Chapter Text
As far as the public was concerned, Oh In-ho died in a sketchy and tragic car accident with his mother when he was small, very painfully small.
In-ho adjusted his glasses and turned another page of the book in his hands. They weren't technically wrong, the public. The news. Oh In-ho did die that day. More than fifty years ago.
According to his father, Oh Il-nam, the little kid that miraculously made it out of the wreckage was Hwang In-ho.
For your own safety, his father had said. No one besides the first responders, paramedics, private physicians and nurses who knew better than to run their mouths, as well as a very few of Il-nam's trusted men (In-ho's babysitters who later became his personal guards and jailers), knew In-ho was alive. And there was a time when In-ho had been too young to understand — why he couldn't have his father's name anymore. He grew up learning one thing, Oh Il-nam was never the hero that little boy with In-ho's face (only much, much younger) used to worship and call appa. All the corruption swept under the rug, money that came with blood and greed — money that was never rightfully theirs. Yet it granted Il-nam the kind of power only a king could possess regardless.
This world is a rotten place, Il-nam would always say. You can be a saint and get devoured alive with the rest of the trash. Or you can raise and live with some blood on your hands.
There was blood on In-ho's hands. Not directly. Never directly. But In-ho doubted it made a difference. Just because he never pulled the trigger himself didn't mean he wasn't living in the luxury he knew didn't belong to him. Or his father.
His father, as rich and powerful as the man was, made enemies wherever he went. And In-ho, when he was old enough to understand things, used to be so — angry. Confused and desperate. Were you the reason eomma died? Was it even an accident? You hurt people. You wrong them. You take and you take and you take. And she paid the price of your sins.
He wasn't angry anymore. Wasn't even actively trying to get an answer out of his old man's mouth. There's no point, In-ho learned that now. The thing he found cruel and funny was that he didn't remember her face anymore. Yes, there were photographs of her, the fallen queen. But he couldn't remember actually seeing her. Couldn't remember the warmth he must have felt when she'd held him. He remembered the word eomma, though he knew speaking it now would only leave a foreign taste on his tongue. How long it had been...
A lifetime ago.
His eomma was dead. And In-ho wasn't that little boy who wept in the arms of her corpse before first responders dug him out anymore.
He closed the book and placed it on the tabletop with an audibly sigh. Looking out the window, In-ho saw the grand view of Il-nam's property. It greeted him like an estranged lover. The same view he'd been looking at his entire life. A garden as green as an emerald. Every single inch carved into perfect obedience. Caged and controlled. Just like you, the voices whispered coldly. Like a harmony of ghosts. They always whispered whenever silence crept in.
In-ho continued watching it, the garden below, with a clear absence of any and all emotions in his eyes. Just slightly above the earth, fog softened the edges of it all. This world. In-ho's world. He couldn't really see beyond the horizon. Only what Il-nam allowed him to see. This false heaven. The prison in which he lived. A cage under the guise of an elegant palace.
Of course, Oh Il-nam, as controlling and selfish as he was, was a cunning and intelligent man. Of course, he would never want In-ho to catch a glimpse of the outside world. It's ugly. It's a violent pit of hunger and poverty. Something undeserving of the man's only son's gaze.
Of course, he'd want to smoother In-ho with the idea that there was simply nothing beyond the horizon. Nothing In-ho wanted. Nothing worthy of even his curiosity. Thus the garden. The fog. The illusion of paradise.
And Il-nam had been doing a great job keeping In-ho his secret little charity project — hardly a son — for the past fifty years.
If he'd been having a challenging time trying to remember what having a mother was like, In-ho feared he had even fewer memories of actually having a father. His appa. Somehow he'd been mourning them both. And only one of them was dead.
In-ho turned away from the window. No point longing for what he knew was not possible for a prisoner like him. No point longing for life outside this manor. This cage. He wouldn't necessarily say he longed for freedom. Longing for something he hadn't the first idea about was silly. But he supposed he did wonder. From time to time. What lay beyond the horizon. Beyond this seemingly endless garden. The world his father said was grotesque. You shouldn't want the touch of something grotesque, the voice didn't sound like his own. Not this time. Oh Il-nam always spoke with clear authority in his mind whenever In-ho tried to... picture the forbidden. Outside world was forbidden. Ugly.
He was safe here. Forgotten by the rest of the world. Presumed dead. For your own safety, son.
Another sigh left his slightly parted lips. In-ho grabbed the untouched cup from the table. It had been prepared for him by one of his father's men. A new guy, In-ho supposed. He'd never seen the guy's face before (and when his world was only within these walls, he tended to remember every familiar face). The coffee inside had since gone cold. He didn't mind it.
The taste was strong. Bitter. It clung to his tongue like cheap liquor. The one he only ever got a taste of because he'd bribed one of his father's men into sneaking him some. Oh Il-nam would never approve of his only son poisoning himself with such a thing. Only the finest wine for the sole heir to the empire.
In-ho frowned. Brows knitted into a knot. He put the coffee down. It tasted weird. No — he started to realize, a little belatedly, it tasted wrong. Not strong. Not bad. Wrong. A sharp tingling began spreading across his tongue like a disease. Rendering his mouth a dead weight on his face. Then his jaw. Panic crept in as fast as the substance in his coffee, whatever it was, was coursing through his insides. From his mouth down to his throat. In-ho felt it in his chest next, how it spread wider. The room spun without any warnings. He grabbed the table as tight as he could. His hand refused to cooperate. His own body refused to stay upright.
The floor hit with no mercy. In-ho groaned weakly, but otherwise he stayed down. Unmoving. He could move his mouth, but only a little. Only enough to let out that little sound. Helpless and pathetic.
As dark spots bloomed in his vision, In-ho thought he saw a pair of legs approaching from the shadow.
Unfortunately, darkness reached him before they did.