Chapter 20 – “They Know You Know”

The message blinked on her phone like a final warning.

Stop digging.

Two words.

But they carried the weight of a noose tightening around her ribcage.

Se-ri's thumb hovered over the screen. She didn't dare respond. Not because she didn't want to—but because some part of her, primal and unreasoning, knew that replying would mean acknowledging the presence on the other end.

Whoever was sending these messages didn't want conversation.

They wanted obedience.

Behind her, the low hum of the surveillance room returned—lamp still buzzing, photographs still fluttering slightly from the stale draft of the air vent. Her own face stared back at her from the walls, dozens of versions of herself caught mid-motion, unaware.

Joon-ho didn't ask what the message said.

He already knew.

Her hands lowered slowly, phone gripped tightly, letter still open on the desk beside her.

He approached her carefully, as though she might splinter with the wrong word.

"They're watching in real time," he said. "That message came the moment you said Seok-dae's name."

She nodded, once.

"They must have access to audio. Or a tap."

Her voice came out too flat, too controlled. A lawyer's voice. A survival voice.

She swallowed. "We're not just looking into a cold case anymore."

"No," he said. "We're unraveling a cover-up. In real-time."

She turned slowly to face him. "And the deeper we go…"

"The fewer people want us to keep going."

They stood in silence for a moment. Not from fear—but from realization. Like the quiet that follows a landslide, when all you can do is assess what didn't fall.

Se-ri finally moved. She walked to the wall and gently pulled one photo down—one where she stood in the second-floor office, framed in the window, her profile visible through the glass.

"I've been catalogued," she murmured. "Photographed. Watched. Tracked."

She ran her thumb along the edge of the photo. "This has been happening for weeks. Maybe longer."

"You were never alone," Joon-ho said.

She laughed, sharp and breathless. "Not even when I thought I was."

He stepped closer. "You still aren't."

She looked at him.

And for a moment, she forgot the surveillance. Forgot the looming threat. Forgot the letter, and the sealed folders, and the man behind the gate.

Because he was standing there—watching her the way no one else ever had.

And not just with concern.

With something that could've been longing. Or grief. Or admiration.

She couldn't name it.

But it stilled her.

"You're always showing up when I'm about to fall apart," she said.

"I think that's my thing now," he replied. "The broody ghost who appears mid-breakdown."

She snorted through her nose—more sound than laugh. But it was real.

"I don't want to fall apart," she whispered.

"Then don't."

"What if I already am?"

"Then let me catch the pieces."

She stared at him.

"Joon-ho…"

He didn't move closer.

He just stood there, eyes steady, holding something in them that made her knees feel strangely unreliable.

She wanted to look away.

But she didn't.

Instead, she took a breath—and broke the moment herself.

"I need to find him," she said.

"Seok-dae?"

She nodded. "Or someone who knows where he went."

"That's dangerous."

She looked down at the Polaroid still sitting on the desk—the one with her mother, the boy, and the man in the background.

"He had a son," she said. "The boy in the photo. Probably my age now."

"Do you think he's involved?"

"I think… he might know what happened to his father. Maybe he disappeared for a reason. Maybe the son was told to stay quiet, just like my mother was."

Joon-ho considered this. "If the boy is connected, he's either part of it—or a witness like you."

"Either way," Se-ri said, "he might be the next thread."

She grabbed her laptop from her satchel and flipped it open.

The fan whirred to life.

Within moments, she was searching: Kang Seok-dae, Seoul, missing, warehouse case witnesses, family members, children, custody, relocation.

Nothing definitive. Just old articles, grainy and inconsistent. Most were legal archives, black-and-white scans from tabloids with headlines like "Key Witness Fails to Appear" or "Defense Collapses Without Star Testimony."

And then—

A mention.

2015, Gangwon Province.

A regional lawsuit. Land boundary dispute. Plaintiff: Kang Min-jae. Listed profession: Architectural Surveyor.

Se-ri sat forward.

Min-jae.

She checked the photo again.

Same mouth. Same slightly curled hair.

"It's him," she whispered. "He changed his name."

"How can you be sure?"

She didn't answer.

She just stared.

Then searched Kang Min-jae architect Seoul.

A small business site popped up. Clean layout. Minimalist. One photo.

A profile shot.

Slightly older now—late twenties, early thirties. But the boy from the photo had grown into this face.

Her heart thudded in her chest.

"I found him."

Joon-ho leaned in.

"You're not going to call him, are you?"

"I have to."

"What if they're watching him too?"

She hesitated.

"I won't call," she said. "Not yet."

She clicked open the contact form. There was a general inquiry email.

She typed:

> Subject: Inquiry

Hello. I have a question about a site in Jongno District. I believe you may be familiar with the area.

It's important.

Please don't ignore this.

– Yoon Se-ri

She hesitated.

Then, against her better judgment, she added:

> P.S. I think we've met. A long time ago.

She hit send.

And the screen returned to quiet.

They waited.

Ten minutes passed.

Nothing.

Twenty.

Still nothing.

Then—

A ping.

New email.

Subject: Meeting Request.

She opened it.

> Come alone.

1:30 a.m.

Ikseon-dong Teahouse, Back Courtyard.

Don't bring your phone.

No signature.

Joon-ho read over her shoulder.

"This is a trap."

"Or an answer."

"Se-ri."

She stood, grabbing her coat, her hands shaking slightly—but her voice steady.

"I'm going."

"Then I'm going too."

"You can't follow me into a courtyard."

"Watch me."

She turned to him, suddenly feeling like the silence between them was no longer safety—but goodbye.

"You're not scared?"

"I'm already dead."

"That's not what I asked."

He looked at her.

And said softly, "I'm scared of what you'll learn. And what it'll take from you."

She stared at him.

Then stepped forward.

And without thinking—without giving herself time to weigh it—she leaned forward, until her forehead touched his.

Or nearly did.

Her eyes closed.

His breath was the cold before snowfall.

Still.

But there.

"I won't stop," she whispered.

"I know."

And then—

A soft creak echoed from the hallway beyond the room.

Se-ri jerked back.

They both turned.

Footsteps.

Someone outside.

Coming up the stairs.

She backed away from the desk, heart racing.

The doorknob jiggled.

Then stopped.

Silence.

She held her breath.

Joon-ho moved toward the door, ready to phase through—

But before he could, a voice came from the other side.

Low.

Male.

Calm.

"I was hoping you'd still be here, Yoon Se-ri."

She froze.

She knew that voice.

The door creaked open.

And standing there—

Gray suit.

Round glasses.

A face trained to look kind.

Judge Han Myung-seok.