Life at Red Castle was exceedingly peaceful. Given that there were over a hundred personnel guarding the vicinity, it was natural for the interior to remain tranquil regardless of the events outside.
Geon Kim and Kiska could stroll through the vast lawns without concern for others and sit on the grass under the sunshine, strumming a guitar. Unexpectedly comfortable, the duo was inseparable.
Days passed, and on a day like any other, Geon, playing guitar under the warm afternoon sun on the lawn, noticed Kiska, who had fallen asleep beside him while drawing, had scribbled a sentence in her sketchbook.
“Huh? What’s this written? I can’t understand since it’s in Russian.”
Geon waved at an armed guard nearby, careful not to wake Kiska. The guard, closely attentive despite the distance, approached upon recognizing Geon’s gesture. The guard, with short cropped blonde hair resembling a familiar figure from Korean saunas, was asked by Geon.
“You’re Dmitry, right?”
Dmitry, hiding his machine gun behind him, peeked over and nodded upon seeing the sleeping Kiska.
“Could you please tell me what this means?”
Dmitry, upon seeing the sketchbook handed over by Geon, immediately recognized Kiska’s handwriting and showed a somber expression. He pointed to the first line after a brief contemplation.
“This line, Если бы я мог изменить мир, means ‘If I could change the world’. Did Miss Kiska write this?”“Yes, that’s right.”
Dmitry sighed lightly and continued.
“Let me read it for you. ‘If I could change the world, I’d turn back time, to those moments. To the times hidden away where no one knew, to go back and save you...’”
Geon looked down at the sleeping Kiska with a pained expression. Dmitry, sharing Geon’s sentiment, spoke softly.
“The lady does not yearn for her mother. Odd, isn’t it? I've never felt she wanted to see her mother. She’s indifferent to photographs or portraits, possibly wanting to remember only her mother’s last moments.”
Geon queried, looking up at Dmitry.
“The last moments? You mean she’s trying to remember the horrific scene when her mother passed?”
Dmitry nodded slightly.
“From what I heard, Natalie, Miss Kiska’s mother, smiled till the very end, wishing her daughter to remember that final image.”
“How do you know that? I was told everyone at the department store that day perished.”
“Not everyone. One survived, albeit now crippled back in Russia. That person shielded Miss Kiska with their body, taking three bullets, hence why she’s alive today.”
“I see... Thank you, Dmitry.”
“No problem. Here’s the sketchbook.”
Dmitry returned the sketchbook and resumed his guard position. Geon, after pondering over Kiska’s words translated into English, decided to put them into a song, to voice on behalf of Kiska’s indescribable emotions. Starting to sketch staves on the next page, he filled it with musical notes, picking up his guitar again.
“Even if it’s just these four lines, let’s make something of it. As Kiska writes more, I’ll organize those thoughts into music, not just for her, but for the music she wishes to share.”
Closing his eyes and grasping the pick, Geon began playing a solo melody, as if attempting to sketch heaven itself with the flowing lyrical tune.
After laboriously composing a section and repeatedly refining it, Geon hummed the lyrics in deep concentration.
Kiska woke up after an hour, blinking her large eyes, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The guitar’s melody reached her ears.
“Ting, diding, diding~ ding~ dididing~ diding……”
Kiska lifted her head to see Geon smiling back at her as he played.
“Awake? I made a song for you. Would you like to listen?”
Kiska blinked, sat up, and turned towards Geon, who gently stroked her hair before resuming his performance.
The guitar conveyed a longing, earnest sound, to which Geon added his voice, effortlessly switching between falsetto and chest voice, conveying soft emotions.
If I could change the world,
Back in time, I'll be back then,
When I had to hide in a place where no one knew,
If you can go back then and save you.
Kiska, astonished by the lyrics reflecting her written words, looked at Geon with wide eyes.
Seeing her reaction, Geon grinned, showing his teeth. Kiska hastily glanced at her sketchbook, amazed that her words had been transformed into a song. Geon, petting her head again, suggested with a smile.
“Shall we create more together?”
Meanwhile, Byungjun, surrounded by guards as if he was arrested upon arrival at the airport, was sweating profusely as he was hurriedly escorted to a vehicle headed for Red Castle.
“Where are you taking me?! Geon, what trouble have you gotten into this time?”
A man holding a 'Welcome Mr. Lee B.J' sign at the airport had only mentioned that he was sent by Geon before hastily guiding Byungjun into the car without further explanation.
Regretting his easy trust in people upon seeing the imposing figures waiting at the car, Byungjun felt overwhelmed by their sheer size.
Silently sweating amidst the towering guards, Byungjun arrived at the entrance of Red Castle, swallowing his groans upon noticing more armed guards roaming the premises.
“Have I walked into a trap? It’s not like Geon to be involved with these types of people…”
As the guards swarmed out of the car, Byungjun, trembling, was greeted by a skinhead with tattoos who peered inside to check his face, barely suppressing a gasp of shock.
“Tattoos on the head!!!”
Miroslav, examining Byungjun, asked,
“Mr. Lee, you’re Geon’s manager, right?”
“Yes, yes! That’s me!”
“Come on out.”
After the snake-tattooed head withdrew, Byungjun hurriedly slid out of the car. Standing among giants towering nearly 2 meters tall, the 175cm Byungjun felt dwarfed.
The sight of these fearsome figures, especially the bald tattooed man holding a leashed serpent and scrutinizing his face, didn’t grow any more familiar.
As the most intimidating among them approached after speaking into an intercom, Byungjun’s hiccups resumed.
“Is something bothering you?”
“No, no, not at all!”
Miroslav led Byungjun onto a golf cart, driving towards the mansion without a hint of concern for the hiccups plaguing his companion.
Noticing a group of men gathered ahead, Miroslav wondered aloud why they weren’t on guard, causing Byungjun to follow his gaze. Over a dozen guards, weapons concealed, seemed engrossed in something.
‘What’s going on? Are they burying someone they’ve killed? Is that why this garden’s bigger than a soccer field?’
As Miroslav stopped the cart and turned off the ignition, a faint guitar melody reached them. Byungjun, perking up at the sound and recognizing Geon’s voice, felt a surge of relief.
‘It’s Geon! This isn’t a trap after all.’
The guitar’s unique solo, far from standard arpeggios or techniques, seemed to weave each note into a narrative of its own.
Though the music hinted at blues, its soul leaned closer to pop, with Geon’s sweet voice enriching the melody. Miroslav, pausing to listen, nodded at his men gathered around.
“They’re listening to Geon’s song. Understandable, I was the same. But to slack off when the boss is around?”
Miroslav’s murmured complaint was lost on Byungjun, captivated by the song.
Still wiping away cold sweat, Byungjun’s eyes widened at the sight of Geon and a young girl sitting together on the grass.
‘This is incredible! We must release this!’
On a late afternoon in early winter, within the crimson gardens of Red Castle filled with the scent of cyclamens, the first music of a future legendary musician was being crafted.
>
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