The lock clicked open, and Taeyang Park stepped into the quiet expanse of his family's apartment. He was a young man of striking appearance, his lean, athletic frame fitting perfectly into the tailored navy blazer of his high school uniform. At seventeen, he carried himself with an upright, calm posture that exuded a quiet confidence.

His features were sharp and captivating. Dark, nearly black hair fell in a slightly tousled style over his forehead, a modern contrast to the pale complexion it shaded. But it was his eyes that truly commanded attention—a light, piercing shade of hazel or perhaps green, they held an intensity that seemed to see right through you. His jaw was strong and well-defined, completing a face that was both refined and subtly expressive. He was not from an obscenely wealthy family, but a high-class one nonetheless; millionaires, comfortable and established.

The silence of the apartment was immediately broken.

"Taeyang, move aside! We're going out."

The voice belonged to his mother, Minji. Despite being thirty-nine, she possessed a timeless, youthful beauty. Long, rich brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft, voluminous waves, framing a flawless, porcelain-smooth complexion. Her most striking features were her large, expressive eyes, a warm golden-brown that could be both commanding and gentle. Today, they were focused on her exit. She was dressed for success in a crisp, off-white blouse, her sophistication accentuated by a delicate pearl necklace and matching earrings.

Following close behind was his father, Eun-woo, a man who embodied power and authority. His silver-grey hair was combed back neatly, highlighting a handsome, dignified face with a strong jawline. His eyes, an arresting shade of light amber, scanned the room with sharp intelligence. Dressed in an immaculate, dark charcoal three-piece suit, he was the picture of a successful patriarch. His build was tall and solid, filling out the premium tailoring with an ease that spoke of his status.

"We will be back by midnight," Eun-woo stated, his voice calm and final.

And then there was Hyeon. Taeyang's fourteen-year-old brother slipped past their parents, a mischievous grin plastered on his handsome face. His own dark hair was neatly styled, voluminous on top, but it was his eyes—a light, warm amber-green—that held a teasing, almost impish quality. Dressed in a smart, contemporary ensemble of a dark navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, he looked every bit the polished young heir. As he passed Taeyang, his grin widened, a silent, knowing taunt.

It made Taeyang's blood boil.

He didn't say a word. Clenching his jaw, he simply stepped aside, letting the whirlwind of his family pass. His older sister, Eunji, was absent, no doubt still busy with her work. In a matter of seconds, the door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the large, suddenly suffocating apartment. The only thing lingering in the air was the ghost of his younger brother's smirk.

The soft, final click of the lock was the period on the sentence of his dismissal. Taeyang stood frozen for a moment in the echoing silence of the entryway, the grand apartment feeling less like a home and more like a beautifully decorated vault. The ghost of his younger brother’s smirk still hung in the air, a taunt more piercing than any word.

It was a familiar dynamic, a play where he was never cast in a leading role. His parents’ affections orbited Hyeon with the unwavering certainty of planets around a sun. An invitation? An explanation of where they were going? Such considerations were never extended to him or his often-absent sister, Eunji. A familiar, hollow loneliness expanded in his chest, a cold void that was equal parts frustration and a sadness so routine it was almost comforting.

With a heavy sigh, he retreated to the sanctuary of his room. His school bag was tossed aside, landing on a chair with a soft thud. He changed out of his uniform with practiced, mechanical movements, the fabric feeling like a costume he could finally shed. The frustration was a low burn in his veins, but it was a familiar fire—one he had learned to live with.

Splashing cold water on his face in the adjoining bathroom did little to wash away the lingering feeling of insignificance. The droplets traced paths down his pale skin, but the tension in his jaw remained.

His stomach growled, a practical reminder that life went on. He made his way to the vast, modern kitchen—a space that felt more his than any other room in the apartment. As he gathered ingredients, a bitter, ironic smile touched his lips.

Today was April 14th. His seventeenth birthday.

And not a single one of them had remembered.

The realization settled over him not as a sharp sting, but as a heavy, expected weight. Pushing the thought aside, he focused on the task at hand. He pulled out a pack of beef, vegetables, and a package of ramyeon. This wouldn't be just instant noodles; it would be a proper meal. His birthday meal.

With a chef's precision, he sliced the beef and scallions, the rhythmic sound of the knife on the cutting board a calming meditation. The rich, savory scent of bulgogi sauce and garlic soon filled the air, a small comfort in the empty space. As the pot began to simmer, he thought, not for the first time, that he had become a pretty great cook out of sheer necessity.

what do u think??

The rich, savory aroma of his homemade ramyeon filled the air, a small, self-made celebration in the silent apartment. Taeyang sat at the large dining table, the steam rising from the bowl warming his face. He picked up his chopsticks, the polished wood feeling familiar in his grip. For a moment, the hollow feeling in his chest receded, replaced by the simple, anticipated pleasure of a good meal.

He was just about to take the first, long-awaited bite when a sound shattered the quiet.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

His phone, lying face-up on the table, vibrated insistently. The screen glowed with the caller ID: Noona Eunji. A flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or just simple surprise—stirred in his chest. He set his chopsticks down with a soft click and answered.

"Taeyang-ah?" Her voice came through the line, as sweet and gentle as a spring blossom. It was a sound that usually comforted him. "I'm so sorry I'm calling this late. But… Happy Birthday."

He could hear the faint rustle of paperwork in the background. She was still at work.

"Thank you, Noona," he said, his own voice quieter than he intended.

"I tried to reach Mom first, but I couldn't get through, so I—"

"They're out," Taeyang interrupted, the words flat. He didn't need to elaborate. The silence on his end said everything.

A sigh whispered from the speaker. "I see… I'll be back tomorrow, okay? Take care of yourself until then."

The line went dead. Click.

The silence that rushed back in felt heavier, more profound than before. Her call, a brief flicker of warmth, had only made the surrounding cold more noticeable. He placed the phone back on the table, the screen fading to black.

With a slow, deliberate breath, he picked up his chopsticks again. The food was still warm. He ate methodically, the flavors of the beef and the rich broth registering only as distant sensations. His eyes remained fixed on his dark phone screen, a silent monument to his forgotten birthday.

He was nearly finished, the bowl half-empty, when a strange sensation began to bloom deep within him.

It started as a subtle, wrong warmth in his stomach, a heat that was nothing like the comforting warmth of the meal. It quickly intensified, coiling and sharpening into a vicious, gripping pain. He dropped his chopsticks. They clattered against the ceramic bowl, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. His vision swam, the edges darkening as if ink were spilling into his sight. He tried to draw a breath, but his throat seemed to be closing, tightening with a terrifying, muscular spasm.

Wh-what… is this…?

He clutched at his throat, his other hand slamming onto the table for support. His body was betraying him. The world tilted on its axis. The rich, savory taste of the food turned metallic and foul in his mouth.

Poison.

The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow, cold and absolute. It was in the food. His birthday meal. The one thing he had made for himself.

A choked, guttural sound escaped his lips—a desperate, failed attempt to cry for help that no one was there to hear. His body convulsed, his strength evaporating. The high dose, whatever it was, worked with terrifying speed.

His last sight was the half-eaten bowl of food, a cruel mockery of a celebration. His last feeling was not of anger or even fear, but of a profound, devastating loneliness.

And then, in the beautiful, empty vault of his home, on his seventeenth birthday, Taeyang Park slumped forward.

Silence.