BAM!

The sound hit him like a gunshot—sharp, stinging, ringing in his neck.

Yoo Eun-seong walked away toward the apartment complex, and for the first time… he looked relieved.

Jae-geon stood frozen, ready to grab him by the collar and scream that’s a lie—but his body would not obey. Panic had seized him completely.

So… Song Hae-som’s first love had been Yoo Eun‑ho. And he was dead.

And Jung Jae-geon, so eerily like him it seemed impossible, was nothing more than a replacement. A ghost brought back to life.

“Sleep comes so easily when I’m with you, Chef.”

That innocent confession, fingers curling shyly…

“Sometimes… can’t you just stay here with me?”

That bold, shameless plea…

“Ah—!”

The way she melted beneath him. The way she preferred him above her… but always found her release only when they were face‑to‑face.

Always whispering…

“Eun‑ho.”

Yoo Eun‑ho.

Was he… nothing but a shadow? A way to see him again?

“Haah…”

He lifted his eyes to the night sky. Vast, endless, not a star in sight. It felt like it couldn’t be real. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming.

No… if only it were a dream.

It had to be a dream.

He had no idea how he made it there, hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white, his foot crushing the accelerator.

Scenery blurred past. And layered over it all—one memory after another—came the images of her.

Eyes wide and innocent, pouting in her sleep. Climbing atop him, helpless and trembling. Releasing so easily with nothing more than a kiss.

He had admired her. Watched her endure every rumor with quiet strength. He had hated her ties to Cha Ji‑won… but told himself: at least she’s here. At least she’s mine.

This girl, tangled in every messy bond… had become his destiny.

He had given everything. Every single thing. And never once resented it. He had only ever feared that he couldn’t give more.

Even in his gamble against Ji‑won—where he stood to lose everything—he had felt light. Free. Because finally… there would be nothing standing between them.

Come back to me. We’ll wake in the same bed. Share the same breakfast. Hold each other through the quiet hours. And fall asleep together, warm and safe.

He knew her heart could never match his. But he had loved her anyway. And he was glad to.

That was the love of a boy who grew up without love. Blind.

Then—suddenly—he remembered the conversation at Hunam Temple. With Jong‑myeong. And his pride shattered.

“You looks like him… but maybe better.”

“What are you rambling about?”

“It’s been so long. My memory is fading.”

Jong‑myeong knew. Before he was a monk… before he was anything—he was Jae-geon’s uncle. And he had always known.

Song Hae-som… was using Jung Jae-geon. As a substitute. For Yoo Eun‑ho.

Had he—carrying the ghost of a dead boy in his heart—been so easy for her to understand?

Was that boy… worth more than his own flesh‑and‑blood nephew?

His thoughts carried him, as they always did, to Hunam Temple. The crisp pine wind that had once comforted him now felt hollow. He laughed, a dry, bitter sound.

His phone had been buzzing in his hand for some time. Cha Jun‑won. Every CDP. Every station. Even the dining hall staff. And… no Song Hae-som.

Not a single call. Not a single message.

It was nothing new. And yet… it burned.

Rage coiled in his stomach, hot and sickening. He gripped the phone until his knuckles screamed—and hurled it.

It smashed straight into the passenger window—where she always sat—CRACK. Glass shattered outward in a web of white.

The car’s alarm shrieked—lights flashing, horn blaring—shrieking into the night.

Jae-geon turned his back on the noise. And walked toward Hunam Temple.

---

Jong‑myeong’s eyes flew open. The alarm had woken him. Fire? No… the sound came from a car.

Deep in the mountains, wild boars often charged at vehicles. Repairs would be expensive, but they weren’t urgent. Nothing worth stumbling out into the dark and getting eaten alive over.

He rolled over… and was almost fell back to sleep again… when a voice came.

“Venerable Monk… please come outside.”

Not wanting to, Jong-myeong rose and stepped outside. He looked at the trembling young temple hand, Chae-gong.

“Boars? Deer?”

“Sir… it’s… your nephew.”

“Jae-geon?”

At this hour? Without a word?

Chae‑gong nodded, pale and shaking. He gestured toward the kitchen building and vanished.

Jong-myeong couldn’t imagine what had brought him here. Jae-geon wasn’t impulsive. Every decision he made was carefully thought out, reasoned, and made with a clear understanding of what it meant.

Even at eight years old—when his mother died—he had been very calm. Everyone said he simply did not understand death.

Tell him she has gone to heaven to watch over him.

The boy had listened quietly. Then said:

“It was always going to end this way.”

He had looked up at his weeping grandparents and comforted them.

“She tried as long as she could. She was supposed to die when I was five. I am eight now. They say that is a long life.”

It was almost a mercy—that he felt nothing. That he accepted loss so…. completely.

When his father died not long after and his uncle became a monk… Jae-geon had barely reacted. Because he was already made of stone.

That boy.

Now… stood before him. His car was wrecked. Passenger window shattered entirely.

“Jae-geon.”

Still in chef’s whites… he stood at the water pump—the very spot where Hae-som had once knelt, scrubbing bowls.

“You couldn’t even change? Why are you dressed like that?”

Jae-geon turned slowly. His eyes—gleaming in the dark—were wild. Like a wolf.

Jong‑myeong held his breath.

“Who do I look like?”

“…What?”

“You said it yourself. ‘Like someone… but better.’”

His gaze burned through him.

“It’s been so long. My memory is fading.’”

“…!”

It had come. Jong‑myeong’s eyes trembled.

“Tell me. Is it Yoo Eun‑ho, Uncle?”

Jong‑myeong guided him toward the main hall. The walk felt like eternity.

“He was always frail. Heart condition… complications. Lungs too. Breathing was difficult.”

They stood before the memorial tablet: The Late Yoo Eun‑ho — Eternal Peace.

The name Hae-som whispered in the dark… was a dead man.

A hollow, bitter laugh escaped Jae-geon.

“When he came here… he improved. So we kept him. To watch over him.”

“….”

“Eun-seong came too—so he wouldn’t be alone. And then… Hae-som. Always following him. Always behind him.”

Always behind him.

A second hollow laugh.

Who was this boy? What magic did he hold?

“How did they know each other?”

“Their fathers were childhood friends. Business partners. Very close.”

Wealth… Jae-geon had seen the apartment. He knew. And Hae-som—from nothing.

He thought of everything then. Everything.

She had grown up with him. Lost him. Broken. And then—found someone who looked like him. Used him.

“She was destroyed when he died. Completely. Almost followed him.”

The confirmation felt like nothing. Like a joke.

The whole situation was ridiculous.

He had come all this way… for what? To hear his uncle speak with love of another boy? To learn he was nothing but a ghost’s replacement?

He felt calm for some reason. Empty even.

“Poor thing. She tried so hard… she even tried to forget.”

To forget. To love him instead.

Jae-geon wanted to laugh.

He did not want to dig deeper. Every tender memory between them… was borrowed.

Song Hae-som used him. Played him. And he—blind, stupid fool—had loved her with everything he had.

So let it end. She had asked to leave. Let her go. No explanations. No arguments. Clean.

He would walk away with his pride. And she would carry her guilt.

Just then—his phone rang. Clear and blaring in the cold night air.

Jong‑myeong looked at the screen… and hesitated.

Jae-geon nodded. Answer it.

“Hello? Hae-som?”

Past two in the morning. Awake. Thinking of him.

And who is she calling?

The chef who vanished? The man who just learned the truth?

“Chef… what is his phone number?”

Jae-geon burst out laughing—long, wild, and terrible.