Flashback
The office was too quiet.
Too still.
Silence in President Kang's world was never emptiness; it was pressure. It was a room built to swallow confessions whole.
Ji-woo stood across from the man, the file in his hand trembling just enough for the papers to whisper against each other. He had rehearsed this moment a hundred times, in mirrors, in empty hallways, in the dark corners of the trainee dorms. He had imagined the rage, the confrontation, the justice.
But he hadn't imagined this weight.
This suffocating air.
This man.
He swallowed. "You knew," Ji-woo said, voice low but clear, slicing through the quiet. "About the trainees. The contracts. The overdoses."
President Kang didn't look up. He poured himself a drink, the sound of ice clinking loud and elegant, the punctuation mark to a sentence no one dared finish.
"I know many things," he replied.
Ji-woo stepped forward. He placed the file on the desk between them, the pages spreading slightly as if desperate to breathe.
"You buried them," he said. "You paid off families. You silenced the ones who tried to speak."
President Kang finally lifted his gaze calm, unbothered, precise.
"I manage crises," he said.
"You covered crimes," Ji-woo snapped.
Kang tilted his head, amusement brushing the corner of his mouth. "You think truth matters in a world built on perception?"
"It matters to the dead," Ji-woo whispered.
"Ah," Kang said softly. "But they don't vote. They don't buy stocks. They don't speak."
Ji-woo's hands curled into fists. "You killed them."
Kang swirled the drink, ice tapping glass like a heartbeat. "I saved the company."
The words were so casual, so unashamed, that Ji-woo felt something cold coil inside him not fear.
Disgust.
"And if you think your little file will change anything," Kang said, leaning back, "you're more naive than I thought."
Ji-woo stepped closer, breath trembling. "I'm not afraid of you."
President Kang's smile sharpened. "You should be. Because you're not just threatening me."
A pause.
"You're threatening my son."
Ji-woo froze.
Kang continued, voice silk wrapped around steel.
"You think Joon-ha will survive a scandal tied to you? You think the world will forgive him for being my heir?"
"I'm not here for Joon-ha," Ji-woo said. But the truth wavered somewhere in his voice.
Kang heard it.
He stood, stepping close enough that Ji-woo could smell the whiskey on his breath.
"You want justice?" Kang whispered. "Then you've already made your choice."
Ji-woo turned to leave.
Kang's voice followed him.
Cold. Final.
"You won't make it to morning."
Ji-woo didn't respond.
But he knew.
As he walked out of that office, a truth settled into his bones:
He was already dead.
Two Weeks Before His Death
The rooftop of the trainee dorms was their sanctuary.
Up here, the world below felt distant, muffled, irrelevant. The city lights were blurred stars. The air tasted cleaner. Time felt slower.
Ji-woo sat with his legs dangling over the edge, Soo-min leaning her head against his shoulder. Her hair smelled of paint and late-night ramen, the scent of the only innocence they had left.
"I hate this place," Soo-min whispered.
Ji-woo smiled. "I know."
"But I love you," she said softly.
He turned, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Then we'll leave. One day. We'll disappear."
She laughed, that soft, fragile sound she only let him hear. "You always say that."
"Because I mean it."
She looked at him then, eyes full of something trembling and eternal. "Promise me?"
"I promise," he said. "We'll find a city where nobody knows our names. We'll open a bookstore. You'll paint. I'll write songs. We'll be free."
She kissed him slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing him.
For a moment, Ji-woo believed the universe would let them keep each other.
For a moment, they were infinite.
"Some people don't live long lives," she whispered. "But they love deeply enough to make it count."
Ji-woo held her tighter.
He didn't know the world had already chosen to break that promise for him.
Three Days Before His Death
A quiet café.
A corner booth.
Two coffees gone cold.
Joon-ha watched Ji-woo with tired eyes.
"You look exhausted."
Ji-woo laughed under his breath. "I've been digging."
"Into what?"
"Everything," Ji-woo said. "The contracts. The overdoses. The disappearances."
A shadow crossed Joon-ha's face. "You think my father is behind it?"
"I know he is."
Joon-ha looked away. "Then stop."
"I can't."
"Ji-woo," Joon-ha said quietly. "He doesn't lose."
Ji-woo reached across the table, placing a flash drive in Joon-ha's trembling hand.
"If anything happens to me… give this to Areum."
Joon-ha stared at it, horror hollowing his expression.
"Don't talk like that."
"I'm not afraid," Ji-woo said.
"You should be," Joon-ha whispered. "Because you're not just threatening him."
A beat.
"You're threatening me."
Ji-woo softened.
"You're not him."
Joon-ha looked up, eyes glassy. "But I'm his son."
Ji-woo leaned in, voice steady.
"Then be better."
________________
The Night Ji-woo Died
The city was too quiet.
Ji-woo walked alone through the industrial district, the file tucked beneath his coat, the streetlights flickering like dying stars. His phone buzzed over and over, Soo-min, Joon-ha, Areum.
He didn't answer.
He reached the loading bay behind Kang Industries, the place where he'd seen the van, the place where the missing trainees vanished into unmarked darkness.
He didn't see the man behind him.
A flash of movement.
A hand gripping his shoulder.
A whisper:
"You were warned."
Then the fall.
Air rushing.
Darkness folding.
No time for last words.
But Ji-woo didn't scream.
He reached out.
And somewhere miles away, worlds away, in Joon-ha's nightmare, a hand reached back.
For the first time.
In the dream Joon-ha keeps having, Ji-woo finally reaches back.