The rain came down the way it always did—uninvited and unforgiving. Ji-hoon felt it before he heard it. The way the air thickened, dense with the smell of wet pavement and old memories. It settled like a pressure in his chest, tight and familiar. Even in the quiet of his apartment, with the blinds pulled down and the lights dimmed to a soft, ambient hum, he couldn't escape it. The rain always brought the scent. Always reminded him.
It didn't matter if he was inside, warm, or tucked away from the storm. His senses always found it. The faintest trace of cologne. The kind that was too sharp. Too thick. Too... wrong.
He didn't need to see the person who wore it. He just had to feel the air shift.
It was the same scent his mother's killer had worn.
Ji-hoon set down his coffee mug on the small, wooden table, his fingers brushing the surface carefully. Even without sight, he could navigate the room with the same ease as he did a piano. The space had become an extension of himself. Every inch, every angle, every shift in the air was burned into his body like the notes of a forgotten song. But today, the room felt smaller than usual. The weight of the rain pressed in through the walls, drawing out something he didn't want to face. Something that clung to him like the scent.
He could hear Joon-won's voice faintly in his mind, You don't have to do this. Let it go.
The thought twisted inside his gut. Let it go. It was impossible. Not after everything he'd uncovered. Not after that smell had come back to haunt him.
He reached for his cane, his fingers trembling just slightly as he took hold of it, pushing himself up. He didn't need to know where the door was. He already knew. He didn't need to see the rain outside; he could feel it in the chill creeping into the air. The rain didn't care that he couldn't see. It didn't care that his memories were blurred by time. It had a way of cutting through everything. That scent. The way it filled his lungs and sank into his bones.
The first few steps were slow, deliberate. The cane tapped the floor, but the rhythm didn't match his heart. His pulse was already too fast. He stood by the door, the soft patter of the rain louder now, and placed his hand on the handle. His breath hitched for a brief moment as a faint wave of dizziness washed over him.
It was that damn cologne again. It hung in the air, thick, like smoke that wouldn't dissipate.
He turned the handle, stepped out into the hallway.
There was no one there.
No one standing in the empty corridor, no one who could possibly have left that lingering trace in the air. It was just him, just the steady tick of time, and the persistent sound of the rain against the windows.
But there it was again.
The cologne.
He could feel the air shift around him, the distinct edge of a presence he couldn't place. His fingers clenched around the cane as his mind raced, his chest tightening. There was no physical presence, but something in the way the rain hit the windows, something in the way the air felt—it was too close.
"Stop," he whispered to himself. "Just stop."
He turned back toward the apartment, letting the door click shut behind him. He didn't need to go further into this. He didn't need to know who had left that scent in the air. He didn't need to find out why it had come back now. Not tonight.
Ji-hoon returned to the piano, feeling the smoothness of the keys beneath his fingertips. But even as he began to play, the sound felt off. Dissonant, like a song being played in the wrong key. He could hear the rain against the window, each droplet a reminder of how much was out of his reach. Of how much was slipping through his fingers. He tried to push it out, tried to focus on the music. But the harder he tried, the more it fell apart.
And then, a soft knock.
It was impossible not to hear it, even with the pounding of the rain outside. Ji-hoon's hand froze on the keys. He didn't need to ask who it was. He could feel the weight of the moment hanging in the air, thick and heavy. The scent was gone now, replaced by an unfamiliar presence—a different kind of tension.
He didn't stand immediately. He didn't rush to open the door. Instead, he let the silence grow between the knock and the moment when he finally rose to answer it.
The door swung open. And there she was.
Her name was Hye-jin, and Ji-hoon had only met her once before—the night he played at the conservatory's gala. She was the violinist, the one who had looked at him with something beyond just pity. There was no mask of sympathy in her eyes, no forced smile. Just... recognition. Like she understood something he hadn't spoken out loud. She wasn't like the rest of them. She wasn't like the crowd that applauded his performance and moved on to the next big name. No, there was something in her gaze that made him wonder if she knew more than he'd ever said.
And now, here she was again.
Standing in front of him, the rain drenching her hair and coat, dripping onto the floor. She looked... unsettled. A little too tired for someone who was supposed to be on the brink of something great, on the edge of fame. Her eyes were darker than Ji-hoon remembered, her smile thinner. She wasn't smiling now, though. No, her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes darted from the ground to his face and back again.
"Hi," she said softly. "Sorry to drop by unannounced. It's just... I didn't know where else to go."
Ji-hoon's breath hitched. The scent of rain and wet earth mixed with her cologne, and it hit him with the force of a forgotten memory—that cologne. The same cologne that had haunted his every step for years.
"Are you okay?" Ji-hoon asked, his voice low, unsure. He didn't want to seem too forward, but there was something in her presence, something he couldn't place. The rain had brought her here, or was it the scent?
"I—I don't know." She shook her head slightly. "I just... I didn't know who else to turn to."
Ji-hoon's mind was racing. He tried to keep his voice even, steady. "What happened?"
Hye-jin glanced down, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "I can't say much, but..." She hesitated, then stepped inside, out of the rain, as if her body didn't have the strength to stand outside anymore. "It's about Si-wan."
His heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name. Si-wan. The man whose presence had loomed over every part of Ji-hoon's life since that night. The man who wore the same scent as the murderer. The man who might know the truth.
"What about him?" Ji-hoon asked.
"I know he's been after you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know you think... you think he's involved with your mother's death."
Ji-hoon didn't respond. He couldn't. His throat had closed up, and everything felt suddenly sharper. His heart pounded in his chest. The way she spoke. The way she moved closer to him. Her words were too dangerous to ignore. Too close to the truth he'd been avoiding.
"He's not who you think he is," she continued, her eyes fixed on the floor. "But I don't know how to help you figure it out. I just... wanted to warn you."
Ji-hoon opened his mouth to speak, but the words tangled in his throat. "Warn me about what?"
Hye-jin shook her head again, slowly. "About the things you don't know. The things he's hiding."
The rain didn't stop. Neither did the weight of the moment. Neither did the scent that had followed them both into the room. The closer Hye-jin stepped, the more the air pressed in.
It was suffocating.
Hye-jin's voice trembled slightly as she spoke, her words coming out in a rush, like the rain hitting the window. "You have to be careful. He's dangerous, Ji-hoon. I know you don't want to believe it, but I—"
"Dangerous?" Ji-hoon's voice cut through the air like a sharp note out of place. His grip tightened around his cane, the sensation of it grounding him in a way he needed but didn't want. "You're saying Si-wan's the one who killed my mother? Is that what you're implying?" His breath came faster now, the tension in his chest rising with every word.
She flinched, but only slightly. She didn't look at him, instead shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her coat now soaked with the remnants of the storm. "No, I'm not saying he killed her," Hye-jin replied, her tone low, careful, as though testing the waters. "But he's involved, Ji-hoon. In ways you don't understand. I don't know the whole picture, but I know enough."
Ji-hoon stood still, his mind working furiously. The pieces didn't fit—there were too many gaps in what she was saying, too many things she wasn't telling him. But her fear, the unmistakable tightness in her voice, made his chest tighten even further. She was telling him something important, something that could shake everything he thought he knew about the past.
"You're being cryptic," Ji-hoon said, his words more biting than he intended. His pulse thudded in his ears. He could feel the strain in his throat, the burning frustration of not knowing the whole truth. He gripped his cane tighter, leaning into it for balance. "If you know something—anything—you need to tell me. I'm not going to stand around waiting for you to play games with me, Hye-jin."
She winced at his tone but didn't back down. She knew he wasn't angry at her, but at everything else. At the mess of his life that he couldn't control, the shadows of the past that haunted his every step. She took a slow breath, gathering herself before she spoke again.
"I don't know everything, Ji-hoon. But I know he's manipulating people. I know he's using you, just like he's used everyone else around him." Her voice wavered, but her eyes stayed focused on the floor, as if she were unwilling to face him fully. "He's dangerous in a way you don't see yet. Not because he's violent—but because he's calculating. And he's been using people's trust to get what he wants."
Ji-hoon's grip on the cane loosened just a little as the weight of her words settled in. There were things he'd always known about Si-wan—the charming facade, the ability to twist words like no one else. But to hear it laid out so plainly, so coldly, made something in his stomach churn. Si-wan had always been an enigma to him, a dark puzzle he couldn't solve. But Hye-jin's warning made that puzzle feel like a noose tightening around him.
"But why?" Ji-hoon asked, his voice quieter now, laced with the exhaustion of a man on the brink of unraveling. "Why would he do that? What does he want from me?"
Hye-jin finally looked up at him then, her eyes tired, haunted. There was something in her gaze that Ji-hoon hadn't seen before—something that spoke of knowing more than she could ever admit. "I don't know, Ji-hoon. I wish I did. But whatever it is, it's bigger than you, bigger than all of us. He's tied up in things you can't even imagine." She hesitated, and for a moment, the air between them felt thick with unspoken truths. "But whatever it is, I'm sure of one thing—he's not your ally."
Ji-hoon felt a cold shiver run through him at her words. They hung in the air like the weight of the rain outside, unrelenting. He had known something was off about Si-wan, but this... this was more than he had ever anticipated. More than he could have prepared for. His mind raced, jumping from thought to thought, trying to piece together what Hye-jin was telling him with the pieces he already had. The pieces that had always seemed to be scattered just beyond his reach.
"I don't know what to think anymore," Ji-hoon muttered, more to himself than to Hye-jin. "Everywhere I turn, it feels like I'm being lied to."
"You're not being lied to," she replied quickly, her voice softer now. "Not by me. I'm telling you what I know, and it's not much. But it's enough to keep you away from Si-wan." Her voice faltered slightly as she took a step closer to him, her eyes searching his face. "You have to trust me on this."
Ji-hoon's heart was still pounding in his chest. He could hear the rain drumming on the window, and the steady ticking of the clock on the wall—both sounds blending together in a slow, rhythmic beat that felt like a countdown. It was the same beat he had followed all his life, the beat of a man who couldn't see what was right in front of him, the beat of someone who had always been kept in the dark.
He inhaled sharply. "I don't know how to trust you," he said quietly, his voice breaking as he finally admitted the truth. "I don't know how to trust anyone anymore."
Hye-jin looked at him, her expression softening, but her eyes still haunted. She didn't press him. Instead, she placed a hand on his shoulder—lightly, almost as though testing to see if he would pull away.
"I'm not asking you to trust me blindly, Ji-hoon," she said gently, her voice steady now. "I'm just asking you to be careful. Don't walk into this with your eyes closed."
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He wanted to pull away, to retreat into the silence of his mind where things were simpler, easier to ignore. But he couldn't. Not this time.
"What if I can't let it go?" he whispered, the question hanging in the air like a fragile thing. "What if I can't stop searching for the truth?"
"Then don't let it go," Hye-jin replied firmly. "But just... just make sure you know what you're walking into. Because it's not going to be easy."
The silence between them grew thick again, heavy with the weight of their words, with the storm outside that showed no sign of letting up. Ji-hoon didn't know how to respond. He didn't know what to believe. But as Hye-jin stood there, her presence in the room a strange anchor in the storm, he knew one thing for sure: he wasn't alone in this anymore.
And that, more than anything, scared him.