Chapter Text
Kim Dokja sat at his desk, staring at the clock above his monitor: 6:00 p.m.
Not a second earlier, not a second later. It was a small, precise victory—a tiny rhythm in the chaos of his daily grind. He watched the second hand sweep across the face of the clock, and then leaned back slowly, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His eyes stung from hours of staring into the blue glow of his monitor, the faint ache behind his eyelids a familiar companion. The office was quiet now—just the faint hum of computers, the occasional rustle of papers, and distant murmurs of coworkers finishing their tasks.
Minosoft’s walls were a stark, sterile white, unadorned and uninviting. The fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently, casting a cold, unflattering glow that made everything feel oddly distant. The expectations here were sharp—deadline-driven, relentless, unforgiving. Yet, somehow, Dokja didn’t complain. Complaining took energy—energy he had little left for, especially after a long day. Instead, he let his shoulders slump, and with a faint sigh, he closed his laptop with a soft click.
His gaze drifted to the window, where the city stretched out like a living organism—alive and indifferent. Outside, the sky was a canvas of gentle lavender, streaked with gold and amber as the sun dipped behind the skyscrapers. The evening air was cool, a gentle reminder that fall was approaching. The distant hum of traffic and the faint hum of life beneath the quiet hum of office equipment made him feel oddly connected to something bigger.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, feeling the faint vibration before he even looked. His thumb hovered over the screen briefly before unlocking it.
[Namwoon]: Eomma, can you stop by the grocery store? We’re out of milk, eggs, and ramen.
The nickname eomma—a teasing, sarcastic nickname that his adopted son Kim Namwoon, now 17, had started using as a joke. It was a playful jab, a mixture of mockery and affection—something that had grown into a strange, endearing habit. It was a reminder that, despite their differences, he was still family.
Kim Dokja exhaled softly, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. Demanding little gremlin, he thought fondly.
He responded quickly, typing with practiced fingers:
[Dokja]: On it. Anything else?
Almost instantly, another message appeared.
[Namwoon]: Nope. Don’t forget the kimchi.
[Namwoon]: The good kind, not the weird sweet one.
He rolled his eyes but chuckled softly under his breath. That kid—his kid—had a nose for the pungent, spicy smell of proper kimchi. It was a small thing, but it mattered. It was a thread that kept them connected, even across the distance of their separate lives.
---
Stepping outside, he felt the cool evening air kiss his skin, a refreshing break after the fluorescent glare of the office. The streetlights flickered on as he made his way to the nearby grocery store, their warm glow pooling on the pavement like tiny halos. The city was winding down, yet the rhythm of life persisted—people rushing home, street vendors packing up their stalls, the faint hum of distant conversations and honking cars.
He took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of urban life fill his lungs—exhaust fumes, roasted chestnuts from a street cart, the faint aroma of fried food drifting from a nearby restaurant. It was comforting in its own way, grounding him.
---
The grocery store was predictably chaotic. Families with carts overflowing, children tugging at their parents’ hands, tired workers grabbing last-minute essentials. The air was thick with the scent of warm bread, fresh vegetables, and the faint, lingering smell of sanitizer. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, flickering now and then, casting a clinical glow on the colorful displays.
Dokja moved through the aisles with a practiced, almost automatic precision, his mind on autopilot—milk, eggs, ramen, kimchi. His footsteps were steady, sure—muscle memory guiding him through the familiar maze. He barely needed to glance at the signs anymore; he knew where everything was by now.
He reached for a bag of shrimp crackers—Yoosung's favorite—just as his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen with a tired smile, amused.
[Namwoon]: Also… could you grab some of that energy drink? The one with the red label?
[Namwoon]: You know the one. Makes your heart feel like it's gonna explode?
He shook his head, a small smirk curling his lips. Seventeen and reckless, he thought, adding the energy drink to his cart. The label was bright red, with bold lettering promising an adrenaline rush—probably dangerous in the hands of a seventeen-year-old. Still, it was a small act of love, really.
He turned the cart down another aisle, then paused as his phone pinged again. A link this time. He hesitated, expecting a meme or a funny clip, but when he tapped it open, his eyes widened.
The screen flickered with a fast-paced gaming stream—flashing images, rapid commentary, and intense music. The voice was sharp and commanding, barking orders into the microphone. The streamer’s profile was familiar—dark hair, a stern expression, fierce concentration. The camera briefly caught his profile, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in focus.
The streamer cursed as he missed a shot, then swiftly adjusted and scored a kill with clinical precision.
“That’s Yoo Joonghyuk,” Dokja murmured softly, recognizing the silhouette. The name had floated through countless clips, often with a sense of awe or admiration. He didn’t quite understand the appeal, only that Namwoon watched him quite often. Too much aggression, too many explosions. It was chaos, but somehow compelling chaos.
He found himself watching a few seconds longer than he should have, the faintest, almost nostalgic tug pulling at his chest. A feeling he couldn’t quite name—something distant, like longing for something he’d lost—or maybe never had.
He shook his head, snapping the phone shut, and moved on, trying to dismiss the strange flutter in his stomach.
---
Back at home, the apartment was a warm, cluttered haven. Shoes lined up by the door—some neatly, some in disarray. A heap of notebooks and textbooks sprawled on the coffee table, evidence of the kids’ scattered studies and doodles. A laundry basket had migrated from the hallway into the living room—an unintentional testament to the small chaos of everyday life.
Dokja placed the grocery bags down on the kitchen counter, the familiar weight grounding him. The soft sound of the door closing behind him was followed by tiny footsteps down the hall.
“What’s for dinner, eomma?” Yoosung’s voice was bright and eager, already peering into the bags like a curious kitten. Her hoodie sleeves were comically long, slipping past her fingertips as she looked at the contents with shining eyes.
“Something that won’t poison you,” Dokja replied with a dry smile, gently prying the ramen from her grasp before she could snatch it away.
Gilyoung followed behind her, quieter, rubbing at one eye sleepily. “Namwoon hyung’s still in his room. He didn’t come out even when I told him I was stealing his charger,” he mumbled.
“He’s probably watching Yoo Joonghyuk again,” Yoosung said with a theatrical eye-roll, crossing her arms. Her gaze was fond but exasperated.
“Better than him yelling at random League players,” Dokja muttered as he unpacked the kimchi, carefully peeling open the plastic wrap—fermented, spicy, pungent kimchi that looked like it had been made with love and just a touch of chaos.
The kids giggled, the sound filling the small kitchen with a warm, familiar energy. The smell of broth, fried eggs, and vegetables simmering in the air—comforting, simple, enough to make the dull ache of fatigue fade for a moment.
He moved with practiced ease—boiling water, slicing scallions, cracking eggs—his body remembering routines even when his mind drifted elsewhere. It was a quiet rhythm, a lull that eased some of the stress he carried daily.
For a moment, everything felt... settled. Not peaceful, exactly, but familiar in a way that felt like a patchwork quilt—stitched together from scraps of chaos, love, and resilience.
---
Later that night, the dishes washed, the kids scattered into their own worlds. Namwoon was still glued to his game, Yoosung was curled up with a book, and Gilyoung was already asleep in his room. The apartment was quiet in a way only a home could be—full of stories, small messes, and unspoken warmth.
Dokja sank onto the couch, pulling a blanket over his shoulders, a mug of barley tea cooling on the side table. The silence was a balm, a rare moment of peace in a busy, unpredictable life.
His gaze drifted upward to the ceiling, thoughts swirling like clouds—work deadlines, the chaos of their grocery run, the fleeting glimpse of Joonghyuk’s stream. The house was full of small, imperfect moments that stitched their lives together—laughter, arguments, quiet moments of tenderness.
Then, softly, the notification buzzed again.
Another message from his son.
[Namwoon]: Eomma, you should watch Joonghyuk’s stream sometime. You might actually like it.
He looked at the message, hesitating. The glow from his phone illuminated the dark room, casting shadows across the ceiling. The house was quiet now, but not lonely. It was full of stories—small moments that reminded him that, maybe, this patchwork family was holding together.
He considered replying, then simply typed:
[Dokja]: Maybe I will.
He set the phone down gently, the screen’s glow fading into darkness. The night settled around him like a soft blanket.
And for the first time that day, he felt... present. Not running, not overwhelmed. Just here. In this moment.
In this life they’d built—stitch by stitch, quarrel by laugh, ramen by ramen. It was fragile, sure, but it was theirs.
It was patchwork.
And somehow, it held.