The moment I noticed Seonghee's face, the air around the funeral seemed to thin, as if even grief had learned to hold its breath around her. The cut I had given her—clean, cruel, unforgettable—ran like a red signature across her cheek and nose, half-hidden beneath makeup that failed to erase what I had done. Our eyes met across the black umbrellas and bowed heads. She didn't look away. She smiled. Not wide, not mad—just enough to let me know she had survived me, and that survival had sharpened her.
Jao's funeral moved on like a badly rehearsed play. The priest's voice droned, the incense curled upward, reporters lingered at the gates like vultures pretending to be mourners. Jun-seo stood beside me, stiff and silent, his presence a quiet shield I hadn't asked for. I felt eyes everywhere—fans, enemies, ghosts. And then Seonghee stepped closer, her heels clicking softly against the stone as if she owned the place. When she leaned in, her voice was low and sweet. "Funny, isn't it?" she whispered. "He died for you. And you're still standing." Her breath smelled faintly of alcohol and something medicinal. Before I could answer, she slipped a folded paper into my hand and walked away, blending into the crowd like she had always known how.
I didn't open the paper until later, until the grave had been sealed and condolences exhausted themselves. Inside was a photograph—grainy, taken from afar. Me. Myun-hyuk. Standing together weeks before our marriage. On the back, a single line in Seonghee's handwriting: You were never the only puppet. The words burned. I realized then that the game I thought I was playing alone had always had an audience—and worse, collaborators I had never seen.
That night, sleep refused me. Every sound echoed like a confession. I replayed Jao's laugh, his promise to be used, his body floating where the water had carried him. Guilt came in waves, but beneath it was something colder: calculation. If Seonghee had this, others might too. And if Myun-hyuk had already tried to drag me down with him, then this funeral wasn't an ending—it was a warning.
By morning, the news broke again. A new witness had come forward. An anonymous tip suggested that Jao hadn't just been silenced for what he knew about Myun-hyuk—but for what he knew about me. I watched my own face on the screen, composed, tragic, unreadable. The world debated my innocence while I stood in the kitchen, holding that photograph, understanding the twist too late: the past I thought I had buried with Jao was rising, and this time it wasn't asking permission.
I smiled into the reflection of the dark window, the same smile everyone hated and adored. If they wanted a monster, I would decide which kind.
The funeral ground was wrapped in a silence so thick it felt almost artificial, as if the sky itself had been instructed to mourn quietly. The air smelled of damp earth and wilted lilies, and every step I took felt heavier than the last. Jao's portrait stood at the front—his smile frozen in a way that now felt painfully ironic. He had always smiled like that, as if he knew the cost of standing beside me and accepted it anyway. I stood still, dressed in black, my face calm, composed, almost cold. People whispered behind their hands, reporters lingered beyond the barricades, and cameras clicked softly, waiting for a crack in my expression. I gave them nothing.
Then I saw her.
Seonghee stood a few rows away, her posture stiff, her eyes hollow. The cut across her face—running cruelly from the bridge of her nose toward her cheek—was impossible to miss. It was angry red against pale skin, poorly concealed beneath makeup that did nothing but draw more attention to it. My gaze lingered on it longer than I intended. The memory flashed violently: the poolside glare of sunlight, the metallic smell of blood, her scream splitting the air as my hand moved faster than my thoughts. For a brief second, something like satisfaction curled in my chest. Then it vanished, replaced by something darker—recognition. We were both ruined women standing over a dead man, each carrying our own version of blame.
Junseo stood beside me, silent, his presence steady but distant. He didn't touch me, didn't speak, just watched the ceremony with eyes that looked older than they had any right to be. I could feel the questions pressing against his restraint, the unspoken words about guilt, responsibility, and how far I had gone. But this wasn't the place for truths. This place was for endings—or so everyone believed.
As the priest's voice droned on, Seonghee suddenly turned and looked straight at me. There was no fear in her eyes. No anger either. Just a strange, unsettling calm. Slowly, almost deliberately, she smiled. It wasn't wide or dramatic—just a slight curl of her lips, as if she had finally understood something I hadn't. My fingers twitched at my side. That smile wasn't surrender. It was a promise.
When the ceremony ended and people began to disperse, she approached me. Each step she took felt calculated, measured, as if she wanted everyone to see us standing face to face. Up close, the cut looked worse—raw, uneven, permanent. A mark I had given her, just as she had tried to give me one.
"Do you know," she said softly, her voice trembling but controlled, "Jao visited me before he died?"
My heart skipped, but my face didn't change. "You're lying."
She shook her head, almost pitying me. "He cried. He said he was scared. Not of dying—of being erased. Of being used and forgotten." Her eyes flicked briefly to Junseo, then back to me. "He said you promised him something. That you told him this would all be worth it."
Junseo's breath hitched beside me.
Seonghee leaned closer, lowering her voice so only I could hear. "He recorded everything. Not just Myun Hyuk. You too."
For the first time that day, the ground beneath me felt unstable.
She straightened, stepped back, and bowed lightly—as if offering respect, or perhaps mockery. "We're more alike than you think," she added. "But the difference is… I've already lost everything. What about you?"
She walked away before I could respond, leaving her words hanging in the air like poison.
I stared after her, my mind racing. If Jao had recorded something—anything—then this wasn't over. Not the investigation. Not Myun Hyuk. Not me. Around us, the crowd thinned, but the weight of unseen eyes only grew heavier. I suddenly understood something with chilling clarity: Jao hadn't just died as a victim.
He had died as a witness.
And somewhere—hidden, waiting—was the truth that could either destroy me completely or finally set everything on fire.