The silence after the knock was heavier than the knock itself.
Se-ri stood frozen in the entryway, one hand hovering near the doorknob, the other clenched at her side. The frosted glass in the door blurred the figure outside into little more than a suggestion—broad shoulders, a long silhouette, head tilted slightly to one side.
Her ears rang from the sudden pulse of her heartbeat, each thump echoing louder than the ambient city noise beyond the walls.
She licked her lips.
The man's voice had been low. Polite. And unmistakably practiced.
"I have questions about Kang Joon-ho."
A name that hadn't been spoken aloud in thirty years. Not like that. Not on the lips of a stranger.
Behind her, the air shifted. She felt the cool flicker of presence before she heard his voice.
"Don't open it."
She turned slightly. Joon-ho had reappeared just behind her at the top of the stairs—his form denser than usual, as if the presence of another person near his building pulled something deeper out of him.
"He said your name," Se-ri whispered.
"I heard him."
"He said he remembers the fire."
"I heard that too."
She looked back at the door.
The man hadn't knocked again. He wasn't trying to peek through the glass. He was just… waiting.
Still.
Calm.
That made it worse somehow.
"What if he's a witness?" she asked. "What if he knows something?"
"What if he's here to bury what you've just started digging up?"
Her fingers twitched near the lock.
"I need to know who he is."
Joon-ho descended the stairs slowly, each step making no sound.
He reached the bottom, hovering beside her, barely an inch from her shoulder.
"If you open that door," he said quietly, "you can't take it back."
She glanced sideways. "Then watch me."
And with a smooth twist, she undid the lock.
The sound of the bolt disengaging was louder than it had any right to be.
She opened the door exactly five inches.
No more.
The man standing on the other side was tall—mid to late forties, maybe. Clean suit, charcoal gray. No tie. White shirt collar slightly unbuttoned. His hair was short, peppered at the temples. There were faint lines around his mouth and a shallow crease between his brows, as if it had been there for years.
He looked like someone used to wearing uniforms. Or enforcing rules.
But he smiled like a man used to being underestimated.
"Miss Yoon?" he said.
Se-ri didn't answer.
He tilted his head, just slightly.
"You're listed as the new legal occupant of this property," he said. "I saw the filing with the probate office last week."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I'm not soliciting," he added, holding up a hand. "I'm not here to sell you anything."
"Then what are you here for?"
His eyes flicked past her, toward the shadowed hallway behind her.
Then back to her face.
"I've been watching this building for years," he said. "I wasn't sure anyone would ever open it again. And then someone did."
Se-ri didn't flinch.
The man didn't press.
"I worked patrol in this district back in the eighties," he said. "Jongno-gu station. Beat cop. I was there the night the warehouse burned."
Her voice came out cooler than she expected. "And?"
"I remember the aftermath. The smoke, the headlines. And I remember Kang Joon-ho." His tone changed slightly. "The only defense attorney I ever saw argue with a judge and a police captain in the same breath."
Se-ri's grip on the doorknob tightened.
"I came by," the man continued, "because I wanted to know if you'd found anything. In his office. Something… old. Something strange."
She stared at him.
Behind her, she felt Joon-ho shift.
"What's your name?" she asked.
The man paused.
Then said, "Officer Oh."
Her blood went cold.
She recognized the name from the file.
Detective Oh Kwang-yu.
Lead investigator. The one who'd filed the final police report. The one whose testimony sealed the case.
Joon-ho's whisper reached her ear like a chill wind.
"Don't let him in."
But Officer Oh was still standing there, his expression perfectly neutral.
"If you've found something," he said, "I'd be very careful about who you share it with."
She raised her chin. "Is that a threat?"
"No," he said. "It's advice."
Then—slowly—he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket.
Se-ri stiffened.
But all he pulled out was a card.
Plain white. Just a name and a number.
"Call me," he said, holding it between two fingers. "If you have questions."
She didn't move to take it.
So he leaned forward—just slightly—and slipped it through the crack in the door, placing it gently on the inside welcome mat.
Then he straightened.
"I'm sure this place brings up a lot of strange things," he said quietly. "Don't let them overwhelm you."
And then, without waiting for her to speak, he turned and walked down the steps.
She stood there for a long time, watching him go. He didn't look back.
Only when he was completely out of sight did she close the door and slide the bolt back into place.
The card sat on the floor like a dropped tooth.
She didn't pick it up.
Not yet.
Joon-ho was standing beside her, his face unreadable.
"I know him," he said. "Of course I know him."
"He led the investigation," she murmured. "You didn't tell me."
"I didn't think he'd show up at the door."
She finally bent down and picked up the card.
It was heavy cardstock. Unmarked except for a single name in black serif font: Oh Kwang-yu. No title. Just a phone number beneath it.
"This means something," she said.
Joon-ho nodded. "He's nervous. That's why he came."
"Or he's checking how close we are to something he doesn't want found."
They stood in silence.
Then she asked the question she hadn't dared yet.
"Did you ever suspect him?"
Joon-ho looked at her.
And said, "I suspected everyone."
Se-ri stepped back from the door, her eyes still locked on the card.
Her heart hadn't slowed down.
She walked to the desk and set the card beside her laptop.
The cursor on her screen still blinked in the folder labeled Choi Case.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then said, "We need to move faster."
But before Joon-ho could answer, there was a sudden, sharp click from the file cabinet behind her.
They both turned.
The top drawer—closed just moments ago—was now open by half an inch.
Joon-ho moved first, crossing the room.
He reached for the drawer.
Pulled it open.
Inside—at the very top—was something that hadn't been there before.
An envelope.
Cream-colored. No stamp. No address.
Her name written in small, careful Hangul: 윤세리.
She approached slowly.
Her stomach dropped.
Joon-ho glanced at her.
"I didn't put that there."
She didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
She reached out, took the envelope with both hands.
The paper was warm.
Too warm.
She opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of lined paper.
And on it, in the same careful hand, were five words:
"He lied about the fire."