The envelope in her hand was lighter than she expected. A few scraps of memos, some printed documents—the collective weight of three years, yet it felt like nothing at all.
Outside, the world was moving in its usual, indifferent rhythm. Someone was laughing into a phone; another was simply walking, head down. It was an ordinary afternoon. 'Was it a day like this when Oppa disappeared?'
She looked down at the envelope. For a moment, she could almost hear his voice. "Seo-yeon, you always were the one who had to double-check everything."
He was right. Ever since she was a child, she couldn't stand uncertainty. She checked her math homework twice, her exam answers twice, and even the food her brother cooked for her—she always tasted it before committing.
Each time, he would just laugh. "Go ahead, check it. That habit will keep you safe one day."
Now, it was time for the final confirmation.
The cafe door chimed. A man stepped inside. Seo-yeon didn't need a description; she knew him the moment their eyes met.
Han Yun-jae.
Yun-jae scanned the room and locked eyes with the woman by the window. Lee Seo-yeon. The owner of the voice from the phone. She didn't stand up; she simply watched him approach.
He took the seat across from her. "Hello," Seo-yeon said first. Her voice was steady, though her fingers gripped the envelope tight enough to turn her knuckles white.
"...Hello," Yun-jae replied.
The cafe was alive with the hum of daily life—the clinking of spoons, the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of distant gossip. But as those lively sounds reached their table, they seemed to freeze and shatter against the floor.
"Why did you come?" Seo-yeon asked. "To confirm," Yun-jae replied after a pause. "Confirm what?" "Whether the Lee Seo-jun I know and the brother you remember... are the same person."
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Seo-yeon’s gaze wavered. "Are they?" "...I don't know," Yun-jae said honestly. "I never actually met Prosecutor Lee." "Then how could you write his records?"
The question was ice-cold, yet devoid of direct malice. It was pure, raw curiosity. Seo-yeon pulled a few papers from the envelope and slid them across the table.
"This is what my brother wrote."
Yun-jae looked down. The logic was familiar. The structure was unmistakable.
"And this," she slid another page forward, "is what you wrote."
Yun-jae stared at his own work. Seo-jun’s raw phrase, 'Fatal Flaw,' had been laundered through Yun-jae’s hands into a graceful euphemism: 'Potential for Improvement.' It wasn't a mere edit; it was the castration of the truth.
"They're similar, aren't they?" Seo-yeon asked. "...Yes." "Why?"
Yun-jae couldn't find the words. How could he explain the data he received from the Paper Mill? The sentences that arrived without a name attached? The pattern he had grown accustomed to without even realizing its origin?
"You don't have to explain," Seo-yeon said softly. "I doubt I could truly understand it anyway."
She pulled out one last piece of paper. It was a torn page from a memo pad, handwritten. "He wrote this a week before he passed away."
Yun-jae read the short, jagged line:
[What I write might actually save someone.]
It was a heavy sentence for such a small scrap of paper.
"I think he believed it," Seo-yeon’s voice trembled slightly. "He believed his records would help someone."
Yun-jae couldn't meet her eyes. "I just wanted to know if that was true. I had to confirm it." She looked at him directly now. "Did his records actually save anyone?"
Yun-jae slowly looked up. Her eyes held profound sadness, but no resentment.
"...I don't know," he admitted. "I don't even know if the things I've written saved people or killed them."
"Then why did you write them?"
"If I had a choice..." Yun-jae stopped. If he had a choice, would he have refused? Or would he have just written them differently?
"If you had a choice?" she pressed.
Yun-jae remained silent. Seo-yeon slowly gathered the papers back into the envelope.
"I didn't come here to blame you," she said. "I just... I wanted to know what he was trying to do. And I want to make sure it wasn't for nothing."
She stood up to leave. "Prosecutor... why did you come here?"
Yun-jae thought for a moment. To apologize? To run? To face the ghost? "To confirm." "Confirm what?" "Whether what I did was actually my choice."
Seo-yeon watched him for a long beat. "And? Did you get your confirmation?" Yun-jae had no answer.
"Can I contact you again?" she asked. "...Why?" "Because I still have things to check. And," she gave a small, sad smile, "I think you do, too."
Yun-jae nodded silently. As she walked away, he watched her through the glass. The way she held the envelope, the firm set of her shoulders—she was just like Lee Seo-jun. A person who couldn't live with a question left unanswered.
His phone buzzed on the table. A message from A-12.
[3870-12 PROGRESS CHECK]
He didn't turn off the screen. But for the first time, he decided not to reply. At least not today.
The other came questioning choice.
that confirmation was no longer optional.