30 Years Ago – The Choi Mansion

  The dining hall of the Choi estate was grand yet cold, its towering walls lined with paintings of ancestors long gone, their gazes unyielding and ever-watchful. The dim golden glow from the chandelier above reflected off the polished mahogany table, which was set with a pristine white tablecloth, porcein dishes, and silver utensils that gleamed under the soft light. The air smelled of freshly steamed rice, grilled galbi, and a variety of meticulously prepared banchan, yet there was no warmth in the room.

  Choi Ji Hoon sat across from his father, Chairman Choi Tae-sung, his ten-year-old fingers curled around his silver chopsticks, poking absently at the kimchi on his pte. His stepmother, Hwang Soo-min, sat beside his father, delicately picking at her japchae, a soft, ever-pleasant smile painted on her lips. In the highchair next to her sat his one-year-old younger brother, Choi Ji Sung, babbling unintelligibly in between the occasional coo from the nanny standing behind him. The quiet clinking of chopsticks and occasional throat clearing were the only sounds filling the cavernous room until Chairman Choi, clearing his throat, spoke.

  “Jihoon,” his deep voice cut through the silence, demanding attention. “How was school today?”

  Jihoon didn’t look up from his pte. “It was fine.”

  Chairman Choi frowned, reaching for a piece of grilled beef and pcing it onto Jihoon’s rice. “Fine? What did you learn?”

  Jihoon hesitated before shrugging. “I don’t know.”

  His father’s grip on his chopsticks tightened. “What do you mean you don’t know? Surely, you learned something today.”

  Another shrug. “Nothing important.”

  The tension at the table thickened. His father sighed, setting down his utensils with a soft but deliberate clink. “Jihoon, I do not ask these things to scold you. I ask because I care. Your studies are important.”

  Jihoon finally lifted his gaze, his dark eyes empty as they met his father’s. “And why do you care now?”

  A brief silence. Chairman Choi’s expression darkened, his voice firm. “Don’t be disrespectful.”

  Jihoon returned his focus to his pte, stabbing at the rice with his chopsticks. The air felt heavier now, oppressive.

  Soo-min, ever the peacemaker, set down her chopsticks and offered a gentle smile. “Maybe Jihoon is just tired,” she suggested lightly. “School can be exhausting at his age.”

  Her attempt at breaking the tension was met with silence. Jihoon let out a breath through his nose, pushed his pte away, and stood.

  “May I be excused?” he asked, already turning.

  His father exhaled sharply but waved him off. “Go.”

  Jihoon left without another word, his footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rug beneath him.

  In the stillness of the night, Jihoon stood at the threshold of his younger brother’s nursery, the faint wails of the infant drawing him there. His fingers curled around the doorframe as he peered inside.

  The moonlight snted through the sheer curtains, casting ghostly patterns across the floor, distorting shapes, stretching shadows unnaturally. The air was thick with the scent of baby powder and milk, but underneath it, there was something stale, something cold—like the remnants of grief that still clung to this house, unseen but suffocating.

  A weak, hiccupping wail punctured the quiet.

  Jisung y on the floor, his tiny body trapped beneath the mess of his own toys. A wooden block pressed cruelly against his fragile wrist, pinning him down. His chubby legs kicked uselessly, but the tangled bnkets and scattered pythings made it impossible for him to move. A pstic car teetered dangerously close to his face, his filing arms unable to push it away.

  Jihoon tilted his head, watching.

  The cries were sharp, piercing, but not loud enough to wake the rest of the house. They were desperate little sobs, the kind that only infants made—pure, helpless, filled with instinctive terror.

  He could walk in. He could move the toy, free his little brother. He could call for the nanny sleeping just down the hall.

  But he didn’t.

  Jihoon’s grip on the doorframe tightened, his nails digging into the polished wood. His heartbeat remained steady. Unmoved. Cold.

  The baby kept crying.

  Jihoon exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the faint chill of the room. He remained still, unmoving, his dark eyes locked onto the small, struggling figure on the floor. The sound of his brother’s wails was unbearable, but not in the way it should have been. It wasn’t pity that tightened his chest. It wasn’t concern that made his fingers twitch.

  It was something else.

  Then, from behind him, something shifted.

  A whisper curled into his ear, so close, so delicate, yet thick with something venomous.

  “He’s nothing to you.”

  Jihoon stiffened. A sharp breath caught in his throat.

  He turned, slowly, but the hallway was empty.

  Yet, the voice remained.

  “He took everything from you.”

  A slow, creeping chill slithered down Jihoon’s spine. The nursery felt darker now, the shadows stretching unnaturally, curling at the edges of his vision.

  The baby let out another sharp sob, his tiny fingers cwing at the air, desperate.

  Jihoon’s fingers twitched.

  “It’s okay.” The voice was almost affectionate now, dripping with false sweetness. “Some things are better ignored.”

  Something settled in Jihoon’s chest. A quiet understanding. A truth unspoken but deeply, instinctively known.

  The moment stretched. The cries of his brother blurred into nothing more than background noise.

  Jihoon exhaled slowly.

  Then, without a word, he turned away from the nursery.

  His small figure disappeared down the darkened hallway, the soft pad of his bare feet swallowed by silence. He did not look back.

  And behind him, the cries of his baby brother continued to echo, unheard by anyone else in the house.

  A Mind Unraveled

  The first time Jihoon made another child bleed, the school tried to brush it off as an accident. Boys fought all the time, they said. Roughhousing, a little pushing—it wasn’t uncommon. But Jihoon hadn’t been pying. And the boy hadn’t just fallen.

  It happened in the middle of seventh grade, during lunch break. The cafeteria was loud, chaotic—voices overpping, trays cttering, the scent of fried food thick in the air. Jihoon sat at the farthest end of the table, barely touching his food, eyes distant, lost in thought.

  Then, someone touched him.

  A hand on his shoulder. A boy, taller than him but not by much, ughing at something—Jihoon never heard what. It didn’t matter. The ughter was sharp, grating, burrowing into his skull like an ice pick. His fingers clenched around the pstic fork in his hand.

  A moment ter, the cafeteria plunged into shocked silence.

  The boy screamed. Blood dripped between his fingers as he clutched his cheek, where the fork had torn into soft flesh. Teachers rushed forward, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the greasy cafeteria air.

  Jihoon just sat there, watching. His expression unreadable. Unfazed.

  The dining room was silent, save for the gentle clinking of silverware against fine china. Jihoon barely ate. His father, Chairman Choi, watched him from across the table, his eyes dark with something between frustration and exhaustion. The mahogany chandelier above them cast flickering light, elongating their shadows unnaturally against the walls.

  “What happened at school today?” his father finally asked, voice steady but firm.

  Jihoon didn’t look up. He stabbed a piece of meat with his fork, twirling it absently. “I don’t know.”

  His father’s jaw tightened. “You hurt someone, Jihoon. A cssmate. Do you even understand what that means?”

  Silence.

  His stepmother, sitting stiffly beside his father, shifted uncomfortably before clearing her throat. “Maybe he’s just tired. It’s been a long day—”

  “No,” his father cut in, his voice clipped, his gaze still locked onto Jihoon. “This is not the first time. I want an answer.”

  Jihoon finally lifted his eyes to meet his father’s. There was no fear there, no guilt. Just a quiet, unreadable emptiness. “He was loud.”

  His father exhaled sharply, pressing two fingers against his temple as if willing away a headache. “That is not a reason to stab someone with a fork.”

  Jihoon only blinked. Shrugged.

  The air in the dining room turned thick, oppressive. The soft clink of silverware against porcein was the only sound filling the unbearable silence. The chandelier overhead cast long, stretching shadows across the table, the flickering candlelight making everything feel colder, darker.

  His father’s fingers tapped against the table—slow, deliberate. A controlled rhythm, but Jihoon knew what it meant. Frustration. Restraint.

  “You need someone to talk to,” his father muttered, almost to himself, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll be bringing someone in.”

  Jihoon didn’t react.

  He just sat there, his hands resting idly on the edge of the table, feeling the weight of their stares, the expectation that he should respond. But there was nothing to say. Nothing he wanted to say.

  His fingers twitched, just barely.

  The Lingering Voice

  The first specialist arrived a week ter. He was a man in his te forties, his neatly pressed suit and polished shoes an attempt at quiet authority. His gsses perched carefully on the bridge of his nose, the reflection of the dim firelight making his eyes look smaller, more distant. He smiled—a gentle, practiced kind of smile—as he folded his hands over his notebook.

  “I just want to talk, Jihoon.”

  Jihoon sat across from him in the study, his posture unnervingly still. The heavy drapes were drawn, letting only the fire cast its restless shadows along the walls. The scent of aged wood and leather-bound books filled the space, but there was something else beneath it—a lingering stillness, the kind that felt like an open wound rather than peace.

  Jihoon didn’t answer. He only watched.

  The man shifted slightly in his chair, undeterred. “You’re a bright boy,” he continued. “But your father is concerned about you. Do you understand why?”

  There was a long pause. The fmes in the hearth crackled, the only sound in the room. Then, finally, Jihoon spoke.

  “No.”

  The specialist exhaled softly, nodding as if this was expected. “Violence doesn’t come from nowhere, Jihoon. It’s something inside us, something we can understand—control.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but probing. “When did you first start feeling angry?”

  Jihoon tilted his head, slow and deliberate. “Who says I’m angry?”

  The man hesitated for the briefest moment, adjusting his gsses. “You hurt people,” he said carefully. “That usually means—”

  “I wasn’t angry,” Jihoon interrupted. His voice was calm, eerily steady. “I just wanted it to stop.”

  The man studied him for a moment, his fingers tightening around the edge of his notebook. “Wanted what to stop?”

  Jihoon’s lips parted slightly, as if he might answer. But then his gaze flickered—just for a second—to something behind the man’s shoulder. His face remained expressionless, but something shifted in his eyes. A ghost of something unreadable.

  Then, slowly, an eerie smile curled at the corner of his lips.

  The man stiffened, resisting the urge to turn around. But the air in the room had changed, thickening, pressing in from all sides. Still, nothing should be there—only the bookshelves behind him, the darkened corners where the firelight didn’t quite reach.

  He swallowed, the weight of an unseen presence settling in the space between them.

  When he turned back, Jihoon’s expression was bnk again, his eyes dark pools of indifference.

  A silence stretched between them, tense and suffocating. The man let out a quiet breath, setting his pen down with careful precision.

  “I think we’re done for today,” he murmured, though his voice had lost some of its certainty.

  Jihoon didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him. He only sat there, the flickering light casting shifting shadows across his face, watching.

  Waiting.

  The incidents at home were worse. One evening, the nanny found Jisung’s stuffed rabbit on the staircase, its head twisted at an unnatural angle, its button eyes missing. The next week, the family cat refused to enter Jihoon’s room, hissing and arching its back whenever he passed.

  And then, one night—

  Jihoon stood at the nursery door again.

  Jisung was older now, nearly three, babbling nonsense to himself as he pyed in his crib. The nightlight cast long, jagged shadows across the room. The air felt heavy, thick with something unseen.

  Jihoon stepped forward, silent.

  Jisung was struggling, his tiny foot caught between the crib bars. His chubby hands grasped at the air, whimpering.

  Jihoon just watched.

  A long, excruciating moment passed. His little brother wriggled, struggled harder, his whimpers turning into distressed cries. Jihoon reached out a hand.

  For a second, it almost looked like he was going to help.

  Then—

  His fingers curled around the crib rail, knuckles white. His grip tightened. Jisung’s cries escated, small hiccupping sobs of frustration and fear.

  From somewhere, a voice—soft, honeyed, dripping into his ear like a lulby.

  “You could let him fall.”

  Jihoon exhaled. The nursery air seemed to pulse around him.

  His grip loosened.

  He let go.

  Jisung toppled forward, his forehead striking the wooden bars with a dull thud. A sharp wail ripped through the silence. The sound of hurried footsteps filled the hall. The nanny burst in, panic in her eyes.

  Jihoon stood there, motionless, watching as the woman scooped up his screaming brother.

  She turned to him, wide-eyed. “What happened?!”

  Jihoon blinked, tilting his head. “I don’t know.”

  The nanny held Jisung tightly, soothing him, shooting a wary gnce at Jihoon. A lingering moment of silence stretched between them.

  Then, Jihoon turned and walked away, disappearing down the dark corridor as his brother’s cries echoed through the house.

  A Happy Family, Once Upon a Time

  The Choi family was never a loud one, but there was warmth in their quiet moments. Jihoon had always known his parents were busy—his father with his company, his mother with her responsibilities as the perfect chairman’s wife. But no matter how demanding their schedules were, weekends were sacred.

  Saturdays meant waking up to the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries. His mother, elegant even in a simple blouse, would sit beside him at the breakfast table, brushing stray crumbs from his lips while his father read the newspaper. They would talk about their pns—sometimes an outing to a five-star restaurant, other times an overnight stay at a luxury hotel where Jihoon could swim until his fingers wrinkled. And on rare weekends, they simply stayed home, curled up in their private lounge, the three of them on the plush couch, watching old films as his mother pyed with his hair and his father rested a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was peaceful, in a way only a child could understand—complete, unshaken.

  At eight years old, Jihoon never imagined that happiness could be fragile. That it could be taken away.

  At first, it was subtle—strained silences at the dinner table, his mother’s absentminded sighs, his father’s furrowed brows even when no words were spoken. Whispers behind closed doors. His father coming home ter than usual. The tense silences at dinner, where ughter once echoed. Jihoon, too young to fully understand, could feel the unease growing like a sickness in the air.

  Then one night, he heard them fighting.

  His mother’s voice, usually so gentle, had a sharp edge. His father’s responses were measured, clipped, as if he were carefully holding something back. His mother’s eyes would be red the next morning, yet she still smiled at him, her fingers cool against his cheek.

  Then, one day, she sat him down in the grand sitting room, her hands holding his small ones in her p. There was a softness in her eyes, but also something he couldn’t quite pce—something fragile.

  “Jihoon,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. “How would you feel about becoming a big brother?”

  He blinked at her, not sure what to say. He had never thought about it before.

  Her smile wavered just slightly. “I know it might feel strange now, but you’ll love him, I promise. You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”

  Jihoon hesitated, then gave a slow nod. His mother’s smile returned, warm and genuine, and she pressed a kiss to his forehead.

  “Good,” she whispered. “You’ll be the best big brother.”

  For months, she would ask him the same thing, always in that gentle, hopeful tone. “Are you excited to meet him?” “Will you protect him, Jihoon?” “Promise me you’ll take care of him.”

  Each time, Jihoon nodded, because that’s what she wanted to hear.

  Then his brother was born.

  His mother was weak after the delivery. Jihoon remembered the first time he was allowed to see her in the hospital—how pale she looked against the stark white sheets, how small and exhausted. But she still reached for him, smiling.

  “Jihoon,” she murmured, voice hoarse, but filled with love. “Meet your baby brother.”

  The nurse held out the tiny bundle wrapped in blue. Jihoon hesitated, but his mother patted the bed beside her, urging him closer. With careful hands, she guided his small fingers to touch the baby’s cheek. The skin was impossibly soft.

  “Choi Ji Sung,” his mother whispered, pressing a shaky kiss to the baby’s forehead. “Your little brother.”

  Jihoon stared at the infant in silence. His tiny fists clenched and unclenched in sleep, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He looked so fragile. So helpless.

  His mother smiled at him again, her fingers curling weakly around his. “You’ll take care of him, won’t you?”

  Jihoon nodded, but something inside him felt uneasy.

  His mother became weaker after giving birth. The house, once filled with warmth, became unbearably cold. Instead of his usual bedtime stories, Jihoon would hear hushed voices and the quiet beeping of machines. His mother spent more time resting, unable to hold him the way she used to.

  Then, a week ter, she was gone.

  Jihoon remembered the way his father stood in front of him, his face expressionless as he delivered the news. “Your mother didn’t make it.”

  That was all he said. No expnations. No false comforts. Just cold, crushing finality.

  He remembered the suffocating scent of medicine, the sterile white sheets, the way the sunlight hit her lifeless skin.

  “She’s with the angels now,” someone said. A nurse, maybe. Or one of the doctors.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t want her to be with the angels. He wanted her to be with him.

  The funeral was grand, befitting the wife of a chairman, but Jihoon barely registered any of it. He sat still in his bck suit, hands curled into fists on his p, staring at the framed photo of his mother. She was smiling in it—forever frozen in time, forever out of reach.

  People whispered around him. About how tragic it was, how unfortunate. About how Chairman Choi was now left to raise two young sons alone. Some murmured that he would remarry. Others said it was too soon.

  Everything after that was a blur—funeral processions, bck suits, whispered condolences. The house became quieter, but the silence was suffocating. His father barely looked at him. The servants walked on eggshells, careful not to speak too much, as if words would shatter something fragile.

  And then there was the baby.

  Jisung.

  A crying, helpless thing that took and took and took.

  He took their mother’s life. Took his father’s attention. Took what was left of their once-happy family and reduced it to nothing but a cold, empty house.

  Jihoon watched as the nannies fussed over Jisung, how his father—who barely acknowledged him anymore—now spent hours in the nursery. The same father who once asked about his day, who once praised him for every little achievement, now only had eyes for the fragile child who had changed everything.

  And Jihoon, who had once promised to love his little brother, found that he couldn’t. Because Jisung wasn’t just his brother. Jisung was the reason his mother was gone.

  Jisung was the reason their family would never be the same again.

  And no matter how many times he was told otherwise, no matter how many times the nannies reassured him that none of this was Jisung’s fault—

  Jihoon could never see him as anything other than the one who ruined everything.

  From Innocence to Ashes

  The Choi estate was a pce of cold marble floors and towering walls, where silence echoed louder than words. But within its grand halls, there was one presence that filled the void of solitude for young Choi Ji Hoon—his babysitter, Yoon Ah Reum.

  She had been there since the beginning, long before Jihoon could even form his first words. She was the one who cradled him when he cried, the one who wiped away his tears when he scraped his knee, the one who whispered stories of knights and lost princes before he drifted off to sleep. When his parents were too preoccupied with their empire, Ah-reum was the one who remained. She wasn’t just his babysitter; she was his anchor, his constant, his home.

  There were countless moments shared between them—small, tender memories that formed the foundation of Jihoon's world. Afternoons in the garden, where Ah-reum sat beside him under the cherry blossom trees, braiding his hair and humming lulbies from her childhood. Rainy evenings, when thunder rumbled outside and she held him close, stroking his back until his fears dissolved. Nights when he refused to sleep unless she stayed by his side, her presence the only thing keeping the nightmares at bay.

  She would whisper, “You are special, Jihoon. You are meant for something greater.”

  And he believed her.

  But the world began to shift when his mother became pregnant again.

  The news was met with great joy by the family—celebrations, vish gifts, endless congratutions. Jihoon, only ten at the time, had no say in the matter, no understanding of what it meant to no longer be the sole focus of his parents’ love. But Ah-reum saw it. She saw the way he lingered at the edge of conversations, the way his father no longer paid as much attention to him, the way his mother, though still loving, was preoccupied with the life growing inside her.

  And she nurtured that seed of doubt.

  “You must feel it, don’t you?” Ah-reum’s voice was gentle, barely above a whisper as she sat beside him in his dimly lit bedroom. “The way they’ve changed? The way they’ve started looking past you?”

  Jihoon, clutching his stuffed bear, frowned. “They still love me.”

  “Of course, they do. But love can fade, Jihoon. Love can shift. And when your little brother arrives, do you think they’ll still have time for you?”

  He hesitated. A slow, creeping unease settled in his chest.

  “It happened to me too,” she continued, running her fingers through his hair like she had done a hundred times before. “When my sister was born, my mother stopped seeing me. She only cared for the baby. And I… I was left behind. Forgotten.”

  Jihoon stiffened, a deep frown carving into his youthful face.

  “I don't want that,” he whispered.

  Ah-reum cupped his face, her touch feather-light. “Then don’t let it happen. You don’t have to love him just because they tell you to. You don’t have to accept him.”

  Jihoon looked up at her, searching her face for answers, for guidance. And there, in her dark, knowing eyes, he saw something unsettling—something that both comforted and disturbed him.

  “But he's my brother,” Jihoon murmured, conflicted.

  Ah-reum smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He’s an obstacle, Jihoon. A distraction. And you are too special to be cast aside.”

  The words sank deep into his impressionable mind, like ink bleeding into fabric. A whisper in the dark. A thought that wouldn’t let go.

  From that moment on, the world was no longer the same.

  And neither was he.

  The cries of the infant echoed through the grand halls of the Choi mansion, a sharp and grating sound that cwed at Jihoon’s ears. He stood outside the nursery, his small hands clenched into fists, his nails pressing into his palms. Inside, his baby brother wailed, the sound relentless, filling the entire house with its need.

  “Do you hear that, Jihoon?” Ah-reum’s voice was soft, almost comforting, as she knelt beside him. “He’s always crying. Always needing something.”

  Jihoon swallowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. He knew his mother would have soothed the baby if she were here. But she wasn’t. She was gone. And the only thing that had changed was that baby.

  Ah-reum tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, her touch gentle. “He took her away from you,” she whispered, her voice ced with sorrow. “She was fine before, wasn’t she? It was when he came that everything fell apart.”

  Jihoon bit his lip, trying to push away the unease growing inside him. “But… babies don’t mean to do things like that,” he muttered.

  Ah-reum sighed, pcing her hands on his shoulders, her grip firm but not forceful. “That’s what they want you to think. But think about it, Jihoon. She loved you so much, and then he arrived, and suddenly… she was gone. Doesn’t that seem unfair?”

  Jihoon looked past her into the dimly lit nursery, where his baby brother y, his tiny hands grasping at the air, his red, tear-streaked face scrunched up in distress. A pang of something—resentment? Anger?—curled in his chest.

  Ah-reum leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. “You don’t have to love him, Jihoon. No one can make you. Not when he stole everything from you.”

  Jihoon’s fingers twitched. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either.

  The first time it happened, it was small.

  Jihoon had been standing over the crib, watching his brother wriggle beneath the soft bnkets. The nanny had left to fetch more milk, leaving the two of them alone.

  “He doesn’t even know,” Ah-reum had murmured earlier that day, watching as the baby gurgled obliviously. “He doesn’t even know what he’s done.”

  The thought made something tighten in Jihoon’s chest. It wasn’t fair.

  His fingers curled around the edge of the crib. He reached in, slowly, pressing his small palm against the baby’s stomach. The baby squirmed, cooing, his tiny fingers wrapping around Jihoon’s wrist.

  Jihoon frowned. Why did he get to be so happy?

  His grip tightened, pressing down slightly. Just enough to make the baby uncomfortable. His brother’s gurgles turned into a whimper, then a cry. The sound sent a rush of satisfaction through Jihoon’s veins, a fleeting moment of control over the chaos that had upended his life. The nanny returned before it could go further. Jihoon had pulled his hand away, stepping back just in time as she rushed to soothe the baby. But the seed had been pnted.

  Weeks passed, and the whispers in his ear never stopped. Ah-reum was always there, always reminding him of what had been taken from him.

  “Accidents happen, Jihoon,” she murmured one evening, as they sat in the garden, the nterns casting flickering shadows against the walls. “Sometimes things break. Sometimes people get hurt. And sometimes, the universe corrects mistakes.”

  Jihoon stared at his hands, at the small cut on his palm where he had squeezed a broken piece of gss too tightly earlier that day. His heart pounded against his ribs, loud and erratic.

  Inside the house, the baby was crying again.

  Jihoon’s grip on the gss tightened.

  Days turned into weeks, and the changes in Jihoon did not go unnoticed. His once bright eyes dulled, and the ughter that used to echo through the halls of the Choi estate was now a distant memory. He spoke less, ate less, and retreated into himself, his presence becoming a shadow in the grand house.

  It wasn’t until one evening that Chairman Choi finally addressed it.

  Jihoon had been staring out the window of his room when the door creaked open. The scent of his father’s cologne filled the space before the man himself stepped inside.

  “Jihoon,” his father’s voice was softer than usual, a rare gentleness breaking through his usual stern tone. “Come sit with me.”

  Jihoon hesitated but obeyed, settling on the edge of his bed as his father pulled a chair close.

  “You’ve been different tely,” Chairman Choi observed. “Ever since your mother—” He hesitated, pain flickering in his eyes before he continued. “Ever since she passed, I know things haven’t been the same. And then your brother came into the world… It must have been a lot for you.”

  Jihoon’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants. “I’m fine.”

  His father sighed, shaking his head. “You’re not. And I should have seen it sooner.” He reached out, pcing a firm but warm hand on Jihoon’s shoulder. “Your mother loved you more than anything. She would want you to love your brother too.”

  Jihoon stiffened at the words. The whisper of Ah-reum’s voice slithered through his thoughts.

  He took her away from you.

  Chairman Choi’s grip tightened slightly, anchoring his son. “Jihoon, listen to me.” His voice was pleading now. “You are not alone in this. I need you to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

  Jihoon’s lips parted, but the words never came. Instead, he just stared at his father, his chest tightening, his mind clouded. Then, as if a switch had flipped, his expression hardened once more. He pulled away from his father’s touch, standing abruptly.

  “I have homework,” he muttered before walking to his desk, his back turned to the man who only wanted to reach him.

  Chairman Choi exhaled, defeated. “I’m here, Jihoon,” he said softly before standing and leaving the room.

  The moment the door clicked shut, Jihoon’s fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms.

  From the corner of the room, Ah-reum’s voice cooed in his mind.

  “You don’t need him, Jihoon. You don’t need anyone.”

  The Forgotten Son

  The incident happened on an afternoon like any other—until it wasn’t. The air in the school gymnasium was thick, suffocating, the mingling scents of sweat and polished wood pressing down like an invisible weight. The chatter of students ricocheted off the high ceilings, sneakers squeaking against the glossy floor. It was supposed to be an ordinary day.

  But then there was Jihoon.

  He stood at the edge of the basketball court, fingers curled into tight fists at his sides. His eyes, dark and unblinking, locked onto the boy in front of him—Nam Jae Hyun.

  Jae-hyun was ughing.

  Jihoon could hear nothing else, just that sound—sharp and mocking, ringing in his ears like a bde scraping against bone. The words that followed slithered through his mind, carving themselves into something deep, something raw.

  “Freak.”

  “That’s why your father won’t even look at you.”

  “That’s why your mother is dead.”

  Something inside Jihoon twisted.

  The world around him slowed, sounds distorting as if he were underwater. His heartbeat was steady, too steady, his breathing slow—controlled. His mind, however, was unraveling. Tightening. Winding itself into something sharp, something unbearable.

  And then, it snapped.

  One moment, Jae-hyun was standing there, grinning.

  The next—

  Jihoon lunged.

  A blur of movement. A deafening crash. The sickening thud of flesh against polished wood. Jae Hyun’s body smmed onto the floor, his skull cracking against the hard surface with a hollow thunk. Jihoon was on top of him before anyone could react. His hands—small, but strong—wrapped around Jae Hyun’s throat, pressing, squeezing.

  The ughter stopped.

  Jae-hyun’s eyes went wide, mouth gaping as he struggled to breathe, his fingers cwing weakly at Jihoon’s wrists. The gym around them faded into a haze of shouts and frantic footsteps, but Jihoon heard none of it. There was only the buzzing in his skull.

  And the voice—soft, lilting, familiar.

  “They don’t understand you.”

  “They deserve it.”

  “You have to make them afraid.”

  Jae-hyun’s body jerked beneath him, his nails raking against Jihoon’s skin, but Jihoon didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. His grip only tightened, his thumbs pressing down harder. The boy beneath him was choking now. Gasping. Trembling. Something about it should have made Jihoon stop.

  But it didn’t.

  A scream. A teacher’s voice, sharp and panicked.

  Hands grabbed at him, wrenching him backward. He thrashed against them, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. He didn’t want to let go. He needed to finish it. The buzzing, the rage—it wouldn’t stop unless—

  Unless—

  His vision blurred as he was yanked away, his body shaking with something he couldn’t name.

  Jae-hyun y motionless on the floor.

  For one, brief, terrifying moment, Jihoon thought he had killed him.

  He didn’t.

  But it didn’t matter.

  The damage was done.

  The Choi estate was a tomb that night. Chairman Choi sat in his study, his face a mask of unreadable calm, but his knuckles were white as they gripped the arms of his chair. Jihoon stood before him, his posture rigid, his uniform stained with the aftermath of the day’s violence.

  “You almost killed him,” his father finally spoke, his voice a quiet storm.

  Jihoon said nothing.

  His father exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have spent years protecting you. Covering for you. Do you know what you’ve done?”

  Jihoon tilted his head slightly, his expression bnk. “He deserved it.”

  A sharp crack echoed through the room as his father’s palm met the wooden desk. “That is enough.”

  Jihoon didn’t flinch.

  His father stared at him then, truly stared, as if seeing him for the first time. Something flickered in his gaze—something almost mournful. “You are not my son anymore.”

  The words should have cut deep. Should have hurt. But Jihoon only felt… empty.

  A moment of silence stretched between them before his father spoke again, softer this time. “You will be gone from this world.”

  Jihoon’s breath hitched, but not in fear.

  Not in shock. Just… curiosity. And then, it happened.

  The news spread like wildfire. The tragic accident of Chairman Choi’s eldest son. A boy found drowned in the cold, murky depths of the Han River. His body washed up on the banks, unrecognizable, bloated, the current having dragged him too far for immediate recovery. Authorities specuted—was it an accident? A suicide? Or something far more sinister?

  The press mourned, the city whispered, the Choi family remained eerily silent. And just like that, Choi Ji Hoon ceased to exist.

  But the truth was far more terrifying.

  He hadn’t drowned. He had been erased.

  He was sent away, far from the world that had watched him grow, far from the family that no longer cimed him. The hospital that received him didn’t know his real name. The doctors that studied him only knew what they were told.

  He was given a new identity. A new name. Jang Ki Ho.

  And the boy the world had feared, the boy who had been shaped by whispers and shadows, disappeared into the night.

  END OF CHAPTER 12