Nighttime Seoul lived its own peculiar life. The rain had washed away the day's dust, leaving the asphalt mirrored, reflecting neon and scattered streetlights. Surveillance cameras on the corners of buildings blinked lazily with red lights, as if they, too, were tired of watching the eternal hustle.
Do-yun walked next to Seungho, breathing the damp air. Seungho seemed calm, but his gaze swept the streets too attentively. This man never simply walked—every step was a decision, every look had a purpose.
They turned towards a small security post building. Seungho spoke first, his voice low, deep, but firm: — The recordings should be stored for the last three days. If someone took Jeong, we'll see it.
Do-yun nodded, though a heavy premonition already beat inside him. It was cold inside, smelling of coffee and dust from old equipment. The security guard on duty, a Beta in his forties, lazily looked up. But Seungho's gaze was sharp enough that the man connected the archives without unnecessary questions.
The screen lit up. Gray streets, shadows of passersby, headlights moving across the wet asphalt. — Rewind to the night of the disappearance, — Seungho ordered.
The frames changed. Do-yun leaned closer, his fingers instinctively clenching into a fist. Seungho stood nearby, and the warmth of his shoulder was felt too distinctly. On the recording: the dark alley next to the club. Jeong enters the frame—his light stride, a phone in his hand. Then—a silhouette. A black shadow, a head taller. The movement was too familiar: a quick step, a sharp tug of the arm.
Do-yun inhaled too sharply. — I know that silhouette... Seungho narrowed his eyes, and his palm rested on the back of the chair, almost touching Do-yun's shoulder. — Are you sure? — Too familiar, — he choked out. His heart pounded in his temples.
On the recording, everything happened in a flash: Jeong turns around, the shadow grabs him, fabric over his face, a struggle—and everything dissolves into darkness. A car without license plates. A door slams shut. Emptiness.
Seungho slammed his fist on the table, but his voice remained hoarsely quiet: — They knew exactly where to position the car. They knew where the camera wouldn't reach. Do-yun gripped the edge of the table. — It's not an accident. They only left us the silhouette.
A chill churned inside him. And another thing: the fact that the shadow seemed familiar was more dangerous than the disappearance itself. Seungho turned to him, their faces too close. His gaze was scorching. — You're trembling. — No, — Do-yun breathed out. But at that moment, Seungho still touched his palm, squeezed it. Lightly, briefly.
This gesture was more than just support. It said: "You're not alone." The camera on the screen kept replaying the footage, but the world seemed to narrow down to this touch. Seungho added quietly: — We will find him. But for that, you'll have to trust me completely.