The city stretched beneath him, a sleepless grid of lights, each one flickering like someone's dream refusing to die. The rooftop was quiet except for the soft hiss of wind and the glow of his cigarette. Kang Joon-ha exhaled slowly, watching the smoke rise, dissolve, and disappear into the night that never seemed to end.
He thought he was alone until he saw her.
Han Areum stood a few feet away, leaning on the metal rail, her hair unbound and her expression unreadable. The night wind tangled the strands against her face. In the faint light, she looked both fragile and infinite, like a portrait of someone the world had already forgotten.
"Need a lighter?" he asked, his voice low, almost swallowed by the hum of the city below.
She turned, hesitated, then nodded.
"Thanks."
Their fingers brushed briefly as she took the lighter from his hand. Her touch was cold. His heart reacted before his mind could stop it.
He turned his gaze back to the skyline. "You know it's not good for your health," he said, half-teasing, half-serious.
Her voice came quiet but sharp, "It's not good for yours either."
He looked at her then, really looked. The emptiness in her tone mirrored his own.
The kind of emptiness that doesn't need to be explained because it recognizes itself in another.
He didn't reply. Just inhaled, then let the smoke slip between his fingers like memories he couldn't hold on to.
She didn't move closer. Neither did he.
And yet somehow, the space between them didn't feel lonely.
For a moment, they stood there in silence, two ghosts in a city that kept forgetting to rest.
------------------
Later that day, back in his office, Joon-ha sat by the window while his manager, Min Joon, scrolled through schedules and reports.
"Who exactly is this Areum to you?" Min Joon asked finally, half out of curiosity, half concern. "You've never been this invested in a photographer before. You barely talk to anyone, but you keep checking her edits."
Joon-ha's gaze stayed on the city skyline, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, not amusement, but melancholy.
"My muse," he said simply.
Min Joon blinked. "Your muse?"
Joon-ha didn't answer. The light reflected off the glass, hiding the shadows under his eyes. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was calm, empty, and tired.
"Yes. My muse."
It wasn't a confession. It was a surrender.
---------------------
The next day, during the second part of the photoshoot, Areum's camera froze mid-click.
A mechanical whine. A sudden silence. Then the screen went black.
Her hands trembled as she tried to fix it, frustration biting through her calm. "Not now," she whispered under her breath. The staff offered to fetch a backup, but she refused. "It's fine," she said quickly, even though it wasn't.
Joon-ha watched from the background, quiet as always. He noticed the way her eyes dimmed, that slight flicker of defeat she tried to hide.
She finished the day using an older backup camera. No one said anything, but he noticed the way she lingered after everyone left, gently touching the broken one like it was something more than just equipment. Like it was a part of her.
----------------------
That night, Joon-ha sat alone in his studio.
The broken camera rested on his desk. He'd asked her manager to "borrow it for inspection," though no one questioned why.
He didn't know why he was doing it either or maybe he did.
He couldn't fix people, but he could fix a camera.
And maybe that was close enough.
Under the dim desk light, he unscrewed the casing carefully. His hands trembled slightly, still scarred from the glass a few nights ago. He replaced the damaged part, wiped the lens, and reassembled it with quiet precision.
By dawn, it was as good as new.
He left it on her workstation the next morning before she arrived.
No note. No name.
Just the fixed camera, like an unspoken apology from someone who didn't know what he was sorry for.
When Areum found it, her breath caught. She didn't need to ask who.
There was a certain kind of kindness that carried his silence.
A quiet that somehow said everything.
-------------------
That evening, he received a call from his father.
The kind of call you couldn't ignore, no matter how much you wanted to.
"Dinner. Eight o'clock," was all his father said before hanging up.
When Joon-ha arrived at the Kang mansion, the air was heavy with the scent of cedarwood and control.
The long dining table gleamed, empty except for his father at the head and his mother at the side, smiling faintly in the way women do when silence has become survival.
President Kang placed his wine glass down with deliberate calm. "It's time you leave the entertainment industry," he said. "This phase has gone on long enough. You should come back to politics. If not, take over my company."
Joon-ha looked up slowly. "Dad, I enjoy what I'm doing."
His father's jaw tightened. "Don't make me angry."
"Do you want to push me to death," Joon-ha's voice cracked, "like you did to my sister?"
The table went still. His mother flinched.
President Kang's voice rose. "She killed herself for love. I have nothing to do with it." His hand slammed the table. The echo filled the room like thunder.
Joon-ha stood, his chair scraping sharply against the marble. His eyes, cold but glistening, met his mother's.
"Mom," he said softly, "I'll get going."
Her lips trembled. She didn't stop him.
Maybe because she couldn't.
---------------------
The drive home was quiet. Seoul blurred past in streaks of gold and gray.
When he entered his apartment, he didn't turn on the lights. He walked straight to the kitchen, opened the small cabinet above the sink, and pulled out the small bottle, anxiety pills, half-empty.
He swallowed one dry, then sat at his piano.
His hands hovered over the keys for a long moment before pressing down, soft, hesitant notes filling the air.
The melody was rough, uncertain, like a confession spoken too late.
But it was beautiful in the way broken things often are.
He played until his hands stopped shaking.
Until the pain in his chest turned into music.
---------------------
Back at the Kang mansion, the night deepened.
President Kang sat in his study, the city lights spilling across his desk. He sipped his drink as his assistant entered quietly.
"How's that case?" the President asked without looking up.
"It's finally closed as a suicide, sir," the assistant replied. "There won't be any further investigation."
The older man nodded, expression unreadable. "Good. Make sure it stays that way."
"Yes, sir."
When the door closed, President Kang leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on a framed family photo, one that still included his daughter, smiling beside her brother.
For a brief second, guilt flickered across his face.
Then, like all powerful men, he buried it beneath silence.
---------------
Across the city, Joon-ha played the final note and let it fade into the night.
Outside, rain began again, gentle, persistent.
He looked out the window, cigarette between his fingers, and whispered,
"She smiled like that right before the world broke."
His reflection in the glass looked like a stranger.
But somewhere deep inside, something was changing, slowly, quietly.
And maybe, just maybe, that change had her name written on it.
Some people heal you without touching you.
Some people destroy you without meaning to.
And some, like her, remind you that even broken souls can still find each other in the dark.