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# Chapter 100: The Smoke of Jeju
The fluorescent lights of the police station were cold. Sae-ah sat beneath them, reading her statement. Several pages of A4 paper, filled with her words in black ink. But as she read, she wondered if these were really her words. It felt as though someone else had spoken them, then transcribed them under her name. Words without a voice. That’s what felt most foreign.
“Is this alright?”
The officer asked. A woman. Her nameplate read Park. Mid-thirties, maybe. Her eyes were sharp—the kind that had been trained long to filter out lies.
Sae-ah read the statement again. The Han River bridge. A black car. Fingers. All of it had become sentences. A case. Legal evidence.
“Yes. It’s correct.”
Sae-ah said.
Officer Park pointed to the signature line with her finger. Sae-ah picked up the pen. It felt strangely heavy—like holding a gun. Like she was about to shoot something. But what she was shooting was Kang Ri-u. She was pulling the trigger.
She signed. Her name. Na Sae-ah. The name still felt foreign—as if seeing it for the first time. As if writing it for the first time.
“We may contact you over the next week or so for evidence collection. And you’ll need to continue cooperating through the prosecution investigation and trial.”
Officer Park said.
“Understood.”
Sae-ah said.
“If you experience any anxiety or trauma symptoms, I’d recommend seeking counseling. There are organizations we can refer you to.”
Officer Park said.
Sae-ah heard the words. Counseling. That wasn’t what she needed. What she needed was time. And distance. Distance from Kang Ri-u. Distance from Seoul.
“No. I’m fine.”
Sae-ah said.
Officer Park looked at her. There was no judgment in those eyes. Only observation. As if she were looking at one of countless victims she’d seen.
“Even so, just in case. Here’s an information sheet.”
Officer Park handed her a piece of paper. Seoul Women’s Counseling Center. A phone number was printed on it.
Sae-ah took it. The paper was thin. So thin it looked like it might blow away in the wind.
When she left the police station, Ha-neul was sitting in the lobby. Looking at her phone. But the moment Sae-ah appeared, she put it down—as if trying to hide the fact that she’d been waiting.
“All done?”
Ha-neul asked.
“Yes.”
Sae-ah said.
“Then let’s go meet the lawyer. She said she’d be at her office in an hour.”
Ha-neul said.
The law office was near Gangnam Station. The building was tall. Gray. Like it had been built from money itself. In the elevator, Sae-ah saw her reflection in the mirror. She looked like something. A ghost. Or a shadow. As if she didn’t actually exist.
The lawyer was a man. His name was Lee Jun-ho. Mid-fifties. His face was lined with wrinkles. But his eyes were sharp—the kind used to cutting people down.
“You’re pressing charges against Kang Ri-u, correct?”
The lawyer asked.
“Yes.”
Sae-ah said.
“The charges will include attempted murder, coercion, unlawful imprisonment, property damage, and more. We have sufficient evidence. Police testimony, CCTV, hospital records, and a witness.”
The lawyer said. He looked at Ha-neul.
“I’m the witness.”
Ha-neul said.
“Good. The trial process will likely take three to six months. You’ll need to appear in court multiple times during that period. Are you prepared?”
The lawyer asked.
Sae-ah considered the question. Prepared. What did that mean? Seeing Kang Ri-u? Seeing his lawyer? Speaking her truth in front of a judge?
“Yes. I’m prepared.”
Sae-ah said.
“And one more thing—did you know that Kang Ri-u has considerable wealth?”
The lawyer said.
Sae-ah heard this. Wealth. Kang Ri-u had never mentioned his assets. He’d simply given her what she needed. Like money. Or like chains.
“Does that matter?”
Sae-ah asked.
“It means he can afford a good lawyer. And it means the trial outcome could be uncertain. But you have the advantage. You’re the victim.”
The lawyer said.
Victim. The word lodged itself in Sae-ah’s chest. Someone had officially recognized her as a victim. But strangely, it didn’t make her weak. It made her clear. Clear about who she was. Clear about what she had to do.
The lawyer handed her a contract. It wasn’t thin. It was thick. Filled with legal terminology. Sae-ah read the first page. Couldn’t understand it. Words she didn’t recognize. But her name was visible—listed not as the accused, but as the victim. That was enough.
“Can I sign this?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Do you have any questions about the terms?”
The lawyer asked.
“No. I trust you.”
Sae-ah said.
She picked up the pen. This time it felt light. As if she weren’t writing something—she was reclaiming her name. Taking it back.
It was past four o’clock when they left the law office. Sae-ah and Ha-neul went to a café. A Gangnam café. Clean interior. People working on laptops. Everyone was busy. Everyone was doing something. Sae-ah thought about what she was doing. Living. That was all. But that was enough.
“What are you going to do now?”
Ha-neul asked, sipping an Americano.
“I have to go home.”
Sae-ah said.
“Home?”
Ha-neul asked.
“Do-hyun is there. My mom is there. I’ve been unresponsive for days. I need to see them.”
Sae-ah said.
Ha-neul looked at her. Something shifted in her eyes. As if the Sae-ah she knew looked slightly different. Or as if she were seeing her for the first time.
“That’s a good idea.”
Ha-neul said.
“What about you?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Me? I’ll stay put. Open the tattoo shop. See clients. And wait for you.”
Ha-neul said.
“Will I come back?”
Sae-ah asked.
“You’re the type who comes back. You will.”
Ha-neul said.
Sae-ah knew she was right. She wasn’t the type to leave. She was the type to cycle—to leave and return, to leave and return again. She’d left Kang Ri-u, but she would return to other things.
That night, Sae-ah went back to her semi-basement goshiwon in Hapjeong. When she opened the door, her cat Jangpan cried out. A cry that hadn’t been heard in a long time. Sae-ah picked her up. She was warm. Alive. Proof of continuing to live, like Sae-ah herself.
Sae-ah lay on her bed. Stared at the ceiling. It was a semi-basement, so hardly any sunlight came in. But it was night anyway, so it didn’t matter. Night was equal for everyone. Rich and poor alike, all in the same darkness.
Her phone rang. Do-hyun.
“Noona, where have you been? Mom kept asking.”
Do-hyun said.
“I’m sorry. Things have been complicated lately.”
Sae-ah said.
“Complicated how?”
Do-hyun asked.
Sae-ah thought about what to tell him. About Kang Ri-u? The police station? The lawyer? No. Those weren’t things Do-hyun needed to know. He needed to study. Think about his future. Do what his sister couldn’t.
“Just a lot of work. But it’s resolved now. I’m thinking of going to Jeju soon.”
Sae-ah said.
“Jeju? When?”
Do-hyun asked.
“In about a week. Before then, I have something to give you. Don’t mention it to Mom.”
Sae-ah said.
“What?”
Do-hyun asked.
“A bank account. I’m going to give you the account number and password. That money is for your tuition. Use it starting next semester if you need to. You’ll be fine without me.”
Sae-ah said.
“Noona, what are you doing? Why are you saying this?”
Do-hyun’s voice wavered.
“I’m fine. Just focus on your studies, okay?”
Sae-ah said.
She hung up. Sae-ah looked at the ceiling again. The night was still dark. But now that darkness felt comforting. As if it were wrapping around her. As if she could finally rest.
The next day, Sae-ah submitted her resignation at the company. JYA Entertainment. Officially, she was still under contract with them. But that was ending now. Producer Park In-chul looked shocked when he received her resignation.
“What are you doing?”
Park In-chul asked.
“I’m resigning.”
Sae-ah said.
“You have a contract. Three years.”
Park In-chul said.
“I know. My lawyer will handle the termination process.”
Sae-ah said.
Park In-chul’s face hardened. As if he were constructing it.
“There will be penalties.”
Park In-chul said.
“I understand. My lawyer will take care of it.”
Sae-ah said.
Sae-ah left the office. Gangnam’s streets sprawled before her. Tall buildings. Expensive cars. A world that had nothing to do with her. She didn’t belong in this world. And now that was freedom.
She had to go to the convenience store too. Sae-ah took the subway to Hapjeong Station. It was the end of the night shift. Five in the morning. The convenience store was still bright. Under the fluorescent lights, Do-hyun was working. No—Do-hyun didn’t work here. She did.
The store manager frowned when he saw her.
“Na Sae-ah. Why haven’t you come in? No contact either.”
The manager said.
“I’m sorry. I’m resigning.”
Sae-ah said.
The manager went quiet. As if he’d been about to say something, then thought better of it.
“Just like that? You going somewhere else?”
The manager asked.
“No. I’m just stopping work.”
Sae-ah said.
She took off her uniform. This gray uniform. This nameplate. She shed all of it. As if she were being shed. As if she were being freed from something.
That week passed quickly. Sae-ah organized her documents. Confirmed her lawyer’s schedule. Gave Do-hyun the account information. Met with Ha-neul. Got a new tattoo at the studio. A small matchstick shape. On her shoulder.
“What is this?”
Sae-ah asked.
“A match. You know that fairy tale? The Little Match Girl? When I look at you, I keep thinking of it. Lighting matches on a cold night to find warmth. But you need to light a different fire now. For yourself.”
Ha-neul said.
Sae-ah heard the words. She looked at the match inscribed on her shoulder. A small flame. That was her. No longer a fire that burned for others. A fire that illuminated herself.
The day came to go to Jeju. At Gimpo Airport, Sae-ah received her boarding pass. Destination: Jeju. Departure at 11 a.m. She sat at the gate. The seat next to her was empty. Ha-neul had only come this far. From here on, she was alone. But alone no longer frightened her.
The boarding announcement came. The plane prepared for takeoff. Sae-ah boarded. Her seat was by the window. She looked outside. Seoul spread below her. Small, like a toy city. Somewhere down there, Kang Ri-u existed. But that was no longer her world.
The plane moved toward the runway. The engine roared louder. As if something were waking. As if she were waking.
The plane took off.
At that moment, her phone rang. It shouldn’t have rung in airplane mode, but it did. Kang Ri-u. A final call attempt. A final signal. A final flame.
Sae-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she turned off her phone and put it in her pocket.
Seoul was disappearing outside the window. Clouds wrapped around the plane. White smoke. Like white flames. As if Sae-ah were burning her past.
When the plane entered Jeju airspace, the clouds cleared. Blue ocean appeared. And along that coastline were small villages. Where was her mother? Where was her childhood?
The landing bell chimed.
The plane was descending.
And Sae-ah knew what she would do. Undergo police investigation. Work with her lawyer. Prepare for trial. Learn who she was through it all. And finally, sing with her own name. Not for anyone else, but for herself. With her own voice. With her own flame.
The wheels touched the runway. Landing complete.
A new land. A new beginning.
Sae-ah picked up her luggage and descended from the plane. Jeju’s air was warm. It smelled like the ocean. That smell—it was from her childhood. The smell from when her mother emerged from the water. The sound of breath. The sound of being alive.
Sae-ah found herself smiling without thinking. A small smile. But a clear one. As if she were smiling for the first time.
As she exited the airport, someone was calling her name.
“Sae-ah!”
It was her mother. Her face looked more gaunt. But her eyes were clear. As if she’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.
Sae-ah embraced her mother. Her mother’s arms wrapped around her. Warm. A different warmth from Kang Ri-u’s touch. Unconditional warmth. Warmth that demanded nothing in return.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Sae-ah said.
“For what?”
Her mother asked.
“For doing poorly. For not keeping in touch. For missing so much.”
Sae-ah said.
Her mother looked at her face. And said:
“Our daughter looks different now. Something about you.”
“What looks different?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Your eyes. They look different.”
Her mother said.
Sae-ah thought about her eyes. What did they hold? Regret? Pain? No. Those were there too, but not only that. There was something more. Like a flame. Like a rebirth.
“Like the eyes of someone alive.”
Her mother said.
When she heard those words, Sae-ah realized she hadn’t been alive for months. She’d been breathing, but not living. As if she were underwater. As if her flame had gone out.
But when she stepped off the plane, that flame had reignited. A weak flame. But her own.
Sae-ah left the airport with her mother. Jeju’s sunlight was warm. This time it wasn’t an illusion. Real warmth. Real heat on her skin.
In the taxi, Sae-ah looked at Jeju’s streets. Things unchanged. Same shops. Same people. But Sae-ah herself had changed. The world as she saw it had transformed.
“How is Do-hyun doing?”
Sae-ah asked her mother.
“He’s doing well. He’s been playing music lately. A band, I think.”
Her mother said.
“Music?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Yes. Didn’t you know?”
Her mother asked.
Sae-ah realized she hadn’t known. She’d been ignorant of Do-hyun’s life. She’d been consumed by her own. Consumed by Kang Ri-u.
“When did he start?”
Sae-ah asked.
“About a month ago. With school friends.”
Her mother said.
“Does he sing?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Yes. He’s the vocalist. The teacher said he takes after his sister.”
Her mother said.
When Sae-ah heard this, her chest tightened. Do-hyun played music. Not because of her, but like her. Not her choice, but her genes. Her soul.
When they arrived at the house in Jeju, evening had fallen. A small house. But warm. Her mother set out dinner. Miyeok guk—seaweed soup. Sae-ah’s favorite.
“Eat.”
Her mother said.
Sae-ah ate. The broth was warm. That warmth traveled down to her chest. As if she were thawing. As if she were coming back to life.
That night, Sae-ah lay on her childhood bed. The ceiling was the same as before. But Sae-ah was different. Completely different from the young Sae-ah who had lain in this bed.
She turned on her phone. Disabled airplane mode. Dozens of messages came in. From Kang Ri-u. From her lawyer. From Ha-neul. From Do-hyun.
Ha-neul’s message:
“You reached Jeju, right? Send me a picture. One where you look happy.”
Do-hyun’s message:
“I heard noona went to Jeju. What are you doing? I saw the account and there’s a lot in there. What is that money?”
Her lawyer’s message:
“I received a settlement proposal from Kang Ri-u’s attorney. Let’s set up a meeting time.”
She didn’t read Kang Ri-u’s other messages. Only the last one. The timestamp was 2:03 p.m.
“I might die. But before that, you need to know. I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to save you.”
Sae-ah read the message and put the phone down. That message wasn’t for her. It was for Kang Ri-u himself. To convince her. To get her back.
Sae-ah turned off the phone and placed it on the nightstand. She looked at the ceiling. Jeju’s night was quiet. Different from Seoul’s. As if she’d escaped all sound. As if she could finally rest.
The next morning, Sae-ah went to the beach. Alone. Her mother understood that she didn’t want company. That she wanted solitude.
The beach was empty. Winter meant no crowds. Only waves and herself. Waves that kept coming. Kept returning. Never stopping. Never resting.
Sae-ah sat on the sand. She ran her toes through it. It was warm. Sand warmed by sunlight.
And Sae-ah thought about when she would sing. Now? No. Not yet. After the trial? Maybe not even then. After seeing her lawyer? After seeing Do-hyun?
No. All of that was an excuse. The real reason she hadn’t sung was something else. She was still afraid. Afraid to acknowledge that her voice was her own. Afraid to burn for herself instead of someone else.
Sae-ah opened her mouth. And began to sing. In a very soft voice. As if just for herself. As if only the waves could hear.
No lyrics. Just melody. Just her voice. Her suppressed voice for so long.
The waves accepted it. And didn’t return it. As if it had become part of her. As if it would reach the world.
Sae-ah’s voice grew louder. Clearer. As if she were singing for the first time. As if she were alive for the first time.
At that moment, her phone rang again. Kang Ri-u. But Sae-ah pretended not to hear. She kept singing. With her own voice. With her own flame.
The call ended. Then rang again. And again.
Sae-ah finally answered. Pressed the call button.
“What.”
Sae-ah said.
“I found you.”
Kang Ri-u’s voice came through.
“Found what?”
Sae-ah asked.
“Where you are. You’re in Jeju, aren’t you?”
Kang Ri-u said.
“Yes.”
Sae-ah said.
“I’m coming there.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“Why?”
Sae-ah asked.
“To take you.”
Kang Ri-u said.
When she heard this, Sae-ah’s body went rigid. As if she had to make a decision. A final one.
“I won’t go.”
Sae-ah said.
“What?”
Kang Ri-u asked.
“I said I’m not going.”
Sae-ah said.
“You can’t live without me.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“You’re right. I couldn’t. But now I can’t live without myself. That’s why I’m finding myself first.”
Sae-ah said.
The call cut out. Either Kang Ri-u hung up, or the signal died.
Sae-ah dropped her phone into the sand on the beach. Intentionally. As if she were ending it.
And Sae-ah began to sing again. Louder. Clearer. As if announcing herself to the world.
The waves accepted it. And this time, didn’t return it.
A plane landed at Jeju Airport. Kang Ri-u. A final flame. A final signal.
But Sae-ah was singing on the beach. Not for someone else. But for herself. With her own voice. With her own flame.
The end of Volume 4. And the beginning of Volume 5.