Min Sanghan probably figured out my tendencies early on.
Yeo Wonjin’s bitter smile as he spoke of making an enemy was clearly not one of ease.
It hit me instantly—Min Sanghan was somehow involved in whatever was currently draining Yeo Wonjin. The thought of asking if something had happened between the two crossed my mind, but it felt too personal to ask. Still, the implication was unmistakable.
“……”
I lowered my eyes to stare at the teacup. My reflection shimmered on the surface of the liquid, distorted and unclear, making it difficult to compose my expression.
“What’s got you so deep in thought?”
The question came from across the table. I lifted my head. Min Sanghan was gazing at me with that same benevolent look he always wore.
“You don’t look well. Maybe I shouldn’t have called you when you’re already so busy.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing, my ass. You’ve lost more weight again.”
He clicked his tongue and sipped his tea, his eyes scanning me with concern. I took a sip myself, easing the dryness in my throat before speaking.
“It’s more that… I was wondering why you asked to see me.”
“Do we need a reason now to meet? We haven’t even had tea together since the last time we ate.”
I nodded silently. Even if he hadn’t summoned me, I would have come anyway.
“Handling survivors lately must be wearing you out. I heard they’re not exactly easy to deal with… You need anything?”
“They’ve lowered their guard a lot. There’s nothing I need help with, and I don’t think you need to go out of your way for me.”
“Is that so?”
I stared quietly at Min Sanghan’s face, now relieved.
I wanted to ask why he’d refused to have the survivor protected at the lab. But how could I explain how I even knew about that? I’d have no choice but to say I heard it from Yeo Wonjin. That alone made me hesitate. Something told me Min Sanghan wouldn’t give me a straight answer if he knew that.
I had to accept it now—distrust had begun to take root in my heart toward Min Sanghan.
“Director.”
In the end, I made a decision and called out to him. He looked at me, slightly puzzled.
“Yes?”
“There’s something I’d like to ask.”
“Ask me anything.”
I curled my hand into a fist on my lap.
“…It’s about Ji Sung-hyun.”
Min Sanghan’s hand stopped halfway through setting down his teacup.
“Ah.”
The sound he let out didn’t resemble a sigh of grief. There was no sorrow, no sympathy in it. It sounded more like someone recalling something they had completely forgotten until now.
“Well, that… That’s, Suho…”
He trailed off naturally, furrowing his brows.
“To be honest, I didn’t say anything because I thought it would hit you hard. You cared about him a lot.”
Min Sanghan finally wore a somber expression and spoke in a sorrowful tone. I took a quiet breath, careful not to show anything.
My fingertips felt cold.
“Did you hear about it at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“I see… I kept telling myself I’d tell you, that I should, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
His face, claiming it had all been for my sake, did look sorrowful. But it still felt… late. I replayed the brief, fleeting look I’d caught on his face just before the sadness—one I hadn’t missed—and lowered my gaze slightly.
Was that sorrow even real?
But honestly, whether or not it was didn’t matter. Whether he was truly grieving or just expressing cheap pity, the fact remained—Min Sanghan had become Ji Sung-hyun’s guardian and had ensured he received life-sustaining treatment.
Though Ji Sung-hyun eventually passed, it was thanks to Min Sanghan that he’d even had a chance to regain consciousness.
What mattered to me was that face—so obviously feigned.
Pretending to feel pity, to mourn, while carefully crafting a “sincere” expression—that alone robbed me of words. If only he had been honest. This kind of performance was worse—it was deceitful in a way I couldn’t overlook.
…Had there been other lies behind that face all this time?
“Suho.”
The thought that I couldn’t afford to be obvious overtook me. At least the current topic justified the cold expression I likely wore.
“Suho?”
“……”
Min Sanghan’s eyebrows were drawn together in sadness, but his eyes remained steady, unshaken. At a glance, he looked like someone genuinely mourning a loved one.
A chilling sensation I’d never felt in his presence ran down my spine.
“You could have just told me from the beginning.”
I finally opened my mouth slowly, still looking him in the eye.
I thought maybe I could walk that final path with him…
The day I heard of Ji Sung-hyun’s death at the hospital, I visited the memorial hall and saw his face for the first time. The Ji Sung-hyun in the photo wore a bright smile, not resembling Ji Chanwoo all that much.
Overwhelmed by regret for visiting too late and the growing suspicion toward Min Sanghan, I stood in front of his portrait for a long time before leaving.
Min Sanghan nodded.
“I’m sorry. But I’m sure he understood how you felt. If he had been conscious, he probably would’ve been very grateful, maybe even sorry.”
“……”
“You kept visiting. You never forgot him.”
The moment he added that, I questioned the use of “sorry.” I responded with silence and emptied my teacup.
An uncomfortable silence followed.
“But about Sung-hyun’s father. Ji Chanwoo, right?”
“…Yes?”
I looked at Min Sanghan’s wrinkled face as he suddenly brought up Ji Chanwoo. He shrugged at my puzzled stare.
“I think I saw someone who looked like him recently.”
I opened my mouth, startled, then closed it again.
Claiming to have seen someone who’s supposed to be dead—it was absurd.
“Maybe the day before yesterday? There aren’t that many people on the ship who look like him. It surprised me. But then he just disappeared onto a train.”
“…Perhaps you were mistaken.”
“Hmm… Probably, right? No way a dead man would come back.”
Min Sanghan narrowed his eyes as he studied me.
Was he hoping I’d agree with something so obvious? The thought made me uneasy, but I simply nodded.
Then suddenly, I froze.
How does Min Sanghan even know what Ji Chanwoo looks like? He shouldn’t have met him. Of course, he could have seen a photo, like I had with Ji Sung-hyun. But it’s not like he would’ve looked it up often.
The fact that he could recall Ji Chanwoo’s face so clearly—it was odd.
***
When he realized Ji Chanwoo had vanished, Min Sanghan was consumed by rage. He’d explicitly told the man to stay hidden like he was dead, and yet the bastard had still disappeared.
A painful miscalculation. He should’ve dealt with him immediately after Ji Sung-hyun died.
He cooled his head briefly in self-reproach, then retraced Ji Chanwoo’s possible steps.
Even for someone like Min Sanghan, driven more by ambition than humanity, he still understood that Ji Chanwoo had been eaten alive by guilt every single day. And with his son dead, there were only two places he might go.
The Security Force—or Seo Suho.
If he’d turned himself in to the Security Force, there’s no way Min Sanghan wouldn’t have heard. That made it far more likely he’d gone to Seo Suho.
Imagining the things Ji Chanwoo might have blabbered to Suho made his vision swim with nausea.
‘Don’t make me laugh. That shameless murderer.’
Min Sanghan deliberately ignored the fact that he had been the one who instigated everything. He muttered under his breath, stewing in self-righteousness.
And yet, if Ji Chanwoo had indeed gone crying to Suho, confessed the truth, begged for forgiveness… then logically, the next step would have been the Security Force.
But strangely enough, everything around Min Sanghan remained quiet.
Seo Suho still came and went from the lab as usual. No calls from the Security Force. This wasn’t the kind of situation that should be this quiet.
Which meant it could only be one of two things.
‘Either that bastard never went to Suho… or he did, told him everything, and now Suho is hiding it.’
If it was the former, fine. As long as Ji Chanwoo didn’t reappear and publicly reveal the past, it didn’t matter.
But if it was the latter…
Min Sanghan looked at Seo Suho sitting across from him.
Suho was always calm, his emotions rarely readable. In all the time he’d known him, he’d only ever seen Suho break down once—when he lost his parents.
Suho wasn’t easily shaken, but that didn’t mean he was immune to emotion. There were always subtle changes in his face when something stirred within him.
“Suho, have you seen anyone recently who looked like Ji Chanwoo?”
“No, I haven’t.”
…Lies.
Min Sanghan was certain of it. From the moment they’d sat face-to-face, Suho’s mood had been off. The trust that used to gently shimmer in his eyes was nowhere to be found—today, they were cold, black, and unreadable.
Throwing out that lie, just to test him, had been the right move. It confirmed his suspicion—Suho knew everything and was hiding Ji Chanwoo.
‘But why pretend not to know?’
Could it be… because of Min Yugeon?
Min Sanghan recalled how close Suho and his son were. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed plausible.
If Suho chose to cover it up for Min Yugeon’s sake… it was surprising, but not impossible to understand.
But what if things between them fell apart?
Min Yugeon had recently moved out of Suho’s place. They hadn’t seen each other at home. Lee Minha hadn’t said a word about it, either. Something had clearly gone wrong between them.
‘Could Yugeon have found out everything too—and that’s why he left?’
“Well then…”
“Yeah. Take care, Suho.”
He couldn’t even remember how he managed to say goodbye.
Clack. The door closed, leaving Min Sanghan alone. His face instantly shed its smile.
He drained the rest of his tea, trying to wet his dry throat, and finally regained clarity.
Whether Seo Suho chose to bury the truth or not, the fact that he knew everything made him dangerous. He now held the power to have Min Sanghan exiled from the ship.
“Unacceptable.”
He muttered as he slowly shook his head.
He had never once imagined such a pathetic end.
Until the day he stood at the very top of this ship—
He would never allow himself to die.
