The glass doors slid open without a sound.
Eun-ji entered first, her pace brisk and deliberate. Mi-ran followed, eyes already scanning the space, and Eun-chae brought up the rear, fingers tightening around her tablet. None of them spoke. They didn't need to.
The lobby buzzed with low administrative noise—phones ringing, keyboards clicking—but the trio moved through it like a current, cutting cleanly past the front desk. No badges flashed. No explanations were offered. Their focus was unmistakable.
They turned into a narrow hallway where fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting pale reflections across polished floors. The echo of their footsteps was the only sound that followed them. No idle conversation. No wasted breath.
At the end of the corridor stood a heavy steel door, stark against the white walls.
ARCHIVED CASES – AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY
Eun-ji didn't hesitate.
The records room was cool and dim, the air faintly metallic. Tall shelves lined the walls, packed with years of forgotten files—lives reduced to paper, dust, and digital codes. A few computer terminals glowed softly, the only warmth in the space.
Eun-chae went straight to one of the monitors and logged in, her fingers moving with practiced speed. Mi-ran pulled a chair closer, leaning in as if she could will the truth onto the screen. Eun-ji remained standing, arms folded, watching everything—every line of code, every flicker of data.
"Pulling archived death reports from the last two years," Eun-chae said quietly. "Pattern search: blood loss. Ruled suicides. Victims connected to media, tech, or research."
The database loaded rapidly. Names scrolled past. Faces appeared, disappeared. Tags stacked neatly beside each file.
"I noticed it earlier," Mi-ran murmured. "Different ages. Different platforms. Same ending."
Eun-chae isolated five files. The screen reorganized itself.
"Five victims. All women. Ages nineteen to forty-two. Each active on a different online platform."
Eun-ji's gaze hardened. "All ruled suicides," she said. "All too clean."
Silence stretched between them—heavy, knowing. The same unease settled in all three.
"Start digging," Eun-ji continued. "One of them made a mistake. That's where we begin."
They leaned closer, almost unconsciously. Eun-chae's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling layers of data apart. The glow of the monitors washed over their faces—sharp eyes, set jaws, minds moving in sync.
Hours later, the room looked different.
Physical case files were stacked around the terminal, paper mingling with digital records. Eun-chae flipped through folders while Mi-ran jumped between reports on-screen, cross-checking timelines.
Eun-ji paused over one file.
Her eyes narrowed.
"This one doesn't line up," Mi-ran said, frowning. "The background doesn't match the report."
"Let me pull up his digital history," Eun-chae replied.
She typed. The screen refreshed.
Eun-ji froze mid-page.
"Wait," she said, her voice dropping. "I think I found something."
The others looked up as she turned the file toward them.
"Case Four," Eun-ji continued. "He mentions a pen drive. Twice."
She slid a scanned photo across the desk—a close-up of a cluttered workspace. Papers, notebooks… and between them, a small silver USB drive.
"That's a pen drive?" Mi-ran asked.
"Yes," Eun-chae said slowly. "And not a standard one. No branding. Could be encrypted. Custom."
Eun-ji read aloud from the file, each word landing heavier than the last.
No matter what happens, I save everything on the pen drive.
Silence followed.
"Just like the girl who died today," Eun-ji said. "Same method. Same warning signs."
The clock on the wall clicked to 5:00 PM.
Outside the room, the bureau began to wind down. Chairs scraped. Systems powered off. Footsteps faded as agents headed home. The records room remained lit, untouched by the routine of leaving.
Eun-ji closed the file and stood.
"He mentioned an auction at Museum Hall," she said. "Said it was the hand-off point."
She looked at them—steady, certain.
"That's where we go next. Whoever did this… they'll be there."
"Then we track them," Mi-ran said.
"And stop the next victim," Eun-chae added.
They exchanged a final look—no doubt, no hesitation.
Resolved. Focused. United.
They gathered their things and left the room, the dying glow of the monitors fading behind them—silent witnesses to a truth that was finally starting to surface.