Chapter One Hundred Thirteen: The Ghost's True Face
The hospital room was quiet now.
Arshi had left an hour ago, her tears dried, her fury banked but not extinguished. She'd squeezed my hand—your hand—before she walked out, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered like a benediction. Jihan had followed, his arm around her shoulders, his eyes heavy with the weight of secrets finally spoken.
My brothers had stayed.
Junho stood by the window, his back to the room, his reflection a ghost in the dark glass. Minho leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Jinwoo sat in the corner chair, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed.
None of them spoke.
The machines beeped on, a steady, indifferent rhythm. The IV dripped. The ventilator hissed. And you lay there, pale and still, your chest rising and falling with a breath that wasn't your own.
I sat in the plastic chair beside your bed, my elbows on my knees, my head bowed. Your hand was warm beneath mine—too warm, fever-warm, the warmth of a body fighting to heal.
My angel.
My heart.
My home.
Junseok's voice crackled through the speakerphone on the bedside table, breaking the silence like a stone dropped into still water.
"We found him."
I didn't look up. "Who?"
"Park Jihoon." A pause. "Or rather, Park Jihoon's twin brother."
The room went very still.
Junho turned from the window, his face sharp with disbelief. "Jihoon didn't have a twin."
"He did." Junseok's voice was flat, clinical, the voice of a man delivering facts he wished weren't true. "Separated at birth. Raised apart. The family kept it secret—a scandal, an affair, a child they couldn't acknowledge. He grew up in the shadows, watching his brother build an empire, waiting for his moment."
"Waiting for what?" Minho's voice was quiet, dangerous.
"Revenge."
The word hung in the air, heavy and cold.
"The man who took her—the man you thought was Jihoon—is his twin. Park Jisung. He's been planning this for years. The shooting at the restaurant. The kidnapping. The sniper in the jungle." Junseok paused. "He wanted to take her out of the country. To a private estate in Southeast Asia. Somewhere with no extradition. No laws. No one who would ask questions."
My grip tightened on your hand.
"And he wanted to have children with her." Junseok's voice was softer now, reluctant. "Children who would look like his brother. Like her. A twisted legacy. A way to keep Jihoon alive."
Jinwoo looked away first.
His jaw was tight, his hands clenched, his eyes fixed on a point on the far wall. Minho followed a moment later, his gaze dropping to the floor, his arms tightening across his chest.
Junho didn't look away. His eyes were blazing, his hands shaking.
"Where is he?" The words were a growl, torn from somewhere deep.
"Gone." Junseok's voice was flat. "He left the country before we could trace him. His private jet took off from a small airstrip three hours ago. Destination unknown. We're tracking, but—"
"Track faster." Junho's voice was ice. "I want his head on a platter."
"You'll have it." Junseok's voice was grim. "But it will take time. He's clever. He's been preparing for this for years. Every move we make, he's already anticipated."
"Then anticipate harder."
Junho turned back to the window, his shoulders rigid, his reflection a mask of fury.
I didn't speak.
I just held your hand, my thumb tracing circles on your palm, and stared at your face.
---
The room emptied eventually.
Junho left first, muttering about leads and contacts and men he needed to call. Minho followed, his hand on Junho's shoulder, a silent offer of support. Jinwoo lingered at the door, his eyes on me, his expression heavy with something I couldn't name.
"Hyung."
I didn't look up.
"She's going to be okay." His voice was soft, uncertain. "She's strong."
"I know."
"She loves you."
"I know."
He hesitated, then walked out, closing the door behind him.
The machines beeped on.
The IV dripped.
And I was alone with you.
---
I pulled my chair closer to the bed, until my knees touched the metal frame, until my chest was level with your shoulder. Your hair was spread across the pillow like dark silk, tangled and matted with dried blood. Your lips were pale, chapped, parted slightly around the tube that helped you breathe.
You looked so small.
So fragile.
So unlike the woman who had scowled at me over a six-dollar latte and called it a waste of money.
"Angel." My voice was rough, scraped raw. "Can you hear me?"
The machines beeped on.
"You probably can't. The doctors said you're in a coma. Said you might not wake up for days, weeks—" I swallowed hard. "They said you might not wake up at all."
I pressed your hand to my lips, kissing your knuckles.
"But I know you. You're stubborn. Impossible. You'll wake up just to prove them wrong."
A ghost of a smile touched my lips, then faded.
"I promised I would tell you everything. The truth. All of it. And I will—when you wake up. When you can look at me with those beautiful, furious eyes and call me a liar to my face."
I set your hand back on the bed, my fingers still wrapped around yours.
"But tonight—tonight, I need to say it out loud. Even if you can't hear me. Even if you'll never know."
I took a breath.
"My name is Kim Taehyun. I'm the head of a criminal empire. I've done things that would make your blood run cold. I've killed men. Ruined families. Built my kingdom on the bones of my enemies."
I paused.
"And I loved you before I knew your name."
The words came out soft, almost wondering.
"It was Venice. Three years ago. I was there on business—a meeting that went wrong, a betrayal that nearly killed me. I was bleeding out in an alley, and you found me."
I closed my eyes, remembering.