[Kei]
The file had been buried for three years.
Kei stared at the document on his manager's laptop, his expression unreadable as the old investigation report loaded line by line.
The office was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional click of the mouse.
Outside the glass walls, employees continued moving through the corridors as though nothing unusual was happening.
Somewhere down the hall, a group of trainees laughed over something trivial, their voices fading as they passed the door.
It was an ordinary afternoon at NOCTIS Entertainment.
And Kei had never felt more like a stranger in his own company.
"Are you sure this is the original file?" he asked.
His manager, sitting beside him, adjusted his glasses. "It's an archived copy. The official report was revised before it was submitted to the executive department. I managed to recover this version from an older internal backup."
"Revised how?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out."
Kei leaned closer to the screen. The report contained the basic details he remembered: the date of his final debut evaluation, the missing recording segment, the internal investigation, and the conclusion that there had been insufficient evidence to determine who was responsible. Most of it looked familiar, almost painfully so. He had read the official report years ago, back when he was too exhausted to understand why the investigation had ended so quickly.
But something was different this time.
His manager opened the access log.
Two accounts had accessed the evaluation recording before it was reported as altered. The first belonged to a senior member of the training department. The second belonged to Jae-Won.
Kei's gaze stopped on the timestamps.
"The senior staff member accessed it first," he murmured.
"By almost forty minutes."
"Then why was Jae-Won the only person mentioned in the investigation?"
His manager didn't answer immediately. He scrolled down, comparing the original access log with the final report. The senior staff member's account number appeared in the archived version, but the corresponding name had been removed from the official document. There was no explanation, no note indicating that the account had been cleared, and no record of any disciplinary action.
It was as though the person had never existed in the investigation at all.
"Can you find out who owned the account?" Kei asked.
"I'm already checking." His manager paused, then looked at him. "Kei, I need you to understand something. If this person was involved, they weren't an ordinary employee. They had access to confidential trainee evaluations, and they were involved in the selection process."
Kei's jaw tightened.
"Then find out who they are."
His manager studied him for a moment before returning to the laptop. "I will. But you need to be prepared for the possibility that this goes beyond Jae-Won."
Kei said nothing.
He had spent three years believing that the worst part of that night was losing his closest friend.
He had replayed their final argument so many times.
He could still remember the exact way Jae-Won's expression had changed when he told him he hadn't want any of it to happen.
Now, for the first time, he wondered whether he had spent three years blaming the wrong person for the wrong reasons.
An image flashed through Kei's mind.
The black-and-silver bracelet.
...Their friendship bracelet.
A loose silver thread had dangled from its edge, almost as if it were about to unravel completely.
Kei had stared at it, hoping Jae-Won would turn around. Hoping he would say something, anything, that could make things right.
But he never did.
Three years later, he still remembered that bracelet more clearly than he wanted to.
"Kei?"
His manager's voice pulled him back to the present.
Kei blinked at the laptop. The archived report was still open, and the office lights had begun to reflect against the darkening windows.
"I found the account owner," his manager said.
Kei straightened. "Who?"
His manager turned the screen toward him.
A name appeared beside the old account number.
Kei recognized it immediately—a senior member of the training department who had been present during his evaluation.
Someone whose advice he had trusted and whose approval had once meant everything to him.
For a long moment, Kei couldn't speak.
"That can't... That can't be right."
"I'm afraid the records match."
"This is the person who accessed the file before Jae-Won?"
"Yes. And their account was used again shortly after the recording was reported."
Kei's eyes narrowed. "What happened to the investigation?"
His manager opened another document. "The original report contains a section that doesn't appear in the final version. It references a written statement submitted by Jae-Won on the morning of the evaluation."
"Can you open it?"
"I'm trying. The attachment was sealed separately."
The screen flickered as another file loaded.
A few lines appeared, followed by a warning that the document was restricted.
His manager entered the archived credentials he had recovered, and the warning disappeared.
Kei leaned forward.
The statement was short.
It had been signed by Jae-Won and dated the morning of the evaluation.
Most of the page contained routine information, but the final paragraph had been highlighted in the original investigation notes.
Kei read it once.
Then he read it again.
Iwas instructed to make sure Jeong Kei-Hyun failed his evaluation.
The room seemed to grow quieter.
His fingers curled against the edge of the desk.
He had spent three years remembering Jae-Won as the person who stood in that practice room and told him to stay silent.
He had remembered the fear in his friend's voice, the accusation in his eyes...
And the bracelet left behind after their final argument.
But he had never known that Jae-Won had written those words.
"There's more," his manager said quietly.
Kei looked up.
"The statement names the person who gave the instruction."
"Who?"
His manager hesitated, as though he already regretted opening the document.
Then he turned the screen a little further toward Kei.
And Kei saw the name.
He wished the past had stayed buried.
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