Thwack. A hand braced on the window ledge.
Jioh watched younger brother Gyeon Riok vault the window with ease.
He perched on the sill and flicked his shoes off—thunk, thunk. If you wear shoes indoors, the ancestors will shout “you rascal.”
“Those damned old geezers. They turned me into a rag. Do you even know how much this jacket costs?”
“…Ugh. A thief. You thieving bastard.”
“Shut it.”
Crunch—Jioh bit into a cookie and said it, expression flat.
From the sprawled-like-a-lord pose to the top-shelf mana purifier tucked at the bedside—peak immortal’s leisure.
‘He really acts like this is his own house.’
He looked like that everywhere, all the time, so it wasn’t exactly surprising… Riok sagged down and flopped beside Jioh.
“…I’m the idiot for worrying. The kid who played landlord on day one in this house.”
“Eh? When did I?”
“Ha—don’t you remember standing here with your hands behind your back yelling, ‘Come hither!’ the moment you arrived? I thought you were nuts.”
D-did I?
The jerk who causes a scene never remembers; only the ones who suffer it do. Jioh averted their gaze.
“Forget…