The newsroom used to smell like ink and ambition. Now it stank of fear.
Kang Daeho sat alone at a corner desk that no longer belonged to him. His ID card had been revoked months ago, his name erased from the company roster. Yet sometimes, late at night, he still came here—sneaking past inattentive guards—just to remind himself he hadn't imagined it all. That once, he had been more than a ghost.
He used to be one of their best investigative journalists. Sharp, relentless, obsessed with digging up truth no matter how deeply it was buried. Five years ago, he had uncovered financial records linking high-level officials to offshore accounts and illegal contracts. It should have been the story of the decade.
But before the article could be published, his editor called him in.
"You're fired."
No explanation, no severance. Just silence. And the next day, the news company—owned by Jisoo's father—released a glossy, harmless puff piece on tourism instead. Daeho's name was smeared online as a liar, a fraud, a drunk who fabricated stories.
The truth was twisted until it strangled him.
Since then, every door had slammed in his face. No paper would hire him. His wife had to pick up multiple jobs just to keep their apartment. His son was bullied in school—mocked as the "liar's kid." His daughter stopped speaking to him altogether.
He had tried, once, to protest in front of the company headquarters. He carried a cardboard sign that said "The Truth Was Buried Here." Within an hour, he was beaten by hired thugs while the police looked the other way.
No one listened. No one cared.
Now, he sat with a bottle in one hand and a stack of his unpublished notes in the other, yellowed pages full of names and dates that no one dared print. His once-bright eyes were dull, his back bent, his voice broken.
He whispered to himself, over and over:"I was right. I was right."
A knock came at the rusted door of his tiny apartment.
He froze. No one visited him anymore.
Slowly, cautiously, he opened it.
A boy stood there. Young, still in a school uniform. His gaze sharp, unwavering. For a moment, Daeho thought he was hallucinating—the boy looked too alive, too fierce to belong in his world of decay.
"You're…?" Daeho's voice cracked.
The boy stepped inside without asking. He looked around the room, at the stacks of old files, the dust, the emptiness. Then his eyes fell on Daeho.
"You tried to expose them," the boy said quietly. "And they destroyed you for it."
Daeho swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Who are you?"
The boy didn't answer immediately. Instead, he picked up one of the notes from the table, scanned it, then set it back down with deliberate care.
Finally, he looked Daeho in the eyes.
"I'm the one they thought would stay silent. I'm the one they thought they buried with lies. But they were wrong."
Daeho blinked, stunned. The boy's presence filled the small room like a storm pressing at the windows.
The boy leaned closer, his voice low, steady, carrying the weight of a vow carved into bone:
"When the powerful silence the dead, the unseen write the truth."
The words struck Daeho like lightning. His hands shook—not from despair, but from something rawer, older, buried too long.
The boy straightened, heading for the door. "You've suffered. But your story isn't over. Neither is mine."
Daeho's breath caught. For years, he had lived like a ghost, but now—now the fire roared back in his chest. His eyes darted to the dusty stack of notes on the table. Evidence. Names. Proof no one had dared to touch.
His fist clenched. His voice cracked, but it carried iron.
"Then let me help you burn them."
The boy stopped at the doorway. For the first time, a faint smile flickered on his lips.
And in that silence, a pact was born.
The unseen had found its first ally.
The truth was coming.