The air inside the practice room felt thick with the weight of memories. The soft hum of the piano's strings reverberated in Ji-hoon's chest, but it wasn't the usual comfort. It was suffocating. As he pressed the keys beneath his fingers, the familiar chord he played felt wrong—distorted, like a memory that had been warped, twisted until it barely resembled the original note.
He leaned forward, his brow furrowed, eyes tracing the old piano keys as if they might hold some kind of answer. It was a place that had once been his sanctuary, the one place where the noise of the world couldn't reach him, where the melody could fill his empty spaces and offer him solace. But today, it was as though that music had been stolen from him, leaving nothing but a hollow echo. The harshness of the note he played rang louder in his head than any song he had ever composed.
A slow, familiar thrum began to pulse in his ears, the rhythmic beat of his heart merging with the sound of a piece of music that had long been buried. A memory. One he had tried to forget, but it always found its way back. One more flashback.
The room was dim, the only light coming from a single bulb hanging low above the piano. His mother's presence filled the space, as always, calm and warm, like the sound of a lullaby. She was humming as she carefully tuned the strings of a violin in the corner, her movements graceful and meticulous. Ji-hoon had always admired the way she could focus so deeply, her concentration unshakable even when life outside their home seemed chaotic.
He watched her from where he sat at the piano, his small fingers awkwardly trying to mimic the chords she had taught him. He had been so young then, eager to impress her, to show her that he could be just as talented as she was. She had a way of making everything seem effortless, her violin playing weaving through the air like a breeze. To him, she was perfection.
"Ji-hoon," his mother called gently, as if sensing his gaze on her. "You're too tense. Relax your fingers."
He frowned, but she was right. His hands were stiff, struggling to play the simple scale she had asked him to practice. With a soft sigh, he let his shoulders drop, his hands loosening as he focused on his breathing, trying to follow her instructions. The warmth of her presence surrounded him like a protective cocoon, and for a moment, he felt completely safe.
But something felt wrong. The atmosphere in the room had shifted, just slightly, but enough for Ji-hoon to notice. It was like a storm was coming, though there were no clouds in sight. His mother didn't seem to notice it, still humming as she tuned her violin, her eyes closed in concentration.
That was when it happened.
The sound of the door slamming open broke the stillness of the room. A cold rush of air flooded in, and for the first time, Ji-hoon's mother stopped what she was doing. Her eyes flickered towards the door, her expression changing from serene to something darker—something Ji-hoon hadn't seen before.
"Who's there?" she called out, her voice tinged with suspicion. Her violin bow hovered in midair, forgotten.
The figure in the doorway was tall, shadowed, and still for a moment before stepping fully into the room. The instant his face came into view, Ji-hoon's breath caught in his throat.
It was Si-wan.
The memory blurred at the edges as Ji-hoon's fingers stilled on the piano keys, the sharpness of his breathing filling the room. His chest tightened, suffocating under the weight of the recollection.
Si-wan, always there, always watching, even before the chaos had started. His face—smiling, cold, predatory—had been the catalyst for everything that had fallen apart. For a brief moment, Ji-hoon had been so sure that Si-wan was simply a force to be reckoned with, someone he could never truly understand. But now, in the quiet of his room, that moment seemed to have been the beginning of everything that had gone wrong.
"You shouldn't be here," his mother had said, the violin bow slipping from her fingers. Her voice was calm, but there was something about it—something fierce that Ji-hoon had never noticed before.
Si-wan didn't flinch at her words. He simply walked into the room, his presence suffocating, cold. His gaze fell on Ji-hoon, but his smile never wavered.
"Isn't this where the magic happens?" Si-wan had said, his voice smooth like velvet, yet with an undercurrent of something darker. "I just wanted to see what the great Yoo Ara's little boy could do."
Ji-hoon had felt his heart race, even though he hadn't understood the implications of the words then. The way Si-wan spoke—so casually, so powerfully—had unsettled him in a way he couldn't explain. He had tried to focus on the music, to drown out the strange feeling creeping up his spine.
But his mother had turned to face Si-wan, her expression tightening. "Leave. Now."
At the time, Ji-hoon hadn't known why she had sounded so urgent, so commanding. But in retrospect, everything that had followed made sense. Si-wan had known something. He had known exactly what he wanted to do.
And it had been that night—the night Si-wan had first planted the seed of something dangerous. His presence in their home had been a warning, a whisper of what was to come.
The music, the memory, the tension, all blended together until Ji-hoon could hardly breathe. He felt as if he was choking on the weight of the past, suffocated by the ghosts of everything he had tried to bury.
His fingers moved again, this time a little less sure, the keys sounding louder than they ever had before, as if the piano itself was reflecting the turmoil within him. It was all too much. The past was catching up to him faster than he could handle.
He played the note again, the familiar chord—the one his mother had always played with such ease, with such beauty.
But now, it sounded wrong. Off-key. It felt like a warning.
In the silence that followed, Ji-hoon realized that the flashback wasn't just about the memory itself. It was about the fear that had been building in him ever since that night. The fear of what Si-wan had truly been capable of. The realization that, somewhere deep inside, Ji-hoon had always known what kind of monster Si-wan was.
His mother had known too. That was why she had wanted him gone. She had seen it before Ji-hoon had.
And now, Ji-hoon couldn't escape it.
He had already made his choice. There was no turning back now.
Ji-hoon's fingers faltered over the piano keys as the weight of the memory crushed him. He had always tried to forget that night, to pretend it hadn't happened, but it always resurfaced, haunting him. The sharpness of Si-wan's presence, his calm cruelty, had been something Ji-hoon had never been able to fully comprehend. He had been just a child, trying to navigate the complex, suffocating world around him.
The memory of Si-wan standing in the doorway, that cold, calculating look in his eyes, made Ji-hoon's skin crawl. It wasn't just that Si-wan had entered their lives—it was the way he had done it. Quietly. With a smile. His presence had unsettled everything Ji-hoon thought he understood about safety, about family. His mother had been fierce, protective, but even she had been powerless against him.
A chill ran down Ji-hoon's spine as he recalled her final words to Si-wan that night: "You're not welcome here. Leave now." She had been so sure. So strong in her refusal to let him in. Yet, Si-wan had ignored her. He always did, didn't he?
Si-wan's smile had only deepened, mocking her authority, as if he were untouchable, above the rules that everyone else had to follow. It wasn't just arrogance—it was something darker. Something more insidious.
Ji-hoon hadn't understood it then, but now, with the benefit of hindsight, he could feel it in his bones—the power Si-wan had over everything. He wasn't just a person who crossed boundaries; he was a force that tore them down, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.
As the memory lingered in his mind, Ji-hoon felt his heartbeat quicken, a sense of urgency rising within him. The room around him blurred, the edges of his vision narrowing until only the sound of the piano remained. The notes he had been playing felt like a lifeline, yet at the same time, they echoed with an oppressive finality.
The music was suffocating him.
His mother had known what Si-wan was capable of. She had known that Si-wan was dangerous, a force of nature that couldn't be reasoned with, could never be controlled. And despite her strength, despite her brilliance, she hadn't been able to stop him.
Her final act of defiance had been telling Si-wan to leave, and though her voice had been filled with authority, Ji-hoon now knew it had been desperation. She had been trying to protect him, but in the end, it hadn't worked.
A wave of guilt crashed over Ji-hoon as he sat there, paralyzed by the music, by the memories. His mother had been trying to protect him, and in doing so, she had sealed her own fate. She had been trying to keep him away from Si-wan, but now, Ji-hoon could no longer deny that Si-wan had been the one who had dragged them both into the darkness.
Everything that had come after—the loss of his mother, the isolation, the silent screams—had all been a consequence of Si-wan's presence in their lives. And no matter how much Ji-hoon tried to push it all away, it kept returning, like a broken record, playing the same tortured tune.
His hands trembled as he pressed down on the piano keys, the sound a harsh clash against the silence that had descended in the room. The sharp dissonance filled the air, and for a brief moment, Ji-hoon felt the sting of his mother's absence more acutely than ever before.
He had been a child then, so naive, so eager to prove himself, to win her approval. But now, he was no longer a child. He was a man, shaped by the years of pain, of loss, of betrayal.
And Si-wan had been the one to orchestrate it all.
The flashbacks were no longer just painful echoes. They were a roadmap—proof that everything had been leading to this moment. Ji-hoon had been searching for a way to stop Si-wan, to exact his revenge, but he realized now that it wasn't just revenge he was after. It was closure. It was justice.
And, for the first time, Ji-hoon felt the full weight of his mother's absence. He had been so focused on his own grief, on his own need to punish Si-wan, that he had forgotten the most important thing: his mother had tried to protect him. She had tried to shield him from the very thing that had destroyed everything they had.
His hands stilled on the piano keys, and for a moment, the world outside the room ceased to exist. All he could hear was the slow rhythm of his own breathing, the frantic pulse of his heartbeat. The same pulse that had kept him alive all these years, despite everything.
Everything she had fought for.
Ji-hoon clenched his fists, the intensity of his emotions threatening to overtake him. He couldn't stop now. Not after everything. He was so close to understanding it all. To putting the pieces together.
He didn't care about the pain anymore. He didn't care about the cost. His mother had given everything to keep him safe, and now it was time for him to honor that sacrifice. To make Si-wan pay for what he had done.
His eyes narrowed as he pushed himself away from the piano. The echo of the last note still hung in the air, vibrating through his chest, but it was no longer the focus. It was the anger, the need for justice that consumed him now.
Si-wan would pay.
The memory of his mother, her stern yet loving gaze, burned in his mind. He had to finish what she had started. He had to destroy Si-wan before Si-wan could destroy anyone else.
And, for the first time, Ji-hoon felt the weight of his decision, the full gravity of what he was about to do.
The door to the practice room opened with a soft creak, but Ji-hoon didn't turn around. He already knew who it was.
Si-wan.