The walk from the bus stop was quiet, the cool night air acting as a truce between Ha-neul and me.
When we pushed open the front door, the house didn't smell like tension or tear gas; it smelled like Galbi-jjim (braised short ribs) and steamed rice.
The housemaid had clearly been busy, the table already set with an array of colorful banchan.
Mr. Lee was sprawled on the living room couch, his tie loosened and his surgical cap long gone, but his face still carried the exhaustion of a man who had spent fourteen hours stitching up the consequences of a riot.
He was staring intensely at his phone, his thumb moving in a rhythmic, frantic scroll.
"Oh, Ha-neul-ah... San-gun... you're home," he muttered, barely looking up.
But as Ha-neul headed toward the kitchen to investigate the food, Mr. Lee's eyes suddenly sharpened.
He sprang off the couch with a surprising burst of energy, caught my arm, and practically dragged me toward the master bedroom.
"Wait, Mr. Lee—"
"Shh!" he hissed, closing the bedroom door behind us and leaning against it. He looked left and right like a character in a spy thriller. "San-ah, listen to me. I was tired. I was so tired. My brain was melting from the ER reports, and I needed... I needed to vent. I needed to feel something other than stress."
"Okay?" I whispered, confused. "Did you go for a run?"
"No," he whispered back, his voice trembling with a mix of excitement and terror. "I spent an hour on an auction site. I bought an antique Joseon-style vase. It cost one million won."
My jaw dropped. "One million? For a vase?"
"It's an investment! A piece of history!" He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes pleading. "It arrives tomorrow evening. Please... you have to intercept the delivery. Hide it in your room. Don't tell Ha-neul, and for the love of everything, do not let Eun-sook find out. If she sees a million-won porcelain jar in this house right now, I'll be the next patient in my own hospital."
I looked at him—this high-ranking surgeon, reduced to a trembling conspirator over a piece of pottery.
"Anything for you, Mr. Lee," I said, a small smirk tugging at my lips.
He let out a long, shuddering breath and patted my shoulder firmly.
"Thank you, son. Truly. You're a lifesaver."
Son.
The word echoed in my head as we walked back out to the dining room. It felt heavy, like a title I hadn't earned yet.
In Ukraine, "son" was a biological fact; here, it felt like an adoption of the spirit.
It was awkward, a strange itch in the back of my mind, but as I looked at him, I realized he didn't mean it as a label.
He meant it as trust.
"Someday," Mr. Lee said as we sat at the table, "I must take you to the hospital with me. Ha-neul and Ji-hoon used to love visiting the office when they were small."
Dinner was a somber affair, despite the delicious food.
Ji-hoon had arrived just as the rice was being served, looking sharp but weary in his legal attire.
"The caseload is unprecedented," Ji-hoon said, picking at his ribs. "The lawsuits are already flying. We're dealing with illegal detention claims, civil rights violations, and the fallout from the labor reform protests. It's a legal minefield."
"The physical fallout is worse," Mr. Lee added, his voice dropping an octave. "I treated three more students today. High-pressure water cannons cause internal bruising, concussions... the farmer, Mr. Baek, is still the primary concern. The medical community is in an uproar."
Mrs. Lee sat at the head of the table, her eyes tired but her posture regal.
She had spent her day at the JBC station, filtering the chaos into thirty-second soundbites.
"The public sentiment is shifting," she said calmly. "The state-issued textbooks were the spark, but the labor reforms are the fuel. The controversy is too much for the Blue House to ignore for long."
She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on Ha-neul's red eyes and my sore shoulders. She reached out and placed her hand over Mr. Lee's trembling one.
"It will be over soon," she said, her voice the anchor in the storm. "The government must solve this. They have no choice now. Let's not let the weight of the country ruin our dinner. We are safe, we are together, and we are a family."
Ha-neul looked at me, then back at her plate, but she didn't call me an outsider this time. I sat there, listening to the expert opinions of a lawyer, a doctor, and a journalist, and realized that my life in Korea had stopped being about music and gym sets.
I was hiding a million-won vase for a "father," protecting a "sister," and sitting at a table where the fate of a nation was just daily conversation.
I wasn't just an exchange student anymore.
"So," Ji-hoon said, trying to break the heavy silence. "I heard Sora-ssi is officially part of the family dynamic now?"
I nearly choked on a piece of radish.
The serious atmosphere shattered instantly as Ha-neul let out a wicked, high-pitched giggle.
"Oh, you have no idea, Oppa," she chirped. "The 'Mountain' has a 'Flower' now."
I looked at the ceiling, wondering if the Joseon vase was big enough to hide under.