The hallway was pitch black. Not the kind of darkness that came from a power outage or a burnt-out bulb, but a kind that felt intentional—calculated. Ji-hoon moved through it slowly, every step echoing beneath his feet like a haunting metronome, pacing out the dread in his chest.
This was the building Si-wan used to hide everything—the recordings, the plans, the journals, the scent samples, the memories he never wanted Ji-hoon to find. This was the place Ji-hoon had avoided until now. Because it wasn't just full of Si-wan's darkness. It was full of his own.
He pressed a hand against the wall, fingers trailing the cold concrete like he was feeling for answers. There was something terrifying about silence this complete. No wind. No hum of electricity. No whispers of ghosts. Just stillness. But even the quiet couldn't bury the sensation clawing at his spine—he wasn't alone.
The power had been cut. Cameras disabled. Doors unlocked. All of it too easy. Too welcoming. Which only meant one thing—Si-wan had planned this. Again.
Ji-hoon didn't care.
He wasn't here for revenge anymore. He was here to end this. Once and for all. Not just Si-wan, but the entire narrative that had followed him like a curse since the night his mother died.
He turned a corner and found himself facing a long hallway of doors. Room 6B flickered in the dim emergency light—a green EXIT sign casting strange shadows. That room. That's where it had started. The first "experiment." The first soundproof performance Si-wan made him listen to as a child. The one he never forgot. The one he never forgave.
He walked toward it slowly, gripping the knife in his jacket with one hand, the other tucked tightly over the music box he found at his mother's grave the night before. A part of him still wondered if she had left it—or if Si-wan had.
The door creaked open with the slightest push. Ji-hoon stepped in.
And the lights turned on.
Not just one, but all of them—like spotlights over a twisted stage.
Si-wan stood at the back of the room, hands behind his back, hair slicked neatly like nothing had changed. Like they were still students. Like there wasn't a grave between them. He looked calm. Smiling. He looked like a man who'd already won.
"I thought you might come here," Si-wan said quietly, voice smooth as ever. "You always did love dramatic endings."
Ji-hoon didn't answer. His fingers itched around the blade. He didn't trust a word out of that mouth. Not after what he'd learned. Not after the detective's final report. Not after Joon-won's last message, warning him that Si-wan had rewritten their entire story and planned to release it to the public posthumously, framing Ji-hoon as mentally unstable and violent—a genius who finally snapped.
"I know what you did," Ji-hoon said, stepping closer, slow and careful. "You wanted the world to believe I killed her. And if I didn't, you'd make sure someone else did."
Si-wan tilted his head, amused. "I didn't want to kill her, you know. I just wanted to see what would happen if she stopped playing."
Ji-hoon lunged.
The two of them collided like thunder, metal scraping against skin, a grunt ripped from one of their throats as Ji-hoon tackled Si-wan into the piano behind him. The impact knocked keys loose, the sound a shattered scream of notes. Ji-hoon didn't stop. He punched, again and again, knuckles bruising, until Si-wan grabbed the knife from his coat and slashed wildly.
Blood spattered across the white piano.
Ji-hoon ducked, slammed his shoulder into Si-wan's chest, sending them both crashing into the mirror on the wall. Glass rained like glitter. Si-wan's hand found Ji-hoon's throat. Ji-hoon's knee found Si-wan's ribs.
They separated with a gasp, staggering. Ji-hoon was bleeding from his arm. Si-wan's nose was broken. Both of them heaving.
"You're not going to win," Ji-hoon said, voice shaking with fury. "Not this time."
"I already have," Si-wan grinned, pulling out a remote from his coat pocket. "I don't need to kill you, Ji-hoon. I just have to show them what you've become."
He pressed the button.
Cameras blinked to life from the corners of the room.
Ji-hoon froze.
Live broadcast.
Si-wan's final performance.
Ji-hoon realized too late—the moment he stepped in here, he'd walked onto a stage he didn't know existed. This was Si-wan's last act. And Ji-hoon was the finale.
But Ji-hoon wasn't the boy he used to be.
He grabbed the music box and slammed it against the camera nearest to him, smashing the lens. Si-wan lunged again, but Ji-hoon ducked, grabbed his wrist, twisted the knife free, and turned it back toward him.
Si-wan gasped as the blade touched his side, but Ji-hoon didn't press it in. Not yet.
He wanted him to feel it. The fear. The betrayal. The helplessness.
"Do you remember what she smelled like?" Ji-hoon asked, voice barely a whisper now. "Lavender. And the cologne. Yours."
Si-wan's expression faltered.
"You thought I wouldn't remember. You thought being blind meant I didn't see what you did."
He stabbed.
Once.
Not deep enough to kill, but enough to make Si-wan drop to his knees.
The broadcast was still running. Ji-hoon turned to the last intact camera.
"You want to know the truth?" he said, voice rising. "This man killed my mother. He tried to kill me. He manipulated an entire world to see him as a genius. But all he ever wanted was control."
He walked over to the power panel and ripped the wires from the wall.
The screen cut to black.
Si-wan groaned on the floor, blood trailing from his stomach.
Ji-hoon stared at him, chest heaving, rage still curling in his fists.
"You don't get to speak for me anymore," he said. "You don't get to end my story."
He turned, leaving Si-wan broken and bleeding beneath the shattered piano, the keys forever stained with red.
The lights flickered again.
Then, they went out completely.
Some lights never turned on again.
Ji-hoon didn't feel the blood dripping down his temple. He didn't register the bruised ribs or the torn skin across his knuckles. All he felt was the echo of silence that followed Siwan's last laugh—mocking, thin, hollow like the breath of a man who had run too far, too fast, for too long.
The warehouse lights above them flickered, one failing completely and bursting in a short-lived spark. The rest buzzed in protest as the storm outside rattled the rusted panels. Rain slammed against the metal roof like a heartbeat—chaotic and afraid.
Siwan stood across from him, hunched, bloodied, but smiling. That damn smile.
"You thought this was over, didn't you?" Siwan whispered, voice ragged with effort and spite. "You thought you could get rid of me with a plan. But Ji-hoon… you're still blind. You don't see it."
Ji-hoon's grip tightened around the broken piece of pipe in his hand, slick with rain and blood. He didn't respond with words—there was nothing left to say. His silence had weight now, something heavier than any insult or scream. It was final. The kind of silence you wear like a second skin.
He rushed forward.
Siwan twisted to the left, tried to duck, but Ji-hoon had already predicted it. He brought the pipe down diagonally, crashing it across Siwan's shoulder and knocking him into the wall with a sickening crunch. Siwan groaned, slumping down, but Ji-hoon didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
He dropped the pipe and went in bare-handed. Blow after blow, every punch driven by years of grief, betrayal, and pain. Siwan's face became a blur—no longer his rival, no longer even human. Just the thing that had destroyed his mother, the thing that made music taste like blood.
"Do you even remember her?" Ji-hoon shouted mid-swing, voice cracking. "Do you even remember what she looked like when you killed her?!"
Siwan coughed, choked on it. "She begged…" he laughed through the blood. "She begged for you."
That was the last word Ji-hoon needed.
He grabbed Siwan by the collar and slammed him against the steel beam behind. The vibrations echoed through the building, shuddering. Thunder roared above. Ji-hoon slammed him again.
"Beg," he growled.
Siwan spat blood, grinning. "No."
Ji-hoon shoved him to the ground and yanked open the duffel bag nearby—the one he had packed for this night. A tape recorder. Wire. Rope. A lighter. Plans. He had memorized every step, every outcome. This wasn't improvisation. This was justice rehearsed.
Siwan watched from the floor, vision swimming, lip trembling despite the smirk he tried to wear. "What is this, a confession? Gonna record your big moment before you kill me?"
"No," Ji-hoon said flatly. "I already have the confession. Joon-won hacked your backups. Your insurance files. Your fake voices. All of it. You'll die exposed."
He taped Siwan's wrists behind his back, then his ankles. Siwan barely resisted, too weak now, too broken. And Ji-hoon had become something else—cold, precise, detached. He moved like a ghost. He didn't even hear the rain anymore. Didn't feel the wounds.
Once Siwan was bound, Ji-hoon stood above him, breathing hard. Then he sat on the bench opposite, reached into his jacket, and pulled out the old cassette tape—the one his mother had recorded the lullaby on. The one he had refused to play for years.
"You want to know what you killed?" Ji-hoon asked. He pressed play.
Soft notes trickled out of the recorder, fragile as glass, trembling like a mother's hands. The lullaby spilled into the room, mixing with the storm. Siwan blinked—surprised. The melody was beautiful.
Ji-hoon stared toward the sound. "You ruined this. You took music and turned it into silence. You took her and turned me into… this."
Siwan coughed again, trying to sit up, failing. "You're not her. You're not anything without her."
"You're right," Ji-hoon whispered. "That's why I'll bury you with her."
He stood again, took the rope and looped it over the metal beam above. Thunder cracked so loudly the building shook. Ji-hoon didn't flinch. This wasn't vengeance anymore. This was closing the circle.
Siwan's eyes widened now. Finally, for the first time that night, he looked afraid.
"You're serious," he muttered. "You're going to hang me?"
"No," Ji-hoon said, pulling the rope tighter. "You're going to watch it come for you, one inch at a time."
The rope creaked as Ji-hoon hoisted it upward, dragging Siwan from the ground slowly. His shoes scraped the concrete. Ji-hoon paused just before his feet left the floor entirely.
"Last words?"
Siwan's throat worked, but no words came.
Ji-hoon waited. Then he lowered the rope. Not mercy. Just a pause.
He leaned in. "You don't get a clean death. You're going to rot in prison. But you're going to feel what helplessness feels like—every minute of every day—until the lights go out and your last song is silence."
He grabbed the backup recorder—his insurance—and played the file. Siwan's confession, spliced and synthesized, but undeniable. Enough to destroy him legally, politically, publicly.
Siwan heard it and whimpered.
Ji-hoon knelt beside him. "That's the note I'll end on."
He rose, turned away, and walked into the rain as police sirens screamed in the distance. He left the recorder on loop, the confession loud enough for them all to hear.
He didn't look back.
The wind was sharp on Ji-hoon's face as he stepped out of the warehouse, his coat heavy with rain and blood. The sirens were closer now, but he didn't run. He didn't have to. This was the end of a war, not a crime scene. The tape would speak before anyone could ask questions.
He reached for his phone. No signal. Not that it mattered. Joon-won was gone. Left the country after sending Ji-hoon everything—Siwan's files, the digital backups, the voices he had manufactured to frame Ji-hoon. Every piece of the puzzle had been handed over with a single message:
"This is the last time I help you fight your ghosts. Live now. Or they'll bury you, too."
Ji-hoon hadn't responded. He didn't know what to say. Joon-won had been the only constant, the only soul who saw him after the darkness settled in. Now, even that light was gone. No forwarding number. No return. Just a trail of digital ashes and the echo of a brotherhood undone.
Ji-hoon exhaled, slow and quiet. The kind of breath that feels like surrender, but isn't. Not quite. He turned toward the sound of the sirens—and walked forward. Alone.