Eighteen’s Bed

Chapter 26.1

"Lord, bless us and these gifts which we are about to receive from Your bounty, through Christ our Lord."

Amen.

A quiet and clear voice settled over the dining table, as gently as a thin tablecloth resting atop the wooden surface. At this table, I was the only one who wasn’t Catholic. Clumsily clasping my hands together, I stared blankly at the empty plate before me.

Unbeliever Kang Jun. Immoral Kang Jun. But there was one more thing this heretic could do—secretly watching those who prayed.

The most passionate ones were Go Yohan’s mother and his older brother, Go Yosep. Looking at them now, it was easy to tell that the eldest took after their mother. They shared the same facial features and mannerisms. The next most devoted was Gorosa, though she seemed more like she was pretending to be passionate rather than actually feeling it.

I shifted my gaze toward the center of the table. Then, in an instant, I snapped my eyes back to my plate. Cold sweat trickled down my neck.

I had made eye contact with Go Yohan’s father.

"……."

Fuck. Why the hell isn’t the Jesus freak praying?

I tightened my clasped hands to keep up the act. Even though our eye contact had lasted only a split second, the image of Go Yohan’s father was burned into my mind, stretching out into eternity. His relaxed posture as he leaned back in his chair, the slight tilt of his head, the fingers tapping lightly on the table, the faintly unbuttoned black shirt—his pale eyes and the overbearing arrogance in his gaze.

'But why the hell was he looking at me?'

It was strange—curious, even. And curiosity, like an inflating balloon, swelled rapidly in my chest. But though my curiosity was vast, my cowardice was greater. I couldn’t bring myself to look back at him.

The tension in my throat grew sharp like the tip of a spire, only to suddenly deflate with a pop. A large yawn shattered my nerves.

That’s when I realized.

I wasn’t the only one in this household with a questionable faith.

"Haaahm……"

The familiar presence made me raise my head slightly. Then, cautiously, I glanced in the opposite direction.

I should’ve expected it, and yet a different kind of tension gripped me. The culprit behind the explosion—the one casually picking up food from his plate—was none other than Go Yohan.

"Ah, fuck… I’m starving."

I swear, he didn’t feel the slightest guilt about what he was doing. That had to be it. Otherwise, the notorious liar—who was always hypersensitive to the word "father"—would never dare commit such blasphemy so brazenly.

"Hey, what’s up with you?"

A bad feeling crawled up my spine. The sense that something was about to go terribly wrong. I nudged Go Yohan and asked, but the response didn’t come from him.

"Shouldn’t I be asking you that?"

The strange man sitting at the center of his devout family, the one who had imposed religion upon them but didn’t even pray himself. His voice was detached, indifferent—draining the warmth from the room.

"……"

Why?

My fingertips grazed the corner of the table as I hesitantly turned my head. The scene unfolded in a slow, stretched-out panorama—the deeply engrossed Go Yosep, the unreadable Gorosa staring at the far end of the table, and Go Yohan’s mother, who was still in prayer…

Yet something was off.

Gorosa had been praying. But now she wasn’t.

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