Eun-jae wandered through the lavish halls of the mansion, bare feet padding softly against the marble floors. Every corridor looked the damn same—arched ceilings, baroque paintings, statues that stared a little too hard. Was this a house or a museum for rich psychos? he thought, dragging his fingers along the intricate molding on the wall.
After a few wrong turns and an accidental walk-in on a room that looked like a gothic study straight out of a vampire novel, Eun-jae finally found it.
"Ah," he muttered, a smug smirk curling on his lips, "found it."
The kitchen.
No, scratch that.
The kitchen.
It wasn't just any cooking space. It was the kind of place five-star chefs would cry in. Polished marble counters, hanging copper pans that gleamed like they were just for aesthetic, a built-in espresso machine, and a fridge the size of a walk-in closet.
Eun-jae strolled in like he owned the place, opening the fridge with the flourish of someone about to rob it for all its glory. Inside, rows of Tupperware were perfectly arranged, each labeled with little sticky notes—soups, pastas, grilled stuff, desserts—like Caesar ran a gourmet restaurant and Eun-jae was the only damn customer.
"Holy shit," he muttered, peeking inside one of the containers. "Did this man meal-prep like a stay-at-home housewife before abandoning me here?"
He turned and spotted another door tucked into the far end of the kitchen. Curiosity pulled him toward it, and when he opened it—boom. A private wine cellar. Like, fancy wine. Expensive bottles lined floor-to-ceiling shelves, glowing softly under dim golden lights. There were whiskeys, scotches, vodkas, even a chilled champagne wall.
"Okay richie rich, I see you," Eun-jae whispered to himself, grabbing one bottle and reading the label like he could afford it.
Just as he was mentally rating Caesar a 10/10 on luxury but a zero for ethics, a smooth voice cut through the air.
"There you are."
Eun-jae turned, his gaze flicking to the entrance of the kitchen. Caesar stood there, effortlessly put together like he just stepped off the pages of some elitist fashion mag. He wore a tailored black turtleneck tucked into slacks, black leather gloves hugging his fingers, and a long brown fur coat draped over his broad shoulders like he was about to film a mafia boss scene.
"You look like a villain from a Bond movie," Eun-jae scoffed, narrowing his eyes.
Caesar, ever the calm and unreadable bastard, ignored the jab. "I'm heading out. I'll be back late," he said smoothly, slipping on his sunglasses indoors like a true menace. "I cooked some meals and stored them in the fridge. If you're hungry, just microwave them."
Eun-jae rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck. "Yeah, thanks, Dad," he said sarcastically, brushing past Caesar like the air didn't shift when they were near each other.
Caesar chuckled softly behind him, a low amused sound that made Eun-jae bristle. Like he was some little entertainment show. "Don't blow up the mansion while I'm gone," Caesar said before turning and leaving.
Eun-jae watched him walk out with that calm, calculated grace—so relaxed, so infuriating. The main entrance doors opened with a soft hiss, and the cold winter air poured in as Caesar stepped out.
Then he heard it—the rumble of helicopter blades slicing through the sky.
Eun-jae's eyes widened. No way. He bolted down the hallway like his life depended on it, nearly skidding around a corner as he sprinted toward the front doors.
He reached the entrance just in time to see Caesar stepping into the sleek black helicopter waiting on the helipad outside. The blades were spinning violently, whipping Caesar's coat around him like a villainous cape.
Eun-jae slammed his hand on the door handle.
Locked.
"Are you serious right now?!"
He yanked it again. And again. Nothing. The door wouldn't budge.
From outside, Caesar didn't even turn around. He climbed into the helicopter like this was some casual Tuesday.
Eun-jae smacked the door in frustration, watching as the aircraft slowly began to ascend, blades whirling, snow from the ground swirling up like a storm around it.
"Fucking bastard!" Eun-jae shouted, slamming his fist against the glass. His voice echoed off the high ceilings of the mansion, but all it did was bounce back at him.
He stood there, chest rising and falling as he watched the black dot in the sky shrink and disappear.
With a long groan, he turned away from the door. "Of course he'd lock it. What am I, Rapunzel now? Just throw in a goddamn tower and call it a day."
He kicked at the plush rug beneath his feet like it had personally offended him, then stormed off dramatically, muttering insults under his breath the whole way back.
"Asshole. Tall, cocky, meal-prepping psychopath. Thinks he can just kidnap me and then fly off like Batman. I swear to God—"
He stopped halfway through the hallway, then huffed, turning back around and kicked the nearest chair for good measure. "God, why are the hot ones always insane? Like, clinically."
The heavy silence of the mansion pressed down on Eun-jae's shoulders like a thick, invisible weight. Now that Caesar had peaced out in his big villain-ass helicopter, it was just him and a house way too big for one person — and, honestly, he wasn't about to just sit there twiddling his thumbs like some helpless damsel.
Nope. Not today, Satan.
Stretching his arms over his head with a big dramatic yawn, he muttered to himself, "Might as well snoop around since I'm already kidnapped. Call it... emotional compensation."
With that, he started wandering.
The grand staircase creaked a little under his bare feet as he ascended, the polished wood gleaming under the afternoon light. His oversized shirt billowed slightly as he moved, looking more like a rebellious prince than a prisoner. His fingers lightly skimmed the railing, the air up here colder, quieter, even more suffocating.
Room after room, hallway after hallway, nothing really caught his attention — just endless corridors, random antique vases (boring), paintings of dead rich people (double boring), and some fancy furniture that screamed "you can't afford me."
Finally, he stumbled into a room different from the others — a study.
"Bingo," Eun-jae whispered with a sly grin.
The place smelled like old paper and leather and something a little musky — expensive musk, like Caesar had even managed to buy the air. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, thick, heavy tomes that looked untouched. There was a big-ass ladder attached to a track across the shelves, like some Disney princess shit.
Without hesitation, Eun-jae grabbed the ladder and climbed up, boots tapping against the rungs. His hands skimmed the spines of the books — law, economics, languages, more law, some ancient-looking history books.
God, this man was such a cliché. Who actually reads this shit?
He was about to climb back down when something caught his eye: a thin, worn book tucked messily between two massive encyclopedias. He grabbed it, raising an eyebrow.
It was a fantasy novel — the cover was a little faded, but the title was clear, written in flowing Russian script. Luckily for Eun-jae, he could read Russian. Thank you, three years of being a chaotic overachiever in high school.
He flipped through the pages absently, skimming a passage about warriors and monsters, before snapping it shut with a bored sigh. "Nerd," he muttered under his breath, smirking to himself.
Still not satisfied, he kept poking around, weaving deeper into the mansion.
That's when he found it — a small door, half-hidden behind a giant decorative plant. His curiosity screamed louder than his survival instincts, so he pushed it open.
Inside?
An art room.
The space was messy in a way the rest of the mansion wasn't — sketches, drawings, loose papers all over the floor and pinned on the walls. Most of them were charcoal or pencil, sharp and detailed. It was the first time Eun-jae had seen anything remotely human about Caesar.
He stepped in carefully, bare feet brushing against discarded paper. His eyes scanned the drawings — scenes of cities, the ocean, hands, eyes. But one thing kept showing up, over and over again: a man.
A ridiculously beautiful man.
Sharp eyes, strong jawline, an almost ethereal presence. Different poses, different expressions — laughing, sleeping, fighting. It was clear that whoever this man was, Caesar had been... obsessed.
Eun-jae tilted his head, squinting at one of the larger sketches.
"Damn," he muttered. "Not me getting jealous of a sketch."
Still, he shivered slightly. Something about the way they were drawn — frantic, tender, desperate — made his skin crawl in a way he couldn't explain.
He backed out of the room quickly, feeling weirdly like he had just read someone's diary.
"Artists are freaks," he mumbled under his breath, pretending he wasn't lowkey impressed.
Next stop: Caesar's dressing room.
Because if there was a place someone would hide phones, computers, or literally anything useful, it would be the bedroom or closet, right? That's how it worked in the movies.
Eun-jae slipped into the spacious, annoyingly perfect dressing room. Designer suits, fur coats, neatly arranged cufflinks, leather shoes that cost more than his rent. He tugged open drawers, felt around behind racks, even knelt down to check under the shelves.
Nothing.
No hidden phones. No landlines. No laptop under the bed. Not even a goddamn charger cable.
It was like Caesar had personally exorcised every ounce of technology from this place except his own tightly controlled devices.
Eun-jae sat down hard on the floor, groaning dramatically.
"This is insane. He's insane. I'm insane for thinking I could actually out-sneak him."
He flopped backward, lying flat on the expensive carpet, staring up at the ceiling.
He could be in another country. Another state. Another planet at this point.
And he had no way of knowing.
No way of reaching anyone.
He groaned again, louder this time, kicking his feet like an overgrown toddler.
"Ughhhh. This is like... luxury jail. Five-star hostage situation. I didn't even get a welcome gift bag."
But even as the frustration bubbled inside him, so did a stubborn spark of defiance.
Eun-jae wasn't the type to roll over and accept fate. Oh no, he was the type to make fate his bitch.
Sitting up, he cracked his neck, determination flashing across his pretty features.
"No way am I staying trapped in this rich idiot's dollhouse forever," he growled. "I'll find a way out. I don't care if I have to dig a tunnel with a damn spoon."
With a new plan brewing in his mind (and absolutely no idea how to execute it), he got up, brushed himself off, and stormed back toward the study.
First step: information.
Second step: survive.
Third step: maybe — just maybe — make Caesar regret ever thinking he could kidnap Eun-jae, the unstoppable.
The winter air was brutal — sharp enough to cut through even the thick fur of Caesar's long coat. Snowflakes drifted down lazily from the grey, swollen sky, dusting the deserted cemetery in soft white layers. The world around him was silent, save for the distant howl of the wind and the crunch of his heavy boots against the fresh snow.
Caesar stood still in front of the headstone, clutching a bouquet of deep red flowers in his gloved hands. The petals looked almost violently bright against the dull backdrop of winter. For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing in the frozen air, his chest rising and falling a little too heavily.
He finally exhaled, a low sigh escaping his lips — a sound too tired for someone so young.
"Daniil..." he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking on the name. "Hey... it's been a while, huh?"
Caesar knelt down slowly, careful not to crush the fragile flowers. With tender, practiced hands, he brushed the snow off the gravestone, his black leather gloves skimming the cold, worn stone. The engraved letters peeked out beneath the frost — Daniil Volkov. The sight of the name nearly undid him, but he swallowed down the wave of emotion clawing up his throat.
He placed the bouquet down neatly, as if Daniil could still reach out and accept them. As if they could still talk, laugh, exist together in this world.
Straightening up with a heavy groan, Caesar wiped a stray snowflake from his eyelashes and tucked his hands into his coat pockets.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, a tremor sneaking into his normally steady voice. "For not visiting sooner. I... I guess I was scared."
The words cracked in the cold air, fragile and almost pathetic, and Caesar hated himself a little for how small he sounded.
"I miss you. And our baby," he whispered, voice breaking properly this time.
The first tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. Then another. And another. Caesar didn't bother wiping them away. Let the snow and the cold see him like this — hollowed out, broken, still bleeding from a wound years old.
He covered his mouth with his hand for a second, trying to muffle the pitiful noise that tore out of his throat — half a sob, half a laugh.
"If you were here," he chuckled bitterly, shaking his head as more tears fell, "you'd be yelling at me. Calling me dramatic. Telling me to pull my shit together."
The thought made him smile through the tears, just a little, the kind of smile that hurt more than crying.
Caesar knelt down again, closer to the stone, resting his forehead against it for a moment like he was seeking strength from the cold marble.
"I met someone," he said after a long beat, his voice lighter now, almost fond despite himself. "He's... something else."
He laughed softly, almost disbelievingly.
"His name's Eun-jae. Stubborn as hell. Thinks he's so tough. Mouthy. Sarcastic. Has all these piercings. And the attitude? God, Daniil, you'd love him. You'd be so entertained."
He shook his head with a small, helpless smile, fingers absently tracing the carved name again.
"He's a little menace," Caesar muttered. "Keeps calling me an asshole. Keeps looking at me like I'm the biggest idiot on earth. Maybe I am."
He went quiet again, letting the snow fall around him like a shroud. Time didn't exist here. Just him, the grave, and the memories that wouldn't let go.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," he admitted softly, words meant only for the dead. "But when I look at him... sometimes I feel like maybe... maybe I can start over."
The idea terrified him more than anything.
A part of him wanted to believe Daniil was listening. Watching. That somewhere, somehow, Daniil would send a sign — tell him it was okay to move forward. To live. To feel something other than this endless, gnawing grief.
"I'll take care of him," Caesar whispered, almost to himself. "I'll do it right this time."
He stayed a little longer, letting himself cry freely, no masks, no walls. The snow blanketed everything — soft, forgiving.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Caesar wiped his face roughly, pulled his coat tighter around him, and stood.
"I love you," he said to the grave, simple and raw. "Always."
Then, without another word, he turned and walked back toward the waiting black car parked just outside the cemetery gates, his figure shrinking into the swirling snow, the bouquet of red flowers the only bright thing left behind.