Kang Ho stepped into the villa just past dusk, brushing a hand through his hair and casually setting down a brown bag of groceries like it was any other day.
But his expression was sharper than usual.
He didn't waste time.
"There was a man," he said quietly. "Hiding near the corner of your property. About mid-forties. Black jacket. Jeans. He kept glancing toward the second-floor balcony, but never approached."
Jaewook didn't even lift his eyes from his teacup.
"I know," he replied calmly. "He was there this morning too. The cameras caught him."
Kang Ho raised a brow. "You didn't mention it."
"I was waiting to see if he'd return."
Jaewook finally glanced up, eyes cool and unreadable.
"And now I know he will."
Kang Ho crossed his arms. "You planning to confront him?"
Jaewook took a slow sip of his tea, the porcelain clinking softly as he set the cup down.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
There was a weight behind those two words.
Anything—anyone—connected to Minah required patience. Precision. No sudden movements. No threats that would spook the shadows back underground.
"I want to know why he's watching," Jaewook added. "And what he thinks he knows."
Kang Ho gave a slight nod, then glanced toward the windows.
"Should I increase patrols?"
Jaewook stood up, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve.
"No. Let him think we haven't noticed. The more comfortable he feels, the more careless he'll become."
His gaze drifted toward the staircase—where Minah's quiet footsteps could sometimes be heard padding softly down for tea.
"I've waited twelve years to find her again," Jaewook murmured. "I can wait a little longer to uncover the truth."
-----
The night air was still.
Minah had just finished her skincare routine and changed into her pajamas. Her hair was towel-dried and loosely tied back as she moved toward her bed.
Then—tap.
A soft, unfamiliar sound near the window.
She froze.
Not the wind. Not the usual creak of the house.
Something deliberate.
Minah stepped off her bed slowly, her bare feet soundless against the floor. She approached the window cautiously, fingers reaching toward the handle to slide it open—
A firm hand caught hers.
She gasped.
It was Jaewook.
He had entered silently, like a shadow, eyes locked on the window.
"Don't open it," he said quietly, voice low and firm.
Minah blinked in surprise, but slowly nodded and backed away, sitting down on the edge of the bed as instructed.
Jaewook stepped forward and cautiously opened the window himself.
The cool night breeze drifted in, carrying with it something strange—unnatural.
Jaewook's sharp eyes scanned the exterior.
That's when he saw it.
Stuck between the window frame and the edge of the glass: a small, hand-written message attached to the tip of a tiny crossbow bolt.
He reached for it carefully and unfolded the note.
Black ink. Block letters.
"You should not be here."
His jaw tightened.
Minah watched him from the bed, wide-eyed, sensing the shift in the air.
Jaewook didn't speak right away. He slowly closed the window again and locked it with a soft click, then turned toward her, still holding the note and bolt in his hand.
"It seems someone's finally decided to say hello," he muttered.
He looked at Minah.
His voice softened, but his eyes were steel.
"You're safe. I promise you that."
But deep down…
He knew this was only the beginning.
----
Twelve Years Ago...
The room buzzed with low, mechanical hums—monitors flickering softly in dim fluorescent light. Rows of narrow hospital beds lined the chamber, each occupied by a child, unmoving. Each one marked with a number.
47.
That was hers.
No name. No past. No voice.
Just the number etched on the tag at the foot of her bed.
She blinked slowly, eyes glassy under the fluorescent glare. Her head ached. Tubes were taped to her arms. Her body felt heavy.
Behind the glass window of the control room, two masked figures reviewed a thick file.
One of them, a man in a pristine lab coat, flipped through the documents with clinical indifference.
"Subject 047," he said aloud. "Head trauma. Domestic abuse origin. We'll erase the prior trauma. Recondition the neural pathways. Assign new identity: Song Minah. Age: 8."
He signed the file with a cold flourish.
Beside him, a woman adjusted her surgical mask and leaned in closer.
"Keep her data locked," she warned. "Code red clearance only. No backups in the hospital network."
"She's the President's illegitimate daughter," she added under her breath. "He sent her here himself."
The man didn't flinch.
"She won't remember."
"No one will."
They turned away.
Back on the bed, 047 stared at the ceiling, unaware her name—her life—had just been rewritten.