Chapter 13 – “Play Me”

The cassette tape felt wrong in her hand.

It was small—just a rectangle of black plastic with tiny white wheels barely visible through the little square window. No label. No markings, save for the words scrawled on one side in thin, uneven marker:

Play me. Alone.

That word—alone—echoed through Se-ri's mind with the same weight as a warning label. It didn't say urgent, or important, or confidential. It said, You'll only hear this if no one else is watching.

Which meant someone knew she wasn't always alone.

Which meant someone was watching.

She turned the cassette over in her hands. It looked old, but not degraded. Whoever left it had known she'd find it tonight—on her pillow. In a locked apartment.

Her fingers curled tightly around it.

Behind her, Joon-ho stood near the doorway of the third-floor apartment. His form was almost entirely solid now—more defined in the low lighting, like he was grounding himself more and more into her world.

His voice came low.

"Don't play it."

She turned slowly. "You don't even know what's on it."

"I know it's anonymous. I know it was placed on your pillow while we were two floors below. And I know whoever did it bypassed both locks."

"You said yourself it might be from Mi-ran."

"I said she might be trying to help," he corrected. "I didn't say she'd sneak into your room and leave you riddles on magnetic tape like a Bond villain."

Se-ri looked at him. He was tense. Not angry—more like a taut wire.

"I need to hear it," she said.

"You don't even know if it's safe."

"It's a cassette, not a bomb."

He stepped forward, tone firmer. "Information can be a bomb."

Se-ri stared.

The silence stretched between them. Not sharp. Not cold. Just full—of worry, of stubbornness, of something she couldn't name.

"I get that you're trying to protect me," she said finally. "But I'm not a child. And I'm not your junior associate."

His jaw tensed.

She added, softer now, "You don't get to decide what I listen to."

He looked like he wanted to argue. To say something sarcastic, or clever, or dismissive.

But instead—

He said nothing.

She walked to the desk against the far wall, opened the second drawer, and pulled out a small, dusty cassette player. It was one of the few things the old office had left behind—outdated tech that hadn't been thrown out, sitting like a relic under old files and frayed cords.

She plugged it in. It whirred softly to life.

The tape slid in with a quiet, final click.

Joon-ho didn't move.

He watched her. Carefully.

Se-ri sat slowly, fingers hovering over the play button.

Her thumb trembled. Just once.

Then—she pressed it.

The machine hissed softly.

For a long stretch of seconds, there was only the static hum of tape spinning.

Then—

A voice.

Female.

Low. Soft. Shaky.

"If you're hearing this… I waited too long."

Se-ri froze.

The voice wasn't familiar.

But there was a tremble in it. Something that made her feel like she was eavesdropping on a confession not meant for anyone alive.

"My name… doesn't matter anymore. But I saw things. I remember. And I kept quiet, even when I knew I shouldn't have. Even when people died."

The tape hissed again.

A soft inhale.

"I was there the night the fire started. I wasn't supposed to be—I stayed late. I saw who went in. And who didn't come out."

Se-ri's throat tightened.

She glanced at Joon-ho.

He hadn't moved.

His face was stone.

"They said it was Choi. That he lit the match. But he didn't. He wasn't even close. He tried to warn someone, I think. But they silenced him before he could."

The voice cracked.

Not in volume—but in something deeper.

Like something old breaking open.

"I thought if I stayed quiet, it would pass. That the court would see through it. But the more I watched, the more I realized… the truth doesn't always win."

Se-ri's fingers clenched on the table's edge.

The woman on the tape let out a slow, shaking breath.

"They watched the trial. Every day. Two rows behind me. Men in suits. One of them used to visit the warehouse. The other was a stranger, but… he always looked at the defense table. Not the prosecution. The defense."

Se-ri's eyes widened.

Joon-ho's voice broke the moment. "That's not possible."

She looked at him.

He was pale now. Or at least, paler than usual.

"Someone was watching me," he said.

The tape clicked, signaling the halfway point. But the voice returned, softer now.

"You're probably wondering why I'm speaking now. Why I've waited all these years. The truth is… I saw what happened to him. Kang Joon-ho."

The name on the tape landed like a dropped pin.

Se-ri's breath caught.

"I saw the blood. The corridor. I saw the man who followed him. But I couldn't move. I didn't scream. I just ran."

Silence.

Then, in a whisper:

"I never told anyone. Not even my own family. But if someone is listening now—if someone is trying to finish what he started—I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't help him when he was still alive."

Se-ri's throat burned.

Her hand trembled over the pause button.

But the voice continued.

"He didn't fall. He didn't slip. He was pushed."

Click.

The tape cut off.

The cassette player whirred once more, then went silent.

Se-ri didn't move.

Neither did Joon-ho.

The only sound was the tick of the old clock on the wall.

He was the first to speak.

"Mi-ran."

Se-ri looked at him. "You think it's her?"

"I'm sure of it."

"But she said—"

"She saw it," he said softly. "The whole thing."

He stepped back, turned away slightly, as if grounding himself against a wave only he could feel.

"I always wondered," he murmured. "If someone had seen. If anyone knew."

"And now we do."

He turned toward her.

There was something raw in his eyes now. The mask gone. The smirk forgotten.

"Se-ri."

Her name sounded different this time. Like it meant something else.

Before she could reply, something shifted.

Not in the room.

But outside.

A faint click.

Like a latch being turned.

Then—

Glass.

A tiny, high-pitched crack from the window.

Se-ri spun toward the sound.

The curtain moved.

She rushed to the window and pulled it open.

Nothing.

No shadow. No sound.

But there, resting on the sill, left gently on the frame—was a Polaroid.

Her heart seized.

She picked it up slowly.

It was dark.

A street. A blurry shape in the distance.

And in the lower left corner—

Her.

Taken from behind.

Standing at the door earlier that night.

Talking to Officer Oh.

On the back, in familiar sharp writing:

"You're being watched too."