Chapter Text
Han Seo’s words echoed in his head. Please… I love you, hyung-nim. That plea broke through the storm of his anger in a way punches and bullets never could. For the first time in years, Han Seok felt a crack in his armor. Instead of pride or rage, what he felt was shame.
That night, Han Seo fell asleep with tear stains still on his cheeks, clinging to his hyung as though he was afraid he would vanish. Han Seok lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling, his fists clenched. His thoughts spiraled—memories of every outburst, every cruel word, every time he almost lost himself completely. The idea that Han Seo could start to fear him terrified him more than any enemy ever could.
The next morning, without telling anyone, Han Seok made a quiet call. He arranged to see his therapist again—the same one he had abandoned when he thought he didn’t “need help.” This time, it was different. It wasn’t about business, or keeping up appearances. It was about Han Seo.
In the sessions, he struggled. He resisted at first, smirking, dismissing questions, trying to keep his mask. But slowly, the cracks showed. He admitted how he felt when he lost control—like he was drowning, like he was becoming the monster everyone always said he was. He admitted he hated himself when he saw Han Seo cry.
Han Seo noticed the change gradually. His hyung took a deep breath instead of exploding. He stepped outside when he felt the fire rising in his chest. Sometimes he came home exhausted after therapy, too drained to talk, but he let Han Seo curl up against him and stayed quiet.
For Han Seo, seeing that effort meant everything. He didn’t expect perfection. What mattered was that Han Seok was choosing him—choosing their love—every time he sat in that therapist’s office instead of lashing out.
And though it was hard, Han Seok started to realize something too: maybe the strongest thing he could do for his brother, for his family, was not to dominate or control—but to fight the battle inside himself.
Han Seok threw himself back into therapy with a seriousness no one expected. At first, he kept it private, even from Han Seo—slipping out early mornings or late evenings before Babel’s boardroom demands. He treated it like a contract with himself: if he could balance ruthless precision at Babel and honesty in therapy, maybe he could keep the two halves of himself from colliding.
Babel noticed the shift. The chairman’s infamous outbursts hadn’t disappeared, but they were tempered. Instead of screaming or smashing glasses, he paused, sharpened his gaze, and cut through arguments with cold precision. Executives whispered that he was scarier now—controlled, calculating, unpredictable not because he was explosive, but because he wasn’t.
But what therapy couldn’t erase was the memory of Han Seo once running to Vincenzo.
Every time Han Seok recalled it, the jealousy burned. In his mind, it twisted—Han Seo choosing another man over him, even if he knew the truth. Rationally, he understood Han Seo had only wanted help for him, not protection from him. But the image of his brother clinging to Vincenzo, pleading, “help hyung,” clawed at him like a wound.
Sometimes, in bed, when Han Seo laughed about something Vincenzo said, Han Seok’s chest tightened. He felt the violent urge to lash out, to remind his brother who he belonged to. But then he saw Han Seo’s soft eyes, the very same that pleaded with him that night, and he swallowed it down. He dug his nails into his palm, focused on his breathing like his therapist taught him, and forced the storm back into its cage.
Han Seo noticed those small battles. The way Han Seok’s jaw tensed but he didn’t speak. The way his hand twitched before settling gently on his thigh. He didn’t confront him directly—he knew pushing would corner his hyung. Instead, he offered reassurance in quiet ways: lingering touches, whispering, “I’m here, hyung-nim,” when he felt the tension rise, or deliberately praising how calm Han Seok was during a rough day at Babel.
Those reassurances worked like anchors, keeping Han Seok from drifting into the violent seas of jealousy.
Vincenzo, on the other hand, noticed the glares. Whenever he was near Han Seo, Han Seok’s eyes darkened. One evening, over whiskey, Vincenzo muttered, “If you’re jealous of me, you’re an idiot. He chose you.”
Han Seok didn’t reply. But those words stuck. It was one thing to hear love from Han Seo—it was another to hear even Vincenzo, his rival in many ways, acknowledge that Han Seo belonged to him.
The arc wasn’t neat. Han Seok slipped. There were moments where the possessiveness boiled over—an arm too tight around Han Seo, a sharp word laced with venom. But each time, he recognized it faster. He apologized sooner. And when Han Seo smiled softly and forgave him, it didn’t feel like weakness—it felt like strength.
Over months, therapy reshaped him. Not into someone gentler, but into someone aware. His love for Han Seo became less about possession and more about protection—not from others, but from himself.
And in the end, Han Seo saw it: his hyung was still intense, still sharp, still dangerous—but he was fighting for them now, not against his own demons.