Park Chanyeol did not like to smoke, though he held an unlit cigarette in one hand. It was something of his father’s habit to smoke, and his father, and his father before that, and it seems to be a never-ending genetic to perhaps hold a stick between your lips. The Parks are clever—they know it’s a nuisance to smoke. Though they do, for the sake of tradition, and Park Chanyeol the seventh seems to be the only one who was interested in stopping that tradition, now, inside his car with his chauffeur, spinning the cigarette around between his fingers.

He is incredibly handsome for his age—again, an odd genetic with Parks to seemingly stop aging once they hit their middle twenties—though he was youthful with his style, giving him a look of immortality. It suited him, of course—wealth made you look like god, and he was Zeus of the economy, and a celebrity amongst the more common folks. He was also prince to the Parks Corporations, currently the scions of all-things money, and was already popular with the right people.

For those who liked him, he really was, God, or at least descended from one of some sort. Not only his handsome wealth, but also for his intelligence and, often, his characteristic look of a very serious man. He is often smug, yes, though his relaxed brows, silent but authoritative aura easily made him a leader in all aspects. His red hair was a connotation of a late-teenage spirit, though his sharp features—such like his expressive eyes—made him mature and adult. No doubt; the future president of the Parks Corporations will be in good hands, with Park Chanyeol as its successor.

Though for those who disliked—hate—why, there is a lack for the word that had the definition of unsaturated loathing—him, he is definitely smug, and he liked to play games. The bad sort of games.

His youth often made him careless—not in terms of his social status, but he had issues with empathy; he lacked the knowledge to understand feelings, or too much knowledge to understand how one feels and turn their emotions against them. In the bottom floor of the Parks Corporation facility, there is a whole arena dedicated to twenty-four hour casinos, and that alone generated 2.5% of the corporation’s income. Now Chanyeol liked to go down there, often playing the darkest games, even betting his whole wealth and life on these games. The opponent, often too gleefully, accepted the challenge with the same barter.

Now Chanyeol is no fool, see, though his broad chest could barely contain his pride and ego, he is a very smart man. He is no much smarter in games than any other human being—but there was one game he was very good at, and they were called feelings: he lacked them, whilst his opponent shows them subconsciously. Using that one weapon, he used it against his opponents and ultimately took them over—and Chanyeol is always, always, victorious.

Except—well, there is always one exception to everything, wasn’t there?

Bump.

“Woooow, daddy, I can’t see anything through this window!”

“Oh—Minhyun, step away from the car!”

A figure of a small child appears in Chanyeol’s window immediately to his left, surprising the man a little. He could see outside, but nobody could see in. The boy seems intent to peer at the blackness anyhow, mushing his cheeks and his starfish hands on the pane. Chanyeol gazed at him, wondering at how clueless the boy was to the presence inside the very vehicle, until two other foreign hands appeared and unplastered the child from the window.

“Minhyun, you can’t touch things that aren’t yours, poppet, do you understand?”

“But—“

“You like cars? Daddy can’t buy you real cars, but we can buy the small limousines from the toy shop after we go to the doctor’s, would you like that?”

“Ooh! Um—um—I—I want the, the, the yellow digger! I want the yellow digger!”

“Yes, we can buy the yellow digger. But after we go to the doctor’s, okay? Don’t touch any more cars, that’s a good boy. Don’t run, be careful!”

The boy disappears, and so what appears to be his father; he was a skinny man, far too thin to be healthy, with hair that stuck to his forehead. The bones in his elbow seem to protrude out of his skin and he swayed a little when he walked, his far-too-big shirt hanging by his shoulders. Though a smile was etched onto his thin lips, and his eyes were bright with endearing love for his son, laughing heartily as he watched his son waddling away cluelessly.

After their chatter reduces, Chanyeol slowly rolls down the windows and gazed at the child and father figure. He pressed his lips into a thin line and his eyelids lower, a smirk etching itself slowly onto his mouth. He taps a few buttons just next to his armrest, before he laid back and pulled out a lighter.

“Chauffeur—send a man to follow on this one.” Chanyeol spoke, lighting his cigarette. The response comes soon after.

“Affirmative, sir.”

Chanyeol in his cigarette and blows the smoke out, a smug expression in his face. He smiles as he holds up the hand that held his cigarette, gazing at his missing fourth finger, before he laughed and pulled his window back up again, telling his chauffeur to drive on.

In the history of playing, Chanyeol had lost to one game, and he still remembers his loss bitterly today.

Park Chanyeol does not forgive easily.

__

“Daddy, wake up.”

“Hmh…?”

Baekhyun roused himself awake, confused as to where he was now. Upon his surroundings, he remembers that they’re in for Minhyun’s doctor appointment, though he’d been so tired he fell asleep in the waiting room. Minhyun, his six-year-old son, fidgets next to him, poking his father’s cheek in effort of trying to get him to wake up.

“Oh, no, I fell asleep, didn’t I…?” Baekhyun yawned, rubbing one eye with his knuckle. “…Hmmh… did you get called?”

“No, but I woke up daddy just in case we did get called.” Minhyun says, before he returned to playing his imaginary car, trekking it on roadtrips on top of his father’s shoulders. He continues to play by himself minutes after, getting the imaginary car to run over his father’s nose and squashing his cheek, before he stops and plops himself down to sit on his lap.

“Daddy.”

“Hm?”

“Why am I going to the doctor’s?” Minhyun mumbles. “Is it because I’m sick?”

“Sort of, poppet.” Baekhyun pressed his lips together grimly and sighed. “You fainted after playing footie last week, remember? And you keep getting breathless when you sleep.”

Baekhyun ruffles his son’s hair and kisses his cheek, earning a giggle from the small child. Minhyun nuzzles himself onto his chest and played with his father’s features, pinching his nose and poking his lips. Minhyun yawns and pinches Baekhyun’s ear stretching it to the side. Baekhyun, too kind to stop his son from prodding his mouth, tried to converse with him instead.

“You’re gonna stay with Jongdae today.”

“Why?”

“Daddy’s gotta work tonight, remember?” Baekhyun spoke with half of his face smothered with Minhyun’s chubby hands. “Daddy’s gonna work, and then he’ll pick you up in the morning and we can go home. Don’t you like Jongdae?”

“Dae-dae can’t cook, his cooking tastes horrible.” Minhyun blew a raspberry, and Baekhyun bursts into a guilty laugh, because it was true. “And he won’t play with me.”

“Well—he’s doing his papers. Don’t bother him too much, okay, poppet?”

“Okay.” Minhyun nods vigorously.

“Park Minhyun.” the intercom calls, and Baekhyun picked up Minhyun and se