Chapter 61: Seoul Summons
The café was quieter than usual this morning, as if the storm had drawn all the noise out of the world. The early light filtered through the misty window, casting a soft glow over the worn wooden counters. The scent of espresso still clung to the air, mingling with the faint smell of damp stone from the rain outside. Seo-yeon stood in the back office, the warm, earthy scent of barley tea lingering in her nose as she gazed at the packed suitcase beside her desk. The zipper was half-closed, the weight of it settling like a stone in her chest. Tomorrow, she would board a plane for Seoul, and everything would shift—the café, the trial, her life.
She clicked through a few files on her tablet, her fingers trembling just slightly, betraying the anxiety that lurked beneath the surface. The legal packet from Cho still sat heavy in the back of her mind. She could almost feel its weight even as it lay untouched in the drawer—proof that everything she'd worked so hard for could crumble in a moment. Each page felt like it held the potential to unravel everything.
Joon-woo's footsteps were a steady, comforting rhythm as he entered the room. His presence filled the space, and Seo-yeon found herself leaning into that calm, the quiet reassurance of him. He set down a box of supplies on the table and walked over to where she stood. The faint smell of gasoline clung to him from the generator work earlier in the morning, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was the scent of hard work, and it comforted her, grounding her in a way that only Joon-woo could.
"Everything ready for the flight?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, the kind of tone he used when he knew she was deep in thought.
Seo-yeon nodded, giving him a small smile. "As ready as I'll ever be," she replied, her voice betraying a slight quiver. The words were meant to sound confident, but she could feel the unease knotting her stomach. "It's just… I can't stop thinking about everything waiting for me there. The hearing. Cho. And the café. I'm leaving everything behind for a few days, and it's hard to not feel like I'm abandoning it."
Joon-woo's hand reached out, his fingers warm as they gently wrapped around hers. His grip was firm, but the tenderness in his touch made her heart ache with both relief and longing. "You're not abandoning it. You've built something strong here, Seo-yeon. And we've got your back. You don't need to carry all this by yourself."
Her heart calmed at his words, the constant worry that had gnawed at her slowly fading. She squeezed his hand in return, silently grateful for his steadiness. But still, so much was at stake. Her future, the café's future, everything hanging in the balance, and yet in this quiet moment, she felt something flicker—something like hope, but quieter, deeper.
The next half hour was a blur of preparations. Seo-yeon's eyes skimmed the flight documents once more, but her mind kept drifting. The weight of leaving seemed to settle deeper into her chest with every passing moment, but she kept moving—checking off to-do lists, organizing her thoughts, making sure everything was in order before her departure. The café still needed her, even if she wasn't in its immediate presence.
Min-ji, who had been editing video clips in the corner, suddenly turned, her expression mischievous. "I got you something," she said, her voice light and conspiratorial.
Seo-yeon blinked, unsure of what Min-ji was referring to. Then Min-ji slid a small, wrapped package across the table toward her.
"Open it," Min-ji insisted, her grin widening.
Seo-yeon unwrapped it, revealing a coffee mug with a bright, cartoonish design: "Let's win this case!" The mug featured a gavel and a comically serious-looking lawyer with glasses. It was silly, lighthearted—exactly what she needed in this moment of looming tension.
Seo-yeon laughed, her shoulders loosening just a little. "A lawyer mug? Seriously?" she asked, her voice tinged with affection. Her chest warmed as she held it up, and for a moment, the weight of the trial and everything surrounding it seemed a little less heavy. It was ridiculous, but Min-ji's gesture meant more than she could articulate. It was a small act of support, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was always space for humor.
Min-ji shrugged. "It's to keep your spirits up. Plus, it's cute." She winked. "And it's a reminder that you can still laugh, even when things get heavy."
Seo-yeon smiled, setting the mug down gently. The laughter had helped, just as Min-ji had intended. Despite everything swirling around her—court dates, financial worries, the weight of responsibility—this moment of humor, of shared lightness, felt like a small victory. It was the kind of thing she needed to remember: joy could still find its way through the cracks.
"You're right," Seo-yeon said, her voice steadier now. "It'll be fine."
Joon-woo, who had been quietly watching, stepped forward. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his voice warm and reassuring. "I'll take care of everything here while you're gone. You don't have to worry about a thing."
She gave him a grateful smile. "I know. I just need to make sure I'm ready to face it."
By 08:00, the café was buzzing with final preparations. The team gathered together, ready to review the last-minute details before Seo-yeon's departure. Madam Kang was tallying the latest receipts, still wearing the frown of someone carrying a financial burden. Yujin was setting up an additional medical station, ensuring everything was in place just in case of festival-related injuries.
"We'll manage here," Madam Kang reassured Seo-yeon. "But don't go rushing back too soon. Focus on what you need to do in Seoul."
Seo-yeon nodded, though the anxiety of leaving behind something she'd worked so hard to build was still lingering. The café was like a second home, and stepping away—even for a short time—felt like leaving a piece of herself behind. But the team had proven time and again that they were capable. This would be no different.
Min-ji, now in full festival prep mode, was organizing the media team's next steps. "I'll take care of the social media while you're gone," she said confidently. "Everything's planned out. You can check it when you're back."
Joon-woo, ever the practical one, made sure the generator was in working order and set up the backup systems for the café's operations. "We've got everything under control," he said, his voice reassuring. "You focus on what's next."
As the team finalized the last of their preparations, Joon-woo moved to the generator, adjusting the output and double-checking connections. "Everything should be fine for the festival," he muttered to himself, though Seo-yeon could see the flicker of concern in his eyes. She knew he wasn't entirely convinced, but his dedication to the café was unwavering, and she appreciated him more than words could express.
Yujin stepped forward, her usual calm demeanor slightly frayed by exhaustion. "I've set up a clinic in case things get too crowded," she said, though there was a faint worry in her voice. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on things."
Seo-yeon smiled, feeling a wave of pride and gratitude. "Thank you. All of you."
By 09:00, the team was taking their first break, huddled together for a brief moment of respite. Ha-eun, as always, was quietly present, offering silent encouragement to Seo-yeon. She approached her with the kind of calm that made everything seem just a little bit easier.
"You've come a long way," Ha-eun said, her voice soft, like a whisper in the wind. "This isn't just about the trial. It's about what you've built here, what you've become."
Seo-yeon looked at her, feeling a swell of gratitude. "I know. It's just… hard to balance it all."
Ha-eun smiled gently. "You don't have to carry it all on your own. You've built something strong. Trust it. Trust yourself."
The time came to say goodbye. Seo-yeon looked at her team one last time before she left. It wasn't just the café that had changed—it was them. They were no longer just workers in a business. They were a family, each one contributing to the growth of the café and to Seo-yeon's growth as a person.
"I'll be back soon," she said, her voice firm, her heart a mix of nervousness and resolve.
Outside, the cool breeze helped settle the tension that had been building in Seo-yeon's chest all morning. She and Joon-woo stood for a moment, side by side, saying nothing, just taking it all in. His presence, warm and steady, was the perfect anchor as she prepared to leave for Seoul.
"I'll be fine," she said quietly, her words more for herself than for him.
Joon-woo nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "You always are," he said, his voice a soothing promise.
Just as Seo-yeon turned to head toward the taxi waiting for her, her phone buzzed with an incoming email. It was from Investigator Cho, confirming receipt of the café's evidence and reminding her that the hearing was fast approaching.
The words on the screen sent a chill down her spine—Failure to comply within 10 days may result in temporary asset freeze.
Seo-yeon squeezed the phone, the reminder of Cho's looming presence intensifying the weight on her shoulders. Yet she squared her shoulders and sighed deeply.
"We'll face it lit," she said softly, her words a promise.
As she walked toward the taxi, Joon-woo's hand brushed hers one last time. And despite the legal storm, despite the challenges that awaited her, she held onto that moment, knowing that she was not alone in this fight.
Chapter 62: Return to Glass Towers
Seo-yeon stepped onto the rain-drenched streets of Seoul, the familiar skyline of glass towers looming ahead, sharp and imposing like the ghosts of her past. The cold morning air bit at her cheeks, thick with smog and the scent of rain-soaked asphalt. The city felt heavier today, as though the weight of her memories and the burden of the trial pressed down on every street corner. She could hear the distant hum of traffic, muffled by the fog that seemed to settle over the city like an old, worn blanket. With each step, the buildings seemed to draw closer, their polished surfaces gleaming in the weak light of dawn, reflecting the world that once consumed her.
Every corner, every window, every sharp edge of glass reminded her of a time when she had lived for success in this world—when the clang of deadlines and the constant shuffle of heels on marble floors had been her reality. The sharp, sterile scent of polished wood, of fresh ink on paper, of high-end coffee brewing in the break rooms, all tugged at her senses, pulling her back to a life she had worked so hard to leave behind.
The memories were overwhelming, as if the city itself was trying to swallow her whole. Her hand trembled around the strap of her suitcase as she made her way toward the entrance of the building that once felt like home—like a fortress. She could feel the old tension creeping up her spine, that familiar pressure in her chest. But this time, she refused to be swallowed by it. She was here now, and she had a purpose. The past might have defined her, but it would no longer control her.
As she reached the sleek, polished doors, a wave of nostalgia and apprehension washed over her. The elevator ride up was smooth, almost too smooth, like the sensation of moving through a dream. She had been in this elevator hundreds of times before, but this time, it felt like an entirely different world. The familiar scent of antiseptic cleaner and the soft hum of the elevator felt almost too much, like it was threatening to overwhelm her. She breathed deeply, steeling herself against the rush of emotions flooding through her veins. She wasn't that person anymore. She couldn't afford to be.
When the elevator doors slid open, the cool, air-conditioned lobby greeted her, still as pristine as she remembered. The same polished floors, the same sleek marble countertops. The faint murmur of colleagues discussing their latest deals floated through the air like distant whispers. The sound of shoes clicking against the floor, the rustling of papers, the faint clink of coffee cups—it was all so familiar, and yet it felt like a lifetime ago.
She stepped forward, her breath quickening as the memories hit her all at once. The polished wood, the sterile office spaces, the scent of freshly printed reports and endless spreadsheets—it all rushed back. Flashbacks of late nights spent glued to her desk, of power meetings with people whose names she could barely remember, of the unrelenting pressure to succeed, to climb higher. She could almost hear the faint murmur of her colleagues' voices, their words blending into a quiet symphony of ambition. But now, the sound felt distant, disconnected from the person she had become.
For a moment, she closed her eyes and let the flood of memories wash over her. She could feel the weight of the high heels she used to wear, the sharp edges of the glass desk, the sterile, impersonal nature of the work that had once defined her life. She had been so close to everything, yet so far from herself.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her suitcase, and with a slow exhale, she forced herself to open her eyes. The reflection staring back at her from the glass doors was no longer the corporate woman she had once been. It was Seo-yeon—stronger, more grounded, but still carrying the weight of the past.
The law office was starkly different from the corporate halls she had just walked through. Im Ji-hye's office was neat, organized, and professional, with the faint scent of leather-bound books and paper. There were no shiny glass surfaces or cold metal walls here, just a steady, calming presence. Im Ji-hye sat across from her, her glasses gleaming in the soft light as she spoke with quiet authority.
"You've done well so far, Seo-yeon," Im said, her voice steady and reassuring. "But there's still work to do. I've gone through the case files. The evidence is solid, but we need to be meticulous with every detail. The hearing date is set, and I'll need everything organized by then."
Seo-yeon nodded, trying to focus on the legalities and the facts laid out in front of her. But her mind kept wandering back to the glass towers outside the window, to the memories that still clung to her like a second skin. She had to let them go. She had to step forward, even if her past tried to pull her back.
As Im continued to outline the logistics, Seo-yeon listened intently, knowing that this was her chance to fight back, to regain control. But as the conversation wore on, the weight of the reality she was facing began to press on her chest. She wasn't just fighting for herself. She was fighting for the café, for her team, for everything she had built. The stakes had never been higher.
After the meeting, Seo-yeon stood in the courtroom prep area, looking out the large windows at the sprawling city skyline. The glass towers reflected the soft morning light, the clouds drifting lazily above. She watched as the sunlight caught the edges of the glass, throwing brilliant flashes across the building's surface, like it was mocking her.
This was it—the place that had once been her entire world. The place she had worked so hard to conquer. Now, it was just another city, just another view, just another reminder of who she had been. The view was beautiful, but it felt hollow now. The city had changed, but so had she. She wasn't the woman who had stood in these very spots, staring out into the world with ambition and a thirst for power. She was someone else now—someone who had learned that success, at the expense of self, wasn't worth the price.
She breathed deeply, trying to ground herself in the present. The pressure of the trial, the weight of the legal system, and the looming court date were all closing in on her. But for the first time, Seo-yeon found clarity amid the chaos. She wasn't here to fight for the glass towers or the corporate world. She was here to fight for herself, for her future, and for the people who had stood by her when the world seemed to be falling apart. She wasn't going to let her past define her anymore.
Later, Seo-yeon found herself on the rooftop of the café, the city sprawling out beneath her like a vast ocean of lights and concrete. Joon-woo stood beside her, his presence steady and grounding. He didn't say much, just let her feel the calm of the moment, letting the silence stretch between them. The weight of everything she was carrying felt lighter with him by her side.
"Are you ready?" Joon-woo asked quietly, his voice a balm for her nerves.
Seo-yeon turned to him, her eyes meeting his. There was so much unsaid between them, but in this moment, words didn't matter. She nodded slowly, feeling a sense of peace she hadn't known she needed.
"I'm ready," she whispered.
His hand found hers, warm and steady, and she squeezed it in return. They didn't need to say anything more. They were in this together.
Before she left for the airport, Ha-eun found Seo-yeon by the riverside. The older woman's presence was always quiet, but it was the kind of presence that made everything feel safer. Ha-eun handed Seo-yeon a small, folded note, and Seo-yeon opened it slowly. It was simple, but the message was clear: You've come a long way. You're ready.
Seo-yeon smiled, touched by the gesture. Ha-eun had always known exactly what to say, even when she didn't speak.
"Thank you," Seo-yeon whispered, her voice soft, carrying a thousand unspoken emotions.
Ha-eun nodded, her expression serene. She didn't need to say anything else. She was confident in Seo-yeon's strength, and that was enough.
As Seo-yeon left for the airport, her phone buzzed. It was an email from Investigator Cho, reminding her of the financial scrutiny that still loomed. The words on the screen felt like a cold weight settling in her stomach—Failure to comply within 10 days may result in temporary asset freeze.
She read the message and let out a long breath. The reminder of the trial was harsh, but she didn't let it break her resolve. This was just another hurdle to overcome, just another part of the journey.
She looked at Joon-woo, who had been quietly watching her, and squeezed his hand. "We'll face it lit," she murmured, her voice steady.
With that, she turned and stepped into the taxi waiting for her, leaving the café behind for now but knowing she wasn't alone in this fight.
As the taxi drove through the city, Seo-yeon glanced back at the café, the place she had poured her heart and soul into. She wasn't sure what awaited her in Seoul, but she knew
one thing for certain: she had the strength to face it. And with the support of her team and the man beside her, she would overcome whatever came her way.
She felt a sense of purpose settle in her chest as the taxi hummed along the slick streets, her thoughts focused on the battle ahead. The weight of the trial still loomed, but for the first time in a long while, Seo-yeon felt like she could handle whatever came her way. And as the city slipped away behind her, she knew she wasn't just leaving the café behind. She was stepping into a new chapter of her life—one where she would fight for what was hers, with everything she had.
Chapter 63: Deposition Lines
The courthouse loomed over Jong-ro like a block of quarried winter, its granite ribs catching a drizzle that smelled of pennies and exhaust. At nine-o'clock sharp Lee Seo-yeon stepped through the revolving door, each rotation scattering reflections of her, Joon-woo, and Madam Kang into a brief kaleidoscope before swallowing them whole. Inside, the lobby's polished stone amplified every cough and hurried heel-tap; authority lived in its own echo here, breathing cold against the skin.
Seo-yeon's palms sweated despite the spring chill that ghosted across the marble. She flexed her fingers—no tremor, only stiffness—and accepted the visitor badge from a bailiff who never glanced up from his clipboard. Behind the security glass, Joon-woo lifted two takeaway coffees in silent salute, holding them like lanterns she might return to after the storm. She met his eyes, offered the smallest nod, and followed Lawyer Im Ji-hye toward a bank of brass elevators.
At 09:30 the witness room proved smaller than memory allowed: four chairs, one table, and a wall clock whose second hand lurched like a limp metronome. Ha-eun stood by the frosted window—silent, serene—her grey linen blouse absorbing the weak light until she looked sculpted from dawn itself. Seo-yeon's gaze found that familiar anchor and held; she did not dare speak, but the tightness under her breastbone loosened a notch.
Madam Kang fussed with the collar of Seo-yeon's charcoal jacket, muttering about courtroom air-conditioning and city folk who never lined their coats properly. Min-ji was already live-tweeting support from the café, her phone chiming once with a "Fighting! ☕✨" that drew half a smile from Seo-yeon. Park Yujin's check-in arrived next, a whispered reminder about hydration and blood-sugar drops. The circle was holding; she only needed to keep the centre from tearing.
Im Ji-hye closed the final folder with a soft snap.
"Remember," the lawyer said, voice smooth as oiled hinges, "answer what is asked and nothing more. You survived Han River dawn; an air-conditioned boardroom will not break you."
Seo-yeon inhaled—one, two—catching the faint pine-and-metal scent that had followed her since that river morning, then exhaled on three.
The bailiff's knock cracked the air like distant thunder. "Deposition, ten o'clock. All set?"
Im Ji-hye rose. "We are."
Room 402 was a rectangle of glass and fluorescence: too cold, too bright, too honest. At its centre a mahogany table gleamed like a polished gallows; along one side sat the insurance attorney, Oh Kang-min, his tie a warlike shade of carmine. Two assistants flanked him, laptops open, fingers poised as if itching to declaw prey.
A stenographer adjusted her headset. "Proceed when ready."
Oh's opening smile showed every tooth.
"Ms Lee, please state your full name for the record, and the address of the business known as Mount Valley Café."
Seo-yeon recited both without falter. Her voice sounded alien, resonant—as though the limestone walls had borrowed it for acoustics.
Oh's gaze flicked to a document. "On the morning of March eighteenth you reported to the café at 06:15. Café revenue logs, however, suggest the registers were accessed at 05:57. Explain the discrepancy."
The question sliced fast, honed to expose. Seo-yeon's pulse stuttered; she pictured the café's predawn hush, the steam wand sputtering awake under her hands.
"I arrived early to prepare dough for the day's tteok waffles," she replied. "The register unlocks automatically when staff log in; prepping requires that access."
Oh's pen scratched a note, predator-casual. "Of course. Let's discuss the other discrepancies."
As pages rustled, Seo-yeon risked a glance past the defense table. Ha-eun sat three chairs back, hands folded, no expression save an unwavering calm that drank every fluorescent glare and returned quiet silver. She had promised silence; she gave presence instead.
Seo-yeon lifted her chin. The lawyer's next volley came sharp—ledgers, supplier invoices, a late-night bank transfer whispered into the room like scandal. Each query slammed into her ribs, but she watched Ha-eun breathe—slow, tidal—and matched that rhythm until words emerged steady, factual, intact.
Forty-five minutes in, Oh's questions veered toward personal history: the suicide attempt, the vanished identity cards, the rumours of insurance fraud. Seo-yeon felt the table tilt, as if gravity had chosen sides. Im Ji-hye's pen tapped once—signal.
"Objection, relevance. Mental-health records fall outside the scope of today's financial deposition unless you establish direct causation."
Oh leaned back, smile thinning. "Establish? Gladly. Exhibit F."
A photograph slid across the wood: a silk scarf faded to river-salt grey, tagged in a police evidence sleeve.
Seo-yeon's throat constricted. Her hand twitched toward the Montblanc pen in her jacket—absent now, exchanged months ago for bus fare north. The ghost of its weight pricked her ribs like conscience.
Ji-hye's calm cut through: "Counsel, unless you can tie a fashion accessory to café revenue, we'll adjourn to file a protective order."
The stenographer looked up, fingers poised; Oh inhaled, words forming—then exhaled, conceding the point with a curt nod. The photo retreated.
Seo-yeon's pulse eased. Strike deflected.
At 11:15 the room's oxygen thinned beneath relentless fluorescents. Oh fired another salvo: "Isn't it true the café's cash-on-hand rose by forty-six percent after your presumed death, suggesting sympathy sales you exploited once you returned?"
Sympathy sales. The phrase throbbed with insinuation. Seo-yeon's vision tunneled until only the attorney's red tie remained—a noose of silk winking under sterile light.
She swallowed. "The café grew because the community chose solidarity over gossip. If customers bought extra lattes, it was their kindness, not my manipulation."
Oh's brow lifted, as if kindness were an exotic, possibly illicit commodity.
"Convenient interpretation. Tell me, Ms Lee, do you often rely on the goodwill of others to balance your ledgers?"
A beat of silence. Seo-yeon's chest burned with unsaid histories: river water in her lungs, Min-ji's laughter rolling dough at dawn, Joon-woo's quiet repairs under tungsten bulbs. She felt Ha-eun's gaze—a steady warmth between shoulder blades—and let the breath she'd been hoarding pour out.
"No," she said, voice low but crystalline. "I rely on discipline, teamwork, and the knowledge that second chances require first-rate work. Goodwill is earned by showing up every single day, even when the water is colder than fear."
For the first time the stenographer's keys paused, as if registering something heavier than testimony.
Oh checked his notes, found no purchase, and adjusted his tie. "No further questions—today."
Ji-hye rose. "We reserve the right to submit written clarifications."
Oh offered a tight smile. "We'll be in touch."
The tape recorder clicked off. Silence settled like dust after demolition.
12:00. Hallway fluorescents hummed softer than those inside, as though the building itself exhaled now that blood sport had ended. Seo-yeon stepped out first, shoulders squared. Joon-woo unfolded from a bench, coffee still warm, eyes searching hers. She managed a thin curve of lips—somewhere between relief and resignation—and accepted the cup. Its heat seeped into her knuckles, grounding her.
Madam Kang clasped Seo-yeon's face with flour-rough hands. "잘했다, 아이고. It's only lines on paper; you're made of breath."
Min-ji texted a storm of heart emojis the moment the courtroom Wi-Fi caught signal. Yujin sent a thumbs-up and a doctor emoji. Support, measurable as heartbeats.
Across the atrium, Oh Kang-min conferred with his aides, already plotting the next angle. His red tie disappeared behind a pillar, but its after-image lingered—like a warning flare arcing into clear sky.
12:30 found them in the café's backroom, steamed-milk warmth replacing courthouse chill. The air smelled of cinnamon syrup and fresh dough; lunchtime chatter drifted from the front like a muffled tide. Seo-yeon cradled a mug of barley tea, letting its earthy scent dissolve what remained of fluorescent glare. Joon-woo slid a honey packet across the table; their fingers brushed—accident or promise, she couldn't tell.
Ha-eun stood in the doorway, silent sentinel amid burlap coffee sacks. She inclined her head once, approval in the softening of her eyes. Seo-yeon answered with the faintest nod.
Outside, Min-ji's curated jazz playlist launched into a husky sax riff that bled through the walls, gilding the room with late-morning languor. But under that velvet sound the café machines hissed and clattered—tools at work, forging what tomorrow would taste like.
Seo-yeon sipped the tea, honey blooming on her tongue. The courtroom's lines had tried to define her, skew her into columns of loss, but she felt no hollow in her chest—only space, pliant and waiting. The next chapter of the fight would come with harsher questions, deeper cuts. Crossing the line had never been a single step; it was the long, bruising walk that followed.
She set the mug down, straightened her shoulders, and reached for the ledger pad Min-ji kept beside the grinder.
"Let's balance today," she said.
In the doorway Ha-eun smiled—small, silver—and the backroom lights seemed to brighten by half a shade, as if the café itself inhaled.
Chapter 64: Balance-Sheet Ghosts
A faint dawn drizzle freckled the plexiglass awning of the street-corner kiosk, turning the soy milk in the steamer acrid, almost scorched. Lee Seo-yeon tasted the burnt scent before the cup reached her lips and shuddered: bitterness that foreshadowed a morning already bristling with bad omens. Beside her, Im Ji-hye shuffled a stapled exhibit list, eyes skimming lines as if praying margins might sprout extra ammunition. Traffic coughed to life beyond the curb, the city yawning open—yet the two women hovered in the pause between exhales, knowing once they crossed the courthouse threshold the air would no longer belong to them.
"You realise every document Mr Chae files today is meant to peel you like an onion," Ji-hye murmured, voice disguised inside her paper cup.
"Then let him see how many layers it takes before he cries," Seo-yeon said, and forced the latte down. The burnt edge clung to her tongue; she swallowed it anyway. Strength sometimes tasted like failure you refused to spit out.
The evidentiary courtroom at nine-sharp was refrigerated, square, and luminously cruel. Fluorescent tubes hissed overhead, each one a judicial blade. Judge Moon, immovable behind the mahogany bench, tapped his gavel once. As counsel settled, a door at the rear opened and Opposing Counsel Chae Sung-hwan entered with a slim black folio. He laid it on the presentation cart as tenderly as a newborn, yet a flicker in his eyes betrayed the pleasure of a hunter showing fresh spoor.
"Your Honour," he began, voice silk over steel, "the defence has no objection to additional exhibits, I trust?"
Im Ji-hye's knuckles whitened on her legal pad. "Objection to surprise exhibits outside the seventy-two-hour window," she said—but the words felt procedural, half-alive. She shot a quick glance at Seo-yeon: Ready? Seo-yeon answered with the smallest nod. Burnt soy still coated her throat.
Chae opened the folio. Photocopies fanned out—grey ghosts of ledger pages, water-blurred around the edges. Stamped in the corner: Bae Final Ledger, 12 Nov—the night the banker stepped from Jamsil Bridge and never surfaced alive. Murmurs rippled through the gallery; even the clerk's pen stuttered mid-stroke.
"Page three," Chae continued, sliding a copy beneath the document camera. On the projector screen a row of figures snapped into magnified focus: ₩28,000,000 → MV Café Ops (Shell) time-stamped 23:11. Above the entry, a faint double underline. Below it, the initials L.S. in cramped block script.
Seo-yeon's pulse pounded inside her ears, loud enough to drown the court reporter's clacking keys. A cold bloom unfurled along her spine—and with it, an impossible image flickered behind her eyes. Ink, black as midnight, tumbling through water, the lines dissolving, reforming, bleeding. Ha-eun. The vision vanished as suddenly as it came, leaving only the chill.
Ji-hye stood. "Your Honour, we must question provenance. This material has never appeared in discovery."
Chae's smile widened fractionally. "Found in the decedent's personal safety box, catalogued last week. The prosecution thanks Investigator Cho for meticulous chain-of-custody." He gestured to Cho, seated at the government table, face unreadable marble. If he enjoyed the ambush, not a single muscle confessed.
Judge Moon peered over bifocals. "Defence may review originals. Until then, exhibit is preliminarily admitted for authentication."
Bang of the gavel—once, twice—and the courtroom breathed again, though the air felt thinner.
Fifteen-minute recess. Hallway heat radiated off cream stone walls, a furnace after the courtroom's chill. Seo-yeon, Ji-hye, and two paralegals huddled between vending machines that hummed like indolent dragons.
"Water damage," one paralegal whispered, pointing to a photocopy. "See how the ink halos around the numbers? Then fresh strokes overwrite—different viscosity."
Ji-hye's eyes narrowed. "Someone rewrote after the page was wet. Could be months later, could be yesterday."
"My initials," Seo-yeon muttered, tracing the L-shaped scrawl with a fingernail. "I never sign like that—block letters. And there was no shell account in November." A headache blossomed behind her eyes, merging past grief with present fury. If the ledger stood, the court could freeze every won tied to Mount Valley before the main hearing; one fraudulent number could suffocate a hundred honest cups of coffee.
The recess buzzer blared. Ji-hye looked up. "Whatever happens in there, follow my lead. But if you know in your gut something is wrong, signal me. Partnership, not hierarchy—understood?"
Seo-yeon dropped her hand, flexed her fingers as if shedding invisible ink stains. "Understood."
Lavatory mirror, 09:40. Harsh LEDs carved fatigue trenches beneath Seo-yeon's eyes. She flashed back to that November night: her father at the café's back booth, whiskey-amber light painting shaking hands; a ledger? No—only a blank napkin he shredded into snowflakes. Yet guilt tugged, murky and persistent. Had she missed something? Or had someone buried their own ghosts in her name?
A drop of faucet water struck the sink. She watched it spread and fade, the mirror fracturing her reflection into a puzzle of damp porcelain and trembling certainty.
Back on the record at ten. Ji-hye adjusted her glasses, voice firm.
"Counsel, when exactly was this document discovered?"
"Eight days ago," Chae answered. "In a classified safe, unlocked by court order."
"And the safe key?"
"Held by the executor of Mr Bae's estate."
"Executor deceased in February," Ji-hye shot back. "Who had interim access?"
Chae's smile twitched. "That is under investigation."
Judge Moon's gavel tapped a warning. Yet the hole in chain-of-custody yawned like a sinkhole across the polished floor. Ji-hye pressed harder, questioning authentication methods, handwriting comparisons, ink-age dating. Chae deflected, citing forthcoming expert reports. The judge, frowning, scheduled a forensic review and provisional hearing, thirteen days hence—the eve of their main trial calendar.
"In the interim," Moon concluded, "if the document proves even prima facie credible, the court will consider asset preservation orders. Prepare."
Seo-yeon's stomach dipped. Asset freeze. The ₩415,000 buffer cap at the café—life raft in a storm of invoices—could turn to ice in an instant.
10:15. Across town, Min-ji's phone chimed with the court livestream transcript. In the café's storage alcove—now a makeshift war-room—she photographed every projected page, fingers flying across two phones, one laptop. Madam Kang hovered behind her, reading over shoulder. At slide three she sucked in a sharp breath.
"That underline," Kang murmured. "Same weight as my husband's pocket fountain pen. And the 7s—barred European style. He always wrote numbers that way after he studied in Vienna."
"Your husband balanced books, right?" Min-ji asked, confusion swirling with dawning dread.
"Kept side-ledgers for tax drafts," Kang admitted, voice thin. "But never these transfers. Never."
Messages flashed in the group chat: Joon-woo: checking 2019 backup drive for raw transaction logs. Cross fingers.
Yujin: on call—generator making noise again, but I'll babysit spreadsheets.
Min-ji: screens done, uploading to vault.
Together apart, the circle knotted tighter—even as old family ink seeped into new wounds.
--
In court, 10:45. The judge rose; session adjourned. Paper rustled like restless wings. Investigator Cho closed his briefcase, eyes flicking to Seo-yeon—cool, unreadable. She met the gaze, forced herself not to flinch. Cho was no longer the sole architect of her dread; the ledger had given him shadow allies.
--
By 11:30 she stood on the courthouse roof garden. Rain misted over planters of ornamental barley, leaving beads that glittered on the fronds like coins stranded by a tide. Seoul's glass skyline shimmered, buildings reflecting skewed versions of themselves in one another's windows—truth warped, repeated, elusive.
Elevator doors slid open behind her. Yang Joon-woo stepped out, hair damp, eyes bleak but blazing.
"I came the second Min-ji sent the transcript," he said.
She wanted to explain the weight of water-stained paper, the dread of numbers wearing her initials like stolen skin. Instead she walked into his arms, the city noise muffling as his coat closed around her shoulders. They stood like that, two clear shapes against mirrored towers, while the drizzle painted glints across his lenses.
"We'll prove it's a forgery," he whispered into her hair. "I'll pull every metadata string until something snaps."
Seo-yeon breathed in the promise—coffee grounds, rain, resolve. Somewhere below, a generator backfired and stuttered—her café's heartbeat echoing across districts. If accounts froze, the machine could go silent for good. But for now, the thrum survived, carried by a web of friends threading evidence, memory, and stubborn hope.
She stepped back, catching Joon-woo's hand. "We have thirteen days," she said. "Let's meet the ghosts head-on."
Far above them, clouds churned like unwritten ledgers—blank, restless, waiting for ink or erasure. Seo-yeon squared her shoulders beneath the drizzle. Next chapter belonged to the hunt.
Chapter 65: Circle Defense
Cold florescence and last night's exhaustion pooled together like weak tea in Lee Seo-yeon's veins, but at 06:45 she still stood straight in the seventh-floor nook of Im Law Associates. The conference alcove was scarcely bigger than a broom closet—one frosted window, a sagging couch, and a vending machine whose coffee tasted as if the beans had sworn vengeance. Overhead, strip lights buzzed, turning Im Ji-hye's charcoal suit the color of gunmetal.
On a corkboard scavenged from the interns' bullpen, Ji-hye sketched a crude spiral, then slashed across it with a firm black stroke. "Ledger lines," she said, tapping the slash. "Sharp. Accusatory. Easy to read but easier to fake."
With a second marker she drew a perfect circle—open, continuous, unbroken. "Lantern chain. Your recovery narrative. Community testifies to this." She stepped back. "We walk the court from line to loop, fracture to wholeness. Keep your answers round—bring every digression back to the circle."
Seo-yeon nodded while massaging the rim of a waxy paper cup. The coffee inside smelled scorched, almost comforting in its bitterness. She sipped, winced, and began the five-beat breath she had learned during rehab: in for two, hold for one, out for two. A bruise-violet dawn seeped through the window, outlining her reflection in the glass—pale face, sleepless crescent shadows, but eyes steady. Somewhere on the edge of awareness Ha-eun's presence fluttered like a candle behind frosted glass. Not now, she pleaded inwardly. I must speak for myself today.
Ji-hye clicked a remote. The wall-screen lit with a drone photograph: hundreds of townsfolk holding paper lanterns, bodies forming a glowing circle around the café's courtyard. Warm amber pinpoints against January snow. "Exhibit A," the lawyer said. "Looks better than every affidavit. Lanterns don't lie."
"Lines can," Seo-yeon answered. She crushed the cup and tossed it, coffee splattering the bin's steel lip like dark punctuation.
By nine-o'clock Courtroom 4B pulsed with body heat and a low buzz of anticipation. Marble pillars rose like stern sentries beneath a ceiling coffered deep enough to swallow sound. Gallery benches were packed—law students, mid-tier reporters, half a dozen café regulars who had taken the first train north to watch their barista-owner spar with Seoul's sharpest litigators. Yang Joon-woo sat beside the western aisle, phone angled discreetly to record audio; his knuckles blanched whenever he remembered to breathe.
Judge Park Eun-seok entered, robe immaculate, salt-silver hair combed to disciplined order. His gaze skimmed the bar tables, lingering a heartbeat on Seo-yeon—tired yet upright—before he gaveled for silence.
Im Ji-hye rose. "Your Honour, the defense presents Exhibit A." The lights dimmed; the lantern-circle photo filled two adjoining screens, blanketing the courtroom in amber glow. Gasps fluttered; even Mr Chae's predatory poise slackened as warm light painted his marble cheeks honey.
"Ms Lee," Ji-hye said, pivoting toward the witness stand, "do you recognise this image?"
"Yes," Seo-yeon replied, voice scratchy but clear. "That was the night we reopened after the flood repairs. The community formed a lantern circle to show we weren't alone."
"And what role did you play?"
"I stood in the centre, holding the first lantern." She lifted her hand, unconsciously drawing a small circle in the air with her index finger. A brief ripple of reflection danced across the courtroom floor—nothing mystical, merely the projector's glow, but Joon-woo saw it glimmer around her shoes like a halo.
Ji-hye paced three steps, heels crisp against stone. "Tell the court how that circle relates to your sobriety practice."
Seo-yeon inhaled her five beats. "Recovery isn't a straight line. It loops. You return to the same fears until you see them differently. Each morning I trace a circle of chalk on the café prep table. It reminds the staff—and me—that whatever enters must be completed with care: a drink order, a conflict, a mistake."
Judge Park leaned forward, elbows on the bench, eyes unblinking. The gallery fell into reverent quiet as if they, too, felt the tug of that imaginary chalk loop.
Opposing Counsel Chae rose for cross-examination at 09:40, suit charcoal and tie a muted burgundy today, perhaps to temper yesterday's blood-red triumph. He approached with languid grace, but the paper stack in his hand slapped the podium like a gauntlet.
"Ms Lee," he began, "you speak of circles, yet your financial record reads like a tangle. On the night of Mr Bae's death you experienced, by your own admission, a blackout. How can you swear this lantern project wasn't camouflage for misappropriated funds?"
Ji-hye objected to the characterization. Sustained, the judge said—but Chae merely smiled and reshaped the question.
"During those blackout periods—dissociative episodes, I believe you called them—were you capable of authorising a twenty-eight-million-won transfer?"
Ice threaded Seo-yeon's gut. She felt Ha-eun stir again, a tremor at the periphery of sight. Don't, she begged silently. I must stay here. Her thumb pressed the inside of her wrist—one, two—but she refused the third tap that usually grounded her. I can ground myself, she thought. Her gaze held Chae's.
"No," she answered, voice slow iron. "My doctor's records show I was in crisis counselling that entire week, monitored nightly. There is no evidence I touched a banking portal."
Chae's eyebrows arched. "Yet your initials appear in that ledger."
"Appended by unknown hands," she shot back. "Ink analysis pending."
Chae flipped a page. "You also claim a guardian spirit—" he let the phrase drip disdain "—urged your recovery. Would you explain that to the court?"
A murmur rolled across the gallery; reporters leaned like sunflowers. Seo-yeon's pulse spiked. Across the tiles a gentle amber circle swelled—subtle, warm, no broader than a dinner plate—right where her gaze might fall if fear bowed her head. Only she saw it; none of the fluorescents flickered, no shadows moved. Ha-eun, silent and steadfast. Seo-yeon straightened.
"My community acted as guardian," she said, selecting each consonant carefully. "Human hands, Judge Park. Not superstition."
Chae pounced. "But you did experience auditory hallucinations in the months following your suicide attempt?"
Ji-hye objected—badgering. Overruled. Judge Park's face remained impassive, but a firmer tone entered his question: "Counsel will proceed, but confine himself to facts, not verbal cudgels."
Chae nodded, chastened only in appearance. "Answer the question."
"Yes, I experienced dissociative symptoms," Seo-yeon said evenly. "I reported them, sought treatment, and remain compliant with therapy."
At 09:55 Judge Park lifted a hand. "The court requires clarity. Under Criminal Procedure Article 100, we must verify mental competency when testimony involves admitted dissociative states." He studied Seo-yeon, not unkindly. "I have no cause to doubt your sincerity, Ms Lee, but the law demands uniform assurance."
He called counsel to sidebar. Whispered argument fluttered like moth wings: Ji-hye citing transparent medical logs; Chae insisting on "objective psychiatric assurance"; Investigator Cho standing slightly behind Chae, gaze lowered, yet nodding at intervals.
When they broke, Park spoke aloud: "The court orders an independent psychiatric evaluation of Ms Lee Seo-yeon, to be completed and filed within five days. Hearing is suspended until results are submitted; asset-freeze motion will be reconsidered concurrently."
The gavel's crack felt louder than the drone rotors had the night they filmed the lantern spiral. Five days. Café festival finale in four. Ledger-ink aging report in six. The calendar tightened like a vise.
Hallway chaos at 10:20 smelled of printer toner and stale muffins. Reporters clustered; camera shutters clicked. Ji-hye shouldered through, one arm shielding her client. In a quieter alcove she faced Seo-yeon squarely.
"This doesn't sink us," the lawyer murmured. "We get a trauma-specialist psychiatrist, one the judge respects. Clear eval, ledger forgery, we're upright again."
Seo-yeon managed a nod. She was aware of her own heartbeat, too loud, almost circular—pushing blood round and round. Joon-woo caught up, recording app still glowing on his screen.
"I have contacts at the Han River rescue clinic," he said, voice low. "They work PTSD cases daily and testify. I'll start calling."
Seo-yeon exhaled, some tension leaving her shoulders. "Thank you."
Her phone vibrated—Madam Kang. The preview line read We need to talk. I know things about the handwriting. Guilt laced every syllable of the text. Seo-yeon's thumb hovered; she promised a callback.
Ji-hye's eyes softened. "Trust the circle you built, Seo-yeon. We'll keep it whole."
At 11:00 the trio found the roof garden again, wind snapping their coats like pennants. The mid-morning sun had climbed behind filmy haze, but around it a spectral halo formed—a perfect ring, faint yet undeniable, as if the sky itself remembered lantern light.
Seo-yeon lifted her face to the chill breeze. Skyscraper windows mirrored the halo, bending it, but never breaking the shape. She felt the loop settle inside her chest: fear trailing into courage, then back to fear, each feeding the next until neither ruled her.
"I will pass the evaluation," she said, touching the pulse beneath her jaw. "No relapse, no secrets. The circle stays unbroken."
Ji-hye placed a hand atop hers; Joon-woo covered them both. Three points, single bond.
Below them the city rumbled—buses, generators, lives in motion. Five days, one festival, a forged ledger waiting to be unmasked. Around them, sunlight crowned the ring in the sky and seemed to whisper that circles, unlike lines, never truly end—they only hand you back to where you must begin again.
Chapter 66 :Crane at Court
Grey dawn pressed against the guesthouse windows like damp wool when Yang Joon-woo padded into the kitchenette. The single bulb above the counter gave a faint, butter-yellow halo to the rising steam of the kettle. He poured matcha-flecked milk into a silver thermos whose white-on-steel decal showed an origami crane in mid-glide. The tiny bird's wings looked poised to lift the whole flask off the laminate. On impulse he folded an actual crane—crisp napkin, careful creases—and tucked it beneath the cap so it would spring free when opened.
Across the narrow hall, Lee Seo-yeon gathered her files. Three hours' sleep left her edges raw, but practice lent grace to fatigue. She slipped breath-training logs, gratitude sketches, and medical clearances into a manila folder that already bore smudged fingerprints of too many court days. When she emerged, coat belted and hair pinned, he offered the thermos without words. The warmth seeped into her palms, a portable hearth.
Outside, drizzle stitched silver threads through Seoul's traffic glow. Taxi tires hissed on wet asphalt, and office towers hid their crowns in low cloud. By 07:15 they reached the courthouse plaza, a slab of glass and authority rising like a glacier ahead of two small figures. Metal detectors and uniformed guards marked the line Joon-woo could not cross.
He pressed the thermos closer. "When the lid pops," he said, "remember everyone waiting for you to come back." She traced the crane emblem with her thumb, then reached up and let her forehead rest against his for a single heartbeat, rain cooling their cheeks. Afterward, she walked through the detectors alone, shoulders squared.
The clinic nestled inside the courthouse's south wing felt nothing like a place of healing. Antiseptic sting hung in the air, and fluorescent tubes hummed a monotone that matched no human pulse. Seo-yeon sat in a molded chair, letting her five-beat breath slow the jitter in her knees. In-two… hold-one… out-two. Her phone buzzed: a photo from Madam Kang—dozens of colourful paper cranes piled in a wicker basket on the café counter, volunteers' hands blurring at the edges of the frame. Fly, dear, the caption read. She smiled, pain and pride twined like ivy.
A nurse called her name at 07:45 and led her down a corridor the colour of unprinted news. Dr Park Hye-sun awaited in an uncluttered office—no framed diplomas, only a single bonsai that bent in permanent silent wind. The psychiatrist's eyes were dark, steady pools; her handshake was brief but warm.
"Court asks clarity," she began, voice clear as temple bells. "I ask truth. We'll record this session for transcript."
Seo-yeon nodded. The red light on a corner camera blinked to life.
Part I — History
Questions flowed, precise and nonjudgmental: childhood rituals, first panic attack, the river bridge, rehab milestones, the chalk circle, the lantern night. Dr Park's pen moved in graceful strokes, no scribbled rush. When she asked about the guardian phenomenon, Seo-yeon took a breath deep enough to taste the starch of the clinic gown at her throat.
"I once described a presence that steadied me," she said. "People call it what they need—guardian, conscience, faith. I have learned to let it be part of my story without letting it speak for me."
The psychiatrist's brows lifted, intrigued but not alarmed. "And when it stirs now?"
"I feel warmth in my chest and remember to breathe." Simple, unembellished. The pen resumed its glide.
Part II — Stress Test
At 08:10 the nurse brought in a tablet loaded with rapid-fire cognitive tasks. Patterns flashed—numbers, shapes, fragments of faces—and Seo-yeon tapped answers while a silent countdown bar flickered red. Midway through, the image of Jamsil Bridge surfaced without warning: railing slick with rain, river writhing beneath. Her fingertips froze above the screen; heart rate spiked.
A hush of amber spread across her vision, as if a candle glowed behind her eyes—soft, concentric, familiar. I'm here, it seemed to say. Not speaking for her, only reminding her she still breathed. She finished the task; the timer chirped. Dr Park watched the pulse oximeter numbers settle back to steady green.
"You deployed a grounding cue," the doctor observed.
"Circle of breath," Seo-yeon confirmed. "Three taps optional; I didn't need them today."
The pen made one slow tick.
By 08:40 they stood outside the office where the corridor windows leaked misty light. Im Ji-hye materialised, tablet clutched to her chest. Tension pinched the lawyer's lips until Dr Park spoke.
"No disqualifying condition noted," the psychiatrist said. "Post-traumatic symptoms are managed with insight. I'll recommend continued therapy, not incapacity."
Seo-yeon's knees wobbled; Ji-hye exhaled the breath of a diver breaking surface. But before relief could bloom, a junior clerk in government livery approached—Cho's emblem on his lapel.
"Investigator Cho requests all raw session notes for evidentiary review," he said.
Dr Park's expression cooled by a fraction. "My summary will satisfy the court," she replied. "Raw notes contain privileged nuance not subject to fishing expeditions." The clerk bowed, retreating without argument—but the echo of Cho's reach lingered, a shadow growing longer.
Rain thinned to a sprinkle when Seo-yeon emerged beneath the plaza awning at 08:55. Joon-woo stepped forward, umbrella angled. She unscrewed the thermos; steam curled out, carrying grassy matcha scent—and the napkin crane sprang up, wings unfurling in damp warmth. She laughed, sudden, bright enough to turn drizzle to glitter.
"It survived the crossing," he said.
"So did I." She tucked the crane in her coat pocket, its paper edges soft with steam. For a second she let her head rest against his shoulder, not caring who watched.
A taxi ferried them toward the law office. At 09:10 Madam Kang's face filled Seo-yeon's phone screen, cheeks flushed with determined excitement. Behind her, volunteers strung cranes on fishing line, rainbow garlands swaying above espresso machines.
"We'll hang a thousand by tomorrow night," Kang declared. "Fundraiser, mental-health outreach—city inspectors can't freeze hope."
Min-ji's voice chimed off-camera. "Stickers are printing! Crane logo on every cup. Hashtag 'Unfold Hope' trending in thirty-seven minutes." The café erupted in cheers that crackled through the speaker.
Seo-yeon's eyes prickled, not with tears but with something lighter. "I'll be back this evening," she promised. "Keep the kettles singing."
Glass towers slid past the taxi window, their mirrored skins still slick but no longer menacing. In their reflection she noticed a white shape—a paper crane caught against the glass by an errant gust—flutter, tumble, then lift again on a rogue updraft. The city would not cage it; neither would ledgers or transcripts.
Past is glass, she mused, watching the skyline ripple. Future is folded paper—fragile, yes, but reshapeable, delivered hand to hand until it can fly on its own.
Five days until Dr Park's report hit the docket. Four until the forensic ink hearing. One night until cranes glowed above the café like small, stubborn constellations. Seo-yeon fingered the soft wings in her pocket and thought, Let Cho read every note he wants—he will still have to reckon with a circle that refuses to break and a crane that will not sink.
Outside, the drizzle ceased. The clouds parted just enough for a pale shard of sun to find the taxi roof and slash it with light—sharp, fleeting, but unmistakably there.
Chapter 67: Dokkaebi Candle
A soft noon drizzle silver-brushed the roof tiles of Insadong's narrow back lanes, turning the cobblestones into mottled mirrors that tossed up stray reflections of neon tea signs and jangling wind chimes. Lee Seo-yeon and Yang Joon-woo hurried beneath a patched black umbrella, crane logo faintly visible where rain had bled the ink. One errant gust flipped the fabric inside out and sent icy droplets spattering over the folders tucked beneath Seo-yeon's arm.
"Shelter—there," Joon-woo said, pointing to a crooked wooden door wedged between a hanbok boutique and a shop selling pickled persimmons. A lacquered placard above the lintel read BOOKS & TALISMANS, MR SHIM in chipped gold leaf. A bell that sounded suspiciously like a bicycle bell announced their entrance.
Inside, the shop smelled of pine wax, old hanji parchment and something faintly metallic—perhaps rust from the ceiling-hung wind chimes shaped like tiger teeth. Shelves reached the low rafters, crammed with fox-mask bookmarks, straw shoes rumoured to ward off jealousy, and clay figurines of goblins mid-dance. Electric bulbs hid behind rice-paper shades, their light the colour of antique honey.
Seo-yeon exhaled, shoulders unclenching. No glass walls here, no humming fluorescents—only wood that creaked like a friendly floorboard and dust motes drifting as lazily as alley cats. Joon-woo shut the door against the rain; silence settled, broken only by the clock-tick drip of water from their umbrella.
From behind a curtain of jang-gu drum skins emerged Mr Shim, a wiry man in cobalt-blue vest and tortoiseshell spectacles that magnified eyes already huge with curiosity.
"New faces on a soggy day," he chirped. "What mischief brings you?"
"We're not sure yet," Seo-yeon said, half-smiling.
"Mischief often knows before we do." He beckoned them to a cluttered counter. There, neat rows of soy-wax candles sat in shallow brass tins. Each candle's creamy surface was crowned by two stubby red horns crafted from sealing wax; a stylised analytics-bar pattern encircled the tin like a soundwave.
Mr Shim struck a long -necked lighter. Flame licked the left horn; red wax softened, dripping a crimson tear that sizzled an instant before hardening. A sweet scent—pine resin laced with roasted barley—spiralled upward.
"Dok-kae-bi chotbul," he declared. "Goblin fire. Folklore says a dokkaebi snuffs out village lanterns, then sneaks inside to steal rice. But the trickster can't resist counting the grains. If villagers repaint their storage jars with crooked numerals, the goblin mis-counts, exposes itself, and—poof!—vanishes at dawn."
Joon-woo leaned closer; steam from their damp coats curled around the flame, turning it into a tiny red beacon. "Counting stolen rice like chasing social-media likes," he mused. "Or follower numbers."
Seo-yeon's pulse skipped. Follower numbers. A memory flashed—three months ago, a baffling overnight jump of 12 000 followers on the café's account, exactly six days before the ledger's mysterious cash spike. She had dismissed it as viral luck brought by a travel vlogger's reel. But horns… counting… mischief.
She tapped the analytics-bar ring on the tin. "What inspired this pattern?"
"Stylised counting rods," Mr Shim replied. "My little joke—goblins love tallies."
The joke landed like a stone skipping across water until it struck an unseen depth.
Seo-yeon flicked open her phone, thumbed to Min-ji's dashboard screenshot from last quarter: jagged follower graph, one unnatural cliff-like surge—twin red peaks. Horns. Greedy, symmetrical. Joon-woo's brow furrowed in recognition; he snapped a photo of the candle.
"We'll take six," Seo-yeon told Mr Shim, paying before thought could catch up. She pocketed the receipt—evidence, she reasoned, sometimes arrived scented like pine wax.
Rain had eased to mist when they stepped outside at 11:45. Umbrella forgotten, they huddled beneath the awning's dripping edge while Joon-woo started a video call.
Min-ji's face popped onto the screen, backlit by café windows strung with fluttering crane garlands. "You two look like wet laundry."
"Feast your eyes," Joon-woo said, angling the camera toward the horned candle tin.
"Cute?" Min-ji ventured.
"Cunning," Seo-yeon corrected. "Remember the follower spike before the ledger mess? Two red peaks—like horns. Can you run a bot-cred scan on those accounts?"
Min-ji's gaze sharpened. "Hold on." She turned, calling for her laptop. Keystrokes clacked rapid-fire. "Pre-lim result: ninety-two percent created within forty-eight hours of the spike, zero profile pics, same three retweets—classic bot-farm fingerprints."
"Someone inflated our viral footprint," Seo-yeon murmured, "then pointed to revenue to claim fraud."
"Dokkaebi counting stolen rice," Min-ji said, half breath, half growl. "I'll scrape full metadata, isolate the puppet-master's IP clusters."
"Copy results to Im Ji-hye," Joon-woo added. "She'll pre-file disclosures before Cho uses this in court."
Min-ji saluted with a coffee stirrer. "Operation Goblin Fire commences."
They ducked into a steamy noodle stall, vinyl flaps puffing behind them. Over bowls of chilli-slick kal-guksu they outlined the plan. Min-ji would trace bot origins; Joon-woo would marry spikes to transaction timestamps; Im would weaponise the pattern in a motion that undercut Cho's "viral revenue = intent" thesis. The candles—Mr Shim had more in back—would become fundraiser merchandise, sales logged transparently to humiliate any future allegations.
Steam fogged the small window; on its surface Seo-yeon drew a pair of tiny horns, then enclosed them in a neat circle. Trickery contained. She wiped the glass clean and felt lighter for it.
Across Seoul the café pulsed with activity. Madam Kang perched at the service bar, folding cranes so quickly the paper seemed to bloom between her knuckles. Volunteers, laughing, affixed miniature horn stickers—bright scarlet—onto the cranes' wings: a wink at goblin mischief, a promise they'd see tricksters coming next time. Lantern cords already webbed the ceiling; soon candle tins would glow beneath them, red wax horns softening in the warmth.
Hope and caution dancing side by side—exactly the balance Seo-yeon had learned to keep.
At 16:20, as Seo-yeon and Joon-woo navigated the subway back toward the guesthouse, both phones pinged. Im Ji-hye's text:
CHO FILED MOTION TO COMPEL PSYCH RAW NOTES + CITE "SUSPICIOUS VIRAL REVENUE."
Deadline for opposition: tomorrow 10 a.m. Send any hard proof tonight.
Seo-yeon's jaw clenched—but not in fear. She forwarded Min-ji's preliminary bot analysis, then photographed the candle tin's analytics ring for good measure. A trickster had revealed its greed; now daylight would finish the job.
Evening deepened into a slate-blue hush when they reached the guesthouse attic. A cardboard crate waited on the floor. Seo-yeon arranged the six candles side by side, cushioning them with sheets of yesterday's business section—headlines about market volatility and trust deficits crinkled beneath fragrant wax that promised, paradoxically, clarity.
As she sealed the box, Ha-eun's familiar warmth pulsed once, barely more than a heartbeat of heat around the wrists—an approving nod from the quiet corners of her life. Seo-yeon whispered thanks to the darkness.
She pictured the courtroom tomorrow: Cho wielding charts of skyrocketed likes, unaware that each counterfeit follower was a wick the defence now intended to light. Goblin fire might scorch the greedy, but—in the right hands—it could also illuminate truth.
She pressed the final strip of tape across the crate and rose, determination settling across her shoulders like a well-cut coat.
"Ready to face some goblins?" Joon-woo asked.
"Let them bring their horns," she said, sliding the dokkaebi candle into her coat pocket. "We'll meet them with cranes and candlelight."
Outside, the rain had stopped. The night air carried the faintest scent of pine wax and possibility.
Chapter 68: Memory Tunnel
The elevator sank beneath Seoul National Medical Center with a sigh like a closing book. Fluorescent panels flickered overhead, bathing Lee Seo-yeon and Im Ji-hye in pallid light as the digital floor counter slid from B1 to B3. Here, three levels below the ambulance bay, the hospital kept the bones of its history—metal shelves, microfilm drawers, and dust waiting for names to call it back to life.
At nine-o'clock sharp, the doors parted onto an underground passage so long its far end pinched to a vanishing point. The staff called it the Memory Tunnel. Tiles the colour of old teeth lined the walls; vents exhaled a chill reeking faintly of bleach and copper. Every fluorescent ballast hummed at a slightly different pitch, weaving a dissonant chord that vibrated against Seo-yeon's ribs.
She swallowed. In that hum she heard echoes—gurney wheels rattling, Doppler-warped sirens, the ragged rhythm of her own breath the night they dragged her in half-drowned and wholly ashamed. Today she carried caffeine, not river water, in her bloodstream; but memory, she knew, could still breach its banks.
Ji-hye angled her tablet toward the darkness. "Archives window is at the midpoint. Get the triage log, the vitals sheet, and anything time-stamped between twenty-three-fifty and oh-one-thirty."
Seo-yeon nodded and started down the corridor. Each step sent faint echoes skittering ahead like startled sparrows.
A plexiglass booth jutted from the left wall. Behind the counter a clerk in mint scrubs peered over bifocals. "Restricted files require department chair clearance," he droned, tapping the laminated policy sheet.
Seo-yeon's rehearsed plea faltered. She fished for arguments—pending litigation, due process—but the clerk's boredom calcified into obstinacy.
The phone in her pocket buzzed. Park Yujin's face filled the screen, surgical mask dangling at her throat and ID badge gleaming. "Put me on," she said. Seo-yeon obliged, turning the screen toward the clerk.
"Dr Park, ER medicine. Authorising chart review for legal subpoena preparation," Yujin stated. She held her badge close enough that its hologram glinted. The clerk's posture wilted; a pass-card thunked onto the counter.
"Fifteen-minute limit," he muttered, sliding a sign-in ledger across.
"Twelve will do," Seo-yeon answered, offering a grateful twitch of lips before hurrying on.
Dust motes spiralled in the records room, dancing through slats of cold light. Shelves towered, sagging under accordion files the colour of mildew and chalk. Seo-yeon traced coded labels—SUIC 2019 NOV—until her fingertips brushed a folder snagged in the wrong slot.
Inside: an intake sheet dotted with smudges where rain had bled the ink. Her own name stared back, block letters bloated by moisture. Time received: 23:58 handwritten in a hurried scrawl. Yet the digital printout stapled beneath declared 00:17.
Nineteen minutes evaporated between pen and pixel.
Heat flushed her cheeks; palms grew slick. Was this the ledger's missing thread—proof that clocks lied the night the river raged? She pressed the pages to her chest, breath stuttering. The fluorescent hum swelled, almost siren-loud, then softened into something like distant water over stones. She inhaled through it—five-beat rhythm. One, two; hold; out, two. When she centered again, the hum receded to a manageable buzz.
Ji-hye guided her to the residents' lounge, where stale coffee and sunscreen mingled on the air. Dr Bae Sung-min—once the bleary intern who had stitched her hypothermic fingers—sat reviewing charts. Lines of fatigue creased the corners of his eyes, but recognition dawned quick and warm.
"Generator lag night," he said after skimming the intake sheet. "Floodwater shorted the backup UPS. IT patched the server clock at 00:18. We logged everything manually until then."
"Could you attest to that?" Ji-hye asked, stylus hovering above her tablet.
Bae signed without hesitation. Digital pen strokes glowed electric blue, locking an affidavit into place. Parallel to the café's own generator fiasco, Seo-yeon thought—machines slipping, people improvising, truth getting time-stamped in pencil while databases slept.
They commandeered a corner table in the lobby café. Steam from paper cups curled around their huddle as Seo-yeon opened a video link. Min-ji appeared first, wire-framed glasses reflecting cascading code; Joon-woo joined from Mount Valley, pallet of crane-night supplies stacked behind him like bright origami mountains.
"Overlaying hospital clock lag," Min-ji said. A pair of graphs slid onto the shared screen: one traced the bot-inflated follower surge, two scarlet horns peaking at 00:36; the other marked the corrected hospital server time. She dragged one graph nineteen minutes left—peaks aligned perfectly over the ledger's disputed cash movement.
"Whoever faked your follower counts synced to the wrong clock," Joon-woo murmured, awe and anger interlaced. "They copied data before the patch."
Seo-yeon's pulse drummed. Ink versus pixels indeed—one earthly, one fabricated, and between them a nineteen-minute chasm holding the shape of the truth.
Min-ji pumped a fist. "I'll compile correlation matrices. Doctor lag plus bot lag equals tampering. Cho's timeline is toast."
By 10:30 they were back aboveground in a courthouse annex conference room, halogen lights reflecting off whiteboards scribbled with statute numbers. Ji-hye sketched arrows: Server lag → ledger timestamp error → asset-freeze motion collapse.
"I'll file an emergency brief to compel full ledger metadata," she said. "And attach Bae's affidavit plus your bot-lag mapping. Cho wanted raw psych notes; we'll serve him raw clock discrepancies instead."
She jabbed the cap onto her marker. "Guard those originals like crown jewels. Chain-of-custody starts now."
The Memory Tunnel felt shorter on the return. Box of certified copies hugged to her ribs, Seo-yeon walked its length alone while Ji-hye arranged courier pick-up. Fluorescent buzz no longer clawed; it sloshed softly, river to lullaby. She paused midway, pressed her palm to the cool tile, and breathed her circle—one, two; hold; out, two. The corridor smelled of dust and disinfectant, but beneath it she caught pine wax from the dokkaebi candle stowed in her bag.
Ha-eun's lantern-warmth flickered—distant, approving—then let go. Seo-yeon smiled into the hush. She was, at last, her own light.
Noon sunlight pooled through café windows, gilding rows of horn-stickered paper cranes when Seo-yeon's voice cracked from the speakerphone. "…nineteen-minute mismatch, and Dr Bae signed. Im files the motion in an hour."
A hush greeted the news, followed by Madam Kang's shaky inhale. "Then perhaps we can sleep again," she whispered, and somewhere behind her volunteers cheered, the sound of scissors snipping twine punctuating joy.
"Fundraiser theme upgrade," Min-ji declared. "Forget Unfold Hope. Tomorrow is Time to Rise—because our timeline just did."
Laughter rippled through the line—relieved, defiant. Joon-woo added, "And we print the timestamp on every candle label. Let the goblins see their mistake burn all night."
Seo-yeon closed her eyes, picturing crimson horns melting into warm wax pools while crane wings caught that glow and flung it roof-high. A tunnel of memory had delivered her not back to the river but forward to solid ground.
"Rise it is," she said.
Beyond the window, courthouse bells marked midday—each chime nineteen seconds apart, or so she fancied. Close enough. She started toward the exit, box of evidence cradled tight, ready to drag the truth into the brightest light the next hearing could offer.
Chapter 69: Ha-eun's Hint
Dawn found Seoul still hushed, the courthouse plaza crouched beneath a milk-grey sky. On the hostel rooftop two blocks away, Lee Seo-yeon warmed her fingers around a tin camping kettle balanced on a sputtering gas ring. Each breath she released became a small drifting cloud; each breath she drew back carried the scent of metal and rain. She closed her eyes and traced her circle—two counts in, one held, two released—until mind and lungs locked into the same slow orbit.
When she opened them, a crescent of condensation curved across the kettle's lid like a fragile wing. It evaporated a heartbeat later, but the air tingled with the unmistakable hush of Ha-eun's proximity—the first stir since deposition week. Seo-yeon touched the cooling metal, half–welcome, half–warned.
Tonight was the Time to Rise fundraiser; tomorrow, the emergency hearing. Between those rising suns sat one thin day to gather nerve and proof.
The courthouse café smelled of burnt chicory and floor polish. Im Ji-hye slid into the booth opposite Seo-yeon, tablet bristling with styluses.
"Ledger-timestamp motion is on Judge Moon's nine-o'clock docket," she said. "We do not spring new allegations unless they're kill-shots."
Seo-yeon nodded, though acid frustration lapped at her ribs. "Understood."
Ji-hye softened. "You've given us the nineteen-minute gap. Let that arrow fly first. Anything else, we chamber-load after we test the wind."
Seo-yeon sipped coffee that tasted like overbaked earth and forced patience down with it.
Hours later the café video call opened on chaos that smelled of hot glue and coriander. Volunteers knelt amid hills of coloured paper, folding cranes whose wings caught stray glints from rows of battery LEDs. On scaffolding, Yang Joon-woo tightened steel cable until concentric rings of tiny lanterns hovered above the courtyard like luminous ripples trapped mid-pond.
"Cranes earned us pre-orders for two hundred candles," he reported, sweat shining at his hairline. "We might break three hundred by sundown."
Behind him Min-ji spun her laptop toward the camera so Seo-yeon could glimpse cascading bar graphs—bot-forensic slides, follower timelines, fresh thermal drone footage that mapped the lantern layout into an accidental double helix of gold. Life braided to breath, light braided to blood. It felt like an omen coaxed into math.
"Looks like a pair of lungs," Seo-yeon murmured.
"Exactly," Min-ji grinned. "Tonight we breathe together. Tomorrow we fight apart."
Subway cars rumbled toward the hospital district, flickering between neon tunnels and daylight rooftop spans. Seo-yeon stood by the door, notes for the lawyer clutched in her bag, when the overhead fluorescents sputtered. Strobing light lanced her vision—and suddenly she was back under that bridge, river water hammering her chest, oxygen stunned into silence. Panic rose like cold mercury.
A voice slipped through the rush, low and lucid: I arrived with the first gulp that wasn't air.
Ha-eun's words—clear, unbroken, alive.
Seo-yeon's knuckles whitened on the pole; passengers blurred to silhouettes. Inside, a film strip unfurled: floodwater surging over the quay, a desperate gasp, lungs flooded, heartbeat slowing to fragile drumbeats. That instant—that inhalation—was where guardian consciousness took root. Not magic fallen from clouds, but the body's own spark, fired in crisis and given name later.
The train braked. Fluorescents steadied. Seo-yeon exhaled through shaking lips, acceptance settling like warm silt. Ha-eun was a trauma-born echo—an inner lighthouse, not an otherworldly savior. And if the origin could be mapped to blood and breath, perhaps the evidence around that moment could be, too.
She ducked into the hospital's small interfaith chapel—mahogany pews, paper-white carnations beside a serene bronze Buddha. Rain pattered the stained-glass skylight, painting ripples across polished floorboards. Here the hush felt ancient enough to cradle fragile memory.
Ink timed wrong cannot stain truth, Ha-eun whispered, voice already thinning back to silence.
Ink—blood–lines? Toxicology screens? Seo-yeon's mind raced. The night of the river rescue, ER staff had drawn multiple samples before the server clocks were corrected. If Cho's timeline hinged on those laboratory timestamps, then the same nineteen-minute lag that cracked the ledger could corrupt the toxicology numbers as well. Ink that never reached the lungs… river water substituted, perhaps, or a mis-labeled vial?
Her phone vibrated with a text from Yujin: On clinic rounds but free at 16:30—talk med side. Perfect.
Seo-yeon whispered thanks to the still air—Ha-eun already fading like candle smoke—then hurried out.
Late afternoon sun bronzed the café roof. Strings of unlit LED cranes quivered in the breeze, rustling like distant applause. Joon-woo straightened from tying the final cable and wiped plaster dust from his hands just as Seo-yeon's video call connected.
"I need to tell you something."
She spilled the revelation—guardian's birth in the river, the subway flash, the whispered ink clue. Words tumbled, raw and quaking, but he listened without interrupting, eyes steady as harbor lights.
"So Ha-eun is you," he said at last. "A memory that chose to walk beside you."
"I think so." She exhaled. "And she says the blood test timing is wrong. If we prove that, Cho's toxicology brag turns to ash."
Joon-woo's grin was weary but electric. "Then I'll scrape the lab-server backups. Time stamps, chain-of-custody tags—whatever cracks open first. Go meet Yujin; I'll be your pickaxe."
For the first time she felt no instinct to shield this secret. She had folded it, crane-like, into shared hands—and it felt lighter already.
Im Ji-hye scanned the frantic bullet points Seo-yeon scrawled across the whiteboard: Toxicology draw 00:03 pre-patch; vial chain? Blood "ink" vs clock; verify with Yujin + lab syslog. The lawyer tapped her pen once, twice.
"We're still inside procedural windows," she said. "If Yujin secures the laboratory log and it shows pre-patch extraction, we'll file a supplemental motion tonight."
Her eyes glinted. "Cho cannot claim stable timeline if both ledger and toxicology float on false clocks."
A paralegal dashed off, phone pressed to ear. Battle lines redrawn.
Night draped the valley in velvet blue. In the café courtyard, a thousand crane-lanterns ascended on hidden pulleys, circling above the crowd until they nested in tiered orbits of molten gold. Gasps rose; someone began humming a folk lullaby that caught on dozens of lips. From a rooftop perch Min-ji's drone lifted—its thermal lens translating the glowing circles into a spiraling double helix across her monitor. Breath become light, light become living DNA.
Seo-yeon stepped to the small stage, candle tin in hand, red wax horns already beginning to soften in the lantern heat.
"We stand here tonight," she said, voice amplified yet intimate, "because breath returned where none was promised. We rise because hands that fold paper also lift one another when figures on ledgers try to weigh us down."
Coins clinked into jars, phone screens flashed donation confirmations, wax-horn candles exchanged hands. By the time the cranes began their slow descent the café coffers had grown by three-hundred-ten thousand won, and hope felt heavier than doubt.
Above, the drone scalpel-bright light carved sleek arcs against the stars—recording proof that communities, like lungs, expand best when
Back at the hostel, Seo-yeon sat cross-legged on her bunk beneath a dim reading lamp. The courtyard chants still echoed in her ears like distant surf. She finished typing her witness addendum—a plain, clinical account of floodwater aspiration and server-clock confusion—and printed it on cheap hostel stationery for dawn delivery to Ji-hye.
Then she folded a single white crane—no horns, no stickers—and set it on her pillow. Ha-eun's warmth ghosted the room once, brief and mild; no words, only the hush of approval.
Tomorrow morning Ink Under Water would test every fracture line of Cho's narrative. Seo-yeon switched off the lamp, heart steady, lungs full, and let the dark cradle her like a river that finally knew how to bear her weight.