Silent Affliction

At the Kim mansion, the atmosphere was warm and lively. The Jeons, the Parks, and other family members, along with colleagues, had gathered for an annual festival celebrated in South Korea—Chuseok, a time of reunion and gratitude. The grand hall of the Kim family was filled with conversations and laughter as relatives enjoyed each other’s company. Kim Joo Young, the eldest sister of Jeon Song Kang and the aunt of the younger generation of the Park family, was in the kitchen, overseeing the preparations. She carefully prepared dishes for her sons while instructing the maids to arrange everything perfectly. A sense of relief washed over her when she heard that her son wasn’t arriving alone but with his close friends—something that pleased her the most. Knowing her son's reserved nature, she felt reassured by his choice of company. As the evening settled in, two sleek black cars pulled up at the entrance. Vyre stepped out with his friends, his expression calm and unreadable. Without much acknowledgment, he gave a brief nod and quietly made his way inside. His movements were minimal—barely noticeable—before he climbed the stairs to his room, leaving his friends to settle down in the living area. Kim Joo Young, who had observed him, let out a quiet breath. She was simply relieved that he had come home. Stepping out of the kitchen, she joined the others in the grand hall, finally allowing herself to relax and enjoy the family gathering. -

After some time, Vyre stepped down the stairs, his damp hair falling over his face in soft waves. Dressed in his signature black attire with a long coat draped over his shoulders, he carried an effortless air of mystery. His open wolf-cut only added to his striking presence, making him look almost otherworldly. He moved slowly, his steps unhurried, before settling himself comfortably on the couch. His cousins, unable to ignore his presence, found themselves stealing glances at him. Some of them even tried to draw his attention, subtly revealing themselves in an attempt to charm him. But Vyre was the kind of person who remained utterly unaffected by such things—unmoved and completely indifferent. His mother noticed the shift in the room's atmosphere, and so did the rest of the family. Yet, Vyre remained unfazed. He simply closed his eyes, as if shutting out the world around him. A while later, a maid arrived, carefully placing a glass of Irish-French champagne in front of him.

He took the glass and took a slow sip, letting the rich taste settle on his tongue. For a while, silence filled the room, a quiet pause where nothing but the faint sounds of the festival outside could be heard. Then, the stillness was broken by his mother’s voice. She turned her attention toward Roman, one of Vyre’s friends who was older than him, addressing him with a calm yet composed tone.

After exchanging a few words with Vyre’s mother, Roman shifted his attention toward Vyre. Without saying a word, Vyre stood up and left the room, heading outside for a walk in the garden. The large window in the living room allowed everyone inside to see him as he moved through the open space. Stepping into the cool night air, he pulled out his vape, taking a slow drag. The soft glow from the device highlighted his sharp features, making him look effortlessly striking. His mother, watching from inside, frowned. A deep crease formed on her forehead as she disapproved of his habit. She wanted to stop him, knowing how harmful it was, but their last discussion about this was something she could never forget. Outside in the yard, his cousins were already present. When they noticed him, their expressions shifted to shock, as if seeing a side of him they hadn’t expected. Moments later, Mikhail excused himself from the gathering inside and joined Vyre. Without a word, he fell into step beside him, matching his pace as they walked together in silence.

[The garden is quiet, the crisp night air carrying a faint chill. Vyre walks ahead, his steps steady and unhurried, while Mikhail follows beside him. The past lingers between them, unspoken yet heavy. After a moment, Mikhail breaks the silence.] Mikhail: "Do you remember the first time we met?" [Vyre doesn’t answer. He simply takes a slow drag from his vape, his eyes fixed ahead. Mikhail chuckles lightly, shaking his head.] Mikhail: "Of course, you won’t say anything. But I know you do." [He exhales, watching his breath disappear into the cold air.] Mikhail: "The orphanage… We were just kids. I was the loud one, always getting into trouble, and you… You barely spoke, but somehow, everyone listened when you did. I used to think you were heartless, but then I started noticing things. Like how you’d take the blame when one of us messed up. How you'd leave food on my side of the bed when I pretended I wasn’t hungry." [Vyre keeps walking, his expression unmoved, his posture unchanged. He remains indifferent, as if Mikhail’s words are nothing more than background noise. Yet, for the briefest moment, his fingers tighten around the vape. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, and Mikhail—lost in his own thoughts—doesn’t catch it.] Mikhail: "That winter… when I got sick, I thought I wasn’t gonna make it. The orphanage was short on medicine, and the caretakers didn’t care enough. But someone did. I never knew how, but the next morning, there was medicine on my bedside table. It took me years to realize it was you." [Vyre walks on, unwavering, as if the words don’t reach him. His silence remains absolute, his gaze never shifting, his presence as distant as ever.] Mikhail: "You never took credit for anything. Never let anyone see the way you cared. But I saw it. We all did." [They walk in silence for a while, the only sound being the wind rustling through the trees. Then, Mikhail sighs.] Mikhail: "You think distancing yourself keeps people safe, don’t you? That if you stay silent, stay cold, no one will get hurt. But the truth is… you’ve always been the one holding everyone together." [Vyre doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge a single word. His grip on the vape loosens back to normal, as if nothing had ever shifted. Mikhail watches him for a moment before shaking his head with a faint, knowing smile.] Mikhail: "Still the same, huh? Fine. Keep pretending you don’t care. But you can’t fool me, Vyre. You never could." [And with that, they continue walking, their silence speaking louder than words ever could.]

Vyre shifted his posture slightly, his head tilting just enough to acknowledge a presence nearby. But just as quickly, he dismissed it, uninterested. Without a word, he moved toward the living room and settled himself on the couch, exuding his usual detached aura. Outside, Mikhail joined the others as they started a game of tennis. The rhythmic sound of the ball bouncing against the court filled the air, but inside, Vyre remained unaffected, lost in his own world.

As Vyre moved toward the living room, his sharp instincts picked up on someone’s presence. He barely acknowledged it, a fleeting recognition, before letting it go and settling himself on the couch. Jennie, a classified neurologist and psychiatrist, was already seated there. She had been quietly sipping her juice when, out of habit, she shifted her gaze to pick up the glass the maid had served her. That’s when she noticed him. A soft smile appeared on her lips—subtle, almost unreadable—as if she had expected this moment.

Jennie stood up, her movements slow yet deliberate, as she walked toward Vyre. His eyes were closed, his expression unreadable, lost in a world of his own. For a brief moment, she hesitated, her fingers grazing the smooth surface of the small black box she had brought with her. It was a classical design—elegant yet simple, with subtle silver engravings lining its edges. Taking a silent breath, she stepped forward and settled onto the couch beside him, maintaining a respectful distance—far enough to respect his space, yet close enough for him to reach if he chose to. Inside the box were his internal bleeding damage control pills—custom-formulated to regulate blood clotting, enhance vascular healing, and counteract the strain his body endured. Each capsule contained a precise combination of tranexamic acid, hemostatic agents, and regenerative compounds to accelerate recovery while preventing complications. Jennie didn’t speak. She simply waited. After some time, Vyre’s breathing shifted slightly, a sign of his awareness returning. His eyelids fluttered open, and his cold, piercing gaze landed on her.

Jennie’s movements were graceful, refined—a display of etiquette that caught the attention of those around them. As she stood up, she bowed slightly before Vyre, an elegant gesture of respect that momentarily left the room in stunned silence. A few curious glances were exchanged, but soon, the others returned to their conversations, their chatter and discussions resuming as if nothing had happened. Without a word, Jennie extended the classical black box toward him. Vyre’s gaze flickered to it for a brief moment before he took it, his fingers barely brushing against hers in the process. The exchange was brief, almost impersonal, yet it carried a weight that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

The present Jennie had given him was something no one had expected. As Vyre’s mother approached, intending to sit beside her son for a while, her eyes fell on the box in his hands. Her steps faltered as she looked closer at the pills inside, and a wave of shock ran through her. These pills—dangerous in excessive use—acted like a silent killer, slowly deteriorating organs and meridians over time. He had been taking them for ten years now, and his body had grown accustomed to them, but instead of healing him, they were quietly eating away at his strength. His mother hesitated but eventually settled down, her gaze fixed on him with concern. Meanwhile, Vyre took out one blister pack from the box, effortlessly popped open the lid, and, without a second thought, chewed the pill like it was nothing more than a casual snack. Jennie’s expression darkened instantly. As his doctor, she was well aware of his reckless habits, but this—this was beyond what she could tolerate. Anger flared in her eyes. He had only visited her twice, barely acknowledging her expertise, and now, watching him treat his own recovery with such careless indifference made her frustration boil over.

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