Chapter 6 – “Cross-Examination”

The paper still sat between her hands.

The pages she'd just read were no longer words—they were weight. The kind that made her knuckles white and her spine stiff without realizing.

Se-ri blinked slowly, adjusting her gaze to the man—not the ghost—standing across the desk.

Kang Joon-ho looked unchanged from how she'd last seen him: pressed gray suit, polished shoes that didn't touch the floor, hair styled like the lead actor from a retro courtroom drama. But now there was something else behind his eyes—quiet. Expectant. Something more than that teasing glint he wore like armor.

She set the file down gently, her fingers releasing it like it might shatter.

"You knew I'd read it," she said softly.

"I hoped you would," he replied. "Not many people bother to read the things that matter."

She leaned back in the chair, folding her arms slowly. Her throat felt dry. Not from fear—but from restraint. From the weight of questions she hadn't dared form until this moment.

"So talk," she said. "You wanted someone to hear it. I'm listening."

Joon-ho's lips parted slightly. There was no triumph in his expression. Only a kind of fragile relief—like a man who'd finally found someone who spoke his language after years of silence.

He stepped closer, then paused. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Se-ri blinked at him, surprised. "You float."

"I'm aware. But it feels more civilized this way."

She gestured toward the seat opposite hers.

He approached slowly, and with a flicker of effort—like a ripple in the air—his form anchored lower. His frame rested atop the old leather chair, his figure soft at the edges but settled enough to suggest presence. Like a reflection trying to become real.

She watched, not commenting.

"I haven't done this in a while," he admitted.

"Sat down?"

"No. Had a conversation that wasn't imaginary."

She didn't smile.

Instead, she leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk.

"The file said the client—Choi Hwan-soo—was charged with arson. Two people died."

Joon-ho nodded once.

"And you believed he was innocent."

"I didn't believe it at first," he said. "I thought he was lying. Everyone did. He had motive. He had access. And he had burns on his arms from the night of the fire."

She tapped her finger against the edge of the folder. "But?"

"But something didn't fit. The timeline. His demeanor. His gaps in memory. When I pressed him, he didn't get defensive—he got scared. There's a difference."

"Couldn't that be guilt?"

"It wasn't the guilt of doing something wrong," Joon-ho said quietly. "It was the guilt of surviving."

Se-ri stilled.

The sentence hung in the air, delicate and pointed.

"I've seen both kinds," he continued. "Back then, the court was chaos. You won on flair and instinct. But you learn to read people. When someone lies, they build scaffolding to support it. Choi didn't. He collapsed every time I asked the same question twice."

"Which was?"

"Where were you between 11:15 and 11:45 p.m., April 3rd?"

Se-ri flipped back through the transcript. Found the time code. Choi's testimony.

"I was walking home," she read aloud. "I think. Or near the market? I don't remember. I heard the sirens from down the block."

"Exactly," Joon-ho said. "He couldn't anchor it."

"Could've been drunk."

"He doesn't drink."

"Could've been lying."

"He'd cry every time I said 'warehouse fire.' Does that sound like a liar?"

Se-ri looked down again, chewing her bottom lip.

"And the witness? Kim Seok-dae?"

"Supervisor. Company man. Said he saw Choi walking away from the site minutes before the explosion."

"Sounds pretty airtight."

Joon-ho's mouth twitched—not a smile. Something grimmer.

"It was too airtight. He gave the exact same testimony four times. Word for word."

She looked up. "Like he'd rehearsed it."

"Like it was written for him."

That stopped her.

She sat back again. "You think the company set him up."

"I know they did. Choi had filed a complaint two weeks earlier. Unsafe conditions. Missing pay. Labor board was sniffing around."

"Convenient fire," she murmured.

"Very. And Seok-dae got promoted three months later. New apartment. Car."

Se-ri said nothing for a long beat.

Then: "Why didn't you present that?"

"I tried. The judge wouldn't allow it. Said it was 'character assassination.'"

Se-ri scoffed. "That's not character assassination. That's motive."

"Welcome to 1987."

She fell quiet again, drumming her fingers lightly against the folder's edge.

Her thoughts felt tangled.

The story unfolding before her wasn't just a case—it was a knot of names, silences, half-truths, and blood. There was no clear villain yet. Only shadows cast in the wrong direction.

"You said someone sent you an envelope," she said. "Burnt document?"

He nodded. "No return address. It arrived the night before the hearing."

"What was in it?"

"A floor plan. The warehouse. A red X marked over the back entrance."

"What does that mean?"

"I didn't know. Not at first. But Choi had said something, once—about hearing voices behind the building. That's where the explosion started."

She looked at him sharply. "You think someone was in there."

"I think someone started it. And Choi saw too much."

"And that's why they framed him?"

He nodded. "The warehouse was a sacrifice. The scapegoat had already been chosen."

Se-ri exhaled. "And then you died."

Joon-ho's gaze flickered toward the window.

"Yes."

The silence stretched long and taut between them.

Finally, Se-ri leaned forward, her voice low.

"How?"

Joon-ho didn't answer.

His fingers traced the grain of the desk that wasn't there. His form shimmered faintly at the edges again.

"I was supposed to give my final argument that week," he said eventually. "But the morning of the hearing, I got a call. Said there'd been new evidence left for me in a locker at Jongno Station. I went."

She waited, barely breathing.

"It was a trap. No locker. Just a man in a coat. And then a blur. I don't remember much. Just pain. Concrete. Then… quiet."

Se-ri's hand tightened.

She could see it now—the sharp suit crumpled on the station floor, the half-formed argument still burning in his mind.

"They said it was an accident," he added. "Slipped on wet tile. Hit my head."

"That's ridiculous."

He shrugged. "It was easy to believe. The case had already gone cold. No one left to dig."

"But someone killed you."

"Yes."

"To stop you from finishing the case."

"Yes."

"And now you want me to reopen it."

He looked at her.

No smile. No clever remark.

Just a ghost, asking to be heard.

"Yes," he said.

She sat still for a long moment, the weight of it pressing down on her chest like gravity. Her thoughts churned—court forms, archive visits, witness research. Paperwork. Bureaucracy. Risk.

And then there was him.

Not just what he'd lost. But who he'd been. And who he still was.

"I'm not making promises," she said finally.

"I'm not asking for one."

"But if I do this," she continued, voice sharper now, "you don't get to lie to me. You don't get to withhold information. No riddles. No dramatic ghost speeches. If you want me to fight for you, you give me every detail."

He nodded once.

"And I lead the strategy," she added. "This is my body. My law license."

A flicker of a grin. "Of course, Counselor."

"And no surprise possessions."

"Only in emergencies."

"No. Emergencies must be negotiated."

He actually chuckled.

"Fine," he said. "Negotiated emergencies."

She stood up, suddenly full of adrenaline she didn't know what to do with.

Joon-ho stood too, instinctively mirroring her.

She turned to the bookshelf, staring at the rows of case files, now less like relics and more like landmines.

"This is insane," she muttered.

"Legal insanity. A unique defense."

"Don't push it."

He smiled.

And she found, to her surprise, that she didn't hate it.

Not entirely.