Saturday dawned with fog.
In Seoul, November fog isn't romantic. It isn't the kind from European films that softens the edges of the world. It's dense. Chemical. Heavy with the weight of ten million people breathing at the same time in a valley that lets nothing escape.
When I stepped out of the building at seven in the morning with coffee in hand, the city looked like a photograph someone had erased the background from.
I liked it that way.
More honest.
Im Suah was waiting at the entrance with two things: her tablet… and an expression I was already learning to read.
It wasn't the face of bad news.
It was the face of news that doesn't fit where it should.
— The profile K_Seoul_83 disappeared — she said without preamble.
I stopped.
— When?
— At 4:17. The app logs the exact deletion time. — She showed me the screen —. Sixteen hours after you created your fake profile.
I didn't speak for three seconds.
— Coincidence? — she asked.
But her tone said she didn't believe in that.
— He saw my profile last night — I said quietly —. We talked. And this morning he vanished.
Im Suah looked at me.
This time there was something new in her eyes.
Concern.
— Sunbae… did you reply from the profile?
— Yes.
— Did you say anything that could identify you?
— No.
— Are you sure?
I mentally reviewed the conversation.
Every sentence.
Every pause.
Every calculated silence.
And then I saw it.
It wasn't what I had said.
It was how.
The cadence.
The rhythm.
The way I left space between replies.
Someone who knew me — or who had studied enough profiles like mine — might have noticed.
Had he noticed?
— Sunbae — Im Suah repeated.
— Let's go inside — I said.
The team meeting was at eight.
Park Hyunsik in the back, arms crossed, toothpick motionless — bad sign.
Lee Chanho at my right.
Im Suah in front of the screen.
And a new face.
Detective Jung Wooseok. Thirty-two. Cyber Unit. Park had added him without consulting me.
I said nothing.
I laid everything out:
The three victims.
The pattern.
The app.
The conversation.
The profile's disappearance.
When I finished, silence settled in the room.
Park pulled out the toothpick.
— How long has your fake profile been active?
— Sixteen hours.
— With authorization?
— I was about to request it.
Heavy silence.
— Jung — Park said —. Can you recover anything from a deleted profile?
Jung straightened.
— If the company keeps logs, yes. Most retain them for seventy-two hours due to legal protocol. — Pause —. With a warrant I can request the full IP history.
— Get it.
Jung practically ran out.
Park looked back at me.
— That conversation you had… do you think he identified you?
— I don't know.
That was true.
Just not all of it.
— Do you think he deleted the profile because of you? — he pressed.
Im Suah cut in:
— He wasn't planning to disappear. He started another conversation the same Wednesday Seo Yejin died. With a user: Choi Areum.
Charming, she had said on the phone.
The word hung in the room.
Charming.
Choi Areum arrived at eleven oh five.
Short hair.
Steady posture.
Contained nerves.
She fit the pattern too well.
I read the conversations on her phone while Im Suah took photos.
Cold, the design was obvious.
Open-ended questions.
Seemingly harmless topics.
Small everyday discomforts.
And then…
Surgical precision.
He was building an emotional map without the victim feeling like she was giving anything away.
Architecture.
— Did he mention your address? — I asked.
— Not directly. But we talked about restaurants in Itaewon… and the project I'm working on. — She swallowed —. It was featured in a magazine. With my name.
That was enough.
— As a precaution — I said carefully —, vary your routines over the next few days.
Her eyes widened.
— Am I in danger?
— We're being cautious.
I wasn't completely sure.
The logs arrived at three.
Jung had turned his corner into chaotic spacecraft.
— Good news and bad — he said.
— Bad.
— Five VPNs. Japan, Singapore, Netherlands, Switzerland. Direct trace impossible.
— And the good?
He smiled.
— He made a mistake. One single connection without VPN. Four minutes and sixteen seconds.
I stepped closer.
— Where?
— Public Wi-Fi. Café Bora. Insadong.
Twenty minutes from us.
Too close.
The footage arrived at 5:40.
Busy café.
Saturday afternoon.
Tourists. Couples. University students.
And then—
Back table.
A man alone.
Laptop open.
Dark jacket.
Calm posture.
Too calm.
— Zoom — I said.
Jung zoomed in.
Partial profile.
Not enough.
Until—
Minute four, eight seconds.
The man looked up toward the window.
Three seconds.
Almost full profile.
Jung froze the frame.
Silence.
— Anyone recognize him?
No one spoke.
— Facial analysis. Now.
Lee and Suah headed to the café.
I stayed staring at the image.
One single crack.
At seven in the evening the message arrived.
Not in the app.
On my personal phone.
Unknown number.
Seoul prefix.
One single text:
The cracks are intentional, detective.
The air changed.
I called Jung.
Prepaid.
No registration.
No buyer.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
Then I understood.
It wasn't a threat.
It was a correction.
The café mistake…
hadn't been a mistake.
He had left it for me.
I went out walking at eight without telling anyone.
When the pieces move too fast in my head, walking is the only thing that puts them in order.
Jongno.
Gwanghwamun.
Cheonggyecheon.
Down by the water, the city becomes something else.
Slower.
Quieter.
More dangerous.
I thought about the phrase.
The cracks are intentional.
Two options:
He wanted me to find him.
Or he wanted me to walk through the door he had opened.
Both meant the same thing.
This was no longer just about the victims.
It was about me.
I remembered Lee's question.
Why you?
I stopped beside the water.
My reflection moved, dark, unrecognizable.
I thought about my file.
I thought about what isn't in it.
And for the first time I saw it with uncomfortable clarity:
If someone had built a complete profile of Kang Jisoo…
they would have arrived at certain words.
Recognition.
Understanding.
Similarity.
The water kept running toward the Han.
I slipped my hands into my pockets.
And went back to the office.