Hana answered Taeyang's call with a bright smile, completely unaware of Jiwoon's quiet, wounded retreat. Taeyang's voice greeted her through the phone, warm yet carrying an unfamiliar strain that pricked at her subconscious.
"Where are you?" he asked, his tone clipped, a sharp edge she hadn't heard before.
"Namsan Tower," she replied, the joy of the evening still bubbling in her voice, a stark contrast to the subtle tension emanating from the man on the other end of the line.
A beat of silence stretched, then Taeyang's voice, a little softer now, cut through the night. "I'll pick you up." She hesitated, a faint ripple of confusion, but agreed, the thought of the familiar comfort of his presence outweighing the nascent unease. Minutes later, she slid into the passenger seat of his car, the warmth of the interior a welcome relief from the cold, biting air outside. He handed her favorite snacks, a silent, comforting gesture, but without his usual playful banter. "You didn't have to," she said softly, clutching the packet of treats.
"I wanted to," he replied, starting the car, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth. Their conversation flowed as it always did—easy teasing, familiar anecdotes, the comfortable rhythm of two souls who had known each other forever. Yet, beneath the surface, something felt distinctly off. His grip on the steering wheel was too tight, his knuckles white against the dark leather. His laughter, when it came, was just a second too late, a hollow echo of its usual genuine sound. "Taeyang," she said, her voice laced with concern, studying his rigid profile in the dim light of the dashboard. "What's wrong?"
His smile faltered, a fragile thing that barely held. "Just tired." She reached out, her fingers gently squeezing his hand on the wheel. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?" A beat. A pause that felt impossibly long, stretched thin with unspoken words. Then, a low, hesitant, "Yeah." She let it go, a knot of unease lingering in her chest. The rest of the drive was punctuated by the uncomfortable silence, the unspoken thickening of the air between them. Over dinner at their usual late-night spot, he was physically present, but his mind seemed miles away. Even as they shared stories and laughter with the ease of old friends, something unspoken hung between them, heavy and undeniable.
After he dropped her off at her apartment building, the familiar comfort of his car now tinged with a strange sorrow, Hana watched his taillights disappear into the city night, her chest tight with worry. Taeyang didn't go home. Instead, he drove aimlessly through the labyrinthine streets of Seoul, his mind a relentless storm, a maelstrom of fear and disbelief.
A few days ago, he returned to their old family home in Busan. The official reason for his trip was a case, a private investigation into suspicious activity surrounding an old farmer's massive assets. But the real reason, the one that now clawed at his insides, had emerged in the dust-laden silence of that familiar, yet now alien, house. He had accidentally stumbled upon a secret cabinet, cleverly hidden behind a loose panel in the study wall. Inside, he had found hidden documents, old photographs, and cryptic notes—pieces of a past that were never meant to see the light of day. The names, the dates, the circumstances detailed in those brittle papers didn't align with anything he had ever been told. A long-ignored suspicion, a nagging doubt he had always dismissed as childhood trauma, had suddenly blossomed into a terrifying, undeniable possibility. His parents. Hana's parents. A connection that was far more sinister than mere coincidence, a thread stretching back years, decades even.
Now, back in the stark, sterile confines of his private office, the cold glow of the forensic report illuminated his trembling hands. He scrolled through the findings, each line of text a fresh stab of dread. The truth was unsettling, a bitter pill to swallow, but it wasn't complete. It was a fragmented horror. Their parents hadn't died by chance. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't fate. But what was it? The cold, undeniable evidence in his hands screamed of something meticulously orchestrated, something designed to look like a tragedy but was, in fact, a deliberate act of malice.
A quiet horror settled deep in his chest, a chilling weight that stole his breath. He had spent years pushing away the doubts, convincing himself there was no reason to question the official story, no reason to delve into the painful past. But now, the clues whispered of something darker, something still out of reach, a truth that threatened to shatter their carefully constructed lives.
His fingers curled into a fist, white knuckled, his breath unsteady, a faint tremor running through his entire body. He couldn't tell Hana. Not yet. Not until he knew for sure, until every piece of the horrifying puzzle fit perfectly, until he understood the full scope of the danger that still lingered. He wouldn't put her through that, not after seeing her teeter on the brink of death, her life hanging by a thread. He couldn't.
With a deep, shuddering breath, he sent a terse, urgent request to reopen the long-dormant case files, citing newly discovered evidence. He had to find the truth, no matter the cost, no matter how terrifying. He had to find it before it found them first, before the shadows of the past consumed them entirely.
Jiwoon sat in his dimly lit room, drowning in a silence that felt heavier than usual. The world outside moved on, oblivious to the turmoil within, but inside these four stark walls, time had frozen, suspended in a perpetual state of agonizing despair. Shadows stretched long against the stark white walls, a haunting contrast to the internal chaos that ripped through his soul.
His hands moved feverishly over the canvas stretched before him, strokes raw and unrestrained, each movement a desperate attempt to externalize the maelstrom of his emotions. His room was lined with paintings—silent screams of his heart, moments he had captured but never shared, emotions too raw to articulate with words. Tonight, he painted without thinking, without stopping, driven by an urgency that bordered on madness. He didn't sketch, he didn't plan. He simply let the colors bleed from his fingertips, forming shapes and textures born directly from the agony in his chest.
When he finally stepped back, breathless, his fingers smeared with vibrant, yet mournful, colors, the image before him stole the air from his lungs.
Hana.
She was there, rendered in bold strokes and delicate washes of color. She was smiling, her face radiant, almost glowing with an inner light that seemed to defy the darkness of the room. Not as she was now, caught between tangled fates and the weight of an uncertain future, but as he saw her in his heart—unburdened, free, gloriously untouchable, a vision of pure, unadulterated joy. He painted her not as she was, but as he desperately wished her to be, a poignant reflection of his yearning.
A cold breeze, as if in silent judgment, slipped through the slightly ajar curtains, making the edges of the newly finished painting flutter slightly, a ghostly whisper in the quiet room. Jiwoon's eyes burned, hot and sharp, as he reached out, his fingertips ghosting over the painted image as if trying to hold onto something precious, something ephemeral, something slipping irrevocably away from his grasp. The canvas was smooth, cold, unyielding beneath his touch, a cruel reminder of the chasm that separated his desire from his reality.
A chuckle, bitter and soft, escaped his lips, a sound of profound resignation.
Even in his art, in the private sanctuary of his deepest desires, she was beyond his reach, a beautiful, unattainable dream.
Jiwoon turned away, dragging a shaky hand through his hair, the gesture one of profound weariness and defeat. He had long accepted that love was not always a thing to be won, a prize to be claimed through effort or merit. Sometimes, often, he had realized, it was a thing to be simply endured. A quiet, relentless agony that settled deep in the bones and refused to leave.
And so, he endured. Every breath, every beat of his heart, was an act of endurance, a testament to the unyielding burden of his silent affection.
Over the next few days, Taeyang became almost completely unreachable. He answered Hana's calls with short, clipped responses, always claiming to be swamped with work, perpetually busy. He wasn't avoiding her outright, not in a way that screamed defiance, but something was undeniably off. She felt it in the growing distance, in the chilling absence of their usual easy rapport, in the way his words lacked their accustomed warmth and affection. It was a subtle but profound shift, like a familiar melody played slightly out of tune.
Hana worried, a tight knot forming in her stomach, but she didn't know the storm raging inside him—the crushing weight of the truth he now carried alone, a secret so immense it threatened to consume him.
At the same time, Jiwoon felt different, too. At work, he moved through the bustling office like a ghost, his usual sharp focus dulled, his formidable intellect seemingly preoccupied. His colleagues whispered behind cupped hands about how distracted he seemed, how something in his eyes looked far away, distant, haunted. No one knew that behind his calm, composed mask, he was barely holding himself together, his carefully constructed composure a thin veneer over profound internal turmoil.
Hana, with her intuitive empathy, sensed it. She noticed the way both men, so different in their approaches to life yet so profoundly close to her, were slowly, subtly slipping into something unknown, something dark. Both were hiding something. Both were carrying a weight she couldn't yet see, a burden that radiated a quiet, unsettling despair.
Secrets wrapped around them like creeping shadows, tightening their hold with each passing day. And soon, inevitably, they would come crashing down, shattering the fragile peace that clung to their lives.
At the office, Hana knew, with an undeniable certainty, that something was profoundly wrong with Jiwoon. She could see it in the way he moved, a stiffness in his shoulders, a deliberate slowness in his gestures, as if he were carrying something too heavy for his frame. His eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, seemed clouded, distant, haunted by unseen worries. After work, determined to break through his carefully constructed facade, she took him out for a walk, leading him away from the stifling formality of the office building to a quiet garden nestled by the Han River. The night breeze was cool, rustling the leaves in the trees, a soothing counterpoint to the restless churn of her thoughts. They sat on a weathered wooden bench, the distant hum of the city blending with the soft, rhythmic sound of flowing water, a tranquil backdrop to the turbulent emotions simmering between them.
She turned to him, her gaze unwavering, searching his weary face. "Jiwoon, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice soft but firm, a silent insistence that he drop his guard.
He let out a small, humorless chuckle, a dry, brittle sound that offered no comfort. "It's nothing," he said, the lie thin and transparent, but the profound weight in his voice betrayed him utterly.
Hana wasn't convinced, not for a second. "You've been distracted, distant. You don't even look like you've been sleeping," she pressed, her concern deepening with each passing second. His normally pristine appearance was slightly disheveled, with subtle dark circles shadowing his eyes.
Jiwoon hesitated, his fingers curling into loose fists on his lap, a silent battle raging within him. And then, slowly, unexpectedly, he leaned toward her hesitantly at first, as if waiting for her to pull away, to reject his vulnerability. But she didn't. Instead, she stayed perfectly still, feeling the warmth of his presence as he rested his head on her shoulder, the surprising weight a tangible testament to his exhaustion and despair.
Hana's breath caught in her throat. Jiwoon never did things like this. He was always the strong one, the composed leader, the man who rarely showed a crack in his armor. He wasn't the type to seek comfort, to lay his burdens at someone else's feet. And yet, here he was, seeking solace in her presence.
She was about to say something, a comforting word, a gentle inquiry, when she felt it tiny, warm drops of moisture on her arm, soaking through the fabric of her sleeve. It took her a second, a disorienting moment, to realize the profound significance of what she was experiencing.
He was crying.
Her chest tightened, a painful constriction around her heart. Jiwoon never showed this side of himself, never let anyone see his pain, his raw vulnerability. And yet, here he was, breaking silently beside her, his quiet tears a testament to the immense burden he had been carrying alone.
She didn't speak. She didn't ask questions. She didn't offer platitudes. She just let him cry, letting him pour out the torrent of emotions he had bottled up for days, for weeks, for perhaps even longer. She simply offered her silent, unwavering presence, a steady anchor in his storm.
Minutes passed, marked only by the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant city hum. His quiet sobs slowly faded into silence, leaving only the soft rhythm of his breathing. His body, once tense and rigid against her, felt heavier now, relaxed in sleep, as his breathing evened out into the even cadence of deep slumber. Hana glanced down, her heart aching with a tenderness she hadn't known she possessed, and realized he had fallen completely asleep.
A small, soft smile touched her lips, a genuine expression of affection. He hadn't been sleeping properly at all, the realization hitting her with a fresh wave of concern.
Gently, tenderly, she ruffled his hair, her fingers sinking into the smooth, soft strands. The gesture was unconscious, born of a deep, caring instinct. "Cute," she whispered to herself, a warmth spreading through her chest.
Jiwoon didn't stir. His face, usually so stern and composed, was peaceful for the first time in days, all lines of tension smoothed away by sleep. Something about seeing him like this, so vulnerable and trusting, made Hana's heart ache with a profound, almost protective tenderness. On impulse, a sudden, powerful urge, she pressed a lingering kiss to the top of his head, her lips brushing softly against his smooth hair, a silent blessing.
As she did, still lost in the warmth of the moment, she loosely intertwined her wrist with his, not even consciously thinking about the action; it was simply an extension of her comfort and care.
But Jiwoon did.
Even in the profound depths of sleep, his fingers twitched instinctively, a slight tremor running through his hand, before slowly, possessively, they closed tightly around hers, as if holding on to something someone he was desperately afraid to lose. It was a subconscious gesture, yet it spoke volumes, a silent declaration of his deepest fears and desires.
A flicker of warmth, tentative yet undeniable, spread through him, even in his unconscious state. He didn't know what Hana truly felt, not definitively, not yet. But one thought, one fragile hope, gave him profound solace.
She wouldn't do this with just anyone, he reasoned, even in his sleep. If she were truly in love with Taeyang or someone else entirely, would she still be here, holding him like this, offering such tender comfort?
The thought made his chest tighten, a familiar ache, but for now, he let himself believe. He let himself hope. It was a fragile, desperate hope, but it was enough to pierce through the darkness that had consumed him.
Hana gently shook Jiwoon's shoulder. "Jiwoon, wake up," she said softly, her voice a gentle coaxing.
He stirred, his brows furrowing slightly, a flicker of confusion in his expression, before his eyes slowly fluttered open. For a second, he looked utterly lost, disoriented, as if he had forgotten where he was or how he had come to be there. Then his gaze landed on her, and something in his expression softened, a subtle shift from guarded weariness to a quiet, profound contentment.
"You slept for a while," she said, a warm, reassuring smile on her lips. "Feeling better?"
Jiwoon blinked a few times, clearing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, before straightening up, rubbing his neck with a groan. "Yeah… I think I am," he murmured, his voice lighter now, no longer weighed down by the unspoken sorrow that had plagued him. The tension that had held him captive for days seemed to have dissipated, leaving him feeling surprisingly refreshed.
Hana stood up and stretched, her muscles protesting softly but feeling more limber. "Come on, let's get some food. You barely eat properly these days," she chastised gently, her tone affectionate.
Jiwoon let out a small chuckle, a genuine sound that surprised even himself. "You sound like my mom," he teased, a playful glint entering his eyes.
She shot him a playful glare, a mock frown on her face. "Well, someone has to make sure you take care of yourself."
They walked together to a small, unassuming food stall nearby, the aroma of street food wafting enticingly on the cool night air. They ordered steaming tteokbokki and savory fish cakes, the simple, comforting flavors a welcome balm. The warm broth and spicy rice cakes were deeply comforting in the cool night air, a stark contrast to the emotional chill he had felt moments before. Jiwoon ate quietly at first, still absorbing the unexpected calm that had settled over him. But as the minutes passed, something about him felt… lighter.
Hana noticed it immediately. He was different now—not the distant, brooding Jiwoon from earlier, not the man whose eyes held such profound despair. He looked relaxed, at peace. He even teased her about how she always ordered too much food, a familiar banter returning to their interactions. And when she glared at him playfully, he just laughed. A real, genuine laugh that seemed to bubble up from deep within, unburdened.
Hana smiled, feeling a profound sense of relief washing over her. She thought it was because he had finally let his emotions out that the quiet tears and the shared vulnerability had helped him release the immense weight he had been carrying. She believed she had, in some small way, helped him heal.
What she didn't know what, she couldn't know, shrouded in the depths of Jiwoon's inner world was that his newfound happiness came from something else entirely.
For the first time in a long while, a seemingly endless period of agonizing despair, he felt like he had a chance.
He had convinced himself, in the cold, rational chambers of his mind, that his love for Hana was hopeless, an impossible dream. He believed, with crushing certainty, that she was always meant to be closer to Taeyang, their bond forged in a shared history he could never replicate. But tonight, as she had held him, as she had comforted him without hesitation, as she had kissed his hair so gently, so tenderly, he couldn't help but believe.
If she was truly in love with someone else, he reasoned, his heart clenching with the fragile hope, she wouldn't do those things, right? She wouldn't offer such intimate comfort, such unguarded affection.
Maybe she hadn't realized it yet. Maybe she just needed time to understand the depths of his unspoken feelings, to see him in a new light.
Jiwoon wasn't foolish enough to assume she felt the same way, not yet. He knew the path ahead was long and uncertain. But tonight, she had given him something he had long lost, something he had mourned as irrevocably gone.
Hope.
And that alone, that fragile, precious flicker of possibility, was enough to bring the smile back to his face, to lighten the crushing burden on his soul.
After finishing their meal, the quiet satisfaction lingering in the cool air, Jiwoon walked Hana back to her place.
"Thanks for tonight," he said, his voice soft, sincere. "I… needed it." His gaze met hers, a silent acknowledgment of the profound comfort she had offered.
Hana smiled back, a genuine expression of relief. "Anytime. Just don't bottle things up like that again, okay?" Her voice was gentle, a subtle plea.
Jiwoon chuckled, a low, warm sound. "I'll try."
They said their goodbyes at her door, a quiet, lingering moment of shared understanding. Hana watched as he walked away, his steps noticeably lighter than before, a spring in his stride that hadn't been there in days. She exhaled deeply, a profound sense of accomplishment settling over her. He seemed better now, truly better.
But her relief didn't last long.
Because soon, subtly at first, then undeniably, she noticed something else.
Taeyang.
He had been distant before, a worrying shift in their easy familiarity. But now, it felt worse. He barely spoke to her, his responses clipped and uninformative. He was always busy, always somewhere else, a phantom presence in her life.
He never even came home for the past few days, his apartment remaining dark and silent whenever she checked.
Hana sat on the couch in her apartment, her fingers gripping her phone tightly, a desperate attempt to ground herself against the growing wave of anxiety. She had texted him multiple times, her messages growing increasingly urgent, but there was no response. Had something happened? Was he okay? A deep, cold, uneasy feeling settled like a stone in her chest.
She tried to tell herself he was just caught up with work, or something incredibly important that demanded his full attention. She tried to rationalize his absence, to convince herself that there was a logical explanation. But she couldn't shake the creeping fear, the insidious dread that whispered of something far more sinister.
Where was he?
Why did it feel like he was slipping further and further away from her, becoming an elusive shadow?
And why, despite all her efforts to remain calm, did she have an overwhelming, terrible feeling that something was terribly, irrevocably wrong?