Chapter Text
She pressed against the cool metal of the dark grey door—the remnants of sleep clouded the edges of her vision. Through the peephole, she saw the murky image of her father's back; the deadbolt unlatched, the doorknob twisted, something she hadn't meant to do — hadn't realised she had done. Her heartbeat felt too hot, too rapid in her ears, an emotion she did not try to identify rose and fell flatly as a force stopped the turning motion of the knob.
Something sickly twisted in her.
"Dad?" She called out, the tresses framing her face sticking to her skin.
Her whole body felt heavier than usual, the droning silence of the dark apartment closed in around her as she tried the knob once more. Her frantic movements only seemed to distance herself from the opening of the door; the weight she threw on it was instinctive — a numbing buzz flooded Ji-woo's mind.
A gunshot rang out in the night, piercing, even through the metal boundary.
In the first second, her muscles stopped contracting. In the next, she pulled away from the door. For the rest of time, there was nothing but shock when a groan—that took the shape of her father's voice—and a thud inked itself into her brain.
"Dad, what's going on?" She tried once more, but she knew that it was useless.
"Please..."
"Are you okay, Dad?" The voice that was not her own, sounded louder this time—more panic-stricken. Fingers shaking, she leaned in, trying to catch her father's words.
"Not my girl..."
A second shot. A gasp.
Ji-woo flinched back as if the impact of the bullet had reverberated through her. She started pounding on the door, lips numb and eyes stained with tears. "Dad!"
Even as Yoon Dong-hoon was dying, his palm stayed firmly on the knob—even as it shook with the desperation of his daughter. He exhaled in pain and fear, the lights above him flickering in and out. His brain tried to hold on to his whole life, replaying forlorn memories but his eyes were too tired. It was a slippery slope: he lost control of his limbs, lost control of his mind, lost control of his soul.
He could not speak to his daughter.
"Dad? Are you ok?"
Harsh pants.
"Dad, please open the door! Please, dad. I want to come to you!" Grip on the doorknob, she slid down the uneven surface with twisting lips and the heavy feeling of fear.
Sobs slipped out of her, she continued pushing and pulling the knob. "Dad, please let me out."
She heaved heavily, listening to the dragging breaths of her father. Everything about him sounded so clear, then, more than every scarce memory she had of him—the tentative painful pants he took, his urge to say something to her.
Ji-woo could feel it all.
His eyelids closed on their own volition.
The crushing realisation washed over her.
"No! Dad, I'm coming!" By the time she got the door to open, the floor was slick with blood—her father laid on the floor.
The flowers and pink box rested beside him, forgotten.
"Dad!" A horrible scream escaped her throat and her arms curled around his neck, like she had once done as a child. His skin had been warm and every-bit like the father she remembered; the body, however, was not someone she recognised.
Grief, disbelief and uncertainty tumbled through her all at once. She began rocking back and forth, fingers grasping his torso for something solid.
He's not coming back —something she knew, even as she started shaking him.
____
Incense burned.
"Wait. When are we going to move?"
"Soon." His gaze turned towards the sea. "I'm almost done with my job."
He looked happier then, short hair swept by the summer breeze. The radio playing a song that lightened the mood, even as it faded into the background.
The memory darkened and Ji-woo faced her father's memorial picture. A bitter smile twisted her lips, she sniffled softly and did not acknowledge the vacant room. She told herself she liked it this way: only her father and her.
Just like it had always been.
"What did you say to him that made him come home?"
Ji-woo's vision smudged. Now, tears welled in her eyes. Her entire body began shaking uncontrollably, the blank stare tempting guilt as her hair fell to the sides of her face. When her lower lip started to tremble, she gripped onto her only lifeline—anger. Maddening rage licked at her grief, at the lost memories of her father.
"He should've turned himself in."
Anger.
She collapsed onto the floor. And gave a swing at it, uncaring of consequences.
There were two things Ji-woo registered—the flaring pain shooting up her bones and the immense relief that rushed through her. It was a steady, unexpected but welcomed cooling that burned through the stinging ache. Her breath rushed out, legs relaxing as she sagged on the floor.
She was kneeled down before her father's picture, head bowed and hair fanning around her. The clumpy, frivolous fabric of her mourning attire was a bloom of obsidian in a stuffy room filled with the endless sense of nothingness. It felt just like any other day, she realised.
Just then, there were heavy footfalls.
Ji-woo did not bother to look up, effort was now a second nature. Even the slightest tilt of head felt like a burden, a twitch in fingers felt like wading through dense water.
In her peripheral vision, men with black suits marched into the room. Her heart gave a great lurch, uncertainty licked at her wounds as the atmosphere settled into a heavy weight pressing down on her. She stood up abruptly, finding a place at the sidelines—the corners of the room.
She had a faint idea of who they were. But something else demanded her attention—the click of a lighter, cigarette smoke and the one man approaching the censer.
Odd; she filed it away.
As he placed the lit cigarette into the censer, even though she felt the slightest hints of anger, her facial features did not twitch. She remained impassive, motionless and invisible, trying to will away these men who did not belong here, who disgraced her father with their presence.
But when the man passed her, the words rushed out before she could stop herself: "Are you the leader of the operation?"
Everyone stilled.
Ji-woo pressed on, staring at an empty spot on the far wall. "What did you make him do? Beat people?" She clutched her dress tightly. "Did he ... threaten and stab them?"
Only the man turned, slightly, facing Ji-woo with a blank stare that gave nothing away. Neither of them looked at each other.
"Who was it that killed my father?"
Silence.
They left.
____
The broken key adjusted its position. It shifted and clinked against the others softly, Ji-woo could only hold the key ring still between her fingertips. She inspected the instrument—a metal that kept her away from her father. A little, flimsy piece of a mold. That kept her father from her—the difference between everything.
A soft chime rang out, jarring collision with the quiet nature of the apartment. She approached the door as silently as she could with the rain masking her heavy breaths. Adrenaline pumped in her veins, she was ready this time. Looking through the peephole, she jerked back suddenly at the figure present.
A breath. Two.
She checked the metal chain was attached before carefully opening the door to a narrow slit. They stared at each other for a long time; Ji-woo studied him with a distant curiosity—her father's boss wore a suit, just like he had on the day of the funeral. Pristine, rich and fabric she hadn't seen on her father in ages.
He levelled her with a look that sent her glancing back at the rusting chain. Inhaling through her nose, she decided to speak first, "Did you find my father's killer?"
There was a sense of satisfaction drifting in his gaze, now. Ji-woo did not know how to interpret it.
"No," He began slowly, letting the silence settle between them like nature. "I've come to talk about something else."
She blinked. The memory of his blank stare returned, she did not know how to work him out. "About my father?"
He nodded as if he deemed her unworthy of conversation.
Frustrated, Ji-woo slammed the door shut and waited a beat, as if contemplating. Then, unlatched the metal chain and locks, opening the door before stepping aside to widen the gap. Florescent light filtered in, a stark contrast against the pale yellowish glare of a rainy sunset slipping past half-closed curtains.
Their gazes locked; he stepped through the threshold without breaking the relentless tension.