(Dae-hyun's pov)
I adjusted my tie, glancing at the clock — 8:42 a.m. I was late. Again.
"Mr. Jung, the investors from Busan are already waiting in the conference room," my secretary, Hae-won, called from the doorway, holding a tablet.
"Tell them to wait ten minutes," I said, picking up the nearest file.
She hesitated, eyes flicking over me like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. "Yes, sir."
When the door closed, silence settled again. I leaned back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. The dull ache behind my eyes was familiar — not from lack of sleep this time, but from the strange emptiness that always lingered in the mornings.
Why do I feel like missi-
I shook the thought away and flipped open the file. Business. Focus. No distractions.
But when I turned the page, my gaze froze.
A glossy magazine clipping was tucked between the documents — probably a careless mistake from Hae-won. On the cover: a man with pink hair, sharp turquoise eyes, smiling for the camera. The headline screamed across the top in gold letters:
"Kang Woo-jin Wins Best Actor Award Again — A Decade of Stardom."
My stomach twisted, though I didn't know why.
I stared at the photo. Something in his expression — that practiced, perfect smile — made my chest tighten for a reason I couldn't name.
Kang Woo-jin.
The name rolled through my head like an echo in an empty room.
I traced the edges of the photo absently, the faint print of ink smudging my fingertips. I didn't know this man. I was sure of that. I would've remembered a face like that — striking, confident, almost too bright.
So why did his name sound like something I'd whispered before?
"Woo-jin…"
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
It hung in the air, soft and unfamiliar, yet heavy enough to make my pulse skip.
I blinked, shaking my head, irritated at myself. "Get a grip," I muttered. "You divorced him."
Still, my eyes wouldn't leave the page.
He looked… tired beneath the glamour. His smile didn't reach his eyes. That, for some reason, I understood too well.
The intercom buzzed suddenly, breaking the strange trance.
"Sir, they're ready for you," Hae-won's voice came through.
"Right," I said quickly, slipping the magazine back between the papers. "I'll be there."
I straightened my tie again, forcing my thoughts back into order.
The name didn't matter. The face didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the next meeting, the next deal.
Still, as I walked down the hall toward the conference room, the syllables wouldn't leave my mind.
Woo-jin.
It repeated itself with every step, quiet but insistent, like a ghost tugging at the edge of a locked door.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt… unsettled.
Meetings. Contracts. Numbers.
The entire morning passed in a blur of mechanical handshakes and forced smiles. My brain worked, my mouth spoke, but my mind… wasn't there.
Every time it surfaced, I pushed it down — buried it under more work, more logic.
But the more I tried to forget it, the louder it echoed.
By the time lunch rolled around, I felt like my head was full of static.
"Sir, you should eat something," Hae-won said, placing a bento box on my desk. "You've been at it since seven."
"I'll eat later," I muttered, scrolling through my phone to check the latest financial reports.
A video ad popped up before I could hit play — glossy, loud, full of color.
"Watch the award-winning actor Kang Woo-jin in his latest film—"
I froze.
The ad continued to play — Woo-jin in a tuxedo, smiling as flashes of cameras went off around him. His voice came through the speaker, low and smooth.
"Everyone deserves a second chance at love."
My thumb hit pause before the words finished leaving the screen.
Second chance.
Love.
I didn't know why, but my throat tightened. Something about the way he said it — too gentle, too real for a commercial line — made something deep in my chest ache.
I set the phone down, shoving it face-first onto the desk. "Turn that off," I said flatly.
Hae-won blinked. "Sir?"
"The TV. All of it."
She hesitated but obeyed, switching off the large screen that played muted entertainment news in the corner. The office fell quiet, too quiet.
I stared at the blank screen for a long time, my own reflection staring back — tired eyes, sharp suit, perfect mask.
"…He's everywhere lately," Hae-won said after a pause, almost casually. "Mr. Kang, I mean. He's been winning awards nonstop. People say he's the only actor who can cry on command without using drops."
I didn't answer.
"Apparently he never dates, either. They call him the Ice Prince of the industry. Kind of funny, right? Someone so emotional on-screen being cold in real life—"
"Hae-won."
She stopped immediately. "Yes, sir?"
"Enough."
She nodded and quickly excused herself.
Once she was gone, I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling.
Why the hell did that name keep following me today?
Why him?
I rubbed my temples. Maybe it was just stress. My company had been expanding faster than expected — maybe I needed rest. Maybe I just saw his face too much in the media. That had to be it.
But deep down, there was something else.
Something that made the back of my mind whisper that I wasn't supposed to forget him.
I pulled open a drawer, looking for aspirin. My fingers brushed against something small — a thin silver ring, tucked into the corner.
I froze again.
I didn't remember putting it there.
It wasn't my style — delicate, a faint engraving along the inside: two initials barely visible in the dim light.
W.J.
My breath caught.
I didn't know why my chest hurt, only that it did.
"Woo-jin…"
The name slipped out again, quieter this time, almost like a plea.
By the time I got home, the sky was already ink-black — Seoul glowing beneath it like a restless city that never slept. My driver asked if I wanted dinner brought up, but I waved him off and headed straight to my study.
I didn't bother turning on the lights.
Another day gone.
Another list of meaningless victories checked off.
The silence was thick, the kind that clung to your skin. I tossed my jacket onto the couch, loosening my tie as I sat at my desk. Papers were scattered everywhere — invoices, reports, new contracts — the proof that I was "doing well."
Doing well.
What a joke.
"Just one more deal," I muttered to no one. "Then I can rest."
I repeated that every night. I never meant it.
Work was the only thing that kept my mind still.
If I stopped moving — if I stopped doing — it felt like something inside me would catch up. Something I didn't want to face.
I reached for the glass bottle sitting at the corner of the desk. Scotch — half empty. I poured myself a drink, the amber liquid catching the faint light like a dying ember.
The first sip burned. The second went down easier.
I should've stopped there. But I didn't.
The silence pressed harder. I turned toward the window again. Somewhere below, car headlights weaved through the traffic — hundreds of lives moving on, none of them mine.
That should've been comforting.
Instead, it just felt lonely.
I set the glass down and leaned back, exhaling slowly. My mind drifted. Not to the meeting, not to my mother's nagging call that morning — but to that ad, that face I kept seeing.
That name.
That voice.
I clenched my jaw. "Get a grip," I muttered. "It's just a damn actor. Nothing more."
But that lie didn't stick for long.
My gaze slid toward the silver ring on the corner of my desk. I hadn't meant to bring it home — I'd tucked it into my pocket without thinking earlier, after finding it in the drawer. Now it lay there, harmless and small, like it didn't carry a single ounce of weight.
And yet, just looking at it made something twist in my chest.
Why did I keep it?
Why did it feel like it meant something?
I grabbed the ring, turning it over between my fingers, searching for a reason to throw it away. My thumb brushed over the engraving — those faint initials. W.J.
My pulse stuttered.
"Woo-jin…"
A bitter laugh escaped me, sharp and dry. "Just when I thought I could finally flee from your presence," I muttered, glaring at the ring like it was mocking me. "You just had to crawl back into my head, didn't you?"
My voice cracked somewhere between anger and exhaustion.
"I don't even know you," I said to the empty room. "Why can't you just stay gone?"
I slammed the ring down onto the desk.
For a second, I just stood there, breathing hard. The city hummed faintly outside — cars, wind, the heartbeat of a world that didn't care.
I poured myself another drink.
"Pathetic," I muttered to myself. "You're losing it, Jung Dae-hyun."
I leaned forward, elbows on the desk, staring at the ring. My thoughts started blurring.
Just before my consciousness began to slip, I thought I heard it — a voice.
Soft. Familiar.
You'll remember me someday.
My head snapped up, heart pounding. But the room was empty. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock.
I rubbed my face, groaning. "Great. Now I'm hearing things."
With a deep sigh, I pushed away from the desk and dragged myself toward the bed. I didn't even bother changing — just collapsed, face-first, onto the sheets.
The ring glinted faintly from the desk, catching the moonlight through the glass.
I turned my head toward it, eyes heavy but restless.
"Just stay gone," I whispered again, voice barely a breath. "Please."
But even as I drifted into uneasy sleep, the last thing echoing in my mind wasn't silence.
It was a name.
Soft. Lingering. Unwanted.
Woo-jin. When I finally thought I'll be free from your embrace but why does it feel like I know you?