The cane tapped against marble floor tiles, rhythmic and patient like a ticking metronome. Ji-hoon moved slowly, carefully, ears sharpened to every distant echo in the conservatory's lower floors. It was past midnight—he shouldn't have been here—but the weight in his chest and the fury that hadn't cooled since Joon-won's confession drove him forward like a man possessed.
The lobby smelled different tonight. Not just the usual waxed floors or faint perfume from the receptionists' desks. No, this was something else. Metallic. Damp. Almost like—
"Rain," he whispered to himself. He hadn't noticed until now, but his hair was still wet from earlier. The storm had finally stopped, but everything outside had been soaked. That same water had seeped inside too. He could hear it in the wet squeak of someone's shoes not far off. And the elevator hum—that familiar sound—was missing.
His steps slowed.
The man was still here.
Not just any man—him. Ji-hoon didn't know what he looked like. He didn't need to. The scent hit him like a slap: that same cologne. Subtle. Rich. Expensive. It choked the air with familiarity and fear. He hadn't smelled it in years, not since the night his mother died.
It was him. He was sure of it.
Ji-hoon stopped in the center of the lobby, pulse thudding beneath his skin. "I know you're here," he said aloud. His voice echoed too sharply, confirming the lobby was empty—except for one other person.
Silence.
And then—
A breath.
From somewhere to his left.
Ji-hoon turned instinctively, his cane tapping against the corner of the reception desk. His fingers curled tighter around the handle.
"You're not supposed to be here," a voice said. Low. Flat. Completely devoid of emotion.
Ji-hoon tilted his head slightly. "Neither are you."
A pause.
Then footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
"I didn't think you'd remember," the man said.
"I never forgot," Ji-hoon answered, every word a blade. "Your cologne gave you away."
A rustle of fabric. The hiss of something sliding from a coat—metal brushing leather. Ji-hoon's body tensed. He took a step back, cane in front of him now like a shield.
"You came alone," the man muttered. "That was foolish."
Ji-hoon's mouth curled into something between defiance and resignation. "Maybe. Or maybe I wanted to finally meet you."
A beat of stillness.
Then the man moved.
Fast.
The first strike came with no warning—a rush of air as something sliced toward him. Ji-hoon ducked instinctively, the blade whistling past his ear. He stumbled to the side, fingers brushing the cold floor as he regained balance. The cane clattered to the tiles, useless now.
He couldn't see, but he didn't need to. The man's movements were deliberate but loud—his shoes squeaked against the wet floor, his coat shifted too much. Ji-hoon felt the space around him like a sixth sense. His heart was pounding too hard to think, but his body moved on instinct.
The second strike came lower—this time a kick to his ribs. Ji-hoon caught it barely, rolling with the impact, letting the pain bloom in his side but using the momentum to grab the leg. He held on just long enough to throw the man off balance.
They both hit the floor.
Ji-hoon's elbow slammed into something soft—stomach or chest. A grunt followed. The man grabbed him by the collar and shoved hard. Ji-hoon's back slammed into the edge of the desk.
Stars burst in his mind.
He scrambled backward, one hand groping behind him for anything—his cane, a phone, anything.
But the man was faster.
He lunged, a flash of motion Ji-hoon only sensed by the wind parting in front of him.
Ji-hoon ducked again, and this time he swung. His fist met flesh—jaw or cheek. The man reeled, and Ji-hoon followed it up with another strike, this one to the throat.
A gasp. Then coughing.
Ji-hoon turned to run—but his foot slipped in a puddle. He barely caught himself against the desk. The man grabbed his arm, wrenching it backward. Ji-hoon cried out, the pain blinding—ironic, considering.
"You really don't know what you're involved in," the man rasped.
Ji-hoon grit his teeth. "Then why are you scared enough to show up?"
Another silence. Ji-hoon could hear blood trickling from his lip, feel it warm against his chin. He breathed in, caught another trace of that cologne, and it nearly made him sick.
"I should kill you now," the man whispered, voice dangerously close.
"But you won't," Ji-hoon breathed, inching toward the desk drawer. "Because someone told you not to."
The man didn't answer.
Which was answer enough.
Ji-hoon's fingers found the drawer's handle. He yanked it open, praying—please please please—and his fingers closed around metal.
A pair of office scissors.
Without a thought, he spun and slashed upward.
The man cried out—a sharp, guttural sound of pain. Ji-hoon didn't wait. He shoved forward with everything he had, pushing the man backward until he heard the crash of a body hitting the lobby bench. Then silence.
He backed away quickly, heart hammering, hands shaking.
Footsteps—running ones—echoed from the hallway. Ji-hoon recognized them instantly.
"Ji-hoon?!" It was Hye-jin. "Are you—what the hell—?!"
"Call someone," Ji-hoon gasped, breathing ragged. "Security. Police. Now."
She ran.
Ji-hoon sank to the floor, muscles trembling.
The man didn't get up. But Ji-hoon could still smell the cologne. It hung thick in the air like smoke, reminding him this wasn't over.
Not even close.
Ji-hoon sat slumped against the base of the reception desk, his breath rasping in and out like something broken. His heart hadn't slowed. If anything, it beat harder now, pounding like a war drum against his ribs. The silence that followed Hye-jin's departure felt unnatural — like something waiting. The man still hadn't moved. No groans, no breath. Just stillness.
He listened harder, peeling back the layers of quiet with the trained precision only a blind man could master. There was something there — a low hum, like air conditioning bleeding through distant vents. The crackle of the lobby's old lightbulbs buzzing overhead. Rainwater dripping from the coat rack. His own blood, warm and thick, slipping down his neck from where the man had clipped him near the ear.
But nothing else.
No footsteps. No heartbeat. No breathing.
The man was either unconscious — or gone.
Ji-hoon exhaled sharply and tried to stand. His legs threatened to fold under him. His right hand trembled as he fumbled for the edge of the desk, gripping the cool wood to pull himself up. The pain from the ribs where he'd been kicked burned in waves, each breath sharper than the last. He'd probably bruised something deep, maybe cracked it. Didn't matter. Not now.
A minute passed. Then another.
The first sound to break the tension was the slam of a door — then the shuffle of feet, two sets this time.
"Ji-hoon!" Hye-jin's voice cracked — breathless, terrified. "I brought them—"
She stopped.
He could feel it in the air — the way everything stiffened. The dread. The confusion. One of the security guards muttered something under his breath.
Then, footsteps — cautious ones — moving around the room.
"There's… there's no one here," the second guard said, his voice tight with disbelief. "You said someone attacked him?"
Ji-hoon turned his head slightly toward the man. "He was right there. In front of the bench."
"There's no one by the bench, sir."
Hye-jin walked toward him, heels clicking faster. He heard the soft rustle of fabric as she crouched beside him, her hand brushing lightly against his.
"You're bleeding," she whispered.
He nodded, barely.
"Who was it?" she asked.
He opened his mouth — then paused. How could he describe a man he'd never seen? A ghost with a scent and a voice and hands that remembered how to hurt?
"I think he's the one who killed my mother."
The room went silent.
"What?" Hye-jin's whisper cracked like glass.
"He was here. He knew I'd be alone. And he knew who I was." Ji-hoon's voice dropped, the weight of it heavy even to his own ears. "He's been watching me. Probably for a long time."
"You fought him?" one of the guards asked, voice now mixed with disbelief and caution.
"I didn't exactly have a choice."
"You're saying you overpowered an intruder — a violent one — in complete darkness?" The man's tone was skeptical, condescending even.
Ji-hoon didn't flinch. "Not darkness. Blindness. It's different."
The guard shifted, muttering again under his breath. But Ji-hoon ignored him.
Hye-jin pressed a cloth to the side of his face, her hand gentle but firm. "You're lucky," she whispered.
"No. I'm not." His voice was flat, distant. "He wanted me scared. He could've killed me. He chose not to."
"Then why come at all?" she asked.
Ji-hoon hesitated.
"To remind me," he said finally. "That he's still out there. That he can reach me whenever he wants."
The room seemed to shrink with those words. One of the guards walked away, probably calling someone on the radio. Hye-jin remained by his side, her hand still pressed to his temple, her other brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead.
"What do we do now?" she asked quietly.
He leaned his head back against the desk, exhaling. "I don't know. But I'm done pretending this is just about music."
They filed a report. It was messy. There was no surveillance footage — the lobby cameras had "malfunctioned." Ji-hoon didn't even ask how. He already knew.
By the time the paramedics arrived to check him, he refused the hospital. Hye-jin helped him home, her grip never leaving his wrist the entire time. He didn't say much. His body hurt in too many places, and his mind — his mind was unraveling.
Back at the apartment, the silence was unbearable. She made him tea, though he didn't drink it. The steam wafted against his face, but it didn't bring comfort.
"Tell me what you remember," she said, sitting across from him at the kitchen table, voice low and steady.
Ji-hoon ran a hand down his face, his palm coming away sticky with dried blood. "His voice. He was calm. Clinical. Like hurting me was just part of a routine."
"What did he say?"
"That I shouldn't have come alone. That I didn't know what I was involved in."
Her fingers drummed anxiously on the table. "But you do, don't you?"
Ji-hoon turned his face toward her. "I know this isn't about one murder. It's about power. Silence. Secrets that were never meant to get out."
She paused. "Do you think Si-wan's involved?"
That name sat between them like a loaded gun.
"I don't know yet," Ji-hoon said, finally. "But something tells me this all leads back to the Conservatory. Everything — my mother, this man, the cologne… the scent I haven't forgotten."
Her chair creaked slightly as she leaned forward. "Then we don't stop. We keep digging. Even if it gets dangerous."
Ji-hoon smiled — not out of joy, but a kind of solemn gratitude. "You really aren't afraid of any of this, are you?"
"I'm afraid," she said quietly. "But you're not doing this alone."
He nodded.
Then, a long silence.
And then the phone rang.
He reached out, fumbling slightly until his fingers found the device. He didn't recognize the number.
He picked up.
"Hello?"
Static.
Then a voice.
Hoarse. Metallic.
"You didn't die tonight."
Ji-hoon froze. The hairs on his arms stood upright.
"But someone else might. Stop looking."
Click.
The line went dead.
He lowered the phone slowly.
Hye-jin's voice was already trembling. "Who was it?"
He didn't answer for a long time.
Then, in a whisper, "He's watching. Still."
She stood up abruptly and crossed the room, pulling the curtain shut even though it was already night. Her shadow passed behind him, and he could feel her panic.
"We have to leave," she said. "We can't stay here. Not if he knows where you live."
Ji-hoon shook his head. "Running won't stop him."
"Then what will?"
Ji-hoon turned his face toward the window, blind eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once.
"I don't know yet," he whispered. "But I'll figure it out. Before he takes someone else."
He reached out slowly and picked up his mother's old music box from the table beside him. The lid creaked open. A soft melody played — delicate, cracked with age.
The same lullaby he'd heard as a child.
The same one that played the night she died.
And this time, he didn't flinch.
He listened.
And remembered.
Because some songs, once heard, never leave you.
Even in silence.
Even in the dark.