The funeral ended before Ji-hoon was ready for it to end.
Not because he wanted it to last ,but because once it was over, the world would expect him to return to normal. To cry less, to smile more ,to heal.
He stood beside the framed photographs of his parents, dressed in black that felt too large for his small body. The incense smoke curled upward, heavy and suffocating, clinging to the air like memories that refused to fade.
Adults came in waves.
Relatives he barely knew clasped his shoulders and sighed deeply, as if grief was something that could be performed convincingly enough to feel real. Neighbors bowed their heads, whispering apologies they didn't mean and promises they wouldn't keep.
"I'm so sorry," they said.
"You must be strong," they said.
"Time will heal everything," they said.
Ji-hoon smiled at each of them.
Not wide. Not forced. Just enough.
He learned quickly that grief made people uncomfortable. They wanted tears because tears reassured them. Silence frightened them.
So he gave them what they wanted.
He nodded when spoken to and thanked them politely, he accepted envelopes of condolence money with a bow that was practiced and precise, he memorized faces, voices, reactions. Those who avoided eye contact, those who lingered too long, those who whispered behind their hands.
Some people were afraid.
That mattered.
Near the back of the hall, he noticed two men in dark suits speaking quietly. They weren't family. They didn't cry, they didn't offer condolences, they observed.
One of them glanced at Ji-hoon briefly,..only for a second, but it was enough.
The man looked relieved.
Ji-hoon pretended not to notice, but his mind locked onto the detail like a nail hammered into wood.
They think I'm harmless.
The realization settled deep in his chest.
At school the following week, everything felt wrong.
Teachers spoke gently to him, their voices lowered, as if noise itself might break him. Classmates whispered behind his back, unsure whether to approach or avoid him. Some looked at him with pity. Others with curiosity.
A few with something worse.
During break, a boy blocked his path and smirked.
"Hey," the boy said. "You live alone now, right?"
Laughter followed.
Ji-hoon stopped walking. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at the boy—not angrily, not fearfully, but calmly. Like an adult assessing a child throwing a tantrum.
The boy faltered.
Ji-hoon said nothing. He simply stepped around him and continued walking.
The laughter died quickly.
That afternoon, Ji-hoon wrote his first rules in a small notebook he hid beneath his mattress.
Rule One: Never react immediately.
Rule Two: People reveal everything when they believe they have power.
Rule Three: Silence makes others careless.
At night, the house felt larger than it ever had before.
He moved through it quietly, opening doors that had always been closed to him. His parents' bedroom. His father's study. The shelves of books he had never been allowed to touch.
He didn't cry.
Crying would waste time.
In the study, he noticed details he had ignored before, locked drawers, neatly stacked files, faint burn marks in a trash bin. His fingers hovered over a file labeled with unfamiliar company names before he pulled his hand back.
Not yet.
He wasn't ready to understand everything. Acting too early would only attract attention.
That night, lying in bed, Ji-hoon stared at the ceiling and listened to the silence.
It no longer frightened him.
Silence was honest. It didn't pretend. It didn't lie.
Outside, the city continued to move cars passing, people living, powerful men sleeping peacefully.
None of them noticed the boy who was watching.
None of them realized that the smile they found comforting was the first mask he had ever learned to wear.