FEW DAYS LATER —
Jun-seo entered the dim private lounge where Myun-hyuk sat alone, leaning back in the leather chair with a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched. The silence was thick, sharp, ready to crack.
Myun-hyuk didn't look up.
"Why are you here?" he asked, voice low, annoyed, as if Jun-seo's existence itself was a disturbance.
Jun-seo scoffed. "You really want to ask me that? After everything? After what happened to Jao?"
Myun-hyuk's jaw tightened, but his expression remained unreadable.
"What happened to him was his own mistake," he said. "He interfered where he shouldn't have."
"Don't pretend like you're innocent," Jun-seo snapped, stepping closer. "Ajin knows. She saw the video. She's not stopping anymore, and it's because of you."
A slow, dark smile tugged at Myun-hyuk's lips.
"I know she won't stop," he murmured. "She thinks she's strong enough to challenge me."
Jun-seo slammed his hand on the table.
"Stop underestimating her! You think she will keep quiet? You think she'll play your little game forever? She's going to destroy you, and you know that."
Myun-hyuk finally lifted his gaze, eyes calm, deadly.
"And you think I'll let her?" he asked. "You think I'll allow her to ruin everything I built?"
"Everything you built?" Jun-seo laughed bitterly. "You don't even realize—she's already tearing you apart. You're losing control. First your ex-wife, then Seonghee, now Jao… she knows everything. And she's not afraid of you anymore."
Myun-hyuk's fingers tightened around the glass, but his voice stayed steady.
"Ajin is reckless. Emotional. She's acting out of anger."
"And you're acting out of fear," Jun-seo spat.
Myun-hyuk froze.
Jun-seo smirked as he saw the flicker of tension in Myun-hyuk's eyes.
"Yes. Fear. You're scared of her. Scared of what she knows. Scared because she's not your doll anymore."
Myun-hyuk leaned forward, a cold shadow falling over his face.
"You should worry about yourself, Jun-seo. You're next to her, which means you'll fall with her."
Jun-seo clenched his fists.
"If falling means stopping you, then I'll do it. I'm not backing away this time."
Myun-hyuk exhaled a laugh, soft and dangerous.
"Then choose your side carefully. Because once this begins"—he tapped the table softly—"there won't be a way back."
Jun-seo met his stare without fear.
"I already chose."
Silence again. Heavy. Final.
Myun-hyuk's smirk deepened, but there was a crack in it now—thin, fragile.
"Good," he murmured. "Then let's see who survives this."
The smell of the river hit her first—damp, metallic, wrong.
Ajin stepped forward, her heels clicking against the concrete, each step echoing louder than the murmurs of the crowd. The yellow police tape fluttered in the wind, and beyond it… the shape.
A body.
Floating.
Her throat tightened, but her face remained perfectly still, a cold mask carved by years of surviving worse. People began to gather in clusters—neighbors, curious strangers, reporters who smelled tragedy like blood in the water. The police stood stiff as they pulled the limp, water-soaked body toward the shore.
Jao.
His hair clung to his forehead. His fingers were pale. His chest didn't rise.
Ajin didn't move at all.
The reporters recognized her almost instantly, cameras snapping, microphones shoved forward as if they wanted to devour her reaction.
"Lady Ajin! Is this true? Is that man really someone you knew?"
"What is your statement about this? Is it suicide or homicide?"
"Why were you seen calling him two days ago?"
She stared past them—past their greedy eyes—straight at the body being zipped into a black bag. Her heart throbbed once, sharply… then hardened again.
When she finally looked at the cameras, her lips curled into a faint, icy smile.
"I was really grateful to become his friend," she said, her voice calm, steady, eerily composed despite the chaos around her. "We were close since high school. He helped me a lot."
People paused. The reporters leaned in.
"And it's unexpected for me… truly."
Her gaze flicked to the body bag as officers lifted it onto a stretcher. Her fingers tightened around her phone.
A reporter asked, "Lady Ajin, do you think this is a murder?"
Ajin slowly lifted her eyes, a cold fire burning behind them.
"I know this was a murder."
Her voice sliced through the air like a blade.
The entire crowd froze.
Police officers turned toward her.
The murmurs sharpened into gasps.
Ajin took out her phone, unlocked it, and held the screen forward.
"And I have a video."
Flashes burst from cameras. Officers moved closer. The reporters surged forward, trying to glimpse the evidence. Ajin's cold expression never changed—no grief, no fear, no hesitation. Just icy determination as she stood before the police, the cameras, the whole world…
…holding out the very proof that could burn Myun Hyuk's empire to ashes.
Investigation Room —
The small, grey-walled investigation room felt colder than any winter evening. A single light flickered above Ajin, casting a pale glow over her expressionless face. She sat straight, hands folded neatly on the metal table, while officers, detectives, and a few higher authorities watched her with sharpened attention. Across the one-way glass, reporters tried to peek in, their muffled voices blending with the tension in the air.
Ajin inhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded, as if she were merely telling a bedtime story—not exposing the downfall of a man.
"First," she began, her voice eerily calm, "you asked why I'm certain this wasn't an accident. It's simple. Myun Hyuk has always been good at cleaning up messes… especially people."
One of the detectives blinked. "Please elaborate, Mrs. Myun."
Ajin smiled—cold, empty.
"You want elaboration? Fine."
She placed her phone on the table and slid it forward with two fingers.
"This isn't just about Jao. Myun Hyuk has done this before."
The investigators exchanged glances.
Ajin rested back in her chair, tapping her finger lightly as her jaw clenched.
"You all know about his ex-wife's depression, right?"
A few officers nodded hesitantly—the case had always been suspicious, but no evidence had surfaced.
"Well," Ajin said, her eyes darkening, "she wasn't depressed until he made her depressed."
Silence filled the room.
She continued, voice steady, each word like a dagger—
"He controlled her. Gaslighted her. Manipulated her until she couldn't tell the difference between what she wanted and what he wanted. She tried to leave him more than once. Every time she tried?" Ajin's lips curled bitterly. "He threatened her. Emotionally cornered her. And the last time she tried to escape… she mysteriously disappeared."
A detective immediately took notes. Another pressed the record button again, just in case.
Ajin leaned forward.
"And you thought I married him out of love?" She scoffed. "No. I married him because he picked me. Because he had already planned the role I would play. Because he needed a new doll after destroying the previous one."
Her voice dropped, softer, cutting deeper than any scream—
"He did the same thing to me. The same patterns. The same words. The same traps."
The room grew heavier. Even the air felt dense.
Ajin unlocked her phone and displayed another set of files—audio recordings, screenshots, CCTV clips she had quietly collected.
"In case you think I'm lying," she said coolly, "here are records of him meeting Seonghee before our marriage. Evidence of him monitoring me for months. And documentation of the psychological pressure he used to force me into the marriage."
Her fingers trembled slightly—not with fear, but with a simmering rage she forced herself to control.
"This is everything," she whispered.
"This is what your 'perfect young heir' truly is."
The officers stared at her—some shocked, some grim, some suddenly realizing the depth of the monster they overlooked for years.
Ajin finally leaned back, expression returning to a chilling blankness.
"That is all I need to say for now."
Here is the continuation and expansion in the investigation room, keeping every tone you've been building:
The investigation room felt colder than usual—gray walls, metal table, a single bright light shining straight down on Ajin's face. The officers murmured among themselves, flipping through printed screenshots of the video she had shown the media. A camera blinked red in the corner, recording every second.
Ajin sat still, composed, her expression carved perfectly into a mask of cold calm. Her hair was tied loosely, her clothes neat—she looked more like a queen giving a statement than a grieving friend.
But that was the part that unsettled everyone in the room:
She wasn't grieving.
One of the senior investigators leaned forward.
"Mrs. Myun… you said you have more information regarding your husband's involvement?"
Ajin nodded, slow and deliberate. She tilted her head, her eyes locking with the officer's as if she were the one interrogating him.
"Yes. I do. That video was only the beginning."
The room shifted—chairs creaked, pens paused mid-air.
Ajin placed her phone on the table and tapped the screen. A folder opened with a series of audio files, surveillance screenshots, and photographs.
"My husband," she began, voice clear and steady, "has always presented himself as perfect. Royal. Untouchable. But behind that image, he did something far darker long before he met me."
The officers exchanged looks.
Ajin continued.
"His ex-wife wasn't depressed on her own. She was pushed into it. Manipulated. He isolated her from her family, monitored her phone, controlled where she went, who she met. And whenever she broke down," Ajin let out a soft, humorless breath, "he called her unstable."
She slid a photograph forward—one where Myun Hyuk's ex-wife sat on the edge of the bed, eyes blank, bruises faintly visible under makeup.
"I found a room in his grandfather's old wing of the palace. A forbidden room. Full of her pictures. All taken without her noticing. He kept them hidden after she died."
Gasps circled the room.
"And as for me," Ajin said, lifting her chin, "he planned the same thing. Control me. Silence me. Shape me into a doll that obeys him. He threatened me, pushed me into a pool, nearly drowned me… and then pretended nothing happened."
She smiled bitterly.
"He thinks emotional abuse leaves no evidence. But it does—when the victim survives."
The investigators scribbled rapidly.
One leaned forward.
"Mrs. Myun… are you saying he attempted to trap you the same way he did his ex-wife?"
Ajin nodded.
"I'm saying he already started."
A tense silence filled the room.
Then she added, her voice cold enough to frost glass:
"And Jao's death wasn't random. My husband saw him as a threat—so he removed him. Just like he removes anyone who might expose him."
Her fingers tightened into a fist on the table.
"He thinks he's unstoppable. That he owns everything—money, power, even people."
Her eyes glinted sharply.
"But now…"
She leaned forward.
"He will learn what it feels like to lose control."
The officers looked at one another, the weight of her words heavy.
For the first time, Ajin looked less like a victim—
And more like a storm about to break.
The room was small, too bright, too white—almost clinical. Ajin sat across from two investigators, her expression unreadable, her fingers resting calmly on the steel table. The officers had just listened to everything she revealed about Myun Hyuk—his ex-wife's depression, his manipulation, the threats, the coercion, the video of Jao's death. The atmosphere had shifted from suspicion to a tense, heavy silence.
One of the senior officers cleared his throat.
"Ms. Ajin… there is another matter we need to discuss."
Her eyes flickered, but her posture didn't move.
The other officer slid a thin file toward her—a faded case file, worn with age.
"This is about your father's murder."
Ajin's hand froze mid-air.
For the first time since she walked into the station, her eyes trembled.
But she didn't flinch, didn't gasp—she simply stared at the file.
"We reopened it," the officer continued.
"After you mentioned it earlier… we need clarification. There are… inconsistencies."
Ajin's lips curved into the faintest smile—cold, fragile, almost mocking.
"Inconsistencies?" she echoed softly.
The senior officer leaned forward.
"According to the records, you were a minor. The statements from that time were incomplete, and the crime scene reports show signs that someone tampered with evidence.
We want to understand what exactly happened that night."
Ajin looked away, her gaze settling on the mirror behind them—where she knew someone, maybe multiple people, were watching.
Her voice came out low, almost detached.
"What do you want to know?"
The officer opened the file.
"You claimed your father was killed by unknown men."
Ajin's jaw tightened.
"He was," she said.
"But the crime scene suggests a struggle inside the house—only between two people."
Silence fell.
The ticking of the wall clock became louder.
"Ms. Ajin," the senior officer said carefully,
"we have reasons to believe someone from inside the house might have been involved… or witnessed more than they reported."
Ajin slowly exhaled, her fingers curling under the table.
"You're asking if I killed my father?"
Her voice was quiet… terrifyingly quiet.
"We are not accusing you." the officer clarified quickly.
"But we need the truth. Why did you never report the abuse? The threats? The neighbors admitted they heard shouting for months."
Ajin's eyes darkened like a storm pulling itself together.
"…I didn't report anything because no one listens to a girl like me."
Her words dropped like ice.
"He was a violent man. Everyone knew it. Everyone ignored it."
The second officer exchanged a glance with the senior.
Ajin continued, voice steady but hollow.
"That night… everything happened too fast."
Her fingers tapped the table—slow. Rhythmic. Controlled.
"I was a kid. I was scared. I saw my father lying on the floor. I saw blood. I heard sirens. And I never wanted to remember it again."
Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell.
"Is that what you wanted to hear?"
The room fell dead silent.
The senior officer cleared his throat again, trying to maintain composure.
"We're not done, Ms. Ajin. This past incident might be connected to why someone targeted you now.
If there is any truth you hid back then—it could help us solve both cases."
Ajin leaned forward, her voice a whisper sharpened to a blade.
"Some truths are buried because digging them up destroys more than it saves."
Her nails tapped once—hard—against the metal table.
"So tell me, officer…"
She tilted her head, eyes locked on his.
"Are you ready for a truth like that?"
—