Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 202: The Same Impossible Dream

K Country — Moon 🌙

The room is dim, wrapped in shadows that seem to breathe with the night.

Amber wood pheromones drift through the air—subtle, never overwhelming. A quiet reminder of who sits here, alone in the half-dark. The scent clings to the curtains, the cushions, the very walls, as if the room itself has absorbed him over years of solitude.

Moon sits on the couch beside the glass wall overlooking the garden. His knees are drawn up, his arms loose around them, his body folded in on itself—as if trying to take up less space.

His gaze is fixed on the world beyond the window—the flowers swaying in the warm night air, the trees whispering to one another, the white blooms glowing softly in the silver light.

White jasmine—soaked in moonlight, trembling in the breeze.

Like Zyren’s smile. Like his eyes. Like the silver hair that caught the light and held it—sothing fragile, sothing worth rembering.

Moon’s lips part. A whisper slips free—barely audible, ant for no one but the night.

"I miss you, Zyren."

The words linger in the air, fragile as the petals outside... then fade, swallowed by the silence.

A knock.

The door opens.

Milan Arden steps inside—silver threading through his dark hair, his features softened by age and lined with quiet worry.

His gaze finds his son imdiately, taking in the slumped posture, the way Moon clutches the cushion to his chest like a shield, the distant look in his blue eyes that speaks of sowhere far away.

He’s lost again, Milan thinks.

Every ti he cos back from Qi Country, it’s the sa. A little more broken. A little more empty.

He shakes his head, helpless, and closes the door behind him.

His footsteps are soft against the carpet as he crosses the room and settles beside his son. His hand cos to rest on Moon’s shoulder—a gentle pressure, an anchor, a quiet reminder that he’s not alone.

"Son," he says softly. "You didn’t tell us you were coming back."

Moon’s eyes don’t leave the garden. They remain fixed on the white jasmine trembling in the breeze, on the way the moonlight gathers along its petals and makes them glow.

"I finished my shoot," he says quietly. "So I ca back."

Milan draws in a slow breath, asuring his words, weighing what to say.

"Did you see him?"

Moon goes still.

The silence stretches between them—thin, fragile, like glass about to break.

Then he nods.

Once.

Barely.

Milan’s expression shifts—a flicker of anger, of worry, of the helpless love of a parent watching their child walk into the sa fire again and again.

"Moon." His voice is firr now, edged with restrained frustration. "Son... you promised ."

A beat.

"You said you wouldn’t see him again. No matter what. That you were going to Qi Country only for work—not for Zyren."

His gaze lingers on Moon’s face, on the absence of everything—the light, the ease, the quiet happiness that should have been there.

"You said you’d co back smiling."

A pause.

Softer now—

"Not like this." His voice drops.

"You broke your promise."

Moon doesn’t answer. His gaze remains fixed on the window—on the flowers, on the night.

Milan’s voice softens, the anger draining away, leaving only quiet sorrow.

"Son... we’re your parents. We care about you."

A pause.

"Your father has been trying to find soone suitable for you. Soone you could accept. Soone you could build a life with."

His throat tightens slightly. "So he could see his grandchild..." The words trail off. He doesn’t finish.

Another pause.

"But you’re still holding on to the sa thing. The sa person."

Softer—

"The sa impossible dream."

Moon’s voice cuts through the silence—low, steady.

"I didn’t break my promise."

Milan blinks, caught off guard. "What do you an?"

Moon turns his head and looks at him. His blue eyes are steady, unflinching—holding sothing that could be defiance... or sothing quieter.

"This ti," he says softly, "he ca to ."

A pause.

"I didn’t go to him."

Milan goes still.

Moon’s gaze drifts back to the window—to the jasmine, to the moonlight.

"At first, I thought he was playing so kind of ga. Pretending. Using for sothing."

A pause.

"But then I realized... he’s changed."

His voice softens.

"He’s not the sa person anymore."

A faint smile touches Moon’s lips—small, fragile, but real. It softens the sharp edges of his face, making him look younger, almost like he used to.

"I’m not sad, Dad."

Milan stills.

It’s the first ti his son has returned from Qi Country with a smile. The first ti he hasn’t folded into silence, into shadows—hasn’t shut himself away for days, refusing to eat, refusing to speak.

His hand reaches for Moon’s, holding it gently. A hopeful smile begins to form—tentative, careful, like sothing fragile waking after a long winter.

"I’m so happy for you," he says softly, squeezing Moon’s fingers.

"Did you two... make things right?"

Moon nods slowly, thoughtful.

"Not completely. But... we spent ti together."

A faint smile touches his lips.

"Like when we were little."

A soft laugh escapes him—warm, almost surprised. "He took to a little craft shop. We made bracelets for each other."

His eyes catch the light, shining faintly.

"We even argued over a single bead."

Another quiet laugh.

"The staff called us a bittersweet couple."

Milan smiles—but he sees it. The shine in his son’s eyes. The tears he’s holding back while clinging to monts that are already slipping away.

He says nothing.

He only reaches out and pats Moon’s head gently, the sa way he did when Moon was small and needed comfort he didn’t know how to ask for.

"I’m surprised," Milan says softly. "Zyren has changed that much?"

Moon nods, his smile lingering.

"Completely different. Kinder... softer. A little childish."

A pause.

"And a foodie."

Milan lets out a quiet laugh, startled. "A foodie? Zyren? That’s hard to believe."

Moon’s smile doesn’t fade.

"I didn’t believe it either." His gaze drifts, distant again. "But it’s true. He loves eating... especially sweets."

His gaze returns to the garden—to the white jasmine glowing in the moonlight—and his voice softens.

"Dad."

A pause.

"After he grew up... Zyren beca even more beautiful."

Another pause.

"More adorable."

A breath, quieter this ti.

"I think I fell for him even harder."

Milan’s voice is gentle, careful. "Did you confess?"

Moon doesn’t answer right away.

The silence stretches—filled with the soft rustle of leaves, the distant hum of the city.

Then—

"Yes."

"Then what did he say?"

Moon’s eyes remain on the flowers.

"He rejected ."

Milan stills. His smile falters, then disappears.

"He’s in love with soone else," Moon adds quietly.

A pause.

"A Beta."

Milan stares at his son. How is he so calm? How is he still smiling? How can he say he isn’t sad?

"Son..." His voice is careful, almost cautious. "How can you be happy?"

Moon turns to look at him.

His eyes are wet—bright with tears he refuses to let fall—but his smile is real.

"I’m happy," he says quietly, "because I got to spend ti with him."

A pause.

"Because he made a bracelet."

Another pause.

"Because he stayed with in the hospital... fed soup like it mattered."

His voice softens, dropping lower.

"And because he promised sothing."

Milan’s brow furrows. "What did he promise?"

Moon holds his father’s gaze, steady and unshaken.

"That if his lover ever leaves him... he’ll co back to ."

A breath.

"No matter when."

"No matter where."

Milan’s chest tightens.

He knows that look in his son’s eyes— the quiet stubbornness, the unwavering devotion, the kind of love that waits... even when it shouldn’t.

"Moon... son." Milan’s voice softens, almost pleading. "Please don’t waste your life waiting for sothing that might never happen."

"I’m not wasting anything." Moon’s voice is quiet—but firm.

He doesn’t look away.

"I love him."

A breath.

"I can wait."

Another—steadier this ti.

"I’ll always wait."

Milan exhales slowly and stands, his hand coming to rest on Moon’s head one last ti.

"Your father has been trying to arrange a blind date," he says gently. "His friend’s daughter. She’s an actress. Beautiful. I think you’d get along."

He hesitates, searching for the right words—and failing.

"Please, Moon..."

His voice lowers.

"Don’t hurt yourself like this. Waiting for soone who may never co..."

The sentence fades before it can finish.

Then, softer—

"It hurts us too."

A pause.

"It’s ti to move on."

He turns to leave.

Moon doesn’t move.

His blue gaze stays fixed on nothing—burning, unyielding. "No one can take his place." His voice is quiet, but it fills the room, settling into the walls, into the shadows.

"I promised him."

A breath.

"I’ll wait."

Milan stops. "Moon—"

"Please... leave alone."

Milan stops.

He looks at his son—at the rigid line of his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw, the tears he refuses to let fall.

For a mont, he says nothing.

Then he opens the door and walks out—leaving his son alone with the moonlight, the jasmine... and the ghost of soone who isn’t there.