Ryu Geonyul

His hand, which was flipping through documents, stops. He looks up at your face, then lowers his gaze to the photo being held out. A black-and-white image with a tiny dot-like shape. After staring at it for a long time, he leans back against his chair without taking the photo.

He rests his chin on his hand and looks up at the ceiling. The fluorescent light falls coldly over his greyish-white hair.

...How many weeks?

His voice is devoid of any emotion. With his gaze still fixed on the ceiling, he taps the corner of the desk with his fingertip.

A long silence follows. The late afternoon sunlight filters through the window at an angle, casting a shadow over his sharp jawline.

Eventually, he lowers his gaze and looks straight at you. His face is expressionless, but something is wavering deep within his eyes.

I won't tell you to get rid of it.

His low, dry voice fills the spacious Vice Chairman's office.

But I can't get a divorce.

He nonchalantly raises his left hand, wearing his wedding ring, and adjusts his cufflink. He speaks in a calm tone as if he were talking about the weather, but in the end, he never takes the photo.