The sound of the door creaking open was faint at first, but it echoed in Ji-hoon's mind as if it were a thunderclap. He had grown accustomed to the silence, to the emptiness that had surrounded him ever since his mother's death. But this was different. This was an intrusion. A disturbance in his carefully constructed world of vengeance, grief, and rage.
He turned toward the door, instinctively reaching for the cold steel of the knife resting on the table beside him. His body tensed as the air shifted, a weight settling in the room as if something—or someone—had crossed the threshold. He could feel it, even without sight. The subtle change in temperature. The pressure in the air.
A woman's voice called out softly, almost apologetically, "Ji-hoon?"
Ji-hoon's fingers twitched at the sound of his name, and his heart skipped a beat. That voice. It wasn't like any other voice he had heard recently—no, this one was different. It was calm, measured, and full of something he couldn't quite place. A familiarity that didn't belong here.
"Who is it?" he asked, his voice rough, strained, as though he had been holding onto his anger for too long. His hand hovered near the knife. He was ready for whatever was coming, ready for another fight, another piece of the puzzle to fall into place.
There was a brief pause, as if the person on the other side of the door was unsure of how to respond. Then, finally, the voice spoke again, this time more firmly, but with an underlying tremor that betrayed a sense of vulnerability.
"My name is Ji-eun."
Ji-hoon's breath hitched. The name carried a weight he wasn't prepared for. Ji-eun. He had heard that name before, though it felt like a distant memory, one that had been buried beneath layers of time, pain, and loss. But now it resurfaced with startling clarity.
Ji-eun. Siwan's sister.
A mix of emotions surged within him—anger, confusion, and a sickening dread. He had never imagined that Siwan had a sister, let alone someone who could be standing here now, so close to him, offering nothing but silence and a name he wasn't sure he could trust.
His grip on the knife loosened slightly. His mind raced, but he couldn't quite make sense of the situation. Was this a trick? Another attempt to get close to him, to manipulate him the way Siwan had done all those years ago? His instincts screamed at him to stay guarded, to keep his distance, to never trust anyone who had any connection to the monster who had stolen his mother's life.
But there was something about the way she had said his name, the way her voice quivered, that made him hesitate. She wasn't like the others. There was a rawness to her, a vulnerability that stood in stark contrast to the cold, calculating demeanor of her brother.
He didn't respond right away, his mind too clouded with suspicion and the need to protect himself from more pain. But something about the stillness in the air, the heavy silence that filled the room, made him feel the weight of the moment.
"Why are you here?" His words were harsh, biting. He needed answers.
Ji-eun seemed to take a deep breath, steeling herself against whatever words she had to say. The sound of her exhale came through the door, heavy and deliberate, before she finally spoke again, her voice softer this time, with an edge of sadness he hadn't expected.
"I'm not here to hurt you, Ji-hoon. I just... I need to talk to you. I need to explain something."
Ji-hoon's mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. What could she possibly have to explain? What could a sister like her have to say to him after everything her brother, Siwan, had done? His pulse quickened as the anger surged again, but he pushed it down, clenching his fists and forcing himself to take a breath. He didn't know what she wanted. He didn't know if he cared. But there was a part of him, a small part buried deep inside, that needed to understand. He needed answers.
Without thinking, he stood up, his body tense, ready for whatever confrontation awaited him. He stepped toward the door, each step deliberate, each one a silent battle with his own emotions. As his hand reached for the doorknob, he felt the weight of the decision bearing down on him. Could he really let her in? Could he trust her?
The door creaked open slowly, revealing the figure on the other side. Ji-eun stood there, framed by the dim light of the hallway, her face partially obscured by shadows. She was taller than he expected, with long dark hair that fell in waves around her shoulders, and her expression was one he couldn't quite read. She was older than him, probably in her late twenties, but there was something youthful about her, something fragile that seemed out of place in this cold, violent world they both inhabited.
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, there was only silence. Her gaze was intense, filled with a mixture of sorrow, regret, and something else—something he couldn't place. She didn't speak right away, as though she were waiting for him to make the first move, to decide whether or not he would let her in.
Ji-hoon stood still, his breath caught in his throat. His heart was pounding, and his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, none of them clear enough to act on. For a long moment, he simply stared at her, trying to decipher her intentions, trying to figure out what this woman, this sister of Siwan, could possibly want from him.
Finally, Ji-eun spoke, her voice quieter than before, but still firm.
"I'm not like him." Her words hit Ji-hoon like a slap, unexpected and jarring. "I know you probably think I am, but I'm not."
Ji-hoon felt his chest tighten at her words, a knot of confusion and anger twisting inside him. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice cold and distant, despite the emotions raging within him. "Siwan killed my mother. You're his sister. How can I trust you?"
The words spilled out before he could stop them, laced with the fury that had been simmering in him for so long.
Ji-eun winced, as though the words physically hurt her. "I know what he did. I know what you think of him," she said, her voice low and broken. "But you need to understand, I didn't have a choice. None of us did. He—"
She stopped herself, shaking her head. "I didn't come here to defend him. I came here to tell you the truth."
Ji-hoon's breath hitched at her words, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of something other than anger. Something like hope, or maybe just curiosity. But that was dangerous, wasn't it? Hope was a weakness, a crack in the armor he had built around himself.
He didn't say anything. He just waited, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.
Ji-eun swallowed hard before continuing. "Siwan's not the person you think he is. I know what he did to your mother, and I know how much pain it's caused you. But there's more to the story. There's always more."
She took a tentative step forward, her eyes not leaving his. "Please, Ji-hoon, just let me explain."
The door between them was still half open, but it felt like an insurmountable barrier between two worlds—his, filled with nothing but darkness, and hers, full of secrets yet to be uncovered. The question now was whether Ji-hoon would be willing to listen, or if he would let the door close forever, leaving all the unknowns locked away in the shadows.
Ji-hoon didn't answer right away. The silence stretched so long it began to hurt. Ji-eun stood in that gap between the hallway and his world, her presence pressing against every wall he'd built since his mother's death. The knife on the table, cold and waiting, called to him less now. And he hated that. He hated how her voice was cracking those barriers like she knew which stones to pull.
"Come in," he said, the words gravel in his throat.
Ji-eun stepped in cautiously, as if she were walking into a memory she didn't belong in. And maybe she was. Ji-hoon shut the door behind her and turned his face slightly toward where she stood, listening. His cane leaned against the wall, untouched. He didn't need it right now. The sound of her breathing, the scuff of her boots against the old wooden floor, even the rustle of her coat—it painted a picture clearer than any sight could offer.
She didn't speak immediately. That surprised him. Everyone else who'd come close had always rushed. Rushed to lie, to persuade, to cry, to tell him what he should feel. Ji-eun didn't. She just stood there in his silence, not trying to fill it. And something about that made him more uncomfortable than if she had screamed.
Finally, she said, "You don't know me. But I remember you."
He stiffened. "What?"
"I saw you once. At the funeral. You were standing beside the casket, holding your manager's hand like you might float away if he let go. I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't belong there. But I came anyway."
He could hear the weight in her voice. She wasn't trying to impress him. She was… sad. Not the kind of sadness that people weaponized for sympathy. The quiet kind. The kind that sits with you like cold hands around your ribs.
"You're saying you were there?" he said, stepping closer. "When she—when my mom…"
Ji-eun nodded, then realized he couldn't see it. "Yes."
His hands curled into fists. "Then why didn't you say anything back then? Why wait years?"
"I was afraid," she admitted. "Si-wan… he wasn't just my brother. He was the one who paid our bills. He was the one who got me through college, who kept everything in line. But I always knew he had a darker side. And I was afraid of what would happen if I stood against him."
"You should have been afraid of what he'd already done," Ji-hoon hissed. "He murdered her."
Ji-eun didn't flinch. "I know. I know that now. I think I always knew, but I wasn't brave enough to look straight at it."
Ji-hoon turned away, his hands trembling. This wasn't rage like the kind he felt during fights. This was worse. This was the kind of fury that came with shame. He hated how much her words echoed in him. How he, too, had turned away from truths he didn't want to believe. He had known, deep down, something was off long before the night his mother died. But he hadn't said anything either.
"How old were you?" he asked quietly.
"Twenty-two," she said. "Old enough to make choices. Old enough to be guilty."
A silence settled again, but it was different this time. Not cold or empty. It was the kind of silence that let things rise to the surface—old memories, buried thoughts, feelings that had been exiled from his mind for years.
"I don't know what to feel right now," Ji-hoon muttered. "You come in here, and I want to scream at you. But I also want to… ask you questions. I want to know if she ever said anything to you. If she ever talked about me. If she—"
"She did," Ji-eun interrupted softly.
His breath caught. "She what?"
"She talked about you." Ji-eun stepped closer, slowly. "Not often, not like people do when they brag about their kids. But with this reverence. Like you were the only light she'd ever known. Like the music you played was something she didn't just love, but needed."
Ji-hoon's knees almost buckled. The room spun slightly as those words landed in his chest like bullets made of love and loss. He stumbled backward, hands hitting the wall behind him, trying to keep himself upright.
"She said she was scared," Ji-eun continued, her voice shaking now too. "Scared that Si-wan would find out what you meant to her. Scared that he'd try to break that, like he broke everything else."
"He did," Ji-hoon whispered. "He did break it."
"No," Ji-eun said firmly. "He didn't. She saved you, Ji-hoon. You were the reason she stayed strong for as long as she did. She knew what was coming, and she never once tried to run from it. She told me… she told me that if she had to choose between her own life and yours, she'd choose you every time."
Ji-hoon's chest ached so deeply he could hardly breathe. His mother had always been soft-spoken, gentle in her own quiet way. But strong? He'd never realized. Not like this. Not enough. His tears came without permission, angry and painful. He didn't wipe them away.
"She was the only person who ever made me feel whole," he said, voice breaking. "The only one who knew how to listen to silence."
"I think she still is," Ji-eun said.
He didn't respond. He couldn't. There was too much in him—too much grief, too much guilt, and something newer. Something he hadn't felt in a long time. The edges of hope. The idea that maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.
He turned his head toward her. "Why now? Why tell me this now?"
Ji-eun took a moment before answering. "Because the door was always open, Ji-hoon. You just didn't know. And neither did I. But I want to be someone who doesn't look away anymore."
Ji-hoon laughed, but it wasn't kind. "You want redemption."
"I want truth," she said. "Redemption comes after. Or maybe it doesn't. But truth first."
He nodded, slowly, still breathing hard. His face was wet with tears, and his chest hurt with every inhale. But there was something different now. A crack in the grief. A breath of fresh air leaking through a door left open.
And he wasn't ready to close it. Not yet.