When the Clock Strikes|Pi Han Ul x Reader|

(S02) Chapter 37

The door creaked open behind us. A quiet nurse stepped in, face neutral but respectful. “We need to prepare her now.”

I nodded, but my hand wouldn’t let go of hers.

I leaned closer, heart aching in my chest. My lips touched her forehead, soft and frozen. “I love you,” I whispered. “I should’ve said it more.”

I placed her hand gently back down. Cold fingers. No breath. No mischief in her lips. No spark in her eyes.

Just silence.

As the sheet was pulled back over her face, I broke all over again. A silent sob slipped from my chest, but I swallowed it. I bit down so hard I tasted blood. Because I couldn’t scream again. I wouldn’t make her last goodbye that loud.

She deserved quiet.

She deserved peace.

We stepped out of the room, into the too-bright hallway that felt wrong. It was the same hospital. Same walls. Same floors. But everything had changed.

We walked slowly, none of us speaking.

The police officer who had spoken to me earlier stood waiting.

“There’s… something else,” he said.

I blinked at him, exhausted.

“The letter. The one we found near her things. It didn’t make much sense to us. But if you remember anything—anything odd—please let us know.”

I didn’t say anything.

I only nodded.

I didn’t tell him that I understood it perfectly.

I didn’t tell him that it wasn’t her suicide note.

Because it wasn’t.

It was a warning.

A curse.

A promise of more.

And it was meant for me.

This night, I didn’t go home.

I sat in the on-call room, in the corner, knees pulled to my chest like I was seventeen again—small, afraid, alone.

My phone lit up on the floor beside me.

Han Wool: I’m outside. Want me to come up?

I didn’t reply.

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t know. Not yet.

Because this was no longer just about the past. Or the pain. Or even the grief.

Someone was watching.

Someone was pulling strings.

And now two people close to me were dead.

And I was next.

Not to die.

But to choose.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips, devoid of any real humor. I had dared to seek happiness, to reach for something beyond the shadows that had always cloaked me. And in doing so, I had signed death warrants for those close to me.

Selfish.

The word echoed in my mind, a relentless drumbeat of condemnation. If I hadn't pursued my own desires, if I had just remained in my lane, perhaps Ha Ya would still be alive—laughing, teasing, living.

Tears blurred my vision, but I made no move to wipe them away. They deserved to fall, to carve paths down my cheeks as a testament to my guilt.

I don't deserve happiness.