The secure door opened with a soft click, barely loud enough to disturb the silence.
Three shadowed figures slipped inside the darkened room. Masks concealed their faces, hoods pulled low, movements soundless and practiced. Cold light glowed faintly from dormant computer screens, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. The low hum of machines filled the air like a steady pulse.
They spread out with precision. One headed straight for a terminal. Another disappeared deeper into the room, scanning the space. The third remained near the entrance, perfectly still — a lookout, listening for anything out of place.
At the computer, fingers moved across the keyboard without hesitation. Screens flickered to life. Windows opened. Lines of code streamed past in rapid succession. A folder appeared. A file was accessed. There was a brief pause.
The figure tilted their head, reading.
Then a few final keystrokes.
One last screen flashed — and vanished.
They regrouped without exchanging a single word. The chair was pushed back into place. Nothing disturbed. Nothing left behind. Moments later, the three figures melted back into the darkness. The door clicked shut.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Morning traffic rolled steadily through Seoul as a silver Hyundai Tucson weaved between lanes, sunlight reflecting off its polished surface.
Inside the car, Lee Mi-ran drove with focused attention, her posture straight, her expression composed. She glanced toward the passenger seat, where her daughter sat scrolling through her phone.
Hana, fifteen, still in her middle school uniform, had her earbuds dangling loosely around her neck.
"Mom," she said without looking up, "when are you going to pick me up again?"
Mi-ran frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Grandpa's been picking me up for weeks," Hana replied. "You're always working late."
A sigh escaped Mi-ran before she could stop it. Guilt crept into her eyes. She reached over at a red light and gently brushed a strand of hair behind Hana's ear.
"Today," she said softly. "I promise. I'll be there."
The car pulled up near the school gate moments later. Students streamed inside, laughter and chatter filling the air as backpacks bounced against shoulders.
Mi-ran stepped out, walked around the car, and opened Hana's door. Her daughter climbed out, adjusting her bag.
"You'll do great," Mi-ran said, straightening Hana's collar. "Have a good day."
Hana laughed. "You say that like it's an exam."
She smiled. "But thanks."
Then she turned and jogged toward the gate.
"Bye, Mom!"
"Bye, Hana!"
Mi-ran watched until her daughter disappeared into the crowd. Only then did she return to the driver's seat and exhale slowly.
Her phone buzzed.
She answered.
"Ma'am," a voice said urgently. "You need to come to—"
The line cut off.
But Mi-ran's expression had already changed. Something was wrong.
She put the car into drive.
By late morning, a quiet apartment complex tucked away on a backstreet had transformed into a scene of controlled chaos. Yellow police tape cordoned off the entrance. Neighbors whispered behind the barrier while a handful of reporters lingered nearby, kept at bay by uniformed officers.
Inside the building, Kang Eun-ji, Lee Mi-ran, and Eun-chae climbed the stairwell with steady steps. Their faces were composed, unreadable, the weight of experience settling heavily in their silence.
At the top floor, several uniformed officers stood guard. The moment they recognized the trio, they bowed respectfully. Eun-ji returned a subtle nod.
One officer stepped forward and opened the apartment door.
Inside, tension hung thick in the air.
Detectives spoke in hushed tones. A forensic team moved methodically through the space, dusting surfaces, photographing every detail. Somewhere down the hall, a sob broke through the stillness.
A man and a woman — the girl's parents — stood together, shaken beyond words.
On the wall nearby, a framed family photograph caught the light. Three smiling faces stared back, frozen in a moment of happiness that now felt unbearably distant.