Ji-Woo stepped out of the gate just as she pulled her beanie down over her ears.
The street was calm—late afternoon quiet, the kind where the city feels like it's holding its breath. She took two steps before a shadow crossed her path.
"Wow," Ji-Bok said lightly, appearing out of nowhere. "Leaving without saying hi? Cold."
"Ji-Bok?" She blinked. "What are you—"
He grabbed her wrist.
Not rough enough to hurt.Just firm enough to make a point.
"Hey—what are you doing?" she protested, half-laughing despite herself as he pulled her along. "Are you insane? People can see—"
"Relax," he muttered, dragging her down the street. "They won't."
He turned sharply at the corner—an old delivery alley, narrow, shadowed, forgotten. No footsteps.
No voices.
Ji-Woo yanked her arm back. "Are you done acting like a criminal, or is this your midlife crisis?"
He stepped closer.
She opened her mouth again—
—and he covered it with his hand.
Her eyes widened.
Without hesitation, she bit him.
"—Ah, damn it—!" He pulled back instantly, shaking his hand. "You're vicious."
"You kidnapped me!" she snapped. "What is wrong with you?!"
He didn't answer.
For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard—not angry. Not amused. Something undone flickered across his face.
Then he took a step back.
"I know," he said.
Her brows knit. "Know what?"
"Everything," Ji-Bok replied quietly.
The alley seemed to narrow.
"You're not Ji-Woo."
The words landed clean. No cruelty. No drama.
Ji-Woo froze.
Not shaking. Not crying. Just… still.
"…What?" she said.
"You heard me." His voice was lower now. Stripped of its usual bite. "Your thumbprint. The one you nearly broke my ribs over getting."
Her jaw tightened.
"The results came back," he continued. "DNA. Ninety-eight percent not a match. Same person look alike. Different hair. Honestly that's the only difference"
Her fingers curled slowly at her side.
"…How," she asked carefully, "did you even get that?"
He hesitated.
Just a second.
Then said a single name.
"Mi-Sook."
Something inside Ji-Woo went cold.
Not hot. Not explosive.
Cold.
She nodded once, absorbing it like a fact, not a wound.
"So," she said flatly, "does anyone else know?"
Ji-Bok watched her closely. "No."
She exhaled.
"…Then you're the first one," she said.
He tilted his head. "Technically second."
Her eyes flicked up—sharp.
"…Or third," he added lightly, trying to joke his way out of the weight of it.
She glanced down.
At their hands.
At where his fingers still hovered too close.
Ji-Bok followed her gaze and immediately let go.
"I want to be alone," Ji-Woo said.
Deadpan. Final.
He nodded without argument.
"Okay," he said softly. "I'll… call you when you get home."
She didn't look back as she turned away.
"Don't," she said.
He watched her walk out of the alley, shoulders straight, steps steady—no cracks to chase, no tears to fix.
Ji-Bok leaned back against the wall once she was gone, dragging a hand down his face.
"…Aigoo," he murmured.
he sighed.
--
Ji-Ho slid his jacket on with the same care he used for everything else.
Slow. Silent. Precise.
The house was half-dark, the air thick with the kind of stillness that made even breathing feel loud. He reached for the door—
"Where are you going?"
Mrs. Park's voice didn't rise.It didn't need to.
Ji-Ho stopped.
He turned just enough to face her. She stood near the dining table, arms loosely folded, her expression calm—almost bored.
"I'm going out," he said.
"At this hour?" she replied lightly. "Go back to your room. You still have homework."
"I'll finish it when I come back," Ji-Ho said. "I'm not a kid."
There was no emotion in his tone. No defiance. Just fact.
He reached for the handle again.
Mrs. Park smiled.
It was small. Polite. Dangerous.
"So," she said, as if thinking out loud, "you're planning to run away too?"
His hand froze.
"Like your mother," she added. "And your brother."
The words slid into the room, quiet and sharp.
Mr. Park stood abruptly. "That's enough."
Hoseok straightened from where he'd been leaning against the counter. "Mom," he said, voice tight. "Don't."
She waved them off.
"Oh, relax. I'm not lying." She took a step closer to Ji-Ho's back. "She got tired. Tired of a child who was too much. Always studying. Always silent. Always… heavy."
Ji-Ho's vision blurred.
The present slipped.
He was five again—
Curled on the floor of his room. Glasses crooked, one lens smeared with tears. Trying to be quiet because crying only made things worse. Because maybe, if he was quiet enough, someone would stay.
His chest tightened.
He swallowed.
Said nothing.
Mrs. Park tilted her head. "See? Still no response. Exactly like her."
"Stop," Mr. Park said sharply.
"That's not fair," Hoseok added, stepping forward.
But Ji-Ho had already moved.
He opened the door.
Cold night air rushed in, sharp against his face. It steadied him.
He stepped outside.
Only then did his shoulders shake—once.
Just once.
He forced the tears back down, jaw clenched, expression unchanged.
The door closed softly behind him.
Too softly.
And Ji-Ho walked away, carrying every word with him.
--
Ji-Woo didn't go home.
Not yet.
The streetlights had just begun to flicker on, the city settling into its evening rhythm. She pulled her hoodie tighter around herself and wandered into a small convenience shop near the corner—the kind that always smelled faintly of sugar and dust.
She grabbed a can from the fridge. Then another.
Her steps slowed as she noticed someone by the plastic tables outside.
Slumped shoulders.
Five empty soda cans lined up like they'd been counted without thinking.
A waiter placing down another, already knowing the routine.
Ji-Woo stopped.
"…Ji-Ho."
He didn't look up right away.
When he did, his expression didn't change much. Just mild surprise, like he'd expected the world to eventually bump into him.
"Hey," he said.
She sat across from him without asking.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
She cracked open her can. The sound felt too loud. She took a sip and winced slightly at the sweetness.
"I didn't feel like going home," she said eventually.
Ji-Ho nodded. "Same."
Another pause.
She glanced at the empty cans, then at his face. "That your sixth?"
"Seventh," he corrected quietly.
She hummed. "Overachiever."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
They drank in silence again, the city passing them by like it didn't notice.
"I hate it," Ji-Woo said suddenly, staring at the ground. "Not remembering."
He didn't ask what she didn't remember.
Just listened.
"It's like everyone expects me to be… someone," she continued. "And I don't even know if I am that person. Or if I ever was."
She stopped there.
Didn't say more.
Ji-Ho looked at his soda can, rotating it slowly between his fingers.
"I hate the opposite," he said.
She glanced up.
"Remembering," he added. "And still feeling like I'm alone."
She let that sink in.
"There are people around me all the time," he went on calmly. "Family. Classmates. Friends." His voice didn't change.
"But it doesn't stop the quiet."
Ji-Woo nodded.
"…Yeah," she said softly. "I get that."
They sat there, two unopened conversations left untouched, the evening cooling around them.
After a moment, Ji-Ho slid one of the unopened cans toward her.
"You look like you needed a refill," he said.
She took it.
"Thanks, grumpy genius."
He finally smiled—small, tired, real.
"Anytime," he replied.
And for a while, neither of them felt completely alone.
Not close enough to hear them. Not far enough to look away.
The figures at the plastic table blurred together—two silhouettes framed by neon and passing headlights. The laughter, if there was any, didn't carry this far.
At first, the gaze was sharp. Careful. Measuring.
Then it softened.
A quiet sigh slipped into the night, barely more than breath.
The watcher turned away, leaving the scene untouched—two people sharing a moment they didn't know anyone else had seen.