The soft glow of the kitchen lights reflected off the polished wine glasses. Hena had set the table with care—white roses in a small vase at the center, Damian's favorite dishes lined up neatly, steam still rising. She adjusted the collar of her pale lavender dress, checking her reflection one last time before slipping on white heels. A touch of blush, soft lips, and mascara to accentuate her eyes—everything was ready.
She glanced at the clock. 7:40 p.m.
The doorbell rang.
Her heart fluttered.
She walked briskly to the door, expecting to see Damian with his usual calm smile. But when she opened it, her smile froze.
Jun-ho stood in the doorway, raindrops clinging to his coat. His eyes landed on the setup behind her—candlelight, dinner for two, soft jazz playing.
Hena stepped aside hesitantly. "Jun-ho… you're not who I was expecting."
He gave a small nod, walking in awkwardly. His gaze flicked to the table, the decor, the nervous excitement still dancing in her eyes.
"I was just—" she started, then paused. "Where's Damian?"
Jun-ho swallowed. "He's on his way," he said quickly, not meeting her eyes. "I just dropped by… to see something." His gaze lingered on the carefully arranged table one last time, then he turned to leave. "I have something urgent—sorry."
Before she could say another word, the door clicked shut behind him.
Hena exhaled, half disappointed, half relieved. At least Damian was still coming.
She sat at the table, her fingers brushing the silverware. She picked up her phone and called him. No service. She frowned. Outside, the storm pounded louder, thunder cracking across the sky. Something didn't feel right.
—
On a slick, winding road just outside Seoul, Damian gripped the steering wheel tighter. His wipers struggled against the downpour, but the screen of his phone flashed once—one missed call: Hena.
"Damn," he muttered, eyes narrowing. He pressed harder on the accelerator, desperate to get to her. She'd gone to all that trouble—he could tell.
Just as he rounded a bend, a car swerved out ahead—he hit the brakes too late.
Crash.
The metal screeched, his car jolted. Damian's head slammed lightly against the wheel, pain shooting through his left arm. He gasped, holding it tightly as he stumbled out, heart pounding.
The rain blurred everything.
He walked to the other car, the windshield cracked, windows foggy. He peered inside.
And froze.
Hara.
Unconscious. Her head rested on the steering wheel, blood trickling from her temple. Damian stared, emotions warring inside him—shock, resentment, pity.
"No…" he whispered.
Despite everything she'd done—spying, lying, manipulating—this wasn't how it should end.
He pulled out his phone and called the ambulance.
He stood there, staring at her broken form. "You're still not the girl I loved," he murmured. "But I won't let you die."
The ambulance arrived moments later. Paramedics rushed to the scene. Damian gave them her name, her condition. Once he was sure they had her, he returned to his car and drove away, soaked, wounded, and heavier with unspoken emotions.
—
Hena turned toward the door as soon as she heard the key.
"Damian?"
He stepped inside, soaked from the rain, hair tousled, his shirt clinging to his skin. His eyes met hers, tired and haunted.
She rushed to him. "You're late, I was worried—"
He pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was on my way when I got into an accident. I hit a car."
She pulled back, alarmed. "Are you hurt?"
"My arm, just bruised."
"Whose car—"
His eyes dropped. "It was Hara's. She's… she's in the hospital now."
Hena stilled. The candlelight flickered against her unreadable face. "Is she…?"
"She's alive. They'll take care of her."
Hena turned her back to him, walking slowly to the window. The storm still raged outside, loud and violent.
"Don't worry," she said coldly. "Hara's not the type to die from something like this. She is strong."
Damian sighed. "I just didn't want you to hear it from anyone else."
She nodded once. Then turned to him with a faint smile. "Let's eat."
—
Outside, in the shadows of the street, a woman in white stood still beneath an umbrella, her sharp eyes fixed on the glowing apartment window above. Her long white trousers fluttered with the wind, and she clutched a chart in one hand.
She had seen everything—the crash, the tears, the embrace. She didn't need to ask who they were.
Her voice was low, ethereal.
"The storm has shifted the winds of fate," she whispered. "A new love has been written beneath the lightning… but whose tale will triumph? The one born of fire, or the one built from ashes?"
She stared at the two sisters. One recovering. One still fighting.
"Only one will emerge with the full heart. Only one will survive this war."
And with that, she disappeared into the mist.