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When she meets him at his office, this time she's ready. She's already missed her chance once; there won't be another.
Betrayed, manipulated, deceived, every memory she has of him is now tainted by what he did. Tinged with the carmine aura of his lies, of their moments togather, moments she honored and that now burn heavy and slow in her being, fuelling the strength that still keeps her standing.
They've left the guns behind. It's a bloody showdown. Personal. Born out of love and betrayal.
Of love, for the same person they have cherished - the father, the ally - for each other - the mentor, the confidante - and of betrayal, because those they have cherished, loved, protected at the risk of their lives, are none other than the recipients of their hard-earned esteem.
There is no deeper wound than the one given to you by the person you trust most. The one you would give your life for, who has given you theirs in return. The one for whom your heart has become blind.
If the battle that drives them is a deadly dance, they spill blood as they spill the raw pain out of their bodies, smearing it across the ground, draining the fire that sets their veins ablaze, the same spark that now ignites with the utter satisfaction, the dark thrill of righteous vengeance. They are fighting the enemy, tangible, palpable, their hearts pounding, body moving against body in precise strikes.
It's no longer desperation she's fighting him with. It's satisfying. It's also this, the sacrifice he required of her when he asked her if she would agree to become a monster, if she was capable of doing anything to achieve her goal and kill her father's murderer.
He's brought her up to this point, and even now she doesn't disappoint.
At last, she's understood what it takes, striving to kill a monster. A monster with cold hands like his own. With fury that is alternately fiery and icy, but always, always under his control.
He encourages her when she fails, falls - but once they've started, neither of them can rest unless a real winner emerges. It's a fight to the death that they've thrown themselves into. Exhaustion does not belong to their world, consumed by so many raw emotions, a supreme agôn at whose altar their very souls bow.
His movements alike to those of a praying mantis, he counters each of her blows with strategic parries, and the intimacy of this moment can only be outdone by that of the tide of memories that rise to the surface of their minds, reinforcing the scream they both hold back, reaffirming the grip on their weapons made to slice. Their bodies know each other well and it's clear in the way they strike each other. He's the one who taught her everything and at last, at last, they're on equal terms: he's sure that inside her mind, the mantra he gave her and which has served him all his life is singing its sweet - and deadly - melody.
Temples. Upper lip. Chin. Solar plexus.
Stab me.
Where she couldn't have surpassed him in physical superiority before, having years of training behind him that she'll never have, her tenfold rage gives her the strength she needs to compensate. Where he could have brought her down, he preferred to make her the one to bring him down, because it's vital to have an enemy in front of you rather than fight an invisible, impalpable grip, the ghost of someone who can never be held accountable for his actions.
He has always relied on her, and if he can defeat her, then nothing will ever stand in his way again. Ever.
His body gives itself over entirely to the exercise, entranced by the dance of the knives as they swing from side to side, looking for an opening, for vulnerability. He counters each of her moves but has never been inclined to underestimate her. He knows the full extent of what she's capable of, and she's gotten even better: she's managed to get to him, slaughtering one by one each of his bodyguards, the members of his own organisation. What a spectacular way to finish on a high note... The end could only be achieved from the inside, because it was from the inside that it all began.
He can't take his eyes off her, just as she can't take her eyes off his, off his face. He likes the rawness of her honesty; she doesn't hide what she feels, what she thinks. She doesn't hide, she doesn't shy away. She bends but doesn't break. And strikes, strikes, strikes.
Relentlessly.
Just as he'd asked for.
How could he possibly undervalue her after all he has done to build up the toughness, courage and stamina that drive her? When he has shaped her, challenge after challenge, year after year, so that she becomes as powerful as he is? So that she will overthrow him, the leader of Dongcheon's organization? So that she morphs herself into the monster he is?
Only she has ever been able to heed his call so well. Because it was he who broke her, without her even knowing it.
So that was the solution.
It never worked with the others, which is why he has remained Dongcheon’s undisputed leader to this day.
There are unconscious moves she makes that are capable of destroying any man. She always manages to surprise. It's her greatest strength, and her greatest flaw. Her weakness.
He appreciates that she has tied a bandage around her knife. So as not to give up. So as not to let go. So as not to weaken. So as not to disappoint. To go all the way, no matter what the outcome.
It's not even about winners and losers anymore. Neither about the strong and the weak. Maybe it never was, not with her. It's much more, so much more than that now.
Although he has often found it difficult to contemplate finishing her off since she offered him that horrible chamomile mixture, or even since when she had the audacity to bring him her very father's ashes and to demand so steadfastly that he'd find Donghoon's murderer, it is her fury that rekindles the wound, with a vividness that comes back just as it did the day he learnt about the betrayal, a vividness time has no hold onto.
In her features he sees those of Donghoon again, he knows that he is there, present in her, within her heart, the image of a man she loved and for whose death she bears the responsibility as a heavy fault. Now she knows that it's not her fault, but his doing. That the fact, the moment of the murder is his, because if he couldn't have complete devotion from the man he had always believed in, he would take the rest of his life - and she is there to free herself from this memory, this pain, this remorse that haunts and devours her.
His release, however, is a living, vital, fatal outlet. It's the sublime elevation he has provided for her. It's a ghost reincarnated in the guise of someone he can understand, who knows him, with whom he has managed to show himself as he is when he's not the ruthless leader of an influential mafia.
It's a betrayal that he knew in advance, that he planned, because there's no turning back, because at this game, it's better to betray than to be betrayed. It's a wound replayed so that in the end his ravaged heart stops beating for someone who was never worthy of it.
He never knew how to ask him why. The words drowned in the streams of blood from that deep wound, and by the time it closed into a gash, he was dead, a bullet from his own gun in his side. Choi Mujin had never acted on impulse before.
A smile escapes his lips.
Jeon Pildo's murder was the second time. And the first time on Jiwoo's account.
As if she could have acted towards him like her father did before her, remaining loyal to a police uniform that never helped her, that never raised her to her full potential, when he gave her everything, including his own weapons and iron discipline to give her the means of her ambitions, a chance against him.
Neglecting such a gift on his part... that was what had made his chest ache and his forehead burn, demanding an atonement that would only come with the reminder of the consequences of her actions. A reminder of what she owed him. What she had promised to do.
As if she'd been able to think of something else, to move on, with someone else, when it was he, the murderer finally revealed, who should be plaguing her thoughts like Donghoon was haunting his.
Like he still does.
Never could he bear to be abandoned again.
He went there with a cold awareness yet with inflamed veins and got on the same motorbike that she had ridden during all through the investigation.
He remembers the look on her face as she recognised him of all people, when he caught up with their car at the traffic lights. He remembers the shock of seeing themselves face-to-face again, the last obstacle in the way of their connecting gazes blind to the death unfolding right in front of him. Of her expression - as if she'd seen a ghost. Of his gun arm raised in an instant of grace, the cold barrel aimed at the temple, his fingers tense on the trigger. The gun went off without hesitation. He didn't benefit from the shock, and fled immediately. So that she could find him. Just as it was supposed to happen.
Sometimes you have to force your eyes to see, your heart to be set on fire, for the world to start turning the right way.
And she came back.
She answered his call. At the last incentive. At last.
"It's over for you. Accept it. You're incapable of becoming a monster."
There's only one thing he regrets: that it wasn't the blade he gave her that pierced his heart when she thrusts it into him.
His hands are no longer responsive. The empty pistol he'd picked up falls to the floor, smashing with a thunderous crash, the clatter of metal against the polished floor.
He should be used to pain, but this one flays him like no other. He doesn't feel it immediately. When it comes, however, every nerve ending in his body is ablaze with the shock of its waves.
She watches him as his mouth fills with blood. As he is cornered against the door, she twists the knife in the flesh, causing him to hiccup in surprise and pain, a reaction to the sadism he has provoked. Weakened, he gradually collapses to the floor, curled up like a rag doll, his breath slowing, his arms and legs tingling, blood pouring out of him in hot breaths as he grows colder and colder.
Sweat covers his face and slides down the back of his neck. The shock and then the pain have stiffened his muscles. He tries to move, but his body responds less and less - the only thing he can do is try to control his breathing. And sink.
Sink into her gaze.
Her bloodied face close to his, she doesn't stop looking at him as his vision becomes glassy, blurred, as the scene is torn into fragments that no longer make sense.
There is no obstacle between them now.
He sees her. She sees him.
Dongcheon no longer exists.
Her brown eyes. They're all he has left.
All he hangs on to, because they don't fail. They don't disappoint. And because now they're the same.
Because life is a war and it takes a monster to kill a monster.
The shadow of a smile slides across his lips before his body gives way to the dark waters of infinite unconsciousness.