The backstage hallway smelled like old varnish and burned-out lights. The world beyond the stage roared with a thousand conversations—the aftertaste of an unfinished concert—but back here, only the hum of the exit signs remained. Ji-hoon leaned his head against the cold cement wall, letting the quiet crawl over him.
He was waiting.
Not because he wanted to. Because he had to.
It had taken almost three weeks of whispered plans, strange messages, and fake meetups to make this happen. Ji-won had warned him. Even Joon-won, usually the one reckless enough to say what's the worst that could happen?, had looked at him grimly this time.
Don't trust anyone back there, Ji-hoon. Not even the ones who seem to be on your side.
But Ji-hoon knew something now.
Do-yoon wasn't just a technician.
And tonight, Do-yoon had something he was finally ready to say.
A creak echoed from the far end of the hallway. Ji-hoon's head turned sharply, even though he couldn't see it. His hand brushed the scarred leather strap of his cane.
Steps.
Light ones. Careful.
Not Do-yoon.
Not yet.
Ji-hoon pulled his jacket tighter around himself and waited.
He counted in his head. The way a pianist counts time without even realizing it:
1 and 2 and 3 and—
The footsteps passed. Someone else. Some crew member or exhausted violinist looking for a smoke.
He exhaled slowly. Let the minutes pile up.
Finally—
Another sound.
But this time, it was different.
There was a hesitation in the steps. A silence between them. Someone moving through the shadows but wanting to be heard—just barely.
Ji-hoon turned his head slightly.
"You're late," Ji-hoon said quietly.
A chuckle. Soft, barely a breath. "And you're always early, hyung."
Do-yoon.
Finally.
Ji-hoon listened as Do-yoon walked closer, the faint smell of solder and steel following him. It was strange—how a scent like that could be comforting. Like the smell of an old music room. Like something real.
Do-yoon stopped about an arm's length away. Ji-hoon could hear the shifting of his jacket, the way he rolled his shoulders nervously.
"You're sure you weren't followed?" Ji-hoon asked.
Do-yoon laughed again, but there was no humor in it this time. "No one cares enough to follow a stage tech, hyung. I'm invisible. That's why you picked me, right?"
"Not invisible to me."
A pause. A breathless second where neither of them spoke.
Then, in a voice so low Ji-hoon had to strain to catch it:
"I saw something," Do-yoon said.
"And... I think I understand now. What they did. What they're still doing."
Ji-hoon stayed still, hardly daring to move.
The hallway seemed to shrink around them.
Do-yoon shuffled closer and whispered, "But you need to know... it's bigger than you think. It's not just about your mom. It's not just about Si-wan."
Ji-hoon's hands tightened around the cane, feeling the worn grooves in the wood.
"Tell me everything," Ji-hoon said.
Do-yoon leaned in until Ji-hoon could feel the brush of his breath against his ear.
"There's a file," he whispered. "A recording. From the night of the fire. From the conservatory."
Ji-hoon felt his heart skip a beat.
Do-yoon kept going, rapid, scared, like the words might disappear if he didn't spit them out fast enough.
"I found it by accident. It's buried deep, not in any normal database. You have to know exactly what to look for. It's... it's bad, hyung. It's worse than we thought."
Ji-hoon licked his lips. "What's on it?"
Do-yoon hesitated.
"You won't believe me if I say it."
"Say it anyway."
There was another long pause. Then:
"They didn't just kill her." Do-yoon's voice cracked. "They used her."
Ji-hoon's body went cold.
"Used her how?"
Do-yoon shifted again, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the linoleum.
"She was supposed to be the perfect scandal. They wanted a fall guy. Someone to pin it all on when things got too dangerous. A 'tragic' figure. They set the fire... but she wasn't supposed to die. Only be ruined."
Ji-hoon's breath hitched in his throat.
"They thought they could control her. They couldn't. She fought back. She tried to expose them. That's why... that's why she had to die."
The hallway buzzed faintly with the sound of the world still moving on without them.
Ji-hoon pressed his fingers hard against the bridge of his nose. His mind raced, pulling apart every memory, every rumor, every unfinished sentence from the past twelve years.
"And Si-wan?" Ji-hoon asked finally. His voice was hoarse.
Do-yoon hesitated again, then said:
"Si-wan was the insurance policy. If your mother didn't go quietly... Si-wan was supposed to make sure the story they wanted was the only story anyone would ever believe."
A silence so deep it roared between them.
Ji-hoon could feel his pulse pounding in his ears.
"I have the file," Do-yoon said softly. "But it's not just audio, hyung. There's video."
Ji-hoon's chest tightened painfully.
"Why are you telling me this now?" Ji-hoon asked.
Do-yoon's voice cracked again. "Because they're getting desperate. Because Si-wan's not in control anymore either. Someone else is pulling the strings now. Someone worse."
Ji-hoon swallowed hard.
"And because..." Do-yoon's voice dropped to a near-whimper, "...because I should have told you years ago. When I first found out."
He sounded so young. So scared. Like the boy he must have been when all this first happened.
Ji-hoon reached out blindly and found Do-yoon's shoulder. Gripped it hard.
"You're telling me now," Ji-hoon said. "That's what matters."
Another beat of silence.
"You're not angry?" Do-yoon asked quietly.
"I'm furious," Ji-hoon said. His voice was flat and cold and shaking. "But not at you."
Do-yoon let out a shaky laugh that turned almost immediately into a sob. He scrubbed his hands over his face.
"I'll get you the file," he said. "But you have to promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't trust anyone. Not even Joon-won. Not even Hye-jin. Don't trust anyone but yourself."
Ji-hoon's hands clenched into fists.
Not even Hye-jin.
The thought made his stomach turn violently. He pushed it down.
"I'll be careful," Ji-hoon said.
"No, hyung," Do-yoon said fiercely. "You have to be more than careful. You have to be ruthless."
Another step closer.
Do-yoon's voice, barely more than a shiver now:
"They're planning something. I don't know what, but it's soon. Really soon."
Ji-hoon's throat closed up.
"How soon?"
"Days. Maybe hours."
Ji-hoon's mind raced. The next recital. The final competition round. The PR interviews.
Everything lined up too perfectly. A stage. A public fall. Just like before.
They weren't going to just destroy his reputation. They were going to end him.
He could feel it in his bones.
"Where do we meet?" Ji-hoon asked. "For the file."
Do-yoon shifted again.
"There's an old practice room in the west wing of the conservatory. Room 114. No one uses it anymore. Tomorrow night. Midnight."
Ji-hoon nodded slowly. "I'll be there."
"And hyung?"
"Yeah?"
"If I don't show..." Do-yoon's voice trembled, "you have to leave. Don't wait for me."
Ji-hoon's heart thudded painfully.
"You're not dying," he said roughly.
"I'm not planning to," Do-yoon said, with a sad half-laugh. "But plans don't mean much these days."
The sound of the main doors slamming open at the far end of the hall jolted them both.
Shouts. Footsteps.
Ji-hoon tensed.
Do-yoon backed away fast, melting into the shadows.
"Tomorrow," he hissed.
And then he was gone.
Ji-hoon stood frozen for a heartbeat longer, letting the noise wash over him.
Then he turned, shoulders square, heart hammering like a funeral drum, and walked toward the noise, toward the light, toward whatever hell was waiting for him next.
But this time, he wasn't walking blind.
The sound swallowed him the second he stepped into the main corridor — roaring applause, laughter, the creaking of chairs dragged carelessly across marble. Bright white lights scorched the air overhead, flickering slightly, buzzing like insects trapped in glass.
Ji-hoon adjusted his dark glasses and moved forward. Every step felt heavier, as if he were walking into a current, some invisible tide pulling him backward.
Joon-won found him near the elevators.
"Hey, where were you?" his manager hissed under his breath, tugging Ji-hoon's sleeve like a child desperate not to be noticed. "You missed the photo call. The reporters are getting antsy."
Ji-hoon tilted his head slightly, pretending confusion, letting his cane tap lazily against the floor.
"I got lost," he said blandly.
Joon-won muttered a string of curses too fast and low for Ji-hoon to catch.
"Just stick close," Joon-won said, voice tighter now. "Please, Ji-hoon. Tonight's important."
Important.
The word curled in Ji-hoon's gut like smoke.
He let himself be guided into the elevator, surrounded by too much noise, too many bodies. Joon-won's hand pressed between his shoulder blades, steering him like a puppet.
As the elevator doors slid shut, Ji-hoon caught it—
—just a trace.
A sharp, chemical scent.
Expensive. Familiar.
His heart stuttered.
Cologne.
Not Si-wan's usual.
Something harsher, colder.
Ji-hoon tilted his head subtly, inhaling as deeply as he dared.
Someone else was in the elevator. Someone standing far too still.
The doors dinged open. Joon-won hustled him out without noticing.
But Ji-hoon noticed.
Everything.
Later, backstage before the staged "interview," Ji-hoon found a moment alone behind the heavy curtains. The building's structure whispered around him — old pipes, ticking lights, humming wires.
He pressed his palm against the cold cement wall.
Focus.
If Do-yoon was right, they were planning something.
It wouldn't be a public scandal.
It would be a controlled demolition.
Ji-hoon turned slowly toward the faint shuffle of footsteps behind him.
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
Whoever it was... stopped.
Breathing. Watching.
Ji-hoon let the silence stretch unbearably thin.
Then, quietly:
"I know you're there."
The figure shifted. Breath hitched. Then a familiar voice, low and careful:
"It's just me."
Hye-jin.
Ji-hoon relaxed a fraction but didn't turn around.
"You shouldn't be back here," he said.
"I could say the same to you."
Her shoes clicked closer, carefully.
"I'm worried about you," she said.
Ji-hoon smiled without warmth. "Everyone seems to be worried lately."
A silence. He could feel her reaching for him without actually moving.
"I heard something," she said. Her voice dropped lower. "In the green room. Si-wan's assistant talking to... someone else."
Ji-hoon stilled.
"What did you hear?"
Hye-jin hesitated so long Ji-hoon thought she might lie instead.
"They said... that tonight's performance would be your last."
Ji-hoon's heart twisted violently in his chest.
Last.
"And they weren't talking about your career."
The words hung there, cold and brutal.
Ji-hoon nodded slowly. "I figured."
Hye-jin stepped even closer. He could feel the static charge of her presence.
"You have to get out," she whispered. "Don't perform tonight. Just walk out. Please, Ji-hoon."
He shook his head, smiling faintly.
"They'd win."
"Ji-hoon—"
"They already think they've killed me once," he said quietly. "I'm not giving them the satisfaction of watching me run."
Hye-jin's breath hitched like she might cry, but she swallowed it down.
"You stubborn idiot," she whispered fiercely. "You're going to die on that stage."
"I'll die standing," he said simply.
Another silence. Hye-jin's fingers brushed his sleeve — so light he almost didn't feel it.
"If you need me," she said, voice breaking, "I'm still here."
Ji-hoon's chest tightened painfully.
"I know," he whispered.
He listened to her steps retreating into the darkness.
And then he was alone again.
The next few hours blurred.
Joon-won shouting directions. Staff members scrambling. Si-wan smiling too widely in interviews, his words sliding off his tongue like oil.
Ji-hoon smiled too, practiced and hollow.
He played the game.
All the while, his mind screamed:
Midnight. Room 114. Don't die before then.
By the time he was led onto the practice stage — a "warm-up session" for the press — Ji-hoon could barely hear the applause.
His fingers hovered above the piano keys.
He hesitated just a second too long.
He felt it.
The click of a camera lens.
The pause of breath in the room.
They were watching.
Every tiny mistake. Every flicker of doubt.
They wanted him to crumble.
Ji-hoon lowered his hands.
He didn't play.
He stood up, straightened his jacket, and said in a perfectly calm voice:
"Not tonight."
The silence shattered behind him as he walked offstage, ignoring Joon-won's shouted protests.
Someone tried to grab his arm —
—a sharp fingernail scraping against his wrist.
Ji-hoon jerked away.
A familiar voice hissed, low and furious:
"You're ruining everything."
Si-wan.
Ji-hoon smiled thinly.
"I know."
He didn't stop walking.
Midnight was coming.
And Ji-hoon had a meeting with the truth.