Opening Scene — Y/N’s Apartment, Night

The city was quiet in that strange way only late night could be—when even the traffic outside became a low, distant hum, and the glow from neighboring windows faded one by one into darkness. Somewhere far below, a siren wailed briefly, then was swallowed by silence.

Inside Y/N’s apartment, the world looked like it had been frozen in mid-thought.

Stacks of files towered on the desk like miniature monoliths, each labeled with names, numbers, and dates that no longer felt like data but like ghosts. The soft amber light from her table lamp cast long shadows across the walls, catching on the web of red thread she’d strung between pinned newspaper clippings, maps, and case notes. It resembled a conspiracy theorist’s bulletin board—but the more she pieced together, the less crazy it felt.

She sat curled up on her chair, knees to her chest, wrapped in an oversized hoodie that hung loose on her frame. Her hair was tied in a lazy bun, strands falling in disobedient wisps. No makeup, no polish—just her bare, tired face reflecting the weight of everything she’d uncovered.

The file in her lap was creased now, the corners soft from repeated handling. She’d read it twice already. Now she was on her third pass, eyes scanning the words as if maybe this time they would rearrange themselves into something that hurt less.

Kim Hyunwoo.

Lawyer. Respected. Uncompromising. Known for taking only the cases that aligned with his conscience. A man whose very name used to mean something. Then—

Dead.

Declared deceased alongside his wife and young daughter in a car crash en route to Busan.

Brake failure.

Mechanical issue. A tragic accident. Or so the report had claimed.

But buried deep in that file were things that didn’t fit. A pattern. A trail of tampering, erased logs, missing witnesses.

And a motive that had been swept quietly under the rug.

He refused to represent his brothers.

Two men entangled in one of the biggest real estate laundering schemes of the decade—an illegal land grab masked by shell companies and falsified deeds. They came to him for defense. He said no.

The next day, he and his family were dead.

Y/N closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to relieve the ache behind her eyes. But it wasn’t a headache. It was grief by osmosis—absorbing the devastation someone else had lived through, and carrying it like it was her own.

This wasn’t just a case anymore.

It was a setup.

A story that had been deliberately smothered.

And someone—no, several someones—had gone to great lengths to make sure it stayed forgotten.

A soft knock pulled her out of the spiral.

“Come in,” she called, voice hoarse from hours without speech.

The door creaked open.

Yoongi stepped inside, his familiar silhouette a small comfort in the quiet chaos of the room. He held a steaming mug of ginger tea in one hand, his hoodie sleeves half pushed up his forearms. He looked at her the way one does when they’ve seen a friend teetering too long at the edge of something dangerous.

“You’re still at it?” he asked, voice low, a little concerned.

She gave him a weak smile and took the mug with both hands. “Wasn’t planning on sleeping.”

Yoongi moved closer, his gaze sweeping across the evidence-strewn table.

He took it in slowly—the web of red string connecting articles, the typed case summaries, the scrawled notes in the margins. And then the photographs. Crumpled, yellowed, but still sharp where it mattered: the charred wreckage of the car. The autopsy report. The map of the detour.

“That’s Kim Hyunwoo,” he muttered, crouching beside her chair. “I remember his name. He was the guy with integrity. Spoke out against judicial corruption. The press couldn’t get enough of him.”

He paused.

“And then... silence.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “They buried him,” she said. “Not just in the ground. They buried his voice. Buried the truth with his car.”

Yoongi leaned back on his heels, exhaling slowly. “And now you’re unearthing it. With the help of someone who won’t even tell you who he really is.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug, heat seeping into her skin like an anchor.

“I don’t need to know his title to trust his truth,” she said finally, quietly.

Yoongi raised a brow. “That’s exactly how most people get killed.”

There was no malice in his tone—just a quiet warning. A reminder that even the right side of history came with casualties.

But Y/N wasn’t listening anymore.

Her eyes had locked onto one particular document, half-tucked beneath a stack of old court filings. She reached for it, fingers suddenly delicate.

It was a letter.

Folded. Yellowed. Fragile at the edges.

She unfolded it slowly, carefully, as if she were opening a wound rather than a message. The paper crackled softly, and the handwriting appeared—slanted, deliberate, ink faded with time but still legible.

Addressed to: Kim Wonsik
Handwritten.
Signed: Kim Hyunwoo

Yoongi leaned closer, reading over her shoulder. But even he said nothing now.

Y/N’s eyes moved across the page, her breath catching as she read.

“If anything happens to me, Wonsik, you know what to do.
They’ll come for my son.
Keep him safe.
And if the truth dies with me...
Make sure one day, someone gives it a voice.”

She read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

Each line heavier than the last.

She didn’t even realize she was whispering until Yoongi looked up at her.

“He knew,” she murmured. “He knew they were coming for him.”

The letter was more than a warning. It was a prophecy. A last plea from a man who had already seen the walls closing in. A father who knew that his integrity—his refusal to bend—had put a target on his back.

Yoongi spoke after a long silence.

“So what now?”

Y/N carefully refolded the letter and slid it back into its folder like it deserved to rest somewhere safe.

“Now,” she said, her voice quiet but razor-sharp, “we make sure someone listens.”

And outside, the city waited—alive with secrets.

Scene — CrimeLine Studio, Hoseok’s Office

The CrimeLine Studio wasn’t what most people imagined when they thought of true-crime media. It wasn’t sleek or polished. It wasn’t filled with ring lights or glittering podcast mics. No, it looked more like the kind of newsroom that had survived several wars—papers stacked in leaning towers, whiteboards scrawled with half-finished episode notes, old case maps pinned with color-coded tacks and faded photos. A constant buzz from flickering monitors added to the controlled chaos.

At the heart of it all sat Hoseok’s office—if you could call it that.

The “walls” were really just glass panels smudged with fingerprints and taped with press credentials. Inside, it was a whirlwind of coffee mugs, case files, cords tangled like vines, and the scent of too many late nights spent digging into stories that no one else wanted to tell.

Y/N stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Hoseok didn’t look up immediately—he was mid-rant, tossing a pile of unopened mail aside like it had personally offended him. “If this is another anonymous tip about the Jamsil Park disappearances, I swear to god—” Then he paused, sensing her presence.

He turned. Raised an eyebrow.

“Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

Y/N didn’t blink. She walked straight up to his desk and dropped a black leather folder onto the surface between them with a soft but decisive thud.

“I need your help.”

Hoseok leaned back in his chair, the skepticism already rising behind his eyes. “That’s what worries me.”

He stared at the file like it might bite. Then reluctantly reached forward and flipped it open.

The first page caught his attention.

By the third, his fingers had stilled.

“Holy hell…” he muttered.

Y/N said nothing. She just watched his face as he read.

Hoseok skimmed further, eyes scanning photos, notes, GPS records, and the deposition transcript. Then he reached the newspaper clipping—the one with the charred remains of a car curled around a cliffside guardrail—and he stopped.

“This is a cold case,” he said finally, looking up. “Closed. Fifteen years ago. Buried under bureaucracy and a single-sentence mechanical failure report.”

Y/N met his gaze. “Exactly.”

He frowned. “Why reopen something that’s already been erased?”

Her answer was immediate.

“Because it wasn’t erased,” she said. “It was buried. On purpose. The crash wasn’t just an accident. It wasn’t brake failure. It was execution. Carefully planned. Meticulously covered up. And I have proof.”

Something in her voice made him sit up straighter.

Hoseok looked at her for a long moment. Then closed the file gently and leaned back in his creaky chair. The air in the room shifted—less casual now. He laced his fingers together and studied her with quiet intensity.

“Kim Hyunwoo,” he said, tapping the name on the front page with his finger. “He was a big deal. Media called him the ‘last honest lawyer’ back then. Respected. Decent. Didn’t play dirty. Then boom—gone. One front page obituary, a few weeks of corporate silence… then nothing.”

She nodded. “And no one ever followed up. No one asked how three people could die in a government-owned vehicle with cleared brakes and zero service flags.”

“And the son?” Hoseok asked, softer now. “What happened to him?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked away for a second.

“He survived. Wasn’t in the car. They were on the way to pick him up that night. He waited at a school gate for a family that never came.”

Silence stretched.

Hoseok leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Where is he now?”

There it was.

The inevitable question.

Y/N’s hands tightened slightly around the strap of her bag. She hesitated, then carefully answered.

“He… brought the case to me.”

Hoseok’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So he knows. About all of it?”

She nodded once.

“He’s been investigating in the dark for years. Piecing things together, quietly. Silently. Trying to find the truth without being seen.”

Hoseok folded his arms, voice sharper now. “And who is he?”

Y/N exhaled. Looked down at the edge of the desk, at a coffee ring staining a case note.

“He’s someone who’s lived in the shadows long enough,” she said. “Someone who’s had everything taken from him—his family, his home, his name. He doesn’t want exposure. He wants justice.”

Hoseok’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you protecting him?”

She looked up.

Didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence between them said enough.

It was the kind of silence that spoke of loyalty. Of trust forged not by logic, but by shared pain. Of decisions made not with the brain—but with the heart.

Hoseok leaned back again. This time, slower. More thoughtful.

He studied her. Really studied her.

“This isn’t just another story for you,” he said, voice quiet.

“No,” Y/N said. “It never was.”

The overhead light buzzed softly.

Somewhere outside the office, someone laughed. A news reel played faintly on a nearby screen. But inside this room, everything had shifted.

Hoseok sighed, rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“You know what happens when we touch stories like this, right?” he asked. “These people don’t just pay lawyers. They pay silencers. Fixers. People who erase entire histories with a phone call.”

Y/N stepped forward. Her voice was steady.

“Then let them try.”

He stared at her for another long moment.

Then, finally—he nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “You’ve got my help. But if we’re doing this, we do it my way. Carefully. Documented. Protected. Every step has a backup plan, and every truth we dig up has a place to land.”

Y/N managed the smallest smile.

“Understood.”

Hoseok opened the file again, eyes scanning the names.

“Kim Manseok and Kim Minchan…” he muttered. “Real estate royalty turned invisible ghosts. You realize these two practically own half the land from Gangnam to Jeju.”

Y/N nodded.

“And we’re going to bring them down.”

A beat.

Then Hoseok looked up, eyes gleaming with the dangerous curiosity of a man who’d spent his life chasing buried truths.

“Well then,” he said, smiling faintly, “let’s give the dead their voice.”

Scene — Underground Garage, Night

The night outside was bone-cold, the kind of cold that wrapped around you and didn’t let go. Beneath the surface of Seoul, tucked far below the river bridge district, a concealed access tunnel opened into a cavernous underground garage—its walls lined with steel panels, its lighting minimal by design.

A single surveillance camera blinked red.

The sleek, matte-black car rolled in on whisper-quiet tires, headlights cutting through the low-hanging mist that lingered even here. It slid to a halt beside a steel platform rigged with monitors, tools, and stripped weapons. Fluorescent lights flickered once above, casting a bluish hue across the polished floor.

Taehyung stepped out, his coat shifting around his legs like water, movement smooth, precise. His face was unreadable—calm as ever—but tension crackled beneath the surface, sharp and restrained like a blade pressed to skin but not yet cutting.

Jimin stood nearby, leaning against the edge of a steel table littered with open files, bullet casings, and a tablet glowing faint blue. He didn’t look up immediately. His eyes were fixed on the screen, scrolling through surveillance captures—grainy footage of a woman’s silhouette pacing in front of a bulletin board. Y/N.

“She’s digging fast,” Jimin said, his voice echoing lightly in the hollow space.

Taehyung closed the car door behind him with a quiet click.

“She’s smart,” he replied evenly, stepping forward. “She was always going to get there.”

Jimin finally glanced up, brow raised. “You sound almost proud.”

Taehyung didn’t respond.

Instead, he walked past him and unbuttoned his coat with practiced ease. He placed it neatly on a hook by the table, then set down a pair of black leather gloves beside it. Finally, he pulled a sleek, custom pistol from beneath his waistband and laid it down with quiet reverence—metal meeting steel with a soft, final clink.

There was something ceremonial in the way he moved. Like this space was more than a safehouse—like it was a confessional.

Jimin crossed his arms. His tone shifted, sharper now. “And what if she finds out everything?”

Taehyung stilled.

Jimin took a step closer. “Not just about your father. Not just the crash. But about… us. About what we’ve done since.”

The words hung in the air like gun smoke—impossible to unsay.

Taehyung looked over his shoulder, expression shadowed.

“She will,” he said simply.

Jimin let out a quiet breath, almost a scoff. “You say that like it’s inevitable.”

“It is,” Taehyung said. “She’s not the type to stop halfway. Once she opens a door, she walks through it.”

“And when she finds the rooms we’ve locked from the inside?” Jimin asked. “When she sees the choices we made—the blood we’ve had to spill to keep the real story alive?”

Taehyung turned fully now. His voice was low, deliberate.

“Then she’ll have to decide.”

“Decide what?”

Taehyung stepped forward, gaze unwavering.

“If justice matters more than law.”

A silence followed. Dense. Weighty.

Jimin’s jaw tensed.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to point out that this wasn’t some black-and-white moral dilemma—that what they had done couldn’t just be filed under necessary. That there were shades of guilt even in righteousness. That vigilantes didn’t get parades, they got prison.

But the truth was—they were already too far in.

And so was she.

Taehyung glanced back toward the tablet, where Y/N’s image flickered again—caught mid-turn, eyes sharp even in grainy pixels.

“She deserves the truth,” he said quietly. “All of it. Even the ugly parts.”

Jimin stared at him. “And if she walks away?”

Taehyung’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered—just for a second. A fracture of something fragile.

“Then she walks away,” he said. “I won’t stop her. I owe her that much.”

Jimin was quiet for a long time. Then, finally, he pushed away from the table and grabbed a manila folder from a nearby shelf.

“You’re betting everything on one woman.”

Taehyung looked at the folder in his hands. “No,” he said. “I’m betting everything on the truth. She’s just the only one still brave enough to carry it.”

He walked past him toward the far end of the garage, where a private elevator waited behind an unmarked wall.

As the doors slid open, Jimin called out, “We don’t get redemption, you know.”

Taehyung paused, just inside the elevator. Turned his head slightly.

“I’m not looking for redemption,” he said. “Just reckoning.”

The doors closed.

And the hum of the elevator echoed like a closing chapter—one step closer to war.

Scene — Seoul Prosecutor’s Office, Morning

The sky over Seoul was a dull grey, thick with the promise of rain. The kind of weather that made people keep their heads down, collars turned up, and secrets tucked tighter. But for Y/N, the weight in the clouds felt like nothing compared to the one in her hands.

She stood across the street from the Seoul Central District Prosecutor’s Office, a towering granite structure carved in clean, unyielding lines—equal parts fortress and machine. The national emblem gleamed above the entrance, polished to perfection, as if justice could be presented like a mirror.

She crossed the pavement slowly, deliberately, the folder gripped tightly in one hand. Inside it: a case long declared dead. A name the system had tried to forget. A truth that refused to stay buried.

As the glass doors slid open, the sterile chill of the building washed over her. Surveillance cameras blinked. Uniformed guards stood on either side of the security gate, nodding automatically as they recognized her.

“Attorney Min,” one of them greeted with mild surprise, his voice polite but curious. “Early start.”

She nodded once, no smile. “Just business.”

The man at the registry desk looked up from his monitor and did a double take.

“Y/N?” he asked, startled. “You’re—filing something?”

She didn’t waste time on small talk. Her eyes were flint, focused.

“Yes. I’m submitting a motion to reopen Case #204-A—the wrongful death investigation of Kim Hyunwoo.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. “That case… it’s been closed for seventeen years. Mechanical accident. No foul play.”

Y/N set the folder down on the desk with a quiet but deliberate thud. Her hands didn’t shake.

She flipped the top flap open, revealing the contents in quick succession: evidence photos, tampering logs, transcripts, a sworn statement from the driver who followed Hyunwoo’s car off the mountain road, and—on top of it all—a petition stamped for review under a very specific clause.

“Requesting full legal review under Article 319-B of the Special Penal Code,” she said. “Suppression of material evidence by internal or external obstruction during an official investigation.”

Now the man’s expression shifted. Not just surprised—concerned.

“Article 319-B?” he echoed. “That’s… a serious accusation. Do you have basis for obstruction?”

Her voice was calm. Controlled. Deadly.

“I have more than a basis,” she said. “I have proof that evidence was altered, witnesses silenced, and key officials pressured into closing the case before the investigation was complete.”

She leaned in slightly, locking eyes with the clerk.

“There were three deaths. One of them a child. If we let this stay buried because it’s inconvenient, then what’s the point of all this?”

Behind her, the morning bustle continued—legal interns shuffling papers, prosecutors carrying coffee, defense attorneys checking their phones. But here, at this desk, time stood still.

The clerk looked down at the file, then back up at her.

“You know this won’t go quietly,” he said. “You’re accusing some of the most powerful families in the country.”

“I’m not accusing,” Y/N replied. “I’m submitting evidence.”

He hesitated—then slowly reached for the case intake stamp and pressed it down with a hard thunk. The sound echoed off the marble floor.

Case Received.
Date: Logged.
Status: Reopened.

Y/N exhaled once, steadying herself.

He slid the top page back to her. “You’ll be contacted by an internal affairs liaison for preliminary inquiry. It may take time.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” she said, turning to leave. “But the truth is.”

She walked away without looking back, each step reverberating against the polished floor like a drumbeat of quiet defiance.

The file sat on the desk, unmoving—but everything around it had just begun to shift.

Scene — Kim & Co. Law Firm, Late Afternoon

The office was quieter than usual, wrapped in the late afternoon hush that came when most of the day’s storms had passed but night hadn’t yet settled in. The sun filtered through the tall glass windows, casting amber light across the leather chairs, framed certificates, and scattered paperwork that littered Namjoon’s desk.

He sat in his corner office, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, reading glasses low on his nose as he flipped slowly through the thick, stapled motion in front of him.

A legal request to reopen Case #204-A.
Petitioner: Attorney Y/N Min.
Subject: Kim Hyunwoo – deceased.

The title alone could have turned heads.

The body of evidence would ignite explosions.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed deeper with each page—photographic documentation, GPS reroutes, mechanical tampering reports, and the most damning of all: a signed deposition from a previously unlisted driver.

When he finally looked up, Y/N was leaning against the window, arms folded, her gaze unfocused as she stared out at the sprawling city below. From this high up, Seoul looked deceptively peaceful. Traffic moved in miniature. Skyscrapers glistened like polished knives. But beneath that surface—truths waited to be torn open.

“You’re walking into fire again,” Namjoon said quietly.

Y/N didn’t turn around. She just nodded once.

“I know.”

He set the file down, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose like he was already carrying the weight of what would come next.

“This isn’t just a legal gamble,” he said. “You’re going up against names that don’t get printed. People who run companies from private islands. Who donate to elections with one hand and bury cases with the other.”

Y/N finally turned, arms still crossed.

“Politicians. Businessmen. Police. Maybe even judges,” Namjoon continued. “You ready for that kind of war?”

There was no hesitation in her voice.

“I’ve never been readier.”

He looked at her for a long moment—really looked. Not just the determination in her stance, or the flicker of stubborn fire in her eyes. But the exhaustion she carried in her shoulders. The weight she hadn’t let go of in weeks. The subtle tremor in her fingers, hidden under layers of control.

Namjoon leaned back in his chair, exhaling.

“I knew you were serious when you walked into my office with that look in your eye,” he said. “But I didn’t think you’d actually file.”

“I had to.”

He nodded slowly. “I just hope he’s worth it.”

That made her pause.

Her gaze drifted back to the skyline, the light on her face fading as the sun dipped further behind the high-rise silhouettes.

“He’s not the reason I’m doing this,” she whispered.

Her voice was softer now. Like the words weren’t just for Namjoon—but for herself.

She rested her palm on the windowpane, watching the world move on, unaware of what was rising beneath its feet.

“But he’s the reason I can.”

Namjoon didn’t speak.

There was nothing to say to that kind of conviction. It was the kind that couldn’t be taught. Only born—from pain, from loyalty, from something too deep to name.

She turned back to him and walked forward, picking up the copy of the motion from his desk.

“You don’t have to be involved,” she said quietly. “I can do this alone.”

Namjoon stood.

“I’m already involved.”

She paused, surprised.

“You reopened a case that’s been collecting dust for seventeen years,” he said. “You’re about to crack open a legacy built on blood. That puts us all in the line of fire.”

He met her eyes, steady and sure.

“So if you think I’m letting you walk into this alone…” He shook his head faintly. “You don’t know me as well as you think.”

Something inside her cracked just slightly—an invisible weight she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying loosened, just a bit.

She gave him a small, tired smile.

“Thanks, Joon.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, grabbing his coat. “Let’s just hope we make it to court before someone tries to burn the evidence.”

As they exited the office together, the sunlight slipped away completely.

And outside, the first drops of rain began to fall—quiet, steady, ominous.

The storm was coming.

And they were ready to walk into it.

Scene — Rooftop Bar, That Night

The rooftop bar sat like a secret above the city—tucked between towering silhouettes of glass and steel, removed from the chaos below. The skyline stretched endlessly in every direction, glowing with a million lights that flickered like stars trying to outshine the real thing. Neon signs buzzed faintly in the distance. The Han River shimmered beneath the bridges, winding like a thread of silver beneath the darkened sky.

Y/N sat at a table near the edge, alone. The wind tugged softly at her coat, her fingers curled around the base of a delicate glass filled with something she hadn’t touched. The case file sat next to it, sealed but alive—its presence a pulse against the wood, humming with unsaid things.

She wasn’t here to drink. She was here to breathe.

To steal a moment from the storm she’d unleashed that morning.

Then she heard footsteps.

Measured. Familiar. Almost too quiet for a crowded rooftop.

“I thought lawyers didn’t drink during active cases,” came a voice behind her, smooth as dusk.

She didn’t look.

“I thought shadows didn’t show up in moonlight,” Y/N replied, her voice even.

Taehyung appeared around the corner of the table, the city lights brushing gold across his cheekbones. He wore black again—tailored, understated, like the night had clothed him deliberately. He took the seat across from her without asking, resting his elbows loosely on the table.

He smiled faintly, a rare thing. “Touché.”

The silence that settled between them wasn’t awkward. It was thick, thoughtful. The kind of silence you earned after surviving enough lies to crave the truth in stillness.

Y/N finally turned to him, eyes sharper than the skyline.

“Your father wrote a letter,” she said. “To Wonsik.”

Taehyung didn’t flinch. But his jaw flexed—just slightly.

“I know.”

She studied him carefully.

The weight of that truth—the fact that he had carried it for years, kept it hidden in the corners of his memory—made the silence feel heavier.

“He knew,” she continued softly, “that they were coming for him. Not just business threats. Not legal complications. He knew it would end in blood.”

Taehyung’s voice was low, scraped raw at the edges. “He still believed the law would save him. That truth was enough. That if he stayed clean, the world would protect him.”

A pause. His gaze drifted across the city.

“It wasn’t.”

Y/N’s fingers brushed the rim of her glass, tracing it like it might crack.

“He wasn’t naïve,” she said. “He was brave.”

“No,” Taehyung said, eyes distant. “He was good. That was his mistake.”

Something in his voice broke and reassembled itself all at once—too quiet to hear unless you were listening closely.

She looked at him, really looked. And in that moment, he wasn’t the man who wore darkness like armor, or the survivor of a legacy soaked in betrayal. He was the boy who had once waited on a curb, backpack at his feet, never knowing he was waiting for ghosts.

“You don’t have to fight alone anymore,” she said, steady.

He blinked slowly, then turned his gaze back to her. There was no smirk this time. No shield. Just a storm—silent but unmistakable—in the quiet depths of his eyes.

“And you,” he said softly, “don’t have to carry this alone either.”

Their words hovered between them like an oath.

Not a promise of victory.

But of shared weight.

She lifted her glass, finally.

“To truth.”

He picked up his water—clear and cold and brutally honest.

“To what it costs.”

They clinked glasses gently.

The wind picked up then, stirring her hair and fluttering the pages of the file beside them. Somewhere far below, the world moved on—oblivious to the reckoning that had just taken root in the sky above it.

Taehyung set his glass down, then reached across the table. Slowly, deliberately, he opened the case file.

“I want to see it again,” he murmured. “Not the headlines. The details. The things they buried.”

She slid it toward him without a word.

As he flipped through the pages—photos, transcripts, the letter from his father—Y/N watched the tension pull through his frame like piano wire. Grief didn’t always make a sound. Sometimes, it looked like stillness held too long.

She said nothing. She let him sit in it.

And when he reached the last page, the deposition from the hidden witness, his fingers stilled.

“This,” he said, voice low, “changes everything.”

“It already has,” Y/N replied.

Taehyung looked up, expression unreadable.

“Do you believe we can win?”

Y/N inhaled. The skyline blinked slowly behind her.

“I believe we can burn the lies to the ground,” she said. “And that’s enough to start.”

For the first time that night, a real smile ghosted across Taehyung’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes—but it didn’t need to.

Not yet.

To be Continued...