Minah sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by half-unpacked bags. The room was warm, quiet, and—most importantly—hers. She had just started placing her clothes into drawers when a gentle knock echoed from the door.
She looked up.
It was Jaewook.
He stood at the doorway with his usual composed expression, but something about his tone was gentler than usual.
"I just got off the phone with your foster parents," he said. "They were... persistent."
Minah's posture tensed slightly.
Jaewook shook his head.
"They won't bother you again. I've already handled it."
Minah exhaled silently. She gave a small nod and slowly raised her hands to sign:
Thank you.
Jaewook's gaze softened. "You're welcome."
He lingered for a second longer, almost as if wanting to say more—but then gave her privacy and left, closing the door behind him.
Minah turned back toward the suitcase at her feet, but her attention had already drifted.
She reached for the photograph resting on the bed. Her fingers traced the edges.
In the photo—just two kids, smiling with cotton candy in their hands. She looked so carefree… and he looked so familiar now.
Back then, they were inseparable. A short, blissful chapter in her life that had been buried under years of silence and pain.
But as she stared at the image, another memory began to surface. Blurred at the edges. Unstable. But real.
She remembered being small.
Alone in a room with blinding white lights.
People in masks circled her—strangers speaking in a language she didn't understand. They weren't cruel, but they were cold. Calculated.
Someone said she was in shock.
That something terrible had happened to her family.
She didn't remember the details. Just flashes—shadows, muffled voices, a sharp sting, and then darkness.
She remembered screaming once.
Then never again.
They had done something to her.
And whatever it was… had stolen more than her voice.
------
Meanwhile, on the third floor, Jaewook sat alone in his office. The city lights outside flickered softly behind the blackout curtains, casting faint glows along the edges of the room.
He twirled a sleek pen between his fingers, the soft click of the cap breaking the silence.
In front of him: Minah's file.
He had reviewed it countless times now. Name. Date of birth. Educational history. Medical notes. Foster records.
But something didn't sit right.
There was a gap. A stretch of blank space in her timeline—her adolescence. Years without documentation. No schooling records. No guardianship notes. Nothing.
It was as if someone had deliberately erased that part of her life.
His brows furrowed.
"Minah… what happened to you?" he whispered, almost to himself.
He leaned back in his chair and turned toward the large monitor at his desk. On the screen, a digitally aged photo flickered into view.
It was Minah—young Minah, as he remembered her. The orphan girl who once lived in his home for three fleeting months before disappearing.
And beside it… an AI-generated projection. An image Kang Ho had sent him, built using Minah's childhood photo and facial progression software. A gentle simulation of what she might look like in her twenties.
The resemblance to the real Minah was undeniable.
Jawline. Eyes. The way her expression softened at the corners.
It was her.
He didn't need the algorithm anymore. His heart had known the moment he saw her at the bar.
Jaewook closed the file on his screen and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, hands clasped.
"Who took you from me?"
----
That afternoon, Jaewook made a call he had been putting off for years.
His mother.
The line rang once. Twice. Then connected.
"Jaewook?" her voice came through, calm but surprised. "Is something wrong?"
"I need you to tell me everything you know about Song Minah," he said, skipping the pleasantries. "The girl you adopted years ago. Don't leave anything out."
There was silence on the other end.
A long, heavy pause.
"Minah..." she finally said, almost like breathing out a memory. "Why are you bringing this up now?"
"Because I found her," Jaewook said. "And something's not right. There are gaps. Parts of her life are missing. And I'm going to find out what happened—whether you help me or not."
His voice was steady, but the tension was palpable.
His mother hesitated again.
Then, with a colder edge than he expected, she said, "Don't bother with it. Whatever happened in the past… should stay buried."
Jaewook's grip on the phone tightened. "What are you not telling me?"
"It's not for you to know," she said firmly. "Leave it alone, Jaewook. That girl—her story is not what you remember. There are things that even I wasn't allowed to ask."
"Then who does know?" he demanded. "Who took her away?"
Another pause.
His mother's voice dropped lower. "This isn't just about a lost girl. You're opening a door that leads to things you were never meant to see."
"You're talking in circles."
"No," she said. "I'm warning you."
Then, softer. Regretful.
"Do not go down this path further, Jaewook. Some truths are better left untouched."
She hung up.