The living room was quiet, almost unbearably so.
Eun-ji sat on the floor beside her husband's still body. The diary rested heavily in her hands, pages trembling slightly under her grip. The chocolate cake lay untouched. The tulips, bright and delicate, leaned against her arm, their scent faint but achingly familiar.
Her phone vibrated sharply against the hardwood. An unknown number.
She lifted it, voice steady but low.
"Who is this?"
The voice that answered was smooth. Controlled. Cold.
"Detective Kang Eun-ji," it said.
Her eyes narrowed, steel replacing sorrow.
"I was wondering when you'd arrive," the voice continued, unhurried, deliberate.
"You," she said, flat, accusing.
"You solved my painting faster than expected," the voice purred.
"You killed him," she spat, anger cutting through the fog of grief.
A soft chuckle.
"No," came the reply. "I chose him."
Her fingers clenched around the phone, knuckles white.
"I will find you," she said, voice tight, unyielding.
"I know," the voice said calmly. Then, slower, deliberate: "That's why I chose you. The real game begins now."
CLICK.
Silence reclaimed the room.
The sound of footsteps—soft, small—echoed in the stillness. Her children ran in, eyes wide. They froze. Then they saw everything.
"Dad...?" Her daughter's voice was a broken whisper.
They rushed forward, shaking him, calling his name.
"Dad! Wake up!" the boy cried.
"Please!" their voices entwined, fragile, desperate.
Eun-ji pulled them close, cradling them in her arms as tears streaked her face. All three of them broke. The living room, once ordinary, had become a battlefield of loss. Behind them, the red paint on the wall dripped slowly, a silent, watching presence.
The gray sky above Seoul Memorial Park pressed down with the weight of mourning. The wind stirred gently, brushing over rows of meticulously planted flowers.
A coffin hovered above an open grave, black against the earth. A small group stood silently. At the center: Kang Eun-ji, in a black coat, her gaze distant, almost empty. Her son and daughter held her hands, trembling.
The priest spoke, voice calm, resonant:
"May his soul rest in peace."
The coffin descended. A wave of grief washed over the children again. Eun-ji clung to them, shielding, grounding, holding onto the fragile remnants of her family.
A few steps away, her team watched in silence—Lee Mi-ran, Eun-chae, Officer Jung.
"He didn't deserve this," Jung murmured softly.
"None of them did," Mi-ran replied. Her voice carried pain, quiet but full.
Eun-chae's fists clenched at her sides. "He made it personal."
Mi-ran's gaze hardened. "It already was."
Eun-ji knelt, placing the tulips carefully atop the coffin. The same ones. She stared, her breath shallow. Memories flickered—the cake, the diary, his voice echoing faintly in her mind: "I always loved you."
Her eyes closed. A long, shuddering breath.
Mi-ran stepped closer, hand resting on her shoulder. "We're with you," she whispered.
Eun-chae nodded firmly. "We'll end this."
Jung stepped forward. "Whatever it takes."
Eun-ji rose slowly, deliberately. A different woman now. Harder. Sharper. The grief still there, but now sharpened into resolve.
"This ends with him," she said quietly, voice low, certain.
The wind passed through the park, stirring the tulips atop the coffin. Her children's small hands gripped hers. She turned.
Her team fell in step behind her.
Not just a case anymore.
A war.