For your future. And you can't even show a little appreciation?"

Her mother nodded subtly, a silent plea.

Agree. Apologize. Make it stop.

Yeijin's stomach churned. Her father didn't want a response. He wanted submission.

He wanted her to bow, to smile, to play the role.

She forced her lips to curve slightly.

"Of course, Father" she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Her father exhaled, satisfied.

"Good girl." he said simply, picking up his utensils again. "Now eat."

And just like that— The conversation ended.

The dinner continued as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just broken her down like it was routine. As if the resentment in her chest wasn't slowly, painfully growing.

She ate.

Not because she was hungry. Not because she wanted to. But because that was all she was allowed to do.

After dinner, she stood in front of the mirror in her room, staring at herself, staring at the ghost of the girl she used to be. She had learned something tonight. Something she should have already known. Her father didn't see her as his daughter. He saw her as a product of his success.

A reflection of his power.

A thing to be controlled.

And that realization?

It felt like the final nail in the coffin of who she used to be.