Lee Ahyeon couldn’t stop crying for a long time after that. Even if she was just a small child, holding her in one arm should have been tiring, but without showing any sign of strain, Sihyeon only adjusted his posture a few times and patiently stroked her back until her sobs quieted.
There were no special words—other than softly calling Ahyeon’s name now and then, as if to say he was here. Yet as she tightened her arms around his neck like that meant everything, Sihyeon drew her closer and held her deeper in his arms. With a body already weak, and after lying unconscious nearly three weeks only to cry herself out to the point of collapse, it was almost inevitable that Lee Ahyeon fell asleep again as if fainting.
“……….”
Unruffled, Sihyeon laid Ahyeon—still making little, catching breaths—back on the bed and immediately called a nurse to treat the puncture on her wrist where the IV needle had come out. Even after they replaced the IV, she didn’t wake. Sitting by the bedside, he silently looked down at her wet face. Even then, those thin fingers refused to let go of the hem of his clothes. It was nothing that meant anything—something that would slip free at a touch—but all Sihyeon did was place the caught sleeve beside her hand so she could hold it more easily.
Time crawled by, slow and dull, but Sihyeon didn’t leave his seat.
He expected that if she opened her eyes and he wasn’t there, she would cry twice as much.
But it seemed the same even with him beside her; after a while, when Ahyeon opened her eyes again and saw her brother’s face at her side, she burst into tears all over. Unlike before, Sihyeon let out a breath of relief so faint it barely showed, reached his hand out. He was honestly worried she might literally collapse.
“Were you planning to show me only your crying face?”
His clumsy hand wiped the corners of her eyes. Only after hearing Sihyeon’s troubled-sounding words did the child seem to come to herself a little; sniffling, she tried to stop crying. “Really Oppa?” her trembling voice asked. Lee Ahyeon remembered clearly the moment before she lost consciousness—the bluish face with not a trace of blood, and though someone had wiped him down in a hurry, the wound glimpsed through the hair was horrific at a glance. It couldn’t be; there was no way this was her brother—she poured out thin, denying words. But… in the end, at the despairing moments when she had no choice but to accept it, she crumbled before that cold, creeping temperature unique to the dead, crawling up her fingertips.
And now, her brother’s face, looking this way with a concern that made those things seem absurd.
As if he could read Ahyeon’s thought that if this were a dream she’d rather it be a nightmare, a low voice answered, “Mm. It’s Oppa.”
Even after that, Ahyeon’s anxious questions kept coming to a troublesome degree, but Sihyeon answered slowly without losing his temper once. His manner of speaking was a little different than usual, but Ahyeon had no room left to notice such things. All that mattered was that the person before her was real—and at last, as if in relief, when she cried, “Oppa!” and threw her arms around his neck again, Sihyeon patted her back a few times, then opened his mouth, looking a little at a loss.
“Ahyeon. There’s something I have to say.”
Sensing it, the child flinched and drew back, looking up at her brother with clear, bright eyes.
“Oppa’s memory… isn’t normal right now. Honestly, it’s more accurate to say I’ve almost lost it.”
She paused a moment at the part where he called himself her Oppa, but only for an instant; then, at the words that followed, she blinked wide as if to say what do you mean, and answered, “Huh?” in bafflement. At that reaction, “Mm,” he said, taking a moment. It seemed like he was choosing his words.
“Don’t be shocked… The moment I opened my eyes, people were calling my name, and I had no memories at all.”
“The doctor says it’s a temporary memory impairment, but… I’m not sure.” Mixing lies and truth neatly, Sihyeon looked at Ahyeon steadily.
He did have some memories concerning his little sister, but they weren’t enough. Hajin knew that the reason his behavior—so utterly different from the original Lee Sihyeon—had worked was, in fact, because the relationships between that shattered Lee Sihyeon and the people around him were already a wreck. Even now, people sometimes sent him puzzled looks, but because no one had known him that deeply to begin with, they all hesitated and let it slide. Probably because they didn’t even know what the original Lee Sihyeon had really been like. For him, that was convenient.
But in the case of his little sister, Lee Ahyeon, it was different.
Even if he clumsily pretended to be her brother, it was obvious he’d be found out right away; he’d decided to use the useful excuse of memory loss, but he wasn’t actually sure how far it would work. He knew that between people who had been together a long time, there were parts that couldn’t be explained in words. Slightly different, but perhaps his relationship with Han Daejun resembled that as well. Even if Daejun lost his memories, if the core had changed, it wouldn’t take long for him to sense something was off.
Still, if there was one fortunate thing, it was that Lee Hajin knew the time of Lee Sihyeon and Lee Ahyeon.
The way to lay a hand on Lee Ahyeon; the looks, the tone. Right after the accident, he had watched to the point of tedium the hospital room the two had shared.
Struck hard by her brother’s claim that he remembered nothing, Ahyeon couldn’t continue for a long time. In the end, seeming unable to find a fitting reply, her lips, which had been opening and closing, pressed shut. Something else mixed into the way she looked at him. A wavering blackness.
It was fear.
“…I don’t remember anything else…”
I remember you. I’m sorry it’s not everything…
And as if he knew all of that, Sihyeon’s voice continued, low and gentle.
“Don’t be afraid. What doesn’t change is that I’m your brother. What I can’t remember, you can tell me… and this time, I’ll remember without forgetting.”
“So. From now on, I’ll be the one who protects you.”
Stop crying now, and smile.
White fingertips quietly brushed the fallen hair back. A soft, careful touch. Different from usual, but somehow reassuring—at those words, the face that had always been wet with tears slowly crumpled. “Mm.” A reply spilled out after a small blank. As that small face finally grew clear and smiled, something about it turned remote again, and at that moment he ended up smiling back without meaning to.
***
Because Ahyeon wanted to stay together a bit longer, Sihyeon ended up spending the night at the hospital—and after that, he had no choice but to live through a string of frantic days.
The drama had begun in earnest to depict the conflict between Jihan and Inhu, which meant the time they had to spend filming had increased. That alone made irritation spike, and even then, the director who didn’t know how to give up whined at Sihyeon—who was getting his makeup touched up after the cut sign—only to finally shout, when Sihyeon kept giving him nothing, that he was kicking away a heaven-sent stroke of luck with muddy feet, then stomped back to his seat like a sulking seven-year-old. How old even is he. When Sihyeon stared at him, dumbfounded, the one who actually looked shocked was not Sihyeon but the Manager.
Shivering like an aspen, his face went pale as he darted his eyes back and forth between the director and Sihyeon.
But turning his head as if to ignore it, Sihyeon ran into someone even more uncomfortable.
“……….”
The silent, watchful gaze wasn’t pleasant. He was more than used to being looked at that way by Yoon Isu—so used to it he was sick of it—so when he slid his gaze away without reacting, he could practically see, even without looking, Yoon Isu going “Hmm,” and staring doggedly. This is why I hate it…
Clicking his tongue softly inside his mouth, Sihyeon stepped back onto the set, and he could feel the unhurried presence following after him. Since they had another scene together, it was natural, but there was no avoiding the peculiar discomfort.
The first time he filmed with Yoon Isu, Sihyeon ended up, for the first time, feeling that acting was hard.
To be honest, up to then it hadn’t been that difficult. It had been similar to his former life, and dealing with Cha Jua was the same sort of thing, so maybe it was natural—but the Inhu Yoon Isu played was on a different level altogether. Inhu bared his teeth at him, guarded him openly, scraped him raw with a slow drag; Yoon Isu, acting Inhu, was so headlong it made you wonder if he wasn’t being sincere.
So, to keep from getting devoured, Sihyeon had to pour out just as much feeling—and every time the cut sign fell, he felt a draining exhaustion, as if the strength were leaking out of him.
In fact, even when he’d been Lee Hajin of the underworld, he hadn’t been an emotional person. On top of that, because of his particular, world-weary bent, he never really got angry—oh, so it’s like that; oh, and this is like that too—so often that people mistook it for a viciously rational temperament. But his lines were clear. Cross the line he’d set, and he became merciless, and there weren’t many who acted up after that; barring special circumstances, you could say there was almost never a reason for him to get emotional.
The role he was acting now, Jihan, was largely similar—but when it came to Inhu, he was uncharacteristically sensitive and shaken.
Like right now, for instance.
“I told you to stop poking around. I’ll kill you.”
Yoon Isu kicked Jihan’s office door open without ceremony and went straight to the point. Clearly, a few of the men Sihyeon had scattered around had been caught. Told them to be careful. Catching the slight draw of Sihyeon’s brows, the men at his side started to lunge toward Yoon Isu, but he beat them to it, pulling a police badge from his jacket and waggling it with a provoking shameless grin.
Sihyeon held his subordinates back and sank deeper into the sofa, speaking with a blank face.
“…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Yoon Isu’s face creased, irritated.
“Don’t play dumb. You think I don’t know the bruisers around me are yours?”
“Not my doing.”
“And I’m supposed to go, ‘Oh, is that so?’ and swallow that like an idiot?”
Mm? Still low, but somehow out of joint, Yoon Isu strode right up to Sihyeon. The men jolted to block him, but having been ordered earlier to stand down, they were stuck. Coming in close, Yoon Isu bent his head. Those dark, glimmering eyes flashed, and it must have been chilling, but Sihyeon didn’t so much as twitch. The distance closed. With barely a hand’s breadth between their faces—Sihyeon seated, Yoon Isu looming—he bared his teeth in a growl. A predator’s.
“Park Jihan, cut the bullshit. I’m sick of it.”
“……….”
“How long are you going to tail me? Are you a kid? Graduate already.”
What was left between Jihan and Inhu was nothing but something black. Sihyeon’s job was to bare his teeth without yielding before the force of Yoon Isu pouring that out, naked and clear. Tap. A fingertip on solid wood split the dim hush. On that bloodless face, the chill at his eyes stood out. Tilting his head a fraction, Sihyeon twisted his flushed lips as if he’d heard something not even funny.
“You keep yapping when I said I don’t know…”
Bright, red provocation. Their gazes met, edged to the hilt, as if they would bare their jaws and grind their teeth. While everyone forgot to breathe and watched, Yoon Isu gave a short laugh and spoke in a slow tone that still sounded like a warning.
“If you don’t want to get bitten, don’t make me bark.”
Even if you pull back later, it’ll be way too late. The low voice scraped past his ear, and without meaning to, a faint crease touched Sihyeon’s eye. In time with that, Yoon Isu gave a scoffing snort, lifted the head he’d lowered, spun on his heel, and flicked his hand lazily with all the sincerity of a shrug. And just as quickly as he’d come in, he slipped out the door—leaving the office still for a heartbeat.
Grit. The sound of teeth grinding once.
Bang! Sihyeon slammed the table in front of him with the heel of his shoe and, face seething as if set to boil, shut his eyes hard and bit his tongue.
As expected—no matter how you look at it, he’s a person who doesn’t suit me at all.