It wasn’t as if Min Sanghan didn’t know that I had been visiting the hospital regularly out of concern for Ji Sung-hyun. And yet, he hadn’t told me about Ji Sung-hyun’s death. I couldn’t understand that.
“Mr. Min Sanghan? He’s just the guardian on paper. Even when something comes up that requires guardian consent, he never shows up. Every time, the director has to handle it under his own authority… Geez. Talk about privilege.”
“Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on in his life, but honestly, that’s just not right. To be frank, Suho, you seem more like Mr. Ji Sung-hyun’s guardian than he does.”
“It’s not about circumstances. The kid’s not even his, and he can’t be bothered. That’s all there is to it.”
There was a time when I’d unintentionally overheard a conversation between nurses at the front desk. When they noticed me approaching, they flinched and stopped talking, their nervous laughter attempting to mask the discussion—but what I’d heard stayed burned in my memory.
“I heard it wasn’t just Jaejin and Heeseo who died in that accident. Someone else also passed away—and apparently, they had a sick child. No other family left behind. It’s heartbreaking, honestly.”
Since then, those nurses’ words had often clashed with the image of Min Sanghan speaking bitterly.
Since he’d taken in the child out of pity, I’d assumed he would at least… visit once or twice a year, maybe. The realization that this was nothing but my own delusion left me stunned.
But I couldn’t bring myself to ask Min Sanghan why he neglected Ji Sung-hyun. From his perspective, it would seem like an offensive intrusion.
…Even if that were the case, should I have asked anyway?
Was it because I kept my mouth shut that Min Sanghan remained indifferent to Ji Sung-hyun until the very end?
“……”
I shut my eyes tight against the growing heat, then opened them again.
“Mr. Min Sanghan.”
“You would be wise not to trust him too much.”
“For someone like that, pretending to be a good person is nothing. What he shows you might not be the whole truth.”
That Yeo Wonjin’s warning resurfaced now, of all times, felt absurd—laughably so, even to myself.
***
Ji Chanwoo had fully intended to come clean and put an end to everything. However, he had no desire to resort to force—no kidnappings, no locking Seo Suho up just to force a conversation. He wanted to appear within Seo Suho’s daily life, in a way that wouldn’t shatter whatever psychological stability he had left.
But despite his anxiety, he kept missing the right moment. Every attempt to make contact ended in failure.
While lying in wait, observing Seo Suho from a concealed position, Ji Chanwoo was suddenly ambushed from behind.
“Kgh…!”
A mask obscured his vision, and a pungent stench filled his nostrils. It wasn’t just a simple sedative. The foul, industrial smell reminded him of something he used to catch whiffs of near train tunnels. He tried to fight back with his elbow toward the unseen attacker, but his consciousness cut out almost instantly.
…Who was it?
“Ugh, ah…”
He had no idea how much time had passed by the time he regained consciousness.
First came a staggering dizziness, as if his brain were tilting on a balance scale. Then a pounding headache. The pain in his eyes felt like someone was jabbing them with bare fingers, preventing him from opening them. His throat was so dry it felt like it was cracking, and he coughed and groaned uncontrollably.
Choking back a wave of nausea, Ji Chanwoo tried to clutch at his neck with trembling hands—only to realize his wrists were bound tightly behind him.
“Water… kgh, cough! P-please…”
He begged, unable to endure the pain racking his body. Instinct told him he’d inhaled something toxic—something no one should ever breathe in.
There was movement ahead. Then, lukewarm water was dumped over his face.
“……!”
The stream trickled down from his forehead, soaking his eyelids and running down his cheeks. With his mouth open, he desperately gulped at the falling water. It helped just enough to blink open his swollen, burning eyes.
“You’re awfully dramatic.”
A tall man loomed over him, casting a shadow. Pale-haired and strikingly handsome, he was someone Ji Chanwoo recognized immediately.
“M-Min Yugeon…?”
He was the last person he would’ve expected to be behind this.
Min Yugeon looked down at him, the corners of his eyes tilted slightly in a mocking expression. He didn’t seem even slightly surprised that Ji Chanwoo knew his name.
“W-What the hell is this… cough… What the fuck are you doing?”
Ji Chanwoo tried to fire a glare to overpower the younger man. But his voice was already wrecked, too raspy to sound intimidating—so he gave up on trying to deepen it.
“You know this is a crime, right? A serious one.”
“Funny. And here we have the scummiest kind of criminal, lecturing me about crimes.”
Min Yugeon showed no sign of flinching. His expression didn’t change in the slightest as he asked:
“Let’s be accurate with our words, Mr. Ji Chanwoo. You’re a murderer. All I did was kidnap a murderer—so I wouldn’t say I did anything that bad.”
“What the hell…! Kgh, cough!”
“Honestly, I didn’t expect you to be so defenseless. But I guess you were too busy lurking around, creepily spying on the son of the people you killed with your own hands.”
Ji Chanwoo felt a chill crawl down his spine at the way Min Yugeon stared into his eyes, almost as if he wanted to carve them out. Cold sweat slid down his back.
He was certain this wasn’t the kind of person Min Yugeon had been. Something drastic must have happened in the last few days. The cheerful young man who used to smile so brightly beside Seo Suho now seemed like a total lie.
Had Min Sanghan told him everything? After all that effort to maintain secrecy, was it him who finally let it all slip? Maybe it had been by accident…
Whatever the case, if Yugeon had found out that his own father had ordered the deaths of his friend’s entire family, then it made a bit more sense—why he seemed completely unhinged.
“Ah. Your throat probably hurts. The polishing compound they use on the trains is especially toxic. And you inhaled quite a bit of it, Mr. Ji.”
As if offering a kind gesture, Min Yugeon poured another round of water over Ji Chanwoo’s head. Without even the chance to feel humiliated, Ji could only gulp it down greedily to quench the overwhelming thirst.
The situation, the power dynamic—everything pointed to Ji Chanwoo’s complete and utter defeat.
“……”
Min Yugeon’s cold gaze swept down at him.
The place he’d gone to find out where—and who—Min Sanghan was hiding had been the ship’s control center, the one space that logged every surveillance feed from the onboard cameras.
Posing as if reviewing footage for maintenance inspection, Yugeon had gone through the logs in reverse chronological order, tracing Min Sanghan’s movements. Eventually, he found a strange pattern: at irregular intervals, Min Sanghan would vanish from the feed in certain segments. It was subtle, almost as if orchestrated to make it look like he was simply stepping into a blind spot. But the timing of his reappearance had clearly been edited.
The area in question was broad—too much so for most to even consider investigating. But Min Yugeon had gone there himself, meticulously scouring the corridors, structural units, and interior/exterior spaces.
That’s when he realized: someone was living under Min Sanghan’s name in one of the ship’s capsule spaces.
The capsule spaces were private single-room accommodations, typically used by residents who wanted to briefly get away from their cohabitants or family members. Entry was regulated through ID scans, and every visitor was automatically added to the user registry.
Yugeon had combed through countless capsule doors from the outside until he found one with Min Sanghan’s name on it. He immediately pulled the registry data and confirmed that the listed ID matched what he knew of Min Sanghan. However, the belongings inside didn’t appear to be Sanghan’s at all.
…The one shamelessly living there was none other than the man who had killed Seo Suho’s adoptive parents.
Gritting his teeth, Min Yugeon had waited at the capsule until its occupant returned. And when a gaunt, hollow-eyed man stepped inside, he instantly knew who it was.
Ji Chanwoo.
The same ill-fated soldier who’d supposedly died alongside Seo Suho’s parents when their house collapsed. He’d seen the man in photos—standing beside Seo Suho at memorials, a solemn presence in the background.
Finally, the puzzle fit together.
Ji Chanwoo, the one person who could have infiltrated the restricted zone that was Seo Suho’s house under Min Sanghan’s orders. That house had been under strict surveillance—it wouldn’t have been easy for just anyone to sneak in and commit a crime unnoticed. The culprit would either have to possess extraordinary physical skills to evade the military’s watch—or be one of the soldiers themselves.
Ji Chanwoo, the latter, had faked his own noble death and shamelessly continued living ever since, hidden beneath the lie.
Min Yugeon’s fists clenched so tightly his palms split open. He glared down at Ji Chanwoo.
This wasn’t some impulsive emotional reaction. He hadn’t confined him out of rage. No—this was the clearest proof yet of Min Sanghan’s crimes.
All that remained now… was to force Ji Chanwoo to confess to everything—his crimes, and Min Sanghan’s.
