Hae-in pushed through the courthouse doors.
The woman was already halfway down the street.
"Kang."
He followed her outside.
"Where?"
"Left."
They moved quickly.
Not running.
Running would draw attention.
The woman walked at an ordinary pace, black coat buttoned to the neck, umbrella hanging loosely from one hand.
She never looked back.
That bothered Hae-in more than if she had run.
"She's leading us," Kang said.
"I know."
They crossed the street.
The woman turned into a narrow side road between two office buildings.
Hae-in followed.
Then stopped.
The woman was gone.
Kang looked around.
"Where did she—"
Hae-in pointed ahead.
A small metal door stood open.
Behind it was a service corridor.
They entered.
The corridor smelled faintly of rain and concrete.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Just the hum of an old ventilation system.
Kang checked the exits.
"Nothing."
Hae-in looked down.
A small object rested beside the wall.
An envelope.
Her name was written across it.
SEO HAE-IN
No address.
No stamp.
She picked it up.
"Don't."
Kang stopped her.
"We don't know what's inside."
Hae-in examined the envelope.
No powder.
No wires.
Nothing unusual.
She opened it carefully.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Slightly damaged around the edges.
The same woman stood in the center.
But she wasn't alone.
Beside her was Hae-in's father.
Hae-in stared at the photograph.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Kang looked over her shoulder.
"When was this taken?"
Hae-in turned it over.
A date had been written on the back.
September 14, 2018.
Eight years ago.
The same year as the medical liaison.
The same year as the unexplained records.
The same year the detention center's files began changing.
Kang exhaled slowly.
"Your father knew her."
Hae-in's fingers tightened around the photograph.
"Apparently."
There was another piece of paper inside the envelope.
A single sentence.
He wasn't the first person they took.
Hae-in read it twice.
Then looked at Kang.
"Who did they take?"
"I don't know."
She folded the note.
"We find out."
The woman's name was Han Soo-jin.
Thirty-eight years old.
No criminal record.
No current employment.
She had lived in three cities over the past eight years.
Each time, she stayed less than a year.
Then disappeared.
Kang placed the information on Hae-in's desk.
"She's careful."
"Too careful."
"Her current address is fake."
"Of course."
He looked at her.
"You aren't surprised."
"No."
Hae-in studied the photograph again.
Her father looked younger in it.
Not happy.
Not afraid.
Just tired.
She had seen that expression before.
Usually after he returned from work.
She had never asked why.
That thought stayed with her.
She had spent years investigating strangers.
Yet there were things about her own father she had never questioned.
Kang noticed her silence.
"You okay?"
She looked up.
"I'm fine."
He didn't respond.
Hae-in sighed.
"That's not convincing, is it?"
"No."
For a moment, she almost smiled.
Then the smile disappeared.
"Let's find Soo-jin."
They found her at 6:17 p.m.
Not at her home.
Not at work.
At a small public library across town.
Hae-in entered alone.
Soo-jin sat near the back window.
A book was open in front of her.
She didn't read it.
She watched Hae-in approach.
"You knew I'd come."
Soo-jin closed the book.
"I hoped you would."
Hae-in sat across from her.
"Why did you show yourself?"
"Because you finally started asking the right questions."
"About my father?"
Soo-jin's eyes changed.
"About what happened before him."
Hae-in leaned forward.
"What happened in 2018?"
Soo-jin looked toward the window.
"People disappeared."
"From the detention center?"
"From everywhere."
"How many?"
She hesitated.
"Seven."
Hae-in's expression hardened.
"Seven people?"
"Seven that I knew about."
"Who were they?"
Soo-jin shook her head.
"I don't know all their names."
"Then how do you know there were seven?"
"Because I kept records."
Hae-in went still.
"Where?"
Soo-jin reached into her bag.
She placed a small black notebook on the table.
The cover was worn.
Several pages had been torn out.
Hae-in reached for it.
Soo-jin stopped her.
"Before you read it, you need to understand something."
"What?"
"The people you're investigating aren't trying to hide the murder."
Hae-in waited.
"They're trying to hide what came before it."
Soo-jin pushed the notebook toward her.
"And your father found it."
Hae-in opened the first page.
Seven names.
Six crossed out.
One remained.
She looked at the final name.
Her eyes stopped.
It was a name she knew.
A name from her current case.
A person who was supposed to have died years ago.
Hae-in looked up.
"He's alive?"
Soo-jin nodded.
"He never died."
"Where is he?"
Soo-jin's voice dropped.
"Closer than you think."
A chair scraped somewhere behind them.
Hae-in immediately turned.
A man stood near the library entrance.
Dark coat.
Cap pulled low.
Watching them.
Kang appeared beside Hae-in a second later.
The man turned and walked away.
Kang moved after him.
Hae-in stayed.
She looked back at Soo-jin.
But the chair was empty.
The black notebook remained on the table.
Soo-jin was gone.
Hae-in stared at the empty seat.
Then at the notebook.
She opened it again.
Beneath the seven names was a final handwritten sentence.
If Hae-in finds this, tell her the truth about her father.
Her hand froze.
For the first time in the investigation—
the case wasn't asking her to find the truth.
It was asking her whether she was ready to hear it.