Chapter 14 – “Inside the Frame”

The photo trembled slightly between Se-ri's fingers.

Not from the wind—there was none—but from her grip, which had slowly begun to tighten as the implications of the image pressed harder into her chest.

The Polaroid was old-school, grainy. Just dark enough to make everything feel distant. But the figure in the frame was unmistakable. Her—standing at the front door of the building, one hand on the knob, the other tucked in her coat pocket. Her hair pulled back. Her head turned just slightly toward the man in the photo with her—Officer Oh.

The timestamp in the corner had been scratched out with something sharp.

But this hadn't been taken long ago.

This was from tonight.

Behind her, Joon-ho stood completely still, his gaze locked on the image as if trying to step inside it with sheer will alone.

Se-ri turned the Polaroid over again. The handwriting on the back hadn't changed.

Sharp. Slanted. Angry.

You're being watched too.

A single sentence that suddenly made her skin feel too tight for her body.

She set the photo gently on the edge of the desk, fingers lingering a moment too long before pulling away. Then she crossed the room without a word, grabbing the curtain and yanking it shut, her movements sharp and rigid.

Joon-ho remained silent.

The tension in the room shifted—no longer just suspense.

Now it was fear. Raw. Undressed.

Se-ri leaned her back against the wall, her hands braced on either side of her. Her head tipped forward.

"I didn't even hear them," she said.

"I didn't either."

"They were right there." Her voice cracked. "Close enough to take a picture. To follow me up here. To watch us."

She didn't lift her head.

"Do you know what that means?"

"Yes," he said. "It means they're scared."

She looked up sharply.

"You think that's comforting?"

"No," Joon-ho said. "But it means you're close. And people only watch that carefully when they know they've already made a mistake."

She shook her head, laughing bitterly.

"This isn't a chess game, Joon-ho. It's not about strategy anymore. This is personal."

Her voice rose—slightly, just enough to make her breath catch.

"They're not just trying to bury the case anymore. They're watching me. They were in my apartment. They left a message on my pillow. A tape. A photo. What's next, a hand-written invitation to my funeral?"

He moved forward—faster than she expected—and was suddenly close enough to blur.

"I won't let that happen."

His voice was low. Steady. But there was something burning underneath it now. Something unshakable.

Se-ri's breath hitched.

She turned her face away. "You can't protect me from everything."

"No," he said. "But I can try."

The words hung between them.

Heavy.

Real.

She stared at the floor, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

"You keep… saying things like that."

"Because they're true."

Her eyes lifted slowly.

And found his.

For the first time, she noticed the faintest shimmer along the edges of his jaw—the way the light curved around him, like it still didn't quite know how to hold him.

He looked at her like he wasn't supposed to.

And she looked back like she might believe him anyway.

"Why me?" she asked, finally.

"Because you stayed," he said. "You could've walked away. But you stayed."

Her lips parted—but no reply came.

The silence stretched again, but it was a different kind now. Not hollow.

Just suspended.

A slow breath passed through her lips. She stepped closer to the desk again, letting her fingers ghost above the Polaroid without touching it.

She squinted slightly.

Then frowned.

"Wait…"

She bent over the photo.

Joon-ho moved to her side.

"What is it?"

"There's something in the reflection," she muttered. "Look."

She held the photo up to the light again.

In the bottom left—just beneath the frame of the doorway—was a thin pane of glass. The corner of the front window, near the sidewalk. And inside it… a shape.

Dark.

Human.

Se-ri's voice dropped. "Someone was inside the building when this was taken."

Joon-ho froze.

She turned to him, throat tight.

"They didn't just take this from the street. This angle—it's from inside the building across from ours. Through the glass. Which means someone had eyes on the door and the front stairwell."

She grabbed the tape recorder again, flicked the cassette back to the beginning.

Listened to the first five seconds. The hiss.

Then the voice:

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

Se-ri stared at the recorder. Her brows drew closer.

She hit pause.

"That wasn't a message."

Joon-ho's brows rose. "What do you mean?"

She looked at him. "That wasn't a confession. It was a test."

A beat of silence passed.

He frowned. "To see if we'd play it?"

"Or to see when."

She grabbed her phone, checked the time. Then her camera roll.

Two hours ago, she'd taken a photo of the third-floor window to track the sunset for lighting. She'd sent it to herself for mood reference.

That timestamp?

6:43 PM.

The tape had been on her pillow at 6:52 PM.

The photo?

Taken at the moment she'd played the tape.

Someone had timed it.

Exactly.

Se-ri turned back to Joon-ho.

"They're watching our reactions. They want to know what we know. They want to see how close we're getting."

She didn't realize her hands had begun to shake until he reached forward and gently hovered his hand over hers. He couldn't touch her. But she could feel him. Like a shift in the air. Like pressure.

"I'm still here," he said quietly.

Her eyes burned.

"I don't know how to feel safe anymore."

He didn't blink. "Then let me be your safe."

The words hit her like a rush of wind.

Soft. And terrifying.

And she didn't answer.

Because if she did, she wasn't sure her voice would hold.

Instead, she sat.

And he stayed beside her.

A strange, quiet moment that felt suspended outside of time.

Until—

A vibration buzzed against the desk.

Her phone.

A notification.

No caller ID.

She hesitated.

Then picked it up.

The screen read:

"You're looking in the wrong direction."

The phone slipped slightly in her grip.

Joon-ho leaned in. "What does it say?"

She showed him the screen.

Neither of them spoke.

Then—before she could respond—

Another message.

"The past isn't where it ended. It's where it started."

Then another.

"Check the background."

She looked down at the Polaroid again.

Closely.

Her eyes darted to the blurry building behind her, past her own figure.

And there, through a faintly lit second-floor window of the building across the street—

Was a wall.

Covered in Polaroids.

Row after row.

All of her.