기억의 파편

Main Characters: "진도준 - a Korean man in his 30s. He is wearing a suit" "르네 - An American man in his 30s. His job is to wear comfortable clothes as a teacher." Side Characters and Extras: "René: Mesmerized by art, suggesting a deeper connection to the artwork and its meaning." "Wife: René's wife, source of his strength and love." "Professor: René's title, used by Dojun, possibly sarcastically." "Someone: A past lover of René's, associated with stolen moments and love." "Dojun: Ruthless and calculating, interested in the monetary value of the art and people around him." "Mr. Jin: Dojun's formal title, used by René in a moment of confrontation." Story Locations: "전시장 - 기억에 관한 현대 전시가 열리고 있는 전시장" "Gallery: A space exhibiting artwork, filled with people and sounds of a social gathering." "Chamber: A room where runes faded and reality can be reshaped." "Abandoned factory: A derelict industrial building, echoing with sound." "Studio: René's personal workspace, sterile and small." "Professor Eldrin's study: A room filled with books and parchments, where René seeks information about the Jin family." "Charity gala: A formal event where René confronts Dojun about the pact and manipulated memories." "René's apartment: A sterile white space where René experiences memory loss and disorientation." The gallery hummed with a low thrum of voices, the clinking of champagne flutes a delicate counterpoint to the modern jazz drifting from hidden speakers. René, oblivious to the social dance around him, stood mesmerized before a canvas swirling with fractured images.

Each shard seemed to whisper a forgotten story, a life lived and lost in the labyrinth of time. Dojun, a shark in a tailored suit, scanned the room, his eyes cold and calculating. The artwork was merely a backdrop, the attendees potential assets or obstacles in his relentless climb. He tapped at his phone, a subtle query sent into the digital ether: "Memory Fragments exhibit - market value?" The answer, he knew, would determine the true worth of this charade. Dojun, impatient, angled past René, his shoulder brushing against the teacher's arm. René turned, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. "Don't you find this piece... profound? The way it captures the elusive nature of human memory?" Dojun paused, his gaze flicking over the canvas with detached appraisal. "Memory? I see it as data. Information from the past, nothing more." René's eyes widened, a flicker of passion igniting within them. "Data? No, it's so much more! It's our identity, echoes of past lives swirling within us, a living river." Dojun shrugged, already turning away. "Past lives won't improve next quarter's earnings. I prefer investments with tangible returns." "If memory is merely data," René pressed, his voice laced with genuine curiosity, "then what anchors you? What is the bedrock upon which you build your empire? The memories that fuel your ambition, the lessons etched in your failures – isn't there more to 'you' than just profit margins?"

Dojun paused, his gaze sweeping over the room, the murmur of voices fading into a distant hum. He saw not art, but opportunity; not souls, but stepping stones. "I use my memories," he finally said, a glint of steel in his eyes, "to forge a more profitable future. That is the only essence that matters." Dojun's lips curled into a dismissive smirk. "Essence is a luxury I can't afford. I use my memories. Ruthlessly. Every success, every failure, is meticulously cataloged and leveraged for future gain. I am, as you say, built on them. And I am very successful." He paused, his gaze hardening, "That is all the meaning I need." René's shoulders slumped, the light in his eyes dimming like a snuffed candle. "No," he murmured, barely audible above the gallery's gentle hum, "memory is so much more than that." A wave of disappointment washed over him, the vibrant colors of the artwork suddenly seeming muted, lifeless. Dojun's departing words hung in the air, sharp and dismissive, like shards of glass. René watched him disappear into the crowd, a pang of disappointment settling in his chest. Turning back to the canvas, he traced the swirling colors with his eyes. *He sees only numbers, profit,* René thought, a sigh escaping his lips. *He's so close, yet so blind.* The scent of oil paint, usually comforting, now felt heavy, laden with unrealized potential.

He sensed a dormant power within Dojun, a wellspring of something more than cold calculation, buried beneath layers of ambition and past trauma. A spark of determination ignited within René. He wouldn't let that potential wither. He would help Dojun see. The sterile white of his studio seemed to mock René's churning thoughts. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but offered no clarity. He scrolled through article after article about Dojun's company, each one a fresh sting. Whispers of manipulated land deals, leveraging forgotten wartime grievances for profit, painted a disturbing picture. A bitter taste rose in René's throat, acrid like burnt metal. He slammed his laptop shut, the sudden thud echoing in the small space. This wasn't just cold calculation; it was exploitation, a perversion of memory itself. He had to do something. The air in Professor Eldrin's study hung thick with the scent of aged paper and dust, a comforting aroma to René but undoubtedly a biohazard to most. Towering shelves overflowed with leather-bound tomes, their spines cracked and faded. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the grime-coated windows, casting the room in a perpetual twilight. "Professor?" René called out, his voice a hushed reverence. A rustling sound came from behind a mountain of parchments. "Come in, come in," a raspy voice beckoned. "I haven't got all day, and neither, I suspect, do you." "Suppressed memories, you say?" Professor Eldrin wheezed, his fingers tracing the embossed cover of a massive, leather-bound volume.

"The House of Jin... yes, there are whispers, legends really. Of a pact made long ago, a bargain struck to bury a terrible truth." He lifted his gaze, his eyes, magnified by thick spectacles, held a disconcerting intensity. "They say the Jins possess a... a knack for 're-writing' history, shall we say. For ensuring certain events fade from public awareness, for… controlling the narrative." The air in the study seemed to grow colder, the scent of old paper turning stale. "A dangerous gift, René, a dangerous gift indeed." The charity gala throbbed with a manufactured elegance. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light on the throng of socialites, their laughter echoing off the marble floors, mingling with the clinking of champagne flutes. René spotted Dojun across the room, a dark suit amidst a sea of shimmering gowns. He strode towards him, the historian's words burning in his mind. "Mr. Jin," René's voice cut through the din, sharp and accusing. Dojun turned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Professor…a surprise. Enjoying the… festivities?" René stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne and simmering resentment filling his nostrils. "I know about the pact, Dojun. About the manipulated memories. How much did you pay to bury the truth?" Dojun's smile vanished. The air around them seemed to thicken, the clinking of glasses fading into a dull roar. "What utter nonsense," he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous tremor. "Pacts? Manipulated memories?

These are the ravings of a senile academic." He stepped closer, his dark eyes boring into René. "I will not dignify such preposterous accusations with a response. I suggest you retract them immediately, Professor, unless you wish to face the full force of my legal team." But beneath the anger, René saw it – a flicker of something else, a cold, reptilian fear that betrayed the steel in Dojun's voice. The truth, buried deep, was fighting to surface. The world swam back into focus, a kaleidoscope of blurred colors resolving into the sterile white walls of his apartment. René blinked, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. Had he been drinking? He couldn't remember. A chilling unease settled in his stomach, a sense of wrongness that clung to him like a shroud. He glanced at his hands, turning them over as if searching for something lost. The charity gala… Dojun… the pact. The memories flickered like dying embers, threatening to extinguish completely. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the confusion. Someone was stealing his past. René stared, lost in the swirling vortex of colors on the canvas. "Memory… such a constantly reconstructed, reinterpreted thing. Is this what it looks like, visually?" Dojun, meanwhile, scanned the exhibit with sharp, assessing eyes, his fingers flying across his phone. *Is there market value here? Even these exhibitions are just another form of networking.* He moved too close to the painting, his shoulder brushing against René. "Excuse me," René murmured, turning.

"Don't you find this piece… striking? It seems to capture the ethereal nature of human memory." Dojun shrugged, his gaze cold. "Memory? To me, it's merely data from the past." Dojun's words hung in the air, cold and dismissive. René, still reeling from the encounter, turned back to the painting, a deeper unease settling within him. He reached out, his fingers tracing the swirling colors, when a voice, soft as a whisper, startled him. "Lost, are you?" He turned to see a woman, ageless and serene, her eyes the color of amethyst. An unusual scent, like rain on ancient stone, emanated from her. "Stolen, more like," René confessed, surprised by his own candor. "Indeed," she said, her voice a low hum. "And I can help you reclaim what is yours. But be warned, the path is fraught with shadows." She smiled knowingly. "Dojun seeks to control the river of memories… I am its guardian." The woman led René to a darkened chamber, the air thick with the scent of incense and damp earth. A circle of glowing runes pulsed softly on the floor. "Step inside," she urged, her voice a silken whisper. Fear coiled in René's stomach, but he obeyed, the cool stone seeping through his thin shoes. As he entered the circle, the runes flared, bathing the room in an ethereal light. Images flooded his mind – fragmented memories, distorted faces, and a chillingly familiar silhouette of Dojun, his eyes burning with cold ambition.

He gasped, clutching his head as the woman began to chant, her voice resonating deep within his bones. This was it, the battle for his mind, for his very soul. The runes faded, leaving René gasping in the sudden silence. The chamber felt different, charged. He looked at his hands, turning them over, and a torrent of memories slammed into him: his childhood, his art, the stolen moments with… with someone. Love. He stumbled, overwhelmed, then noticed a faint shimmer around his fingers. He focused, and the chamber seemed to ripple, the stone floor softening into sand, then hardening back again. He could *feel* the memories of the room itself, its past, its potential futures. A thrill, laced with fear, shot through him. He could change things, reshape reality itself. Dojun wouldn't know what hit him. The polished chrome of Dojun's headquarters gleamed, reflecting René's determined face. He strode through the lobby, the air thick with hushed whispers and the scent of expensive cologne. As he reached the executive floor, a wave of nausea hit him, memories not his own flooding his mind – backroom deals, betrayed alliances, the chilling satisfaction in Dojun's eyes as he crushed his rivals. He focused, channeling the energy, and the pristine walls shimmered. The employees stopped, staring in confusion as ghostly images flickered around them, replaying Dojun's darkest moments. A collective gasp filled the air as the truth, raw and undeniable, was laid bare. Panic clawed at the edges of René's awareness.

Sirens wailed, a discordant symphony against the backdrop of shattered glass and confused cries. He tasted ash in the air, acrid and metallic, a stark contrast to the sterile, recycled air of Dojun’s headquarters only moments ago. The faces around him were blank, empty vessels stumbling through the streets. A woman wept, clutching a photo, whispering a name she couldn’t quite grasp. Dojun had done it. He'd unleashed his weapon, a city-wide mind wipe. René felt a jolt, a sharp stab of fear. He reached for his own memories, anchoring himself to his past, to *her* face. He had to find Dojun, stop him before everything was lost. The air crackled, ozone stinging René's nostrils as he faced Dojun. The device, a twisted crown of wires and crystal, pulsed with stolen memories. "This ends now, Dojun!" René shouted, his voice strained. Dojun laughed, a hollow sound that echoed through the abandoned factory. "You think you can stop me? I control their past, their future!" René felt the weight of countless lost memories pressing down on him. He focused, drawing power from his own past, from the love he held for his wife. A wave of pure memory washed over Dojun, forcing him to relive the pain he inflicted. Dojun staggered, clutching his head, his eyes wide with horror. The gallery hummed with a quiet energy, a stark contrast to the chaos René had left behind.

He watched Dojun, now a ghost of his former self, staring blankly at a canvas swirling with blues and greys. "Memories..." René began, his voice soft, "they are more than just data." Dojun didn't react, his gaze lost in the abstract art. "What does it all mean?" Dojun whispered, his voice cracking, the arrogance gone, replaced by a raw, unfamiliar vulnerability. The weight of countless stolen lives seemed to press down on him, a burden far heavier than any profit he had ever craved. The air smelled faintly of paint and something else, something akin to regret. The child trembled, clutching a tattered teddy bear. "I...I can't remember her voice," she whispered, tears welling. René knelt, the gallery's sterile scent fading as he focused. He reached out, not physically, but with his mind, a gentle tendril of memory seeking hers. The air shimmered, a soft warmth radiating from his touch. He saw her mother, laughing, sunlight glinting off her hair. He felt the warmth of her embrace, the scent of lavender and vanilla. He carefully wove these sensations, these fragments, into the child's mind. A smile flickered across her face. "Mommy..." she breathed, the word a fragile, precious thing. René smiled sadly. He was a guardian now, a weaver of lost moments.