INT. KAMIKAWA POLICE DEPARTMENT – INTERROGATION ROOM – EARLY MORNING
The fluorescent lights flicker faintly.
Ryouma sits across from Officer Nam, eyes clearer than before but still holding a depth too heavy for a teenager. Souta sits beside him. They're no longer crying. They're no longer scared.
They're something else now.
"We want to register," Ryouma says.
Nam raises an eyebrow.
"Register?"
Souta leans forward, voice steady:
"As junior cadets. Under the Yoon Act. Civilian sponsorship clause. Our aunt used it once. We'll use her name."
"You're children," Nam says.
"We're survivors," Ryouma replies.
A beat.
Nam exhales.
"…I'll file the paperwork."
Ryouma and Souta wearing student uniforms in Kamikawa High again, keeping quiet in the halls, unnoticed but observant.
Nights spent studying criminal reports, old forensic notebooks Katarina left behind.
Training in silence. Ryouma lifts weights in their old backyard. Souta practices escaping bindings, studying trauma psychology.
A locked box under Katarina's old bed: her badge, her sidearm, old newspaper clippings of children saved.
One headline circled in red:
"Local Officer Prevents Serial Child Disappearances in Seoul: 'One Life Is Always Worth It'"
EXT. SEOUL – RAINY NIGHT
Kairi walks through a rusted hallway of an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by a few remaining lieutenants—quiet, cold-eyed men who fear her more than they trust her.
She stops at a steel door.
"Prepare," she says without looking at them.
One of the men swallows. "For what?"
She turns slowly.
"For purification."
The door opens into darkness.
She steps inside.
Alone.
INT. THE ROOM — UNKNOWN LOCATION
Inside: a candlelit space. Symbols etched into the walls. Photographs. Maps. Pins and strings. A psychotic altar of obsession—except now, it's not just of her children.
The masked woman's silhouette stands in the far corner, her face hidden beneath porcelain.
Kairi speaks first.
"Are you a ghost?"
The woman replies—not with hostility, but poetry:
"Ghosts don't watch. Ghosts don't breathe. I'm something much worse."
She steps forward, still masked.
Kairi's hand subtly reaches for the blade at her hip.
"I don't fear you," she says.
The woman tilts her head.
"Good. You shouldn't. You should fear what your reflection becomes when no one's watching anymore."
Then she vanishes into the shadows again, as if she were smoke.
INT. RYOUMA & SOUTA'S ROOM
Ryouma finishes sealing an envelope.
It's a letter to Katarina. One that will never be sent.
Souta speaks softly from her bed:
"Do you think she'd be proud?"
Ryouma doesn't answer.
He simply tucks the letter under his pillow.
Then says:
"I hope she haunts us every day."
INT. A DARKENED ROOM — UNKNOWN LOCATION — NIGHT
Close-up of an old cassette player.
A finger presses play.
Music starts: a low, analog hum from an old tape—like a slowed down synth-pop song bleeding into something industrial. Think Anri meets Nine Inch Nails.
The camera pans over: walls covered in old clippings, now yellowed, edges curled. Katarina's badge pinned to one. A photograph of Kairi from 1985. A bloodstained student ID. A half-torn map of Seoul.
A voice plays from an old recorder:
"The children chose mercy. But mercy leaves scars. And mercy doesn't stop wolves."
"Twelve Years Later"
1997.
Seoul.
The streets are no longer flickering with innocence. Neon signs pulse with a different sickness now. Technology is rising, but so is paranoia.
We see: a pair of boots step onto a cracked rooftop.
A coat whips in the wind.
The masked woman stands there—unchanged.
Below: sirens. A crime scene.
She watches.
We pan down to see a chalk outline, then a badge.
Detective Ryouma Saigeru — 25. Standing in a trench coat.
His eyes scan the rooftop.
He senses something.
The hunt is beginning again.
INT. KAMIKAWA POLICE DEPARTMENT – INTERROGATION ROOM – EARLY MORNING
The fluorescent lights flicker faintly.
Ryouma sits across from Officer Nam, eyes clearer than before but still holding a depth too heavy for a teenager. Souta sits beside him. They're no longer crying. They're no longer scared.
They're something else now.
"We want to register," Ryouma says.
Nam raises an eyebrow.
"Register?"
Souta leans forward, voice steady:
"As junior cadets. Under the Yoon Act. Civilian sponsorship clause. Our aunt used it once. We'll use her name."
"You're children," Nam says.
"We're survivors," Ryouma replies.
A beat.
Nam exhales.
"…I'll file the paperwork."
Ryouma and Souta wearing student uniforms in Kamikawa High again, keeping quiet in the halls, unnoticed but observant.
Nights spent studying criminal reports, old forensic notebooks Katarina left behind.
Training in silence. Ryouma lifts weights in their old backyard. Souta practices escaping bindings, studying trauma psychology.
A locked box under Katarina's old bed: her badge, her sidearm, old newspaper clippings of children saved.
One headline circled in red:
"Local Officer Prevents Serial Child Disappearances in Seoul: 'One Life Is Always Worth It'"
EXT. SEOUL – RAINY NIGHT
Kairi walks through a rusted hallway of an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by a few remaining lieutenants—quiet, cold-eyed men who fear her more than they trust her.
She stops at a steel door.
"Prepare," she says without looking at them.
One of the men swallows. "For what?"
She turns slowly.
"For purification."
The door opens into darkness.
She steps inside.
Alone.
INT. THE ROOM — UNKNOWN LOCATION
Inside: a candlelit space. Symbols etched into the walls. Photographs. Maps. Pins and strings. A psychotic altar of obsession—except now, it's not just of her children.
The masked woman's silhouette stands in the far corner, her face hidden beneath porcelain.
Kairi speaks first.
"Are you a ghost?"
The woman replies—not with hostility, but poetry:
"Ghosts don't watch. Ghosts don't breathe. I'm something much worse."
She steps forward, still masked.
Kairi's hand subtly reaches for the blade at her hip.
"I don't fear you," she says.
The woman tilts her head.
"Good. You shouldn't. You should fear what your reflection becomes when no one's watching anymore."
Then she vanishes into the shadows again, as if she were smoke.
INT. RYOUMA & SOUTA'S ROOM
Ryouma finishes sealing an envelope.
It's a letter to Katarina. One that will never be sent.
Souta speaks softly from her bed:
"Do you think she'd be proud?"
Ryouma doesn't answer.
He simply tucks the letter under his pillow.
Then says:
"I hope she haunts us every day."
INT. A DARKENED ROOM — UNKNOWN LOCATION — NIGHT
Close-up of an old cassette player.
A finger presses play.
Music starts: a low, analog hum from an old tape—like a slowed down synth-pop song bleeding into something industrial. Think Anri meets Nine Inch Nails.
The camera pans over: walls covered in old clippings, now yellowed, edges curled. Katarina's badge pinned to one. A photograph of Kairi from 1985. A bloodstained student ID. A half-torn map of Seoul.
A voice plays from an old recorder:
"The children chose mercy. But mercy leaves scars. And mercy doesn't stop wolves."
"Twelve Years Later"
1997.
Seoul.
The streets are no longer flickering with innocence. Neon signs pulse with a different sickness now. Technology is rising, but so is paranoia.
We see: a pair of boots step onto a cracked rooftop.
A coat whips in the wind.
The masked woman stands there—unchanged.
Below: sirens. A crime scene.
She watches.
We pan down to see a chalk outline, then a badge.
Detective Ryouma Saigeru — 25. Standing in a trench coat.
His eyes scan the rooftop.
He senses something.
The hunt is beginning again.