Ji-hoon's world had shifted in a way he never thought possible. The chaos, the violence, the years of pursuing revenge—they were all behind him now. It felt surreal, like an echo from another life that no longer had a hold on him. For the first time in years, he could breathe without the constant weight of vengeance hanging over him. His days were quieter now, filled with moments of peace he had almost forgotten were possible.
But peace didn't mean clarity. There was a lingering uncertainty in Ji-hoon's mind, a feeling that something was still unresolved. He tried to shake it off, to embrace the calmness he had fought so hard for, but the questions gnawed at him, even in the silence. Had it really worked? Was Siwan truly gone from his life, or had something else taken his place?
The days after everything fell apart had been a blur. He'd returned to a life that no longer felt like his own, to the people who had remained after the storm. His therapy sessions with Hye-jin became less about the trauma of the past and more about moving forward, piece by piece. And yet, each session left him with an emptiness, as if a part of him had been left behind in that final confrontation with Siwan. The fight, the plans, the betrayals—everything had led him to that moment, and yet now, all of it felt distant, almost insignificant.
Ji-hoon found himself walking through the streets, a place he had once avoided, now familiar and strangely comforting. The rain had started again, light at first, then heavier, turning the city streets into rivers. The sound of it, the rhythmic patter against the ground, had once felt like an omen, but now it was just noise—background to the life he was beginning to carve out for himself.
He passed by the music store where he had once sat for hours, listening to the melodies of other pianists. He didn't go in anymore. The piano had lost its hold on him, its strings no longer pulling him toward it. Maybe it was because he had learned that no matter how much music filled the silence, it couldn't fill the hole left by everything he had lost. The constant search for meaning, the push and pull of anger and grief, was something that no song could fix.
But his steps kept moving forward, guided by something deeper than memory, deeper than loss. He had to believe that he was moving in the right direction. No more looking back. No more dwelling on the past.
It wasn't until the night when he received the letter that the cracks in his calmness began to show. It came unexpectedly, slipped into his mailbox without warning. The envelope was simple, no return address, no markings to indicate who had sent it. Ji-hoon hesitated for a moment before opening it, the weight of it making his heart race. It was a single piece of paper inside, the words typed out in a font that he didn't recognize. His eyes skimmed over the message:
"I never really left."
It was short. Cryptic. And yet, it hit Ji-hoon like a punch to the gut. The world around him seemed to tilt, and for a moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe. The memory of Siwan's voice, his final words, flooded back into his mind. He had told him, hadn't he? He had told him that he was blind—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. And now this—this letter—was a reminder that Siwan's presence was far from gone.
Was it really over? Had he truly won? Or had he just entered a new chapter in a game he didn't fully understand?
Ji-hoon tossed the letter aside, the uncertainty gripping him. He wanted to ignore it, to tell himself that it was nothing, that Siwan was gone for good. But the feeling lingered, suffocating him from the inside. He didn't want to return to that place—he didn't want to go back to the darkened corners of his mind, where revenge had once consumed him. But the letter, and the twisted implications of it, wouldn't let him forget.
He spent the next few days in a haze, constantly looking over his shoulder, waiting for something—anything—that would signal Siwan's return. He went about his life as if nothing had changed, but the unease never left. Every time the phone rang, every time someone knocked on his door, his heart skipped a beat. Was it him? Was it Siwan, finally coming for him, for the things he had done?
Ji-hoon tried to convince himself that he had done the right thing, that he had taken control of his life once and for all. But deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, that his every move was being monitored. It wasn't paranoia—he knew what it felt like to be hunted, to be a pawn in someone else's game. But this was different. He wasn't sure if he was still fighting the war or if the battle had already ended, and the scars were simply left behind.
Days turned into weeks, and still, there was nothing. No sign of Siwan. No messages. No new threats. The silence began to feel suffocating, like a weight on his chest that he couldn't escape. It was as though the world had gone quiet, and Ji-hoon, for the first time in years, felt utterly alone.
He returned to his therapy sessions with Hye-jin, who had noticed the change in him. She'd asked him what was wrong, what had happened. Ji-hoon wanted to say something, wanted to tell her the truth, but the words caught in his throat. How could he explain this lingering doubt, this fear that something was still out there waiting for him?
"I don't feel like I'm done," he said quietly one afternoon, his voice trembling with the weight of his admission.
Hye-jin looked at him with concern, but she didn't press him further. Instead, she let the silence fill the room, letting him sit with his thoughts, just as he had been doing for the past few weeks.
Ji-hoon closed his eyes, trying to block out the noise of his racing thoughts. Was he really free? Was it really over? Or had Siwan won in the end by leaving him in this perpetual state of uncertainty?
The storm had passed. The world was still. But the silence, heavy and thick, refused to let him go.
The next morning, Ji-hoon found another letter on his doorstep.
It was simple, just like the last one. But this time, it was different. This time, it had a name on it.
"Ji-hoon, we're just getting started."
His heart stopped. The silence that had once been so welcome now felt like the loudest noise he had ever heard.
Siwan was still out there.
The game wasn't over. And neither was Ji-hoon's fight.
Ji-hoon stood frozen at the door, staring at the letter in his hands. His heart pounded in his chest, a primal fear rising in him. He had thought the silence would last, that the calmness he had worked so hard to cultivate would be his new reality. But this—this was a sign, a cruel reminder that Siwan's shadow still loomed over his life.
He could feel his pulse quicken as he ripped open the envelope. The words on the page seemed to blur for a moment as his breath caught in his throat. His hands shook as he held the letter, the paper crinkling under his grip. He read it again, forcing himself to comprehend the cold, simple truth in front of him.
"Ji-hoon, we're just getting started."
The words echoed in his mind, like a haunting refrain, over and over. Siwan was alive, and he wasn't done with him. He hadn't just disappeared into the night, as Ji-hoon had dared to hope. No, Siwan had been playing a game this whole time, and Ji-hoon had unknowingly walked right into it. The letter wasn't just a message; it was a declaration of war. Siwan wasn't finished. He never would be.
Ji-hoon's thoughts turned dark. The remnants of anger, the deep wounds from his past, all of it resurfaced in an instant. His mind was a whirlwind of fury and confusion. Had he really believed that Siwan was gone? That all the years of torment, the brutal confrontations, the manipulation, and the violence had come to an end? His mistake had been thinking he could walk away from this, that the closure he had sought would ever come. Siwan's presence wasn't just in the past—it was a shadow he would never escape.
His hands clenched into fists. The letter felt like a weight on his chest. His breathing came in ragged gasps as his mind raced through countless possibilities. What was Siwan planning now? What was he going to do next? Would this be another game of manipulation, of trying to control Ji-hoon's every move, to drive him mad with fear and uncertainty? Or was this something more dangerous—something that would push him to the edge?
He needed answers. And if Siwan wasn't going to play by the rules, then neither would Ji-hoon.
Ji-hoon's gaze flickered to the corner of the room, where his old piano sat. The once-cherished instrument now seemed like a distant memory, a symbol of everything he had lost. Music had been his escape, his solace in the darkness. But it had all come crashing down when Siwan had twisted the meaning of everything Ji-hoon held dear. The piano had once been the one place he could truly express himself. Now, it only reminded him of the lies, the betrayals, and the bloodshed.
He wasn't going to hide anymore.
Taking a deep breath, Ji-hoon folded the letter and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He knew what he had to do. He had been through too much to back down now, too much to let Siwan think he could control him. He was done playing Siwan's game. Ji-hoon had lost too much already, but he wasn't about to lose his life, too. Not without a fight.
He walked over to the window, staring out into the city below. The streets were quiet, the world seemingly unaware of the war that was about to erupt between him and Siwan. Ji-hoon's thoughts were sharp, focused. He needed to prepare. He needed to think.
This time, it wouldn't be about revenge. Not in the way it had been before. Ji-hoon had done that already, and it had cost him everything. No, this time, it was about survival. He needed to outsmart Siwan, to take control of the situation before his former enemy could strike again. The letter had been a warning, but it was also an invitation. Siwan was daring Ji-hoon to make a move. And Ji-hoon wasn't about to back down from a challenge.
His first step was clear. He needed to get to Siwan, to confront him face-to-face. There was no more room for ambiguity, no more second-guessing. Ji-hoon knew that Siwan wouldn't make it easy, but he also knew that this was a fight Ji-hoon had to win. The stakes were higher than ever, and there would be no mercy this time. Siwan had already taken enough from him. It was time for Ji-hoon to take control once and for all.
He grabbed his jacket from the chair and pulled it on. The familiar weight of it settled on his shoulders, a reminder of the man he used to be—the one who had once believed in justice, in the right to seek vengeance for the wrongs done to him. But that man was gone now, replaced by someone who knew the cost of revenge all too well.
His heart raced as he headed for the door, his mind already calculating the next steps. He couldn't afford to be impulsive this time. He couldn't afford to make mistakes. Every move had to be deliberate, every decision calculated. Siwan was unpredictable, dangerous. But Ji-hoon had been through enough battles to know how to handle a fight.
As he stepped into the hallway and made his way down the stairs, his thoughts flashed back to the final moments of his confrontation with Siwan. The violence, the bloodshed—it had all felt so overwhelming, like it would never end. But Ji-hoon was no longer that person, no longer driven by blind rage. Now, he was driven by something else—something colder, something darker. It was about strategy, about outmaneuvering Siwan at every turn.
He couldn't do this alone, not anymore. He needed help. There were people who still cared for him, people who could help him take down Siwan once and for all. But he couldn't trust anyone completely—not after everything that had happened. The only person he could count on now was himself.
As Ji-hoon stepped out into the streets, the cold air biting at his skin, he knew one thing for certain: Siwan hadn't won. Not yet. And he never would.
The game was far from over.