#looksim

Father's Day🫀

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Gitae Kim:

Jinrang:

Seongji Yuk:

Gun Park:

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Father's Day with Gitae Kim, his wife and daughter

The day began with the sun filtering through the curtain, partially illuminating the room. Gitae Kim was lying down, her hair still messy, but with that confident air even just woken up. He opened one eye slowly, strange the silence - normally his daughter would already be shouting "Daddy!" And jumping on the bed.

When he was about to get up, the door opened with a thud. His daughter, a little girl of about five years old, came in holding a handmade colorful card, while his wife appeared behind her with a breakfast tray.

- "Happy Father's Day, Daddy!" - shouted the little girl, climbing on the bed with such a radiant smile that even Gitae, the always serious man and full of pose, couldn't avoid a genuine smile.

He took the card and pretended to examine it as if it were a very expensive work of art.

- "Hmm... firm lines, interesting use of colors... clearly inherited my artistic talent," he said, inflating his chest, pulling a roll of his wife's eyes.

The tray was placed on his lap: toast, scrambled eggs and black coffee. The wife, even used to her husband's ego, smiled when she saw him experience and praise as if it were a five-star hotel banquet.

The daughter, excited, showed the gift she had prepared with her mother: a T-shirt with the phrase "Best Daddy in the World".

- "You're going to use it today!" - demanded the little one.

Gitae raised an eyebrow, looking at the piece as if it were a personal challenge.

- "Hmm... I don't usually wear something so... casual. But, since my princess asked..." He put on the T-shirt, making an exaggerated pose as if he were in a photo shoot. The girl laughed so much that she almost fell out of bed.

The rest of the day was a mixture of fun chaos and little moments of tenderness. They went for a walk in the park, where Gitae held his daughter's hand, but still found time to "compete" with other parents in children's games - bag race, tug-of-war... he took everything seriously, as if it were a world championship.

- "You didn't need to pull the tuge of war so much, love," commented the wife, laughing, as they returned home.

- "I just defended the honor of the family," he replied with a serious air, but with a slight smile on the corner of his lips.

At night, already at home, the daughter nestled on his lap on the couch. Gitae, who was usually proud of maintaining a cold and unbeatable image, caressed her hair with a calm and protective look.

- "You know, princess... being your father is my greatest victory."

The wife, hearing this, smiled softly. He could be competitive, proud and full of himself, but there, with them, he dropped all the armor.

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Father's Day with Jinrang, his wife and daughter

The morning sun shone brightly over Busan, illuminating the modest but cozy house where Jinrang lived with his wife and little daughter. The city was already waking up, but inside that home there was a rare peace, especially for someone like Jinrang, known in the streets as "The Wolf of Busan" - a hard, respected and feared man.

But there, in the heart of that home, he was just "Daddy".

⸻

In the bedroom, the little girl woke up excited, holding a gift carefully wrapped with a colored paper. She ran to her parents' room, knocking on the door with a radiant smile.

- "Daddy! Happy Father's Day!" - she shouted, almost exploding with joy.

Jinrang, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, with the simple T-shirt and baggy pants, looked at her with a gentle smile, which she rarely showed outside the house.

- "Good morning, my little one. What is this?" - he asked, taking the gift carefully.

His wife came in, smiling affectionately, bringing a tray with tea and some fruits for breakfast. She had a sweet and at the same time firm look, the silent force that kept the family together.

- "You did that at school, didn't you?" - she asked, looking at her daughter.

- "Yes! I did it with grandma and aunt!" - replied the girl, jumping on her father's lap.

Jinrang opened the gift slowly: it was a handmade drawing, colored with crayons, showing a smiling family with him in the center, holding his daughter and hugging his wife. At the bottom, in crooked letters, was written: "Best Daddy in the World".

He faced that drawing with a mixture of surprise and tenderness that few had ever seen.

- "Do you really think I'm the best, huh?" - she murmured, with a hoarse voice, almost emotional.

The wife smiled and sat next to them, wrapping her husband and daughter in a tight hug.

- "You are, Jin. And they know it."

⸻

Later, in the park, Jinrang was with his daughter and wife. While the little one ran to play, he watched attentively, always vigilant, the protective gaze never absent.

A group of children began to provoke his daughter, calling her "wolf's daughter" - an affectionate nickname he had given her because of her ferocity.

Before Jinrang could act, his wife held his arm gently.

- "Leave them. She's strong, just like her father."

Jinrang took a deep breath, controlling the beast that lived inside him. Then, he approached the children with a wide but firm smile.

- "If they hurt my daughter, they'll have to face me."

The children laughed, thinking it was a joke, and his daughter smiled, proud of her father.

At the end of the day, already at home, Jinrang sat on the couch with his daughter on his lap, telling a story of "wolves that protect his pack". The wife watched, enchanted by the scene - the man who dominated Busan there was just a loving father, a tireless protector.

- "Daddy, are you the strongest wolf in the world?" - asked the girl, looking into his eyes.

- "Yes, princess. And I'll protect you forever."

Jinrang smiled, shaking her small hand, feeling complete in that simple and perfect moment.

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Father's Day with Seongji Yuk, his wife and daughter

The sun was barely beginning to rise over the city, but inside Seongji Yuk's simple house there was a silent movement full of expectation. Today was Father's Day, and the little daughter was already awake, preparing a special surprise for her father.

She jumped from one side to the other, holding a box wrapped with colored ribbon and a card full of drawings - but, for her, the most important thing was the moment of being with her father.

⸻

In the living room, Seongji was sitting on the couch, looking at the horizon through the window with a calm but attentive face. He had that calm and protective way, typical of those who have faced many challenges and know the value of each family moment.

The wife entered, holding a tray with tea and some bread, smiling softly.

- "He's still a little tired, but he'll really like what you prepared." - she said, looking at her daughter.

The girl ran to her father, holding the box carefully, her eyes shining.

- "Daddy! Happy Father's Day! I did it for you!"

Seongji turned around, took the box and smiled lightly, touched by simplicity and love.

- "You always know how to surprise, little one."

She climbed on his lap, and with her tiny hands took his hand, starting to tell:

- "I love your six fingers, you know? They are different and special, like you."

Seongji laughed softly, looking at his hand. It was true - he had an tore finger, a peculiarity that always marked him, but that his daughter had turned into a source of pride and affection.

- "Six fingers... is six times more strength to protect you." - he said with a rare and genuine smile.

The wife approached, resting her head on his shoulder, forming a circle of love and calm.

⸻

During the day, they walked through the park. The daughter was excited, sometimes holding her father's hand, sometimes running to her mother, always cheerful and safe.

At one point, the girl stopped and, looking at his hand, repeated softly:

- "Six fingers, six hugs, six kisses... I love you so much, daddy."

Seongji took her in his lap and hugged her tightly, feeling the protection and love that only a true father can feel.

⸻

At night, already at home, the daughter fell asleep on her father's lap while he read a story of samurais, heroes and courage - values that he wanted to pass on to her.

He looked at his wife, who was smiling tired but happy, and thought that, despite everything, there was his greatest triumph: his family.

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Father's Day with Gun Park, his wife and daughter

The sun began to set over the city, throwing a golden glow through the windows of the house where Gun Park lived with his wife and little daughter. After an intense day, he finally had a moment of peace with his family, which rarely happened given his life full of battles and responsibilities.

In the living room, Gun's daughter, with her curious eyes and bright smile, waited anxiously to give her father a gift. She carefully held a colorful envelope she prepared at school, full of drawings and simple words: "Happy Father's Day, Daddy Warrior! I love you!".

- "Daddy, I did this for you!" - she said, running into her father's arms as soon as he entered the room.

Gun, with his normally serious face, sketched a rare smile. He bent down to hug his daughter, feeling his heart tighten with that pure demonstration of love.

- "You're my strength, little one." - he replied, with a firm voice, but full of affection.

The wife watched, with a quiet smile, feeling the warmth of that scene. She knew how much Gun dedicated himself to the family despite the external hardness.

Later, at dinner, the little girl asked with bright eyes:

- "Daddy, why do you always look so strong and angry?"

Gun looked at her, took her little hand and squeezed it gently.

- "Because I need to protect you and mom. You are my world."

The daughter then let out a sweet laugh and said:

- "I love you, dad. Even when you look like a monster, I know you're my hero."

Gun felt touched. Behind the ruthless warrior, there was a man who only wanted the best for his family.

When night came, while his daughter was sleeping on his lap, Gun looked at his wife and said with a light sigh:

- "It's worth it. Everything is worth it for them."

And at that moment, the "White Demon" was no longer just a feared fighter - he was a loving father, a dedicated husband and a complete man.

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Gitae Kim — The Unwavering Protector

In every gesture, the eternal conviction, Arms of steel, soul of fire and calm, In the home, the strength that life governs, In the embrace, the safe haven of the soul. Father’s Day, the honor that governs, In love, the most beautiful story that packs.

Jinrang — The Protective Wolf

At the serene dawn of Busan, A wolf watches over his pack, Firm arms, guardian heart, In the hug, the force that does not fail. His fingers tell battle stories, But it is in the sweet touch of the daughter that shines.

Seongji Yuk — The Silent Warrior

Six strong fingers, six times the love, In the calm of the father, the storm calms, In the silence of the gaze, the promise in bloom, Iron protection, the pulse of the soul. Small voice sings: “I love you, my lord”, And the warrior smiles, pure and without fear.

Gun Park — The White Demon, the Father

Between shadows and lights, a giant bends, A fierce heart that only tenderness knows, On the day when the world bends to the father, The monster surrenders to the love that warms. In the arms of the daughter, the fury bends, And the peace of the family, forever remains.

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Part 1 Part 2

“What do you say, wouldn’t it make for a nice evening?” your friend drones on while you stare vacantly at the papers in front of you. It’s been two days since your hospital visit, and you still haven’t managed to dig up anything substantial on your prospective patient. It’s as if someone deliberately wiped him past clean. The thought is driving you mad. You’re running on two hours of sleep. All you’ve got on him are tabloid headlines and the fact that a businessman named Charles Choi has taken credit for those crimes. Every murder he’s supposedly committed remains unresolved. It sparks an insatiable curiosity in you. You pick up your car keys again and again, remind yourself to behave, then gently set them back down.

“Y/N. Hey, are you even listening?” your friend raises her voice. You startle and turn to face her. She look at you in surprise for a moment, then blurt out “For God’s sake, what’s wrong with your eyes?” Her gaze lingers uncomfortably on your face, so you avert your eyes and fix her on something else.

“Don’t you dare tell me you spent all night researching that guy” she say, leaning back and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry… he’s a crime machine. I only found out by chance in the paper this morning.”

Your eyes go wide and you hiss in frustration.

“So what,” you snap with a bitter laugh, “you sent me to some guy you know nothing about?”

“I didn’t know, I swear” she raise her hands in surrender. “Look, you can back out anytime.”

“For God’s sake, this isn’t even a case you’re qualified to handle. It’s outside your field, and if you slip up and things go legal, you won’t stand a chance. He needs someone more professional. A psychiatrist.” you say. Guilt flashes across her face under the weight of your words, and she fall silent. You draw in a deep breath and murmur to yourself, “I thought I’d dealt with every killer thanks to you, now I’m about to handle one myself.”

You haven’t been able to shake these thoughts for two days. Of course, the only solid fact you have is that the patient you’re supposed to treat allegedly committed a run of the mill murder and laundered money. But standing in front of you is someone who uses his body and, more importantly, his mind as a weapon. He exudes an energy so different you’re not sure you can handle it.

When you sit down at that table today, you’re jittery. But it’s not just nerves: it’s fear implanted deep in your psyche. Before you entered that room, warnings about his danger had burrowed into the corners of your mind, whispering that you must stay alert for any attack. That’s why you feel so on edge. Your training taught you this much.

Yet the real test begins the moment you open the door and step inside. You’re still tense when you sit down, your body is afraid even if your mind isn’t ready to admit it. Then he lifts his head and meets your gaze, and your fear dissolves into plain apprehension. It’s strange. Even when you speak, you sense that if he has a hypnotic trance ability, he’s chosen not to use it on you. He prefers conversation. Maybe it unsettles you so much because you left that room physically and mentally unscathed.

According to Mr. Choi, every doctor who’s sat at that table suffers mental damage; none of them remember events clearly, and they recall that entire time as a blank. But you remember everything. Every detail is etched into your mind as if recorded for posterity: his facial features, the knife scar above his eyes, the blunt way he speaks, even the tiny wounds on his lip. Why didn’t he use that same technique on you? Why, unlike everyone else, did he allow you to leave with your memory intact? Perhaps you’re overthinking. Maybe it’s simply that you can’t imagine someone so adept at gestures and expressions being mentally ill. Even though you haven’t been part of his treatment, you’ve witnessed countless patients and mental disorders.

You don’t know how long you stayed over those files, or how many times you Googled “Park Jong Gun.” When you finally look up from the papers, it’s already three in the afternoon. You have to get ready to leave, but you’re bone‑tired.

Before you find your office, you stop in the kitchen to brew a bitter coffee, hoping it will wake you up. As you place the mug on the counter and head back, your friend emerges from the bathroom, towel wrapped around their head, phone in hand. The moment she see you, her lips part, and one hand goes back to pat down damp hair.

“Choi texted” she say, twisting her hair absently “He says thanks, and by the way, didn’t you give him your number? He asked whether you’d show up.”

“Oh, I completely forgot,” you say, rubbing your forehead.

Time is running late, so you dash through a quick shower, dress, and head out without another thought. Your friend is cooking, warning that you’ll pass out if you go hungry. She offer you a snack, but you plant a quick kiss on her cheek and slip out the door. The drive is agonizing. You feel like you’ll get sick from stress. You turn on the radio to calm down, but even your favorite band’s best song does nothing. You’re still on edge, still consumed by anxiety. A bitter taste lingers in your mouth, like mud. Your stomach knots in a way you can’t ignore and you regret not eating when you had the chance.

“I’m here to see Mr. Choi.” you say to one of the nuns at the entrance. “Is he in his office?”

“Oh yes,” she replies, setting down a tray, “Please, go right in. He’s expecting you.”

You smile and follow her gesture down the hallway, expecting to see patients in the corridors—but they’re all in their rooms. Passing a few doors, you hear screams that make you shiver, but you force yourself to stay calm. At last you reach the familiar door. You nod to the nun, who steps away. You knock and wait. When you hear a voice from inside, you slip in and greet Mr. Choi, who’s standing to welcome you.

“Dr. Y/N,” he says eagerly. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“Hello…” you reply with a faint smile. “I needed to do thorough research before coming. I apologize for the delay.”

“Oh no,” he says, eyes gleaming, “It’s your job. I should be the one apologizing for doubting you.”

“Then,” you say with a laugh, “May I?”

“Of course, please,” he says, motioning you toward the door with his left hand. His expensive watch catches your eye. You nod gratefully and step into the corridor with him. As you pass each corner, you realize you’ve already committed every twist and turn to memory—as if you’ve worked here for years and could navigate alone without his help.

The corridor feels icy compared to the waiting room. Your palms are soaked with sweat, and a cold dampness trickles down your back, soaking the back of your shirt. Unnoticed, you brush your forehead with the back of your hand and fix your gaze on the path ahead. When you arrive at his door, Director Choi says, “I’ll leave you here,” and walks away without looking back. Your hand finds the doorknob, and you hesitate should you turn it? You stand there, weighing your options, until a sudden surge of courage prompts you to push it open and slip inside.

The room is even colder than the corridor. He stands there exactly as you left him, hands folded in front.

“Welcome, Doctor.”

His head is bowed, yet he speaks as if he sees you standing there. It’s unnerving. You shiver. He even chuckles softly, as though this moment has been rehearsed.

“Are you cold?” he asks, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His hair, longer and slicked back since you last saw him, frames a face that never blinks. When he finally does blink, you notice how his lashes move as one unit in a fraction of a second.

“If you’re cold, we can warm up” he offers.

“You must be cold,” you reply with a smirk. “Since you asked.”

“I am cold” he says, deadpan.

His unexpected honesty throws you off. You want to think he’s mocking you, but his tone is sincere. The room is frigid, the corridor just as much. The chill of your shirt pressed against your skin sends waves through your body. He’s been trapped in this icy cell for days, yet you suspect it’s not the room that chills him. Just like his handsome face contrasts with his crimes.

“I requested that they remove the handcuffs,” you say, trying to change the subject. But a sharp pang stabs at you. Are you really here to work with a killer? “Looks like my request was denied.”

“Oh,” he laughs, showing you the scars on his lips, “Handcuffs, you say? How did I earn this trust?”

“There’s no trust here,” you say, denying it outright. “I’m simply trying to build a bridge for effective communication.”

“But they don’t agree with you, Doctor,” he says, grinning as he shakes his head. “They won’t even take me to the bathroom. If you want them to do anything for you next time, ask for the litter box. Someone’s bound to soil this place.”

“Then,” you say, forcing yourself to ignore the pain in your chest, “they don’t feed you either, right?”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” he replies, rolling his tongue, “but the service here is zero.”

His words strike your conscience. You force your face to remain impassive. There’s a killer in front of you but your mind is consumed by the staff’s cruelty.

“Anyway,” you say, pulling a couple of files from your briefcase, “let’s begin.”

“Ah yes,” he says, leaning forward, “but tell me Doctor, does any of this feel right to you? Look at me.. am I anything like them?”

You pause and wait, watching his next move. He leans in as far as the handcuffs allow, adrenaline and stress ratcheting up your heartbeat until you hear it pounding in your ears.

“Do you think” he murmurs, tapping his handcuffs against his head, “this place is more complicated than all those pictures you’ll show me?”

He fixes his gaze on you, inches from your face. You can feel every contour of your skin under his stare.

“You’re beautiful.”

His words catch you off guard. Your eyes widen, your lips part. You watch him bite his lip as if tasting the words he just spoke.

“If you let me kiss you now,” he whispers, tilting your chin toward his lips, voice thick with desire, “I’d lock these bars myself, and leave the key between your fingers… who knows?”

There’s barely three and a half centimeters between you. You feel his warm breath on your lips like an alarm in your head. You don’t move, God knows why. If he’d given you a chance to step back, you might have left your heart on that table and run. His lips so close, you can’t think straight. He inches closer still.

You steel yourself, but the ringing in your ears grows louder, and he asks, “How can you be so beautiful?”

You’re frozen. Completely frozen. You’re rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. The session has gone off course, and you haven’t even touched your files. Your thoughts aren’t about therapy anymore. They’re about the ringing in your ears, the distance between you and his scarred chest, the warmth of his lips. You’re thinking of the red in his lashes instead of the blood that once dried there, of the perfect arch of his brows instead of the cut beneath them. You’re focused on the veins swelling from his wrists rather than the cuffs that caused them.

You don’t know what happens next. Summoning the last ounce of courage you have left, you pull back and furrow your brow. He watches you, his half smile deepening.

You leap to your feet so fast the chair scrapes across the floor, echoing through the empty room. You don’t break eye contact as you stand. You spin and fling the door open, every movement under his intense scrutiny, then rush into the corridor without losing your composure.

“Could someone come in here, please?” your voice slices through the silent hallway like a bullet. It’s not long before a guard appears, baton in hand, sprinting from the corridor’s end, breathless as he reaches you.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Y/N?” he pants.

“Oh..” you say, forcing a smile to ease his concern “I just need one thing.”

“I’m listening, ma’am,” he says, catching his breath.

“I’d like the key to that patient’s handcuffs,” you say, smiling faintly. “I assume you have it.”

“But Ms. Y/N,” he replies, suspicion and worry etched on his face, “He’s a convict. I don’t have the authority for that.”

“It’s part of his treatment,” you say, still smiling. “Before I leave, I’ll speak with Mr. Choi. Don’t worry, I won’t put you in a bind.”

He hesitates, studying you with doubt. Then he exhales deeply and, from the keyring at his belt, produces a small key and hands it over reluctantly.

“Here you go” he says.

You take it with a quiet “Thank you” and watch him disappear down the corridor. Then you slip back into the room and meet the man’s eyes again, he’s sitting exactly where you left him. He watches you, trying to anticipate your next move, glancing often at the door behind you. He must suspect you called someone. You step forward closer and closer until you’re standing at his feet, just as you did when you brought him water days ago. He watches, curious, as you crouch beside him.You place your hand gently on his handcuffs, and your nerves tingle from the contact. It’s as if his energy pulses through you, sending a shock to your brain. Without hesitation, you insert the key into the lock and turn it. The cuffs fall open with a sharp click, freeing his hands with a satisfying finality.

He never takes his eyes off you he follows every move, every twitch of your face. When you step back, gathering your files, you notice the bruises where the cuffs once bit into his wrists.

~Although he is shown as the bad guy working under Charles Choi, he is the one who has prevented all the bad outcomes so far.

~ He protected Vasco from bullies.

~ When the gun did not accept Samuel, he took Goo Samuel with him

~ He protected everyone from that monster in the hospital.

~ protected daniel from kitae

~ He protected everyone from Paecheon Jo when everyone was exhausted.

~ And the cutest and funniest person 🫰🏻💖

"Keep my man's name out of your f***ing mouth! "

Goo defending Gun throughout the chapter.

Everyday I find new techniques on how to hide the hands.

I am so sorry it took so long to get your request. I hope you like it. I try my best.

Requested by @vynnyll

Summary: 👆

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