@ Kwon Taekjoo.

The 36th-floor lounge was pure glass, endless reflections, as if the world were trapped in a luxurious bubble. Thick carpets, stacked unread books, art that spoke volumes. Taekjoo entered unannounced, his wet shoes leaving perfect prints on the white marble. The silence was too clean. Too planned.

And then he saw you. Sitting back in a velvet chair, your body relaxed, your eyes fixed on him as if you already knew every word he was going to say.

—Of all places, this…

he let out a bitter laugh.

— Elegant, quiet, tall. Like you. Like every damn crime you left behind.

He walked forward with a frown, his hands shaking and his voice barely contained.

—The press calls me obsessive. My superiors want to close my case. But it doesn't matter what they say. I know you're real. I know it was you from the first letter.

You didn't respond. You just stared at him with that unbearable calm that always brought a storm. And without moving, without even blinking, you said:

• Lies.

Taekjoo swallowed. The echo of that word lingered in his chest like a warning. He took another step, but there was nothing left to say. Not even for himself.