The penthouse of Joon-woo stood in unseemly silence for a Monday night, its luxury accentuated by the crushing quiet. Beyond its walls, the very lifeblood of the city trundled along in its customary beat—traffic lights switching on in listless rhythm, pedestrians dashing by like indistinct forms, neon lights flashing against the gathering twilight, blowing their typical veil of smoke and light. But within Seo-yeon's carefully arranged flat, the air was a vacuum—dense, electric, and completely still. The ancient cassette player rested quietly on the weathered wooden floor, its spools idle and satisfied after shedding their murderous secrets, their last truth exposed.
But in Seo-yeon's mind, Hyun-soo's voice persisted, a melancholic soliloquy writhing through every thought of hers like a persistent requiem that refused to abate, a word at a time a fragment of glass in her thin facade.
