The guilt stricken Mrs Hwang never let her little boy out of her sight for some time. She even left all her work and always stayed with Joo Won, who is now Bae Hoon. He sometimes thought to himself had the real Bae Hoon not died, Joo Won would have never gotten the chance to see a real family. But then again was it worth it? Is it a real family? A cold man, an overly emotional mother, a pair of always watchful eyes of Mr Baek- a constant reminder of the secret they all shared. Their scrutiny was a mirror, reflecting back not the cherished heir, but the orphan boy, Joo Won. He could wear the name Hwang Bae Hoon like a fine suit, but he could never truly become him. He was forever an imposter in his own life, playing a son to a mother who loved a ghost.
The thought of escape was a tempting, constant whisper in the back of his mind. He even tried it, once.
After a month, he was finally allowed to attend school, stepping into the life of the real Bae Hoon as taught by Chairman. The Chairman's warning—"reveal nothing"—hung over him like a shadow. Mr. Hwang and his stern right-hand man, Mr. Baek, began taking the boy to their office before the school started. Their mission was grim: to systematically erase his own identity and drill into him the life story of the dead Bae Hoon—his likes, dislikes, habits, and history.
Often, Mr. Baek brought his young daughter, Hana, along. She watched the sessions with growing confusion. The boy she saw was a hollow, frightened stranger. Her Bae Hoon had been sunshine and laughter; his face would light up the moment he saw her. This boy just stared through her with empty, haunted eyes.
Frustration mounting, Mr. Hwang finally accepted the cold truth. He could not force this impostor, this bastard to mimic his son's radiant soul. Abandoning the meticulous lessons, he devised a simpler, more cruel lie.
He knelt before Hana, his voice softening into a practiced grief. "Hana-ya," he said. "The accident... it was worse than we thought. Bae Hoon's body healed, but his memories are all gone. He doesn't remember his life. He doesn't even remember you."
He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, his eyes intense. "You must help him remember. You must teach him who he was. Can you do that for him, Hana? Can you help your friend?"
Looking between the desperate man and the lost boy, Hana's young heart swelled with a sense of profound duty. She nodded, her voice sincere and determined. "Yes, Hoe-jang-nim. I will help him remember."
When Mr. Baek delivered him and Hana to the classroom, his new classmates swarmed him, a chorus of eager voices asking how he was. The teacher had to usher everyone back to their seats. Lost, Joo Won took the first empty chair he saw. But a sharp voice cut through the noise. It was Hana, "Hey, Bae Hoon! That's not your seat. Yours is over here." She pointed to another desk." Oh... okay. Thanks," Joo Won mumbled, his heart pounding.
During the first break, he slipped away to the bathroom. On his return, he noticed a potential escape route—a janitor's closet with an unguarded back door leading outside. Seizing the chance, he ran. He didn't know the way, but he remembered the name: Good Hope Orphanage. He asked strangers for directions, and step by step, he found his way back.
Before entering, he carefully removed the name plate from his uniform that said "Hwang Bae Hoon" to hide his double life. When he pushed open the familiar gates, his former friends stared in disbelief. He looked different—well-dressed, cleaner, older. "Where's Ji Woo?" he asked urgently.
The sisters, thrilled to see their "successfully adopted" boy, rushed over, unaware he'd been taken by the Hwangs. They'd been told a high-profile family had handled the adoption privately through the warden, and they took Joo Won away quietly at night to avoid media attention. They were a little sad not to have said goodbye, and a little suspicious but the Warden scolded them back to work dismissing the possibility of a gossip. Now, they beamed, thinking he had returned to show them his wonderful new life.
A wave of relief washed over him when he learned that Ji Woo—his cheerful, ever-smiling friend—had been adopted into a good family. The sisters told him how Ji Woo had cried rivers after Joo Won's sudden departure. They had been more than friends; they were bunkmates, brothers by choice—two names that matched, two souls that had sworn a bond deeper than blood.
Knowing Ji Woo was safe and loved allowed a weight to lift from Joo Won's heart. The heavy, silent fear he'd carried since he became Bae Hoon finally dissolved. And then came the greatest gift—a small piece of paper from the sisters, an address written in careful script, it was the handwriting of Ji Woo. It was more than directions; it seemed like a promise. It was the path leading back to his brother, his warmth, the only place that had ever truly felt like home. But as he turned to leave the orphanage, the warden spotted him. Shock—then panic—crossed the man's face. Joo Won was never supposed to return. The Hwangs were meant to ensure he stayed hidden.
In a rushed, hushed call, the warden alerted Mr. Baek. Within minutes, the secretary arrived, his expression stern. Without a word, he firmly guided Joo Won out of the building and into a waiting car.
The moment the door closed, Mr. Baek's calm facade broke. "Master Bae Hoon," he said, voice low and tense, "how many times must we tell you? You cannot wander off alone. If President Hwang finds out about this... you know exactly what he will do."
Joo Won: "My friend is gone now. He was adopted. Mr. Hwang has nothing left to threaten me with. I will not be Bae Hoon anymore."
Mr. Baek: (His voice turning icy cold) "Do you truly believe we cannot find him? Do you think borders can protect him? If he is on this earth, we will find him. And we will end him. Do not test us."
Joo Won: (His voice breaking, the brave facade crumbling) "B-but I'm not Bae Hoon! I am Joo Won! Why are you doing this? Why can't I be Joo Won? I love mother... why can't I just tell her the truth?"
Mr. Baek: (Leaning in, his words a venomous whisper) "To them, a boy named Joo Won is worthless. He is nothing. The name you carry now is the only thing that gives you value. The moment you shed it, you will be discarded. Or erased. Along with your friend. If you have a death wish, just say the word. I will handle it myself."
(Joo Won says nothing. A silent stream of tears traces down his cheeks, he looked down on the name tag, Hwang Bae Hoon, the last of his defiance extinguished. He tore down the paper he had with Ji Woo's handwriting and scattered it out the car window to save his friend's life )
The car accelerated leaving a cloud of black smoke into the air, leaving the orphanage—and his old self—behind forever.From that day on, the thought of escape died. Joo Won ceased to exist, and Hwang Bae Hoon lived on, inhabiting a life constructed atop the grave of his own.
At twenty-one, Hwang Bae Hoon moved through his luxurious world with a soul already extinguished. He was a ghost in a gilded shell, enduring a hollow existence that felt like a prolonged wait for an inevitable end. His deepest, most private yearning was for a final silence where both his stolen identity and his erased self could find peace together.
Yet, this release could never come from his own hand. The single, fragile thread tethering him to this life was the possibility that Ji Woo was still out there, alive and happy. To rebel, to escape, or to end his suffering would be to risk triggering the Hwang family's ruthless machinery. The threat against his childhood brother was a cage stronger than any other. For Ji Woo's safety, the ghost of Joo Won had to continue playing the part of a living son..
The sun poured through the pristine window of his bedroom of his apartment on 2143 Crimson Lane, USA, painting warm, bright squares on the plush carpet, but it held no warmth for Bae Hoon, now 17 years old. In his hands, he held a relic, a tiny rectangle of faded paper that felt heavier than anything else in this whole, big, quiet house.
The photo was worn soft at the edges from years of careful handling. In it, two little boys, their smiles gapped with missing teeth, had their arms slung around each other's shoulders. They were squashed together on the bottom bunk of a bed in a room they shared with ten other boys. Behind the smiles was a world of shared secrets, of whispered dreams in the dark, of stolen bites of kimchi and the fierce, unshakable loyalty that only exists between children who have no one but each other.
Joo Won was on the left, his smile always a little shyer, his head tilted towards Ji Woo's, a silent testament to their partnership. On the right was Ji Woo, his eyes scrunched into happy crescents.
They had been a unit. "Joo Won and Ji Woo," the Sisters would sigh, as if their names were a single word. They promised. They made a blood pact with a safety pin, a tiny, sharp pain that sealed a forever vow. No matter what. Wherever we go. We find each other.
He traced the outline of Ji Woo's face in the photo. Fifteen years. The boy in the picture would be a man now, his features changed, his voice deepened. Does he still have that laugh that sounded like a surprised squeak? Does he remember the words to the silly songs they made up? Does he still remember him, does he wonder about the friend who left him behind?
A sob hitched in Hoon's throat, a sharp, painful gasp that broke the sterile silence of his room. The first tear fell, landing on the photo, blurring Ji Woo's tiny face. Then another. He tried to hold them back, to clench his jaw and breathe through the ache in his chest, but it was useless.
The dam broke.
He curled over the photo, his shoulders shaking with the force of a grief he had carried for over a decade. He cried for the lost conversations, the feeling of a loyal shoulder pressed against his own. He cried for the silence that had followed him across an ocean.
They had given him everything, except the one thing he truly wanted.
He wasn't crying for a childhood of hardship. He was crying for the single bright spot within it. He was crying for Ji Woo. His first friend. His only real brother. Lost not to anger or a fight, but to the cruel, benevolent machinery of fate that had pulled them apart and scattered them across the globe.
The sun continued to stream through the window, illuminating the solitary figure of a young man grieving for his home that was Ji Woo, holding a faded photograph that was the only proof that his other half had ever existed at all. The only evidence of a promise that the vast, indifferent world had made impossible to keep.