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Seongje and Sieun got married not long after finishing their degrees, slipping into adulthood together with a quiet certainty that felt almost unfair to everyone watching them.
Their life settled into something warm and steady. They had shared mornings, late-night conversations and also arguments that never lasted long. A few years after the wedding, they welcomed their daughter, Geum Jieun, and whatever calm they’d built shattered into something brighter, louder and endlessly softer around the edges.
From infancy, Jieun was adored without question. It wasn’t just family fawning over her, their friends enjoyed spoiling her, strangers smiled too openly, nurses and shopkeepers always finding excuses to look twice.
Everyone said the same thing, again and again, She looks exactly like Sieun. Her soft features mirrored his almost perfectly, from the gentle slope of her nose to the way her eyes widened when she was curious. Even her expressions were Sieun’s, those subtle shifts that said more than words ever could.
Seongje noticed it immediately and took an almost ridiculous amount of pride in it, carrying her around like a trophy he had somehow earned simply by loving the right person.
Even Bean, their gray British Shorthair, seemed to agree. The cat treated Jieun the same way he treated Sieun — curling up beside her during naps, pawing at her hair, tolerating clumsy baby hands with saintlike patience. Sometimes Seongje would watch from the doorway as Bean chose Jieun over him without hesitation, and he’d scoff, pretending not to be offended.
What amused Sieun most was how little Seongje cared that their daughter looked nothing like him. There wasn’t even a hint of disappointment, not a single comment about lineage or resemblance. If anything, Seongje was unbearably smug about it, grinning every time someone pointed it out.
One evening, after hearing it for the hundredth time, Sieun finally raised a brow at him. “You really don’t mind that she doesn’t look like you at all?”
Seongje scoffed like the answer was obvious. “Of course I don’t. I love that my daughter looks like the love of my life. I have the prettiest husband in the world.” He leaned closer, voice dropping into something almost reverent. “Why do you think I named her based on your name?”
Sieun stared at him for a beat, then rolled his eyes, cheeks warm despite himself. “Oh, shut up, Geum Seongje.”
⸻
As Jieun grew older, the changes came quietly at first — so subtly that they could almost be mistaken for imagination. Sieun was the first to notice it, the way he always noticed things before they fully formed.
Jieun had developed a sharp tongue far earlier than expected, her words precise and deliberate, delivered with quick comebacks that often left adults blinking in surprise. There was always a mischievous curve to her smile, something knowing and unapologetic, as if she understood more than she let on.
It reminded Sieun of much younger Seongje, all sharp edges and unbothered confidence but he brushed the thought aside before it could settle. Children mirrored the world around them, after all. It didn’t mean anything yet.
At first, everything was easy to explain. Children were cheeky and wanted to test boundaries. When Seongje frowned at Jieun’s blunt honesty or the way she stared people down without fear, Sieun would wave it off with practiced calm.
“She’s still learning about the world,” he told his husband gently, brushing Jieun’s hair back as she sat on his lap, legs swinging. “She doesn’t know how to soften herself yet.”
Seongje grumbled but accepted it, trusting Sieun’s judgment the way he always had.
Then, Jieun's behaviour was much more distinctive by the time she entered elementary school. One afternoon, Seongje arrived early to pick Jieun up and found her standing in the playground, utterly still. Across from her were two children, frozen in place, eyes wide as they stared back at her.
Jieun didn’t move, didn’t raise her voice and didn’t even look angry. She just stared. A long, unblinking gaze that carried a weight far heavier than a child her age should have been able to wield.
After a few seconds, the other kids scrambled away, fear etched plainly across their faces. Jieun turned, spotted Seongje and smiled like nothing had happened.
That night, Seongje told Sieun everything. He tried to laugh it off at first, but the unease bled through anyway. Jieun had never hit but something about the way she’d ended the situation gnawed at him.
Sieun listened quietly, his expression neutral as fingers idly tracing patterns against Seongje’s wrist.
“It’s nothing,” he said eventually, voice even. “Kids test power in strange ways. As long as she didn’t hurt anyone, it should be okay.”
But while his words were dismissive, Sieun would watch Jieun with attentiveness. He noticed how Jieun never instigated conflict and never sought it out, but she also never backed down.
If someone crossed her, she responded with absolute certainty, as if the outcome had never been in doubt. For Sieun, that distinction mattered. As long as Jieun didn’t do anything truly wrong, didn’t become cruel and hurt others, Sieun cared very little about how she defended herself.
The world was unkind and softness alone never survived it. If his daughter carried something sharp inside her, Sieun would make sure it stayed controlled and guided.
And so, while Seongje remained unsettled, Sieun stayed calm — watchful, patient and quietly aware that something formidable was taking shape right before them.
⸻
Jieun passed through elementary school without a single serious incident, and for a while, Seongje allowed himself to believe that whatever edge his daughter carried had softened with time.
She came home with scraped knees and sharp remarks, yes, but nothing that warranted phone calls or concerned looks from teachers. By the time she graduated, Seongje was quietly relieved, convinced that she had turned out well — strong, clever and contained. Whatever shadows of his past lingered in her, he told himself they had faded.
Then Jieun entered middle school.
From the very first year, her name traveled quickly through the halls. She was known as extremely pretty, the kind of beauty that drew attention even when she tried to disappear, and just as quickly she became known as the top of her class.
Teachers praised her without hesitation and students whispered when she walked passed. Most people looked at her and assumed softness and gentle. But they were wrong.
Jieun never raised her voice or sought conflict, but anyone who crossed her or underestimated her learned very quickly that beauty did not mean weakness. Whatever line they stepped over, they never did so twice.
Rumors spread in quiet clusters: stories of boys who flinched when she walked past, of girls who avoided her gaze, of words exchanged and consequences delivered.
Yet no one could ever prove anything. No one could say, with certainty, that Jieun had started a fight. For all her reputation, she had only ever been involved in one fight that first year.
⸻
The call came on a weekday afternoon. Seongje was still at work when his phone rang, the school’s name flashing on the screen making his stomach sank. By the time he and Sieun arrived, Jieun was already seated in the office, posture straight, expression unreadable with hands folded neatly in her lap.
The teachers were tense, braced for arguments, excuses and denial. They explained what happened in clipped tones: Jieun had punched a boy with no warning with one clean strike.
The reason, when they finally shared it, was almost laughably petty. The boy had dismissed her as “just a pretty face” after she topped the class again, accusing teachers of favouring her for her looks rather than her ability. Jieun said nothing as they spoke, eyes lowered and jaw set.
Seongje looked like he’d been punched himself. Shock sat heavy on his shoulders, misery etched plainly across his face as he stared at his daughter, at the reality he’d hoped never to face.
Sieun, in contrast, remained calm and composed. He nodded as the teachers spoke, hands folded neatly, voice steady when he assured them he would talk to Jieun about it. No excuses and no apologies that weren’t necessary.
But then the boy’s parents opened their mouths. They were loud, indignant and cruel in the way only adults who believed themselves righteous could be. Words spilled out without care, dripping with blame — about discipline, about violence, about how this was what happened when a child “didn’t have a mother.”
The air in the room shifted instantly. Sieun’s calm fractured, just slightly, before snapping back into place sharper than before.
“I gave birth to her myself,” Sieun said, almost gentle. “Maybe your kid deserved the punch from my daughter. If his parents won’t teach him basic morality, maybe my daughter can.”
The room went silent. The father surged forward, anger flashing across his face, hand lifting before Seongje stepped in. He moved with practiced ease, placing himself just ahead of Sieun, tilting his head as a slow smirk spread across his face.
Everyone in the room knew that face and who Geum Seongje was. One of Korea’s best detectives. A name that carried weight, history and a reputation that had never fully faded. Sieun had redirected him who like to throw punches to join police school and it paid off.
“Raise a hand on my husband,” Seongje said mildly, eyes cold, “and I’ll be seeing you in court. We wouldn’t want something this small to lead there, would we?”
The father froze. Recognition dawned on him after seeing Seongje's face clearly, color drained from his face. He stepped back.
Sieun turned to the teachers then, smiling softly and unmistakably dangerous. “I hope there’s no more bullying in this school after today,” he said calmly. “But if there is and you choose to turn a blind eye to it, then I expect you to turn a blind eye too when Jieun fights back.”
With that, Sieun took Jieun’s hand. Seongje followed close behind, guiding his family out of the room without another word. Behind them, silence lingered heavy in the air, along with the unspoken understanding that whatever reputation Jieun had earned, it was no accident at all.
⸻
The moment they stepped into the house, Jieun disappeared down the hallway without a word. Her bedroom door closed with a soft but decisive click. The sound lingered in the quiet living room longer than it should have.
Seongje exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face as the weight of the afternoon finally caught up to him. The adrenaline, the tension at the school, the familiar echo of violence — it all settled into something heavy and uncomfortable in his chest.
He turned toward Sieun, expecting the same measured seriousness he’d worn in the teacher’s office. Instead, he found his husband smiling. Sieun literally had a genuine, amused smile on his face.
Seongje frowned immediately. “Why are you smiling?” he demanded, incredulous. “Are you happy that our kid just punched someone in school?”
Sieun laughed. It was soft at first, then a little louder, like he’d been holding it in for hours. He leaned against the wall, eyes crinkling in quiet delight as he looked at Seongje.
“Karma hitting you bad now, right, Geum Seongje?” he teased. Then, with theatrical resignation, he added, “Oh, to have Union’s mad dog reincarnated in my own house soon. Guess I’m never free from this madness.”
Seongje groaned, dragging his hands over his hair. “Shut up,” he muttered, already overwhelmed, already regretting every reckless fight of his youth that seemed to be coming back to haunt him through their daughter.
His mind kept replaying the scene of Jieun’s clenched fist, her silent defiance, the way she hadn’t looked scared at all. Not of the boy. Not of the consequences. Not even of him.
“Now we know what Jieun inherited from you,” he said lightly, as if this were a harmless personality quirk rather than a revelation with teeth.
Sieun just shook his head, still smiling, the amusement never quite leaving his expression. He pushed himself off the wall and headed toward the kitchen, already reaching for the cabinet where they kept snacks.
The day, to him, had resolved itself neatly — his daughter had defended herself, his husband had backed him without hesitation despite being overwhelmed with the news and the world had been reminded that neither Yeon Sieun nor Geum Seongje raised children who bowed quietly to disrespect.
Seongje remained where he was, staring down the hallway toward Jieun’s closed door, unease coiling tighter in his chest. Sieun’s laughter echoed faintly from the kitchen, warm and unbothered, while Seongje wondered when, exactly, his past had decided to take shape and call him Daddy.
⸻
Sieun waited a moment outside Jieun’s door, listening to the quiet inside before lifting his hand and knocking gently. His voice softened instinctively, the way it always did when he spoke to her.
“Jieun, baby… we cooked your favorite food.”
There was a pause. Then the door opened slowly, just enough for Jieun to peek out, her expression guarded in that way only children who knew they’d crossed a line could manage. Sieun smiled immediately, warm and reassuring, and crouched slightly so they were eye level.
“We’re not mad at you,” he said gently. “Daddy—” he tilted his head toward the living room, where Seongje was pretending not to listen, “—is just a bit overwhelmed. But both of us are not angry. Okay?”
He reached out, patting her head the way he always had since she was small, fingers lingering for a moment before slipping down to take her hand. Jieun hesitated only a second before letting herself be guided out of the room, the tension in her shoulders easing as they walked toward the dining table together.
She sniffed the air, eyes flicking toward the steaming pot set carefully at the center of the table. “You cooked samgyetang?” she asked, brows lifting in clear surprise.
“Well,” Seongje cut in immediately, walking towards the dining table, “Daddy did. Your Appa can’t cook shit.”
Sieun rolled his eyes so hard it was almost theatrical. “You speak like that in front of her,” he shot back dryly, “and then get your heart broken when she punches someone. Talk about ironic.”
Seongje grumbled under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like a quiet “shut up,” but he didn’t argue further.
Jieun let out a small chuckle, the sound soft but genuine, and slid into the seat beside Seongje. The familiarity of the moment — the food, the banter, the way nothing truly felt broken — settled something deep in her chest. She looked between them, her expression earnest now, stripped of all bravado.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Both of you.”
Seongje didn’t say anything. He reached over instead, ruffling her hair roughly but fondly, then nudged the bowl closer to her with a firm push.
“Eat,” he muttered, voice low but steady.
Jieun smiled, picked up her spoon, and for the first time that day, felt completely at ease.
⸻
Seongje truly thought that would be the end of it.
Middle school passed with only minor scares — scrapes of information relayed over dinner, Jieun casually mentioning she’d gotten into a fight the same way someone might mention a pop quiz. Every single time, Seongje felt his heart lurch violently in his chest, palms going cold before he could stop himself.
Sieun, on the other hand, remained largely unbothered. Jieun reminded him far more of himself now than of Seongje, and that alone was comforting. Sieun had never been violent without cause. He struck only when necessary, said his piece and moved on.
There was no cruelty in Jieun, no joy taken in dominance, just an unyielding refusal to be stepped on. As long as that remained true, Sieun saw no problem. Seongje hated that he agreed with him.
But the real problem began when Jieun entered high school. God truly abandoned Seongje the moment his phone rang on her very first day.
By the time he arrived at the school, dread had already pooled thick in his stomach. The hallway outside the teacher’s room felt too quiet, the air too tense.
He pushed the door open and immediately spotted Jieun who was standing rigid, fists clenched so tightly her hands were trembling. Her jaw was locked, eyes burning with fury barely contained.
“Jieun?” Seongje called out instinctively, crossing the room in three long strides. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She didn’t look at him. Instead, she snarled, sharp and raw, eyes fixed on the boy standing across from her. “Tell this Seon kid to keep his fucking hands to himself.”
“Language, Jieun,” Seongje sighed, rubbing his face as exhaustion hit him all at once. He turned back to her, softer now. “Are you okay? What did he do?”
She inhaled slowly, visibly forcing herself to calm down. “He had the audacity to pour milk on Taehyung,” she said, voice tight with restrained anger. “Then acted like he didn’t do anything.”
Seongje closed his eyes briefly. Of course it's related to Go Taehyung, Juntae and Hyuntak’s son. Jieun’s childhood friend.
Taehyung had always been gentle, all bright smiles and easy laughter, far more like Juntae than Hyuntak. He was soft and bubbly, the kind of kid bullies gravitated toward instinctively. Juntae had been bullied too, back in high school, and guess no amount of Hyuntak’s taekwondo trophies could erase that echo.
Before he could say anything more, the door opened again. The boy’s father walked in. Seongje glanced up, and scoffed.
“Seon Jongwon,” he said flatly.
“Geum Seongje.” The man’s lips curled. Then, smugly, “I go by Jared Sun now, in case you didn’t know.”
Seongje rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. Of course this was Jongwon’s kid, the same Jongwon who had betrayed him back in high school, stabbed him in the back when it mattered most.
Karma really had a twisted sense of humor, circling back like this, decades later, through their children.
The teacher glanced between them, already tired and already regretting her career choices. She opened her mouth to speak when Sieun walked in.
“Well,” the teacher said lightly, surveying the room with calm eyes, “I guess this is all the parents who are going to be here.”
Jieun turned sharply. “Don’t you think the kids involved aren’t enough?” she snapped, voice cutting.
“Jieun,” the teacher tried gently, “Taehyung wasn’t directly involved—”
That was a mistake.
“Wow,” Jieun scoffed coldly. “If this is how you handle bullies in school, you’d do great teaching at Eunjang. You can just close your eyes to the bullying issues like they do there.”
The room froze.
“Jieun,” Sieun said quietly, stepping forward and brushing her hair back with practiced tenderness, grounding her without silencing her. “Calm down.”
Sieun’s hand remained light but firm at the back of Jieun’s head, fingers combing through her hair the way he used to when she was younger and cried over scraped knees or bad dreams.
It was to anchor Jieun indirectly by saying I’m here, breathe. Jieun’s chest was still rising too fast, anger sharp and hot in her eyes, but she softened under his touch.
The teacher cleared her throat, straightening the stack of papers on her desk with hands that trembled just a little. She forced a professional smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Let’s all calm down. This is clearly a misunderstanding,” she said, voice clipped, rehearsed. “No serious physical harm was done. Geum Jieun, you should have reported the issue instead of taking matters into your own hands.”
Jieun let out a short, sharp and utterly humorless laugh. She stepped forward before Sieun could stop her, eyes locked on the teacher.
“Reported it to who? You?” she snapped. Her gaze flicked pointedly to the neatly arranged files, the pristine desk, the carefully maintained illusion of order. “If you can brush this off so easily, then you’ve probably been turning a blind eye to everything else too.”
A scoff came from the side. Jongwon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, lips curling in lazy disdain.
“Kids roughhouse. Boys will be boys,” he said, as if that settled everything, as if bruises and fear were just part of growing up.
Sieun turned his head slowly, expression calm to the point of being unsettling. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and polite, carrying the quiet authority of someone who didn’t need to raise it to be heard.
“Then raise your son better. Do my daughter turned out to be like Seongje when he was in high school? So do better."
Seongje groaned as the words landed cleanly, no insult beyond the truth itself. Jongwon stiffened, face darkening, but before he could retort, the teacher rushed in again, flustered.
“Jieun, I’m sorry for what happened to Taehyung—” she began, already halfway into another excuse, another attempt to smooth things over.
Jieun scoffed loudly, cutting her off. “Don’t,” she said flatly. “If you’re going to turn a blind eye to this, then maybe you should turn a blind eye to when I hit him.” Her lips curved into a sharp, almost cruel smile.
“What kind of loser behavior is it to pick a fight with someone weaker and still lose to a girl?”
Jongwon surged to his feet, chair scraping harshly against the floor. “Should I let my kid punch you then, Geum Jieun?” he mocked, voice dripping with condescension.
“I’d like to see him try," Jieun tilted her head, eyes cold and fearless.
For a moment, no one spoke. Even the fluorescent lights overhead seemed to buzz louder, as if aware they were witnessing something volatile. The teacher pinched the bridge of her nose, shoulders sagging, defeat etched into every line of her posture.
“Enough,” she said tiredly. “I’ll… I’ll let this pass.”
Jieun didn’t thank her. She didn’t nod or soften. She simply turned toward the door, fingers curling into a fist at her side.
“Good,” she said over her shoulder. “Because if I ever get called back in here again for defending Taehyung, I’ll make sure I beat the hell out of everyone.”
She walked out without waiting for permission, the door slamming shut behind her. Seongje exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face, the kind of sigh that came from someone who had seen this kind of mess too many times.
Sieun, however, didn’t look tired. He turned back one last time, gaze settling on Jongwon and his son. There was no threat in his eyes, only a promise that didn’t need to be spoken.
⸻
“You know, Jieun, I think—” Seongje started, voice lower now, careful in a way that suggested he was genuinely trying to be the reasonable parent for once.
Jieun stopped walking. She turned so suddenly that both of them almost bumped into her, eyes shining far too bright, lips trembling as everything she’d been holding in finally cracked. The tears spilled before either of them could react.
“Oh baby, don’t cry,” Sieun said immediately, panic flashing across his face as he closed the distance in two quick steps.
He pulled her into his arms without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other firm against her shoulders, shielding her the whole ugly situation.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re not mad. Daddy's not mad, I’m not mad. You did nothing wrong," Sieun trying to calm his daughter down.
Jieun’s forehead pressed into his chest, her apology coming out small and broken, muffled by fabric. “I’m sorry…”
Before Sieun could soothe her properly, Seongje continued his sentence, utterly unfazed. “—as I was saying, I think you should just punch them.”
Sieun froze. He slowly turned his head to look at his husband, disbelief written so plainly across his face it was almost comical.
“What? I’m being serious," Seongje lifted a brow, genuinely confused by the reaction.
“Just shut up for now, Geum Seongje,” Sieun muttered, tightening his hold around Jieun as if afraid Seongje’s words alone might corrupt her on the spot.
Jieun sniffed, wiping at her face with her sleeve, embarrassment creeping in now that the tears were out.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, quieter this time.
Seongje’s expression softened immediately. He reached out, patting her head with a gentleness that always surprised people who didn’t know him well.
“Nothing to be sorry for, princess,” he said firmly. Then, as if remembering his earlier point, he added, “And I mean it. Just punch them all. If they look at you for more than three seconds, punch them.”
“Why are you teaching my daughter to be you?” Sieun shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
Seongje shrugged, hands in his pockets, utterly unapologetic. “I mean, she already got your whole face. It’s only fair she gets my fists too.” His lips curled into a lazy smirk. “Like you said, Union’s mad dog reincarnated.”
“Don’t listen to your daddy,” Sieun grumbled, exasperated, rubbing slow circles into Jieun’s back. “He’s literally a delinquent.”
Jieun let out a small laugh despite herself, the tension easing just enough for her shoulders to drop. The sound made Sieun relax instantly, relief flickering across his features.
“And you,” Sieun continued gently, glancing down at her, “keep defending your friends. It’s okay if you get called into the teacher’s room a hundred times. I’ll come every single time.”
Seongje nodded solemnly, clearly moved — and then immediately ruined it.
“But also,” he added, “just punch them all. Let them fear you. You’re literally Geum Jieun. Daughter of Geum Seongje.”
That was it. Sieun released Jieun so abruptly she nearly stumbled, spinning around to grab Seongje by the face and cup a hand over his mouth.
“You are not helping,” he hissed, eyes blazing. “Not one bit.”
Seongje’s words came out muffled under Sieun’s palm, something between a laugh and a protest, while Jieun watched the two of them with wide eyes and then burst out laughing, the sound ringing down the hallway, bright and unburdened.
And just like that, the weight of the day cracked open, leaving only warmth, chaos and the unshakable certainty that she wasn’t alone.
⸻
The first few weeks of high school were a little chaotic for both Jieun and the students who thought they could push her around after the incident on the first day of school.
It started small. A group of first-years tried to trip her in the hallway, snickering as she stumbled slightly. She caught herself, hand gripping the edge of her locker and turned slowly, eyes narrowing. They froze, expecting some apologetic shrug or a meek retort.
Instead, she stepped toward them, voice soft but chilling, “Try that again, and I won’t stop at tripping you back.”
Then came lunchtime in school. A couple of boys tried to snatch Taehyung’s lunch but Jieun’s hand quickly shot out, grabbing the nearest boy by his collar before he could react. Jieun slammed the boy's face of the table making the rest of the cafeteria fell silent.
“You really shouldn’t touch other people’s food,” she said flatly. Her tone had no anger, just authority. And yet, in that calm delivery was the unmistakable warning: I will not be crossed.
Taehyung’s food remained untouched.
By the end of the first month, the halls were buzzing with gossip. Some students whispered stories of her father, Geum Seongje. A legendary figure in his own right: past delinquent, one of the notorious Union gang in high school who was now a well-known detective.
“If his daughter is anything like him,” they murmured, “don’t even think about messing with her.”
That’s when Seon Jaehyun, son of Seon Jongwon who she finally know his name, decided to test her. The first time, he tried the usual sneers, leaning on her locker with a smirk.
“So… you’re supposed to be scary, huh?” he mocked, glancing at Taehyung. “Maybe I should really try to hit you.”
Jieun just tilted her head. “Try me again, Seon Jaehyun. You lost last time, remember?” she said calmly.
Jaehyun laughed, underestimating her again despite their past. He swung first and, again, missed. His fist caught only air. Before he could recover, Jieun countered back, punched and sent him sprawling against the lockers. His friends laughed nervously, then stepped back, whispering frantically.
Jaehyun recovered, face red with embarrassment and tried again a week later. This time he cornered her near the gym, thinking that in private, he could intimidate her. He reached out to grab her backpack.
She hit him. Hard. His stance crumpled and he fell backward, staring at her like he had never seen a girl move so fast.
By the third attempt, Jaehyun had learned his lesson. He lingered only long enough to mutter an apology to Jieun and never approached her again.
By midterm, the school was largely free of bullying. Students who had tried petty tricks were either cautious or downright terrified of her calm, unrelenting stare. Taehyung walked beside her proudly, laughing at the whispers that followed them down the hall.
Even the teachers noticed, though they said nothing aloud. A girl who looked very soft like Sieun but fought like Seongje, fiercely protective yet disciplined, had already carved out a reputation that no one dared challenge.
And in the quiet moments at home, Seongje would shake his head in disbelief, half-proud and half-worried, while Sieun just smiled at Jieun, brushing back her hair.
⸻
It happened on a late afternoon, when most of the teachers had already retreated to the staff room and the hallways were quieter than usual.
Jieun had stayed back to help Taehyung finish a group assignment. By the time they were done, the sun was already low, orange light stretching long shadows across the concrete stairwell.
That was when she felt it. That familiar prickle at the back of her neck, the instinct Seongje had once described as knowing a punch was coming before it landed.
“Taehyung,” Jieun said calmly, stopping in her tracks. “Go back inside.”
“What? Why?” he asked, confused.
She turned her head slightly, eyes flicking to the figures emerging from behind the building. Four of seniors. Smirks carved into their faces like they’d been waiting for this moment all day.
“Just go,” she repeated, voice low.
“Aww, look at her. Still playing bodyguard," one of the boys laughed.
Another stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. “You think because you beat one guy, you own this school now?”
Jieun gently pushed Taehyung behind her. “Run,” she said, firmer this time.
He hesitated, then bolted. The moment he was out of sight, the seniors moved in. They circled her, slow and deliberate. One grabbed her shoulder from behind.
That was his mistake.
Jieun twisted sharply, using his momentum against him, elbow slamming into his ribs before he even realized what happened. He went down with a wheeze. Another rushed her from the front but she ducked, swept his leg and sent him crashing onto the concrete with a sickening thud.
The third boy managed to land a hit, making her shoulder clipped hard as the pain bloomed, but she barely reacted. She pivoted, fist connecting with his jaw making him staggered, stunned.
The last one hesitated.
“Holy shit,” he muttered.
Jieun wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and stared at him. Her breathing was steady but her eyes were cold.
By the time a teacher came running — alerted by shouting and Taehyung’s panicked report — three seniors were sprawled on the ground, groaning and Jieun was standing eye to eye with the last standing senior in the middle of it all, uniform rumpled, knuckles red and gaze unwavering.
⸻
Seongje was called less than 10 minutes later.
By the time he arrived at the school, the day already felt like it had been wrung dry of him. His tie hung loose around his neck, sleeves rolled up without him remembering when he’d done it, jaw clenched so tight it sent a dull ache up to his temples.
He pushed open the door to the principal’s office and everything else blurred the moment he saw her.
Jieun sat stiffly in the chair by the wall, back straight, hands folded too neatly in her lap. There was a faint bruise blooming along her collarbone, just visible above the neckline of her uniform, already darkening into something ugly.
Her knuckles were red, swollen in a way Seongje knew intimately. The sight of it made something in his chest crack, sharp and sudden, like bone under pressure.
“Jieun,” he said quietly, crossing the room in three long strides. His voice came out steadier than he felt. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she replied immediately. Too practiced. Exactly like him before every time he got called in the teacher's room.
The teachers began talking all at once — multiple students involved, serious violence, this time it went too far — their voices blending into a low, irritating buzz. Seongje didn’t look at them. He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on Jieun’s hands, on the bruised knuckles she was unconsciously trying to hide by curling her fingers tighter.
“How many?” he asked flatly, cutting through the noise.
Jieun hesitated.
“…Four. All third year seniors.”
The room went dead silent as Seongje closed his eyes and dragged a hand down his face, thumb pressing hard into his cheekbone as if grounding himself.
Four boys. Seniors. Bigger bodies. Longer reach. He could already picture it — the circle, the corners, the way it must have escalated.
“Alone?” he asked and she nodded.
The door opened again not long after, and Sieun rushed in, breathless, eyes sharp with barely-contained fury. The moment he saw Jieun, everything else fell away.
He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms without a word, hand cradling the back of her head, holding her like she might disappear if he loosened his grip. Jieun finally relaxed then, tension draining from her shoulders as her forehead pressed into his chest.
“I didn’t start it,” she said softly, voice muffled.
“I know,” Sieun replied at once, without hesitation or doubt.
Seongje leaned back against the wall, exhaling shakily through his nose. This wasn’t pride anymore. It had stopped being that a long time ago. This was fear — raw and unfamiliar, curling tight in his gut.
He saw himself too clearly in her now. Not just the fists or the stamina, but the instincts. The way violence came so easily when a line was crossed, even when it was for the right reasons.
The principal cleared his throat. “Mr. Geum… this is serious. Your daughter fought four seniors by herself.”
Seongje let out a hollow, humorless laugh.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I noticed.”
He crouched in front of Jieun, movements careful, hands gentle as he examined her shoulder where the bruise was forming. His touch was light, reverent, like he was afraid he’d break something just by being too rough.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. Then, after a pause, she added in a softer voice, “They were aiming for me because I defended Taehyung.”
Seongje stilled. Then he straightened slightly and shrugged, as if the conclusion were obvious.
“…Then you did what you had to do.”
“Seongje,” Sieun snapped sharply.
“What?” Seongje shot back, voice low. He ran a hand through his hair, then sighed, exhaustion bleeding through the edge in his tone. “I’m not saying it’s right. I’m saying I understand what she did.”
“Mr. Geum—” one of the teachers started.
“You know what,” Seongje interrupted, standing up fully now. His voice was calm, but there was something final in it. “Just suspend her. Or whatever you’ve already decided to do.”
He looked around the room, gaze sharp and unyielding. “All I know is I’m not discussing this further if you think my daughter deserves more punishment than four older boys who cornered her and tried to lay hands on her.”
Seongje reached out, took Jieun’s hand and pulled her gently to her feet. He didn’t bow. Didn’t apologize. He simply led his daughter out of the room. Sieun followed close behind, jaw tight, eyes still burning.
⸻
The car ride home was quiet.
The moment they were inside, Sieun shifted toward Jieun, fussing over her bruises with careful hands, murmuring reassurances as he checked her shoulder and knuckles.
Jieun leaned into him without resistance, exhaustion finally catching up. Seongje kept his eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel, breathing slow and deliberate as he tried to rein himself in.
“I’m moving her to Ganghak,” he said suddenly.
Sieun stiffened. “What?” He turned sharply. “Seongje, we both decided to leave that in the past.”
“And the only schools that’ll let her study in peace are Ganghak or Eunjang,” Seongje replied quietly. “You know that. Especially with what keeps happening.”
He glanced over briefly at Sieun, then at Jieun, who had already fallen asleep against Sieun’s shoulder, lashes resting softly against her cheeks.
“Twenty years passed, yeah,” Seongje continued, voice low. “But I don’t think anyone there would dare touch the daughter of Geum Seongje.”
Sieun looked down at their sleeping daughter, fingers brushing gently through her hair. After a long moment, he sighed — tired, resigned, conflicted.
The car drove on in silence, carrying the weight of a past neither of them could truly outrun, and a future that was beginning to look a lot like it.
⸻
Ganghak High welcomed Geum Jieun the same way it once welcomed Geum Seongje — with silence, caution and a collective, unspoken understanding.
The rumors reached the school before she did. Whispers slid through classrooms and hallways days ahead of her transfer: Geum Seongje’s daughter is coming.
The name alone carried weight, old and heavy, like a scar Ganghak never quite forgot. Older teachers exchanged tired looks in the staff room, some groaning softly, others pinching the bridge of their noses like they were bracing for a familiar headache.
“Not again,” one of them muttered.
They all remembered Union, especially Geum Seongje.
So when Jieun walked through the gates on her first day in her maroon uniform, posture straight and expression unreadable, the school reacted instinctively. Students stared, then quickly looked away. No one bumped into her by accident. No one tested her space. No one made jokes at her expense. Fear worked faster than discipline ever had.
She didn’t need to do anything. Her name did it for her.
In class, students whispered behind cupped hands, glancing at her when they thought she wasn’t looking. She looks just like her father, the Eunjang's White Mamba Yeon Sieun, someone murmured. But that glare… that’s all Ganghak infamous senior, Geum Seongje.
Teachers sighed quietly as they read her name off attendance lists, already resigned to the fact that Ganghak’s fragile peace was about to be disturbed again because history never stayed buried for long.
Seongje, for his part, slept better than he had in months. He didn’t say it out loud, but there was relief in knowing where his daughter was. Ganghak understood violence and respected strength. No one there would corner Jieun in a blind spot or pretend not to see when things went wrong. If nothing else, the name Geum Seongje still meant don’t cross this line.
And yet, peace was never really an option.
It didn’t take long before someone tried anyway.
A group of boys, third-years who thought they were untouchable, snickered behind her back in the hallways. One of them bumped her shoulder deliberately. Another muttered something about her being “overhyped,” riding on her father’s reputation.
Jieun stopped before she turned around.
“What did you say?” she asked calmly.
They laughed, which was a mistake. Jieun moved with the same terrifying efficiency Seongje once had — no wasted motion, just precision.
A shove turned into a strike. A strike turned into someone hitting the floor. By the time a teacher rounded the corner, two boys were groaning, one clutching his ribs and Jieun was standing over them, breathing steady.
“I told them to leave me alone,” she said simply making the teachers sighed.
⸻
By the end of the first year, it was clear: Ganghak hadn’t gotten rid of Union’s mad dog. They’d just gotten a new one after 20 years, just without the delinquent gang.
Students learned quickly. Don’t taunt her. Don’t test her. Don’t bully anyone in front of her. Especially not Taehyung, who apparently move school with her. Because although Geum Jieun didn’t start fights, she will end them.
And Seongje, sitting at home with Sieun late at night, listening to the rare quiet of their house, finally allowed himself to relax. He knew, deep down, that calls would come again. That bruises would appear. That his daughter’s fists would never fully rest.
But for the first time, she was somewhere that understood what she was.
And Ganghak would survive.
After all, it survived Geum Seongje once.
Now it would learn to live with his daughter.
⸻
The house was quiet in the way it only ever was late at night, when the city outside softened into a low, distant hum and the lights in the living room were dimmed just enough to feel safe. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a thin wash of amber streetlight that painted everything warm and slow.
was sprawled across the couch, long legs tangled with a blanket, half-asleep with her head pillowed comfortably in Sieun’s lap. She barely stirred as he dabbed antiseptic onto her knuckles, movements careful and practiced.
“Hold still,” Sieun murmured, voice gentle, almost reverent, thumb brushing lightly over her skin. “You’re bleeding again.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Jieun mumbled, eyes fluttering shut, already drifting as Sieun wrapped gauze around her hand anyway, slow and meticulous.
“I don’t care,” he replied softly, smoothing her hair back from her face, fingertips lingering the way they always did. “You’re still my baby.”
From the armchair across the room, Seongje snorted, one ankle resting over his knee. “Well, your baby beat the hell out of three seniors last week.”
“And she’s still my baby,” Sieun shot back without even glancing up.
Jieun smiled sleepily at that, the corner of her mouth tugging upward, comforted by the familiar rhythm of her appa’s voice and touch.
Seongje watched them for a long moment, something uncharacteristically soft settling in his chest. He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, exhaling through his nose like he was conceding a battle he’d never intended to fight.
“I still can’t believe it,” he muttered. “Our daughter literally copy-pasted your face and somehow ended up with my attitude.”
Sieun hummed thoughtfully as he tied off the bandage, checking it twice before he was satisfied. “You should be grateful she didn’t inherit your mouth too.”
“Hey,” Seongje protested immediately, affronted. “My mouth is charming. You fell in love with me because of the way I talk too!”
Sieun didn’t even hesitate. “Your mouth also got your leg stabbed by me, so no. Not really special.”
Jieun let out a small, startled laugh, eyes cracking open as she looked between them. “I still can’t believe you two fell in love,” she said, voice soft but amused. “Based on how you were in high school and how you act with each other now.”
Seongje scoffed, already grinning as he pushed himself up and crossed the room. “Well, your appa here couldn’t resist my charm,” he said smugly. “He just pretended to be nonchalant about it. Still does, actually.”
“That’s not true,” Sieun replied flatly, though there was the faintest curve to his lips as Seongje dropped onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“Sure,” Seongje said lightly. “You glare at me like you hate me, then make me soup when I get sick. Very subtle.”
Sieun rolled his eyes, shifting slightly so Jieun’s head stayed comfortable in his lap even as Seongje leaned closer. “You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“And yet,” Seongje replied, glancing down at their daughter between them, voice lowering just a touch, “you married me. Had a kid with me. Raised this little monster with me.”
Jieun hummed softly, already drifting back toward sleep, hand curling instinctively into Sieun’s sleeve.
Sieun looked down at her, expression softening in a way that never quite reached anyone else. “Thankfully she grow up well, despite being as messy as you,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” he agreed. Seongje smiled, small and fond. “At least she have personality."
"Idiot," Sieun hit him softly.
And in the quiet that followed, broken only by Jieun’s slow, steady breathing. The three of them sat together on the couch, bruises, bad habits and history all momentarily forgotten, wrapped in the kind of warmth that only came from surviving everything and choosing each other anyway.
Seongje and Sieun wouldn’t choose any other life — not over this one, not over the quiet chaos and the bruises and late nights because every version of the world that didn’t include their daughter Jieun was simply unimaginable to them.