Chapter Text
Sunghoon was a man bound to his principles, though they often came at a steep price. As an investigative journalist, he held tight to the conviction that the truth, no matter how deeply buried, deserved to be brought to light. Some would say he was driven—others, perhaps, would say he was consumed. Long before his bylines began gracing the pages of major publications, Sunghoon had witnessed the effects of injustice in the world around him, leaving him with a determination to unearth stories that mattered, no matter the cost.
In the pursuit of justice, however, Sunghoon had unknowingly written himself into a dangerous rhythm. Buried in a constant tide of deadlines and surrounded by stacks of notebooks, recordings, and dossiers, he spent countless hours alone, chasing down leads and wrestling with truth. In these solitary hours, Sunghoon often forgot the basics: meals went missed, and sleep became a distant memory. He believed every sacrifice was justified; after all, a story could shift opinions, spark conversations, even bring a measure of peace to those who had been wronged.
But isolation had a way of hollowing him out, leaving him to grapple with the slow but steady wear on his mind and heart. The pressure was ceaseless, the hours unforgiving, and Sunghoon knew, somewhere in the quiet of his thoughts, that this life could only be sustained for so long. Yet each story, each glimmer of change his work achieved, reignited his purpose—even if it threatened to consume him whole.
Today, Sunghoon’s phone began its relentless buzzing before dawn, its blue-white glow spilling over stacks of files and the abandoned remnants of last night’s half-eaten dinner. Groggily, he reached for it, already mentally cataloging the deadlines he had juggled just hours earlier. Another source was wavering, a crucial tip had dried up, and yet another follow-up meeting loomed with an editor who demanded more evidence. Even before his feet hit the floor, he felt the day’s weight bearing down.
In a flurry, Sunghoon showered and dressed with methodical haste, already distracted by the emails accumulating on his laptop, each ping another tug on his mental focus. He hadn’t even managed a sip of coffee before the first call came in—a whistleblower he’d been chasing for weeks, finally agreeing to talk. Sunghoon scrambled to set up a secure line, heart hammering at the chance to break new ground on a case that had eluded him for months. But, as the conversation dragged on, it became clear the source was hesitant, vague even. Sunghoon’s patience wore thin, though he kept his voice steady, coaxing every crumb of information he could manage before the call abruptly ended, leaving him with more questions than answers.
Rushing from one appointment to the next, Sunghoon barely noticed as the hours slipped by. Deadlines loomed on every horizon, overlapping like storm clouds gathering for a downpour. His editor's emails, marked urgent, flashed across his screen, reminders of yet another piece due by end of day. He could practically hear his editor’s curt voice demanding accountability, results. But Sunghoon’s notes were incomplete, his leads scattered and thin. He forced himself to ignore the throbbing ache growing behind his eyes, a reminder of both sleep and the aspirin he’d forgotten to take.
In the afternoon, as he dug deeper into his research, his phone buzzed again—an irate family member of someone featured in his last piece, furious at what had been published. Their words lashed through him like cold rain. Even as he apologized, his mind raced, wondering how this would impact the investigation’s integrity, the hours he’d spent verifying every word.
By nightfall, he sat hunched over his desk, face lit by the faint glow of his laptop screen, surrounded by stacks of files, his shoulders drooping with exhaustion. The story was still only half-complete, the sources barely coherent, and yet he knew he’d press on, working through the night if he had to. This was his world: the ceaseless search, the unraveling of secrets, the sacrifices he made in pursuit of truth. And tonight, as deadlines closed in from every side, Sunghoon felt more alone than ever, though the work was always there to keep him company.
It was well past midnight when Sunghoon finally left the office, his mind swirling with the intricate threads of his latest investigation. The streets buzzed with the distant sounds of traffic and hurried footsteps, but they barely registered with him. His shoulders and neck throbbed, stiff from the hours spent hunched over his computer, his eyes strained from the unforgiving glow of his screen. A drink, he thought. He needed something to dull the ache, to help unravel the knots of tension that had wound so tightly through his body and mind.
He turned onto a quieter street toward the station, and that’s when he saw it: a dark little club, tucked between shadowed storefronts, with soft blue light spilling through the entrance and slow, smoky jazz drifting out onto the bustling street. Sunghoon paused, his gaze drawn to the modest sign hanging above the door. The Silhouette Room. He was certain he’d passed this street countless times before, but somehow, he’d never noticed this place. Maybe he was always too focused on something else, too caught up in his own orbit to see it.
As he hesitated, a voice—soft yet rich, soulful yet streaked with melancholy—cut through the noise of the city. “Summertime, and the living is easy…” The voice, like velvet, wrapped around him, and for a fleeting moment, the cacophony of the outside world faded away. Only the music remained. And in a rare moment of impulse, Sunghoon found himself stepping through the doorway, letting the warmth of the club engulf him as the voice pulled him further inside.
“Fish are jumpin’, and the cotton is high…”
He moved down the narrow hallway, the voice swelling with each step. It guided him toward the bar, toward the low, dimly lit room that opened before him like a hidden sanctuary. An almost ethereal glow softened every edge in the room, its warmth so unlike the sterile fluorescent bulbs of the office he’d left behind. A modest crowd sat entranced, all eyes on the singer. Sunghoon’s gaze followed theirs, landing on a young man standing by the grand piano on a small stage. The singer had wavy blonde hair that caught the light just so, dressed in deep navy with touches of silver that shimmered as he swayed. His eyes were closed, lost in the music, every note a spell cast over the room.
“So hush, little baby, don’t you cry…”
As the final note lingered, the singer slowly opened his eyes, and in that instant, his gaze met Sunghoon’s. For a heartbeat, Sunghoon forgot where he was, feeling himself drawn into the warmth of those eyes, into the mystery of the voice that had led him here. The singer paused, momentarily startled by the man watching him with such unwavering intensity. Then he offered Sunghoon a gentle, welcoming smile, just as the crowd burst into applause, pulling Sunghoon back to reality.
Sunghoon blinked, his pulse quickening as he realized the song had ended. He shook himself and made his way to the bar, where he ordered a whiskey, neat. He took a long, deliberate sip, letting the heat of the drink settle him, though he couldn’t shake the lingering sense of wonder. The singer had drawn him in so completely, and now, as the music resumed, Sunghoon found himself entranced all over again.
The singer returned to the mic, his voice soft but steady. “Thank you, everyone, for coming out tonight,” he said, glancing around the room. “I have one more song for you all. I hope you enjoy.”
The pianist struck a familiar, haunting melody, and the singer closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began.
“In my solitude,
You taunt me.
With memories that never die…”
The crowd fell silent, bound by the emotion in the singer’s voice. As Sunghoon watched, he felt a strange, aching recognition, as though the singer understood a loss he couldn’t name. The room seemed to disappear, leaving only the voice, intimate and raw, drawing him in with every word.
“I sit in my chair,
I’m filled with despair.
There’s no one could be so sad…”
The singer’s voice cracked, just slightly, but it held an almost unbearable grace, his words wrapping around Sunghoon with a painful familiarity. He couldn’t tell if it was the beauty of the singer’s voice or the tremor of sorrow beneath it, but something buried within him seemed to stir, an echo of a long-forgotten feeling.
“With gloom everywhere,
I sit and I stare.
I know that I’ll soon go mad…”
Each line landed like a quiet blow, and Sunghoon felt his heart clench as the song reached its final lines. The singer’s eyes glistened as he drew in a deep breath, holding the last verse.
“In my solitude,
I’m praying.
Dear Lord above, send back my love…”
As he sang the final note, a single tear rolled down his cheek, catching the light before slipping away. The room held its breath until applause finally broke the spell. The singer blinked, gathering himself, and offered a shy, grateful smile.
“Thank you all again for coming out tonight. My name is Kim Sunoo, and it’s been a pleasure singing for you this evening,” he said, casting a final glance at the man by the bar. “Have a wonderful rest of your night.” With one last look, Sunoo gathered his belongings and disappeared off-stage, slipping quietly through a door at the back of the room. Sunghoon watched, eyes tracing his every step, until Sunoo was gone. Alone again with his drink, Sunghoon let the singer’s name roll off his tongue, a quiet murmur in the near-empty room.
“Kim Sunoo…” he whispered to himself, the name leaving him with a strange, unfamiliar warmth, as if the voice had reached in and eased the ache in his bones, the tension he had left work with finally unwinding.