Chapter 17 – “Unspoken Allegiances”

Joon-ho's voice echoed softly in the cramped surveillance room, the single syllable suspended in the stale air.

"…No."

Se-ri stood frozen, holding the photograph between her fingers like it might dissolve under the weight of what it revealed.

Her mother.

Sitting in the courtroom gallery.

Leaning toward someone unseen.

Smiling.

And there—half-hidden in the crease of her jacket, just visible enough to catch the light—was a narrow strip of plastic tucked into a badge holder.

A defense access badge.

Not public seating.

Not press.

Access.

Se-ri stared at it.

Her hand trembled slightly.

Joon-ho stepped closer. His expression—so often cool, sharp, ironic—was gone. Replaced with something rawer. Like a layer of memory had just peeled back against his will.

"I don't remember her being there," he said. "Not like that. I remembered her in the gallery, quiet, alone. But this…" He pointed toward the photo. "This means she wasn't just watching."

Se-ri didn't speak.

The room was dim, but her pulse pounded like thunder in her ears.

"She was inside the defense team," she whispered. "She wasn't just payroll. She was part of the strategy. She was part of your team."

She looked at him, her breath sharp.

"And you never knew."

He didn't respond right away.

He walked away from the photo wall, his shoulders tense, hands clenched just enough to be noticeable.

"It doesn't make sense," he said. "I didn't have many people on my side. I didn't have budget. No assistants, no clerks. Just me."

"And her."

"No," he said again, this time sharper. "I would've remembered that. A badge like that—someone with clearance—they'd be in strategy meetings. They'd have access to sealed documents. That isn't something you miss."

Se-ri watched him.

His voice had shifted. No longer just disbelieving.

Now it carried something else.

Hurt.

"She was part of the team and you didn't know," Se-ri said, her voice quieter now. "You were being watched from the inside."

He turned toward her, and for a moment, she thought he might argue.

But instead, he just stared at the floor.

As if watching his own memory fall apart.

"I thought I was alone," he said. "But I wasn't. Not in the way I thought."

She could feel the heat behind her eyes returning.

Not from the photo this time.

From the realization that everything she thought about her mother—everything she trusted, idolized—was folding in on itself.

Her mother had always walked like someone with secrets. But Se-ri never thought they'd be shared ones.

She stepped closer to the wall and pinned the photo back where she found it. Her fingers lingered on the pin for a moment longer, just to feel something grounded.

Joon-ho turned toward her again.

"I don't want this to change things," he said suddenly.

She looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, carefully now, "whatever she did, whoever she was back then—it doesn't change who you are."

Her jaw tightened. "You don't know that."

"I do."

"You don't. You don't know what else she hid. If she worked with you, she could've sabotaged you. She could've reported to the prosecution. She could've—" She stopped. "She could've led them to you."

His silence was louder than any denial.

She took a step back, the words falling out before she could stop them.

"I thought you were the one hiding things. I thought you were the mystery. But maybe I was the one carrying it this whole time."

"That's not fair."

"I know it's not."

Her voice cracked.

That stopped him.

He walked forward slowly. "You're not her. You didn't know."

"I should've," she whispered.

He was close now.

Not close enough to touch—but enough that she could feel the weight of his presence.

Enough to want to fall forward into it.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," she said. "Every time I think I've reached the bottom, something new opens up. Another lie. Another layer. What if she was the one who buried the truth? What if everything I'm doing now is just digging up the grave she helped build?"

He didn't have answers.

So instead, he did what she least expected.

He said her name.

"Se-ri."

And not in a firm tone.

Not as a lawyer. Not as a ghost desperate for justice.

But softly.

Like a lifeline.

She looked up at him.

And for a moment—just a breath—he looked at her the way no one else had in a very long time.

Not like someone uncovering evidence.

But like someone searching for her.

"You're here now," he said. "That's what matters."

Something inside her cracked at that.

Her hands came up to her face as the tears finally pushed past her resistance. Silent. Clean. Like water trickling through stone.

"I didn't want this," she whispered. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"I know."

He sat beside her—not on the desk, not on a chair, just beside her presence.

And the silence between them was no longer filled with fear.

Only breath.

Only closeness.

Only the strange, aching comfort of being seen.

Then—

Se-ri's eyes flicked toward the corner of the desk.

A drawer. Slightly open.

One she hadn't noticed before.

She stood slowly, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

Moved toward it.

Joon-ho rose too, watching.

She opened it.

Inside—

A sealed envelope.

Thick. Heavy.

She pulled it out with both hands.

On the front, in careful, unmistakable handwriting:

To my daughter, Se-ri.

Her breath caught.

She stared at the name.

The curve of the S. The flick at the end of the 'i.'

It was her mother's handwriting.

"I think I'm going to throw up," she whispered.

Joon-ho moved beside her, silent.

She opened it slowly.

Inside: a folded letter.

Dated one month ago.

She unfolded it with trembling hands.

At the top—

If you're reading this, I never got to tell you the truth face to face.

But there's something you need to know.

She looked up at Joon-ho.

And said, "She knew I'd come looking."

Before he could respond—

Her phone buzzed.

A message.

Unknown number.

Just two words:

Don't open it.