Miyoung's hands trembled as she peeled back the floorboard, the scent of mildew and fear thick in the air. Yoochan crouched beside her, the glow of his phone illuminating a rusted metal box.
"Burn it," she whispered. "Promise me you'll burn it."
Inside lay a dossier, its pages stained brown with old blood.
PATRIARCH KANG DAEHYUN: EMERGENCY PROTOCOL 1997–2015
Yoochan's breath hitched. Photographs of bodies in construction sites. Bank transfers to politicians. A list of names—disappeared names.
"He'll kill us if he knows I kept this," Miyoung said, her voice fraying. "I tried to forget… but I couldn't."
Yoochan traced a photo of a teenage girl—Lee Soojin, 15, Witness to Incheon Dock Collapse. "You were his cleanup crew."
Miyoung flinched. "He called me his shadow. His loyal dog." Her nails dug into her palms. "Then he threw me away when you were born."
Rain battered the windows. Somewhere in the mansion, a door slammed.
Yoochan closed the dossier. "This ends them."
"It ends us!" Miyoung grabbed his wrist. "You think the police will care? The Kangs own the police. The courts. The president."
He pried her hand free. "Then I'll burn it all."
---
The safe house stank of cigarettes and regret. Yoochan spread the dossier across a cracked table, Seojun hovering behind him.
"This is suicide," Seojun muttered, scanning a death threat to a prosecutor. "Even if we leak it, the media's in Joonho's pocket."
"Not all of them." Yoochan tapped a burner phone. "Reporter Kim. She's been digging into Kang Tech's drone crashes."
"And you trust her?"
"I trust her hatred."
Seojun stiffened. "What about your mother?"
Yoochan's jaw tightened. Miyoung's plea echoed in his skull: "Promise me you'll burn it."
"She's safer if the Kangs fall."
"Or dead faster."
A knock shattered the silence.
Yoochan froze. Only one person knew this address.
Cha Sooyoung stood in the doorway, her coat dripping rain. Her gaze flicked to the dossier. "You're dumber than you look."
"You followed me," Yoochan said flatly.
"You left a paper trail thicker than Joonho's ego." She shoved past him, scanning the photos. "This is your grand plan? Leak and pray?"
"Got a better idea?"
Sooyoung smirked. "Blackmail the blackmailers. The patriarch's got enemies—real ones. The Parks. The Kims. They'd pay billions for this."
Seojun stepped forward. "We're not auctioning lives."
"No?" Sooyoung held up a photo of the Incheon dock collapse. "Your family already did."
Yoochan's phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: [Attachment: Miyoung buying groceries. A sniper's crosshair on her back.]
---
Miyoung hummed as she arranged persimmons in a bowl, the kitchen radio crooning a ballad from her youth. She didn't hear the footsteps.
"Pretty song."
She spun. Joonho leaned in the doorway, a knife glinting as he peeled an apple.
"Y-Yoochan's not here," she stammered.
"I know." He took a bite, juice dripping down his wrist. "He's playing hero. You? You're just… collateral."
The radio crackled. Static. Then a scream—her scream, recorded last night.
"He'll kill us if he knows!"
Miyoung backed against the counter. "How—?"
"Bugs in the walls. In the fruit." Joonho tossed the apple core. "Father's favorite trick."
He advanced, knife humming a lazy arc. "Where's the dossier, ajumma?"
"Gone." Her voice shook. "Burned."
"Liar." He grabbed her wrist, blade kissing her throat. "You've got her eyes. The whore from Busan. What was her name? Lee Soo—"
Miyoung stabbed him with the fruit knife.
Joonho staggered, laughter bubbling through blood. "There she is. Father's shadow."
---
Yoochan burst into the kitchen, Seojun and Sooyoung at his heels.
Blood smeared the tiles. Miyoung knelt, trembling, the knife clattering from her hand.
"He's gone," she whispered.
Yoochan pulled her close. "What happened?"
"I… I protected you."
Sooyoung picked up Joonho's phone from the floor. A video played: Miyoung's confession, the dossier, the safe house address.
"He streamed everything," she said. "The patriarch's seen it. They're coming."
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Miyoung touched Yoochan's cheek. "Run."
"Not without you."
She smiled, tears carving paths through blood. "You're my son. Not his."
The front door exploded.