The afternoon light had shifted again—longer shadows, warmer tones seeping in through the office blinds. It made the air feel thicker somehow, like the room was slowly steeping in time.
Yoon Se-ri sat at the desk, sleeves rolled up, her laptop open, the old binder and folder laid out in careful rows across the surface. She had divided the contents into categories: letters, photographs, floor plans, handwritten notes. Each item was weighed in her hand before she scanned it, as if she were afraid the memory might escape if she blinked.
The scanner was old—cheap, portable, and agonizingly slow—but reliable. She watched the glowing light bar crawl across the first page.
"I told you I didn't want to testify. I can't risk my family."
The machine whirred softly. Se-ri tapped her fingers against the wood in time with it.
She wasn't sure when Joon-ho had appeared again.
But he was there now—quietly pacing a few feet behind her, hands clasped behind his back, eyes flicking occasionally toward the documents on her screen. His footsteps made no sound, but somehow she could sense their rhythm, like background noise her body had tuned into.
She scanned another page.
Then glanced over her shoulder.
He was staring at the window.
"You're restless," she said.
"I haven't had someone to work with in thirty years," he replied. "It's strange. My body's gone, but my instincts are still intact."
She went back to the scanner.
"You always pace when you're thinking?"
"It helps. So does cross-referencing everything twice."
She smirked faintly. "We might have something in common after all."
He gave her a look, but didn't reply.
She picked up the next item—a floor plan of the warehouse—and flattened it beside her laptop. Red pen marked exits, walls, machinery layout. There was a circle scrawled around a back door, and beside it, a question: Security camera?
Se-ri frowned. "Was there footage?"
"No one ever admitted to it."
She paused. "But it's possible?"
"Back then, it was rare. Only certain warehouses had it. High-value inventory. But it's worth checking. Maybe records exist somewhere—municipal building permits, security contractors, something."
"I'll add it to the list."
She jotted a note on a pad beside her.
Another scan. Another letter. More ink pressed deep into cheap paper.
"You wrote some of these," she said after a few minutes, eyes not leaving the screen.
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "Yes."
"The tone shifts. Yours are more—" She hesitated, then glanced at him. "Measured."
He gave a dry laugh. "I didn't want to leave a mess. I thought maybe someone else would find them. Someone rational. I didn't expect you."
She turned fully in her chair.
"I'm not rational?"
"You're angry. That's different."
She blinked. "I'm not—"
"Yes, you are," he said. "And it's good. You should be. You're taking something personal now, and that makes you dangerous. The best lawyers always are."
There was no smugness in his voice.
Just something that sounded, strangely, like respect.
She didn't respond.
She turned back to her screen.
They fell into a rhythm.
Scan. Name the file. Cross-reference the tag on the document. Jot a note. Continue.
The room grew quieter, save for the machine's steady hum.
For a long stretch of time, neither of them spoke.
Then:
"You remind me of someone," Joon-ho said suddenly.
Se-ri looked up. "A colleague?"
He shook his head. "A witness. She testified once in a case I had—minor assault charge. Small claim, barely worth attention. But she stood up in court, shaking, and said what happened out loud anyway. No one had ever believed her. But when she spoke, you could feel the entire room freeze."
Se-ri waited.
"She didn't speak like she wanted to win," he said. "She spoke like she had nothing left to lose."
He turned his gaze to her.
"You speak that way too."
Something in her throat caught.
She looked down.
And quietly began scanning the next page.
By the time she finished the last sheet, the sun had dipped low enough that the slatted blinds carved gold lines across the wall. Her laptop fan wheezed in protest from the number of open windows. She sat back, stretching her arms behind her head, spine cracking from hours hunched over.
She turned toward Joon-ho, who now leaned with one shoulder against the bookshelf.
"Done," she said.
He straightened. "You digitized everything?"
"All the documents. The rest—I'll log manually." She gestured to her yellow legal pad, filled now with half a dozen categories: names, addresses, locations, unanswered questions.
He drifted closer.
And for a moment, they both stared down at the screen.
The folder she'd created on her desktop blinked back: "Choi Case – Reinvestigation."
Her fingers hovered above the trackpad.
Then she said, very softly, "This doesn't feel like a case file anymore."
"No," he replied. "It feels like a grave."
She looked at him.
Their eyes met—and held.
This time, there was no irony between them. No teasing. No boundaries.
Just a long, taut stretch of silence that said: We're both in this now.
A sharp knock broke it.
The sound came from below.
Three firm raps against the office's front door on the ground floor.
Se-ri jerked upright.
Joon-ho immediately turned toward the hallway.
No one said anything for a moment.
Then another knock—this time slower. Deliberate.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Se-ri stood from her chair. Her hands had gone cold.
"Is someone supposed to be here?" she whispered.
Joon-ho shook his head, his form flickering briefly with the motion. "No one should be here."
The knock came again.
She moved carefully to the stairwell door, heart hammering against her ribs.
"Stay up here," Joon-ho said.
She looked back. "You can't open it."
"No. But I can watch."
Her hand tightened on the railing.
She descended the stairs slowly, every creak louder than usual. The front hallway was dim now, colored by the fading light outside. The frosted glass in the door made the figure beyond it a vague silhouette—broad shoulders, a long coat, standing still.
Se-ri swallowed.
She stepped closer.
Her voice cracked on the first word.
"Who is it?"
The figure didn't move.
The pause stretched too long.
Then—
A man's voice, low and measured.
"I'm looking for the owner of this office."
Se-ri's throat tightened.
She glanced up the stairwell behind her.
No sign of Joon-ho.
She turned back to the door.
Her fingers hovered over the lock.
Another pause.
Then the man spoke again.
"I have questions about Kang Joon-ho."
Her hand froze.
She stepped back, instinct pulsing hard in her chest.
"Who are you?" she called through the door.
The voice didn't answer immediately.
Then, slowly, almost politely—
"I'm someone who remembers the fire."