The early summer wind in Korea was strangely colder than usual. The chirping of birds outside Choen's window felt too cheerful—like the world didn't know how to grieve. The plane had landed just three days ago, and yet, the weight of France still clung to her like perfume that refused to fade. Professor Gabrielle's funeral had passed. Quiet. Reserved. Painfully brief.
And now… Korea.
The scent of her mother's morning tea drifted through the door. Outside, the city buzzed like nothing had happened. But the news said otherwise.
Another body found in Paris. Another in Marseille. The headlines no longer surprised her.
She sat at her desk, fingers lightly brushing over a brown envelope she had tucked inside her sketchbook. Gabrielle's handwriting—elegant and urgent—still haunted her. "They are closer than you think." That was all it said. No date. No greeting. Nothing else.
"Choen-ah," her mother called gently, peeking through the slightly open door, "Aren't you getting late for your graduation fittings?"
"I'm coming," Choen replied, slipping the note back into the sketchbook and zipping her bag. "Just… five more minutes."
Meena stepped in instead. "Your head's always elsewhere these days. I know you're still thinking about Gabrielle."
Choen nodded, her voice low. "Something's not right. The nurse at the hospital, the way the doctors kept avoiding my questions… and that spider. That same spider."
"Spider?"
"Nothing," Choen shook her head. "It must've been in my head."
Meena watched her for a moment before changing the subject. "Your boutique opening date is close. Don't you think you should start finalizing the collection?"
"I will," Choen sighed. "I just need my mind to calm down."
"You're doing great. Better than anyone expected," Meena smiled, pressing a kiss to her daughter's head. "Get dressed. We'll leave in twenty."
Later that afternoon, after the fitting session, Choen walked through her old neighborhood. A strange silence loomed despite the golden warmth of the hour. Her phone buzzed. It was Joon.
Joon: "Check the news."
She paused near a newspaper stand. The television playing above the vendor's cart flashed breaking news: "Paris Hospital Confirms Deaths Not Natural – Possible Contamination or Sabotage Suspected."
Choen's heart skipped.
The reporter continued: "Among the victims was Professor Gabrielle DuMont. New information suggests that multiple patients who were in stable condition have mysteriously passed away over the past 40 days."
40 days. It's been exactly that long.
"Do you believe in fate?" a voice asked from behind.
Choen turned quickly. It was Bora.
"What are you doing here?" Choen asked warily.
"I was passing by. Didn't expect to see you standing like a K-drama heroine in front of breaking news," Bora smirked, though her eyes were curious. "Still mourning your French mentor?"
Choen ignored the jab. "Did you hear? The hospital deaths weren't natural."
Bora's smile faded. "Yeah… it's all over the networks. And… guess what? One of the victims was linked to Sparkle's former investor. Weird coincidence, huh?"
Coincidence? Choen didn't think so anymore.
That evening, sitting by her bedroom window, Choen looked at the folded note again. Her fingers traced the pen strokes like they could whisper more meaning.
"They are closer than you think."
She reached for her laptop and opened her boutique designs. But instead of sketches, her mind kept going back to Gabrielle's garden in France, the red roses that never wilted, and that haunting TV screen where she saw her teacher's lifeless face.
Suddenly, her phone lit up with a message from an unknown number.
"The note was only a part of what she wanted you to know."
Choen's breath caught.
Before she could respond, a news alert buzzed on her phone.
Seoul – Young Entrepreneur Found Dead in Studio. Investigation Ongoing.
Another one?
A chill ran down her spine.
She looked out the window, over the distant skyline. Somewhere in that vast city, a killer was watching. And Choen? She was starting to feel like a piece on a board she couldn't see.
And still… the wind carried a faint scent.
That same, elusive fragrance