Chapter 10
Early season rain poured over the university campus from mid-afternoon, turning brick walkways into streaks of water reflecting blurry streetlights.
After that morning at Martin's shop, Juhoon had grown unusually quiet. The younger student sat hunched at the corner desk of the workshop, ink pen in hand, tracing technical drawings. The metal nib scratched across the paper in sharp, steady strokes, but the overly hasty rhythm betrayed his lack of focus.
James walked over, dropping a reference CD onto Juhoon's desk:
"The foundation line is off by two millimeters."
Juhoon stopped his pen without looking up: "I know."
"If you know, why keep tracing?" James lowered his voice, pulling up a chair opposite him. "Are you planning to let Professor Park cross out all your work from this morning?"
Juhoon raised his eyes, dark and flat, yet showing specks of irritation. He tossed the steel pen onto the table:
"You sure inspect things closely, Senior. Don't you have time to re-check your own model?"
"The model is done," James replied calmly, pushing a warm teacup toward Juhoon. "Drink this and fix it. Don't be stubborn."
Juhoon stared at the faintly steaming tea, then looked at James's bandaged right hand. He twirled the pen between his fingers, cleared his throat, and turned away without answering.
The rain drumming on the walkways tore through the humid afternoon air.
In front of the Architecture faculty gates, a black sedan sat parked right over the no-stopping lines. Its hazard lights blinked rhythmically, casting yellow reflections onto the wet asphalt.
Juhoon stood under the awning, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He stood there for three minutes, staring blankly at the heavily tinted rear window. He didn't step down, nor did he make a move to head back inside.
Not until the rear door cracked open.
A black umbrella popped open. The driver stepped out, standing silently by the steps. Juhoon let out a breath that dissipated quickly into the rain. He walked down the stone steps, his back straight.
The air inside the car reeked of expensive agarwood perfume mixed with premium leather-a scent Juhoon had known by heart since he was ten, familiar yet leaving a bitter taste in his throat. The man in the back seat didn't turn around, his fingers flipping through English documents. The rustle of paper sounded dry and clinical.
"What are you standing out there for?" A deep, flat voice sounded without a hint of inflection.
Juhoon stood by the open door, his hand resting on the rain-slicked frame. He didn't get in: "I have a group workshop."
Only then did the man pause. He unhurriedly closed the file, set it on his lap, and turned to look at his son through gold-rimmed glasses. There was no anger in his eyes, only a cold, detached disappointment:
"Those cardboard scale models?"
Juhoon bit his lip, his jaw tightening.
"I've arranged a meeting with Professor Helm for the end of the month. Your portfolio lacks two institute-level awards, not time spent pulling all-nighters playing errand boy for seniors." He adjusted his cufflinks, his tone as casual as evaluating a defective item on a shelf. "Tonight at seven. The car will pick you up."
"I'm not coming home."
"Juhoon." The man cut him off, his tone terrifyingly level. He didn't raise his voice; he simply glanced down at Juhoon's hand gripping the car frame. "Don't make me bring up the maintenance costs for that personal studio of yours in the suburbs."
The air inside the car froze. The rain hammering on the roof sounded like needles striking metal.
Juhoon stared at the crisp crease on his father's trousers. His hand clutching the door frame trembled slightly, then slowly let go. He took a step back, letting the rain spill off the umbrella edge onto his shoulder.
"I understand," he said, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the storm.
The car door shut with a heavy thud. The black sedan pulled away, splashing through puddles as it merged into the main road, leaving Juhoon standing frozen in the driving rain.
From the second-floor balcony, James leaned against a concrete pillar, holding a stack of late submissions. He didn't walk down, nor did he speak. He simply watched Juhoon's slender figure under the awning-trying forcefully to slick back his soaked hair before turning to walk back up the stairs, each step heavy as lead.
At the far corner of the workshop, the harsh sound of an aluminum ruler slamming against a desk echoed through the room.
"What the hell are you doing, Keonho?" Seonghyeon tapped the edge of the ruler against a smudged drawing. "I told you repeatedly to use waterproof ink, didn't I?"
Keonho flinched, paintbrush still in hand. He scratched his head exhaustedly, his voice turning sharp:
"I've been up for two nights straight, Senior Seonghyeon! I accidentally spilled one drop of water, why are you yelling at me like I set the workshop on fire?"
"I'm yelling because you're being careless!" Seonghyeon snatched the sheet, crumpled it up, and threw it straight into the trash. "Redo it. I don't accept defective work in my team."
"All you ever care about is projects and output!" Keonho stood up abruptly, his chair scraping back with a loud clatter. "Do you even consider me a teammate, or am I just a drafting machine for you to control?"
Keonho grabbed his jacket and stormed straight out of the workshop, ignoring the heavy rain outside. Seonghyeon stood frozen in the middle of the room, his hand gripping the ruler tight. He let out a heavy breath, looked at the crumpled paper in the bin, and silently laid a fresh board onto Keonho's desk.
Eleven at night. A single desk lamp illuminated a small corner of the workshop.
Juhoon sat slumped over the wooden desk, surrounded by crumpled technical drafts. His phone screen beside him lit up repeatedly with missed calls labeled "Mother," but he didn't touch it.
Hurried footsteps in the hallway stopped at the door. James walked in, hair damp from the rain, holding two hot canned coffees from the vending machine.
He walked over and set one down with a thud on Juhoon's table.
Juhoon didn't raise his head, his voice raspy: "I want to be alone. Go home, Senior."
James didn't leave. He pulled up a chair right beside him, casually popped open his coffee, took a sip, and said:
"The trash can is full. Crumple a few more sheets and it'll spill onto the floor."
Juhoon looked up, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and frustration. He glared at James, snapping back:
"You find this funny? Seeing me controlled by my family like a puppet gives you satisfaction, doesn't it?"
James turned, looking directly into Juhoon's eyes. No pity, no mockery. His voice remained steady:
"I don't have time to seek satisfaction from your troubles. But I hate watching you ruin yourself over these ruined drawings."
Juhoon let out a bitter laugh, shoving the coffee can off the table onto the floor with a loud BANG. He lunged forward, grabbing the collar of James's shirt with both hands, pulling him in close:
"Then what do you want me to do? Obey them like a good boy, or keep playing the proud genius in front of you? What the hell do you even know!"
James didn't push Juhoon away, nor did his expression change. His bandaged hand reached up, gripping Juhoon's wrist, which was trembling with rage. He squeezed gently, his voice deep and warm:
"I know. Because I used to stand right where you are standing now."
Juhoon froze. The grip in his hands slowly loosened. He looked deep into James's eyes-where a fractured wave from a buried past flickered.
Outside, the rain continued to beat rhythmically against the glass windows. Juhoon buried his forehead against James's shoulder, his fingers still clutching the fabric of James's shirt. The younger man's voice dissolved into the sound of the rain, shattered:
"Senior... What you said this morning about not hesitating for me... Was it real?"
James paused for a beat. His hand slowly tapped Juhoon's back softly, speaking with quiet conviction:
"I have never lied to you."
Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: Truyen3h.Co