The world had shifted under Ji-hoon's feet, a violent tremor that threatened to swallow him whole. Every step he took felt heavier, like the earth beneath him was caving in. His thoughts raced, a flood of dark possibilities washing over him as he tried to grasp any semblance of control. But there was none to be found.
The article—his mother's death laid bare for the world to see—had set everything in motion. The quiet of his existence, the careful concealment of his darkest memories, had been shattered by the persistent hands of Woo-jin, the relentless journalist who had uncovered his most painful truths.
Ji-hoon couldn't escape the haunting images of the past that now swirled in his mind. He couldn't stop replaying that final moment when his mother had been ripped from him, the anguished scream echoing in his ears, the rush of footsteps, the sound of the piano lid slamming shut, the final note that had lingered in the air like a ghost.
The weight of the truth felt unbearable, like a chain around his neck pulling him further into the abyss. And with it, came the paranoia—the gnawing, all-consuming fear that no one could be trusted. Everyone was a potential threat.
The phone in his hand buzzed again, the vibration jolting him from his spiraling thoughts. It was another message from Joon-won, his best friend, who had been trying to reach him all day.
"Ji-hoon, are you okay? Where are you? This is getting out of hand. People are already talking, and I don't think you should be alone right now. I'm coming over."
The words were a lifeline, but even they felt like a trap. Ji-hoon stared at the screen, his heart racing. He didn't want to be alone. He needed Joon-won's presence, the one person who might understand the gravity of what he was facing. But at the same time, the thought of anyone getting too close—the very people he had spent years pushing away—felt suffocating. What if Joon-won wasn't who he seemed to be? What if there were more layers to him, like there were to everyone else?
The paranoia gnawed at him, making it impossible to think straight. The night was creeping closer, and with it came the pressure of a million unsaid things. The truth was spreading like wildfire, and he was helpless to stop it.
He stood up from the bench, his legs unsteady, and began to pace. The city around him felt like it was closing in, the lights of passing cars blurring into streaks of color that felt unnatural, as though the world itself had become a distorted reflection of reality.
He could hear the whispers. Everywhere. Behind him, in the alleyways, inside the shops. They were talking about him. They had always been talking about him, but now it was louder. It was impossible to ignore. He could feel their eyes on him, could feel the weight of their judgment pressing down on his shoulders.
The phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Joon-won.
It was a news notification. He didn't want to look, but he couldn't stop himself. His eyes fell on the headline:
"Exclusive: The Blind Pianist's Tragic Past—A Family's Dark Secret Revealed"
His blood ran cold as he clicked the link. The article was worse than the first. It was sensational, filled with distorted facts, wild speculation, and no regard for the truth. There were mentions of his mother's death being connected to some unsolved conspiracy, hints at his involvement in something larger than he could understand, and the insinuation that he had played a role in her murder. The final paragraph of the article was particularly damning:
"While Ji-hoon remains silent about the specifics of his mother's death, it is clear that he is hiding something. Is this tragic tale of a blind pianist truly as innocent as it seems?"
The walls around him felt like they were closing in faster now. This wasn't just a story anymore. This was an assault. An attack on his character, his family, his entire existence. It was the beginning of something much darker, and Ji-hoon didn't know how much longer he could keep up the façade of calm.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and took a deep breath. He needed to clear his head. Needed to think. His footsteps carried him through the darkened streets, his mind racing with a million thoughts. Every corner he turned, he felt like he was being watched. Every glance from a stranger made his skin crawl. The paranoia was suffocating.
He thought of Hye-jin, the only person who had ever truly understood him. She was the one person who had seen past the blindfold of his grief and the walls he'd built around himself. But now, he couldn't even trust himself to face her. What if she, too, was in on this? What if everyone around him had known more than they were letting on?
No. He couldn't think that way. It would tear him apart.
He stopped abruptly in front of a small café, the warm light spilling out through the windows, casting long shadows onto the pavement. The place was quiet, the only sounds coming from the occasional clink of a coffee cup and hushed conversations. He stood there for a long moment, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe, staring inside. He didn't know why he was drawn to it. Maybe it was the normalcy of the place, the feeling that, for just a moment, he could escape the chaos and feel like a human being again.
But there was no escaping it. Not anymore.
His phone buzzed once more, and this time, Ji-hoon hesitated before answering. It was a call. He didn't recognize the number.
Against his better judgment, he answered.
"Hello?"
A brief silence followed before a voice—low, tense—spoke. "Ji-hoon."
His heart skipped a beat at the sound of that voice. It was unmistakable.
Si-wan.
His stomach twisted in a knot. How much had Si-wan known? How much had he been orchestrating behind the scenes? Was this all part of his plan? The realization settled in like a heavy stone in Ji-hoon's chest.
"Do you know what's happening right now?" Si-wan's voice was cold, calculating. "The world is watching you. And I'm afraid you don't have much time left."
Ji-hoon's breath hitched. The world was watching. The game had begun.
"You've made a mistake," Ji-hoon muttered, his voice shaking with the weight of his own fear. "This… this isn't what you think it is."
Si-wan's laugh echoed through the phone, devoid of any warmth. "I think you're in deeper than you realize, Ji-hoon. And you're not going to escape this time."
The line went dead.
Ji-hoon stood there, his hands trembling, as the world around him continued to move.
Ji-hoon's pulse hammered in his ears, the silence that followed Si-wan's call suffocating in its heaviness. His fingers tightened around the phone, as if he could somehow crush the voice that still lingered in his head. What did Si-wan mean by that? Was this some sort of game? Or had the malicious force behind the scenes been much closer than he'd realized? The uncertainty gnawed at him, and the anxiety twisted his gut tighter than ever before.
He looked around, the streetlights casting long, almost haunting shadows across the quiet alley. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, as if the air itself had grown thick with fear. He took a step forward, the world around him feeling too loud and too silent at the same time. His senses were overwhelmed—the distant hum of traffic, the faint chirping of night creatures, the soft rustling of wind through trees. It all felt like an orchestra of chaos, and Ji-hoon couldn't quite find his place in the symphony. He was both a participant and a spectator, and neither role felt natural.
The conversation with Si-wan still echoed in his mind. It had been cryptic, as if Si-wan were trying to play with him, twist his mind further into knots. But there was more to it. That line—the world is watching you—sank into Ji-hoon's thoughts, a cold dagger lodged deep. He had always been aware of the scrutiny that came with being who he was, with his blindness, with his history. But now? Now, everything felt different. Now, everything had been turned inside out, and there was no escaping the truth of it.
The way Si-wan had spoken to him was not a mere taunt—it was a warning. And Ji-hoon wasn't sure if it was meant to frighten him into submission or to mock him for being the only one still unaware of the game being played.
But there was no denying it—he was in the middle of something much larger than he had ever realized. The investigation into his mother's death, the twisted relationship with Si-wan, the dark secret that seemed to follow him like a shadow—everything was unraveling before his very eyes. And the more he tried to hold on to what little sanity he had left, the more it seemed like everything was slipping through his fingers.
His hand still clenched the phone, and for a moment, he considered throwing it, just letting it crash to the ground and shatter into a thousand pieces. It would be easier that way—if he could silence everything with one quick movement. But that wouldn't solve anything. If anything, it would just make him feel more helpless.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath and trying to calm the storm inside him. The city around him felt distant and close all at once, as if the very ground he stood on was shifting beneath him. He could hear his own heartbeat, the thudding rhythm syncing with the erratic thoughts that bounced around his mind. Where was Joon-won? What did he think of all this? Could he be trusted? Ji-hoon wanted to believe in his friend, but in a world where trust had become as fragile as glass, he wasn't sure who to trust anymore.
The idea of confronting Si-wan felt impossible. Every time he had gotten close, every time he had tried to understand the man, the layers of mystery deepened, and the lines between friend and enemy blurred further. It was like playing a game with rules he couldn't even see.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps behind him—soft, but purposeful. The sound sent a chill racing down his spine, and before he could turn around, the person spoke.
"Ji-hoon, wait."
His heart skipped a beat. The voice was familiar—soft, comforting, yet with an edge of uncertainty. He knew who it was before they even stepped into the dim light of the streetlamp.
Hye-jin.
She was standing a few paces behind him, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlights, her expression unreadable. There was a quiet intensity in her gaze, an urgency that was hard to ignore. Ji-hoon's stomach twisted at the sight of her. She was the one person who had always been there, the one person who had never asked for more than he was willing to give. But now? Now, everything had changed.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though she was afraid of breaking the fragile silence that hung between them.
Ji-hoon swallowed, his throat dry. The weight of her concern felt like a physical thing, pressing down on his chest. He wasn't okay. He hadn't been okay for a long time. But he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't bring himself to burden her with his fears, his uncertainties. She had enough of her own demons to fight.
"I'm fine," he muttered, but the words felt hollow even as he said them.
Hye-jin took a cautious step closer, her eyes scanning his face as if searching for the truth behind the facade. She was always good at that—seeing through the walls he built around himself. Her gaze softened as she reached out, her hand hesitating for a moment before resting gently on his arm. The warmth of her touch grounded him, even if just for a second.
"Ji-hoon," she said, her voice soft but firm. "You don't have to carry all of this by yourself."
The words hit him harder than he expected. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. It felt like there was a lump there, a tight knot of emotions he couldn't untangle. He had always been so good at hiding, at pretending to be fine, but in that moment, with her standing so close, the walls he had built crumbled.
"I don't know what to do anymore," he admitted, the rawness of the admission making him feel exposed in a way he had never allowed himself to feel. "Everything feels like it's falling apart. I don't know who I can trust. And I don't know how to stop it."
Her hand tightened on his arm, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "You don't have to stop it alone. I'm here, Ji-hoon. I'm not going anywhere."
The sincerity in her words stung like a slap to the face, not because they weren't true, but because he didn't believe he deserved them. He had failed her, failed everyone. He had let the truth fester, buried so deep inside that even he wasn't sure how to face it.
But Hye-jin was here, and she wasn't asking for answers. She wasn't demanding him to fix everything, to be okay again. She was just here—just being present in a way no one else had been. And in that moment, it was enough.
Ji-hoon took a deep breath, his body trembling slightly from the weight of everything he had been holding in. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
She nodded, her eyes searching his face for any sign that he believed it. And as they stood there, in the quiet aftermath of the storm, Ji-hoon realized something. Maybe he wasn't alone in this. Maybe, for the first time in a long while, there was hope.