Book 1: The Ill-made Knight [Part 2]
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The next morning, as Sang-woo pulled the car up to the grand entrance of the estate, he watched her descend the marble steps with her usual grace. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the morning light, her black hair flowing elegantly over her shoulders. Her secretary, Hana followed closely, tablet in hand, listing off appointments.
"Good morning, Miss Myeong," he said, opening the car door for her.
She paused ever so slightly, her doll-like features turning toward him. "Good morning, Sang-woo," she replied, her voice smooth but distant. “Take us by the river before we go to the office. I want to pass by the new apartments.”
As they navigated through the bustling streets, he stole glances at her through the rearview mirror as they approached the Han river. She was reviewing documents on her phone, her eyes focused yet somehow detached. Summoning his courage, he decided to test her subtly.
"Miss Myeong," he began cautiously with a wide smile, "I was thinking about your very first concert. The song 'Promise the World' still moves me every time I hear it."
It was the first step Mirae had taken to get a voice that simply could not be silenced censored or brushed under the carpet like her mother had been. Years later, a paternity test would rock the very foundations of the country and pave the way to her meteoric rise to power.
She looked up, her dark eyes meeting his in the mirror. "Yes, 'Promise the World, a fine song,'" she echoed. "It was a pivotal moment in my career."
Hana mumbled some inane words of praise that he ignored.
Mirae’s words were correct, but there was something mechanical about the way she said them—as if she were reciting facts rather than reminiscing. There was no spark of nostalgia, none of the warmth one might expect when recalling a truly significant personal achievement. Clinical.
He felt a chill run down his spine. "Do you remember how the audience lit up with glow sticks? It was quite the sight."
She nodded lightly. "I recall the sea of lights. It was... inspiring."
Again, the response was appropriate, yet devoid of genuine emotion. As if she were an actor in a play. If he were to put a finger on it, it was as if she had read about the event rather than lived it. Not to mention… there was something off with her choice of words.
He tried once more, smiling slightly. "And that little girl who gave you the handmade necklace backstage. You wore it for the rest of the concert."
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For a brief moment, a flicker of confusion crossed her eyes before she composed herself. "Yes, the necklace. It was a touching gesture."
Behind her thick-framed glasses, Hana's expression tightened ever so slightly. Like him, Mirae's secretary knew her mistress's history all too well. He had cultivated a casual intimacy with her; she was a reliable source of information. Beside the radiant Mirae, Hana seemed almost plain, yet she possessed an allure all her own. He grinned to himself—Hana always wore her dark brown hair in a tight bun, and he was probably the only man who had seen it cascade freely. The secretary harbored a fierce jealousy toward Mirae, yet was also somewhat infatuated with her employer.
He knew that no such event had occurred, as most likely so did Hana. There had been no little girl, no necklace. Though he had not been in her service at the time, he had been there, watching her every move from a distance. She had not caught his fabrication, and her acknowledgment felt hollow. Perhaps she was merely distracted, responding automatically without giving it much thought.
They arrived at the corporate headquarters, a vast edifice of capitalism and the center of Mirae’s empire. He opened the door for her, and she stepped out without a word, surrounded by bowing executives. Her secretary, clutching a bundle of files, trailed behind.
*****
That evening, he returned to his small fortress and oasis in the city, the weight of uncertainty pressing upon him. Surrounded by her images and possessions, he sought solace in the familiar. He traced his fingers over the glass frames that held her garments, feeling a connection he could not find elsewhere.
He sat down at his cluttered desk, illuminated by the soft glow of a single lamp. Opening an old notebook, he began to jot down his observations, meticulously noting every inconsistency, every subtle change. The pages were dedicated to her—the nuances of her expressions, the cadence of her voice, the way she tilted her head when deep in thought.
Flipping back through the pages, he noticed a pattern. The changes had begun shortly after she took up fencing and archery. Activities she had never shown interest in before, yet now excelled at effortlessly.
He recalled stories from his childhood—tales of spirits and otherworldly beings that could inhabit a person's form. Could it be that his Mirae had been replaced? Or had it been aliens? The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. It would explain the disconnect he sensed.
Determined to uncover the truth, he devised a plan. He would gather more evidence, observe her more closely. If she had been taken over by another entity, he would find a way to bring her back. But was he mad for thinking such a thing in the first place?
The next day, he paid extra attention to every detail. As he drove her to various meetings, he tactfully engaged her in conversation, carefully selecting topics only she would know intimately.
"Miss Myeong, do you remember visiting the orphanage last year? The children were so delighted," Hana remarked gently.
Mirae glanced up, her expression unreadable. "It was a fulfilling experience," she replied with a faint smile. After a brief pause, she added, "Yes, it was in Guryong Village."
She seemed lost in thought. "We had Guryong Village demolished first, to make way for an orphanage," she half-murmured.
The details were indeed correct, but there was something slightly off. His heart sank. The pattern was clear—she knew the facts of her life but lacked the personal connection to them.