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Dennis wakes to a sting in his arm. He turns his head to look at the needle in the crook of his elbow. An IV line snakes down to a bag hanging beside his bed. Through his open bedroom door, the scent of sesame oil and the clatter of pans drift in from his kitchen.

His grunt echoes through the apartment as he sits up, carefully removing the needle. His phone shows a full day has passed, screen crowded with messages and missed calls. He can't deal with those yet.

As he approaches the kitchen, his mother's voice carries over the sizzling: "And if you add sesame seeds it will make a whooooole lot of difference. Dennis, darling!" She drops her spatula with a clatter, rushing to him.

Her hands cup his face, turning it side to side as she searches his eyes. "How are you feeling? You're so pale still—are you dizzy? Sit down, sit down. You hungry? I'm making your favorite."

"What happened?" Dennis croaks, mouth dry.

"You fainted. If Margaret hadn't found you—" Her fingers brush his hair back, concern etched in every movement. "Oh dear, I was worried sick."

"I'm okay, Mom."

"Come, sit down. Let me fix you a plate."

Dennis eats slowly, feeling almost normal. An uncomfortable meeting with his father looms ahead, but he has to keep going. That can't be worse than watching my project burn , he thinks, then laughs mirthlessly at what his life's become when that's his measuring stick for bad days.

His father's accountant stands ready when Dennis enters the office, tablet in hand.

"You're going to have to sell your part, Architect Kim." His father gets straight to the point.

"What? No!" Dennis's fingers dig into the leather armrests, his jaw tightening.

Dennis doesn’t expect any empathy—he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But even so, the words land like a punch, leaving him reeling.

"There's no other way, Master Kim." The accountant adjusts his glasses. "After the police reports came out, we've had massive losses. Half the project's investors have pulled out, and City Hall is moving to shut down the construction site permanently."

The police report sits on the desk like a bomb. "Construction negligence," they claim. Dennis's name appears everywhere—he signed every document, approved every stage. His reputation bleeds out in black and white.

Something about the report nags at him. The language feels too vague, the conclusions too neat. Chris's involvement hovers at the edges of his thoughts, but he can't go there. Not now.

"Mr. Lancaster from Lancaster & Son has made an offer. More than generous—enough to save us from bankruptcy." His father's voice softens slightly. "You can return to design, or work with your mother. Your choice."

How generous.

When Dennis stays silent, studying the photos and diagrams spread across the desk, his father dismisses the accountant.

Mr. Cho bows deeply before leaving them alone.

"I'm sorry, Son."

Dennis rises, moving to the wall where photos of the scorched east wing hang. He's tired of apologies from everyone except the person who owes them to him. His father joins him, both studying the destruction.

"Sorry about Lancaster's boy, too."

Dennis snaps to look at his father. "How did you know?"

"I figured." Mr. Kim keeps studying the photos.

"For how long?"

"A while."

"Our meeting. Did you know then?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because you trusted him. And I wanted to trust you."

Dennis lets out a harsh laugh. "Talk about bad judgment."

"You must've had your reasons, Son. As I have mine."

Dennis catches something in his father's tone. He can tell his dad is about to wrap this meeting up, but he knew —what else does he know?

"He claims Chris destroys projects." Dennis's hands curl into fists. "Lives." The word catches, too close to home.

His father finally turns from the photos. He studies Dennis for a silent beat before continuing: "If that were true, would he broadcast it? A father never wants to taint his only heir's reputation in this industry."

"What are you saying?"

"Fathers love their children." The words carry something Dennis has never heard in his father's voice before. "If he's covering up Chris's actions, he'd keep them buried. Yet he told you. If he's not covering anything..." His father adjusts his cuffs, choosing words carefully. "Then perhaps the son learned his acquisition methods from the father."

Dennis's throat turns to sandpaper. "You think they're working together to bring us down?"

"I had suspicions. But your mother—you know how she is. Claims she sees right through people. Says we don't have the full picture after watching them at the gala. Chris's reaction to his dad..." He shakes his head. "Either that was Oscar-worthy acting, or there's more we don't understand."

His father returns to his desk. "Regardless, what's done is done. We need solutions, fast ones. A lot is out of our hands now. Lancaster's offer—" he taps the folder in front of him "—exceeds anything reasonable."

Dennis runs his thumb over his knuckles, mind racing through every interaction, every moment that could be a clue. "Dad... please. I can't let this go. I need to know the truth."

"Son, this industry runs on lies, cheating, and stealing." His father leans back, every word weighted with decades of experience. "You either beat them at their game, join them in the mud, or stay far enough away to keep clean."

"What else do you know?" Dennis insists.

"Only that you can't trust anyone. Lancaster has his share of whispers—an estranged son who appears and vanishes, his wife's mysterious disappearance, acquisitions that don't add up. Your mother—" a ghost of a smile touches his lips "—she keeps me honest. But Lancaster..." His fingers drum once on the desk. "He's… charming. However, those who stand against him tend to find new careers. Outside construction."

Dennis swallows hard as he absorbs this.

"My advice? Keep your distance. If your mother's right—as she insists she always is—even Chris can't escape him. And if you're tied up with Chris—" the pause suggests he knows exactly how tied up "—neither will you."

The weight of three different versions of truth—Lancaster's smooth explanations, Chris's desperate denials, his father's warnings to a son—leaves Dennis mute.

"I'll let you think about it." His father's words come quieter, like he knows the weight Dennis is carrying. "We need an answer by the end of the week.”

At home, Dennis faces his office battlefield. Paper covers every surface, his frantic highlighting from the night before the fire marking possible clues. He can't give up—not yet. He snaps a photo and texts Jason:

Gather the legal team, tomorrow we’ll go through all of this

Bzzz.

You’re not selling?

Dennis shakes his head, tapping quickly.

Not if we can find something.

Oh and have someone on the team look into the son of the CEO of Lancaster & Son.

His phone hits the desk as he starts organizing papers into boxes. He cannot let this end here. Each document feels like another chance, another possible thread to pull.

The office slowly returns to order until he turns and sees it—their private joke turned memorial.

The dick pic sits in its frame, mocking him with memories of laughter and trust. All those nights, all those moments—real or calculated? His chest tightens with a knot of emotions he can't pick out.

Fury at being played, grief for what he thought they had, want he can't kill.

The frame leaves his hand before he can second-guess himself. Glass explodes in the trash can, as shattered as it is final.