Mrs. Kim settled into the backseat as the driver started the engine. The car eased out onto the road, smooth and practiced, the city unfolding beyond the tinted windows.
She glanced at the navigation screen mounted near the front.
"Take the Jeonju route," she said calmly. "Not the shortcut."
The driver nodded, eyes on the road. "Yes, ma'am."
"I want you to learn it properly," she added after a beat. "We'll be taking it again."
Another nod. No questions.
Mrs. Kim picked up her phone, the movement small, almost hesitant. She typed while the car waited at a red light.
Ji-Woo, I have a meeting outside the city.I'll be back late.There's food at home.
She stared at the message, then sent it before she could rethink it.
The reply came quickly.
Okay.
Nothing else.
Mrs. Kim leaned back, eyes drifting to the passing buildings. Street after street slipped by, familiar places giving way to longer roads. She folded her hands in her lap, expression unreadable.
"Once we pass the expressway," she said quietly, "pay attention to the exits."
"Yes, ma'am," the driver replied.
The car continued forward.
Ji-Woo sat on her bed with the phone resting loosely in her hand. The screen went dark.
Late again.
She let out a soft sigh and turned toward the window. The sky was pale, the kind of gray that made time feel slower than it was.
After a moment, she stood.
She grabbed her beanie from the chair, tugged it on without checking her reflection, and slipped into her jacket. No hurry. No destination.
At the door, she paused — just long enough to listen to the silence — then stepped outside and locked it behind her.
The air was cool against her face.
Ji-Woo started walking, hands tucked into her pockets, letting the street decide where she'd go.
--
Mi-Sook's father returned without ceremony.
He didn't knock.
He didn't sit.
He walked straight to her desk and placed the folder down as if it weighed nothing at all.
The sound it made—paper against polished wood—was soft. Final.
"They expedited it," he said, already turning away."No contamination. No room for argument."
Mi-Sook didn't look up yet.
"You were right to be cautious," he added after a pause. "People lie. Numbers don't."
Then he left, the door closing behind him with a muted click.
The room settled.
Mi-Sook finally moved.
She reached for the folder, fingers calm, deliberate. She opened it the way one opens a book they already know the ending of.
The report was clinical. Clean. Cold.
DNA COMPARISON RESULT Probability of biological NOT match: 98.7%
Her eyes skimmed the rest—sample sources, lab seals, signatures. Official. Untouchable.
Ninety-eight percent Not match.
Not perfect. Perfect enough.
Mi-Sook exhaled slowly through her nose.
"So," she murmured, more amused than shocked, "you didn't disappear after all."
She closed the folder and slid it neatly into the desk drawer—no hesitation, no drama—then opened a second drawer beneath it.
Inside were two photographs.
She took them out and laid them side by side on the desk.
The first was the real Ji-Woo.
Shorter Bob cut like hair. Softer eyes. A careless smile caught mid-laugh, unaware of cameras or consequences.
Mi-Sook tapped the photo once.
"You were honest," she said quietly. "That's what doomed you."
Then she picked up the second photograph.
The real Ji-Soo. Longer hair. Sharper gaze. Lips pressed like she'd learned early not to ask for permission.
Mi-Sook studied this one longer.
"…And you," she whispered, a faint curve touching her lips, "were brave enough to survive."
She stacked the photos again, Ji-Soo on top.
Ninety-eight percent not a match.
Mi-Sook slid the photographs back into the drawer and locked it.
Click.
"Well," she said to the empty room, standing at last, "let's see which name you're wearing today."
The lights hummed softly above her.
And somewhere far away, a truth kept walking—unaware it had already been measured, labeled, and filed away.
--
The beach was nearly empty.
Not the loud, tourist-filled kind—this stretch of Seoul's coast sat tucked away, where the city softened into water and wind.
Pale sand stretched thin between stone steps and the sea. The waves didn't crash; they breathed.
Slow.
Repetitive. Like something patient.
Mi-Sook stood near the railing, back straight, hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck.
Her dress was simple but expensive—clean lines, muted color, fabric that didn't wrinkle even in the breeze. In one hand, a slim folder. In the other, her phone.
She didn't turn when she heard the sound.
The soft rattle of wheels against pavement.
A careless stop.
Ji-Bok rolled in on his skateboard, hoodie loose, hair a mess like he'd dragged sleep along with him.
He kicked the board up with his foot and caught it easily, eyes half-lidded, irritated.
"You seriously dragged me out here for this?" he said, voice rough. "Do you know what time it is? It's 3 AM. And it's the weekend."
Mi-Sook glanced at her watch.
"Time is relative," she replied calmly. "Truth isn't."
That made him pause.
He stepped closer, squinting at her face. "What's so important you had to wake me up like I'm some delivery guy?"
Without answering, Mi-Sook held out the folder.
Ji-Bok stared at it. Didn't take it.
"…What is this?" he asked, joking already lining his voice like armor.
Mi-Sook's gaze didn't waver.
"Do you remember Ji-Woo's thumbprint?" she asked. "The one I asked you to retrieve?"
His smile twitched.
She continued, unhurried. "The results came back."
A beat.
"I stand corrected."
Something shifted.
Ji-Bok's fingers closed around the folder despite himself. He opened it casually—too casually—until his eyes landed on the report.
Then they widened.
Just a fraction. Enough.
DNA COMPARISON RESULT — 98.7% NOT MATCH
Below it, the photographs.
Same face.
Different hair.
Same bone structure. Same eyes. Same curve of the mouth.
Signed. Sealed. Final.
His breath stalled.
For a moment, the ocean was too loud.
"…That's," he started, then laughed—a sharp, ugly sound. "Wow. You really went all out, huh?"
Mi-Sook watched him like a scientist observing a reaction.
Ji-Bok snapped the folder closed and looked up, grin plastered back on. "You know these things mess up all the time, right? Labs, paperwork—people love drama."
"Not this lab," Mi-Sook said gently.
He shrugged, rolling one shoulder. "So what, you're saying Ji-Woo is—what—some replacement doll?"
"I'm saying," Mi-Sook interrupted softly, "that the girl you've been circling isn't who you think she is."
Silence.
The wind tugged at Ji-Bok's hoodie.
He scoffed, forcing lightness. "You always talk like that? Must be exhausting."
Then, quieter—sharper—
"Stay away from Ji-Woo."
Mi-Sook reached out and took the folder back from his hands. Her fingers brushed his knuckles—deliberate.
A smile curved her lips. Slow. Knowing.
"Oh, Ji-Bok," she said, almost fondly. "You don't get to make requests."
She turned, heels clicking softly against the stone path.
"Especially when you're already standing on the wrong side of the truth."
She walked away without looking back.
Ji-Bok stayed where he was.
The sea kept breathing.
After a moment, he lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, then let it fall to his shoulder like it weighed more than it should have.
"…Damn it," he muttered, exhaling hard.
The skateboard tipped over beside him.
And for the first time, his grin didn't come back.