Chapter-5: Sailent Cry

Chapter 5

In the dim spill of light across the living room, Nari stood frozen, staring at Minho as if her eyes might correct what they were seeing.

It was the same man who had stood at the altar only hours ago—black tuxedo immaculate, posture unshakable, the kind of presence that made people instinctively step aside.

And now—

Now the difference was so cruel it felt almost unreal.

His tie hung loose like a discarded leash. The top buttons of his shirt had been undone, exposing the careless rise and fall of his chest. His hair was a wreck, and empty bottles glinted on the floor around him, scattered like evidence of a war no one else had fought. From a distance, he looked less like the groom she had married and more like a man the world had already abandoned.

A question rose in her mind, uninvited and sharp.

Is this really the same man I married a few hours ago?

As if sensing her stare, Minho's eyelids fluttered open.

His gaze dragged toward her—heavy, unfocused—then narrowed as he tried to make sense of the pale figure standing in the doorway. He squinted, blinking slowly, as though vision itself were an inconvenience.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The words came out slurred, thick with alcohol. He tried to sit up, failed for a moment, then pushed himself upright with stubborn, clumsy determination.

"How did you get into my house?" His finger lifted and wavered as he pointed at her, the gesture accusatory and childish at once. "Who gave you permission to come in?"

Then something bright and ridiculous sparked across his face, confidence swelling as though he'd solved a grand mystery.

"Aha!"

He swept his hand dramatically through the air. "You're a ghost, aren't you?" He laughed, as if delighted by his own cleverness. "What—did you think you'd wear white and I'd get scared?"

He puffed out his chest with unsteady pride. "I'm not afraid of anyone. I'm Minho!"

And then, to Nari's silent disbelief, he began throwing punches into the air, shadowboxing an enemy only he could see.

"If you want to fight, come at me!" he slurred. "Let's fight!"

Nari stared at him for a long moment.

She had no response. No outrage left to spend. Not even enough energy to argue with a drunk man pretending to be brave.

Without a word, she walked past the wreckage of the living room and into the bedroom across from it, closing the door behind her with quiet finality.

"You can't just go into someone's room like that!"

Minho stumbled after her, his steps uneven, anger flaring because it was easier than confusion. He reached the door and began to bang on it with the heel of his hand.

"Come out!"

Another thud.

"You stupid ghost!"

He kept going until the rage burned itself out, leaving only exhaustion. Slowly, his body slid down the door. He sat on the floor, head drooping, breath heavy.

On the other side of the door, Nari sank down as well.

Between them there was only a thin panel of wood.

And perhaps two hearts already cracked by different kinds of ruin.

Silence held them for a while—thick, fragile.

Then Minho's voice drifted through, softer now, as though the alcohol had stripped away whatever armor he wore when sober.

"You know…" he murmured. "I got married today."

Nari's fingers curled against her palm.

"I didn't even get a proper look at the girl's face." A bitter laugh escaped him, low and hollow. "But she looked sad."

Nari closed her eyes.

Without meaning to, every word he spoke found a place in her and sank in.

"Everyone was making fun of her," Minho went on. He rested the back of his head against the door. "Just because she wore a simple dress… on her wedding day…" He laughed again, but it sounded like something breaking. "Hahaha."

A tight ache rose in Nari's throat, sharp enough to steal breath, as if she could neither swallow nor speak.

"And yeah…" Minho's voice dipped, dulling with fatigue. "Her dad is in the hospital right now."

A pause, then—almost gentle, almost sincere—"I wonder how she's doing."

On the other side of the door, Nari's heart split open.

Tears slipped down her cheeks without sound. She pressed her lips together hard, strangling any sob before it could escape.

But somehow, Minho seemed to hear the quiet of her grief.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, voice thick with drunken curiosity.

Then he chuckled softly. "I'm the one who should be crying."

There was a strange sadness in his tone—something too old to belong to a man his age.

"Life made me cry first," he whispered. "Now you're crying."

He exhaled, slow, defeated. "Life is a terrible thing. It never wants to see anyone happy."

As he spoke, his voice grew quieter, thinning out until it became nothing more than breath against wood.

And before long, he fell asleep right there, slumped against the door like a man who had run out of ways to keep himself standing.

Nari did not sleep at all.

The next morning, after a shower and a change of clothes, Nari stepped out of the bedroom.

The moment she opened the door, she saw Minho still on the floor.

He hadn't moved. His hair was messy, one arm tucked beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. The entire living room reeked of alcohol, stale and suffocating.

Nari walked past him, her gaze sweeping the house.

Every window was smothered by thick curtains. Not a single blade of sunlight entered. Empty bottles littered the floor. Dirty glasses sat abandoned on tables. A fine layer of dust dulled the furniture. Everything felt neglected, forgotten—like a house that had given up on being lived in.

Nari frowned.

She had always hated disorder. Dirt. The kind of decay that crept in when no one cared enough to stop it.

A decision formed in her mind with calm immediacy.

If I'm going to live here, I can't live in a place like this.

She crossed to the windows and, in one swift motion, yanked the curtains open.

Morning light flooded in—bright, merciless, golden. It spilled across the room in a wave, landing directly on Minho's face.

"Ah!"

He rolled away at once, groaning, eyes still closed.

"Close the curtains," he complained, voice rough. "Stop ruining my sleep! Or I'll fire you!" He waved an arm as though shooing away a servant. "Don't you know how I like things?"

Then his eyes opened.

His words died abruptly.

Nari stood by the window, bathed in sunlight. Her damp hair rested over her shoulders, dark against the pale glow. Even in simple clothes, she looked startling—fresh and composed in a house that looked like it had been drowning for years.

Minho went completely still.

For a moment, it was as if his mind couldn't assemble what his eyes were seeing.

Then he pushed himself upright, blinking hard as though the scene might vanish if he blinked enough.

"Wait." His voice sharpened with confusion. "How did you get here? Who gave you the key to this house?"

Nari didn't look at him. She simply kept moving, as if his questions were background noise.

"I asked you something," Minho repeated, irritation rising. "Answer me."

This time Nari turned. Her expression was flat, but irritation edged it like a blade.

"Starting today, this is my house too."

Minho frowned, as if she had spoken nonsense.

In the same straightforward tone, Nari added, "You married me yesterday."

She paused, then continued with cold practicality, "If you want, I can show you the marriage certificate. Maybe then you'll believe it."

Minho stared at her, and for several seconds, the silence felt like a standoff.

"That doesn't answer my question," he said finally.

"Maybe not." Nari shrugged, unimpressed. "But the truth is more important than your question."

Minho stood, the movement stiff, his headache written in the set of his shoulders. "You're in my house. You can't touch anything here without my permission."

Nari picked up a nearby bottle and dropped it into the trash with a decisive clink.

Then she met his eyes and said, calmly, "Oh. But I already did."

They stared at each other.

And for the first time since she had stepped into this place, something like a small, victorious smile touched Nari's lips—brief, but real.

Minho's gaze narrowed.

In that moment, he realized his new wife was not as simple as she looked.

Eventually, he lifted both hands, conceding with a cold exhale.

"Fine," he said. "The downstairs area is yours. Do whatever you want with it."

Then his expression changed.

His voice hardened. "The upstairs floor is mine."

His eyes turned sharp, warning, almost dangerous. "Never try to go up there."

A beat of silence.