Into The Thrill

Park Jong-hoon stepped out of the taxi. The driver followed, opened the trunk, and helped him retrieve his suitcase.
Dragging the suitcase behind him, he walked slowly toward the entrance of the apartment building. His body was so exhausted, his legs felt like steel beams.

He was walking absentmindedly, staring down at the pavement tiles past the entrance, when a dark shadow blocked his path. His feet stopped, and so did the suitcase he was pulling.
Park lifted his head—and flinched. Standing before him with a ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) blank expression was Hyun Woojin.
There was only circumstantial suspicion, nothing that could be called real evidence, but everyone who knew him had already concluded—it had to be Woojin.

If someone were capable of doing such things, it could only be Hyun Woojin.
There were simply too many people who had died, too many who had been caught up in misfortune, to write it all off as coincidence. His face held no visible emotion, and his eyes looked down at Park with an oppressive air.
"Is there… some kind of problem?"

"I found out you’re actually my high school sunbae."
"……"
Park unconsciously swallowed. Only after he did did he realize just how visibly his throat had moved—but it was already too late. Woojin had noticed.
"What did you say?"

Woojin asked.
Park didn’t understand why Woojin had suddenly appeared, demanding answers without stating anything specific. Still, he couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes and only blinked at him.
He was already worn out from more than twelve hours of flight, having slept poorly and feeling like a mess.

His face revealed everything he was feeling as he asked again.
"What… are you talking about?"
"What did you say to Haewon?"

"……"
"You met him the night before you left for Europe, didn’t you, Professor Park?"
The tone was one of attack, and when their eyes met, it truly felt like he’d been physically hit somewhere.

Park reminded himself of Woojin’s profession. His job was built on suspicion—interrogating people until they confessed, breaking them open through pressure and psychological warfare.
Park inhaled and exhaled slowly, then finally opened his mouth.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about. I met Haewon because I wanted to ask if he could perform in the next concert. As you probably know, I had to leave for a seminar, and I needed to secure the performer before my departure…"

He was a musician, a professor. He wasn’t skilled in psychological games or lying. But Woojin was someone who spent all day dealing with people who lied to his face.
He could tell from just the movement of someone’s eyes whether it was the truth or not. Even without that, his sharp observational skills let him apply relentless pressure.
Park couldn’t meet his gaze. He fumbled.

"You know I’m not naïve enough to believe something like that, don’t you?"
"I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I’m going now."
"What did you say to Haewon?"

Park turned, trying to politely but firmly walk away. Woojin stepped in front of him again, blocking his way. His eyes glinted with a threat—he clearly had no intention of letting him go this time. The shadows falling across Woojin’s face made Park bite the inside of his cheek in unease.
From what little he’d heard and seen in passing, Woojin in his school days had always seemed composed, assertive—more mature than others.
But back then, as a teenager, he wasn’t as adept at hiding his true nature. Occasionally, he’d expose it too soon. Now, Park could see that same raw violence and murderous instinct bleeding through again.
He looked at Woojin, bewildered.

"What is this about?"
"You’d know better than I would."
"I’m asking because I don’t know. Did something happen to Haewon?"

"Don’t worry about that. Just tell me what you said that night. We’re running out of time."
Woojin glanced at his watch as he spoke. There was no sense of urgency in his tone, but Park felt a growing panic. Still, he wasn’t foolish enough to blurt out the truth.
"I already told you. I asked him if he could perform at the concert. If he couldn’t, I was planning to recruit one of my students in Paris during my trip, so I had to meet with him the day before I left. If that was upsetting… I apologize."

"Professor Park."
"Yes."
"What did you say to Haewon?"

"I truly just asked about the performance—"
"I said, what did you say? What was so important you had to meet Moon Haewon that late at night?"
"That’s all I said. I didn’t say anything else…"

It felt like he was trapped somewhere, forced to answer under duress. Park's chest tightened. He suffered from panic disorder. Just remembering that fact made it suddenly harder to breathe.
"You didn’t say anything else? What else would there be?"
"……"

"You went to the same school, didn’t you? I bet you heard plenty of things. About me."
"You’re… misunderstanding something. Please move aside."
"Don’t escalate this. Getting rid of you wouldn’t even count as work for me."

"Why are you doing this—ugh!"
He tried to twist away and flee, but in that instant, an overwhelming force slammed into him. His back collided violently with the wall. Woojin pinned him into the corner, his elbow driving hard into Park’s chest like he was cutting off his air supply.
The elbow—solid as iron—pressed against his ribs with brutal pressure. When Woojin added weight with his other hand, the pressure intensified. Park gasped, choking out ragged breaths.

"Khak, haah—p-please, I—I have panic dis—ugh…"
"What did you say?"
"Ugh… ugh—"

"What did you say?"
Woojin’s face surged forward from the darkness. Park’s consciousness began to blur. The oxygen thinned. His lungs clawed at the air. Woojin’s face, deepened in shadow and light, looked like a reaper come to harvest his soul.
"Did you say I killed someone?"

"N-no—ugh—no, I…"
"Then did you say someone died because of me?"
"…Yes. Hngh—yes, I did…!"

The elbow crushing his chest abruptly disappeared.
Woojin straightened up. He brushed off his rumpled jacket with a flick. Park bent over, bracing himself on his knees, gasping and wheezing, struggling to breathe. He clutched at his chest like his flesh and bones were aching all over. His face was drenched in cold sweat and utterly pale. The delayed panic attack rendered him unable to stay upright. He collapsed to the ground, trembling violently.
Woojin looked down at him with eyes that smelled like cold steel.

"Well. A lot of bad things were happening around me at the time. And yes, someone really did die."
"Ugh… hngh… call… an amb… ambulance…!"
Park’s upper body swayed and toppled in the darkness like he was about to go into cardiac arrest. His face smacked the ground. With one cheek pressed against the cold pavement, he looked up at Woojin.

Woojin’s expression was strangely blank. So blank that it seemed like he was suppressing something—like he was actively restraining himself from acting on an impulse.
Woojin crouched down, watching Park writhe as he clutched his chest. Then, methodically, he laid Park down flat, even straightening his head.
He took out his phone and calmly called emergency services.

"Someone collapsed. It looks like a myocardial infarction. Please send an ambulance immediately. The address is…"
He calmly relayed the details to emergency services and ended the call. Then, with his finger, he lightly tapped Park Jong-hoon’s chest—tap, tap—matching the rhythm and pace of chest compressions. As if mimicking CPR, he tapped again and spoke.
"Why do you think those people died?"

"Uhh… ngh…"
"It’s because they stepped out of line, just like you, Professor Park. Understand?"
If the timing had been just a little later, he might have died right there on the cold concrete floor from the seizure. But times were good now. Everything was fast—ambulances, treatment, everything. Watching as the paramedics loaded Park Jong-hoon into the ambulance and rushed him to the nearest ER, Woojin turned and walked back to his own car.

There was no way Haewon would’ve reacted over something as trivial as that.
Woojin knew Haewon’s nature well. Haewon would have scoffed. He might even have found it amusing. If that were the case, he would’ve wrapped his arms around Woojin’s neck with a bright smile and asked:
"Hyung, have you ever killed someone?"

Haewon was too honest, and he had a naïve streak that didn’t know how to doubt others. He wouldn’t have taken the word of someone he barely knew. Something like this wasn’t enough to shake Haewon.
Not nearly enough.
Woojin drove quickly toward Incheon Airport. The encounter with Park Jong-hoon had taken longer than expected, and he might miss Seo Ok-hwa’s departure. He sped dangerously until he arrived at the departure hall of Incheon International. Flashing his ID, he passed through and entered the first-class lounge where Seo Ok-hwa was waiting.

A flight bound for JFK in New York, departing the next day, was loading cargo. Woojin showed his ID to a staff member and said it was an official matter.
He entered the lounge without difficulty. Seo Ok-hwa, wearing sunglasses, sat leisurely on a sofa with her legs crossed, reading a book. Woojin walked toward her. Hearing the approach, she looked up.
"Oh, Woojin? You made it after all?"

"Of course I had to see you off."
"I’ll be back soon anyway—what’s a busy man like you doing here? Sit down. Kang, get Prosecutor Hyun something to drink."
"No need. I’m fine."

When Secretary Kang, seated at a distance, began to rise, Seo Ok-hwa waved him back down. Kang, her personal assistant, nodded politely at Woojin in greeting.
"But how’d you get into the lounge?"
"Isn’t that what public authority is for?"

Half-joke, half-serious. Seo Ok-hwa laughed brightly.
"Next time, I’ll bring Soyoung with me. She’s been a little withdrawn lately. I think it’s hard for her, seeing her dad in a detention center like that."
"Yes…"

"Ten minutes or so until the plane takes off."
She picked up the book she had laid on her knees. Woojin looked at her.
"Ma’am…"

"Hmm?"
"You know Haewon… Moon Haewon, right?"
"Haewon? Why?"

"I wanted to come with him today, but something came up and he couldn’t make it. He asked me to tell you goodbye."
Woojin stared hard at her face.
"That kid’s been acting strange lately. Or maybe he was always strange? A few days ago, he came by our house to say goodbye, and now you’re telling me he wanted to come with you to see me off again?"

"You saw him at the house? I heard you met in Jeju."
"He came to the Hannam-dong house. We had lunch and talked a bit."
"……"

"Strange, isn’t it… When I look at Haewon, I keep thinking of my Hayeong. They don’t look or sound anything alike, but… while everyone else is too busy reading the room, that kid just speaks freely, like it’s nothing. I find it comforting. He’s cute. Even his face is cute."
Seo Ok-hwa spoke without any regard for Woojin’s feelings. Woojin let out a shallow sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, then gripped the back of his neck tightly before letting go.
"Did you… say anything to Haewon? If I may ask."

"Oh my… So he told you?"
If there had been any real conversation, she responded to his vague question like it was obvious. Woojin, suppressing his growing anxiety, asked:
"About what… exactly?"

"About you and Soyoung. I told him I’d pretend not to know until you two brought it up yourselves. So he ran off to tell you already? I guess it sounded like I was giving my blessing?"
"…Ah."
Woojin lowered his head. He ran his hand over his face, cradling his forehead.

"Ma’am, it’s time to board."
Secretary Kang approached and picked up Seo Ok-hwa’s bag and book. She and Woojin stood.
He escorted her to the lounge entrance. As Kang walked ahead, Seo Ok-hwa glanced back at Woojin.

"Stop thinking about Hayeong. You don’t need to carry that burden anymore. Woojin, you’re already part of our family. I’m always grateful to you. You know how I feel, right?"
"…Thank you."
"I’m going. Take care while I’m away. Keep an eye on my husband, too."

"Don’t worry."
Woojin gave her a bow. By the time he straightened up, she was already far down the corridor. He rubbed his face roughly with both hands.
"Haah… Fucking bitch."

The profanity spilled from him in a quiet, emotionless voice.
The things he thought he had completely suppressed—the beliefs he was certain had been reinforced beyond collapse—were crumbling in vain. The brutal impulses he’d buried and tamped down for so long that they had become second nature now surged uncontrollably within him. Woojin clawed at his scalp as if trying to rip out his hair, then let go and started walking quickly.
From Seongbuk to Incheon, then from Incheon to Yangpyeong, he sped recklessly, ignoring signals and limits. When he arrived in Yangpyeong, he stopped the car violently and cut the engine. As the engine fell silent, it felt like the air itself was being sucked away.

He opened the dashboard and took out a box. He untied the neatly knotted ribbon and opened it. Two rings lay nestled in velvet.
"……"
He stared at them for a long time, then tossed the box—still open—back into the dashboard and got out of the car. The staircase leading to the bunker was unlit, its atmosphere already eerie, now downright chilling.

He unlocked the heavy door and descended several floors underground. In the bunker, styled like a luxury hotel suite, Secretary Choi turned sharply at the sound of footsteps. Upon recognizing Woojin, he lowered his eyes.
A man was tied by his wrists and ankles to a pole using cable ties, his head drooping. Woojin took off his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the sofa, then approached the bound man.
"You got caught, didn’t you?"

"Uhh… no, sir. Really, I didn’t."
"The housekeeper said she came home around two in the afternoon, yet your message said Moon Haewon was at orchestra practice at that time. How do you explain that?"
"I—I thought… I thought he was still inside, I really believed—"

"Wouldn’t it be better to just admit you were caught?"
"……"
"What kind of sloppy work is this? What is Moon Haewon to you, huh? What the hell is Moon Haewon?"

"I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Prosecutor. Please forgive me…"
"He’s just… he’s just a fucking violinist. He’s nobody. Why would a professional like you let someone like that slip away? Isn’t that the real mystery?"
Woojin was genuinely unable to understand it. He strained to find a way to rationalize it, but the lack of explanation drove him insane. His hand, trembling with fury, raked through his hair with hysterical force.

"I’m sorry. Please—I’m begging you—"
The man, Jaseok, whose background included amateur boxing, had been beaten to the point where moving even slightly caused stabbing pain. His face twisted in agony.