The address Min Dae-hyun sent him was a nondescript rooftop café near the Han River, long since abandoned. The elevator had long stopped working, and when Joon-ho reached the top after nearly ten minutes of stairs, he found the door already slightly ajar.
Inside, surrounded by flickering lanterns and scattered newspapers, sat the man they once called "the bloodhound."
Min Dae-hyun.
He looked older than Joon-ho expected. Mid-forties, maybe, with a coarse beard and hair that had given up on order. He was dressed plainly—sweater, coat, loose jeans—but his eyes were sharp, like twin blades.
"Sit," Dae-hyun said without looking up.
Joon-ho took a seat across from him. A cold wind rolled across the rooftop, but the former journalist didn't flinch.
"I read everything," Dae-hyun muttered, flipping through a thick folder. "Your notes. The leaked files. The affidavit copies before they were stolen. You've stirred something deep, kid. Real deep."
"I didn't do it to stir things."
"No one ever does." He finally looked up. "They do it because someone they love got buried under silence."
Joon-ho tensed.
"…My mother."
Dae-hyun gave a quiet nod.
"Taurus didn't just steal land, Joon-ho. They buried evidence. The company's development wing isn't just gentrifying Doksan. It's a funnel. The real operation is tied to off-ledger accounts—shell companies registered in Singapore, Lichtenstein, and even under the name of a lawmaker's family dog."
"…What?"
"Literal. One company under the name 'Baek Tofu.' Guess who owns it?"
Joon-ho stared.
"They're laundering funds," Dae-hyun continued. "Not just campaign money. Corporate bribes, private slush funds, investment kickbacks from foreign firms who want favorable zoning policies in Seoul. Doksan is the pilot."
Joon-ho could barely breathe.
"If you can prove that—"
"I can't. Not alone. I burned my credentials years ago. They won't listen to me. But they're listening to you."
"I'm not a journalist."
"No, you're something worse. You're clean. Honest. Young. People believe in you. That makes you dangerous."
---
Back at the clinic, everything was unraveling.
The volunteer base had shrunk. Two law interns quit abruptly. The latest blog post from their community page had a comment thread accusing the team of "leftist indoctrination." Someone even spray-painted the words TRAITOR'S DEN outside the clinic gate during the night.
Sae-bin wiped it off in silence.
She hadn't smiled in days.
Professor Han was still focused, but exhaustion lined his features. Worse yet, their informant from inside Taurus—known only as "Sparrow"—had gone silent.
The walls were closing in.
Joon-ho walked into the office the next morning holding a fresh manila envelope.
Inside: documents Min Dae-hyun had gathered. Fake identities. Real bank ledgers. Flight logs showing Park Jin-ho meeting foreign developers in violation of government protocol.
Han's eyebrows arched.
"Where did you get these?"
"An old reporter. Burned, but not broken."
Han read the documents with growing unease.
"If these are real… we'll need to go beyond Korea's borders."
"Then let's start walking."
---
Meanwhile, Ye-rin had begun her own investigation.
Unlike Joon-ho, she wasn't afraid to break a few eggs.
She met with a former Taurus employee—a junior accountant who had been quietly dismissed two months ago for "clerical irregularities." In truth, he'd tried to report internal transfers that didn't match tax records.
His hands shook as he passed her the USB.
"They said if I talked, they'd ruin my father's pension. I didn't even tell my girlfriend."
Ye-rin took it gently.
"You're doing the right thing."
Inside were files—hundreds—matching what Min Dae-hyun had found. But with more specifics: project codes, fund trails, and what looked like internal names for bribes.
One caught her eye: 'Operation Floorboard.'
---
Back at the clinic, the words echoed in Joon-ho's mind.
Floorboard.
He didn't know why it stuck with him until he remembered: in the old Doksan neighborhood records, there was a warehouse that Taurus had bought before any land deals were public.
Years before.
He and Sae-bin went to check it out.
The warehouse looked abandoned—cobwebs, broken windows, rusted chain lock. But when they forced the door open and stepped inside, the place was eerily… clean.
Too clean.
No dust on the main hallway.
Fresh footprints.
And in the far corner, beneath a makeshift wooden stage—was a hidden hatch.
It groaned when opened, revealing a stairwell that led underground.
They stared at each other.
Joon-ho spoke first. "Stay here. I'll go down."
"No way."
But he was already descending.
The stairs led to a narrow tunnel lined with wires and black boxes. Server racks. Power cables. Surveillance feeds.
Dozens of screens flickered to life as he stepped in.
Doksan. The clinic. Courtrooms. Even his own apartment.
They were watching everything.
---
He emerged pale, eyes wide.
"They've been monitoring us the whole time," he whispered.
Han, when informed, went still.
"This isn't just corruption. It's state-level espionage."
They called a lawyer from the National Legal Defense League, and Ye-rin uploaded the video to a trusted tech journalist.
By morning, the headlines screamed across every screen in the city:
"Illegal Surveillance Network Found Beneath Taurus-Owned Warehouse. Ties to Lawmakers Under Investigation."
---
The blowback was immediate.
Assemblyman Baek canceled his campaign appearances.
Taurus shares dropped 11%.
And one of the stolen affidavit witnesses came forward again, publicly.
"I was threatened," the elderly man said in a recorded interview. "Taurus told me if I testified, I'd lose everything. My grandchildren, their school, even my wife's medication."
The interview aired nationally.
The tide turned.
---
But victories have shadows.
That same night, someone tried to break into the clinic again.
This time, Joon-ho was waiting.
He tackled the intruder by the file room and yanked off the mask.
It was one of the newer volunteers.
Seung-hwan.
Joon-ho stared at him, breathless.
"Why?!"
Seung-hwan didn't resist.
"I needed the money. They said if I gave them copies of the documents, they'd clear my sister's debt."
Silence fell like winter.
---
They didn't press charges.
But Seung-hwan was banned from the clinic.
Professor Han stood at the window afterward, sipping cold coffee.
"I don't blame him," he said softly. "That's how they win. Not with guns. With desperation."
Joon-ho sat in the corner, staring at his shoes.
"…Am I enough?"
Han turned to him.
"You were never meant to be enough alone."
---
The final court hearing loomed.
Oh Sang-cheol was quiet this time—too quiet.
When the judge called the session to order, Taurus made a new motion.
"Your Honor, we offer a full settlement to Mr. Kang Joon-ho. All charges dropped. All legal fees waived. In return, he signs a permanent NDA and refrains from further public commentary."
Joon-ho looked at Han.
Then at the judge.
And he stood.
"I decline."
The judge blinked. "Mr. Kang, I advise you to—"
"No," he said louder. "I don't want silence. I want the truth on record. For everyone who never got their day in court. For my mother."
Gasps rippled through the gallery.
Even Oh Sang-cheol flinched.
---
The hearing went forward.
The whistleblowers' testimonies were read into the record. The surveillance footage submitted as state evidence. The journalist from the Han River café submitted a formal report verifying the foreign accounts tied to Taurus.
When the verdict was delivered, it didn't absolve everything.
But it was enough.
The court found Taurus Holdings guilty of multiple counts of illegal surveillance and coercion. Damages were awarded to displaced Doksan families. The civil suit moved to a new phase. The court referred Assemblyman Baek to the Ethics Committee.
And Joon-ho… walked out of the courtroom free.
But not finished.
---
That evening, Sae-bin stood beside him as cameras flashed.
Reporters shouted questions. Supporters cheered.
But Joon-ho was quiet.
"What happens now?" she asked.
He looked at the sky, soft with evening.
"Now we clean the rest of the rot."
"Even if it takes years?"
"Even if it takes a lifetime."
Behind them, the clinic lights glowed like a lighthouse in a storm.