Chapter 1: A Boring World

Part 1: "The Day Begins"

A shrill sound tore through the silence of the room, dragging me brutally back to reality.

That damn alarm clock.

I opened my eyes with a grimace, my vision blurry, still trapped in the haze of sleep. The white ceiling above me seemed to stretch endlessly, and for a moment, I questioned why I even needed to get up. Another day. Just another boring day in this boring world, at that boring school where every minute felt like a stretched-out echo of a monotonous existence.

I stretched lazily, stifling a sigh.

No, I told myself, I'm not going to school today. What difference would it make? Skipping one day won't kill me.

I let my head fall back onto the pillow, eyes closing once more. But just as sleep was about to embrace me again, a sound pierced the stillness. A familiar sound. Almost irresistible.

A call. A voice.

— Ken...

It was a soft voice, clear, but filled with that kind of insistence you just can't ignore. It vibrated in the air, cutting through the fog of my laziness.

I blinked, still half-asleep.

The voice... I recognized it even in that drowsy state.

— Ken... It's time to get up. You're going to be late for your school trip.

I sat up slowly, my body still heavy with fatigue. The call came from the door outside my room.

I sighed again, but this time, it wasn't resignation. It was a sigh heavy with frustration.

"Oh right, that stupid trip," I thought, clearly irritated.

The voice… it was my mother, Haejin Jinheon, probably standing there in the hallway.

"Still lying there, dreaming again?"

She was never the type to let me slack off for too long. She knew how much I hated school, but she never accepted that I sink into an endless torpor.

I heard her walking away. No anger in her voice, just that quiet kind of determination. She never gives up.

I sighed, annoyed, and finally got out of bed. The sounds of the outside world hit me — the soft hum of Seoul, the distant buzz of a city that never stopped.

I had no desire to join it, but I had no choice.

"Ken, get up, sleepyhead!" she shouted with that same stubborn tone.

I groaned, annoyed.

"Yes, I'm coming. No need to yell."

I stretched lazily, eyes half-closed, my thoughts floating between languages, and muttered in barely audible German:

"Es bringt nichts, mich zu drängen." (It's no use trying to rush me.)

There was a pause in the hallway, then her voice again — firm as always, that strange mix of gentleness and steel I knew so well.

"What did you just say, young man?"

I knew it. Same routine every time.

I sighed again, irritation slipping into my tone.

"Nothing, nothing. I didn't say anything."

I could almost feel her gaze burning through the door, watching me in silence. But she didn't respond right away. She knew that even if I tried to resist, I'd get up eventually. She never backs down.

---

Part 2: "Misty Mornings and Stubborn Love"

Eventually, I dragged myself to the bathroom. My movements were slow, mechanical. The lukewarm water barely woke me. I just stood there, silent, eyes lost in the void, my mind still stuck in another world.

Once I was clean, I dressed without much effort. School uniform: white shirt, black pants, blazer. My tie hung crooked, as always. I never had the patience to fix it. Honestly, I didn't care.

I walked down the stairs in silence, suitcase in hand. My hair was still damp, a chaotic mess. The kitchen was lit by a soft, warm light. Breakfast was already waiting: toast, eggs, fruit.

I sat down without a word, half yawning.

Then she arrived — energetic as ever.

"Hurry up, sweetheart, you're going to be late!"

She walked up to me, kissed me on the cheek, and ruffled my already-messy hair affectionately.

I winced.

"I'm not a kid anymore…"

She leaned back with an amused smile. Then, in playful, fluent Spanish, she replied:

"¿Y acaso es pecado amar demasiado a su hijo, especialmente cuando es tan lindo y guapo?" (Is it a sin to love your son too much, especially when he's so cute and handsome?)

I rolled my eyes and looked away.

— Tch… this woman…

But deep down, her warmth… her presence… it was the only thing in this world that still felt real.

---

That woman is my mother.

Haejin Jinheon.

She's overwhelming, talkative, sometimes exhausting… but she's everything to me.

The only constant in this unstable life.

The only person I tolerate without wearing a mask.

I chewed slowly on a piece of toast, eyes half-closed, still drowsy. The taste was simple, comforting — like every morning. She moved around me, alive, already ready to leave, coffee cup in hand, her perfume trailing in the air.

I didn't look up.

— Traveling again? I asked in a flat tone, still munching my toast, half-lidded eyes barely open.

She didn't answer right away. She stopped beside me, arms crossed, then with a little smug smile, she answered in German, her tone teasing, childish even — but proud:

"Willst du, dass deine Mama bei dir bleibt, hmm? Hmm?"

(Do you want your mommy to stay with you, hmm? Hmm?)

She poked my cheek playfully, which made me flinch. I gently pushed her hand away with the usual weary gesture.

"Tch… still as dramatic as ever."

But inside… it warmed me.

Even if I'd never say it.

She picked up her cup with a mischievous smile and headed toward the door, ready to take on another endless day.

Me? I just sat there in my bubble, in my silence, finishing my toast, trying to convince myself that this day might be different.

Even though I already knew — it wouldn't be.

---

Part 3: "Mom Leaves… and Traumatizes Me"

She grabbed her suitcase in one hand, her work bag in the other. The sound of her heels echoed lightly on the floor — a signal of imminent departure.

"I'm leaving on a business trip. Spain, this time," she said, her voice light, almost singing.

I didn't even turn my head.

"How long?"

I asked, still focused on my toast, detached.

I felt her smirk, even if I didn't see it. She loved teasing me.

"Three months," she said with mischievous delight.

I winced for a split second. A shadow passed through my eyes — but my legendary calm returned immediately.

"You've done worse," I muttered in English, indifferent.

I took a sip of milk, still lost in thought. But I felt her eyes on me. The silence lingered. Too long. Too… loaded.

She was talking, but I had already tuned out, lost in my own thoughts.

"And your school trip is two weeks, right? I hope you packed everything: toothbrush, extra underwear… and please, stay away from dangerous places in Busan. No crazy stuff, okay?"

She noticed my dazed expression and paused.

Then, with her arms crossed, and that same mischievous glint in her eye, she dropped the bomb.

"Make sure you protect yourself, okay?

I'm not that old to be a grandma just yet."

I instantly snapped out of my thoughts, spewing the milk from my mouth in a violent spray. I coughed, nearly choking on it, completely caught off guard.

— WHAT??? I gasped, eyes wide open, caught between embarrassment, disbelief, and sheer horror.

She burst into laughter — victorious.

— Cute.

— Really cute.

— Absolutely adorable.

She walked away, still laughing, and the door closed behind her with one final echo.

And there I was — alone, in the sudden heavy silence of the apartment.

Just me.

My bowl.

And my deep, lingering shame.

"This woman is going to kill me before she turns sixty…" I muttered, collapsing onto the table.

---

You've just seen a glimpse of my daily life.

My mother, Haejin Jinheon, is no ordinary woman. A high-level executive at a major international company, she spends more time on planes than in this apartment. Spain today, Dubai next, maybe Tokyo after that.

She speaks seven languages fluently. Yeah, seven — maybe more. I've lost count. Korean, English, Spanish, French, German, Japanese, and a bit of Arabic… or was it Russian? Maybe both.

Obviously, it rubbed off on me.

Growing up, she'd speak to me in multiple languages — sometimes in the same sentence. It was weird, but it became our way of talking. We hated monotony — even in words.

The result?

I speak several languages too.

Not to brag — it's just become instinctive. Korean for politeness, English for sarcasm, German for complaining, French for drama… each language has its mood, its weight. Our style.

It's chaotic.

Like her.

Like me.

But it's our chaos. And strangely, I wouldn't change it for anything in the world.

I left the apartment, bag on my shoulder, suitcase in hand, fatigue still glued to my face. Seoul's sunlight filtered through the buildings, casting a pale, peaceful glow on the streets.

As I walked down the stairs, I passed Mrs. Park, an elderly neighbor setting her plants on the balcony. Like every morning, she looked at me with a mix of curiosity and affection.

"Annyeong, honhyeol-a!"

Honhyeol.

Mixed-blood.

A word that slides easily into conversation but always leaves an invisible trace.

Not quite an insult. But never neutral, either.

I gave her a small nod.

"Annyeonghaseyo, ajumma."

I was born here. But my reflection tells another story.

Light brown skin, straight black hair, ruby-red eyes — a mix no one can ignore.

Not really Korean.

Not quite something else either.

And if you're wondering how I ended up like this…

My mother was 25. In New York for a business trip.

One night — a cocktail party, too many drinks, too much trust.

An African-American man she never named.

A one-night stand.

She came back to Korea thinking everything would return to normal. Then she found out she was pregnant. With me.

In a strict family obsessed with status and appearances, her pregnancy was a bombshell. Rejection. Isolation. Loneliness.

But she didn't back down.

She left her family. Decided to raise me alone. Not with cold rules or rigid principles — but with love. Raw, intense, sometimes too much.

She wanted to create what she never had: a real family. Even if the world judged her.

I was born from that choice.

A bold, chaotic, but fully owned choice.

So yeah — I'm a honhyeol.

But I'm Ken Jinheon.

And no one gets to redefine me.

---

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