The airport was drenched in artificial light. The shining marble floor reflected the silhouettes of running people; the announcer's voice rang out beneath the ceiling: "Check-in for Flight 457 is closed..." But a scream that cut through the hall drowned everything out.
— He stole my life!
Hwang ran through the turnstiles, his eyes frantic, his breathing ragged. Security personnel darted after him; someone fell, suitcases scattered on the floor. He threw a man aside, hit a second, but a third managed to grab his arm and pinned him against the glass.
— Let go! — Hwang howled like an animal. — It's him! He was supposed to disappear! It was my company, my blood!
A sergeant twisted his wrists; the handcuffs clicked shut.
— That's it, Mr. Hwang. End of the show.
Hwang gasped, turning—a news channel camera caught his face. Foam on his lips, eyes filled with insane resolve.
— He stole my life! — he repeated, quieter now. — I just wanted to get mine back...
He was led away. On the floor, a scattered folder remained, from which a flash drive had fallen—metallic, engraved with the sign of three intersecting circles.
Morning in the investigator's office began without coffee. The flash drive lay on the table under the lamp. An officer plugged it in; the screen came to life with gray static—and then footage flashed on immediately. Yun—weapon in hand, a dead man behind him, blood. The voiceover: "Yun Jeong kills to conceal the truth." The frames were shaky, the sound uneven, like an old movie.
The investigator frowned.
— Stop. Go back ten seconds.
On the screen—the moment of the flash. Another man—Park—flickered in the background. The backdrop was the same, but the light was different.
— It's archive, — the technician said. — A recording from Park's case six years ago. Frame overlay.
— Montage, — the investigator said quietly. — He was collecting this for years. Insurance.
The flash drive clicked again, and the image froze. On the final frame—the same sign of the three circles, glowing in the corner of the screen.
Yun's phone rang as he stood by the hospital window. He didn't even say "hello"—he just listened.
— They got him, — Oh-hwa said. — Alive. With the flash drive.
Yun exhaled.
— The end.
— Or the beginning, — she added, and the connection was cut.
He turned around. Do-yun stood in the doorway, the baby in his arms, his eyes tired but bright.
— They got him?
Yun nodded.
— Yes.
Do-yun walked closer. He stood on his toes, touched Yun's lips—a short, uneven, almost on-the-run kiss.
— Then go, — he whispered. — Finish it.
Yun ran his palm along his cheek.
— I've already started.
He walked into the corridor, and the glass doors closed behind him, reflecting the light of the new morning.