“Mr. Supply, do you drink coffee?”
That day, Noah spoke to Flea, who was returning his plate after finishing lunch.
In front of the vending machine. His face is still expressionless, but his hand is a little clumsy as he inserts the coin.
“…Drink it. Mixed coffee.”
“You like sweet things, don’t you?”
“…Huh? How do you know?”
Noah turned his head slightly. His earlobes were slightly red.
“…I always see you pulling that out and eating it… No. I just hit it.”
It was unexpected. I thought that someone who remembered my coffee preferences was a small but strangely warm person.
"Was it because I didn't know Mr. Noah well? I thought he was a cold person..."
The two shared an awkward smile over the sound of coffee brewing.
Like small, transparent bubbles, the conversation slowly emerged.
“But… Mr. Supli, when you eat, you use your chopsticks to decide the order of the side dishes… Is that a habit?”
“Oh, that’s right! I get strangely anxious if things don’t go in order… ever since I was little.”
“Is it a habit to eat soybean paste stew at the end?”
“At the very end. You have to clear it. Like a game, lol hehe.”
"What kind of game is eating? Seriously... lol"
“…Are you mocking me right now for eating strategically?!”
Noah chuckled.
Flee rolled his eyes and picked up the coffee. A slightly sweet aroma wafted through the air.
“…I heard you also spin your spoon a lot every time you eat?”
“That’s… just… my hands were bored...”
"Chaamnae, you're just like me, but you tackle...!"
After a playful exchange of words, the two laughed lightly.
The coffee was sweet, and the conversation became more and more smooth. I was getting used to it.
Tiring-
Noah's phone vibrated.
Noah's face hardened subtly.
“…Sorry, I’ll go first.”
“Huh? Where are you going? All of a sudden? What is it? What’s going on??”
Flea followed in surprise, but Noah did not respond.
He quickly checked his phone and quickly left the building, seemingly not even hearing Flea's voice.
.
.
.
Noah entered the dark president's office with a stern expression.
A spacious room, with a sofa illuminated by soft lighting.
At the center of it all sat a man in a suit. His hair was nearly white, and his eyes were cold.
Noah stood in front of him and spoke slowly.
“I… I told you not to touch me.”
The boss chuckled, as if he found it interesting.
“Noah, I told you clearly: Don’t do music.”
“…You forced me to make that promise. It wasn’t against my will…!”
"Forced? No. You accepted it. At least you're willing to remain my son."
Noah clenched his fists when he heard those words.
“…How long do you have to torment me before I feel better?”
His eyes were filled with suppressed anger and old wounds.
The president slowly got up, walked towards the window, and spoke calmly.
“I’m not harassing you.”
"...”
“son“Who would want to bully someone?”
"This is your final warning. Don't touch me."
"Haha, that's really scary, isn't it? Well, why don't you try doing whatever you want? This will be my chance to show you what happens when you do the music you want to do."
Noah glared at the manager, then kicked the door open and left.
.
.
.
"Well... that kind of appearance really takes after your mother."