The editor leaned back on his chair, the office chair rolled a little back with a squeak sound. His hand rubbed his face, up to his forehead, then down again. Too much. It was too much.
Was he really going to publish this? Han's words were still ringing in his ears. A killer, not a psycho, not some random school fight gone wrong — but someone who chooses his targets. Someone who kills with reason.
His chest felt heavy. His breath came slow, rough. What Han was trying to do wasn't just a story.
She was painting the killer like some hero. A shadow hero. Delivering justice in his own way.
The editor's fingers tapped on the desk, restless. He couldn't decide. Publish it and shake the whole country. Or hold it back and let someone else take the fire.
The editor leaned back again, his head tilted up, eyes staring at the ceiling. The office chair turned slow under him, one spin, then half, then another. His fingers drummed the armrest.
Han Soo-jin stood in front of him, staring him with the hope that he would allow to publish it.
He knew her. Everyone in the office knew her. Han Soo-jin wasn't just another pretty face on TV. Sure, she stood in front of cameras, shouting sharp questions that made cops squirm.
But off-screen, she dug deeper — files, old cases, court records.
Some called her nosy, others reckless. In the newsroom, they called her Bulldog Han. Once she bit into a story, she never let go.
The editor sighed, his chair squeaked again as he spun halfway, then stopped. Bulldog Han. She was never proven wrong. Not once in her career.
And now she was standing here, eyes burning, saying this killer wasn't just a killer.
The editor's chair stopped spinning. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, both hands pressed on the files Han threw at him. His lips pressed thin, eyes heavy like he was carrying a mountain on his shoulders.
He stared at her. Long. Too long. The only sound was the hum of the old ceiling fan above them.
Finally, he let out a deep breath.
"Han Soo-jin…" his voice low, almost a growl. "If I let this go… and you're wrong… it won't just be your career. It'll be mine too. They'll tear this place apart."
His fingers tapped the edge of the file, restless. "This isn't some gossip piece. You're painting a killer as… as a judge, a symbol."
He looked at her again, his jaw tight.
"I'm taking a risk. A big one. So for both our sakes…" he paused, pointing his finger at her, "you better not be wrong."
Han's lips curled. "I'm not wrong."
The editor sighed, loud, like he was throwing away his peace.
"Fine… print it."
Han's eyes lit up. She grabbed the files from the desk, hugging them tight to her chest like she was holding treasure.
Her lips pulled into a grin, wide, sharp. "Good. You won't regret it, Chief."
She spun on her heel, almost running out of the room. Her heels clicked on the floor, fast, echoing through the hallway.
Her voice carried behind her, loud, full of fire.
"Get ready, Korea. Tomorrow headline will shake the whole country!"
In her mind, the words already burned bright.
The Underworld Judge.
Not a psycho. Not a random killer.
A shadow. Delivering justice where the law failed.
Han quickly rushed into her office, her chair rolled back as she sat down hard. Fingers flying, she typed in her username and password, the glow of the computer screen flashing on her face.
The news website dashboard opened. She cracked her knuckles once, her lips curling.
Her fingers typed first on the title bar. Each letter hit heavy.
The Underworld Judge — Six Executions in Three Days. Punishment Delivered in Shadows.
Han's eyes glowed. She leaned forward and started typing. Words spilled fast, line after line. Six murders. Three days. All students. All sons of rich men who bought their way out of court. Victims never got justice. But now… someone was delivering it.
She didn't stop. Her fingers kept moving, click, clack, click, clack, the sound filling the quiet office.
Outside her room, the newsroom started to fade. Chairs emptied. Reporters left one by one, their voices echoing less and less.
Lights went out, one after another. The big office that was loud in the day was now silent, dark — except for one place. Han's office.
Her light was still on.
On her desk, papers were spread everywhere. A half-empty coffee cup sat close to her hand.
Steam no longer rose from it, but she still picked it up, sipped, made a face at the bitter taste, and kept typing.
She reached for another mug, this one fresh, hot, the smell of coffee sharp in the air. She drank again, forcing her tired eyes open.
Hours passed. The coffee rings on the desk grew. Another empty cup joined the others. Her hair got messy, falling loose from the bun, but she didn't care. Her eyes glowed with fire, her fingers moving without rest.
It was too late now. Midnight gone, the city outside quiet. Everyone else had gone home.
But Han was still there, awake, alive, writing the article that, in her mind, would shake all of South Korea.
Her eyes were heavy now, but her hands didn't stop. She pushed the keyboard harder, the sound echoing in the empty office.
Coffee mug almost slipped from her hand, but she caught it, gulped what was left, cold and bitter. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, then leaned forward again.
She leaned back, staring at the screen. Her lips curled, teeth showing. She whispered under her breath, low, sharp.
"This will shake the country."
Her finger lifted, ready to click on Publish button, one click, and it would be live.
She paused for a second. Her head turned to the wall clock. The hour hands pointed at 2 A.M.
Han smirked. Then she clicked on the Publish.