Joon-won found the letter tucked inside an envelope stained faintly with something that might've been blood, or maybe just old ink. The handwriting on the front was unmistakable—precise, curved like the slow bend of a knife. It simply read: "To Ji-hoon."
He didn't want to open it at first. Not after everything. Not after the fire, the screaming, the final performance that didn't end in applause but in silence and smoke. But Ji-hoon sat there, in the same damn chair he'd been in for hours, like a ghost refusing to leave the stage.
"He left?" Ji-hoon asked. His voice wasn't sharp. It wasn't broken either. It was just… tired.
Joon-won swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah. Disappeared. No one knows where. But he left this."
He didn't hand it over. Ji-hoon couldn't read it himself. That was the cruelty of it all. That the truth, the confession, the final words from the one who wrecked his life would have to pass through someone else's voice. Someone else's throat.
"Read it," Ji-hoon said. "I want to hear him. Just once. As he was."
So Joon-won opened the envelope, unfolded the letter, and began.
> "I never planned to live long, Ji-hoon. Not after I killed your mother. Not after I saw your face that night in the rain. I thought you were just a kid. But you heard me. You smelled me. That goddamn cologne. The one she gave me. And I wore it while I murdered her."
Ji-hoon didn't move. His hands curled into fists so tightly the scars along his knuckles reopened. But he didn't speak. Joon-won kept reading.
> "I wanted music to be the only thing that defined me. But somewhere along the line, I realized that people only ever heard me through the things I destroyed. I wasn't a musician—I was an echo of a scream."
> "I hated how you played. Not because you were better. But because you felt more. And I... couldn't. I envied that. That you could be blind and still see deeper into a song than I ever could. So I broke you. I broke everything."
Joon-won stopped, breath catching in his throat. Ji-hoon finally moved. He stood. Just stood. Like something inside him had quietly snapped, but in a way that didn't spill out. Not yet.
"Keep going," Ji-hoon said.
Joon-won's voice cracked a little.
> "When I found out you were still chasing me—when I saw you at that final stage, bleeding and blind and still reaching for the keys—I knew I'd lost. I saw Mom in you. I saw the part of her I couldn't kill. The part that still believed music could save us."
> "So I'm leaving. Not to run. Not because I'm afraid. But because I can't stand on a stage knowing you're still out there, proving I was wrong every time I opened my mouth to say I was better."
> "I left the gloves. The real ones. The ones stained with her blood. You'll find them in the conservatory's old vault. Hidden behind the false wall, beneath the second piano. You'll know it's real by the scent. Same damn cologne. That's the truth, Ji-hoon. That's the lock I broke. And you're the only key I couldn't steal."
Ji-hoon didn't speak for a long time. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He stepped forward, touched the letter gently, like he could trace the ink with his skin and feel Siwan's guilt woven into every loop of cursive.
"That scent," Ji-hoon murmured. "That goddamn scent."
Joon-won lowered the letter. "He's gone. But he left this like some kind of twisted apology."
"It's not an apology," Ji-hoon said quietly. "It's a confession dressed like a goodbye."
There was silence, heavy and slow, like fog curling across a piano bench after the music ends.
Then Ji-hoon spoke again. "He's not done."
Joon-won looked up. "What?"
"He's not done," Ji-hoon repeated, and for the first time in days, his voice had steel in it again. "He didn't run. He's watching. Somewhere. Waiting to see what I'll do with this."
"Ji-hoon, he—"
"He wants me to play." Ji-hoon turned toward the grand piano across the room. "He wants my final note."
He walked toward it, running his fingers along the side, as if listening with his skin. He sat down.
And then, without a word, he played the melody from his mother's final lullaby.
But this time, he didn't cry.
He bled through the keys.
Ji-hoon's fingers danced over the keys, each note heavy with pain, each chord a memory of what had been lost. The piano was an old friend, one that had witnessed both his greatest triumphs and his deepest scars. But this time, it felt different. This time, there was a finality to his movements, a sense that whatever came next would be the end of something—of everything.
The letter sat crumpled in his lap, a reminder of the violence that had consumed his life, the brother who had torn it apart. Siwan's words were still echoing in his mind, but they no longer held the same power over him. He had learned to play with rage, to channel the noise of the world into something that made sense only in the confines of this room, under the flickering lights.
Joon-won watched him, unsure of what to say, of how to bridge the silence that hung thick between them. The tension in the room was palpable, a quiet storm that had been brewing ever since they stepped into this place.
"You're not going to let it go, are you?" Joon-won asked finally, his voice cautious, as if afraid to provoke something violent. "All of this, you're going to keep playing."
Ji-hoon didn't answer at first. He just kept playing, fingers working the keys with precision, each movement measured, deliberate. His hands trembled slightly, but it was more from the weight of what he was playing than from any weakness. It was as if the piano itself was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"I can't stop," Ji-hoon finally said, his voice raw, but firm. "I've been living in a world of silence for too long. Now that I can hear the truth, I can't just let it fade away. Siwan's gone, but what he did—it doesn't end with him. Not for me."
Joon-won stepped closer, the weight of the moment settling in. "So, what? You're going to track him down? You're going to finish this?"
Ji-hoon's eyes locked onto Joon-won's, a fire in them that hadn't been there before. "You think I'll just walk away? You saw what he did to me, to my mother. Do you really think I can just let it all slip into the past?"
Joon-won swallowed, the reality of the situation sinking in. Ji-hoon wasn't just talking about revenge. He was talking about something deeper, something that could tear him apart if he wasn't careful.
"You've already lost so much, Ji-hoon," Joon-won said, his voice thick with emotion. "You can't keep fighting forever. This—"
"It's not about winning," Ji-hoon interrupted, his voice sharp. "It's about making sure he understands. That I understand. The fight, the pain—it's all I've got left."
Joon-won hesitated, unsure how to proceed. He had seen the destruction Siwan had caused, but he had never seen Ji-hoon like this—so determined, so consumed by it. The anger wasn't just in his actions. It was in the way he moved, the way he spoke. It was as if the entire world had closed in around him, and the only way to survive was to keep fighting, to keep playing.
"Do you think you're going to find him?" Joon-won asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Ji-hoon stopped playing for a moment, his fingers lingering on the keys. The silence between them stretched out, thick and suffocating.
"I don't know," Ji-hoon said quietly. "But I'll make sure he knows I'm still here. I'll make him hear me."
Joon-won didn't reply, but the weight of Ji-hoon's words hung in the air. The fire that had once consumed Siwan was now spreading, and it was impossible to tell if Ji-hoon would survive the blaze.
As Ji-hoon resumed playing, something shifted in the room. The music grew louder, more frantic, as if it were a battle cry, a desperate attempt to hold onto something that couldn't be saved. The sound was raw and unfiltered, each note an echo of the pain, the rage, the heartbreak. It was a storm of emotions unleashed all at once.
The piano wasn't just an instrument anymore. It was a weapon. A tool for survival. Ji-hoon's fingers flew over the keys, each movement sharper, more violent, as though he were trying to tear the world apart with the power of his music. The chords rang out like a declaration, a statement that would not be ignored.
But then, something unexpected happened.
The door to the room creaked open.
Joon-won froze, his eyes flicking toward the entrance, where a figure stood silhouetted in the dim light. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension thick in the air as the figure stepped forward.
Ji-hoon didn't stop playing. He didn't even flinch. He just kept playing, each note spilling out of him like blood from a wound.
"Ji-hoon," the figure said softly.
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
Ji-hoon's fingers faltered on the keys, the sound of the music breaking like glass. He didn't have to turn to know who it was. He had been expecting this moment. He had known, deep down, that it was only a matter of time before Siwan's presence would come crawling back into his life.
"Siwan," Ji-hoon said, his voice cold, distant, as though he were speaking to a ghost. "You finally decided to show up."
Siwan stepped fully into the room, his face pale, his eyes tired. He looked almost… defeated. But there was something in his posture, something in the way he held himself, that said he wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.
"I didn't come back to finish this," Siwan said quietly, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "I came back because I had to face you. For everything I did."
Ji-hoon's fingers tightened around the keys, the anger rising in him once more. But this time, it wasn't just anger. It was something darker. Something colder.
"You're here for redemption, aren't you?" Ji-hoon asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "You think you can just waltz back into my life and apologize for everything you did?"
Siwan looked at him, his expression a mix of regret and something else—something Ji-hoon couldn't quite place.
"I don't expect forgiveness," Siwan said, his voice low. "I don't even deserve it. But I wanted you to know that I'm not running anymore."
Ji-hoon stood up from the piano, his hands trembling slightly. His heart was pounding in his chest, but there was no fear. Not anymore. He had crossed that line a long time ago. He was beyond the point of no return.
"Then what?" Ji-hoon asked, taking a step toward him. "You want me to help you? You want me to give you some kind of mercy after everything you've done?"
Siwan looked down, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of his actions had finally crushed him. "No," he said softly. "I just wanted to tell you one last thing before I go."
Ji-hoon's eyes narrowed. "And what's that?"
Siwan took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Ji-hoon. For everything."
The words hung in the air between them, thick with the weight of years of pain, betrayal, and loss. And for a moment, Ji-hoon didn't know how to respond. The anger was still there, but so was something else—something that felt too raw, too fragile to acknowledge.
But then, before Ji-hoon could say anything, Siwan turned and walked toward the door. There was no dramatic farewell, no more words. Just the sound of footsteps, slowly fading into the distance.
Ji-hoon stood there for a long time, his hand still resting on the piano keys. He had the feeling that the silence in the room wasn't going to be filled anytime soon.
Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet, but resolute.
"It's over. But I'll never forget."