Page 28 of Ruthless Touch

Traitor! That bastard betrayed me!

But what traitor? What bastard?

I’m debating if I should ask, but then I remember Father’s motto: children are to be seen, not heard.

I was only brought along tonight because he had nowhere else to dump me. He and Mother are no longer together, and Ho-seok is away at his special academy for geniuses.

His knuckles turn white against the steering wheel as he glares at the roads ahead. Every few seconds he slams his palm against the leather-clad wheel, then even the dashboard.

The heavy thud resounds in the tight space of the car.

I press myself deeper into the seat, watching the city blur past in bright streaks of neon. Soon the familiar streets transform into something alien and threatening under the storm’s assault.

We hit the main thoroughfare way too fast, the speedometer needle climbing as Father’s rage seems to feed the engine itself.

The wipers can barely keep up with the deluge of rain. Through the streaked car windows I catch glimpses of other headlights, many wavering like we’ve all been plunged underwater.

Father’s breathing is harsh and ragged, punctuated by more curses, more accusations hurled at an invisible man nowhere to be found.

I want to ask him what’s wrong. Why is he driving like a madman? Why is he so angry when he had been so excited earlier?

The words stick in my throat like wet wool.

The car skids out of our lane for a terrifying moment, sliding sideways before Father wrestles it back under control.

His jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed. He keeps checking the rearview mirror like he expects to see someone racing after us.

He’s so concerned watching what could be behind us that his focus slips from what’s up ahead.

We take the next curve too sharply. The wheels spin as they try to regain traction, but it’s too late. We veer straight toward the guardrail as if pulled by some invisible force.

I shrink against the passenger seat, bracing for the inevitable.

In that final second before impact, there’s a flash—the light blinding and white—that swallows everything whole.

“All vitals are good,” says Dr. Song. “You say the migraines are worse?”

I grunt as I’m jerked from the past to the present. Ragged breathes puff out of me as I blink and realize I’m seated on the edge of a padded examination table.

I’ve got my shirt off, and Dr. Song is jotting down notes on a clipboard. My skull pulses with its usual dull pain, a constant reminder of my condition.

…and the hellish night I’ve relived a thousand times.

I scrub a hand over my face and urge myself to calm the hell down.

It was just a flashback.

There’s no changing what happened.

“Eh?” Dr. Song prompts when I don’t answer.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “They’re getting worse. The pills aren’t doing shit anymore.”

Dr. Song’s pen scratches against his clipboard as he makes another note, his expression neutral but attentive. He’s one of the best in Gangnam.

Exactly why the Cheongryong has bribed him to be on our payroll. Every syndicate has its private professionals they pay for discretion and special service. Doctors, lawyers, policemen, tax clerks, and more. The Cheongryong chose Dr. Song so he could provide us some of the best private medical care.

He’s paid so well he knows to keep his mouth shut.