The world doesn't destroy you all at once. It watches first, then decides how loudly to burn your name.
The internet didn't just burn, it imploded.
By morning, Kang Joon-ha's name had become both prayer and curse.
Headlines screamed across every platform, glowing through countless screens like digital pyres:
"Kang Heir Knew, and Said Nothing."
"Joon-ha: The Silent Witness to Ji-woo's Death?"
"Memory Loss or Convenient Amnesia?"
Clips of his interviews resurfaced, dissected frame by frame. Every smile, every pause, every hesitant breath, now branded as deceit.
His silence was no longer interpreted as grief. It was guilt.
His artistry, once praised for its vulnerability, was now labeled manipulation.
A betrayal beautifully performed.
Fan accounts turned into tribunals. Comment sections became execution grounds.
People streamed themselves burning his albums, live, their faces half-lit by flames, chanting his name like an exorcism.
The hashtags trended globally within hours.
#KangLied.
#JusticeForJiWoo.
#SilenceIsGuilt.
And at the center of the chaos, Joon-ha sat in his penthouse, alone, watching the world unravel him.
He didn't cry.
He didn't speak.
He just watched.
The screen flickered with a panel of analysts debating whether he was mentally unstable, narcissistic, or sociopathic.
He muted the sound, but the images kept moving, his own face replaying like a broken confession.
He looked like a man being buried alive by pixels.
Somewhere between one click and the next, he whispered, not to the world, not even to himself, but to the ghost of Ji-woo that lived in his guilt:
"You said truth was a light.
But no one told me it burns the one who holds it."
His reflection stared back from the black screen, tired, trembling, unbelieved.
And for the first time in years, Joon-ha realized that silence could scream louder than words.
Areum didn't expect it to spread so fast.
She had sent the message in the dark trembling, half-crying, half-convincing herself she was doing the right thing.
But by dawn, the story had mutated, multiplied, and turned carnivorous.
The truth had teeth now.
And it was hers.
She hadn't known about the Amnex-9.
Hadn't known he was a victim too, a man whose memories had been rewritten, repainted, erased.
But now it didn't matter.
The world had chosen its villain.
And she had handed them his name.
Her apartment felt smaller than it ever had before.
The glow of the screens was harsh, hundreds of notifications, messages, anonymous numbers.
"Are you the whistleblower?"
"Do you have proof?"
"Tell us more about Joon-ha!"
Her phone buzzed relentlessly.
She didn't answer.
She just sat on the floor, back against the wall, hands trembling.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to destroy you."
But apologies don't unburn bridges.
And truth once unleashed, doesn't ask for permission.
Somewhere beyond her window, the city roared in outrage.
And inside, she felt the slow realization sink in:
She had done exactly what Kang Industries wanted.
They didn't have to silence Joon-ha.
She had done it for them.
At the airport gate, Eun-woo stood still, passport in hand, boarding pass tucked neatly into his coat.
The departure board blinked:
Zurich — 10:45 p.m.
His name was called over the intercom, calm and sterile.
"Final boarding for Flight 270 to Zurich…"
He didn't move.
He waited until the last announcement faded, then turned and walked away from the gate.
He didn't board.
Instead, he slipped into a black car waiting outside, the driver silent, the rain slicing through the windshield like glass.
The city lights blurred, neon streaks bleeding together as he stared out the window.
He didn't call Mirae.
He didn't call Choi, Ara or Joon-Ha.
He didn't even turn his phone back on.
He just disappeared, not to escape, but to stay hidden in plain sight.
Because sometimes, the best way to survive is to let the world believe you're gone.
His thoughts echoed against the hum of the road:
"Maybe this is how ghosts are born,
not from death, but from decisions."
_________________
President Kang's office was colder than usual.
The walls themselves seemed to hum with control, every inch precise, sterile, predatory.
Kim Ara stood across from him, her posture immaculate, her silence sharper than any accusation.
Kang poured himself a drink, the sound of ice clinking echoing through the still air.
"You've been busy," he said.
She didn't respond.
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "You think I don't know?"
Still, she said nothing.
He took a slow step closer. "You've been feeding Choi. You've been leaking files. You've been playing both sides."
Ara met his gaze calm, deliberate, dangerous.
"I've been surviving."
Kang's laughter was low and cruel. "You think you're clever, Ara. But you're not the first to try to outmaneuver me."
"No," she said softly. "But I might be the last."
His smile froze.
For a moment, the air between them went sharp.
He set his glass down and stepped closer, the light from the window cutting across his face like a scar.
"Stay out of it," he warned. "This isn't your war."
She tilted her head, voice like glass breaking.
"It became mine the day Ji-woo died."
His tone dropped to a whisper. "You think you're righteous. You're not. You're just another pawn."
She leaned forward until their faces were inches apart.
"Then break me," she said.
"But remember this, pawns are the first to move.
And sometimes, they take the king."
Kang's eyes darkened. "You're making a mistake."
"Then I'll make it beautifully."
He turned away. "Get out."
Ara left without another word, her heels silent against the marble floor.
But as the door clicked shut, she smiled faintly.
He was afraid.
And fear makes monsters reckless.
That night, Joon-ha sat at his piano.
The apartment was dark, shadows breathing against the walls.
The only light came from the muted television, another talk show, another panel dissecting his silence like vultures around a corpse.
He turned it off.
Silence devoured the room.
He opened his sketchbook.
The same words stared back at him in jagged ink:
I am real. I am real. I am real.
He pressed his palm against the page as if trying to feel the heartbeat of a truth he could no longer prove.
But the world didn't believe him.
And maybe, just maybe, neither did he.
He stood, walked to the window.
Below, the city pulsed angry, alive, electric. Screens in the buildings around him glowed with his face, headlines flashing like a thousand verdicts.
He whispered, "I didn't kill him."
But no one was listening.
The city didn't hear confessions, only echoes.
He rested his forehead against the glass, eyes unfocused.
"If memory can be rewritten," he murmured, "then what part of me ever belonged to myself?"
Outside, thunder rolled.
Inside, silence cracked open like a wound.
"Truth isn't light," Joon-ha would think later.
"It's a blade. And the first thing it cuts is the hand that holds it."
And as he stood there, watching his reflection vanish into the dark glass, somewhere across the city,
a gun was being loaded.
But for now, all he could hear was the soft hum of the city preparing for war.