The air in the room was thick with tension, like the moment before a storm breaks. Ji-hoon stood at the threshold of a new reality, one that he hadn't expected to find when he first started his journey down this dark path. His breath came in shallow gasps, and his hands, though steady, trembled ever so slightly as they gripped the old, weathered piano in front of him. The keys, silent and still, seemed almost mocking in their stillness. His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, the memory of the music that used to flow so easily from his hands now feeling like a distant, unreachable dream.
He could hear the faint echoes of his mother's lullaby in his mind, the way it used to sound when she'd play it late at night, when the world was quiet and the darkness seemed alive. The music used to soothe him, but now it only twisted the knife deeper. The piano had become a symbol of loss. It wasn't just a piece of music to him anymore—it was a reminder of what he had lost, what he had sacrificed, and what he was willing to destroy in order to keep moving forward.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden click, followed by the sharp hiss of a hidden tape recorder coming to life. Ji-hoon froze, his heart skipping a beat. He didn't remember setting the recorder, nor did he know why it had started playing now. It wasn't a mistake; it wasn't a coincidence. Something about this felt deliberate, calculated, like the start of something far more dangerous than anything he had yet encountered.
The faint voice crackled through the speaker, a voice he recognized but hadn't heard in years.
"Ji-hoon, if you're hearing this, then you've come too far," the voice said, low and smooth, dripping with an unsettling calmness. It was Baek Chan-gyu.
For a moment, Ji-hoon didn't know whether to feel shock or rage. Baek Chan-gyu, the man he had come to hate above all others, was speaking to him from a place he couldn't see, from a world that seemed to linger on the edge of his own. The message was clear: this was no ordinary encounter.
"I know you're angry," Chan-gyu continued, "and I know you think this is all about revenge. But it's never been about revenge. Not for me, and not for you."
Ji-hoon's hands clenched at his sides, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he fought to keep control. He had heard enough lies in his life to last a thousand lifetimes, and he wasn't about to listen to another one.
"Listen carefully," Chan-gyu's voice grew colder, more sinister. "Your mother didn't die because of me. She died because of you. The deal was always about keeping you safe, keeping you out of this world, but she made her own choices. She chose to protect you, and in doing so, she chose to die."
The words hit Ji-hoon like a physical blow, his knees nearly buckling under the weight of the revelation. His breath caught in his throat as he tried to process the meaning of what he had just heard. His mother... had died because of him? It didn't make sense. He had always thought of her death as a consequence of the twisted world that had taken her from him. But this, this was something different. His mind spun as he tried to understand, to grasp the full extent of the truth.
"Don't think you can outrun this, Ji-hoon," Chan-gyu's voice was insistent, taunting even. "The more you dig, the more you uncover, the deeper you fall. You think you've gotten revenge, but you haven't. The real enemy isn't me. It's the truth you're avoiding."
The words lingered in the air, each one heavier than the last. Ji-hoon's pulse hammered in his ears as his hands trembled above the keys, his fingers itching to play but not knowing what to play. He couldn't escape the message. It was inside him now, poisoning his thoughts, driving him to places he wasn't sure he wanted to go.
"Your mother made a deal," Chan-gyu continued, his voice smooth, almost comforting in its familiarity. "She sold her soul for you. She gave up everything she had, and in the end, it wasn't enough to save her. You were never meant to know any of this, but I'm giving you the choice. You can stop now, Ji-hoon, before you go any further. Because once you do, there's no coming back."
Ji-hoon stood frozen, the weight of the words settling over him like a shroud. He didn't know what to believe anymore. The world had always seemed so simple to him before, but now it felt like everything he had known was being torn apart piece by piece. Was this the truth? Was his mother's sacrifice really as complicated as Chan-gyu made it sound? Or was this just another lie, another manipulation to keep him from getting too close to the truth?
His fingers hovered over the piano keys once more, and this time, without thinking, he pressed down. A single note rang out, filling the empty room with its haunting resonance. It wasn't a note of triumph or even of sorrow—it was something between the two. A note that seemed to capture the very essence of his turmoil, his confusion, and his pain. The music that once comforted him now only deepened the chasm inside him.
The tape recorder clicked off, the silence that followed suffocating in its intensity. Ji-hoon sat there for a long moment, the world around him fading away. All he could hear was the echo of the note he had played, a sound that seemed to follow him, growing louder and more insistent with every passing second.
The message had been delivered. There was no turning back now.
Ji-hoon slowly rose from the piano bench, his body moving on autopilot. His mind was reeling, and the anger that had been a constant companion for so long now felt like a smoldering ember, barely contained beneath the surface. He wasn't sure where this path would lead him, but one thing was certain: the next steps he took would define the rest of his life. And the truth he had just uncovered, whether he liked it or not, would guide him every step of the way.
The silence in the room felt heavier than it ever had before. Ji-hoon stood at the piano, his fingers still poised over the keys, though his mind was a far cry from the music that had once flowed effortlessly through him. The sharp words from Chan-gyu's voice echoed in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. He could hear the taunts, the accusations, the challenge to uncover the truth. But now, more than ever, he realized how little he truly understood about his mother's death and the tangled web of deceit surrounding it.
His fingers, though blind, were still familiar with the piano, the keys worn and smooth from years of use. Yet tonight, even their familiarity couldn't bring him comfort. Instead, the piano had become a distant, hollow reminder of everything he had lost. His heart beat faster, his chest constricting with the pressure of emotions he had tried to ignore for far too long.
Blindness was something he had grown used to. He had learned to navigate the world without sight, relying on his other senses—his hearing, his touch, his memory—to guide him. But the truth he had just heard… it was something beyond what he could process with his other senses. No matter how much he focused, how hard he tried to grasp the meaning of Chan-gyu's words, it was like trying to read in the dark.
His mother had made a deal. She had sacrificed her life for him. For him. The very thought of it twisted in his stomach, making him feel both ashamed and desperate. He had always believed his mother's death was a cruel twist of fate, something beyond her control, something forced upon her. But now, hearing Chan-gyu's voice, the truth felt more like a betrayal than anything else. Had she truly known what would happen to her? Had she made a conscious decision to sacrifice her own life so that he could live? Or had it been a mistake—a tragic error that led her down a path she couldn't escape from?
Ji-hoon stood there in the stillness of the room, unable to bring himself to move. The emptiness around him pressed against him, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the full weight of his blindness. He couldn't see the world around him; he couldn't see the faces of the people he had trusted, nor the enemies who had brought him to this point. He couldn't see the truth, no matter how hard he tried to reach for it. But he could feel it—he could feel the lie, the deception, the sting of his own ignorance.
His hands clenched into fists, the tension in his arms so tight that it hurt. He had always prided himself on his strength, his ability to push through the darkness and navigate the world without sight. But now, the very thing that had kept him grounded—his ability to stay focused, to stay in control—was slipping from his grasp. His mind was spinning, caught between the anger and the overwhelming sense of betrayal. His mother, the one person who had always been his anchor, had kept so many secrets from him.
How could he have not known?
His breath quickened, his pulse racing as he moved away from the piano. His cane, once a tool of independence, felt like a lifeline he didn't know how to use. Every step he took seemed unsure, as if the very ground beneath him was shifting, and for the first time, he wasn't certain of where to go. The darkness had always been his companion, but now it felt suffocating, like an oppressive weight that threatened to crush him.
He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't understand how everything had gone so wrong.
But then, a sound broke through the chaos in his mind. A soft tapping, almost imperceptible, but distinct enough to draw his attention. His head snapped toward the source of the sound, his body going rigid, all his senses on high alert.
"Ji-hoon?" A voice called out, soft and tentative.
It was Seol-ah. He recognized the voice, even without seeing her. He had heard it enough times to know the timbre, the quiet strength in her words, the subtle concern that always seemed to underlie her voice when she spoke to him.
"Seol-ah?" He breathed, his voice hoarse, raw with the emotions he couldn't fully express.
Her footsteps were light, the soft shuffle of her shoes against the floor a comfort amidst the chaos swirling in his mind. She was close now, her presence steady and grounding. He could hear her breathing, slow and measured, like she was trying to match his rhythm, to calm the storm inside him.
"I… I'm here," she whispered, standing beside him. "You've been standing there for a while. What happened? What did Chan-gyu say to you?"
Ji-hoon didn't answer immediately. He didn't know how to explain it to her. How could he? How could he explain the suffocating feeling of betrayal, the unbearable weight of knowing that his mother had given her life for him—sacrificed everything so that he could live, only for him to be left in the dark, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of the truth?
He could feel her reach out, her hand brushing lightly against his arm. The warmth of her touch offered him no answers, but in that moment, it felt like the only thing that might hold him together.
"Ji-hoon…" Seol-ah said again, this time more firmly. "You don't have to face this alone."
Her words, simple as they were, broke something inside him. He had always prided himself on facing his pain alone, on carrying the weight of his grief without asking anyone for help. But now, standing there in the middle of the room, he realized that he couldn't keep doing it. Not anymore. He couldn't keep pretending that he could face everything on his own. Not when the truth was this heavy, this painful.
"I—" His voice cracked, and for a moment, he couldn't continue. He had always tried to be strong, to hold onto whatever sense of control he could manage, but now, with Seol-ah standing beside him, he felt the walls around him begin to crumble.
"Seol-ah…" he whispered again, this time more desperately. "She died for me. My mother… she gave her life for me. And I didn't even know. I couldn't see it."
Seol-ah didn't say anything at first, but Ji-hoon could feel the weight of her gaze, even though he couldn't see it. She understood. She understood the depth of the betrayal, the anger, the sorrow. And she understood how hard it was to face the truth when it was too painful to comprehend.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Seol-ah spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "You don't have to carry it all on your own, Ji-hoon. You never did. Let me help you. Let us help you."
For the first time in so long, Ji-hoon felt the weight of his blindness lift, not because his sight had returned, but because he realized that he wasn't alone anymore. And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step toward finding the answers he so desperately needed.