Work Text:
The alarm rang at 6:00 AM.
Kim Mingyu’s apartment was clean, but impersonal, more like a rented suite than a home. The only personal touch was a Polaroid stuck to his fridge: a blurred photo of him and DK, both grinning with shaved ice cups in hand, from two summers ago.
His morning routine was painfully consistent: wake-up, jog around the block, shower, instant coffee, protein bar.
His phone buzzed exactly once during breakfast with a message from a group chat with his former precinct colleagues, full of memes and “good luck with the Big Boys” jokes.
He didn’t reply.
The transfer to Seoul’s Major Crimes Division had been unexpected, and unceremonious. He was too young. Too eager. Too smart, in a way that made older officers twitchy. But his profiling reports had caught someone’s attention.
He was moved without a real choice.
He should’ve felt proud.
But mostly, Mingyu just felt... displaced.
🐶🐸
The precinct smelled like burnt coffee and cheap printer ink. The 8th floor was quiet, a sharp contrast to the chaos he’d come from. The detectives here weren’t loud.
They were cold.
Focused.
Sharp.
Team Leader Choi Seungcheol barely acknowledged him when he arrived. He just gave a grunt and a nod.
Jeon Wonwoo, the forensics analyst, handed him a folder on his first day with a dry, “Hope you read fast.”
Only Vernon, the surveillance guy, gave him a thumbs-up and said, “You’re tall and intimidating. Good for interrogations.”
That was three weeks ago.
Since then, Mingyu had worked in minor support cases of fraud, burglary, and one cold case.
He had started to wonder if he’d made a mistake pushing to be transferred.
No action. No challenge. Just paperwork and silence.
And then the first murder came.
🐶🐸
Victim # 1
February 3rd. Seoul Forest. A woman found seated on a park bench.
Nam Jihye. 43. Fruit vendor. No priors. No known enemies. Died of asphyxiation with soft bruising around the neck, no fingerprints, no weapon.
What made it strange was the pose.
She was seated upright. Hands folded delicately in her lap. One foot pointed forward like she was mid-ballet. Her lips were painted a soft red.
Not blood.
Paint.
No security cameras caught the suspect.
No witnesses.
Mingyu visited the scene with Seungcheol, gloves tight and brows furrowed.
“Nothing was taken,” Seungcheol noted. “Her phone was still in her coat.”
“Staged,” Mingyu muttered. “Too clean. Too careful.”
“Crime of passion?”
“No. There’s no mess. This wasn’t rage. It was… performance.”
That earned him a sideways glance.
“You a profiler or an art critic?”
Mingyu shrugged.
“Why not both?”
But despite their efforts, canvassing the park, running facial recognition, tracing pigment samples—
They found nothing.
The case went cold.
Victim # 2
March 2nd. Four weeks later. Abandoned gallery near Itaewon.
Lee Hana, 34. Event planner. Her shoes were placed beside her body~feet bare, soles clean, posed like a painting. Red pigment on her closed eyelids.
No witnesses. No CCTV. No defensive wounds.
Only one chilling detail: she had no known connection to the first victim.
Mingyu dove into profiles. Backgrounds. Art theory. He poured over victim photos at 2AM, comparing body language and postures, searching for any pattern.
But there was nothing to tie them.
Different ages.
Different neighborhoods.
Different lives.
Except for the pigment of red paint.
Victim #3
March 31st. Sunday morning.
The call came just after dawn.
“Han River Park. Jogger found a body,” Vernon’s voice said flatly.
Mingyu was out of bed before the second sentence.
By the time he arrived, the sun was just rising. The entire area was cordoned off in yellow tape, officers keeping onlookers at bay.
The woman was maybe in her late thirties. Dressed in white. Lying beneath the skeletal remains of winter cherry trees. Her fingers were intertwined on her chest like a funerary statue. Her lips, again, were red.
Wonwoo knelt by the body, scanning.
“Same pigment,” he murmured. “Almost ceremonial, don’t you think?”
Mingyu looked around. Empty park benches. Dew on the grass. Birds singing in sharp contrast to the stillness of the corpse.
“She looks like she was placed here.”
“She was,” Seungcheol said behind them. “And no signs of struggle.”
“No prints, again,” Wonwoo added. “Just one long brushstroke on the wrist. Unfinished.”
Mingyu squatted beside the body, eyes tracing every detail.
“They’re evolving.”
“What?”
“The first body was posed. The second, symbolic. This one? This is… practiced. Like a painter’s getting bolder.”
Seungcheol gave him a look.
“You're thinking too abstract again.”
“And you're not thinking abstract enough.”
🐶🐸
Back at the precinct, their murder board had grown fatter and uglier.
Photos. Maps. Autopsy reports. Doodles. Dead ends.
Mingyu stared at them long after the others had left for the night.
He paced. Sat. Paced again.
This wasn’t random. It was building to something.
Whoever this was… they were careful.
Intentional.
They were making a statement.
And worst of all… it was working.
Blogs, Articles, News Reports about “The Crimson Killer.” and “Art of Death.” were everywhere.
Public interest spiked. Fear spread. The commissioner called twice this week alone. Media swarmed every scene before they could get control.
The pressure was mounting.
The public wanted answers.
And Mingyu?
He wanted something more dangerous.
He wanted to understand.
It was nearly midnight when Wonwoo sent the message:
“Found something. Call me.”
Mingyu didn’t even reply he just bolted out the door.
Wonwoo was still at the lab, half-lit by fluorescent blues. He slid a flash drive across the table.
“Pigment sample from Victim 3? It’s rare. Imported. Used mostly by restoration artists and high-end oil painters. Not sold commercially.”
Mingyu stared.
“There’s a signature trace in it too. Someone custom-mixed it. And used the same batch in all three crimes.”
“Someone with access. Someone trained.” Mingyu pointed out.
Wonwoo nodded.
“Someone who paints.”
Mingyu drove home with his brain on fire.
He didn’t sleep.
He opened up a private tab and searched the phrase: red motif oil paintings seoul exhibit.
The third link caught his eye.
“Dream in Crimson: Solo Exhibit by Xu Minghao (Archived)” Curated by Lee Jihoon | Exhibit closed January 28th
He clicked.
The page loaded slowly.
Mingyu scrolled through digital thumbnails of surreal, chilling canvases.
One in particular made his blood run cold.
A woman under cherry trees.
Hands clasped.
Eyes closed.
Brushstrokes as soft as the ones on the crime scene photos.
The caption read: “Spring, Never Again” — Oil on Canvas. Painted by Xu Minghao, 2024.
Dated three months before the third murder.
🐶🐸
Kim Mingyu hadn’t slept.
His desk was littered with crumpled convenience store receipts, a half-empty can of energy drink, and a flash drive he’d brought straight from home. His jacket still smelled faintly of the rain from last night, and his eyes burned, not from exhaustion, but urgency.
He slapped the flash drive on the meeting table as soon as the others filtered into the room.
“I think I found something.”
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. Vernon, who was chewing on a granola bar, looked up. Seungcheol walked in last, coffee in hand, and paused at the edge of the room as if sensing something was off.
“This better not be another theory about posture symbolism” he warned dryly.
“No. It’s a pattern. A real one this time” Mingyu said, already pulling up the browser tab on the projector. “Victim three, the woman in Han River Park. Her pose, the pigment, the exact scene? It’s identical to this painting.”
The room fell quiet as the screen lit up.
The photo displayed a haunting oil painting of a woman lying beneath leafless cherry trees, red pigment brushed across her lips and fingertips, just like the third victim.
The background was dreamy, faded, and almost unreal.
“‘Spring, Never Again’” Mingyu read. “Painted at the end of last year. Artist’s name is Xu Minghao.”
Vernon squinted.
“That’s… a little too close to ignore.”
“There’s more” Mingyu continued, clicking through. “The second murder, the woman with the red on her eyelids? He has another painting. Title: ‘Sleep in Crimson.’ Her pose, the pigment placement, even the lighting, it all matches.”
“From before the bodies were found?” Wonwoo asked, moving closer.
“Months before. Both paintings were displayed in a now-closed exhibit that ended in January. Curated by someone named Lee Jihoon.”
Silence followed.
Even Seungcheol didn’t speak at first.
“Let me get this straight,” he finally said. “You’re suggesting a painter is either predicting murders or committing them?”
“I’m saying,” Mingyu replied carefully, “that someone is copying his work, or he’s painting something he shouldn’t know.”
Seungcheol’s brow twitched.
“Or,” he added, voice tighter than usual, “this artist likes macabre themes and the killer is using his work as a blueprint.”
Wonwoo crossed his arms.
“Even if that’s the case, we still need to talk to him.”
“I agree,” Vernon chimed in. “We’ve got zero other leads, and those poses surely was not a mere coincidence”
Seungcheol turned to the screen again.
Minghao’s name lingered beneath the painting.
There was a flas of almost an imperceptible recognition in his expression.
And then it was gone.
“You’re all serious about this?” he asked, a little too calm.
“Yes,” Mingyu said. “We need to see this gallery. Talk to the curator. Find out where this artist is now.”
Seungcheol stared at the image for another moment. Then turned away.
“Fine. Visit the gallery. Get what you can. But be careful how you approach this Minghao kid. I don’t want press catching wind that we’re chasing painters.”
Mingyu blinked.
“You think there’s something off about him?”
Seungcheol didn’t answer directly.
“People who paint the dead are rarely just artists” he muttered and walked out.
Ater the meeting, Mingyu watched Seungcheol’s retreating back through the glass partition.
“Is it just me, or was that weird?” Vernon asked, breaking the silence.
“Definitely weird,” Wonwoo murmured. “He shut that down faster than usual.”
“Do you think he knows something?” Mingyu asked.
Wonwoo shrugged.
“I think Seungcheol knows a lot of things. Doesn’t mean he wants to share.”
“Still,” Vernon said, grabbing his jacket, “we’ve got permission. Let’s not waste the opening.”
Mingyu nodded.
“Gallery’s been closed since January. But the curator, Lee Jihoon he still works out of the space. I already pulled the address.”
🐶🐸
Mingyu drove.
Rain tapped against the windshield as Seoul blurred past in gray-blue streaks. His thoughts swirled as he replayed Seungcheol’s subtle resistance.
It wasn’t just skepticism.
It was personal.
It felt like fear.
The gallery was nestled in a quiet alley between a bookstore and a tiny café.
Its sign was plain “Carat Gallery,” white letters on black wood.
Closed shutters.
No display lights.
But when they rang the bell, someone answered.
A small, sharp-eyed man opened the door looking disheveled in a hoodie, glasses sliding down his nose.
“Detectives?”
“Lee Jihoon?” Mingyu asked.
“Unfortunately.”
He stepped aside.
“Come in, I guess.”
Inside, the gallery was dust and silence. The walls were bare, but shadows of frames lingered, ghost outlines of once-hung art. A few canvases leaned against the far wall, covered in white sheets.
Jihoon gestured for them to sit in mismatched chairs near a steel desk.
“You’re here about Minghao, aren’t you?”
Mingyu blinked.
“You know why we’re here?”
“I saw the news. Third murder.” Jihoon rubbed his temples. “I knew it was going to happen eventually. I told him.”
“Told who what?” Vernon asked.
Jihoon looked at them tiredly.
“That his paintings were too real. That someday, someone would start asking the wrong questions.”
Lee Jihoon didn’t offer coffee.
He leaned back in a squeaky metal chair, arms crossed over his hoodie, looking more like a stressed grad student than a gallery curator.
His eyes flicked between Mingyu and Vernon with the calm disinterest of someone who’d had too many late nights and not enough sleep.
“So,” Jihoon said flatly. “You think Minghao’s a murderer?”
Mingyu shifted in his seat.
“We’re not jumping to conclusions. But the similarities between his artwork and the victims’ crime scenes are… hard to ignore.”
“I figured.” Jihoon scratched the back of his head. “This city only cares about artists when someone dies.”
Vernon gave a tight smile.
“We’re just trying to find the truth.”
Jihoon exhaled.
“Look, I don’t know anything. I’ve worked with Minghao for two years. I helped curate his solo show this January. Dream in Crimson. That’s it.”
“You’re saying you didn’t find the artwork unsettling?” Mingyu asked.
“At first?” Jihoon shrugged. “No. I’ve worked with worse. Artists go through dark phases. Minghao’s thing has always been… surrealism, mood-heavy pieces. His work wasn’t disturbing. Just aesthetic. Melancholic.”
Mingyu narrowed his eyes.
“And then?”
“And then I saw the news,” Jihoon said, voice dropping. “The third victim. That image of her under the cherry trees? That’s when I felt it. Like something crawled up my spine.”
“You confronted him?”
“I messaged him. Asked if he’d seen the news. Told him it looked familiar.”
“And what did he say?”
Jihoon’s mouth twisted slightly.
“He replied with ‘Coincidence. People always die like art.’ Then he didn’t respond again.”
Mingyu and Vernon exchanged a glance.
“Did he seem… distressed? Evasive?” Mingyu pressed.
“He seemed like Minghao.”
“Meaning?”
Jihoon sat forward, elbows on his knees.
“He’s like a lot of the artists I’ve worked with. A little strange. Sleeps at odd hours. Wears all black. Reads Baudelaire and listens to classical music while painting. You know. Pretentious, aesthetic, weird.”
“But not violent?”
“No,” Jihoon said firmly. “Minghao wouldn’t hurt anyone. He can barely hold eye contact when someone compliments his work. He’s not aggressive. If anything, he’s detached.”
“Detached?” Vernon echoed.
“Yeah. Like… removed. You can be sitting right in front of him, and he’s somewhere else. Always thinking. Observing.”
There was a brief silence. The sound of distant traffic outside filtered through the gallery windows.
Finally, Mingyu leaned forward.
“Do you know where we can find him?”
Jihoon hesitated, then opened a drawer and pulled out a card.
“He’s not easy to track down. Doesn’t have a public studio. Doesn’t live in Seoul full time anymore either. But this…” He handed Mingyu the card. “That’s his personal contact. He gave it to me when he flew back in from Paris last month. He said he’d be in Korea for a few weeks to prep for a commission.”
Mingyu took the card and looked it over.
Xu Minghao
Contemporary Artist
[private number] | [email address]
Socials: @hao.art
Elegant white cardstock. Black embossed text. Minimalist.
Too clean.
“Thanks,” Mingyu said. “If he contacts you again, let us know.”
“Sure,” Jihoon said, voice still unreadable. “But would you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Don’t go into this assuming he’s guilty. You’re police. Not critics.”
Mingyu stood.
“We’re just looking for the truth.”
“That’s what everyone says,” Jihoon murmured, standing as well. “Right until they find someone strange enough to blame.”
Mingyu does not reply to that, he turns towards the exit instead.
Vernon waited until they were in the car before commenting.
“Well. He was… something.”
“He’s hiding something” Mingyu muttered.
“You think he’s involved?”
“No. I think he knows more than he’s telling us. He just doesn’t want to believe it.”
“Or he doesn’t want to believe his friend could be connected.”
Mingyu turned the card over again in his fingers.
Xu Minghao.
The name looked innocent enough in print.
But somehow, it already felt like it was going to change everything.
🐶🐸
Back at the precinct, Mingyu stared at the sleek white business card on his desk. He twirled it once between his fingers, debating if he should wait for Seungcheol to return.
But something told him not to.
His instincts were prickling again with that low buzz he got when something was off, even if he couldn’t say why.
He dialed the number.
It rang once.
Only once.
“Hello”
Mingyu froze.
The voice on the other end was clear and low, quiet but not timid. It carried the kind of control that made silence feel like a choice rather than a void.
“This is Xu Minghao,” the voice continued. “I assume you’re calling about the paintings.”
“How did you…?”
“I knew someone would. It was only a matter of time.”
Mingyu swallowed.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions. In person.”
“That’s fine,” Minghao said smoothly. “Come to the house. I’ll text you the address.”
Before Mingyu could respond, the line went dead.
Moments later, a text appeared on his screen.
[Xu Minghao: 17 Cheongdam-dong 3rd Street, Gangnam District.]
Mingyu stared.
“Wait” Vernon said, looking over his shoulder. “That’s in Cheongdam-dong, Gangnam? That’s chaebol territory.”
“Exactly.” Mingyu’s brows furrowed. “I thought he was just an artist.”
“Well,” Vernon said with a faint whistle, “maybe he is a loaded one.”
Twenty minutes later, Wonwoo entered the office with his laptop open and a knowing look on his face.
“You’re going to want to see this.”
He spun the screen around.
A digital profile glowed under the fluorescent lights.
Name: Xu Minghao (Korean Name: Yoon Myungho)
Age: 27
Nationality: Chinese-Korean
Profession: Contemporary Artist
Education: École des Beaux-Arts, Paris
Parents: Dr. Yoon Jeonghan & Dr. Hong Jisoo – Directors, JH Medical Group
Mingyu blinked.
“JH?—That JH? The largest hospital chain in Korea?”
Wonwoo nodded.
“The same. Dr. Yoon’s a Neurosurgeon turned hospital director. Dr. Hong runs the international research division. They’re practically royalty in the medical field.”
“And Minghao?”
“Adopted,” Wonwoo confirmed. “At age six, during a medical outreach program. He’s lived in Korea ever since. Never pursued medicine, went full into art instead. Not much on record about why. Just that the parents supported it publicly.”
Vernon let out a low whistle.
“So this guy’s not just some obscure artist. He’s the adopted son of Korea’s power couple, trained in Paris, and his art is matching murder scenes?”
Mingyu didn’t respond.
He was staring blankly at the profile, a tight feeling growing in his chest.
He should’ve felt relieved.
The guy was traceable.
High profile.
Probably surrounded by security and public image.
Someone like that wouldn’t kill three women and pose them like paintings… right?
But something still didn’t sit right.
Minghao’s voice. The way he answered without surprise. The calmness. The way he said ‘it was only a matter of time.’
Like he’d been waiting.
Like he knew exactly what was coming.
🐶🐸
They took an unmarked car.
As the streets grew narrower and the buildings taller, Mingyu stared out the window, watching Seoul’s glittering mask transform.
This was the kind of neighborhood that felt too clean.
Wrought iron gates. Tall, ivy-draped walls. Mansions tucked behind imported trees and minimalist sculptures.
Finally, Vernon turned toward a private road lined with manicured cherry blossoms, freshly blooming.
“Seventeen, there,” he pointed. “That’s the one.”
The house wasn’t enormous, not in the typical rich-person-mansion sense but it was modern and cold and eerily still.
Black stone exterior. Frosted glass windows. Every angle looked like it was designed to observe more than to welcome.
“Of course he lives in a house with no curtains” Vernon muttered.
They parked in silence.
And Mingyu, for reasons he couldn’t name, hesitated at the door.
Something about it, the air, the symmetry, the silence made his skin crawl.
Then the door clicked open.
A butler greeted them wordlessly and gestured them in.
Inside, everything smelled like cedar and lavender. Sparse furnishings. Art hung with obsessive precision.
No clutter.
No color.
The butler led them down a hallway that echoed with the weight of silence.
Xu Minghao’s home was clinical, almost surreal in its stillness, every frame perfectly aligned, every corner swept clean. Yet it smelled faintly of something metallic, like the ghost of blood in a surgical room.
The room they stepped into was both living space and gallery. Sleek furniture, a long ivory couch, a fireplace not lit, and at least eight canvases hung across the walls. Paintings that seemed to follow them wherever they stood.
“Welcome!”
The voice rang out with velvet ease.
Mingyu and Vernon turned to see a man gliding into the room, dressed immaculately in white slacks and a silk lavender shirt. His honey-blond hair fell over his forehead, soft curls perfectly tousled. He smiled like a prince greeting foreign guests.
Dr. Yoon Jeonghan.
And behind him, with a tray of tea and pastries, came another figure, someone tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and gentle eyes that sparkled behind round spectacles.
Dr. Hong Jisoo.
The parents.
Renowned. Respected. Beautiful.
Unsettling.
“Minghao told us the police might visit,” Dr. Yoon said sweetly. “You’re welcome anytime, of course. Tea?”
“Uh… yes. Thank you,” Vernon replied, blinking.
Dr. Hong set the tray down and smiled warmly.
“It’s rare we get guests. Minghao doesn’t like noise, you see. But we make exceptions for… special company.”
Mingyu cleared his throat.
“We’d like to speak to Mr. Xu. Alone, if possible.”
“Oh, of course,” Dr. Hong said with a bright laugh. “But surely you can stay for a little while. Get comfortable. There’s no rush, is there?”
Mingyu exchanged a glance with Vernon.
And then, finally he arrived.
Xu Minghao stepped into the room like he was born from shadow and sunlight.
He wore a black turtleneck tucked into soft gray trousers, light brown hair tied loosely back.
His features were delicate, lips soft and plump, cheekbones high, lashes long enough they cast shadows when he blinked.
He looked less like a suspect and more like a character from a romance novel.
Surreal.
Unreachable.
“Detectives,” he said calmly. “You’re here.”
“We are,” Mingyu managed, struggling not to stare. “We hope you don’t mind.”
“I expected you” Minghao replied, voice low and quiet. “I’ve been… waiting.”
Mingyu felt his goosebumps all over.
🐶🐸
Dr. Yoon and Dr. Hong remained seated at the edge of the room, sipping tea with unnerving grace.
Occasionally, Jeonghan would smile a serene, too-knowing smile while Jisoo hummed as he cut fruit with precision.
Neither interrupted.
But neither truly left either.
Minghao sat across from the detectives, back straight, hands folded.
“Your artwork,” Vernon began, “has been linked to the scenes of three ongoing murder investigations.”
“Yes” Minghao said simply.
“You admit that?”
“I acknowledge the resemblance.”
“Do you have any explanation?” Mingyu asked, watching him carefully.
Minghao tilted his head.
“Inspiration strikes strangely, Detective. I paint from dreams. From feelings. From fragments of memory. If someone sees my work and chooses to echo it in violence, I can’t stop them.”
“That’s a very… detached way to see it” Mingyu said.
“Art is not always intimate,” Minghao replied. “Sometimes it’s prophetic.”
Mingyu felt a chill snake down his spine.
“You say you paint from dreams?” Vernon asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you often dream of women dying?”
Minghao didn’t flinch.
“I dream of stillness. Of color. Of silence. Whether the subject is sleeping or dead, I rarely know.”
The room felt like it tilted.
“You’ve been back in Korea for how long?” Mingyu asked.
“Three weeks. For a private commission.”
“And your whereabouts on the nights of the murders?”
“My parents can confirm. I was here.”
Jeonghan smiled faintly at the mention.
“Our Minghao rarely leaves the house at night. He prefers the quiet of his studio.”
“You’re welcome to check the guest logs, security, anything. But I assure you, he’s always here.” Jisoo added.
Mingyu’s stomach twisted.
It was all too clean. Too easy. Too scripted.
He glanced around the room.
That’s when he noticed it, a painting near the fireplace.
New.
Fresh.
Still drying.
A woman beneath a tree. Her hands painted in bleeding red. Her expression peaceful. The same as the third victim.
Mingyu stood.
“This one” he said. “When did you paint it?”
Minghao turned to look.
“I don’t recall. A few days ago. I lose track of time when I’m working.”
“Before or after the news broke?”
Minghao looked back at him.
“I don’t watch the news.”
Mingyu’s fists clenched slightly.
“How would you describe your relationship with the curator, Lee Jihoon?” Vernon asked.
Minghao’s gaze softened slightly.
“Jihoon is… practical. He likes order. We balance each other. He’s always worrying.”
“Did he confront you about the resemblance in your paintings to the murders?”
“He did.”
“And you didn’t think it was concerning?”
“I thought he was overreacting.”
There was deafening silence.
“I’m not the one killing them, Detective” Minghao added softly. “I just paint what I dream. It’s inspiration.”
Mingyu studied him, the serenity in his eyes, the total lack of guilt or fear.
It didn’t feel like deception.
It felt like truth told sideways.
As they stood to leave, Jeonghan approached with a box of macarons.
“For your team,” he said. “To thank you for your work. We respect the law deeply.”
Mingyu forced a nod.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I hope you find whoever’s doing this. I’d hate for people to get the wrong idea about our family, most especially about our son’s art.” Jisoo added.
Mingyu nodded again, already half out the door.
The moment they were back in the car, Vernon muttered, “I feel like we just stepped out of a dream.”
Mingyu didn’t respond.
He kept staring at the front door in the rearview mirror.
Minghao had stood there as they left, still, silent, watching.
And smiling.
🐶🐸
The air in the precinct was heavier after their visit to the mansion.
Mingyu sat at his desk, fingers twitching on the edge of his keyboard. Something about that house, about the family had followed him back like smoke on clothes.
He couldn’t shake the way Dr. Yoon smiled with all teeth and no warmth, or how Dr. Hong moved with the precision of a surgeon even while slicing fruit.
And Minghao.
Serene. Beautiful. Haunted.
Not scared. Not suspicious.
Just… waiting.
“Here,” Wonwoo said, dropping a stack of documents onto his desk. “Did some digging like you asked. Public and academic records.”
Mingyu flipped through the first page.
Xu Minghao was adopted from China during a medical mission at Wuhan in 2003.
No traceable family. Grew up at an orphanage.
Adoption handled through private legal channels.
Naturalized citizen. File sealed under the JH Foundation’s confidentiality clause.
All educational expenses paid in full by the Yoon-Hong estate.
Graduated from École des Beaux-Arts with highest honors. Public debut at 21.
Never studied medicine despite parental legacy. Declined offers from prestigious universities.
“That’s not even the weird part,” Wonwoo added. “Check this.”
He tapped another folder, a compiled log from medical files and press coverage.
“The Yoon-Hong couple have hosted numerous health missions and international research summits. But every time their names come up, there’s this gap especially around the time Minghao was adopted. No photos. No coverage. Just… silence.”
Vernon walked over with his laptop.
“And then there’s this.”
On the screen was a news clipping from 2003, translated from Mandarin.
“Five Children Missing After Fire in Wuhan Orphanage.”
Mingyu blinked.
“Wuhan?”
“Minghao was adopted shortly after that” Vernon murmured. “The timeline fits. No confirmation, but the facility burned down. No known survivors. One body unaccounted for. The case was closed quietly.”
“And then a few months later,” Wonwoo added, “a silent adoption from a hospital-run private mission… No records. No photos. And Minghao suddenly appears with a new life.”
Mingyu could not shake the unsettling feeling that’s creeping up within him from the moment he laid eyes on those paintings.
🐶🐸
Seungcheol returned mid-discussion, reading over the documents without a word.
“I don’t like it,” he said finally. “I never did.”
“You knew something” Mingyu said, eyes narrowing. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Seungcheol folded his arms.
“JH isn’t just a hospital. It’s a fortress. They own politicians, press outlets, half the medical board. If we push too hard without proof, this case disappears.”
“We’re not pushing yet,” Mingyu said. “We’re looking.”
“And what are we looking for?” Seungcheol snapped.
“That the boy with dead eyes paints murder scenes because he’s a traumatized orphan from a fire no one wants to remember?”
Mingyu’s jaw tightened.
“He might be the key to the killer,” he said. “Whether he’s connected directly or not.”
Seungcheol sighed, tension breaking in his shoulders.
“Fine. But be careful. This isn’t just about murder anymore. This is politics. Legacy. Reputation.”
He glanced at the open file of Minghao’s paintings.
“And maybe something worse.”
Then he left.
🐶🐸
Mingyu hadn’t planned to return so soon.
But something about the way Xu Minghao looked at him, that too-calm, that too-knowing gaze had stuck to the back of his mind like a smear on glass.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the new painting drying on the wall. Or the way Dr. Yoon had offered pastries like they were trying to sweeten poison.
So he came back.
No appointment. No call. Just an unmarked car, a growing headache, and the kind of hunch he’d long stopped trying to ignore.
This time, the gate opened slower.
No butler greeted him at the entrance. No warm tea. No eerily timed smile from the parents. Just silence, clean and echoing through the long marble halls.
“Detective Kim?”
Minghao stood in front of him as the door opened ~ barefoot, sleeves pushed up, his hair tied back loosely.
He looked… surprised.
Maybe even rattled.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he said softly, motioning for him to come in.
“I thought I’d drop by. I got just a few more questions” Mingyu said, watching his every movement. “Your parents aren’t home?”
“No,” Minghao replied. “They’re… at the hospital. Meetings.”
Mingyu’s eyes flicked around.
No security cameras pointed toward this wing of the house. No housekeeper in sight. The paintings on the wall were different today, they’re smaller, looser, as if painted in a hurry.
There were scratches on the floor beneath one canvas stand, like it had been shoved aside.
“May I sit?”
Minghao nodded once.
“Of course.”
They moved to the same sterile living room. But this time, Minghao didn’t sit across from him like a curated host.
He sat beside him.
Less rigid.
And yet, still guarded.
“You’ve been painting again, the ones on the wall are new?” Mingyu started.
Minghao hesitated.
“I always paint.”
“Those pieces, the ones from your private collection last January, do they ever feel… familiar to you? Like memories?”
Minghao’s hands folded tightly in his lap.
“I don’t remember much from before I was adopted,” he said after a pause.
“Do you remember about the fire at the orphanage?” Mingyu carefully pried.
Minghao tensed.
“I was too young back then.There were only bits. Heat. Glass. Screaming. But my parents say it was just part of trauma, and I have undergone treatment for them”
“And you believe your parents?”
Minghao looked at him with doubt.
“I… do.”
Mingyu turned slightly, watching him.
“Do you feel safe here, Minghao?”
That question hung in the air like a blade.
Minghao’s eyes shifted for the first time, real uncertainty broke through.
“I don’t know what you are implying Detective.”
His voice was sharp.
Mingyu leaned forward, voice lower.
“You paint things no one should see. You live in a house that feels too perfect, fake even. If you’re in danger, I can help you.” Mingyu allows the sincerity in his voice to seep through.
Minghao looked at him, lashes fluttering slightly.
“Why would you help me Detective?” Minghao looked at him with careful eyes.
“Because I don’t think you’re the killer” Mingyu said. “But I think you know something.”
Before Minghao could answer…
The door opened.
Dr. Yoon stepped into the room, coat draped over one arm, a serene smile on his face.
“Detective Kim,” he greeted. “What a surprise.”
Mingyu stood.
“Just a follow-up visit. I won’t take more of your time Dr. Yoon.”
“Nonsense,” Jeonghan said, gliding closer. “We always have time for law enforcement. Though next time, we’d appreciate a call in advance. It’s important to maintain structure in this household.”
His hand briefly touched Minghao’s shoulder.
Minghao didn’t flinch but he went still.
Too still.
Mingyu saw it.
He saw everything.
“I’ll see myself out” Mingyu said quietly, turning to leave. “Thank you for your time.”
Later that evening, the living room was dimly lit.
Jeonghan sipped wine as he reviewed patient charts on his tablet. The housekeeper stood nearby, hands folded.
“Who let him in?” Jeonghan asked without looking up.
“I guess it was the Young Master, when we were busy at the backyard”
“Next time, be more alert” he said smoothly, voice never rising.
“Yes, sir.”
She left quickly.
From the shadows of the hall, Minghao lingered, hands cold, eyes unreadable.
Jeonghan finally looked up and walked towards him.
“You know you’re not to speak to anyone without permission.”
Minghao said nothing.
“You’ve always been sensitive, darling” Jeonghan murmured. “You feel too much. That’s why we take care of you. Why we keep you from making mistakes.”
Minghao did not answer.
“We gave you a life, Hao. You owe us the image. The silence. Your name carries weight, our weight. Do you understand?”
Minghao stared at the floor.
“Yes, father.”
“Good boy.”
Jeonghan smiled, reaching to brush his hair aside, a soft gesture that felt more like a leash.
And down the hall, Minghao passed by his newest canvas, hidden behind a curtain.
He looked at it briefly.
It was the outline of another face.
A man’s.
Unfinished.
🐶🐸
It rained the day they found the fourth body.
A 50-year-old nurse. Lived alone. Body found in her garden in Gangnam, kneeling, palms resting gently in her lap posed.
Face serene. Mouth stitched shut. A bouquet of lilies clutched in her hands.
Just like the figure in one of Minghao’s earlier exhibited paintings.
One that had never been sold … just quietly tucked away after a short university exhibit, barely remembered.
Except by whoever staged the body like this.
“This one’s a message,” Vernon said quietly, pulling the blanket back over the corpse. “Someone wants us to see the connection.”
“And this victim?” Mingyu asked.
Wonwoo glanced at his tablet.
“Name: Han Sookja. She worked at the JH Medical Center pediatric wing for twenty-two years. Resigned last spring.”
Mingyu felt the blood drain from his face.
There it was, the link. Not to Minghao directly, but to the hospital.
The family.
The past.
“They’re circling,” Mingyu murmured. “Whoever this is… I think they’re killing off the people who has known about something. Covering tracks? Or making noise?”
“Still no fingerprints, no traceable DNA,” Vernon muttered. “Same as the others. This guy’s a ghost.”
🐶🐸
It was late that night when Jeonghan made the call.
The penthouse office was quiet, lit only by the floor lamp by the liquor shelf.
“Hello?” Seungcheol’s voice was cautious.
“I don’t like being surprised, Cheol,” Jeonghan said calmly. “You know that.”
“I told you I’m keeping things under control.”
“Then explain why Detective Kim is snooping into hospital archives from those years ago.”
Seungcheol’s silence was heavy.
“You helped us once,” Jeonghan continued. “You know what it cost. And you know it doesn’t end well if that past unravels.”
“Things are different now…”
“No, they’re not,” Jeonghan interrupted, gently swirling his glass. “You think this killer is someone else? Someone unconnected? Think again.”
There was a pause.
“Do your job.” Jeonghan said more sharply. “Keep Kim in line. Redirect him. Or he’ll blow up everything we buried together.”
“What if he finds the truth anyway?” There was hesitation in Seungcheol’s voice.
“Then he goes down with the rest of us.”
The call dropped.
🐶🐸
The next morning, Seungcheol called Mingyu into his office.
Mingyu was hollow-eyed, clearly running on caffeine and raw obsession.
“You need to step away from this,” Seungcheol said firmly.
Mingyu blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re compromised. Emotionally involved. Your instincts are sharp, but you’re pushing in the wrong direction.”
“I’m on to something!”
“No. You think you are. But all you’re doing is drawing red yarn between ghosts.”
Mingyu’s jaw clenched.
“Why now? Why pull me now?”
“Because you’re about to take this department down a black hole. One we won’t come back from.”
There was silence.
“You think the Yoon-Hong family is behind this?” Seungcheol continued. “That they’re killers?”
“I think they’re hiding something,” Mingyu said slowly. “I think Minghao saw something as a kid. I think they silenced him.”
“Minghao is NOT the killer.”
“Exactly. But he knows something…”
“And what if you’re wrong?”
Seungcheol opened a folder.
Inside were CCTV stills. A grainy image of a man with a hoodie exiting an alley not far from the third murder. A tattoo barely visible on his wrist.
“Someone else. Possibly a past psych patient. Released two years ago. No fixed address, but we’ve got a scent now. And a possible motive: revenge.”
Mingyu stared at the photo.
Too convenient.
Too timed.
“Where did this come from?”
“Anonymous tip” Seungcheol lied smoothly.
The other officers, Vernon and Wonwoo looked at each other.
Not with certainty, but hope. They wanted to believe this new lead. They wanted the madness to end.
“Stand down, Kim,” Seungcheol said. “We’ve got it from here.”
And just like that, Mingyu was out.
That night, Mingyu didn’t go home.
He sat in his car, rain drumming on the windshield, staring at the grainy photo.
The fourth victim had ties to the JH Medical Center. The crime scene matched a barely released painting. The house, the family, they reeked of secrets.
But now?
Now he was the one that looked crazy.
Seungcheol had set the narrative.
And the others followed.
And he couldn’t stop wondering if it was always like this, if Seungcheol had always known more than he let on.
If he was never supposed to get close.
🐶🐸
Mingyu hadn’t told anyone.
He made the drive out to Minghao’s residence late in the afternoon, windows down, city noise blurring behind him like a fading dream.
He needed answers and if the precinct wouldn't give them to him, he’d get them himself.
But he was met with silence.
The mansion loomed as pristinely as ever behind wrought iron gates. A uniformed butler answered the intercom, voice smooth and automatic.
“Mr. Xu is unavailable. He’s currently in Paris for an exhibit.”
“I’m not here for trouble” Mingyu said calmly. “I just want to talk.”
“I understand, sir. But I’ve been instructed not to let anyone in.”
“What about the doctors?”
“They are in surgery at the hospital.”
“Then who’s home?”
There was no answer.
The intercom cut off.
Mingyu stood in front of the gate for a while.
He just… stood there.
As if the weight of his stare alone could bend time.
His phone rang as he was pulling back into the main road.
Caller ID: Dr. Yoon Jeonghan.
He hesitated before answering.
“Detective Kim,” Jeonghan greeted, voice light as satin. “Forgive the surprise call. I heard you dropped by.”
Mingyu’s jaw tightened.
“I wanted to follow up on Minghao’s whereabouts.”
“Well,” Jeonghan said, “I heard that your superiors have taken you off the case, I’d assumed your obsession with my family would settle.”
“It’s not an obsession. It’s a pursuit of truth.”
Jeonghan hummed softly.
“A poetic answer. But let me be clear, this pursuit of yours is bordering on harassment. I’d hate to involve the law in something so unnecessary.”
Mingyu didn’t respond.
Jeonghan’s voice dropped smooth still, but colder.
“You’re a sharp man, Detective. Sharp enough to know when you’re standing too close to a fire. I suggest you step away. Before you get burned.”
The line went dead.
What Mingyu failed to notice as he drove away was the figure behind the third-floor window.
The curtains barely moved.
But eyes, his eyes, followed him down the driveway.
Xu Minghao stood silently, one hand against the glass, chest rising shallowly.
He hadn’t seen the sun in five days.
His easel sat untouched. Brushes dry. The only new color was the dark circles beneath his eyes.
🐶🐸
He dreamed in pieces.
The smell of antiseptic. The heat of fire. A locked door with claw marks. Screaming that sounded too much like his own.
Sometimes he dreamed of being underwater, not drowning, but suspended. Like his memories had been dunked in a basin and left to rot.
Other times, he dreamed of a hallway.
It was always the same.
White tiles. A name tag on the floor. Blood trailing like string. And Jeonghan’s voice, gentle as lullabies.
"You saw too much, Hao. But we’ll keep you safe now. We’ll keep you quiet."
He sat curled on the floor of his bedroom now, knees to chest, sketchbook abandoned beside him. He had drawn something again, something without knowing.
A face. Slashed eyes. A hospital badge.
Han Sookja.
He didn’t know why her name kept appearing in his dreams.
He didn’t know why he sketched her funeral face days before her body appeared in the news.
But he knew someone was watching him.
Not Kim Mingyu.
Mingyu had become an unreachable dream.
Someone else.
Someone that had slipped past the memories and into the spaces between.
Someone who used to be like him.
He pressed his palms to his ears.
In the walls, he thought he could still hear screaming.
He tried his best to find solace in silence.
🐶🐸
Mingyu wasn’t sleeping again.
Vernon and Wonwoo had helped him in quietly accessing restricted files, carefully cross-referencing names without triggering digital red flags.
“Wuhan,” Vernon muttered. “2003. Medical mission. JH Foundation sponsored it. Mostly volunteers-doctors, nurses, support staff. No public reports of accidents, though.”
“There was a fire,” Mingyu said, tapping the table. “But there’s no documentation. No incident report. No survivor testimony. No press. Aside from that Chinese article you showed me about the orphanage”
“That’s not normal” Wonwoo agreed. “Even for overseas missions. Hospitals love good PR. But here? Nothing.”
They both looked at him.
“You really think this has to do with Minghao?” Vernon asked, cautiously.
Mingyu didn’t answer right away.
He just remembered those eyes, Minghao’s eyes~ so still and cold behind glass. Not blank. Not soulless. Just quietly broken.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “But I think someone wants him to forget something.”
Wonwoo sighed, leaning back.
“Just be careful, Gyu. You’re already out of the investigation. If Seungcheol catches wind…”
“I know.”
They left him alone in the archive room, eyes burning.
He traced news of the fire through hushed forums, medical forums, backchannel messaging boards from years ago. Most had gone cold.
But then he found a name: Han Sookja.
The most recent murder victim.
She’d worked with the JH medical team on that Wuhan mission. Not as a nurse, but as an on-site coordinator. She'd stayed behind even after the fire. Local police records in China listed her as a foreigner present during “an industrial accident” a deliberately vague phrase.
And the first murder victim?
A former scrub nurse named Nam Jihye, who left JH Medical Center a year after the Wuhan mission and started a small fruit selling business instead.
Mingyu stared at the data, heart racing.
They were all there.
They were witnesses.
Maybe more.
And they were being erased.
His blood ran cold.
Minghao was there too.
And now, he’s in danger.
🐶🐸
Minghao hadn’t eaten since morning.
He heard the housekeeper knocking softly, leaving the tray. She wouldn’t come in unless summoned. No one would.
He had not seen sunlight in days. The curtains were drawn and locked. The windows only opened two inches at most.
His easel was his only freedom.
And then, the message came.
It was slipped under his door.
A small, folded scrap of paper. No return name. No sound. Just an unnerving line scrawled in a sharp, almost childlike hand:
“Do you remember what they did to us?”
Minghao's hands shook.
He had no idea how it got past the locked hallway.
His stomach turned.
Was someone else in the house?
Was someone watching him?
Was someone… trying to trigger his memories?
And worse…
Was it the killer?
He knew then, that he hadn’t stopped killing.
And if he remembered too much, if he spoke…
He would be next.
That night, he painted.
Hands trembling, feverish with color.
The strokes were jagged, but he has hidden codes, buried under shades of black and blue.
He layered numbers in patterns only Mingyu would know from his previous questions. From how his eyes lingered on brushwork.
A single bird flying over a burning house.
A red string connecting eyes to syringes.
He was only allowed to send the paintings to his scheduled exhibit.
But if one reached the outside, if Mingyu saw it…
He would understand.
And maybe… maybe he would come back.
🐶🐸
Later that night, Mingyu stared at the old CCTV stills again. The hoodie. The tattoo. The supposed lead Seungcheol gave them.
He zoomed in, over and over.
And realized:
It was a tattoo.
Every report of the killer from accounts told, mentioned a scar on the wrist and not a tattoo. This wasn’t their guy.
Seungcheol gave them a planted suspect.
His hands clenched.
They were buying time.
Someone was still killing.
And Minghao was trying to say something.
🐶🐸
He remembered the heat first.
Not the screams.
Not the smell of burning flesh.
Just the heat. How it clung to his skin like oil. How it crept down his throat and left his voice raw, silent.
The fire started in Lab B. A chemical spark too much of the blue serum in the wrong containment.
One by one, they were sealed in.
Not to save them.
To trap them.
So the evidence wouldn’t crawl out.
Junhui crawled through a vent.
He remembers that too.
He remembers the sound of bones cracking, metal slicing his back, and the way he screamed even when no one was there to hear it.
They didn’t look for survivors.
Because there weren’t supposed to be any.
Dr. Yoon Jeonghan and Dr. Hong Jisoo.
The visionaries.
The pioneers.
The philanthropists.
Their names were written in gold letters across JH Medical Center and all throughout Korea. Smiling on charity ads. Celebrated for their “international service to vulnerable children.”
Liars.
They called it Project Phoenix. A new generation of neurological treatment that involves memory control, trauma manipulation, behavioral rewriting.
The trial was illegal.
Experimental.
Brutal.
They used orphans.
Children they could disappear without anyone noticing.
Some from Seoul.
Most of them from Wuhan.
Minghao was the youngest.
Junhui remembered Minghao differently than most.
Quiet. Smart. Curious.
Not loud like the others, not prone to tantrums even when they were injected or starved for days. Just observant. Eyes like paint strokes: pale, clear, too sharp.
And he remembered the night Minghao should’ve died.
When the fire licked through the halls, Junhui had run.
Others had burned.
He saw Minghao in the distance, slumped and bleeding.
He didn’t see him again after that.
They said no one else survived.
Junhui became a ghost.
Lived a desolate life without an identity.
He managed to get smuggled into Korea.
Then several years ago, he saw a newspaper:
Xu Minghao — a rising name in the Korean art scene, son of renowned doctors Dr. Yoon Jeonghan and Dr. Hong Jisoo of JH Medical Center.
He ripped the paper apart.
He didn’t sleep for weeks.
He started his plan.
For them.
For him and Minghao.
He killed the volunteers one by one.
The nurses. The assistants. The coordinators who had smiled while strapping children down. The ones who signed NDAs and moved on with their lives like it hadn’t happened.
But he saved the best for last.
Jeonghan and Jisoo.
And to do that, he needed Minghao.
He started leaving him messages.
In paint. In folded paper. Beneath gallery floors. Phrases only Minghao could understand. Things only they knew, about the ash-stained drawings, about the red string and the glass hallway.
He watched his exhibits.
Watched his paintings get darker.
More disturbed.
He was remembering.
Junhui didn’t want to hurt him.
He wanted to wake him up.
To make him remember.
They were made from the same ruin.
Children built by fire and betrayal.
Minghao just didn’t know it yet.
But he would.
And when he did, Junhui would offer him the only thing left:
Revenge.
Not just for themselves. But for every child they locked in that hell.
And Minghao, even locked in that golden cage would understand.
He would help him burn the world down.
🐶🐸
The room was too white.
Not sterile, not hospital white, but curated white. Pristine, soft-edged, expensive.
Minghao sat at the center of it like a stain waiting to be scrubbed out. He clutched a paintbrush loosely in his hand. Not painting, just holding it like an extension of himself.
Dr.Hong entered first, carrying a silver tray with two porcelain cups and a warm smile.
“Hao-yah,” he greeted, as if greeting a favorite student. “Still working so early?”
Minghao didn’t answer.
Dr. Yoon followed, slower, folding his arms behind his back with an elegance that didn’t quite match the storm in his gaze.
“You’ve changed your colors again.”
Minghao’s current painting was half-finished. Violent red clashing with soot black, forming a boy’s silhouette with flames for a mouth. He had painted it from memory. He didn’t remember when that memory returned but he hadn’t been able to stop once it started.
“Do you want to talk about what it means?” Jisoo asked.
“No” Minghao said, voice low.
The doctors exchanged a brief glance.
Jisoo poured tea. Jeonghan crouched by Minghao’s chair, resting one delicate hand on his wrist.
“You’ve been painting things you shouldn’t remember.”
Minghao flinched.
“It’s not your fault,” Jeonghan cooed. “We thought we could wean you off the medication slowly. But maybe… maybe it’s too soon.”
“I’m not sick.”
“But you are, darling. You were there. You just don’t remember the right way.”
“You told me those memories weren’t real” Minghao muttered, eyes narrowing.
“And they’re not,” Jisoo said gently. “They’re just the leftovers of trauma. The brain protects itself by inventing things. You paint what you fear, not what you know.”
Jeonghan smiled wider.
“That’s why we’re here. To help you. To protect you.”
Minghao shook his head slowly.
“I don’t need protection. I need the truth.”
“The truth is too painful, love.” Jeonghan stood. “And your paintings are proof you’re not ready.”
He snapped his fingers.
Two staff entered quietly, wheeling in a padded box. One by one, they began collecting his art supplies, brushes, tubes, even the palette knives hidden under his cabinet.
Minghao stood up too fast.
“No! don’t touch them!”
Jisoo approached him carefully.
“You need rest, Hao. That’s all.”
“Please,” he whispered, panic slipping into his voice. “Don’t take it away. I’ll be good. I won’t show them to anyone…”
Jeonghan pressed a kiss to his hair.
“It’s for your own good.”
Minghao tried to push past him, but Jisoo caught him easily.
A small prick at his arm.
The syringe emptied before he could scream.
“Shh,” Jeonghan whispered, guiding him back toward the bed. “We’re here. You’re safe.”
After taking care of Minghao, Jeonghan and Jisoo prepared for their departure.
A high-profile medical conference in Switzerland. Their faces on banners. Their reputations gleaming, untouched.
As they left, they passed Seungcheol in the underground parking.
“Make it clean,” Jisoo instructed as he stepped into the car.
“We don’t care who takes the fall,” Jeonghan added. “Just put someone behind bars.”
Cheol gave a stiff nod.
“Understood.”
The car pulled away into the night.
🐶🐸
The room was too quiet when he woke up again.
No paint.
No sketchbook.
No movement.
Only his breath, labored and raw.
Only his hands, twitching for something to hold.
Minghao sat on the floor beside the bare window, knees pulled to his chest. He stared at his reflection, eyes hollow, too large, too familiar. He felt younger again. Smaller. Like he was back in a glass room, where voices told him how to feel and what to forget.
He didn’t cry.
He hadn’t cried in years.
But that night, he did.
Not loud.
Just tears that didn’t stop.
🐶🐸
Mingyu didn’t think anything of the envelope at first.
He had grown numb to the lack of leads, to the endless pushback from Seungcheol, to the walls surrounding Minghao's name.
He was beginning to forget what clarity felt like.
But Jihoon placed the envelope on his desk quietly.
“You might want to see this” he said.
Inside was a simple invitation.
Xu Minghao — Shadows & Symmetry
Private Exhibition, curated by Lee Jihoon
Featuring new, previously unseen works.
Venue: Luna Gallery. Thursday, 7PM.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But Mingyu’s eyes caught the name of one of the paintings.
“Room 306.”
His stomach turned.
306. That was the ward number in the Wuhan fire. The room listed on the now-buried records.
He stood so fast his chair fell.
The exhibition was dimly lit.
Spotlights shone down on large-scale canvases mounted on cool gray walls.
The crowd was quiet, murmuring.
Mingyu walked like a ghost through it all.
And then he saw it.
Room 306.
Not a painting. A nightmare.
Flames consuming everything. Screaming children with no faces. Figures behind glass watching like it was theater. A red string. A silhouette of a boy at the center, mouth stitched closed.
Mingyu stopped breathing.
His heart pounded like war drums.
He hadn’t imagined it.
Minghao had been trying to speak. He’d painted everything. The truth was smeared in crimson on canvas.
But no one heard him.
Because no one wanted to.
Until now.
Mingyu turned on his heel.
And ran.
Rain came suddenly, heavy and mean.
The kind of rain that blurred windows and drowned horns and mirrored panic.
Mingyu gripped the wheel tight.
He’s still there. He never left. They never let him leave.
The road was too slippery, it seemed endless.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t wait.
Because Minghao didn’t have a voice.
But he had given him a message.
And Mingyu heard it loud and clear.
🐶🐸
Minghao hadn’t spoken in hours.
He sat on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. He stared at the spot where his easel used to be like it might reappear.
His head hurt. His body ached. His memories bled into each other, waking and sleeping.
They’re lying to me.
That thought looped again and again, louder each time.
Then the thunder rolled.
🐶🐸
Mingyu crouched beside the perimeter wall, rain soaking through his hoodie.
The mansion was quieter than he’d ever seen it. No headlights. No voices.
He had timed this well.
Earlier that evening, the news had broadcast the opening of the International Medical Ethics Conference in Geneva. Doctors Yoon Jeonghan and Hong Jisoo, Korea’s most celebrated, were the key speakers.
That meant the mansion was unguarded.
And Minghao was alone.
His fingers were trembling as he cut the back gate lock.
The mansion grounds were massive, cold white lights flickering in the fog.
Mingyu's heart beat like a war drum, but he moved quietly.
He made sure he was not caught by the surveillance cameras.
Each step was a prayer.
Each breath, a plea.
“Please still be here. Please hold on.”
🐶🐸
Minghao couldn’t breathe.
The world was spinning again.
He clutched his head, fists pulling at his own hair, body curled on the floor like a broken puppet. His nails scratched at his chest where his heart pounded violently. The edges of his vision were fuzzing. His ears rang like alarms that wouldn’t stop.
“I saw fire,” he whispered. “I saw…I saw red…”
He gasped.
The room answered with silence.
No paint. No brushes. Just sterile air and the echo of his rapid gasps.
He slammed his fists against his chest.
‘Stop it. Stop remembering. Stop feeling. They said it’s not real.’
But he remembered.
The screams.
The heat.
The shadows that stood and watched while the children were injected and went crazy.
And then there was noise.
Not in his head.
A real sound. Wood. A creak.
The door.
🐶🐸
Mingyu shoved the lock open, ignoring the way the hinges screamed.
He moved fast through the corridors, checking every room, heart ready to shatter at any sign of Minghao.
Then he found it.
The third floor.
A large room, stripped bare, the lights dimmed.
And in the center was Minghao.
Collapsed. Breath erratic. Hair messy, body trembling in a silent breakdown.
Gone was the composed painter in soft turtlenecks and silver rings. Gone was the man who once glided through the room with quiet elegance.
This was someone shattered.
“Minghao” Mingyu breathed, rushing forward. “Hey….hey…look at me.”
Minghao flinched violently. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. A soft, agonizing whimper escaped his throat.
“No….don’t touch me….they said not to…” he sobbed.
“It’s me,” Mingyu whispered. “It’s Detective Kim, it’s okay, it’s just me. I’m getting you out of here.”
Minghao shook his head violently, retreating to the corner like a wounded animal.
“They’ll hurt you… ssshhh…don’t come near….they’ll make you forget too….”
“Minghao!” Mingyu grabbed his shoulders, voice trembling. “They’re not here. They’re not coming back tonight. Look at me, just breathe…”
But Minghao couldn’t.
His eyes rolled back.
And he collapsed.
Mingyu wasted no time.
He hoisted Minghao onto his back, arms looping around his shoulders. He was far too light. His breathing shallow.
The mansion loomed like a haunted cathedral as Mingyu carried him through the halls, heart pounding harder with every creak of the floor.
Outside, the rain had stopped. Mist coiled around the gates like snakes.
No one stopped them.
Not yet.
But something had changed.
Mingyu felt it.
In the air.
In the pressure behind his ribs.
Something dark was on its way.
🐶🐸
They were now in Mingyu’s apartment.
The bedroom was dimly lit. Minghao lay beneath a blanket, his breathing now more even, the color slowly returning to his face.
Mingyu sat beside him with a wet cloth, carefully dabbing sweat from his forehead.
He had called Minghao’s name over and over in the car.
Whispered promises.
“You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
No one could hear it but him.
No one would take him again.
Mingyu brushed a strand of hair from Minghao’s cheek.
His hand trembled.
“I won’t let them touch you again,” he whispered. “Not ever.”
🐶🐸
Meanwhile at the Mansion, Junhui stepped over the gate quietly.
He wore a dark coat, gloves, his hair falling loosely over his eyes. He moved with the silence of someone who had watched more than he had lived.
His gaze flicked around the quiet lawn.
He had come to see him.
The boy in the fire.
The boy they all forgot but he remembered.
Xu Minghao.
His canvas.
His key.
But the room was empty.
No Minghao.
No paintings.
Just the faint scent of medicine and abandonment.
“No!” Jun screamed.
He stormed down the corridor.
In the kitchen, the awakened housekeeper looked up in confusion.
“Sir?”
Jun smiled gently.
The knife was already in his hand.
Jun didn’t look at the blood.
He only stood there, breathing heavily, hands soaked, staring at the mess.
Sloppy.
He never made a mess.
But Minghao was gone.
Taken.
He walked back into the hallway, chest heaving.
They’d stolen him again.
The Doctors had lied.
Kept him leashed.
And someone had dared to take what belonged to him.
The boy from the fire wasn’t meant to be rescued.
He was meant to burn the world with him.
Jun's eyes glinted.
He would find him.
And next time…
He wouldn’t be gentle.
🐶🐸
Minghao’s dreams were blurry.
Flashes of color. Screams in a language he couldn’t remember. A boy’s hand holding his as they ran through the halls. Fire. Cold. Pain.
And a voice.
Low. Gentle. Crying.
“You’re safe now.”
It was warm.
For the first time in years,
it was warm.
🐶🐸
Minghao awoke slowly, like being dragged up from a nightmare only to realize he hadn’t left it.
He blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. The room smelled like laundry and lemon. The curtains were drawn, but slits of light poured through.
It was quiet, too quiet.
His first instinct was to run.
But his body wouldn’t move.
And then it started.
The panic.
His breath quickened. His hands trembled. His fingers curled tightly into the sheets. His chest constricted as if something was pressing down on it.
He gasped for air that didn’t seem to reach his lungs.
Where am I?
What if they find me?
What if this is just another trick?
Mingyu heard the first whimper from the kitchen.
He dropped the mug he was holding.
By the time he reached the room, Minghao had curled into a fetal position at the edge of the bed, tugging harshly at his hair, chest heaving.
“Minghao!” Mingyu rushed to him, falling to his knees. “It’s okay, heylook at me! You’re safe.”
Minghao didn’t hear him. His eyes were glazed. He shook violently, teeth chattering.
Mingyu tried to hug him, but Minghao screamed.
It tore from his throat like an animal cry.
Mingyu froze.
His heart cracked in two.
He didn’t try to speak again. Instead, he slowly wrapped his arms around him, even as Minghao struggled.
And just held on.
“I’ve got you,” Mingyu whispered.
“Even if you don’t remember who I am. Even if you hate me. I’ll stay. I promise.”
Mingyu stood in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear. His hands shook.
“I know how it sounds, Wonwoo. But I’m not losing it.”
On the other end, Wonwoo’s voice was quiet.
“You kidnapped someone, Gyu.”
“No, I saved him. I can’t explain everything over the phone. Just…come see for yourself. Please.”
Vernon’s voice cut in faintly from the speaker.
“He looks that bad?”
“He doesn’t talk. He barely sleeps. He screamed like he was dying this morning. I…I don’t know what else to do. He’s not okay. He hasn’t been okay for years.”
There was a pause.
“We’re on our way.”
🐶🐸
When they entered the apartment, the silence hit them first.
Then the image.
Minghao sat on the couch, knees to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself. He stared at nothing. His skin looked translucent. His cheeks hollow. Eyes red-rimmed and haunted.
Wonwoo’s breath caught.
“Holy shit.”
Vernon stepped back slightly, as if in disbelief.
Mingyu knelt beside Minghao again, brushing his hair gently.
“Hao? These are my friends. Wonwoo and Vernon. They’re good. They won’t hurt you.”
Minghao didn’t flinch this time.
But he didn’t acknowledge them either.
“You weren’t obsessed . This is real.” Vernon whispered.
Wonwoo looked at Mingyu.
“What happened to him?”
“I think…” Mingyu swallowed. “He’s been locked up like this for years and was manipulated and gaslighted with repressed memories. It manifested in his paintings.”
🐶🐸
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” DK muttered, stepping into the apartment with a black medical bag. “You better make this worth my license.”
“You’re a pediatrician,” Mingyu said. “You’re literally the softest doctor I know. He will trust you more than a stranger in a lab coat.”
“I don’t know about that,” DK said, setting down the bag. “But I’ll do what I can.”
Minghao didn’t resist the check-up, but he didn’t help either. His eyes stayed unfocused. He flinched at every sound.
DK took his vitals quietly. His hands were steady, his voice warm.
“Malnourished. Sleep-deprived. This level of psychological trauma… it’s more than a breakdown. It’s conditioning.”
“Can you help him?” Mingyu asked.
DK looked at him.
“He doesn’t need a doctor right now. He needs someone who believes him. Someone who won’t give up.”
Mingyu nodded.
“Then I’m staying.”
DK smiled faintly.
“Then he might actually get better. I would still try to secretly look into trusted therapists”
“Thank you” Mingyu uttered with a small smile.
🐶🐸
Seungcheol stood stiffly behind the podium.
“We believe the attack on the Yoon household was an attempted burglary. The intruder entered while the homeowners were attending an international conference. Unfortunately, the housekeeper, Ms. Na, was found dead.”
A reporter raised her hand.
“What about Xu Minghao? Is it true he’s missing?”
Seungcheol smiled tightly.
“Mr. Xu is currently in Paris. Pursuing an international art opportunity. The family confirms he is safe and well. The media is asked to respect his privacy.”
Another hand.
“Is the murder linked to the other unsolved murders?”
“No connection has been confirmed at this time.”
The conference ended quickly.
🐶🐸
Jisoo’s hands trembled as he poured tea.
“How could this happen?”
Jeonghan took the cup, calm as ever.
“We were gone for too long.”
“Gone?” Jisoo snapped. “He’s missing, Hannie!”
Jeonghan sipped the tea and looked out the window at the dark Geneva skyline.
“He’s not missing. He’s been taken.”
Jisoo’s voice cracked.
“If he remembers anything…”
“He won’t” Jeonghan said. “Not unless someone triggers it.”
Jisoo’s breath hitched.
“You think Detective Kim?”
Jeonghan finally turned to face him.
His voice was soft yet cold.
“If Kim found him… we need to prepare for every outcome.”
Jisoo’s hands covered his face.
Jeonghan placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Calm down Shuji, I’ll speak to Seungcheol. He knows what to do.”
Seungcheol picked up on the first ring.
“You’ve failed to keep Kim away,” Jeonghan said.
Seungcheol closed his eyes.
“He’s obsessive. But not stupid.”
“You told the press Minghao’s in Paris.”
“It’ll buy us time.”
“You need to stop Kim before he makes this worse.”
There was a pause. Then Jeonghan’s voice dropped lower.
“We all have something to lose, Seungcheol. Don’t make me remind you the hard way.”
🐶🐸
Minghao whimpered in his sleep.
Mingyu sat beside him, brushing his fingers over his forehead. He hummed softly, a lullaby his mother used to sing.
Wonwoo leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed.
“You’re really in this now, huh?” he said quietly.
Mingyu didn’t look up.
“I can’t explain it. But… I look at him, and I know. He’s trying to survive.”
“You really think his parents…?”
“I think they’ve been feeding the world lies.”
Wonwoo didn’t argue.
He watched Minghao’s face twitch in sleep.
“He was trying to ask for help,” Wonwoo said. “And no one listened.”
“They will now,” Mingyu whispered. “Because I’m not letting go.”
🐶🐸
There was a knock.
Not a frantic one. Not polite either. Measured. Heavy.
Mingyu opened the door and found Seungcheol standing there in civilian clothes, expression unreadable.
“You weren’t answering my calls,” Seungcheol said.
“I figured I didn’t have to,” Mingyu replied calmly, letting the door swing wider. “I was removed from the case, wasn’t I?”
Seungcheol stepped in without invitation.
The apartment was clean. No sign of Minghao. No smell of paint or medicine. Just coffee brewing.
Too clean.
Too careful.
“So,” Mingyu said as he poured a mug, “to what do I owe the honor?”
Seungcheol looked around.
“He’s not here.”
Mingyu smiled, tight-lipped.
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb with me Kim”
“I’m not playing anything, Choi. You’re the one who played me, when you took me off the case without warning.”
There was a stretch of silence between them.
Seungcheol finally asked, “Where is he?”
Mingyu took a sip of coffee and leaned on the counter.
“If I did find him… shouldn’t you be happy? He’s innocent, remember?”
“Or maybe he is a bait” Seungcheol muttered, low.
Mingyu raised an eyebrow.
“Is that what the doctors told you to say?”
That made Seungcheol freeze.
Mingyu saw the flicker.
The hesitation.
“I don’t know what kind of leash they’ve got around your neck,” Mingyu said softly, “but if you think I’m afraid of you…”
“I’m trying to help you,” Seungcheol snapped. “You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”
“Don’t I?” Mingyu’s eyes darkened. “You’re protecting possible murderers. You’ve lied to the press. You’re letting someone die to keep their empire from cracking. And you want to warn me?”
He took a step closer.
“Maybe you should start worrying about yourself, Choi.”
Seungcheol stared at him then turned without a word and left.
The door shut quietly behind him.
Mingyu let out a shaky breath, and the tension in his shoulders sagged.
From the hallway, Wonwoo appeared.
“They bought it,” he said. “DK says Minghao’s asleep.”
“Good” Mingyu whispered. “Because if the parents are back… we don’t have much time.”
🐶🐸
They have relocated Minghao into DK’s apartment.
DK opened the door still in his scrubs.
“I should be getting hazard pay for this,” he grumbled as Wonwoo helped him move Minghao to the spare room.
Minghao was half-conscious, barely lucid, curled tightly in the hoodie Mingyu had wrapped him in. He hadn’t said a word since the day before, but his hands trembled less. That was something.
“I don’t know what you guys are doing,” DK muttered. “But if someone finds out…”
“No one would,” Wonwoo cut in. “Not until it’s too late.”
DK sighed.
🐶🐸
Jeonghan’s gait was composed, coat pristine. Jisoo looked less steady, but his eyes were restless.
“I want an update,” Jeonghan said as they entered the car. “Now.”
Seungcheol sat across from them, jaw tight.
“There’s been… complications.”
Jisoo tilted his head.
“Hao is missing, Cheol.”
“Someone took him,” Seungcheol replied. “And you think it’s Kim, but I can’t prove that.”
“Of course it’s him,” Jisoo hissed. “He’s obsessed.”
Jeonghan tapped his fingers on the seat’s armrest.
“It doesn’t matter. Let him have him.”
Jisoo turned sharply.
“What?”
“He’ll draw the killer out,” Jeonghan said smoothly. “Cheol said it himself. The killer broke pattern when Minghao disappeared. That means emotional attachment. That means obsession.”
Jisoo’s face paled.
“You’re… planning to use Minghao as bait?”
“The killer, wants to destroy us,” Jeonghan said. “He’ll come for him. He’ll make a mistake.”
Jisoo looked horrified.
“And if he kills Hao?!”
“He won’t. Mingyu won’t let him.”
Seungcheol’s eyes widened.
“You want Mingyu to kill the killer.”
Jeonghan smiled faintly.
“It’s poetic, isn’t it? A cleaner ending. And we won’t get our hands dirty.”
Jisoo stared out the window, jaw clenched.
“You’re a monster.”
“I’m a father,” Jeonghan said. “And I’ll end this. My way.”
🐶🐸
Minghao stirred.
Mingyu sat beside him, holding his hand gently.
“You’re safe,” Mingyu whispered. “Just rest.”
Minghao blinked at him.
“They’re going to find me.”
“I won’t let them.”
“They always find me.”
Mingyu’s heart ached.
“Not this time.”
Minghao looked up.
“You shouldn’t stay close.”
“Too late” Mingyu whispered.
🐶🐸
Junhui painted with blood again.
Messy.
Furious.
The housekeeper had screamed too loudly.
He had never been this sloppy before.
“You took him from me,” he whispered to no one. “But he’ll come back. He always does.”
On the wall, he pinned up a fresh photo.
It was Mingyu, walking down the street, looking over his shoulder.
Junhui smiled.
“You want to protect him?” he murmured. “Then die for him.”
🐶🐸
Minghao hadn’t spoken a word in six days.
But he was alive, breathing, and blinking.
And for Mingyu, that was enough.
He would sit by the couch-turned-bed every morning before his shift, watching Minghao stir under thick blankets, sometimes soaked in cold sweat, sometimes still as death.
Today was different.
There was a paper on the table.
A sketch.
Three overlapping circles: one had a flame, the other, a syringe, the last, a set of hands reaching out from a cage.
Mingyu sat slowly, his eyes tracing the charcoal lines.
“You remember something” he whispered.
Minghao didn’t look at him. He simply picked up the pencil again, trembling slightly, and drew a fourth circle, this time with a dark house. A mansion. And something small in the window.
A boy. Watching.
Mingyu swallowed hard.
“That’s the mansion, isn’t it?”
Minghao still didn’t speak. But his hand clutched Mingyu’s wrist, faintly.
And it was all the answer Mingyu needed.
🐶🐸
Wonwoo flipped through the files again, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
“Medical mission records wiped,” he muttered. “But look at this, same foundation funded both Wuhan and Korea clinics. And one of the silent trustees? A Yang Jihan. That's Dr. Yoon’s alias in China.”
Mingyu exhaled slowly.
“They buried the identities of the volunteers. Gave them hush jobs, some got visas. But…”
“But the dead ones didn’t.”
Vernon set down his laptop.
“Media won’t touch it. Too powerful. No direct proof yet.”
“Then we make proof” Mingyu said grimly.
🐶🐸
Junhui sat under a bare bulb, eyes wild.
The sketchbook in his lap was full of Minghao. Not real images, but expressions of him crying, smiling, terrified. All from memory. All blurred with longing and rage.
“He’s remembering. Good. Good.” Jun whispered to himself.
He turned to a polaroid of DK, sitting outside his apartment with Minghao beside him. Candid. Unaware.
Jun tapped the photo lovingly.
“Too many hands on him. They all need to go.”
He stood.
And started planning.
🐶🐸
DK was set to leave for work.
He locked up the cabinet, bid Minghao farewell, assured him that Mingyu would be coming home soon, and stretched.
He didn’t notice the shadow move behind him.
It wasn’t until he turned to lock the door that he felt the air shift.
Cold. Still.
He reached for his phone, but it was too late.
A syringe pierced his neck from behind.
Everything blurred.
Junhui caught him as he fell.
“Shh,” he whispered. “I just want the painter.”
🐶🐸
Mingyu arrived 20 minutes too late.
The door was ajar.
DK was sprawled unconscious in the doorway.
He shook him but he was not waking up, he dialed Wonwoo.
“Minghao?” he shouted, gun drawn.
No answer.
He ran in, heart in his throat.
DK’s phone lay smashed. The sketches were gone.
And Minghao?
Gone.
The screams in his chest didn’t come out.
He knelt down, saw one torn corner of a drawing left behind. It was a house again but this time the boy in the window was crying.
The apartment was a crime scene.
DK is unconscious but breathing.
Minghao was gone.
Mingyu stood by the window, hands gripping the sill so tightly his knuckles turned white.
The cup of tea had spilled across the rug, soaking the unfinished sketch.
The image of the crying boy, smudged into grey blur.
He sank to his knees, chest heaving.
“He took him… he took him…”
Wonwoo arrived first. Then Vernon. Neither said anything for a long time.
Only when the paramedics lifted DK did Vernon speak.
“What now?”
Mingyu stood. His voice was steel.
“Now I end this.”
🐶🐸
Junhui dragged Minghao inside the mansion, the gates already unlocked.
The security cameras had been disabled hours before.
The staff, were all dismissed by Jeonghan earlier that week.
He was prepared. He knew how to manipulate the killer.
Who turned out to be a familiar face.
Wen Junhui.
One of their test subjects from Wuhan alongside Minghao.
Jeonghan hid in the shadows as he watched the drama unfold.
“Home again” Junhui whispered, breathless, as he guided Minghao past the polished marble floor.
Minghao stumbled, dazed. The drugs Junhui used were mild, just enough to fog the edges of his mind.
“You remember this place?” Jun said. “Where they built you. Broke you. Bent you into what they wanted.”
They passed the grand hallway. The gallery walls. And now they were at the living room.
“You painted your nightmares, Hao,” Junhui whispered. “I saw them. I felt them.”
He stopped before the grand staircase and turned.
Minghao stood there, blinking slowly.
His lips parted.
His hands trembled.
And then he whispered, barely a sound…
“Junhui?”
Junhui inhaled sharply.
“You remember me,” he said. “You do remember me.”
Minghao’s knees gave out.
Junhui caught him.
Cradled him.
He wept.
And in the silence of the grand mansion, the ghosts of children long dead seemed to echo in the cold marble.
🐶🐸
It was the first time in weeks Seungcheol had called Mingyu.
The second he answered, Mingyu immediately asked “Where is he?”
And Seungcheol’s voice, frayed at the edges, responded:
“At the Mansion. They’re using Minghao as bait for the killer.”
There was a pause.
“And I think the killer already took the bait.”
Mingyu didn’t wait for more. The line cut. His hands trembled on the wheel.
And he drove like the devil was behind him, when in truth, he was chasing worse.
🐶🐸
The room was dim, lit only by a flickering antique chandelier and the strange glow of a half-finished painting leaning against the wall. An ornate oil canvas, twisted, violent, smeared with crimson and shadows.
A grotesque depiction of two unidentifiable figures engulfed in fire.
Junhui stood over it, brush in one hand, gun in the other. His coat was stained with blood, not fresh, but not dry either. His eyes burned, the whites nearly gone.
Beside him, Minghao sat motionless in the high-backed chair. His wrists rested limp against his lap, his eyes unfocused. His skin, pallid; his expression, void.
He looked more like a sculpture than a man. Hollowed out.
“Do you see it now?” Jun whispered. He crouched beside him, voice trembling with obsession. “The world they made us into… the monsters they were. You and I, we were the survivors. The ghosts they tried to erase.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bloodied hunting knife.
“They took everything from us. But tonight, we take it back.”
He gently placed the knife into Minghao’s unmoving hands.
“You paint with brushes, I paint with blood. Together, we’ll make a masterpiece.”
Minghao didn’t react.
Not a blink. Not a twitch.
Jun's smile faded.
His hands shook.
“You remember them, don’t you? The labs. The burning beds. The way they tied us down like animals. They were gods in white coats. They played with our minds, Hao. And you…” he snapped, rising, pacing now. “You’re just sitting there like a porcelain doll.”
He turned sharply, voice rising.
“We bled together. We screamed together. Why aren’t you angry like me?”
Silence.
Jun clenched his fists, the gun trembling in his grip.
“You’re supposed to understand. You’re supposed to help me!”
He stormed back, grabbed Minghao by the shoulders, and shook him violently.
“SAY SOMETHING!”
Still, nothing.
Then he heard a click.
The metallic sound echoed like thunder.
From the dark hall beyond the archway, a soft voice rang out.
“You always did romanticize pain too much.”
Jun froze.
Out of the shadows emerged
Yoon Jeonghan.
Poised, calm, dressed in a sharp black suit and leather gloves. The pistol in his hand was pointed at Jun’s head, unwavering. But it was his voice ~ silken and venomous that made the air freeze.
“You’re obsessed with him. It’s pathetic.”
Jeonghan’s lip curled.
“You thought you could bring him here, awaken some shared madness, and make him your partner in murder?”
He laughed once. Cruelly.
“He was never like you. He was fragile. A perfect face, an empty mind. That’s what we loved about him.”
Jun stepped in front of Minghao, raising his gun.
“You used him like a doll. You built your fame on his trauma”
“We saved him,” Jeonghan hissed. “We rescued him.”
“You brainwashed him.”
“You’re just angry he didn’t turn out like you.”
Jun’s voice broke.
“He is like me. We worked together through his paintings”
Jeonghan tilted his head.
“Then prove it.”
Jun’s jaw clenched.
He turned to Minghao again and forced the knife into his hands.
“Do it!” he growled, voice trembling with tears. “Kill him.!”
Minghao’s fingers curled weakly around the handle.
But he didn’t lift it.
He looked down at the blade, tears brimming in his eyes, his lips barely moving. His voice, when it came, was barely a breath.
“Why… does it all… hurt so much…” he whispered.
Jun flinched.
“Kill him!!!” he repeated, louder now. Desperate. “Do it!!!”
Jeonghan smirked.
“You fool.”
The gunshot rang out sharp.
Jun staggered back, crying out, the bullet tore through his shoulder.
Blood splattered across Minghao’s face, but he remained unmoving.
Jun turned, wild-eyed, furious, he laughed hysterically and he lifted his gun.
A second shot was fired.
Not at Jun.
Not at Jeonghan.
At Minghao.
“Hao!”
Jisoo stepped into view, out of nowhere, arms wide.
The bullet struck him square in the chest.
Time collapsed.
The room went still.
Minghao’s scream was raw, high-pitched, inhuman piercing the silence like a blade.
Junhui’s manic laughter echoed through the walls as he yelled about being useless over and over again.
“NO!!”
Jisoo collapsed at his feet, blood staining the pale silk of his shirt.
“Why…” Minghao whimpered, falling to his knees. “Why would you…”
Jisoo reached for him with a trembling hand, blood at the corners of his lips.
“Because I should’ve protected you a long time ago…”
Jeonghan stared, his mask of indifference cracking for the first time.
“Shuji…”
Jisoo smiled at him, eyes closing.
“I’m sorry… Hannie…”
And his hand dropped.
Dead.
Jeonghan screamed.
He saw red.
And so he lunged.
Gun forgotten, mind gone.
He tackled Jun to the floor, grabbed the knife, and drove it into him once.
Twice.
Over. And over.
Jun gasped, choking. Eyes wide, red pouring from his lips.
He couldn’t even speak.
He died with his hand reaching for Minghao, his obsession unfulfilled.
Jeonghan stood, shaking.
He turned to Minghao.
His eyes were crazed, soaked in grief, hands red.
“This is all your fault! I should’ve killed you back then!”
He raised the gun.
A third shot echoed.
But this time, it came from the door.
Jeonghan stumbled back.
Blood blooming across his chest.
Seungcheol entered, eyes blazing, weapon raised.
Behind him was Mingyu.
“Minghao!”
He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the painter’s trembling body.
Minghao was still screaming, sobbing, trying to reach for Jisoo.
Mingyu held him tightly.
“You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
Seungcheol walked to Jeonghan, who collapsed beside Jisoo’s corpse.
Blood leaked between them, two twisted halves of a broken dynasty.
Jeonghan’s voice gurgled as he looked up at Seungcheol.
“How…could…you…”
He died there, cradling Jisoo’s body like a mourning lover, the air thick with blood and ruin.
“It’s over.” Mingyu whispered to Minghao repeatedly.
But Minghao had already fainted again, lost to darkness.
🐶🐸
The story broke before dawn.
Every news channel. Every media outlet. Every whisper on the street.
"TRAGEDY AT YOON’S MANSION: THREE DEAD, DARK SECRETS EXPOSED."
The headlines screamed betrayal and horror.
Photos of the sprawling estate covered in yellow police tape. Leaked footage of the blood-soaked living room. Aerial shots of forensics teams, the black body bags being wheeled into vans.
At the center of it all: Yoon Jeonghan and Hong Jisoo, once celebrated as saints in white coats, dead by their own sins. And Choi Seungcheol, former detective, surrendering to authorities later that morning, his badge placed solemnly on the chief’s desk, hands cuffed behind his back.
Seungcheol confessed everything.
His involvement in covering up the crimes of the couple. The false autopsy reports. The suppressed case files from Wuhan. The bribes.
He didn’t ask for a lawyer.
When Vernon and Wonwoo were called in, they submitted the digital archives they had carefully collected, the threads Mingyu had obsessed over, the connections no one wanted to see.
Anonymous volunteers came forward. Former hospital staff who had been paid off. Names were given. Statements were signed.
"They experimented on children under the guise of charitable outreach."
"There were survivors. But they were silenced. Bought. Or worse."
And in the center of all testimonies was:
Xu Minghao.
The survivor.
The silent boy turned painter, whose trauma had been disguised as brilliance.
🐶🐸
But while the world grieved, demanded justice, and screamed for reform Minghao remained silent.
Days passed.
The hospital room was too quiet. Even the machines seemed to hum softer than usual. The sunlight through the blinds felt artificial, and Minghao… still hadn't spoken.
He would wake in the middle of the night screaming.
He would curl in on himself in the corner of the bed, trembling like a leaf. Sometimes he’d tear at his sheets, or rip the IVs from his arms.
DK being the only doctor Minghao didn’t shove away, did everything he could with sedatives, gentle therapy, touchless support but it was Mingyu who stayed.
Always.
He never left the room.
He slept curled on the recliner, waking with every whimper Minghao made. He brought him fresh clothes, held his hand through the breakdowns, read to him even when Minghao didn’t respond.
"You’re safe now," he would whisper, again and again, voice hoarse with grief.
"I promise. You’re safe."
Sometimes Mingyu would cry with him, helpless tears in the sterile room, guilt and love flooding out of him in waves.
Vernon and Wonwoo visited when they could, always bringing food Minghao never ate.
DK, pale with worry, would sit beside him and plead softly to Mingyu "You need to rest too."
But Mingyu just shook his head.
“I’ll rest when he can sleep without waking up screaming.”
🐶🐸
The JH Hospital Empire crumbled like dominoes.
Patients pulled out.
Foundations dissolved.
Grants withdrawn.
A national investigation was launched.
Posters of Jeonghan and Jisoo hung in academic halls were defaced and torn down.
There was mourning.
Not for the doctors.
But for the children.
Children like Minghao. Names lost in smoke and broken files.
Junhui, painted in the media as a monster, also became a symbol of what unchecked power and silence could destroy.
Minghao’s paintings were kept away by Jihoon, all traces of them were deleted out of respect for Minghao’s grief and agony.
Mingyu, Wonwoo and Vernon were promoted but they did not celebrate it.
They didn’t feel the need to.
🐶🐸
One night, weeks after everything, Minghao stirred.
He had been quiet the entire day.
Calm. Too calm.
Mingyu had just finished replacing the flowers on the bedside with peonies, because DK said they symbolized healing when he turned and saw Minghao watching him.
Not blankly.
Not like a ghost.
He was truly watching.
Their eyes met.
Minghao’s lips parted, voice cracking as if unused for decades.
"You stayed..."
Mingyu froze.
And then he broke.
He knelt by the bed, grabbed Minghao’s hand, pressed it to his cheek.
"Of course I did. I’d stay for a thousand lifetimes if you asked me to."
Minghao didn’t cry.
Not yet.
But his eyes softened.
The edges of a soul coming back to life.
The world knew what was done.
Justice was finally underway.
But in a quiet hospital room, behind the noise and the fury, healing was just beginning.
Minghao, no longer a silent painting.
And Mingyu, the only one who ever looked long enough to see what it really meant.
🐶🐸
They told Mingyu the damage was likely permanent.
“Long-term trauma rooted in childhood abuse… especially paired with systemic manipulation and medical repression, the recovery is possible, but the odds aren’t promising.”
Mingyu had only nodded.
He didn’t ask when Minghao would be okay.
He asked how he could stay beside him.
For the first few months, Minghao didn’t speak again after that whisper in the hospital.
He would often just sit.
Sometimes by the window. Sometimes curled in blankets. Sometimes unmoving for hours.
He had nightmares. Of course he did.
He’d scream in languages that weren’t always Korean, scratch at his own skin, sob so violently his body shook.
Mingyu would hold him through every one.
He never told Minghao it would be okay. That would be a lie. Instead, he whispered:
“I’m here.” “You’re safe.” “You don’t have to be strong for me.”
Minghao didn’t return to the mansion.
It was gone. The remaining assets frozen. The mansion itself was sealed off as a crime scene for months before it was eventually demolished.
Mingyu brought him to his new apartment instead, a modest two-bedroom place with soft furniture and blackout curtains. Plants lined the windows. There were no paintings on the walls.
Not yet.
Jihoon visited sometimes.
He never stayed long, just dropped off fruit, or books, or soft cardigans. Sometimes a sketchpad Minghao never touched.
DK once left a voice recording full of chaotic cheer. Minghao didn’t react to it. But he kept the recording on his phone.
One year later.
Minghao still didn’t paint.
He didn’t speak often either. Mostly nods, subtle glances, sometimes soft gestures with his fingers.
But he started going on walks with Mingyu.
Always in the same park.
Always at the same time.
Mingyu adjusted his shifts just to be there.
He smiled more.
Faint, shy things. Like ghost-lanterns in the night. Like early spring snow melting from rooftops.
And he started listening to music again, Mingyu noticed the headphones going on longer. The corners of his lips twitching slightly at instrumentals.
The trauma didn’t leave.
But it didn’t own him anymore.
🐶🐸
It was a regular day.
The windows were open, letting in the early April breeze. Cherry blossoms had begun to bloom along the park path across their apartment.
Mingyu was doing dishes, humming something off-key, when he heard it.
A soft voice.
“Mingyu.”
Mingyu froze.
It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a cry. It was a name, his name, spoken clearly and with intent.
He dropped the towel and turned around.
Minghao was by the window.
For the first time in over a year, there was something in his eyes. Not just survival, but awareness.
He pointed to the table.
“Can I have a pencil? And paper?”
Mingyu’s hands trembled.
He scrambled to get them, an old mechanical pencil, a blank sheet from one of Jihoon’s untouched sketchbooks.
Minghao took them gently, sat on the floor by the sunlight, and… began to draw.
It wasn’t a masterpiece.
Just a soft pencil sketch of the view from their window— the cherry blossoms outside, the branches, the slant of light across the grass.
But to Mingyu, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
His breath hitched.
He tried to hold it in.
He failed.
Tears fell silently.
And then he was crying in earnest, crouched by the floor, sobbing into his hands like a child.. all the grief, fear, love, and unspoken pain crashing over him like a flood.
Minghao reached out wordlessly.
He patted Mingyu’s head.
Awkward. Gentle.Clumsy.
But it was real.
Mingyu looked up, eyes red and full of tears.
Minghao didn’t say anything else, he just scooted a little closer and rested his head against Mingyu’s shoulder.
They stayed like that for a long, long time.
The cherry blossoms outside were in full bloom.
And for the first time in forever, so was hope.
🐶🐸
There was no ceremony the day Minghao started sketching again.
No trumpet sound. No triumphant music. No flash of inspiration striking like lightning.
There was only sunlight, a quiet morning, and the sound of the waves.
Mingyu had suggested the beach after seeing how tightly Minghao clenched the sketchpad Jihoon left behind, his fingers ghosting over the blank paper as if trying to remember how it felt to make something just for himself.
“Just for the air,” Mingyu had said. “We won’t stay long.”
Minghao hadn’t spoken, but he had nodded.
And that afternoon, for the first time in a very long time, he dipped his toes in sand, pulled his hoodie sleeves up, and sat cross-legged on a towel, eyes fixed on the ocean like it was whispering secrets he had long forgotten.
Mingyu didn’t hover. He just laid nearby, sunglasses on, reading a book, and sneaking glances.
The scratch of graphite on paper.
Mingyu’s breath caught.
He didn’t say anything, afraid to break whatever fragile moment this was.
But when Minghao turned the sketchpad slightly toward him,!just enough for him to catch the outline of rolling waves and seagulls in flight, he smiled so wide he could’ve cried.
Next came the park.
Minghao pointed to the clouds that afternoon and asked, “Do you think they ever get tired of changing?”
Mingyu had gaped, shocked at how soft and curious his voice sounded.
He never answered the question.
He didn’t need to.
Minghao started sketching the sky into cottony shapes and gold-streaked light, bluebirds in motion and trees reaching upward like they missed something they forgot.
Each drawing was quiet.
But every page was a declaration:
I am still here. I am still me. I am trying.
🐶🐸
One sunny Sunday, Mingyu was getting ready to volunteer at the orphanage, the same one he was going to every month, when Minghao shuffled into the kitchen.
“I want to come.”
Mingyu blinked.
“Come with me?” he asked, just to be sure.
Minghao nodded.
“I want to meet them.”
Mingyu tried to act calm, cool, casual.
He failed.
He grinned like the sun itself had kissed him.
“Okay,” he said, heart pounding, “yeah. Let’s go.”
The orphanage was small but bright, run by kind volunteers and filled with loud energy. The minute they stepped into the children’s playroom, a trio of tiny hurricanes bolted toward Mingyu.
“Mingyu-hyung!!” Seungkwan shouted, grabbing his leg.
“You’re late!” said Hoshi, dramatic as always, arms crossed.
“Did you bring snacks?” added Chan with laser focus.
Mingyu laughed, ruffling their hair.
“Be gentle, okay? I brought a friend.”
The kids turned.
Three pairs of curious eyes looked up at Minghao who stood stiff and blinking, not used to this kind of affection.
“Whoa,” Seungkwan said. “He’s so pretty.”
“Is he a prince?” asked Hoshi.
Chan squinted.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
Minghao froze.
Mingyu flushed red instantly.
“W-What?! N-No, he’s just…He’s…”
“Do you wanna be?” Chan grinned toothily, utterly fearless.
Minghao, for the first time in months, laughed.
A soft, breathy sound like a spring breeze passing through a wind chime.
Mingyu looked like someone had just punched him in the chest with sunlight.
Minghao sketched all of them that afternoon.
Seungkwan trying to act like an idol. Hoshi spinning with tiger stripes. Chan asking for a dinosaur.
He showed each drawing shyly, and the kids gushed over it, proud and loud.
“Draw us again next time!” they shouted.
Minghao nodded, small and smiling.
That evening, back in their apartment, Mingyu made tea while Minghao sat on the couch with his sketchbook open, cheeks warm from laughter and light.
“You were amazing today” Mingyu said softly, placing the mug beside him.
Minghao looked up.
“So were you” he replied.
Their fingers brushed.
The moment hung between them like a breath waiting to be exhaled.
But tonight wasn’t for first kisses.
Tonight was for healing.
Later that night, when Mingyu glanced over at the sketchpad resting on the coffee table, he saw a sketch of three children laughing, arms outstretched toward a man in the middle.
He was tall, tan, with toothy grin and eyes that crinkled when he smiled.
Mingyu couldn’t stop smiling after that.
Not for the rest of the night.
🐶🐸
Mingyu came home to silence.
It was unusual.
The apartment, once filled with the gentle scratch of pencil on paper or the scent of tea brewing by the hour, now greeted him with still air and the echo of his own breath.
“Minghao?”
No answer.
He called again, louder this time. Checked the bedroom. The balcony. The bathroom.
Nothing.
Then he saw it, Minghao’s phone lying on the bedside table, screen dark, untouched.
Panic surged in his chest.
He called Wonwoo. Vernon. DK. Even Jihoon.
No one had seen him.
The worry threatened to spiral out of control, a sharp memory from the past clawing at his mind. Not again. Not like before.
He ran.
He checked the park first, then every coffee shop he knew Minghao liked, even the one with the moody jazz that made him sneeze. Nothing.
And just as the sinking feeling began to grip him, he caught sight of something through the glass windows of a local art store.
There.
Minghao stood in the corner, sleeves rolled, hands full of different tubes of paint, head tilted in that way he always did when thinking too hard about colors that matched emotion.
His eyes were alight.
He looked... peaceful.
Engrossed.
Mingyu didn’t think. He just walked forward, pushed the door open and pulled Minghao into a hug from behind.
Minghao shrieked, nearly dropping a brush.
“What the…Mingyu?!”
“I couldn’t find you” Mingyu whispered against his shoulder, voice shaking with breathless relief. “I thought, God, I thought something happened.”
Minghao turned slowly, lips parted in soft surprise, but his eyes were already fond. He placed a hand on Mingyu’s cheek.
“I just wanted new brushes.”
Mingyu laughed, choked and watery.
“Warn me next time” he begged.
“I will” Minghao said gently. “I promise.”
After that day, Minghao painted more.
A lot more.
He painted at dawn, at dusk, in the middle of the night.
But there was one piece he always worked on in secret, covered by a cloth whenever Mingyu was near.
Mingyu never pried.
Some part of him knew.
Months passed.
Minghao smiled more.
Mingyu cooked better.
Life stitched itself back together quietly.
Then one evening, Jihoon showed up at the door, hair tousled from the wind, and handed Mingyu a simple white envelope.
“What’s this?”
“An invitation.”
“To what?”
“Just go.”
Mingyu narrowed his eyes.
“Does Minghao know about this?”
“Maybe.”Jihoon smirked.
That was enough to make him suspicious.
But also... curious.
🐶🐸
The gallery was tucked in a quiet street. The sign outside read:
“EISA: The World Beyond Trauma” A Private Showing.
The moment Mingyu stepped in, something shifted inside him.
The lights were dim, the focus was entirely on the art, each one framed in golds and whites and silvers.
The first piece was of cherry blossoms~ gentle, delicate, like the ones outside their apartment that spring. Then came paintings of the beach, of foaming waves under golden skies. The park clouds followed, swirling blue with pale light.
Then…
Laughter.
Captured in brushstroke.
Children, small and beaming. Seungkwan mid-song. Hoshi’s face with tiger stripes. Chan in a dinosaur costume.
Mingyu’s chest grew tight.
And then he saw it.
At the very center.
Him.
A portrait. But not just a likeness. It was Mingyu through Minghao’s eyes.
Soft brown eyes full of concern. Lips half-curved in a gentle smile. The faintest tears in his lashes. And surrounding him ~ light.
Warmth.
Hope.
Mingyu took a step forward, then another.
And then his knees gave out.
The emotion swallowed him whole. It rushed like floodwaters, and he couldn’t breathe through the sob that broke out of his chest.
But before he could fall entirely, someone caught him.
Arms curled around his shoulders.
A presence at his side.
Minghao.
Minghao was there.
He was crying, too.
But he smiled. And through the tears, he said, “Thank you.”
Mingyu could barely form a word.
His hand clutched the sleeve of Minghao’s coat like a lifeline.
Minghao leaned forward.
And kissed him.
Soft. Gentle. Certain.
As if to say, I’m still here.
As if to promise, I came back because of you.
When Mingyu pulled back, he was crying harder.
“You’re Eisa?” he managed to croak out.
Minghao nodded.
“It’s the name I gave myself... when I was trying to become someone new. But I realized I don’t have to be anyone else. Not if you’re by my side.”
Mingyu kissed him again, hands trembling as they framed Minghao’s face.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
And all around them, the paintings watched like witnesses.
Each one a story of healing.
Each one a piece of love.
And in the center, where light spilled over canvas and floor, stood two men.
Once shattered, now whole again.
Together.
(end)