Beom's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, really? And what is it, then? Enlighten me, since you seem to have all the answers."
Yaroslav's jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, Beom thought he saw something flicker in his eyes—something raw, almost painful. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the usual calm indifference.
"Family isn't about warm cookies and Christmas lights, Beom," Yaroslav said quietly. "Not for everyone. For some of us, it's... complicated."
Beom blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. His heart thudded in his chest, his anger momentarily dulled by curiosity. Complicated? What does that mean? Did Yaroslav have a family? Did he lose them? Or did he push them away?
"Complicated how?" Beom found himself asking before he could stop himself.
But Yaroslav didn't answer. Instead, he stood, the chair scraping slightly against the floor as he pushed it back. "You ask too many questions," he said simply, his voice back to its usual neutral tone.
Beom watched as Yaroslav walked toward the kitchen, his broad shoulders disappearing through the doorway. He let out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair.
"Of course," Beom muttered under his breath. "God forbid you actually talk about your feelings like a normal person."
He turned back to the window, his reflection staring back at him, looking as tired and defeated as he felt. His mind swirled with questions he knew he wouldn't get answers to, and the ache in his chest grew heavier.
What's your story, Yaroslav? Beom wondered silently. What makes you so damn cold? And why, for the life of me, can't I stop wanting to know?
Yaroslav's childhood was a cruel labyrinth of control, power, and emotional neglect. Born into the Vyshnevsky family, he was groomed from a young age to be the perfect heir—strong, calculating, and ruthless. His father, Mikhail, was the cornerstone of the family's empire, a man whose authority stretched across Russia's darkest corners. Love, affection, and warmth had no place in Mikhail's world. What mattered most was loyalty, strength, and survival.
But Yaroslav, even as a child, knew that survival came at a steep price. At the age of nine, he was kidnapped.
The kidnapping wasn't some random act of violence—it was orchestrated by one of Mikhail's many enemies, a deliberate attempt to break the Vyshnevsky family's grip on power. The moment the news reached Mikhail, Yaroslav's fate seemed sealed. But instead of ordering his men to hunt down the kidnappers, his father made a chilling decision.
"He would find his way himself," Mikhail had said with a cold finality, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his son's vacant bedroom. "He needs to learn to survive on his own. It's time he grew up."
Yaroslav never understood why his father made that choice. His mother, who was distant and emotionally detached, said nothing. They both knew the empire came before family, before everything else. So, young, Yaroslav was left alone in the hands of cruel men who found pleasure in tormenting him.
Days blurred into weeks, and Yaroslav learned what it meant to survive. The hunger gnawed at him, the darkness became a constant companion, and the physical beatings left him battered. But what truly shattered him wasn't the pain—it was the isolation, the realization that his father had abandoned him to this fate. He cried out for someone to save him, but there was no one. His family, the ones who should have protected him, had chosen silence. Mikhail's words haunted him: "You need to grow."
But grow he did. The experience forged something deep within him. It was a survival instinct—tough, unyielding, and cold. Over time, he learned to escape the grip of his captors. He crawled through the seedy underbelly of the city, avoiding detection and learning to fend for himself in ways he never should have had to. His body was weak, his limbs aching, but his mind had become sharper, colder.
Eventually, Yaroslav found his way back to the estate. But when he arrived, no one rushed to greet him. No father with open arms. Instead, Mikhail stood in the shadows of the grand house, his expression unreadable. There was no concern, no relief. Mikhail simply studied his son, as if assessing him after a test.
"You made it," his father said. "You're stronger for it."
That was all. Yaroslav was left to understand that survival, in his world, was the only currency. The love he had once craved from his father never came, and Mikhail's approval was a cold, distant thing. Yaroslav learned to shut off his emotions, to build walls around his heart, and to never expect anything but the brutal lessons life had to offer.
Years passed, and though he remained a dutiful son to Mikhail, Yaroslav's sense of self was fractured, a patchwork of scars, both physical and emotional. He learned the ways of the world—manipulation, control, the art of power—and yet, a part of him longed for something more, something real. It wasn't until he was in his late teens that he met Alexei, and the world as Yaroslav knew it began to shift.
Alexei was everything Yaroslav wasn't—warm, kind, with a laugh that was bright and genuine. He was unlike anyone Yaroslav had ever met, someone who looked at life through a lens of compassion rather than cold calculation. They met at a business event, where Alexei, a young, ambitious man from a different background, caught Yaroslav's attention with his wit and charm. At first, Yaroslav was cautious. He had learned long ago not to trust anyone, to guard his heart against the kinds of people who might try to get too close. But Alexei's sincerity was different. He didn't want anything from Yaroslav—he just wanted to know him.
What started as a professional relationship soon blossomed into something more. Yaroslav, despite himself, found himself opening up to Alexei. He shared things with him he hadn't shared with anyone else—not just about his family, but about the loneliness that had eaten at him for years. Alexei listened, with patience and kindness, never judging, never pushing. It was the first time Yaroslav had felt truly seen, truly heard.
As they spent more time together, their bond deepened. The walls Yaroslav had spent his entire life building began to crumble, piece by piece. For the first time, he let himself believe that he could be loved—not for the power he held or the legacy of his name, but simply for who he was. Alexei made him feel whole, like there was more to life than just survival, more to living than just ambition.
But as quickly as it had come, their happiness was shattered. In Yaroslav's early twenties, Alexei was diagnosed with cancer—a terminal, aggressive form that spread faster than they could keep up with. For months, Yaroslav watched as the man he loved deteriorated, helpless in the face of it all. He tried everything—money, resources, medical professionals—anything to save Alexei, but it was all futile.
Alexei, despite the pain, remained strong. He still managed to smile at Yaroslav, to reassure him that everything would be okay. But Yaroslav knew it wasn't. And when the inevitable came, when Alexei's body finally gave way to the disease, Yaroslav's world crumbled.
Alexei died in his arms, and in that moment, Yaroslav felt something inside him break. All the walls he had so carefully built up, all the shields he had placed around his heart, crumbled away. He had loved someone—and that love had been taken from him, brutally and without mercy.
The grief was suffocating. Yaroslav tried to bury it, to push it down, to focus on his work, his empire, but he couldn't escape the emptiness that Alexei's death left behind. The part of him that had learned to love—truly love—was gone, and with it, a piece of his humanity.
As the years passed, Yaroslav threw himself back into the cold world of power and control. He built his empire higher, stronger, but no matter how many victories he won, no matter how many deals he brokered, nothing could fill the hole Alexei had left.
Yaroslav's heart became harder, more distant, as he pushed away anyone who tried to get too close. He trusted no one—not even himself, because deep down, he knew that the part of him capable of love had died with Alexei. But perhaps, somewhere deep inside him, there was a faint, fragile hope. Maybe, just maybe, there could be someone else who could break through the walls, who could make him feel something real again.
And then came Beom.
Though Yaroslav initially tried to push him away, to treat him as just another pawn in his life, something inside him began to stir. Beom reminded him of the man he once was—the man who had dared to love and be loved. And even though Yaroslav fought it every step of the way, he couldn't help but wonder if Beom could be the one to teach him how to live again, how to love again.
Beom stirred from his nap, feeling the weight of a strange yet soothing sensation tugging at his consciousness. His mind, groggy from sleep, registered something faint but persistent—a melody, soft yet resonant, like a memory lingering at the edge of a dream. At first, he thought it was his imagination, a figment of whatever haze his mind had conjured in slumber. But the sound grew clearer, weaving its way through the quiet of the house, its hauntingly beautiful tune refusing to be ignored.
He blinked a few times, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and sat up on the bed. His body still felt heavy, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth, but the music continued to call him. It wasn't just music—it was familiar. Not in the way one recalls the words of a song but in the way a scent or a place feels tied to something deep and unspoken. Beom couldn't quite place it, but it stirred something inside him, something he wasn't sure he wanted to face.