COLD OPEN — SEOUL — LATE NIGHT
A quiet apartment above the agency. Huáilán sits alone.
The lights are dim. The sky outside fogged in winter mist.
She's holding a small envelope marked:
"Emergency contact – from Beijing"
She doesn't open it.
She just stares.
FLASHBACK – BEIJING – WINTER 1983 – AGE 14
The screen desaturates. Everything feels faded and empty.
Huáilán sits in a concrete apartment, hands trembling. Her fingers covered in ink, bruises, cigarette burns.
A man enters—her father. Drunk. Loud. Screaming in Mandarin.
"You think you're smart?
That's why you'll starve."
"Stupid girl. Eat paper if you want attention."
Her mother is visible through the crack in the door. Smoking. Silent.
She watches. Doesn't help.
Later—
Huáilán sleeps under the sink, clutching a tiny stuffed animal made from torn cloth.
It has no face.
Just thread.
PRESENT – INT. SEOUL AGENCY – DAY
Huáilán walks in, exhausted.
Ryouma is already there, half-asleep at his desk. Still wearing his jacket.
He doesn't say anything. Neither does she.
Silence.
Then—
Ryouma (softly):
"Nightmares don't stop just because you change your zip code."
She flinches slightly.
Ryouma continues:
"I read the file… the redacted parts.
Beijing didn't break you.
It never got the chance."
She sits across from him. The space feels raw.
Huáilán (quiet):
"People talk about childhood like it's a season.
But mine was a body count."
FLASH – IMAGES ONLY
Her mother slapping her across the face and locking her outside in -10°C
Her father pressing lit incense into her palm as punishment
Being left in a train station for two days because they forgot she existed
BACK TO PRESENT – INT. SEOUL – NIGHT WALK
They walk home together for the first time.
Huáilán is visibly colder, tighter. But she lets him speak.
Ryouma:
"When I was a kid, I thought my mother was a hurricane.
Now I realize…
She was a mirror."
Huáilán (quiet):
"Then what does that make me?"
They stop beneath a broken streetlight.
For the first time, Ryouma doesn't look away.
He looks through her.
Ryouma:
"You're a match.
Someone tried to snuff you out, but instead you lit the house on fire."
They share a long look. Neither blink.
And something changes.
It's not romance. Not yet.
But it's the first time she's been seen without being dissected.
And the first time he's spoken without rage.
She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble.
Huáilán (softly):
"If you ask me tomorrow, I'll lie.
So don't."
Ryouma nods.
FINAL MONTAGE — UNFINISHED THINGS
Huáilán sits in the bathtub later that night, clothes on, finally opening the Beijing envelope. Inside is a death certificate. Her father died in prison. Her mother never claimed the body.
Ryouma sits at home, replaying a voicemail from Souta's daughter calling him "Uncle." He smiles, but only a little.
Outside, the night fog rolls in again.
For once, no danger waits in it.
Just the ache of having survived.