Chapter 11 – “Some Fires Never Die”

The red card felt heavier than it should.

Not in weight. In presence.

Se-ri held it delicately between her thumb and forefinger, as if gripping it too hard might make it vanish—or ignite.

She stood at the top of the stairwell, the dim hallway stretching behind her, shadows cast by the overhead bulb twisting into long, crooked shapes. The flame emblem on the card was embossed, so subtle it only caught the light when she turned it.

A single symbol. A message.

"Some fires never die."

She turned the card over again. No name. No number. No identifying mark.

Just that unnervingly elegant handwriting. Sharp. Fast. Like someone had scrawled it while glancing over their shoulder.

Behind her, the air shifted again.

Joon-ho had followed her halfway up the stairs.

He hovered a few steps below, looking up at her with narrowed eyes. His usually composed expression was now visibly tense.

"Show me," he said.

She stepped back slightly, then descended just enough to hand him the card.

His fingers didn't touch it—couldn't—but he leaned forward and read.

He didn't speak right away.

When he finally did, his voice was quieter than before.

"I know that symbol."

Her breath caught. "What is it?"

"A mark used by a security subcontractor in the 80s. FlameTech. They provided risk assessments and emergency services to industrial clients. Mostly unregulated. Off the books. They worked with the warehouse where Choi was employed."

Her eyes widened. "So they're connected."

"Yes. But they were never officially listed in the fire reports. I tried to track down records at the time, but it was like chasing smoke."

She looked down at the card again, a chill skimming up her spine.

"And now they're leaving calling cards on my stairs?"

"Looks that way."

He straightened, his outline flickering faintly in the stairwell light.

"They know you're looking."

Her heart gave a quick, shallow thud. "You think they were here? Just now?"

"Or watching. Maybe both."

She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. Her hand tightened around the card as if holding it could anchor her.

A half-laugh escaped her—sharp and nervous. "Great. I've officially become the main character in a conspiracy thriller."

"You're doing well," he said, deadpan. "Much fewer nervous breakdowns than I expected."

She gave him a look, then turned to start down the stairs again. "Give it time."

Back in the office, the windows were glowing gold with the last light of day. The desk was still covered in open folders, but they felt somehow irrelevant now—like history had stepped off the page and knocked on her door.

Se-ri dropped the card into a clean evidence sleeve and sealed it, writing a quick label on the edge in black ink: Unmarked red card. Found on 3rd floor stairwell. 6:52 PM.

Joon-ho stood behind her, arms crossed.

"You're not going to stop," he said quietly.

She looked up at him. "Would you?"

He paused.

"No," he admitted.

She closed the sleeve and set it on the edge of the desk. Then she leaned back in the chair and exhaled, her entire body deflating at once.

She hadn't realized how tightly she'd been wound.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The light continued to fade.

The room softened around them—less sharp edges, more quiet breath. Like the air itself had exhaled with her.

Then—

"I don't know how to do this," she said suddenly.

Joon-ho turned his head.

"Do what?"

"This." She gestured vaguely. "Handle danger. Or being scared. Or being… important."

She didn't mean for it to come out that way. But now that it had, she couldn't take it back.

She looked down at her lap.

"I was never the star student. I didn't win scholarships. I passed the bar, sure, but just barely. No one expected me to do anything spectacular. And then this office landed in my lap and suddenly I'm in the middle of someone else's story. A story that got someone—" she paused, looked at him "—you—killed."

He watched her.

And said nothing.

"I keep thinking maybe I'm the wrong person for this," she added, voice lower now. "Maybe you were supposed to find someone smarter. Braver. Better."

She waited for his usual sarcasm.

It didn't come.

Instead, he crossed the room and leaned against the edge of the desk. Not too close. Just near enough that his presence steadied her breathing.

"Do you know why I chose law?" he asked.

She blinked. "Because you liked arguing?"

"Because I liked justice," he said softly. "But also because I wanted to feel… necessary."

She looked up at him slowly.

"It didn't matter what my rank was in school, or whether I looked good in a suit. When you're standing in a courtroom and someone's entire life depends on the words you choose, you stop thinking about whether you're the right person. You just become the one who is."

She stared at him.

Something tightened in her chest.

"Se-ri," he said, and her name in his voice landed somewhere deeper than it should have. "You're not in this story by accident."

He turned his head slightly, and for a moment—just a breath—his gaze softened in a way she hadn't seen before.

"You're not a replacement for me," he said. "You're the continuation."

The room went still again.

Her throat tightened, just a little.

She reached for a folder to distract herself but missed the edge, sending a pen clattering to the floor.

"Damn it—" She dropped to her knees and scrambled to grab it.

Joon-ho bent at the same time, instinctively reaching out to help, though his fingers passed right through the pen.

Their faces ended up inches apart.

She froze.

He did too.

Close enough to see the faint shimmer at the edges of his jawline. The way his ghost-form subtly refracted the light, like water.

Close enough that for a second, she forgot he wasn't really there.

His eyes searched hers.

Neither of them moved.

Then—

A sudden metallic clunk echoed from downstairs.

They both jolted back.

Se-ri stood up fast. "What was that?"

Joon-ho's head snapped toward the hallway. "It came from the front door."

She grabbed her phone from the desk, checking the screen. No calls. No alerts.

She looked at him. "Did you hear footsteps?"

He shook his head. "I didn't hear anything."

They moved into the hallway.

She kept her steps slow, deliberate, her heart pounding louder than her shoes.

The stairwell down to the first floor stretched below in shadow.

No movement.

The main door was still locked.

She reached the base, scanning the entrance.

Nothing.

Then she saw it.

On the floor.

Another envelope.

This one white. Unsealed.

She crouched slowly.

Inside: a single strip of torn newspaper.

She unfolded it carefully.

It was from a 1987 issue of The Seoul Herald.

The headline had been trimmed away.

But one photo remained.

A candid shot of a courtroom gallery.

Spectators frozen mid-expression.

And there, in the third row—

A younger version of Officer Oh.

Sitting beside a man she didn't recognize.

And one seat away—

A woman with her face turned just slightly away.

But Se-ri recognized the hairstyle.

The shape of her shoulders.

Yoo Mi-ran.

She turned the paper over.

On the back, written in the same scrawled script from the red card:

"She was there the whole time."