The cold corridors of the Prosecutor's Office smelled of metal, paper, and coffee from vending machines that no one drank completely. People in suits moved quickly, avoiding Yun's gaze, as if sensing he was more than just a witness. He was the center of what was about to overturn the entire system.
Do-yun walked beside him, holding his sleeve. Not his hand—not here, not in public. But the grip was firm, as if he was not only supporting him but also keeping him from losing balance. Two security guards walked slightly behind them. Oh-hwa waited for them at the glass doors of the press briefing room, nodding to signal that everything was ready.
— Five minutes, — he said quietly. — When everything starts, the cameras will film non-stop. If they ask for comments, don't answer. The Prosecutor's Office will summarize the results itself.
Seungho nodded. His face was calm—too calm, as it only is before a storm.
When they entered, the spotlight hit their eyes. The noise of voices, flashes, microphones, stretched wires, journalists with tablets and recorders—everything merged into a roar. On the huge screens behind the prosecutors, slides changed—documents, transfers, bank records, drafts with City Hall seals. Names, dates, signatures. The very "three circles"—a sign that still sent shivers down the spines of everyone who had encountered the network.
The lead prosecutor's voice was clear:
— ...all transactions conducted through shell accounts went through structures controlled by Hwang Park, who operated under the name of his brother, Director Park Yeon-su. The network included private security firms, export companies, and several legal offices that serviced the illegal transfers.
The screen changed to photographs. Seungho and Do-yun—news clippings, fire footage, bullet marks. And then—surveillance camera footage: Hwang in a hotel corridor, talking to a decoy driver, handing over a flash drive. His words, distorted by filters, still sounded distinct:
— Let them think it's him. Let the whole world believe Yun is the monster. Then we will be cleansed.
The room fell silent. A silence in which every breath was audible. Journalists exchanged glances. Cameras zoomed in. Someone asked a question:
— Mr. Yun, did you know Hwang was Director Park's brother?
Seungho didn't answer. He simply turned to Do-yun—who stood beside him, slightly pale, but his gaze was firm. He reached out his hand, making no attempt to hide it, and Do-yun took it. Wordlessly. Without posing. Just a gesture that contained everything: the end of the war, the beginning of a new life, a promise that the truth was now their weapon.
Flashes blinded the room. But Seungho didn't blink. He stood, holding Do-yun's hand, looking straight ahead.
After the briefing, the room emptied slowly. People were still discussing something, but the meaning of the words was lost in the general hum. Do-yun leaned against the wall, breathing deeply.
— Is it... over? — he asked.
— No, — Seungho said quietly. — They just know who they're playing with now.
He wanted to add something else, but Oh-hwa approached and gestured toward the exit:
— Not here. Someone is waiting for you in the corridor.
The corridor smelled of dust and cold. Half the lamps were out, and in the semi-darkness, a man in a long coat stood. On his face—a scar from temple to chin, fresh as a recent burn. He raised his hands, showing he was unarmed.
— Don't approach, — one of the guards said curtly.
But Seungho recognized him instantly. Park's former bodyguard—the one who once silently stood behind him during meetings.
— What do you want? — Seungho asked.
The man lowered his head.
— To surrender.
— Why? —
He looked up. In his eyes—not fear, but exhaustion.
— I saw everything. How he forced his brother to forge signatures, how he cut out recordings, how he built a mirror out of you. He wanted you to become the reflection of his madness. So that, looking at you, the world would see him—but stronger, more dangerous, scarier.
— Hwang, — Yun stated.
The man nodded.
— He is Park's brother. By documents, by blood—illegitimate, but still a brother. Park tried to hide it, but Hwang knew his whole life. And he hated you your whole life because Father didn't choose him.
Seungho didn't answer. His face became immobile, like stone. Only the hand gripping Do-yun's fingers trembled.
The man lowered his eyes.
— I can't carry this anymore. Let them take everything I know. I don't care.
He stepped forward, allowing the guards to put on the handcuffs. He turned to Seungho.
— Forgive me for serving the wrong person.
Oh-hwa nodded to the investigators, and the man was led away. The corridor became empty again. Seungho stood in silence. Shoulders straight, gaze fixed on the floor. Do-yun walked closer, without saying a word, simply took his hand—the same way as in the room, but without the audience.
— You are mine, — he said quietly. — And his.
He nodded toward where their baby was sleeping in the custody area, covered by Seungho's jacket. And these words—simple, without drama—destroyed the remnants of coldness in his chest. He exhaled and hugged him. Too tightly. As if afraid that even this reality would disappear.