The Seoul street was slick with recent rain, neon signs reflecting like fractured glass across the asphalt. A lone car rolled to a stop outside an apartment building, headlights cutting through the night.
Ji-hoon stepped out. Casual in posture, distant in aura. His hands shoved into his pockets, gaze fixed ahead.
"I'll go. Don't wait," he said, voice clipped, almost cold.
He didn't look back. Not once. Eun-chae watched, heart tightening as he disappeared into the building, swallowed by shadows.
She stayed frozen for a beat, the wet night air heavy around her, and then slid into the passenger seat of her car. Silence settled like a weight.
Her body sagged against the seat. Exhaustion. Relief. Fear. All tangled together.
And then—a flicker. Something in her chest shifted, eyes widening as fragmented images invaded her mind:
Flashes of fire. Screams slicing through darkness. A hand, desperate, reaching through thick smoke. A voice, low and urgent, whispering:
"Run!"
She gasped. Heart hammering. Her hands gripped the dashboard as the vision escalated—flames surrounding her, heat pressing against her skin, chaos erupting around her.
"STOP—!" she screamed, clutching her head.
A voice she longed for broke through the haze. "Honey—"
The world tipped. She collapsed, lungs burning, consciousness slipping.
Officer Jung's voice cut through the haze like a lifeline.
"Eun-chae!"
He grabbed her, hands firm, steadying her.
"Stay with me! Hey—!"
Her body didn't respond. Nothing. His heart pounded. He slammed the accelerator. Tires screeched, slicing through the wet street as the city blurred around them.
Doctors swarmed as she was wheeled into the emergency room. Jung paced outside, restless, every second stretching into eternity. The sterile smell of disinfectant and antiseptic made his stomach twist. Monitors beeped faintly from inside, but he barely noticed.
Later, a doctor approached, brisk, clinical.
"She's stable," he said.
Relief flooded Jung, but it was tempered. "What happened?" he asked, voice tight.
The doctor's gaze was sharp, somber. "I need to speak with you in private."
Inside the small office, the door clicked shut behind them. Jung leaned against the edge of the desk, tense, waiting.
"She lost her memory," the doctor said. Voice low, measured. "Five years ago, the incident already affected her. You know that."
Jung's gaze dropped. He remembered. Every detail, every fragment.
"If trauma is triggered," the doctor continued, eyes serious, "it can destabilize her. Don't push her. Not now. Not yet."
And just like that, he was gone. Jung was left alone, frozen in the fluorescent light, the weight of responsibility pressing down like concrete.
The corridor outside erupted. A sharp slap echoed. Eun-chae's father loomed over Jung, eyes blazing.
"Stay away from my daughter!"
Her mother stepped forward, elegant but merciless, every movement deliberate.
"I never liked you. You don't belong near her. Not now. Not ever."
Jung remained silent, jaw tight. The words hit harder than any blow.
Flashback—
I'm divorced...
Her father's voice echoed in his memory, haunting.
Back in the corridor, the tension was palpable. Jung's hand twitched. His heart ached, torn between the law, duty, and the fragile girl he was trying to protect. Eun-chae's small, unconscious form was in the emergency room—his responsibility. And yet, even that felt impossible.
Rain tapped against the windows. Neon reflected off the walls. The night waited, silent and endless.