"What do you think you were doing, Ji‑hoon‑ssi?"
Ye‑seul's voice cracked through the narrow backstage corridor, echoing off concrete and pale wood. Her black dress swayed close to her legs, silk catching in the draft. Her long black hair clung to her neck with the faint humidity left from the stage lights. The air smelled faintly of varnish and resin. She shifted aside automatically to let the next contestant pass, a boy still whispering finger numbers under his breath, and then locked her dark eyes on Ji‑hoon's back.
He didn't slow. The neon leak from the waiting room's heavy wooden door painted his slightly unkempt hair silver‑white. His dark eyes stayed fixed forward, distant, almost tranquil, too calm for what he'd done. Each step of his shoes against the tile was measured, deliberate, like a metronome oblivious to the noise around it.
"Ji‑hoon‑ssi, are you even listening?" she said again, sharper, her voice unsteady with disbelief.
The door's heavy hinges groaned as he pushed through. A rush of air met her: metallic from the strings, sweet hairspray, bitter instant coffee, sweat, and nerves. In her periphery, the waiting room moved—fingers ghosting through phrases, fabric whispering, breath held and released. A girl in a beige dress mouthed a Debussy passage silently. Another tapped tempo on her thigh while fixing her lipstick. Someone adjusted a pedal spring with a metallic click that cut the air. From down the hall came clashing phrases of Chopin's Scherzo No.3 and Prokofiev's Sonata No.7, each stopping abruptly before starting again—competitors running through the same measure, desperate to perfect the final jumps before stepping on stage. The chaos of rehearsed sound collided and dissolved, a churn of rehearsal nerves.
No heads lifted. Their worlds stayed on the metronome and to the measure. Whatever happened on stage wasn't theirs. Ye‑seul tracked him, the tall boy with the faint tremor of exhaustion at his fingertips, who should have been shaking but wasn't.
"Ji‑hoon‑ssi," she tried again, stepping closer, voice tight. "Look at me. Do you understand what you did out there?"
He crouched to gather his worn bag, his dark hair falling across his eyes. Sweat darkened the collar of his white shirt. He unbuttoned it slightly and let out a slow breath, eyes flicking up at her once—steady, unreadable. Around them, the smell of dust, rosin, and cheap perfume mingled in the overheated air.
"No one has ever left a piece unfinished like that, especially on a professional stage. Forget the trophy for now. By tomorrow, your name will be everywhere."
Her phone buzzed against the table, discordant with the fractured music still drifting through the hall. She reached into her bag. KakaoTalk — Su‑jin.
> "Did you see that? The Machine glitched mid‑performance. Unreal."
Another ping. Screenshots from the K‑ARTS chat rolled up her screen: Did he freeze? Was it on purpose? Professor Yoo is furious. And Su‑jin again:
> "Judges looked lost. Poor Ji‑hoon‑ssi. Brilliant but wired wrong, huh?"
Su‑jin's tone hovered between curiosity and detached sympathy, the same way she always talked about him—like he was some gifted malfunction.
Ye‑seul's thumb lingered on the dimming glow before she looked back up. Ji‑hoon stood with his bag over his shoulder, calm and silent, dark eyes steady in the storm of noise.
"Do you know what they're saying in the group chat, Ji‑hoon‑ssi?" she asked quietly, her own pulse loud in her ears.
He didn't answer. The faint smell of sweat and resin trailed behind him as he turned toward the exit, leaving the fluorescent chaos behind.
"This will be bigger than you think," she murmured, stepping after him into the cooler night air beyond the backstage door.
---
Night settled. A cool autumn draft combed the glass skyline and slid under Ye‑seul's coat, brushing her arms through the thin fabric. The air smelled of ginkgo, faint exhaust, and roasted chestnuts from a stand nearby. Across Yeonhui‑ro, windows brightened in the apartments, while delivery bikes murmured past and a lone bus sighed to a stop. The city kept moving, indifferent to the silence that followed them out of the hall.
"Ji‑hoon‑ssi, please…" Her voice was soft but unsteady. She stepped in front of him, blocking his path beneath a flickering streetlight that threw uneven shadows. Her gaze lifted to him, searching, her breath trembling in the chill. His hair was tousled, his dark eyes unreadable, a faint sheen of sweat still marking his temple. The audience's confusion still echoed, a sound that refused to fade. "I don't understand why you changed your piece to the Fourth Ballade. Maybe it was a strategy... maybe you wanted to try something new... but why end it like that?"
Ji‑hoon stopped but didn't look at her. The night air pressed between them, cold but not cruel. A paper cup rolled along the curb, and a car's passing light cut across his face: calm, held at a distance. When he spoke, his tone was even, but there was something colder beneath it. "Why does it matter to you, Ye-seul-ssi?" He glanced at her, his voice low. "One less rival for you to worry about. One more trophy to add to your collection."
Ye‑seul's hands tightened on her bag. A breath left her lips shakily. "Do you think this is about winning?" Her tone wavered but stayed measured, the careful calm drilled into her. "You think I care about a trophy?"
He turned his head slightly, breath visible in the autumn air. "Then what is it about?" he asked, eyes half‑lidded, as if too tired to care. "K‑ARTS' prestige? Your family's name?"
She took a step forward, her heel scraping softly against the pavement. "I'm not here for a prize," she said, quieter now. "You used to light up when you played. That day, you froze, then you went back and finished. You held a bronze like it was enough because it was yours." She swallowed. "Tonight, I couldn't find you in it, Ji‑hoon‑ssi."
A delivery scooter rounded the corner, headlight sweeping across them. They stepped apart. The moment fractured.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose, lowering his gaze. His tone carried a faint edge, too restrained to sound angry but heavy with judgment. "Fancy. You talk as if you'd know the difference anymore." His eyes flicked up to meet hers. "Argerich one night. Thibaudet another." He paused. "Never you. Never your own voice."
Ye‑seul froze, her lips parting slightly. "That's not fair…" she whispered, the words breaking against the air. Her shoulders tensed as she tried to maintain composure, but her hands trembled at her sides. The streetlight above them buzzed faintly, flickering once, and in that brief dimness, her face fell.
Ji‑hoon's tone softened but didn't warm. "All I heard was everyone but you, Ye-seul‑ssi." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "That missing chord—at least it was mine."
The wind picked up between them, carrying the faint smell of roasted chestnuts and cold asphalt. For a moment, she couldn't speak. Anger, disbelief, and something more fragile twisted beneath her practiced calm. The cold bit her throat, as if something had blocked it. But she lifted her chin and forced her expression still, the way her family had taught her.
Ji‑hoon shifted his bag higher on his shoulder and stepped past her. His sleeve brushed against hers—a ghost of contact—and then he was walking away, his figure swallowed by the city's dim rhythm. Each step faded until only the hum of traffic remained.
---
Her phone buzzed again—she didn't read it. Her fingers curled tight enough to leave small crescents in her palm. The city lights shimmered against the damp asphalt, colors bleeding like watercolor. Her throat tightened, the air sharp with cold and faintly metallic. Heat prickled behind her eyes. She pressed her teeth to the inside of her cheek. But years of expectation pinned them down. She straightened her posture, smoothed the lines of her coat, and drew a steady breath, the mask returning to its seat.
"Ms. Han."
The voice came gently, but it sliced through the moment. She blinked, swallowing hard before turning. The staff stood under the light, bowing politely. Behind them, the glass doors of the hall reflected her poised silhouette back at her, flawless, unshaken.
"The evaluation meeting will begin soon. Could you return to the hall?"
"Yes," she said, her tone even again, as if nothing had cracked beneath it. "One more minute."
When she looked back, Ji‑hoon was gone, his absence dissolving into the soft rumble of the city. The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted past as her phone lit once more—not from Su‑jin this time, but from the K‑ARTS official blog:
> A Chord Left Silent — Artistic choice or disaster on stage?
> By Nam Da‑on.
The night exhaled quietly. Beneath the stillness, something in her—delicate, trembling—knew the silence was only beginning to play.