The cold air stung Ji-hoon's skin as he stepped out of the building, his breath curling like ghosts around him. His hands were steady now. That alone terrified him.
He had always imagined that if the day ever came when he truly lost control—when the emotions finally pushed past the limits of grief and into something darker—he would be shaking, overwhelmed, maybe even paralyzed. But instead, there was a frightening calm settling over him, like still water before a violent storm. The silence inside his head was no longer peaceful. It was waiting.
He'd spent the last three days in silence, barely speaking to anyone. Even Joon-won had given up trying to ask what he was planning. But Ji-hoon knew. He had made the decision the moment he discovered the name of the location. It was buried in the detective's notes. Not obvious. Not even listed as a primary location during the original investigation. Just a name. A warehouse. A front. One of the places the men who hurt his mother used to meet. A place she had gone. Maybe the last place she'd been before her body was found.
Ji-hoon didn't need to see it to feel it. The moment he stepped foot near it, he knew. The scent. The bitter tang of fuel. Mold. Smoke. Metal and something else—something human, like sweat soaked into walls and floors over time. This place had held pain. It still did.
He found it late that night, after hours of walking, tracing the same routes over and over again with his cane tapping the pavement like a second heartbeat. It had taken time, but eventually, he stopped outside a worn-down industrial structure that stank of old oil and memory. His fingers brushed over the rusted fence. He had brought the jerrycan with him. Bought it three hours ago. Filled it with gasoline at a 24-hour station. The man behind the counter had asked no questions, but Ji-hoon could tell he was being watched. He didn't care. Let them watch.
He had made his choice.
The warehouse creaked as he stepped inside, the old floorboards groaning beneath his feet. Every step echoed. His cane tapped the ground, steady, deliberate. He traced his way along the wall, found the edges of old crates, broken chairs, empty beer bottles. Places where people had waited. Laughed. Hid. Maybe hurt her.
Something inside him burned hotter than the gasoline in his hands.
He unscrewed the cap. The scent flooded the air, sharp and overwhelming. He moved carefully, spreading it like ink over a page, like he was painting a memory that deserved to be erased. He imagined their faces. The men. The silence in the courtroom. The smiles when there wasn't enough evidence. The way they had walked away like they hadn't taken everything from him.
He poured it along the walls, around the crates. He imagined her here, trapped, scared, trying to protect him even with her last breath. His jaw clenched. He didn't cry. There were no tears left for this part. Just fire.
The matchbook he had taken from the convenience store felt small in his hand. Just cardboard and sulfur. But it held so much more than that. Ji-hoon crouched down near the entrance, just far enough from the fumes, and struck the first match. The hiss was soft. Almost delicate. He waited, letting the flame tickle the tip of his fingers, and then dropped it.
The world didn't explode like in the movies. The fire didn't roar. It crawled first. Like a snake. Finding its way across the path he had drawn. It kissed the walls, tasted the floor, then grew greedy. Hungry.
He stepped back slowly, the heat chasing him as he moved out into the night. The fire behind him rose, bright and brutal, and Ji-hoon stood facing it as it consumed the past. He couldn't see it, but he felt the warmth press against his face. He imagined the orange dancing in the black sky, a scream of flame against a quiet world.
This wasn't revenge. Not exactly. It was a warning. A declaration. The people who had taken her from him thought they had erased her. Thought they could live quietly in the ashes.
But now the ashes were burning again.
He didn't flinch when the sirens began to scream. Somewhere far off, someone had seen it. Maybe a neighbor. Maybe a camera caught the reflection of fire in his face. He didn't care. He turned, calmly, his cane tapping the sidewalk again, walking away from the ruin he had left behind. It wasn't over. This wasn't the last place that held her ghost. But it was a start.
Somewhere inside, he felt the first flicker of peace—not complete, not even close—but a small sense of justice. And with it, the growing need for more. Because there were more names. More places. More people.
Tonight, he had touched the fire.
And he wasn't afraid to burn again.
The fire was his protest. Ji-hoon's silent scream.
He didn't run when he left the warehouse. He walked. Steadily, like a man on his way home from a grave. In some ways, he was. The soles of his shoes caught the heat rising from the pavement, and the distant sirens were like background percussion to the storm beginning in his chest. The closer he got to the city, the more his heartbeat became a metronome of something new—rage in rhythm, fury in measure.
He didn't speak. Not when Joon-won called again, begging him to respond. Not when Hye-jin sent a message asking where he'd disappeared to. He ignored them all. There was too much noise inside. Not the kind made with mouths. The kind made with memories.
He stopped at the footbridge overlooking the Han River, standing still. He leaned against the rail and turned his face to the wind. And in the rhythm of the wind and water, he heard her voice.
"You're stronger than the world believes, Ji-hoon."
He touched his temple. He used to think she meant strength in music, in emotion. But now he knew what she had really meant: that one day, he'd have to protect her memory with more than piano keys. That one day, he'd have to stand in fire to make the world hear her name again.
He made his way back to his apartment just before sunrise, sweat drying on his skin, soot darkening his sleeves. He collapsed on the floor before even reaching the bedroom. His cane clattered beside him. It was the first time he had let his body feel what his heart was doing.
He dreamt of smoke. And screams. And her face, looking at him, proud—but sad.
The next morning came like a crash. Police reports were already circulating. The warehouse was on every local news channel. Fire departments claimed arson. But no evidence had been recovered. Ji-hoon had worn gloves. Burned his clothes. Taken a longer route. No cameras had caught his face. And he had been so careful—so impossibly careful—that he felt like a ghost watching the damage he'd left behind.
Yet it didn't feel like enough.
He met Joon-won later that day. The manager looked at him like he didn't recognize him. Ji-hoon had lost weight. His cheeks were sharper. There was an intensity in his stillness now that made people nervous.
"What did you do?" Joon-won asked, his voice low.
"Something I should've done a long time ago."
"That place—it was in the report. That warehouse was used by the men who…" Joon-won stopped. Couldn't say it. Not with Ji-hoon's face so calm.
"I found her blood on the floor," Ji-hoon lied. "I smelled it."
Joon-won stared at him, horror warring with heartbreak.
"They didn't deserve to keep their secrets hidden," Ji-hoon continued. "Now the whole city knows that building was part of something dirty. The case might be reopened. New eyes. New attention."
"You could've been caught—"
Ji-hoon tilted his head. "Then I would've burned for her."
Joon-won reached across the table and grabbed Ji-hoon's hand. "You still have to live. Don't forget that."
"I am living," Ji-hoon said. "This is what that looks like now."
A week passed. More buildings connected to the old case began to surface in quiet conversations. Ji-hoon didn't have proof, not yet—but he had instincts. He had memories. And most of all, he had people willing to help now: Hye-jin, who kept her ear to the ground among the musical elites where whispers traveled like rumors in a haunted opera house. Joon-won, who quietly sifted through government archives and buried reports.
And Ji-eun.
Si-wan's sister had finally sent a message.
"We need to talk. I know what he did."
Ji-hoon read the message with steady hands. He didn't respond for a while. Then, at midnight, he sent back two words: "Where. When."
The fire had awakened something bigger than rage. It had cracked open a buried world. The media hadn't connected Ji-hoon to the arson. But they had connected the warehouse to Si-wan's father's old business. The man who had disappeared from public view after the trial. The man whose money and influence had kept certain witnesses from ever testifying.
And Si-wan, the golden boy of the classical scene, began to crack.
Whispers about him were louder now. He still smiled during interviews. Still played like the world bowed to his fingers. But there were notes slipping through. Off-beat moments. Glitches in performances too perfect before. Even critics noticed. The press blamed stress.
Ji-hoon knew better.
He could hear the lie in Si-wan's vibrato now. Hear the guilt.
The day after meeting Ji-eun, Ji-hoon returned to the ruins of the warehouse. It had been cordoned off. Ash and melted steel. The smell was still there. The death of secrets.
He bent down, fingertips brushing the ground.
"Are you watching me?" he whispered.
The wind rustled in reply. Somewhere far off, the city sang its morning song.
He stood up.
"Good. Because I'm not done."
He found the next address three days later. A small property in the mountains—used, according to a buried lease, by one of the men who had never been charged but had been seen near the court building during his mother's trial. The man had disappeared shortly after. No contact. No family. The place was empty now.
Ji-hoon packed nothing but matches, gloves, and a recorder.
But when he arrived, the air wasn't empty. Someone had been there recently. He could smell it. Soap. Cigarettes. Something metallic.
And in the darkness of that broken cabin, Ji-hoon heard a voice.
"I was wondering when you'd come."
It wasn't the man he was looking for. It was someone else.
Ji-eun.
He froze.
"I've been here," she said, slowly walking toward him. "I've been waiting. I didn't know who else would come back. But I knew someone would."
He lowered the recorder. "Why this place?"
"Because my father used to bring Si-wan here," she said. "And once, he brought your mother too."
He said nothing. But she continued.
"She screamed. I was outside. I was a kid. I didn't understand. But I do now."
Ji-hoon clenched his fists. "What did he do?"
"I don't know everything," she whispered. "But I heard him yell something about the baby. About keeping her quiet. About how she was going to ruin everything if she told the police."
Ji-hoon felt the world spin. "She tried to expose him."
Ji-eun nodded. "And Si-wan… he knew. He saw everything."
Ji-hoon felt the fire return.
This time, he didn't strike a match.
He just stood there, inside that haunted place, the ashes of history pressing in on him from every corner.
"I'll make him confess," he said. "Even if I have to burn every lie down to do it."
And Ji-eun, for once, didn't stop him.
She just nodded.
Because now, the truth had a witness.
And the fire had only just begun.
And would destroy everyone who tried to ruin his family's life