Mrs. Kim didn't summon Ji-Woo immediately.
She waited until the house settled into its evening stillness, until footsteps softened and voices lowered. Only then did she call for her.
Ji-Woo entered the sitting room quietly.
Mrs. Kim was standing near the piano.
That alone was unusual.
She rarely touched it. Rarely even acknowledged it was there.
"Sit," Mrs. Kim said calmly.
Ji-Woo obeyed, folding her hands in her lap.
Mrs. Kim turned, studying her—not directly, not intensely. The way one might observe a painting they had seen too many times to trust their memory of it.
"I've invited guests," Mrs. Kim said.
Ji-Woo's fingers tightened slightly.
"For tea," Mrs. Kim continued. "Nothing formal."
Ji-Woo nodded. "I understand."
Mrs. Kim walked toward the piano, resting her fingertips lightly on the polished wood.
"I told them you would play."
Ji-Woo looked up.
"Music," Mrs. Kim added, as if clarifying something obvious. "You always liked it."
That much was true.
Ji-Woo did like music.
But not like that.
The real Ji-Woo loved slow melodies. Piano pieces that lingered, gentle and repetitive. Music that stayed close to the ground.
Ji-Woo—this Ji-Woo—liked noise. Sharp sounds. Loud guitars. Music that drowned out thought.
Her silence stretched a fraction too long.
Mrs. Kim noticed.
"You'll play the piano," Mrs. Kim said, turning to face her fully now. "And you'll wear a dress."
The words landed carefully.
Measured.
Ji-Woo lowered her gaze. "Of course."
Mrs. Kim nodded, as if satisfied—but she wasn't finished.
"You may invite friends as well," she added lightly. "Anyone you like."
Ji-Woo's breath caught—just barely.
Friends.
Mrs. Kim already knew.
Ji-Woo had none.
None that came over. None that called. None that lingered.
Only one name ever appeared in conversations.
Eun-Woo.
Mrs. Kim tilted her head slightly. "You can invite Eun-Woo."
Ji-Woo's heart thudded once, hard.
"Or anyone else," Mrs. Kim said smoothly. "I wouldn't want you to feel lonely."
Lonely.
The word wasn't cruel. It didn't need to be.
Ji-Woo nodded again. "I'll invite Eun-Woo."
Mrs. Kim smiled faintly.
"Good."
She turned back to the piano, fingers gliding across the keys—not playing. Just touching.
"You know," she said casually, "your name has always suited you."
Ji-Woo stiffened.
"Ji-Woo," Mrs. Kim continued. "Soft. Clear."
A pause.
"Very close to Ji-Soo."
Ji-Woo's chest tightened.
Too close.
The names sounded alike. Looked alike. Felt alike.
And worse—
She still remembered Ji-Soo.
The memory sat inside her like a shard of glass.
"I used to mix them up," Mrs. Kim said quietly. "Ji-Woo. Ji-Soo. Funny, isn't it?"
Ji-Woo forced herself to breathe.
"Yes," she said softly. "It is."
Mrs. Kim turned then and met her eyes fully.
For the first time, there was no softness in her gaze.
Just calculation.
"Play something gentle," Mrs. Kim said. "Something you love."
Ji-Woo bowed her head. "I will."
As she left the room, her steps were steady—but her thoughts were not.
A piano. A dress. Guests. Music I don't love.
Ji-Woo understood now.
This wasn't a performance.
It was an examination.
And Mrs. Kim wasn't trying to catch her lying—
She was trying to see who she truly was when she thought no one was watching.
That night, Ji-Woo sat alone in her room, staring at the piano score Mrs. Kim had left on the stand.
Slow. Gentle. Familiar.
Not to her.
She pressed her fingers into her palms and whispered the name she shouldn't remember.
"Ji-Soo…"
The trap was already set.
All that remained was the music.
--
The mansion looked different that evening.
Light spilled from every window, warm and deliberate, softening the sharp lines of the building. Crystal lamps glowed along the hallways, their reflections trembling faintly against polished marble floors. White flowers—lilies and pale roses—lined the staircase and the long dining table, their scent clean and overwhelming, like something meant to impress rather than comfort.
Everything had been arranged with care.
Too much care.
Ji-Woo stood upstairs, alone in her room.
The dress clung to her in a way she wasn't used to. The fabric was expensive—silk, perhaps—but it felt unforgiving. Too tight around her ribs. Too open at the neckline. She shifted slightly, uncomfortable, fingers pressing against her sides as if she could push herself back into something familiar.
I don't look like myself, she thought.
Or worse—
I look like someone pretending to be someone else.
Her hair had been styled neatly, every strand placed with intention. The bangs rested smoothly against her forehead now. She had learned to tolerate them—learned to accept the weight of hair where there shouldn't have been any.
She touched them absently.
It's fine, she told herself. Everything's fine.
This was safer.
Bangs meant no questions. No accidental glances. No searching eyes.
She let out a slow breath and straightened her shoulders.
Just get through tonight Ji-Soo.
Downstairs, voices began to arrive—measured, polite, unfamiliar.
Ji-Woo moved toward the balcony overlooking the main hall.
The first guests entered gracefully.
Eun-Woo arrived with his mother.
Mrs. Eun greeted Mrs. Kim with a warm smile, bowing slightly, her voice full of practiced courtesy. Mrs. Kim responded in kind—perfect posture, perfect tone.
Eun-Woo, however, barely lingered.
His eyes drifted almost immediately toward the staircase.
Toward her.
Ji-Woo stepped back instinctively, heart thudding.
Moments later, another familiar presence entered.
Mi-Sook.
She came with her father, Mr. Jung—a man with a confident laugh and an easy handshake. He greeted Mrs. Kim warmly, two business minds exchanging polite words that sounded friendly but meant nothing.
Mi-Sook followed half a step behind him, dressed impeccably, her smile subtle and controlled.
Her eyes moved.
They always did.
Ji-Woo held her breath as Mi-Sook glanced briefly toward the stairs—then away again, as if she hadn't noticed anything at all.
That unsettled her more than being stared at.
She knows, Ji-Woo thought. Or she's waiting.
Then—
Another arrival.
Ji-Woo froze.
Ji-Bok stepped inside, laughing lightly, his voice too familiar. Beside him was his father—Mr. Choi.
Her chest tightened.
No, she thought. I didn't think—
She had believed this would be distant. Controlled. Full of strangers.
Instead, the hall below now held three people she knew.
Three people who knew her—or thought they did.
Ji-Bok glanced around curiously, then looked up, his gaze stopping just short of the balcony.
Eun-Woo was already watching the stairs openly now.
Mi-Sook stood quietly beside her father, expression unreadable.
Ji-Woo stepped back into the shadows, heart racing.
I'm not Ji-Woo, she thought suddenly, sharply. And I don't play the piano.
The realization pressed against her ribs, tight and suffocating.
She closed her eyes.
You can do this, she told herself. You've survived worse.
But as the murmur of guests filled the mansion and the piano waited downstairs—silent, expectant—Ji-Woo knew something undeniable.
Tonight wasn't about music.
It was about watching.
And she was standing on a stage she didn't know how to leave.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress.
Slowly, she exhaled.
Then she turned toward the door.
Whatever happened next—