Ji-hoon hated ballet.

He hated everything about it—the delicate movements, the ethereal music, the perfectly synchronized dancers who twirled as if they had never known pain or hardship. To him, it was a world so far removed from reality that it seemed laughable. A world his mother had chosen over him.

Ji-hoon slumped on his bed in the small, sterile apartment he shared with his father. The sound of Seoul's busy streets filtered through the window, filling the space with an ever-present hum of the city. It was an echo of his own life—loud, chaotic, and never stopping for a moment to ask what he wanted.

His eyes darted to the corner of his room, where a small, dust-covered frame held an old photograph of his mother. Yuna Shin, the "Korean Swan," one of the most revered ballet dancers in South Korea, stood on her toes with grace that belied the strength required to hold such a position. Her face was a mask of serene elegance, the same face that had kissed him goodnight when he was too young to remember.

Then she left.

No goodbyes. No explanations.

"She chose the stage over us," his father had said, with bitterness that colored every word. "Ballet was her escape, not her family."

Ji-hoon's fists clenched at the thought. His father was no saint either. The man barely acknowledged his existence, and when he did, it was only to remind him how much of a disappointment he was. His father worked late nights, drank even later, and on more than one occasion, disappeared entirely for weeks at a time. Ji-hoon was used to it by now—the loneliness, the feeling of abandonment. But no matter how much time passed, the wound left by his mother never seemed to heal.

She had been the embodiment of art, elegance, and everything Ji-hoon despised. Every graceful leap she had performed on stage had felt like a betrayal. Every accolade she received was a reminder of her absence. Art, to Ji-hoon, was weakness. It was a mask people wore to avoid facing the harshness of life, a lie his mother had bought into.

There was a knock on the apartment door. Ji-hoon barely moved. His father wasn't due back for another week—off on some business trip to Europe, as always.

The knock came again, louder this time. Sighing, Ji-hoon dragged himself to the door, yanking it open with a frown.

A tall woman with sharp features and neatly tied hair stood in the hallway. Behind her was a man dressed in a suit, carrying a leather briefcase.

"Ji-hoon Kim?" she asked, her voice businesslike.

"That's me," Ji-hoon replied warily.

The woman exchanged a glance with the man before pulling out an envelope from her coat pocket. "This is for you. It's from your mother."

Ji-hoon's heart froze at the mention of her. "My mother?" His tone was filled with disbelief.

"She's petitioned for custody," the woman said, as if that explained everything.

Ji-hoon's head spun. Custody? After all these years? He hadn't seen or heard from her in over a decade, and now she wanted to be a part of his life? The woman must have sensed his confusion because she continued, "Your father has agreed to it. You'll be leaving for Paris by the end of the week."

Paris. The word hit him like a punch to the gut. His mother lived in Paris now? She had left South Korea and apparently started a new life far away from everything they had once been.

Ji-hoon's throat tightened, his mind racing. "What—why? I don't understand. She left. She didn't want me." The last words came out more as a bitter statement than a question.

The woman sighed, clearly having rehearsed this conversation. "Your mother… wants to make amends. She's remarried now. To Lucien D'Arcy."

The name didn't register at first, but when it did, Ji-hoon felt a surge of anger and disgust. Lucien D'Arcy. The Lucien D'Arcy. A world-renowned ballet dancer, someone who stood at the very top of the art form his mother had abandoned him for.

His mother had left him for ballet—and now, she had married it.

"I'm not going," Ji-hoon said flatly, crossing his arms as a wall of defiance rose within him. "I don't care what she wants. She's too late."

The man with the briefcase finally spoke up, his voice calm but firm. "Your father has already signed the papers. This is not up for debate. You'll be moving to Paris under the care of your mother and Mr. D'Arcy. It's final."

Ji-hoon's vision blurred with anger and confusion. His father had signed him away like a piece of property, as if Ji-hoon's wishes didn't matter. As if he were nothing more than an afterthought. Of course, that's what he had always been, hadn't he?

"Pack your things. We'll send someone to collect you tomorrow," the woman said, her tone softening just slightly as she turned to leave. "This might be a chance for a fresh start, Ji-hoon. Don't throw it away."

But Ji-hoon wasn't interested in fresh starts. He wasn't interested in ballet, or Paris, or a mother who had chosen the stage over her son.

As the door clicked shut behind the woman and the man, Ji-hoon stood frozen in place, anger boiling beneath his skin. The walls of the apartment seemed to close in on him, suffocating him in memories of rejection and abandonment. How dare she?

He glanced at the photograph of his mother again, the one he had never bothered to take down but couldn't bear to look at for more than a few seconds at a time. It was the only piece of her that had ever been left behind.

For the rest of the night, Ji-hoon paced his room, trying to make sense of the storm inside his head. When morning came, he knew there was no escaping it.

His mother, ballet, Paris—they were waiting for him, whether he wanted it or not.

And so, with a heavy heart and a mind filled with questions he wasn't sure would ever have answers, Ji-hoon began packing his things.

He was heading to Paris, to a life he didn't want, under the care of a mother he didn't trust, and a man whose world he despised.

This wasn't the life he had imagined—but it was the one he was being forced into.