The rain was starting to pick up when Do-yun stepped out of the taxi. The air was thick and damp, saturated with the smell of wet asphalt and iron. There wasn't a soul in the industrial zone. Only sparse streetlights glowed faintly, as if tired of their own work. In front of him stood the warehouse building—gray, dilapidated, with peeling paint and rusty gates. It looked as if it hadn't belonged to anyone for a long time.
Do-yun checked the address. Everything matched.
For a second, he stood motionless, listening to the sound of the rain. It felt as if the air itself was warning him: Don't go inside. But his feet moved forward.
The gates groaned as they gave way, as if he had woken an old beast. Inside, it smelled of dampness and mold. His flashlight beam picked out broken pallets, empty crates, and dusty footprints on the floor. Every movement echoed, and the echo returned with a delay, as if someone else were repeating him.
He walked cautiously. Moisture dripped from the ceiling, and rust gleamed in the flashlight beam. A rat scurried in the corner, and then it was silent again. Too silent.
In the center of the floor lay an envelope. White and clean, like a foreign trace on the dirty floor.
Do-yun stopped. His heart hammered in his temples.
He bent down and picked it up. The paper was dry, as if it had just been left there. Inside, there was a single sheet. On it, a short message:
"You're too late."
His fingers clenched.
The silence was pressing. He looked around—the flashlight only caught walls, rusty chains, and empty shelves. But he knew: someone had been here. Very recently.
A chill ran down his spine.
He closed his eyes for a second, and his memory pulled out a different place. Another warehouse. Years ago. He had come too late then, too. The woman who had asked for his help had disappeared. The case was closed "due to lack of evidence." Too quickly, too cleanly. He remembered the empty folders, the sanitized evidence, the indifference of his superiors.
That was when he first felt there was an invisible enemy. An enemy who was always one step ahead.
And now—the same emptiness. The same message. The same mockery.
Do-yun slowly straightened up. His breathing became heavy. He felt his fingers trembling as he crushed the paper.
"They know my every move. Even this one."
His flashlight slid across the floor—and he noticed it: there were footprints in the dust. Faint, barely visible, but fresh. They led toward the back exit.
He took a step. But then stopped immediately.
His heart warned him: this is a trap. If he went further, he would not find an answer, but another taunt.
Anger swelled inside him. But beneath the anger was a strange, cold fear. The fear that he was repeating the past. Walking through someone else's script again.
Suddenly, metal creaked somewhere behind the wall. As if someone had just stepped back.
Do-yun abruptly switched off his flashlight. He held his breath. In the darkness, everything became louder: the pounding of his heart, the drops of rain, his own footsteps.
He waited. But nothing else happened.
The seconds dragged on painfully. Then he slowly walked toward the exit. His steps were steady, but each one took effort.
He didn't run. He knew: if he ran, the enemy would know that fear had taken over.
Outside, the rain intensified. Drops lashed against his shoulders, his face, washing away the smell of dust and rust.
He took a deep breath. The paper in his pocket felt like a heavy weight.
The note, the empty warehouse, the foreign footprints—it was all not evidence. It was a warning.
And he understood: the enemy was playing with him in the open. The enemy would always be one step ahead.
Do-yun lifted his head to the sky. The rain whipped his face, but he didn't blink.