The air was thick with smoke—real, physical smoke—billowing from the server room beneath the conservatory as sparks burst from overloaded circuits and flames licked the edges of old files and walls lined with decades of secrets. Ji-hoon coughed hard, covering his mouth with the inside of his sleeve as he and Joon-won ran through the heat. The smell of melting plastic and scorched wires flooded his nose, but he didn't slow down.
"Up ahead!" Joon-won shouted, pointing past a collapsed beam.
The underground lab was burning fast, but in the back, behind a thick steel door, lay the last remnant of Siwan's manipulation: a hidden server tower, one that had never touched the internet, one meant to be released in pieces over time in the event of his death. The failsafe.
Joon-won kicked at the access panel, sweat pouring down his face. "The trigger is on a dead man's switch—if the system doesn't ping his location in six hours, it dumps everything online."
Ji-hoon's jaw tightened. "Then we stop it here."
Joon-won slammed his shoulder into the door again and again. Ji-hoon, running on fury and instinct, found a piece of piping and jammed it between the panel seams, pulling and twisting until metal groaned and gave way.
Inside, it was cold—oddly untouched by the fire—but the hum of servers still rang out like a heartbeat waiting to flatline. Joon-won ran to the console and ripped off the cover, exposing the power core.
"I'll cut it," he said. "You go."
Ji-hoon froze. "No. We both go."
"You don't get it," Joon-won growled. "There's a secondary trip. Once the main core shuts down, the system requires someone to manually override the backup within 30 seconds. You can't do it blind—it's mapped, coded, and traps reset every second."
"You think I'll just leave you?"
Joon-won looked him dead in the eye, and for the first time in weeks, he smiled. Not one of those fake PR smiles. A real one. Worn, exhausted, but real.
"I never thought I'd get this far, Ji-hoon. I only stayed alive long enough to make sure you got the ending you deserved. Not Siwan's ending. Yours."
Ji-hoon's voice cracked. "I'm not letting you die for me."
"You're not. I'm ending it. For your mother. For every night you woke up screaming. For the blind boy who kept playing music even after everything was taken from him."
Before Ji-hoon could stop him, Joon-won reached into the console, bypassed the primary circuit, and plunged the override key into the socket.
Screams erupted—not from him, but from the system itself—alarms blaring and power surging as the core melted from the inside.
Ji-hoon's ears rang.
"No—NO!" he shouted, grabbing Joon-won's shoulders as sparks burst from the panel. "There has to be another way!"
Joon-won was coughing blood now. "There isn't."
Ji-hoon tried to pull him away, but Joon-won shoved him back.
"GO!"
The force of the blast knocked Ji-hoon onto the floor as the walls trembled.
Ji-hoon crawled forward, choking. "Please…"
But Joon-won looked up one last time, his expression resolute. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth as he whispered:
"You don't owe me anything."
Then the explosion hit.
Heat roared through the corridor, blinding and searing. Ji-hoon shielded his face as flames devoured the room behind him, a wave of fire and ash swallowing the console—and Joon-won—with it.
For a moment, there was nothing.
No sound.
No breath.
No heartbeat.
Then Ji-hoon opened his eyes.
He was on the floor. Alive.
But Joon-won was gone.
Only smoke remained, curling around the empty core like a requiem.
Ji-hoon didn't cry. Not then.
Instead, he stood—every muscle aching, his ears ringing, his skin raw—and walked through the fire-blackened hallway, step by step. He didn't say a word. He didn't curse. He didn't scream.
He just walked.
And the sound of his footsteps was the only thing left in that underground tomb.
The fire was a memory now—burned into Ji-hoon's skin, etched into his mind like a scar he'd never fully erase. The conservatory had collapsed inward, a broken shell of the brilliance it once held. But Ji-hoon stood at the edge of the ruins, smoke rising behind him, as helicopters circled overhead and sirens wept in the distance. He wasn't thinking about survival. He was thinking about what Joon-won had said right before the flames swallowed him whole.
"You don't owe me anything."
But Ji-hoon did. He owed Joon-won everything.
The wind rushed past his ears as he clutched the scorched remains of Joon-won's coat, all that was left. The ash stained his fingers. His knees buckled, but he didn't fall.
He walked.
The authorities tried to stop him. Paramedics tried to wrap bandages around his arms. Police shouted about reports, about statements. But Ji-hoon didn't stop moving until he was back at the apartment. The one Joon-won had lived in. The place Siwan had once infiltrated. The place where it had all started unraveling.
The lights were still on.
Inside, the room was untouched, as if time itself had paused in mourning. On the table was Joon-won's laptop, cracked but intact. Next to it sat a drive—old, black, with a label written in Joon-won's handwriting: "FOR JI-HOON. ONLY HIM."
Ji-hoon sat down, his fingers trembling. The drive clicked when it connected.
The screen lit up.
A video file blinked: "Goodbye."
He pressed play.
The screen opened on Joon-won's face—tired, worn, but steady.
"If you're watching this, then I didn't make it out."
Ji-hoon clenched his fists.
"I don't regret it. Not a single step. You have to understand something—I was never the hero of this story. You were. I was just the guy who walked beside you so you didn't trip too hard. You gave me purpose, Ji-hoon. You gave me something to fight for. And in return, I give you everything I have. On this drive is every document, every recording, every piece of evidence that clears your name. And exposes Siwan for what he really is. Use it."
Ji-hoon's throat burned.
"And one last thing," Joon-won said, voice cracking. "Don't lose yourself to vengeance. Please. I know you. You're going to feel like killing him is the only justice left. But if you do… you'll lose your music. You'll lose her. You'll lose everything."
The screen went dark.
Ji-hoon stared for a long time.
Then he deleted the file. Not because he wanted to forget—but because he had already memorized every word.
He packed the drive. Grabbed the weapons. Grabbed the photos. Grabbed his cane.
There was one last thing to do.
Siwan was still out there. Still breathing. Still free.
Not for long.
---
Night fell over Tokyo like a curtain drawn too fast, hiding things meant to be seen. Ji-hoon landed in silence, his arrival unnoticed, his movements practiced. He moved through alleys, crossed rooftops, navigated the city like it was a piece of sheet music—each footstep a note, each breath a rest.
He found the apartment Siwan was hiding in—top floor, private elevator, cameras disguised as light fixtures. But Ji-hoon had Joon-won's intel now. He knew every blind spot. Every time the hallway went dark. Every flaw in the alarm system.
He slipped inside like a ghost.
Siwan was sitting at the piano. Playing.
Of course he was.
The man didn't even turn when the door clicked.
"I wondered when you'd come," Siwan said, his fingers still moving over the keys.
Ji-hoon stood in the dark, listening. It was Chopin. Twisted, dissonant. Wrong.
"You murdered my mother," Ji-hoon said quietly.
"I gave you purpose," Siwan answered.
Ji-hoon stepped forward. "You gave me nightmares."
Siwan stopped playing.
The silence was colder than the Tokyo air.
"I thought you'd understand by now," Siwan said. "Everything I did… was to shape you. You're not the blind boy anymore. You're a weapon. A force. You are because I broke you."
Ji-hoon raised the gun. "Then let's break each other."
Siwan stood slowly, turning to face him. He was unarmed. But the smirk on his face made Ji-hoon's blood boil.
"I won't run," he said.
Ji-hoon fired.
Siwan dodged—barely. The bullet shattered the piano behind him.
He lunged.
They collided in the center of the room, fists flying, blood splattering the white walls. Siwan landed a punch to Ji-hoon's ribs; Ji-hoon slammed his cane across Siwan's knee. There was no choreography. No restraint. Just violence.
Ji-hoon's vision blurred as he tackled Siwan through the window, glass exploding around them. They hit the rooftop next door with a sickening thud.
Siwan gasped, ribs cracked. But he laughed.
"You really are beautiful when you're angry," he hissed.
Ji-hoon stood, breath ragged. "You think this is beautiful?"
He kicked Siwan across the face.
"THIS is for my mother!"
Another kick.
"THIS is for Joon-won!"
Another.
"AND THIS—" he screamed, dragging Siwan up by the collar "—is for every second I spent believing I was broken."
He slammed Siwan into the rooftop rail.
And for a second… he almost let go.
But he didn't.
He released him. Let Siwan collapse to the ground.
"Not yet," Ji-hoon said, panting. "I want the whole world to see what you are."
Siwan coughed blood. "You're too late. They'll never believe you."
Ji-hoon pulled the drive from his coat. Held it up.
"They already do."
Siwan's smile vanished.
And Ji-hoon walked away.
The sirens were coming.
But this time, they weren't for him.
He had already said his goodbye.
Joon-won was somewhere far away now, out of Ji-hoon's reach. But the sense of loss still burned deep in his chest, a searing reminder of everything that had happened. He hadn't even had the chance to say goodbye, to make peace with what had transpired between them. The weight of it all sat heavy on Ji-hoon's shoulders as he stood alone in the quiet aftermath, every shadow in the room a reminder of the decisions they had made, of the price they had paid.
The world outside was still chaotic, but it felt like everything had slowed to a crawl. Ji-hoon couldn't shake the feeling that the moment he let his guard down, everything would fall apart again. Siwan was out there, somewhere, a constant threat, a reminder that no matter how much they'd fought, no matter how many lives had been torn apart in the process, there was no escaping the darkness he had brought into their lives.
Ji-hoon's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. His muscles tensed, his hand instinctively moving toward the knife he had tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He had grown used to the feeling of the cold steel against his skin, a constant companion since he had been forced to live with the danger Siwan represented. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, and familiar.
He didn't have to turn around to know who it was. The air felt different now, heavier, more oppressive. The chill of betrayal still lingered in his bones, a bitter reminder of the past. He didn't want to face them, but he knew he had no choice. Not anymore.
"Ji-hoon," the voice was low, almost apologetic, but Ji-hoon knew better. Apologies meant nothing now. Nothing could fix what had been broken. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in another emotional trap.
"You don't get to say anything," Ji-hoon said, his voice steady despite the turmoil swirling inside him. "You don't get to act like you didn't know what was coming. You were part of this, part of everything that happened. And now you want to act like everything is fine?"
The figure behind him didn't respond at first, just stood there, the silence hanging between them like a heavy curtain. Ji-hoon could feel the weight of their presence, the way it made the air around him thicken, suffocate him. It was like a trap closing in. He could feel his anger building, every word they spoke adding fuel to the fire inside him.
"You think I don't know that?" the voice said finally, and there was something in it that made Ji-hoon freeze. "You think I didn't feel the same way? You think I wasn't torn apart by what happened, by everything I did to help him, to help Siwan?"
Ji-hoon clenched his fists, feeling the rage surge through him. He didn't want to listen. He didn't want to hear the excuses. They were all just excuses. Everyone had their reasons, their justifications, but it didn't change the fact that everything was a lie. Every single thing had been built on deception, on manipulation.
"You're not innocent," Ji-hoon hissed, finally spinning around to face the person behind him. His heart pounded in his chest, his hand still gripping the knife, ready to strike if necessary. The anger was raw, untamed. It was all he had left.
The other person took a step back, their eyes wide with shock and confusion. They hadn't expected this, hadn't prepared for the venom in Ji-hoon's words. But Ji-hoon didn't care. He was done with playing games, done with pretending that everything would somehow work out in the end.
"I didn't come here to make excuses, Ji-hoon," the figure said, voice trembling slightly. "I came here to try and fix things. To make it right."
"Fix things?" Ji-hoon's laugh was bitter, empty. "There's nothing to fix anymore. It's too late for that. There's nothing you can say that's going to change anything."
The tension in the room was palpable. Ji-hoon could feel his heartbeat thundering in his ears, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was ready for whatever was next, but part of him couldn't help but wish, just for a moment, that things had been different. That maybe, just maybe, they could have had a different ending. But that was a foolish hope, a foolish dream. There was no going back.
"You don't understand, Ji-hoon," the figure said, stepping closer now. "I was trying to protect you. I thought I could stop him. I thought I could stop it all before it was too late. But I failed."
The words hit Ji-hoon harder than he expected, his chest tightening with something that felt dangerously close to regret. He shook his head quickly, pushing the feeling away. He didn't have time for that. Not anymore. Not after everything that had happened.
"I don't need your protection," Ji-hoon said coldly, his voice hardening again. "I never did. And now, look where we are. You failed, and so did I. We all failed."
He could see the hurt flash in the other person's eyes, but it was fleeting. The tension between them crackled in the air, and Ji-hoon couldn't tell if they were trying to convince him, or if they were just trying to save themselves from the mess they had created.
"I didn't fail you, Ji-hoon," they said, their voice barely a whisper now. "I failed everyone. I thought I could change things. I thought I could stop him before it went too far. But I couldn't."
Ji-hoon didn't respond. He couldn't. The words they were saying didn't matter anymore. Everything they said felt hollow, empty. The damage had already been done, and no amount of words could erase that.
There was no going back.