The air was thick, saturated with the lingering scent of something metallic, something pungent and unmistakable. It clawed at Ji-hoon's senses, choking him with its familiarity. The smell of blood, not just in the air but seeping into his very skin, into his mind, like an insidious stain that refused to be erased. It clung to the walls, the floor, the very breath he took. The scent had always been there, in his memories, faint but undeniable—an undercurrent to everything that had happened, to everything that was about to unravel.
Ji-hoon's footsteps echoed through the empty hallways as he moved, his body moving on instinct, his mind a thousand miles away. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be alone with this feeling, with the weight of all the things that had been buried in the darkness. But every step he took pulled him further into the suffocating silence, further into the place where everything began. Where everything had fallen apart.
The blood was always there. Not in the way it would spill out in an instant, a sudden act of violence. No. It was more like a memory, a residue of something that had already happened, something that couldn't be undone. The echo of a crime he hadn't been able to stop. He thought back to the night his mother died, when everything changed. The way the air had felt then—the chill, the stillness of the room. And then the sound of her voice, the panic, the horror. And then nothing. Just the smell of blood, soaking everything, drowning out the light.
The path led him toward the conservatory, the one place he never wanted to return to. It had always been a place of tension, of secrets whispered behind closed doors, of lies spun into something more dangerous than truth. But it was here, in this place, where everything started to come undone. This was where he had first seen Si-wan for what he truly was—someone who had turned away from him, who had hidden the truth in plain sight.
Ji-hoon's heart beat faster as the conservatory doors came into view. The faint sound of music filtered through the cracks, the same mournful tune that had been playing when Hye-jin was alone in the practice room. It was as if the building itself was alive, breathing the same heavy, stagnant air that filled his lungs. He hesitated, his hand resting on the cold metal of the doorknob, and for a moment, he wondered if he should turn back. But there was something in him that refused to retreat. The scent of blood—of death—was too strong, and it pulled him in like a magnet, dragging him forward, even as his stomach churned in protest.
The doors creaked open, and the air hit him like a punch to the chest. It was different here, colder, sharper. The scent of blood mingled with something else—a feeling that couldn't be named. It was the kind of atmosphere that made your skin crawl, made you feel as though the world was on the edge of collapsing, as if everything was teetering on the brink.
Ji-hoon's eyes scanned the room, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw the figure standing by the grand piano, their back turned to him. It was Si-wan.
He wasn't surprised to see him. Not anymore. But still, seeing Si-wan here, in this place, in this moment—it stirred something inside him. Something dangerous, something wild that he had tried so hard to suppress. The blood that stained his past, the lies that had been told, the murder that had never truly been solved—it all came rushing back, flooding his mind.
Si-wan didn't turn around. He didn't acknowledge Ji-hoon's presence at all, as if he were alone in this dark, forgotten space. He just stood there, his fingers hovering over the piano keys, a cold and calculated look in his eyes. It was the same look Ji-hoon had seen on him so many times before—an expression that told him nothing, that kept him at arm's length, even as they were bound by the same horrible truth.
Ji-hoon's voice cracked as he spoke, his words coming out in a low, raw whisper. "You knew, didn't you? You knew all along."
Si-wan's fingers finally moved, pressing down on the keys with deliberate precision. The music that emerged was haunting, twisted, a sharp contrast to the somber melody that had been playing just moments before. It was discordant, off-key, like the sound of something breaking.
"You always knew," Ji-hoon repeated, his voice trembling with anger and something darker. "You knew who did it. You knew everything."
Si-wan didn't respond. He just played, the music wrapping itself around Ji-hoon like a chain, tightening with every note. It was maddening. The way Si-wan was so calm, so detached from it all. The way he could sit there, playing as if nothing had happened, as if they weren't standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall into the abyss together.
Ji-hoon's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into the palms of his hands until it hurt. "I don't understand," he said, his voice hoarse. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you help me? You were there. You were the only one who could have stopped it."
Si-wan stopped playing, his hands hovering above the keys, his head tilting slightly to the side, as if considering Ji-hoon's words. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned to face him. His eyes were cold, distant, like they had always been. But there was something different now. Something in his gaze that made Ji-hoon's skin crawl. Something that made his blood run cold.
"You think you know everything, Ji-hoon," Si-wan said, his voice low and smooth, like velvet hiding a knife beneath it. "But you don't. You never did."
Ji-hoon took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest. "Then tell me! Tell me what happened. Tell me who killed her. Tell me the truth!"
For a moment, Si-wan said nothing. He just looked at Ji-hoon, his expression unreadable. And then, finally, he spoke.
"It's too late for truth now," he said, his voice filled with a quiet menace. "The blood has already been spilled. And it doesn't matter who did it, because in the end, we're all guilty."
Ji-hoon's breath caught in his throat. The words hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air out of him. It was the final nail in the coffin—the realization that everything he had thought was true, everything he had believed about himself and about Si-wan, was a lie. The truth was irrelevant now. They were all complicit in what had happened, all of them, tangled in the web of their own actions and the things they had allowed to happen.
The scent of blood in the room became overwhelming, and Ji-hoon stumbled back, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. It was suffocating, drowning him in the past, in the things he couldn't change. The blood, the death—it was all he had left now.
And as he stood there, alone in the dark, the reality of it all settled over him like a shroud. There was no escape from this. No way to outrun the truth. They were all trapped, caught in the same twisted fate, forever bound by the blood they had spilled.
The room seemed to close in around Ji-hoon, the walls pressing inward as the weight of Si-wan's words settled like a cold, suffocating fog. Blood. Guilt. The haunting realization that none of them could escape what they had been a part of, no matter how far they tried to run from it. He could feel it tightening around his throat, strangling him slowly, inch by inch.
Si-wan's figure loomed in the dim light, the shadow of a man who had long since shed any pretense of humanity. There was no remorse in his gaze, no regret for the choices he had made or the lives he had ruined. He was a puzzle, a riddle Ji-hoon would never be able to solve, and it infuriated him to no end. Every time he thought he was getting closer to understanding Si-wan, to uncovering the truth, it was like the pieces of the puzzle shifted, leaving him with nothing but fragments and questions.
"You don't get it, do you?" Si-wan's voice broke through the heavy silence, his tone cool and detached. "It's never about right or wrong. It's about survival. We did what we had to do. We all did."
Ji-hoon's heart thudded painfully in his chest, his hands trembling at his sides. He wanted to scream, to demand more, but the words were stuck in his throat, tangled in the web of disbelief and anger that had consumed him for so long. "No. That's not an excuse. You didn't have to hurt anyone. You didn't have to—" His voice faltered, choked by the enormity of what he was saying. "You didn't have to kill her."
Si-wan's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous passing across his features. "You don't know what it's like to be cornered, Ji-hoon. To have no choice but to push everything aside, everything you thought you believed in, and do what needs to be done to survive. You have no idea what it feels like to be completely alone in the world, with no one but yourself to rely on."
The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, and Ji-hoon struggled to breathe through the pressure building inside him. He wanted to believe him, wanted to understand what had driven Si-wan to do what he had done, but all he could feel was the emptiness in his chest, the hollow ache that had been there since the night of his mother's murder. That ache had never gone away, and now, it seemed to be growing, spreading through him, consuming him with a hunger that wouldn't be satisfied.
"I'm sorry," Ji-hoon whispered, his voice barely audible, barely holding together. "I'm sorry for everything. For not seeing you, for not understanding you. But this… This is not who you are. It can't be."
Si-wan's lips curled into a faint, bitter smile, and for a moment, Ji-hoon thought he might see a hint of something human in him, something he could connect with. But then it was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating mask that Si-wan had worn for so long. "You're wrong. This is exactly who I am. You just couldn't see it."
The words struck Ji-hoon like a blow, and he recoiled, as if physically hurt by the weight of them. He had never wanted to believe it. He had wanted to hold onto the image of Si-wan as someone he could save, someone who could be redeemed. But the longer he stood there, the more he realized that the man before him wasn't someone who needed saving. He was someone who had already made his choices, and those choices had led them to this moment.
"I never wanted to hurt you, Ji-hoon," Si-wan continued, his voice softening, just slightly. "But you've been standing in the way of everything I've worked for. All of it. And now, you're too far gone to understand."
Ji-hoon's breath caught, a strangled sob escaping from his chest. "I didn't want to be in the way. I just wanted answers. I just wanted to know what happened to her. To my mother."
Si-wan's expression darkened at the mention of Ji-hoon's mother. For the briefest moment, Ji-hoon saw something flicker in his eyes—a momentary flash of guilt or hesitation, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "She was never part of the plan, Ji-hoon," he said, his voice low, almost regretful. "She didn't belong in this. But sometimes, things happen. People get in the way. And they get hurt."
The words hung in the air, thick with the weight of truth Ji-hoon had been unwilling to confront. It wasn't an accident. It was never an accident. His mother had been a casualty, a sacrifice in a game that he hadn't even known existed. He had been so focused on the mystery, so desperate for answers, that he had failed to see the bigger picture—the truth that had been staring him in the face all along.
A silence fell between them, the kind of silence that comes after a bomb has gone off, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. Ji-hoon's thoughts spun in chaotic circles, his mind racing to make sense of everything that had been revealed. But the more he tried to grasp at the pieces, the more they slipped away, vanishing into the void where everything else seemed to be lost.
"I can't undo it," Si-wan said, his voice colder now, as if the emotional weight of the moment had been discarded, like an old, discarded coat. "None of us can. But I can make sure it all ends. For good."
Ji-hoon's stomach twisted. "What does that mean? What are you planning?"
Si-wan's eyes gleamed, dark and filled with purpose. "It means I'll finish what we started. Once and for all."
The words hit Ji-hoon like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He took a step back, his mind struggling to catch up with what Si-wan had just said. "What are you talking about? You can't—"
But Si-wan was already turning away, his fingers brushing the piano keys in a slow, deliberate motion. The sound was haunting, as if the music itself was the final seal on the dark path they had both walked.
"I can," Si-wan said softly, his voice barely a whisper now. "And I will."
Ji-hoon's world shifted, the ground beneath him unsteady, as if the very foundation of his reality had cracked open. The scent of blood—the one he had been trying to outrun—was back, sharper now, burning his nostrils, suffocating him. He knew that whatever came next, it would be too late. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, but the final picture wasn't one he was prepared to face.
He was already too late.