Lee Seo-yeon was staring at the same screen for the third time.

  The timestamps. The access logs. The viewed records. The numbers had long since lost their meaning. All she saw was the last moment her brother’s name had existed in the system.

  [Lee Seo-jun]

  After that, there was nothing. It wasn't that the data had been deleted or hidden; it was as if it had never existed in the first place.

  Seo-yeon leaned back in her chair. Three years. People told her three years was enough time to process grief. But for her, those three years weren't for crying.

  They were for proof. Proof that her brother hadn't taken his own life. Proof that he hadn't made a mistake.

  And proof that the records he left behind were being used by someone else.

  She began opening other files.

  The cases were different. The people were different. Yet, strangely, the sentences leading to the final verdict were always positioned in the exact same spot.

  At the very top. In the summary. The first sentence a reader would see. And beneath those sentences, the same name appeared over and over.

  [Han Yun-jae]

  Seo-yeon jotted down a short note: 'He doesn't make the decisions. He merely creates the flow.'

  Suddenly, her brother’s voice echoed in her mind. "I think the person who opens the door lasts longer than the person who creates the problem." She hadn't understood it then. She did now.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Seo-yeon closed her laptop and picked up her phone. This time, she didn't hesitate.

  At the same moment. Yun-jae sat in a corner of a quiet cafe.

  His laptop was shut. He sat with his phone gripped tightly in his hand.

  There were no notifications. The silence only served to amplify his anxiety. Then, an email arrived.

  ━━━━━━━━━━━━ [Court Record Access Notification] Access Reason: External Request Reference Records: Jung Yun-seok and 2 others Reason: Consistency with original judgment ━━━━━━━━━━━━

  'Original judgment.' A phrase Yun-jae knew better than anyone.

  No one had called him yet. And yet, his name was already being used as a standard, a benchmark of truth in the outside world.

  Buzz. His phone vibrated. A number he didn't recognize. Yun-jae hesitated for a moment before answering.

  "…Hello?"

  The person on the other end didn't speak immediately. After a short, sharp intake of breath, a woman’s voice—unfamiliar, yet piercingly clear—spoke.

  "Prosecutor Han Yun-jae."

  The title struck him like a physical blow. Yun-jae remained silent.

  "I wanted to see if I found the right person," she continued calmly.

  A brief pause.

  "The Jung Yun-seok case," she said. "And 3870-09."

  The moment those numbers traveled through the receiver, Yun-jae felt a hallucination—as if all the sentences he had 'laundered' were turning into a massive wave, crashing into the small cafe.

  "You don't have to explain anything right now," she said, her voice steady. "I just want to know why those sentences were always in the same place."

  Yun-jae took a slow, deep breath. "...Who are you?"

  Over the line, he heard the frantic rustling of paper. Then, she spoke.

  "I’m Lee Seo-yeon."

  Yun-jae’s grip tightened on the phone. "Lee Seo-jun’s..."

  "His sister," she added firmly.

  "It’s your turn now, Prosecutor Han Yun-jae."

  Click. The call ended.

  Yun-jae stared down at the dead screen. He hadn't said a word. But he knew—another door had swung open. And this time, it wouldn't be closed.

  [Next Chapter Preview]

  The record has already been written. Now, the only thing left was to see how far they would follow it.

  'Lee Seo-yeon and Han Yun-jae.'

  For the first time, the two stand on the same ground.

  it no longer asks permission.

  who will follow it.