At Han Manor…
Jinhwan sat in his father's study, hands resting on the cold leather of the armrest, eyes locked on the portrait above the fireplace. It was a painting of his grandfather—Han Tae-gon—stoic, severe, the kind of man who built empires without blinking at the cost.
"Are you even listening, Jinhwan?"
His father's voice cut through the silence.
"Yes," Jinhwan replied without turning his head. "You want me to attend the Global Commerce Summit next week. In New York. Representing Han Corp."
His father, Han Min-jae, gave a small nod. "It's important."
"I already declined."
"You what?" The older man's voice sharpened. "Do you think the world waits for your whims?"
"I think," Jinhwan said slowly, finally meeting his father's gaze, "that we should stop pretending I'm just a proxy with a pulse. I make decisions now. And I'm not flying halfway across the world just to shake hands with people who already want to stab me in the back."
Han Min-jae's eyes narrowed. "You're letting that girl distract you."
Jinhwan didn't answer.
"You're not a boy anymore," his father went on, rising from his seat. "Your feelings don't matter. Your duty does. You owe this family your obedience."
"No," Jinhwan said, his voice low but steady. "What I owe this family is a better future than the mess it created."
Min-jae's silence was ice-cold. He turned away, dismissing his son with a wave. "Do as you please. But remember—blood ties don't protect you from consequences."
Outside the study, in the corridor…
Jinhwan paused, resting a hand against the wall. He felt like he was breathing through glass.
The dreams had returned.
Whispers, fragments, visions of another life. Sometimes he saw her—Haeun—in royal robes, eyes brimming with tears. Sometimes he saw himself standing alone in fields of ash.
And always, always, the same voice in the end: You failed her.
He shook the thought away.
But the truth clung to him like dust in his lungs.
---
At the hospital…
Haeun was discharged that afternoon. The doctor smiled gently as he handed her a small folder of recovery instructions.
"You'll need rest, and try not to stress your heart," he said. "That means no late nights, no caffeine, and no… emotional rollercoasters."
Haeun raised a brow. "Does falling in love count?"
The doctor chuckled. "Only if it's the dramatic kind."
She smiled and nodded, though the joke hit closer to reality than she liked.
Sunwoo walked her out, bags in hand. "Are you sure you're okay on your own? I can stay at your apartment tonight."
"I'll be fine," she said softly. "You've already done too much."
"Call me if anything feels off," he said, frowning. "You have the meds?"
She nodded and patted her purse. "Got them. And don't worry, I won't break."
Sunwoo's gaze lingered a beat too long before he gave a small nod. "You're stronger than most. But even you need people."
She didn't reply. Her heart was too full—and not in the healthy way.
---
That evening, in Haeun's apartment…
She opened the door to silence.
The place was just as she'd left it—books scattered on the low coffee table, the blanket she always curled into half-draped over the couch, and the scent of lavender lingering from the diffuser she'd forgotten to refill.
Home.
She set her bags down and closed her eyes, letting the quiet settle over her.
Then her phone vibrated. A message from an unknown number.
I didn't get the chance to say goodbye properly. Are you okay?
—J.H.
Haeun stared at the screen.
Of course, it was him.
She hesitated, then typed back:
I'm out. Resting. Thank you for coming.
—H.H.
The three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared.
And reappeared.
And disappeared again.
Eventually, nothing.
She locked the screen and exhaled. It was always like this—almost something. But not quite. Still, the warmth lingered. The way his eyes had softened in that hospital room. The quiet sincerity in his voice.
Maybe it was something. Or maybe she just wanted it to be.
---
Later that night…
Haeun stood at her bathroom mirror, brushing out her hair, her eyes tracing the faint scar below her collarbone.
She didn't remember getting it. It had been there as long as she could recall—just a small crescent of raised skin. But lately, it burned. Not physically. Just… a strange pull. Like it was connected to something deeper.
She looked up into her reflection and for a split second—just a blink—she wasn't looking at herself.
She was in different clothes, her hair tied differently, her eyes darker, more solemn.
She blinked again—and the reflection returned to normal.
Goosebumps erupted across her arms.
"What is happening to me?" she whispered.
---
Meanwhile, in a surveillance room beneath the city…
A wall of monitors displayed footage from hospitals, security feeds, and satellite imagery.
A man in a black suit stood in front of a screen showing Haeun's apartment.
"She's starting to see," he murmured.
Beside him, the silver-haired woman from before nodded. "It was always going to accelerate. Especially now that they've crossed paths again."
"She'll remember," he said.
"She has to," the woman replied, her voice heavy with warning. "If she doesn't… it ends the same way it always does."
They stared at the screen in silence, watching her silhouette move behind the apartment curtains.