The meeting room smelled of sterile cleanliness and the faint aroma of coffee beans—a scent that had seeped into the walls over years of endless discussions. Lao Han entered unhurriedly, scanning the space: frosted glass, a long table with barely visible scratches, and a projector covered in a layer of dust, suggesting it hadn't been turned on in at least a month.
Ko Yunho sat at the far end, flipping through files. He looked up and nodded toward the coffee machine.
"Coffee?"
Lao Han ran his finger along the edge of the table, gathering dust.
"Not yet. Let's get to business."
"Suit yourself." Ko Yunho sighed, pushing the folder aside. "Go ahead, this might help us too."
"I need to review the surveillance footage from that supermarket."
Ko Yunho froze for a second, then slowly rubbed his chin as if checking how smooth his shave was.
"Oh, that might be a problem."
"Why?"
"The NIS is the only department handling the terrorism case. Neither I nor anyone else has the authority to hand over surveillance footage without solid evidence. Sorry."
"I don't need you to hand it over." Lao Han smirked. "I just need to look at it. Under supervision, I do have the right to review the case, don't I?"
Ko Yunho tapped his fingers on the table, staring out the window. The city lights flickered beyond the glass—faceless, cold.
"We've already gone through everything and found nothing substantial. The only lead is that injured girl and the man who tossed the cigarette butt."
"What about the family that went missing that day?" Lao Han leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Ever consider it might've been a diversion?"
Yunho fell silent. The air grew heavy, broken only by the quiet hum of the air conditioner.
"Hah. Fine, you've convinced me. I'll talk to my colleagues."
He left, leaving the door slightly ajar. Lao Han remained alone, his gaze drifting across the walls—no photos, no posters, nothing personal. A sterile, impersonal space where even time seemed to crawl.
Ten minutes later.
A stranger appeared in the doorway—a man in a sharp navy-blue suit that fit his lean frame perfectly. An NIS badge gleamed on his lapel, his name engraved in small letters: Kim Hyun Chul.
His slightly tousled bangs fell over his forehead, giving him a deliberately careless yet calculated appearance. The roots of his hair, dark at the temples, faded into silver near the crown—a touch of gray woven seamlessly into black strands, adding gravitas rather than age.
His gray eyes, cold and piercing, lingered on Lao Han for a moment, as if scanning every detail. His gaze was swift but unhurried—as if he'd already formed his first impression before speaking.
"Lao Han, right?"
Lao Han nodded silently. Kim Hyun Chul stepped inside and continued:
"We've considered your perspective and checked the data. That family really did disappear, and we might be able to help each other."
Lao Han didn't ask what had convinced them. Maybe it wasn't his arguments—maybe the NIS just needed fresh eyes on the case.
"Then let's not waste time. Start by pulling up the surveillance footage."
"I'll get it," Ko Yunho said, stepping out.
Kim Hyun Chul sat across from Lao Han, folding his hands on the table.
"So, Lao Han. Care to share details about the case?"
"I'll share once we review the footage."
Ko Yunho returned with a hard drive containing the surveillance recordings, gripping it tightly. His fingers whitened slightly—as if he had no intention of letting go under any circumstances.
He shot a brief but assessing glance at Kim Hyun Chul, who stood nearby. The latter gave an almost imperceptible nod—a silent signal to proceed.
Ko Yunho connected the drive, and the projector flickered to life. The image blurred, then sharpened—a low-quality color feed of the supermarket parking lot, frozen in the moment before disaster.
"Everyone, eyes on the screen."
Surveillance footage: Two hours and thirty minutes before the fire.
Cars cycled endlessly through the parking lot—some arriving, others leaving, creating chaotic yet routine movement. Eventually, a man in his forties appeared on-screen. He stepped out of a gray Mustang, lit a cigarette, and stood pensively for a few minutes, surveying his surroundings. Then, with a sharp motion, he flicked the butt onto the asphalt, crushed it underfoot, got back in his car, and drove off.
"The fire started an hour after this man appeared, but we can't rule him out. He might've been part of a premeditated plan," Ko Yunho noted, scrutinizing the footage.
Lao Han shook his head, unfazed.
"The fire obviously wasn't caused by the cigarette. You can see he put it out."
Surveillance footage: Ten minutes before the fire.
The parking lot buzzed with normal activity—people moving between cars, chatting, hurrying about their business. A young woman in summer clothes approached a green Matiz parked left of center. She rummaged through her purse, pulling out a water bottle. After unscrewing the cap, she took a few sips, glancing around.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle cut through the air—followed by a muffled pop as a firecracker exploded a meter away from her. The footage didn't show where it came from—just a sudden flash, then flames erupting. The girl flinched, eyes wide with terror. She instinctively jumped back, dropping the bottle, but sparks had already ignited the hem of her clothes.
Fanned by the wind, the flames quickly reached her hair. She flailed, trying to pat them out with her hands—but the fire only weakened slightly. Desperate, she threw herself to the ground, rolling on the asphalt to smother it.
Screams erupted around her. Several people rushed over—some stripping off jackets to smother the flames, others shouting for help. But the situation spiraled rapidly—the fire, driven by the wind, leaped to nearby cars. A second later, a blue sedan parked beside the Matiz burst into flames.
The screen froze on the image of the burning car. Kim Hyun Chul slowly rubbed his chin, his gaze tense.
"Here's the moment that's been bothering us."
"Yeah, like an explosive device just magically appeared out of thin air." Ko Yunho's voice dripped with sarcasm, but beneath it was clear irritation over the inconsistencies in the case. Lao Han, who had been silently observing until now, abruptly pushed back his chair and stood up.
"We're looking in the wrong place. Show me the footage before the man with the cigarette."
Surveillance footage: Three hours before the fire.
The monitor screen froze on a frame: a deserted parking lot dimly lit by streetlights. A young man in a dark hood, pulled low over his forehead, and a medical mask covering the lower half of his face appeared in the frame. He stood with his back to the camera, his movements cautious, almost mechanical. In his hand was a plastic water bottle. He brought it to his lips, taking a few sips, but suddenly his hand jerked, spilling some of the liquid onto the asphalt.
Ignoring the puddle, he lowered the bottle, hiding it behind a parked car. The camera only captured his hunched back—what exactly he was doing remained a mystery. A few seconds later, he straightened up, and a chocolate bar emerged from the pocket of his khaki pants. With a deft motion, he unwrapped it, broke off a piece, and brought it under his mask. His face never entered the frame.
After finishing his snack, he took a step forward, but his foot bumped into the fallen bottle. He froze abruptly, swaying slightly, then bent down and picked up the empty container. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned the bottle upright, gripping it tightly in his right hand, and walked toward the parking lot exit. His gait was quick but unhurried, with no obvious signs of nervousness.
"There he is." Lao Han's voice was cold and certain.
Kim Hyun-Chul leaned closer to the screen, scrutinizing the hooded figure but finding nothing suspicious beyond the concealed face.
"Who?"
Lao Han leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His tone was accusatory but utterly confident:
"The prime suspect."
"Sure, his outfit is suspicious, but he didn't actually do anything—just drank water and ate a chocolate bar. Doesn't look like he was dousing the place in gasoline." Ko Yunho's skeptical tone was sharp as he pointed at the screen, where the figure had already disappeared.
"What if it wasn't water in that bottle, but gasoline?" Lao Han turned sharply toward him, the question hanging in the air. Kim Hyun-Chul spread his hands, irritation creeping into his voice:
"Even if that's the case, we can't identify him. His face wasn't visible on camera, and there's nothing we can do about that."
"Suppose so." Lao Han exhaled slowly. "In that case, show me the footage from inside the store."
Surveillance footage:
The shopping mall was crowded. On every floor, shoppers hurried about their business—couples browsing clothes, families with children pausing at displays, solo visitors with bags heading toward exits. Among the crowd, one person stood out—a young man in a black hoodie and a medical mask covering the lower half of his face. His movements were deliberate, purposeful.
He paused several times at emergency exit maps, studying them carefully before methodically scanning the floors as if searching for someone. His path wasn't random—he was clearly heading toward a specific location. Soon, he reached the food court but, unlike other visitors, didn't approach the tables. Instead, he positioned himself near the escalator, leaning slightly against the railing, his gaze fixed on one of the families sitting at a table. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp with focus.
Lao Han suddenly leaned forward, pointing at the screen:
"That's him. Look—he's watching the missing family."
"This…" Ko Yunho began, tension creeping into his voice. "Seems like we've got our prime suspect."
Lao Han nodded without looking away, his tone dry and businesslike:
"Mine as well. Let's keep watching."
Surveillance footage:
The young man in the black hoodie and mask leisurely descended to the first floor and exited the mall, his figure dissolving into the crowd like a shadow. Yet, minutes later, he returned—walking with the same measured steps, the same cold, calculated calm. This time, he didn't head toward the shopping areas but toward the service corridors.
Stopping at an inconspicuous corner, he abruptly turned behind it, as if checking for tails. Moments later, he reemerged, but now his movements carried a hint of urgency. Shortly after, a security guard came running out from the same hallway, looking around frantically before shouting something.
Twenty more minutes passed. The suspect reappeared in the frame, this time at a fireworks stall. He quickly selected a few firecrackers, paid in cash, and just as calmly vanished into the crowd.
"It's clear now." Kim Hyun Chul remarked confidently. "We have his height, clothing, and distinguishing features. All that's left is to put out the alert."
Ko Yunho clenched his jaw, his eyes still locked on the screen, restrained fury in his voice:
"So he planned to kill that girl… If that's the case, we should question her male acquaintances—those around 180 cm tall."
"You're wrong." Lao Han's empty gaze shifted coldly to Ko Yunho. "His target wasn't that girl—it was the Kai Rin Wu family. He staged this spectacle to divert attention."
Ko Yunho whipped around to face him:
"Then what's the motive?"
"That's my department's concern now. Thank you for your cooperation." Lao Han slowly rose from his chair, adjusting his shirt. Ko Yunho stared at him, realization dawning with uneasy dread:
"This case is much bigger than just a routine kidnapping…"
…
The next day. Stadium, basketball court. 11:47 AM.
The stands were gradually filling with a noisy crowd—somewhere, students from other schools were shouting, chatting, chewing gum, and scribbling in their notebooks.
Kwan Soo, dressed in a white basketball uniform with blue trim, the number "99" and the team name "Gokudan" printed above it, stood by the sideline near his team's bench. He wiped his face with his palm, brushing away the sweat, and his gaze once again fell on the opponents' empty bench.
Kwan Soo's lips twisted into a barely noticeable smirk—not triumphant, but satisfied, like a chess player who had just checkmated in three moves.
"He actually kept his promise. Surprising," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone around him.
"What are you talking about?"
A short girl in a yellow sweater burst into his field of vision, as sudden and loud as ever. Her yellow hair, bleached nearly white at the ends, swayed with every movement. She grabbed his arm, and Kwan Soo felt her short nails digging into his skin.
"Nothing, Yeon Dae," he said flatly, deliberately avoiding eye contact. "Most likely, we'll be playing against their reserve team, but I'm not planning to slack off either way."
A hoarse laugh sounded behind him. A tall guy was tossing a ball with one hand, showing off his muscular forearms. His loose blue sweatshirt was deliberately oversized but couldn't hide his athletic build.
"Going all out as usual, huh?"
"Gi Cheol, aren't you tired of being surprised?" remarked another tall guy with long dark hair. He snorted, but something analytical flickered in his eyes—he was already calculating possibilities.
"As captain, I need to be confident in our strength."
"Hey, look at Yoshido's benches—they're empty!" Yeon Dae suddenly thrust her arm out, pointing to the opposite side of the court.
Silence. Even the ball froze in Gi Cheol's hands. Everyone's eyes turned to the opponents' empty benches, where their team usually gathered before a match.
"What? Where are their reserves?" Gi Cheol squinted as if he didn't believe his eyes. The long-haired guy slowly shook his head.
"When I watched their games, I never once saw their reserve team."
Yeon Dae threw her hands up, her bracelets jingling.
"What the hell do you mean, reserve team? This is the finals! Where's their main lineup?"
"I know at least one of them definitely won't come, but I don't know about the rest of the team," Kwan Soo said, running his fingers over the rough surface of the ball.
Yeon Dae turned to him so sharply that her hair whipped through the air. She stared intently at his face, trying to read his hidden thoughts.
"What do you mean, one of them won't come? Did you beat someone up?"
"Heh," Gi Cheol chuckled. "Did one of them lose to you in a betting match?"
Yeon Dae practically jumped in place. Her face turned red, and her eyes burned like hot coals.
"Kwan Soo! How many times have I told you not to gamble?! Not only is it dangerous, but you're also wasting your energy before a match for nothing!"
Kwan Soo just smirked, deftly catching the ball Gi Cheol threw at his chest. He felt its weight, the rough texture, the familiar smell of rubber and sweat.
"Relax. Only weaklings gamble, so I didn't lose any strength."
"If you think only weaklings gamble, then why do you do it yourself?" Yeon Dae pressed, stomping her foot. Her sneakers left a dark mark on the polished court.
"Haven't I told you? I use this method to get rid of trash."
Yeon Dae clenched her fists so hard her knuckles turned white. She looked like an enraged kitten—small but fierce.
"You don't take care of yourself at all!"
"'If you kill one murderer, the number of murderers doesn't decrease.' That fits you perfectly," Gi Cheol suddenly said in a serious tone. Kwan Soo sharply raised his head and locked eyes with the captain. Tension hung in the air like before a storm.
"One, sure—but if there are dozens…"
Gi Cheol took a step forward, closing the distance. His shadow loomed over Kwan Soo.
"Just tell me—who's the 'trash' from Yoshido's team you played against in a betting match?"
"Heh." Kwan Soo felt the corners of his lips curl up into a cold, almost emotionless smile. "I'll give you one guess."
A pause. Gi Cheol froze, his eyes narrowing—then suddenly widening in realization.
"No way. Seriously, him?"
Yeon Dae darted between them like a ping-pong ball, her gaze jumping from one to the other.
"Hey! Who are you talking about?"
Gi Cheol turned to her, his expression somewhere between awe and horror.
"Let's just say… a player with an interesting number who uses dirty tactics in the game."
Yeon Dae froze. Her lips moved soundlessly as she ran through possible options in her head. Then her eyes widened.
"Forty… forty-fourth?"
At that moment, a sharp whistle blared from the speakers—the referees were calling the teams onto the court. But no one moved. Everyone was mesmerized by Kwan Soo's next words:
"In real life, he's even more of a bastard than in the game. To give you a better idea of how pathetic he is, I'll tell you this…"
He paused, watching as Gi Cheol's fists involuntarily clenched and Yeon Dae held her breath.
"...the bastards who run betting rings answer to him."
Gi Cheol whistled low, and the usually composed long-haired player abruptly straightened up by the rack.
"It's really that bad?"
"Huh?" Yeon Dae blinked rapidly, as if trying to shake off her stupor. "Then why isn't he in jail?"
"Because that's not punishment enough for him." Kwan Soo's voice was unnaturally quiet. "Think about it—what do you think he'd do if he were locked up with other bastards?"
Yeon Dae bit her lower lip, lost in thought. Her fingers nervously fiddled with the hem of her sweatshirt.
"Uh… make friends with them?"
"No, not just friends—I'm sure he'd become their leader." Kwan Soo sharply shook his head. "Scum like him needs to be locked in solitary confinement."
"Hm, if he becomes a leader among bastards, doesn't that mean Yoshido's team is just as rotten?" Gi Cheol scratched the back of his head thoughtfully, leaving damp marks on his short hair. Kwan Soo glanced back at the empty opposite side of the court.
"I don't know them yet, but if they also used provocations in their games, then they're probably bastards too—just nowhere near as bad as their captain."
"Damn, he really got to you, huh…" Gi Cheol sighed heavily and placed a hand on his shoulder.
…
The silence in the stadium grew deafening. The empty benches of Yoshido's team looked like a gaping hole in reality—as if someone had taken an eraser and wiped their team away.
"Damn bastards! Where the hell are you!?"
The voice of San Liu, Yoshido's team manager, cut through the silence like a knife. He stood alone in the middle of the substitute benches—a man of average height, with sharp features, his shirt impeccably pressed, but his face twisted in rage. He yanked out his phone, fingers trembling as he dialed.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
No one picked up.
"Tch, what the hell...?" He hurled the phone into his bag, where it thudded dully against the bottom.
…
In the stands. Team Shoguro.
Han Zhou, the point guard with sharp features, leaned forward, resting his chin on the railing.
"Are they really that arrogant?"
"Remember their last game. Their confidence is unshakable... at least on the surface." Pak Jun Su slowly shook his head. Han Zhou glanced up.
"You're saying all five of them vanished just like Suk Chhon?"
Lee Hyun Jung, usually silent, suddenly scoffed.
"Honestly? I'm kinda glad they're not showing up."
…
Team Yuromusho.
Jae Un burst into such loud laughter that several spectators turned to look.
"Hah! Did their conscience finally catch up to them?"
"Yeah, right." Eun Sok just curled his lip. "I bet they don't give a damn about the game at all."
…
Center court.
The referee, an older man with graying temples and stern lines around his mouth, raised his whistle. A sharp blast sliced through the air.
"Yoshido's team forfeits by default. Victory goes to Gokudan."
The crowd... didn't erupt. Didn't clap. Didn't even whisper. Just—silence.
Kwan Soo stood watching as San Liu slowly turned and walked toward the exit. His shoulders were unnaturally tense, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"Heh, how unfortunate..." Kwan Soo muttered, but there wasn't a trace of sympathy in his voice.
San Liu didn't look back. He just stepped into the dark tunnel—and disappeared.