115. Red String Between Mark and Josh

“We already had breakfast earlier. Let's just order some snacks, honey,” said Josh, his voice warm and soft—but too contrived for Ashley's exhausted ears.

His tone was deceptive. As if he were a sweet and caring partner. Yet, the sudden touch of his finger on Ashley's wrist across the table made her want to stand up and leave the restaurant right then and there.

Ashley raised her eyebrows briefly while clenching her jaw. She responded to the touch with a gentle push from her elbow, strong enough to make Josh pull his hand back, but still natural, like a couple teasing each other. She leaned slightly toward Josh and whispered, her voice filled with irritation.

“Stop acting so familiar. Move over a bit; your breath alone is making me sick.”

Josh smiled thinly, as if he'd just heard a compliment. He leaned closer and whispered back, “If I could, I'd sit across from you. But I can't sit next to someone I don't know, can I?”

Ashley glared at him, then turned her gaze back to the open menu in front of her. But it wasn't the list of dishes she saw—it was the faint outline of Josh's face, which she wanted to slap with the menu if she could.

In front of them, Mark sat silently. As if he hadn't heard or seen anything, though he had witnessed everything. Though only through brief, almost imperceptible glances. His expression remained flat, stiff, and emotionless, like a mask that had been worn for too long to be removed.

He lowered his head again, pretending to be busy reading the menu, scanning the rows of images and descriptions of food in the book. But his mind was no longer there. His thoughts had drifted far away and been swept back to several years ago. Trapped once more in an old wound that had never truly healed, despite his efforts to forget and make peace with everything. A wound he had been forced to bury deep within the memories of his younger sibling. He had kept it locked away in a dark, empty closet of his mind. But today, without warning, that closet opened on its own.

It made him fall back to the day when his world seemed to crumble. Where only sharp debris remained—scattered like a field, causing his feet to bleed wherever he tried to step.

[FLASHBACK] Los Angeles, 5 years ago

The smell of alcohol, expensive perfume, and blood mingled in the room.

Mark stood stiffly at the apartment door. His breath caught. His face lost its color. The world suddenly faded to one color: gray.

Before him, his younger brother's body lay on the floor. The eyes that usually sparkled with enthusiasm were now empty. His skin was pale, too pale. Too still. Too cold for someone who could never sit still for even five minutes.

Police officers were moving around the scene. Their voices sounded like echoes in water. Some were documenting the scene, some were taking samples, some were drawing lines with chalk, some were speaking seriously into the radios on their shoulders. But to Mark, everything seemed like a silent film. As if he was the only one who was real there. Alone… with his brother who was no longer alive.

“Mark, you have to get out of here. Come on, let's go.”

The voice came from his friend—Rick—who was running frantically down the emergency stairs.

Mark didn't respond.

His hands didn't move. He didn't even notice when Rick shook his shoulders, trying to snap him out of it.

Everything felt like a nightmare. But it was too painful to be just a dream.

Rick's steps grew more frantic, trying to pull Mark away from his sister's body. But Mark collapsed, stumbling, falling to his knees on the floor. The cold floor seemed to draw all the heat from his body into the ground. His body felt empty. No energy, no strength. Only the shattered remnants of his heart.

In his mind, he hears his sister's laughter. Then the sound of a guitar. Then her screams when she was angry. Then the final call she made the night before that he never answered.

Everything comes together. Spinning. Colliding with his consciousness. Until everything shatters into dust.  

And Mark's days after that passed like hell.

A detective came to see him. His face looked tired, but determined. He repeated the facts, piecing together the scattered pieces into a final conclusion.

“The investigation has ruled this a suicide. There is no evidence of murder prior to death.”

Mark did not accept this. “There are wounds on his face,” he insisted.

“That was from a fight the day before. But it's not directly related to the cause of death.”

Mark clenched his fists.

“Are you sure he's not involved? Their relationship was clearly strained. You need to investigate that damn kid more thoroughly!” His voice grew louder.

The detective shook his head.

“Joshua Lim has a strong alibi. At the time of the incident, he was—”

“I know. You've repeated that information countless times,” Mark interrupted. His eyes were sharp yet empty. “That bastard—his family must have paid a fortune to help cover up his crime.”

A weary sigh escaped the detective's lips. “We've confirmed he's not the culprit. And if you think we took bribes just because his family is influential,” the detective clenched his jaw, “you're wrong. Our integrity in this country isn't that cheap.” His voice carried a hint of irritation at Mark's suspicion. Though the detective knew the young man in front of him was saying it out of frustration over the tragic incident.

Josh.

The annoying figure who had long been at odds with his younger brother. Someone his brother hated with a passion.

To this day, he couldn't prove anything. Evidence of their fight? Not strong enough. Last words? Not significant enough.

Justice? Never came.

Mark never thought that fateful connection would resurface.

[PRESENT]

Mark still stared blankly at the images of food that should have made his stomach growl. But everything felt bland. The laughter from another table, the clinking of spoons, and the faint hum of the air conditioner—all felt like background noise in a distant dream.

In front of him, Ashley and Josh were still engaged in a whispered conversation. Occasionally their shoulders touched, then pulled apart like two opposing poles, yet still bound by an invisible force. Mark never imagined that the man sitting across from him now—who seemed so comfortable beside Ashley—was the same person who had once been a suspect in the death of his younger sister.

Josh didn't seem to recognize him, and that wasn't surprising. They had only met once. They had crossed paths in the gloomy hallway of the police station. At the time, Josh hadn't even noticed him—hadn't recognized him. But Mark had never forgotten that face.

Funny, Mark thought. The world is small, very small. But the wounds it leaves can be vast, so vast they reach this comfortable restaurant table.

“Mark?” Ashley called softly, breaking his reverie.

He looked up, smiling faintly. “Yes?”

“What are you ordering?” Ashley pointed to the menu.

Mark smiled faintly, then pretended to think, tilting his head. “I think I need an espresso to wake me up. I'm a bit sleepy today.”

Josh chuckled, acting familiar. “Let's order something sweet, honey. Shall we order pancakes to share? Or waffles?”

Ashley glared at Josh.

Meanwhile, Mark didn't care. He returned his gaze to the menu, muttering, “Once you've decided, let me know which one. I'll order it for you.”

While waiting for Josh and Ashley's decision, Mark remained silent.

Meanwhile, Josh whispered something to Ashley again, but Mark no longer cared. There was something else, something much sharper, growing inside him once more. The desire to resolve what had once been deeply rooted within him, which had then turned into a buried grudge. Something he had never resolved, which he thought had evaporated and disappeared.

But it turned out that the pain was still there—filling the hollow in his heart.