The leak didn't sit right with Ryu In-ho.
Not because it was damaging.
Because it was placed.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
Someone hadn't scattered information—they had aimed it.
And that meant the reporter wasn't just a carrier.
He was part of the message.
"Track him," In-ho said.
Quiet.
Final.
No emphasis needed.
It didn't take long.
Han Seok-joo.
The name appeared on screen, and something subtle shifted in In-ho's expression.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
"…Of course," he murmured.
Not unexpected.
Just inconvenient in a way that suggested history.
The meeting place wasn't on any schedule.
No record. No trail.
Just a dim, quiet space away from anything that could be called public.
Han Seok-joo was already there.
Waiting.
Not restless.
Not impatient.
Just… certain.
When Ryu In-ho entered, neither of them spoke immediately.
Years settled between them first.
Then—
"In-ho."
Seok-joo's voice broke the silence.
Ryu In-ho gave a faint, almost familiar nod.
"Seok-joo."
A pause.
"You've aged better than I expected."
No reaction.
That didn't land.
He took the seat opposite instead.
"Let's not waste time," Seok-joo said.
Still direct.
Ryu In-ho's expression stayed calm.
"As always," he replied. "You were never good at greetings."
Silence.
Then—
"I'm reopening the fire case," Seok-joo said.
No buildup.
Just it.
Ryu In-ho tilted his head slightly, as if considering something mildly interesting.
"That case again…"
"I am not asking," Seok-joo cut in.
That made the air shift.
Just slightly.
Ryu In-ho studied him.
"Truth has a strange timing," he said finally. "It always returns when it's least useful."
Seok-joo didn't blink.
"You mean when it becomes dangerous."
A pause.
Ryu In-ho didn't deny it.
Instead—
"Then be careful," he said lightly. "Danger has a habit of finding the wrong person first."
Outside.
A shadow at the edge of the structure stopped.
Ryu Chan-woo.
He hadn't planned to follow this far.
Not really.
But something about his father leaving without explanation had pulled him here anyway.
Now he regretted it.
Voices carried through gaps in the structure—low, controlled, but sharp enough to cut through silence.
Then—
a name.
Fire.
Betrayal.
His breath stalled.
His fingers tightened slightly against the wall.
And then—
a flicker.
Not memory.
Not yet.
Something worse.
A sensation.
Heat.
Smoke that didn't belong to any present moment.
His head pulsed sharply.
"...No…"
The sound came out without intention.
Too soft.
But not silent enough.
Inside—
Ryu In-ho's head turned instantly.
Not slowly.
Not wondering.
Immediate.
"…There's someone outside," he said.
Seok-joo didn't move.
Didn't react.
But the atmosphere tightened anyway.
Two men shifted toward the sound.
Outside—
Chan-woo stumbled back a step, gripping his temple.
The image cracked again.
Flames—but incomplete.
A voice—but broken.
A child's name—
Seori—
He inhaled sharply.
And the moment footsteps neared—
he was gone.
Not running loudly.
Just disappearing into motion.
Inside, Ryu In-ho exhaled slowly.
When he looked back at Seok-joo, something had changed.
Not his expression.
His attention.
"…So you're not alone," he said.
Seok-joo finally leaned back slightly.
"I never was."
A pause.
Then—
"You buried something," Seok-joo added quietly. "And it's already starting to surface."
That landed differently.
Not as accusation.
As confirmation.
Ryu In-ho's eyes darkened—just slightly.
Not anger.
Focus.
"Then let it surface properly," he said.
A faint smile returned.
"Truth is more useful when it comes out on our terms."
Elsewhere.
Chan-woo reached his car without remembering half the walk.
His hands didn't feel fully steady.
His mind worse.
Fragments kept interrupting thought—
firelight—
a name—
Seori—
not clear enough to hold,
not gone enough to ignore.
"…What is happening to me…"
No answer.
Just the engine starting.
And the road ahead—
feeling longer than it should have.