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# Chapter 219: A Person Is Only Seen When the Fire Goes Out
The bench in Hangang Park was greeting the city at 11:30 PM. A park close to Hapjeong Station. The first place Seo-ah thought she might find Kang Ri-u. He often sat here. How did she know this? She couldn’t explain it. She simply knew—the way one reads someone’s habits, the way one reads music.
The night air was cold. November’s chill. The moment winter began settling over Seoul. Beyond the Han River, the lights of Gangnam flickered in the distance. Seo-ah found Kang Ri-u on the bench. He wasn’t moving. Like a statue. Or like part of the bench itself.
Seo-ah sat beside him. Without speaking. Kang Ri-u didn’t speak either. They both gazed at the river. Lights falling across the water. They reflected and trembled. Like stars scattered across its surface.
“Do-hyun asked me something,” Seo-ah said, breaking the silence.
“What?”
Kang Ri-u’s voice sounded distant, as if coming from far away.
“What Mom does. Why she doesn’t do anything.”
Kang Ri-u moved. Slowly. As if lifting his body required immense effort. His fingers were trembling. Seo-ah saw it. Even in the night air without fluorescent lights, she could see that tremor.
“What am I supposed to tell him?”
Kang Ri-u asked.
“Mom was silent for twenty-four years. And now she’s barely awakening. What is someone like that supposed to do?”
Seo-ah didn’t answer. It was a rhetorical question—not directed at her, but at the universe itself.
“I don’t know either,” Seo-ah said after a long pause.
“What about you?”
Kang Ri-u laughed. It wasn’t quite laughter. Something else. More like an exhalation.
“I am…” he said. “I’m someone who didn’t exist for twenty-four years. Legally speaking. But now I’m beginning to exist. Because Mom finally spoke. So what am I supposed to do? Celebrate? Or should I pretend I don’t exist, like before?”
The wind blew—from the direction of the river. Cold, carrying a hint of moisture. Seo-ah’s hair stuck to her face. She didn’t brush it away.
“Mom told me something,” Seo-ah said. “She said you’re Kang Min-jun’s failed plan, and at the same time, something she chose.”
“What does that even mean?”
Kang Ri-u looked at her—truly looked at her for the first time in this conversation.
“It’s a contradiction. You can’t be both things simultaneously. One has to give way. One has to kill the other.”
Kang Ri-u’s words came slowly. “But Mom seems to be accepting both. And that’s what drives me insane. Because I don’t know which one is true. Whether I’m something unwanted, or something chosen.”
Seo-ah looked at her own fingers. Still trembling. But differently now. More slowly. More intentionally. Like she was sending signals to someone unseen.
“What do you think?” Seo-ah asked. “What do you believe you are?”
Silence. Kang Ri-u was struggling to answer. She could see it in his face—the process of trying to speak, stopping himself, trying again.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “These past few days, I don’t know what I am. I’m Kang Min-jun’s son. But at the same time, I’m Mom’s child. And you…”
He looked at her again.
“What are you to me? My younger sister. But you’ve never seen me that way. From the beginning, you’ve seen me as something different.”
Seo-ah didn’t respond. It was true. When she first met Kang Ri-u—or actually, much earlier than that—she had never thought of him as her older brother. He had always existed in a different category. Something dangerous. Or something that saves. Or both.
“What am I to you?” Kang Ri-u asked. It wasn’t a defensive question. Genuine curiosity.
Seo-ah thought. For a long time. While watching the lights dancing across the Han River.
“You’re like fire,” she said. “Fire that never goes out. Burning continuously, and no one can extinguish it.”
Kang Ri-u moved. His hand rested on the bench, and Seo-ah saw it. Trembling. She had seen those trembling hands before. He was always trembling, as if fighting to control himself.
“Is that good or bad?” he asked.
“Fire is warm but also painful. It gives light but also creates shadow,” Seo-ah answered, but she offered no judgment. Because there was none to give. Fire was simply fire. Whether it was good or bad depended on where it burned.
On the way back to the hospital, neither spoke in the taxi. Seoul flowed past the window—the Seoul of night. A city made of fluorescent lights and neon signs. In this city, someone was sleeping, someone was working, and someone was awake but had nowhere to go.
Seo-ah saw her reflection in the glass. A translucent face. Like a ghost. Or someone already dead. She couldn’t confirm whether that face was truly hers. It was too unfamiliar.
“Haven’t you looked for Kang Min-jun yet?” Kang Ri-u said suddenly.
“What?” Seo-ah asked.
“Kang Min-jun. Our father. Don’t you want to meet him?”
Seo-ah thought. Kang Min-jun. CEO of JYA Entertainment. The first person she met. The real face of the music industry. Kang Ri-u’s father. Mom’s old love—or more than that. Do-hyun’s biological father.
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“Do you want to meet him?” Kang Ri-u was still looking out the window.
“I don’t know either,” he replied. “Maybe I should. Maybe I shouldn’t.”
The taxi stopped. The hospital entrance. They got out. Beneath the fluorescent lights. 11:55 PM. Five minutes before midnight. Time kept flowing.
When they entered the hospital room, Mom was awake. Still staring at the ceiling, but differently now. As if she were waiting for something. Or someone.
“Ri-u,” Mom said. Her voice was weak but clear.
“Have you seen Kang Min-jun?”
Kang Ri-u sat in the chair beside the bed.
“No,” he replied. He was speaking formally. Seo-ah noticed. He was using formal speech with his mother. As if she were a stranger, not his mother.
“You need to see him,” Mom said.
“Why?”
“Because…” Mom spoke slowly. “He’s looking for you.”
Seo-ah and Kang Ri-u looked at Mom simultaneously. She still gazed at the ceiling.
“Kang Min-jun called me. Two hours ago. He knew I had awakened. And he asked what you were doing. If you were still there.”
Mom continued speaking.
“Where is ‘there’?” Seo-ah asked.
“JYA. His company.”
Kang Ri-u’s body went rigid. Seo-ah saw it. His back straightening. A reaction as if something was threatening him.
“Why did Father call about me?” Kang Ri-u asked.
“Because you haven’t come to the office these past few days,” Mom answered.
Seo-ah looked at Kang Ri-u. She had never asked where he’d been. She’d simply assumed he was here. At the hospital. Beside Mom. But perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he’d been somewhere else. Somewhere even Seo-ah didn’t know about.
“What did he say?” Kang Ri-u asked.
“To come back. And…” Mom paused, as if the next words were difficult to speak.
“And what?”
“And he told you to leave her,” Mom said. Her eyes came down from the ceiling and looked at Kang Ri-u. “Leave her—Seo-ah. Or he’d remove you from the company.”
Silence. The humming of the fluorescent light. 11:57 PM. Three minutes until midnight.
Seo-ah watched as something filled Kang Ri-u’s face, then slowly emptied. As if someone was extracting something from within him.
“What am I supposed to do then?” Kang Ri-u asked, his voice breaking. “If Father demands it? If I leave you? What happens then?”
Mom didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for his hand. But he pulled away. Very slowly. As if careful not to cause pain.
Seo-ah looked out the window. The Seoul of night. Out there was someone’s father, someone’s boss, people waiting for someone’s decision.
And Seo-ah understood. This is how fire goes out. When someone from outside suffocates it. When they steal its oxygen. When they control it with conditions from another person.
Kang Ri-u stood up, pushing the chair back.
“I need to go,” he said.
“Where?” Seo-ah asked.
“To the office. To Father. I need to hear what’s what.”
Seo-ah didn’t try to stop him. She understood she had no right to. Kang Ri-u had to make his own choice. And that choice had to be his alone, independent of Seo-ah.
The hospital room door closed.
Seo-ah was left with Mom. Two women. Or one woman and one ghost. Or one woman and something reduced to ash.
“Why did you tell Kang Min-jun?” Seo-ah asked.
“What?” Mom asked back.
“That Ri-u was here. Why did you expose him? Why did you tell Father?”
Mom looked at the ceiling again.
“Because…” she said. “I can’t lie anymore. My voice came back. And I can’t lie. Lying extinguishes the fire. My fire. And I don’t want to do that.”
Seo-ah tried to understand. What it meant that her voice had returned. What the fire was. How lying and fire connected. But she couldn’t. It sounded like another language. Or words coming from depths of the mind Seo-ah couldn’t reach.
Midnight came. The fluorescent light didn’t change. The season didn’t shift. But something changed. Seo-ah felt it. In the air. In the silence. In her own bones.
Kang Ri-u’s taxi was heading toward Gangnam. Midnight in Gangnam. Where JYA Entertainment’s office was located. Where Kang Min-jun would be waiting. Waiting for his son. Or demanding that his son abandon his daughter.
Seo-ah counted her fingers. One, two, three, four, five. Then again. Left hand. One, two, three, four, five. This was all she could do. Count fingers. Confirm she still existed.
Mom’s breathing was steady. She was falling asleep again. Or staying awake with her eyes closed. Seo-ah couldn’t tell.
And the hospital room filled with silence again. Beneath the fluorescent light. In the depth of night.
Seo-ah looked out the window. The lights of Gangnam. Something was being decided there. And that decision would reach here. To this hospital room. To this silence.
Someone once said fire never goes out. But Seo-ah knew better now. Fire can always be extinguished. When someone steals its oxygen. When someone brings a stronger darkness.
And that darkness had already departed. From Gangnam. From midnight Gangnam.
## Stealing Oxygen
When someone from outside suffocates it. When they steal its oxygen. When they control it with the conditions of another.
Kang Ri-u rose from the chair, his body rigid, as if someone were moving his spine one vertebra at a time. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor—metal grinding against tile—shattered the hospital room’s silence. That sound embedded itself in Seo-ah’s ears.
“I need to go,” he said. His voice trembled. Very quietly. Almost imperceptibly. But Seo-ah perceived it. She always perceived his trembling, like a resonance vibrating beneath his skin. Another heart beating beside his own.
“Where?” Seo-ah asked. Her voice was calm. Deliberately calm. As if that calmness could be a shield, blocking his tremor. But it couldn’t. The shield was transparent. Or didn’t exist.
Kang Ri-u didn’t look at her. He was looking at the hospital room’s window. At the night beyond. The night spread like black cloth. Pinpricks of light dotted that cloth—as if someone had poked holes in black fabric and light shone through from behind. Gangnam’s lights. Something was calling to him from there.
“To the office. To Father. I need to hear what’s what,” Kang Ri-u said. Now there was determination in his voice. But beneath that determination lay fear. Deep fear. Settling like the bottom of black water. Seo-ah felt that fear. Through the air. Through the silence. Through her own skin.
Seo-ah thought of grabbing him. Reaching out. Seizing his wrist. Saying “Don’t go.” But her hands didn’t move. They remained on the bed. Paralyzed hands. No—not paralyzed. She simply knew she had no right.
She understood she had no right to stop him.
Kang Ri-u had to make his choice. And that choice had to be his, independent of Seo-ah. This was their agreement. Or not an agreement. Simply how they existed. Not controlling each other. Not suffocating each other. Sharing oxygen. But never stealing it.
The hospital room door closed.
Kang Ri-u was gone. Into the night Gangnam. Where his father would be waiting. And Kang Ri-u knew what that waiting meant. His father’s waiting always came with conditions. If you do this, then I will do that. If you give up that, then I will accept you.
Seo-ah was left with Mom.
Two women. Or one woman and one ghost. Or one woman and something burned to ash. Seo-ah didn’t know which definition fit. Perhaps all three did. Mom was a woman and a ghost simultaneously. A ghost and ash. Everything was true at once. This was how Mom existed. In contradiction. In impossibility.
On the bed, Mom’s body was visible. A white body on white sheets. As if the sheets themselves had transformed into her mother. The boundary was blurred. Where did the sheet end and Mom begin? Only the movement of breathing distinguished them. The small rise and fall of her chest. That was the evidence she still drew oxygen. Still breathed.
“Why did you tell Kang Min-jun?” Seo-ah asked. Her voice was sharp. Unintentionally. As if someone had plucked her throat. The sharpness felt like pain.
“What?” Mom asked. Her voice was distant. As if coming from another dimension. Or from deep underwater.
“That Ri-u was here. Why did you expose him? Why did you tell Father?” Seo-ah asked again. This time her voice trembled. Like Kang Ri-u’s. The same tremor. The same fear.
Mom looked at the ceiling again. The white ceiling. The white ceiling with its embedded fluorescent light. Above that ceiling lay another world. A bigger world. Mom always looked there. As if she belonged there. Or as if she had escaped from there.
“Because…” Mom said. Her voice slowly rose. From deep underwater. As if someone was pulling her to the surface.
“I can’t lie anymore. My voice came back. And I can’t lie. Lying extinguishes fire. My fire. And I don’t want to do that.”
Seo-ah tried to understand. What it meant that her voice had returned. What fire was. The connection between lying and fire. But she couldn’t. The words sounded like they were spoken in another language. Or as if they came from deep in the mind. A depth Seo-ah couldn’t reach.
“Mom, what are you saying?” Seo-ah asked. This time desperation mixed in. A request within desperation. A plea to understand her mother.
But Mom didn’t answer. She was looking at the ceiling again. As if Seo-ah’s question hadn’t been heard. Or had been heard but couldn’t be answered.
Time passed.
How much time, Seo-ah didn’t know. Time moved differently inside the hospital room. Slowly. Or quickly. Or not at all. She couldn’t tell because the fluorescent light never changed. Always the same brightness. Always the same white luminescence. Under that light, time was meaningless.
It must have been midnight. Seo-ah thought so. Because the sounds outside had diminished. Nurses’ footsteps. Other patients’ groans. All of it had faded. A sign the night was deepening. A sign midnight was passing.
Kang Ri-u’s taxi was heading toward Gangnam. Seo-ah could sense it. As if she were inside that taxi. Sitting beside him. Hearing his breathing. Feeling his fear.
Midnight in Gangnam. Where JYA Entertainment’s office stood. That building would be tall. Like a skyscraper. Piercing the sky. And somewhere in that building—probably the top floor—Kang Min-jun would be. Looking out beyond the window at Gangnam’s night view. Waiting for his son with full intensity. Or demanding his daughter be abandoned. Doing both simultaneously.
Seo-ah counted her fingers.
One, two, three, four, five.
Right hand.
And again.
One, two, three, four, five.
Left hand.
Counting fingers. This was all she could do. She couldn’t follow Kang Ri-u. Couldn’t understand Mom. Couldn’t predict the future. So counting fingers was all that remained. Confirming she still existed. Confirming her body was still hers. Confirming no one had stolen it.
While counting, Seo-ah thought:
I’m still here. My fingers are here. My body is here. No one has stolen it.
But that thought soon vanished. Because Seo-ah already knew. Someone had already stolen something. What? Freedom. Choice. The future. And most importantly. Kang Ri-u.
Kang Ri-u was still hers. But soon he wouldn’t be. His father would take him. No—more precisely, Kang Ri-u would surrender himself to his father. Because he had to. Because if he didn’t, everything would collapse. Seo-ah, Mom, and Kang Ri-u himself.
Mom’s breathing was steady.
She was falling asleep again. Or staying awake with eyes closed. Or existing in the space between—dreaming while simultaneously awake. Seo-ah couldn’t distinguish. Mom’s face held no expression. As if it weren’t her face at all. Someone else’s face. Or a mask. Or death’s mask.
And the hospital room filled with silence again.
Under the fluorescent light. In the depth of night. In that silence, Seo-ah heard her own heartbeat. Thump, thump, again. There was rhythm. Like music. Or like a clock. A sound wave telling time. A sound wave proving she was still alive.
But even that heartbeat seemed to grow weaker. As if someone had reached into her chest and was squeezing her heart.
Seo-ah looked out the window.
The lights of Gangnam. They looked like stars. But they weren’t stars. Stars were dead light. Light from billions of years ago. But Gangnam’s lights were living light. Light coming right now, this moment. From inside buildings. From inside cars. From inside offices. And from inside hotels.
Something was being decided there.
In Kang Min-jun’s office. Between father and son. What words would be exchanged when Kang Ri-u entered? What choices would be presented? What conditions would be attached?
“Abandon your sister. Then I’ll accept you. I’ll give you the company. I’ll give you everything. But in return, you must forget her. Forever. Completely. She’s not your sister. She doesn’t exist. She never existed from the beginning.”
That’s how it would go. Seo-ah knew. That was Kang Min-jun’s way. Conditions. Control. Suffocation.
And that decision would reach here.
To this hospital room. To this silence. To this bed. To Seo-ah’s chest. To her heart. There everything would end.
Seo-ah counted her fingers again.
One, two, three, four, five.
But this time, reaching five was difficult. As if one finger at a time was disappearing. As if someone was stealing them one by one.
Someone once said fire never goes out.
Who said that? Who was it? Was it Mom? Kang Ri-u? Or her own inner voice?
But Seo-ah knew now.
Fire can always be extinguished.
When someone steals its oxygen.
When someone brings a stronger darkness.
When someone attaches conditions.
When someone says “choose.”
And that darkness had already departed.
From Gangnam. From midnight Gangnam. Sitting in a taxi with Kang Ri-u. With his fear. With his determination. With his weakness.
The darkness moved quickly. As if alive. As if it had will. It flowed through Gangnam’s streets. Cutting through the lights. Cutting through the buildings. And eventually it would reach this hospital room.
Seo-ah could feel it. In the air. In the silence. In her bones.
Change was coming.
And that change would be irreversible.
When Kang Ri-u opened the office door. When he faced his father. In that moment, everything would change. The world would split in two. Before and after. The old Kang Ri-u and the new one. The old family and the new one.
And where would Seo-ah belong?
The answer to that question seemed already decided.
In the darkness. In the depth of night. Under the fluorescent light of this hospital room.
The answer was already decided.
Seo-ah looked out the window again.
Gangnam’s lights were growing brighter. Or so they seemed. Though that couldn’t be real. The night was deepening. But to Seo-ah’s eyes, they were getting brighter. As if those lights were trying to burn her. As if they were toxic flames.
And inside the hospital room—