At 7:40 a.m., Hae-in placed three things on Kang's desk.
Her father's letter.
The photograph of Room 08.
And the note from Park Eun-sook's apartment.
Kang read the last one again.
"Don't go below."
"Someone really wants us to go below," he said.
"Or wants us to think that's what they want."
He lowered the paper.
"You've become very difficult to help."
"You've become very comfortable complaining."
"I've always been comfortable complaining."
"That part is true."
Kang gathered the documents into a folder.
"Archive Sublevel B?"
"Archive Sublevel B."
He stood, then hesitated.
"What about Park Eun-sook?"
"Her apartment was empty. We don't know whether she left voluntarily."
"And if someone took her?"
"Then whoever did it knew we were coming back."
Hae-in slipped the photograph into an evidence sleeve.
"Either way, we don't leave her out of the investigation."
She said it matter-of-factly, but Kang noticed that she checked the address of the apartment twice before putting it away.
He didn't comment.
They left at eight.
The Central District Courthouse had undergone three renovations since 1992. Its public corridors were brighter than Hae-in remembered, and the reception area had been rebuilt with glass partitions and electronic access gates.
The archive entrance was less impressive.
It sat behind a service elevator on the building's western side. A printed notice warned that access was restricted to authorized personnel.
Kang showed their credentials.
The attendant examined them, made a phone call, and asked them to wait.
Hae-in watched the elevator doors.
"Something wrong?" Kang asked.
"No."
"You've been staring at those doors for a minute."
"I'm wondering why a courthouse archive needs a separate access list for a basement."
"Because it's a courthouse."
"That explains the access list. Not the secrecy."
Before Kang could answer, the attendant returned.
"Mr. Lim will take you down."
A narrow man in a gray cardigan emerged from the corridor behind the desk. He introduced himself as Lim Seung-tae, senior archive administrator.
"Archive Sublevel B is not open to general investigators," he said.
"We have authorization," Hae-in replied.
"I can see that. But the section you've requested is no longer an active archive."
"Where are its records kept?"
"Some were digitized. Some were transferred."
"Transferred where?"
Mr. Lim glanced at the folder in her hand.
"Which records are you looking for?"
"C-18."
His face barely changed.
Barely.
But he stopped walking.
"Where did you get that designation?"
"An old document."
"Then it may not be a valid designation anymore."
"Was it valid in 2008?"
He looked at her.
"I'll need to check."
Hae-in held his gaze.
"Please do."
The elevator descended farther than the public floors.
When the doors opened, the air smelled of dust and cold metal. Fluorescent lights illuminated a corridor lined with steel cabinets. Some bore modern barcodes. Others had faded labels typed on yellowing paper.
Mr. Lim led them to a locked partition at the far end.
"Sublevel B was divided into sections. Most of the older material was moved during the renovation."
"Most?" Hae-in asked.
"The remainder was awaiting classification."
"Where is it now?"
He unlocked the partition.
"Here."
Beyond it stood twelve cabinets and several rows of archive boxes. A digital inventory terminal sat on a desk near the wall.
Hae-in looked around.
"Who has access?"
"Three administrators, two records officers, and security."
"Can you give us the names?"
"Of course."
He handed her a printed list.
Hae-in scanned it while Kang examined the cabinets.
Then she saw the final name.
LIM SEUNG-TAE.
The administrator stood beside them, waiting.
"Have you worked here long?" she asked.
"Since 2016."
"Did you work in the old archive?"
"No."
"Did you know Han Dong-wook?"
His expression tightened.
"Not personally."
"Have you heard of him?"
"I've heard the name."
"What about Seo Jin-woo?"
This time, he didn't answer immediately.
Hae-in noticed.
"Mr. Lim?"
"I knew he had worked with the courthouse years ago."
"Did you ever see him here?"
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"I never met the man."
He said it too quickly.
Kang glanced at Hae-in.
She made no sign that she'd noticed.
Instead, she held up her father's letter.
"We're looking for a record associated with C-18. It may have been stored here under another classification."
Mr. Lim looked at the paper.
"I'll check the terminal."
He sat at the desk and began searching.
Hae-in watched his hands.
He typed the code.
The screen returned no result.
He tried again with a date range.
Nothing.
"There's no C-18 in the current inventory," he said.
"Try C-17/08."
He hesitated.
Then entered it.
A result appeared.
For a second, Hae-in could see the words on the screen before Mr. Lim leaned forward and opened the record.
TRANSFER HISTORY: C-17/08
RECEIVED: 18 APRIL 1992
RECLASSIFIED: 22 APRIL 1992
SUBSEQUENT DESIGNATION: C-18
Hae-in stepped closer.
"There."
Mr. Lim stared at the result.
"This is an obsolete cross-reference."
"Where's the physical file?"
"The system doesn't say."
"Open the transfer history."
He clicked the entry.
A new window appeared.
The first transfer had been recorded in 1992.
The second in 2008.
The third—
14 SEPTEMBER 2026.
Hae-in read it twice.
"September fourteenth," Kang said quietly.
Someone had moved the file less than a month ago.
Mr. Lim shook his head.
"That cannot be right."
"Why?"
"This section has been under review since last year. No physical transfers should have been made."
"Who authorized this one?"
He opened the entry.
The authorization field was blank.
Below it, a single notation:
MANUAL RELEASE — PRIOR APPROVAL VERIFIED.
"Whose approval?" Hae-in asked.
Mr. Lim didn't answer.
"Mr. Lim."
"I don't know."
"Then let's find out."
He clicked the audit details.
The system requested a second credential.
Mr. Lim entered his own.
The screen went dark.
Then a message appeared.
ACCESS REVOKED.
Nobody moved.
Kang turned toward the administrator.
"Did you just lose access?"
"I didn't do anything."
Hae-in looked at the screen.
The terminal returned to its login page.
"Can you restore it?"
"I'll need to contact the system administrator."
"Do that."
Mr. Lim picked up the desk phone.
While he spoke, Hae-in walked along the cabinets.
The labels were arranged by year, then department. She checked the 1992 section, followed by the 2008 transfers.
Nothing.
At the very end of the row stood a cabinet with a small white label.
UNRESOLVED RECEIPTS.
The lock was new.
Hae-in called Kang over.
He examined it.
"Not a courthouse standard."
"Can you open it?"
"Not without authorization."
She gave him a look.
"I'm asking whether you can."
"Yes."
"Don't."
He smiled slightly.
"Good. I was worried you'd lost your principles."
She pointed to the lock.
"Photograph it. We get the proper authorization before touching anything."
Kang took out his phone.
As he photographed the lock, Hae-in noticed a narrow paper strip protruding from beneath the cabinet.
She crouched.
The strip had been pushed almost entirely under the metal base.
She carefully drew it out.
It was a torn section of a transfer receipt.
Only three fields remained legible.
ORIGIN: ARCHIVE SUBLEVEL B
DESTINATION: C-18
RECEIVED BY: S. JIN-WOO
The date was missing.
Hae-in stared at her father's name.
Kang crouched beside her.
"Could be the 1992 transfer."
"Could be."
"But the recent movement was in September."
"Yes."
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"That someone reused an old authorization?"
"Or your father was still involved."
Hae-in folded the strip into an evidence sleeve.
"My father died years ago."
"Then somebody is using his name."
"That's the more likely explanation."
Neither of them said the other possibility aloud: that the record might have been deliberately designed to make them consider it.
They were still in the archive when the administrator returned from his call.
"The system team says the access restriction was triggered automatically."
"By what?" Hae-in asked.
"They couldn't tell me."
"Can they restore access?"
"Not remotely. Someone will need to inspect the terminal."
"Who initiated the restriction?"
"They don't know."
Hae-in looked toward the desk.
"Then we need a copy of the audit log."
"I'm afraid that's impossible until access is restored."
"Can you preserve the current system state?"
He frowned.
"I'll ask."
"Please do. And don't restart the terminal until the system team has documented what happened."
He nodded and returned to the phone.
Kang leaned closer to Hae-in.
"We're not going to find the file today."
"No."
"Someone moved it, deleted its location, and locked the record."
"Yes."
"That's a lot of effort for an obsolete archive."
Hae-in looked at the receipt in her hand.
"It's not obsolete to them."
She glanced at the cabinets again.
"What bothers me is the date."
"September fourteenth?"
"Someone accessed the record recently. They knew where to look, and they knew which classification to use."
Kang considered that.
"Someone inside the courthouse."
"Or someone with access to its systems."
"That's a long list."
"Then we narrow it down."
She turned toward the administrator.
"Mr. Lim, I need the access logs for September fourteenth. Every user who entered this sublevel, and every account that accessed the C-17/08 record."
"I'll submit the request."
"Today."
"I'll do what I can."
Hae-in gave him her card.
"Call me directly if anything changes."
He took it.
His fingers were trembling slightly.
This time, she was certain.
They reached the ground floor shortly after eleven.
Kang waited until they were outside before speaking.
"Do you think Lim knows something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"I don't know yet."
"He recognized your father's name."
"He may have recognized the case."
"Then why deny meeting him?"
Hae-in watched a delivery worker push a cart through the courthouse entrance.
"Because people sometimes lie about small things when they're afraid of being asked about bigger ones."
Kang was quiet for a moment.
"Do you want me to check his background?"
"Yes. Discreetly. No confrontation until we know what we're looking for."
"Understood."
He started toward the car, but Hae-in remained where she was.
Across the street, a man stood beside a parked vehicle.
Gray coat.
Dark trousers.
Hands in his pockets.
Hae-in recognized the posture before she recognized the face.
The man who had fled the courthouse archive after dropping the 1992 photograph.
He was watching them.
When their eyes met, he didn't run.
He simply opened the driver's door and got in.
"Kang."
Kang turned.
The car pulled away from the curb.
"That's him," Hae-in said.
"The man from the archive?"
"Yes."
Kang reached for his phone, but Hae-in caught his wrist.
"Don't chase him."
"He's leaving."
"And he wants us to follow."
"You don't know that."
"No. But last time he left us a photograph. Today he waited outside the courthouse."
Kang looked at the departing car.
"What does he want?"
Hae-in watched until the vehicle disappeared into traffic.
"I think he wants us to know that he can get here before we do."
She released Kang's wrist.
"Let's go back to the station."
At 1:26 p.m., a message arrived from an unknown number.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just an image.
Hae-in opened it.
It showed the courthouse archive terminal.
The same terminal they had used that morning.
The screen was displaying the transfer history for C-17/08.
Someone had taken the photograph from behind Mr. Lim's desk.
Below the image was a sentence:
YOU FOUND THE NUMBER. YOU HAVEN'T FOUND THE FILE.
Kang read it over her shoulder.
"Same person?"
"Possibly."
"Can you trace the number?"
"Try."
Kang began the process.
Hae-in enlarged the image.
At the far edge of the photograph, reflected in the terminal's dark frame, was a person standing in the doorway.
Only part of the face was visible.
She saved the image and enlarged the reflection.
The person was wearing a courthouse access badge.
The photograph was too blurred to read the name.
But the badge had a distinctive mark near the bottom: a black circle crossed by three lines.
Hae-in sat back.
The symbol from the detention records.
The same symbol from Park Min-jae's file.
And now, a courthouse access badge.
Kang looked at the screen.
"That puts the symbol inside the courthouse."
"It was already inside the courthouse in 1992."
"Right."
"What's new is that someone is still using it."
He studied the image again.
"Or someone wants us to believe they're still using it."
Hae-in glanced at him.
"Exactly."
She saved the original image and wrote down the time it had arrived.
Then she returned to the transfer history.
14 SEPTEMBER 2026.
She circled the date.
Underneath it, she wrote:
WHO AUTHORIZED C-18?
For several seconds, she stared at the question.
Then she added another line.
WHO BENEFITS FROM OUR FINDING IT?
Her phone vibrated again.
This time, the message contained no image.
Only four words.
ASK WHAT HAPPENED IN 2016.
Hae-in read it aloud.
Kang looked up.
"2016?"
"The year Lim started working here."
They exchanged a glance.
Hae-in put the phone down.
For the first time that day, the next step seemed obvious.
They had come to the courthouse looking for a missing archive.
Instead, they had found a person who might have known more than he admitted, a file moved less than a month ago, and evidence that the old symbol remained in circulation.
Now someone wanted them to investigate the year the archive administrator arrived.
Hae-in closed her notebook.
She didn't like being directed.
But she disliked unexplained dates even more.
"Get me Lim's employment record," she told Kang. "And find out what happened to the C-18 file after September fourteenth."
Kang picked up his jacket.
"And if those lead nowhere?"
Hae-in looked at the four words on her phone.
"Then we find out who sent the message."
She paused.
"But we do not go below."
For now, the missing file would remain missing.
And whoever had moved it had just given them another name to investigate.
Lim Seung-tae.