The morning air was crisp, the kind that bit gently at your nose but promised sunlight later. Seoul was waking up—vendors rolling up shutters, students sprinting to buses, the city stretching itself into motion.
Beside me, Yoon Ha-eun walked with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, hair catching glimmers of light.
"You look too serious for someone on his way to work," she said.
"Detectives are born serious," I said. "It's in the job description."
She gave me a look. "Pretty sure your job description includes paperwork, not brooding."
"I brood artistically."
"You brood because you forget breakfast."
I chuckled. "You sound like my mom."
"I take that as a compliment."
We stopped at a crosswalk. Traffic hummed past, neon signs flickering even in daylight. She tilted her head toward me. "You sleep better these days?"
"More or less," I lied. The fog, the hall, the girl—they'd all faded into memory, but something deep in my bones still buzzed.
She squinted at me. "That's your 'definitely lying' face."
"I'm not—"
"Yellow or black?" she teased.
I laughed quietly. "Yellow. Probably."
The light changed. We crossed. Her hand brushed mine for a second, brief but enough to make the world feel less strange.
When we reached the corner, she stopped. "I'll see you later, detective. Try not to lose another pen."
"No promises."
She smiled, then disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the city's rhythm.
At the Mapo Police Station, everything was as chaotic as usual. Phones ringing, printers whining, detectives arguing over who had stolen whose instant noodles.
Kang Hyun-soo raised a hand the moment he saw me. "Ah, philosopher boy's here. You're late."
"I was philosophizing breakfast," I said.
"About what?"
"About how bacon is an illusion."
He groaned. "You and your weird thoughts."
I sat down, tossing my coat over the chair. The caseboard in front of me was cluttered with photos, red strings, and sticky notes in Kang's messy handwriting. "Anything new?"
"Couple of break-ins downtown. Weird patterns, but nothing concrete yet."
"Lucky us."
"Speak for yourself," he said, sipping lukewarm coffee. "I thrive on boredom."
The hours slipped by in the blur of detective work—questioning witnesses, writing reports, pretending not to notice Kang's playlist looping the same trot song five times.
By evening, exhaustion set in. I stretched, cracked my neck, and muttered, "One day, I'll solve a case without paperwork."
Kang looked up. "Dream big, partner."
That night, I barely made it to bed before sleep took me.
And then—fog.
The same endless white expanse. The same soft hum beneath my feet.
Shapes formed in the mist—the hall again, vast and formless, lit by something that wasn't quite light. The fog-covered figures sat in their usual places. Mrs. Justice. Mr. Star. Mr. World. Others whose names slipped like water through my mind.
I glanced down at myself; even my own form shimmered, features veiled.
Mr. World's voice rolled through the hall, calm and resonant. "Welcome back, Mr. Mystery."
The title still sounded foreign. "Is this becoming a weekly thing?"
A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the fog.
Mr. World leaned forward slightly on his throne. "We have matters to discuss. The balance trembles again. A sealed artifact has awakened."
The words sank into the air like heavy stones.
"Sealed artifact?" I asked.
Mrs. Justice's voice answered, measured and clear. "Relics left behind from the age before comprehension. Objects that contain truths the world itself can't bear. Each one is… volatile."
Mr. Star spoke next, his tone light but edged. "They attract the curious. And the curious tend to die badly."
"So you want it retrieved," I said slowly.
Mr. World nodded. "Indeed. Such an object cannot remain loose. It distorts minds and bends coincidence around itself."
I folded my arms. "You're saying it's dangerous."
"Dangerous is a generous word," Mr. Star murmured.
Mr. World gestured with one hand, and faint golden symbols appeared in the mist, pulsing like slow heartbeats. "This one has surfaced in the human realm. Its influence has already begun leaking. We need it secured."
His gaze—or what I imagined was his gaze—turned toward me. "Mr. Mystery, you will assist in retrieval. Mr. Star will accompany you."
I blinked. "Wait, me? Why?"
"Because truth and stars align rarely," Mr. World said simply. "When they do, the path clears."
"Poetic," I muttered. "But how am I supposed to find him?"
From the fog, a faint chuckle. Mr. Star's voice carried warmth, almost amused. "I'll be the one standing near the tree."
"Tree?"
"You'll know when you see it."
Mr. World's tone deepened. "Do not underestimate what you seek. Even fragments of truth can unmake the sane. Retrieve it quietly."
The fog thickened, humming like distant thunder.
"Meeting adjourned," Mr. World said.
The hall dissolved, and the world folded in on itself.
I woke with a start, breath shallow. My room was dark, the hum of the fridge steady in the distance. For a long minute, I just sat there, letting my heartbeat slow.
Another dream—or another visit? Hard to tell anymore.
But one line stuck in my head.
"I'll be the one standing near the tree."
The next morning, the city was washed in soft sunlight. I skipped breakfast, grabbed my jacket, and followed a quiet pull inside me—intuition, instinct, something else.
It led me to a small park near the Han River. Children were playing, old men doing stretches, joggers passing with earbuds in. Ordinary. Completely ordinary.
Except for him.
A man stood beneath a gingko tree, hands in his pockets, long blue hair catching the light like threads of water. His face was calm, unreadable, eyes distant but sharp. The space around him seemed… still.
When he turned, it was like he'd been expecting me.
"Mr. Mystery," he said.
"Mr. Star," I replied. "So you weren't kidding about the tree."
A small smile touched his lips. "I like symbolism."
He stepped closer, extending a gloved hand. "Han Seok-min," he said. "When I'm not covered in fog."
"Han Jihoon," I said, shaking it. "Detective, part-time insomniac, full-time skeptic."
He chuckled softly. "Good. You'll need skepticism where we're going."
"Any clue what we're retrieving?"
"Something that used to belong to a fallen thinker," he said. "They say it shows reflections that think back."
"That sounds terrible," I said. "And mildly cursed."
"Most truths are."
We started walking, matching pace. For a while, neither of us spoke. The city around us was alive with mundane sounds—dogs barking, bicycle bells, snippets of conversation. Yet somehow, beside Seok-min, everything felt detached, like we were walking through a photograph.
"You've done this before?" I asked finally.
"A few times," he said. "Mr. World calls when he tires of paradoxes."
"And you always listen?"
He gave a faint, amused sigh. "I listen because the stars whisper louder than reason."
"Cryptic. I like it."
"I can tell," he said.
We passed a row of street vendors, the smell of tteokbokki and roasted chestnuts drifting through the air. He paused briefly, eyeing the food. "Hungry?"
"You… eat?"
"Of course. We're not ghosts, Jihoon."
I laughed. "Guess I'm still getting used to that part."
He ordered two servings, handed one to me. The vendor's eyes widened at his hair but said nothing—Seoul had seen stranger things. We ate standing by the river, watching sunlight ripple across the water.
After a moment, Seok-min spoke. "You seem calmer than most newcomers."
"I'm too tired to panic," I said honestly. "Besides, truth's just another case, right? You follow clues, hope you don't die before the ending."
He looked at me, studying my face. "You remind me of someone I used to know."
"Good guy?"
"Curious guy. Didn't end well."
"Comforting."
He smiled faintly. "Don't worry. You're harder to break than you think."
We finished eating in companionable silence. Then his phone buzzed. He checked the screen, nodded once, and said, "Our transport's ready. Headquarters wants us briefed before we move."
"Transport?"
He pointed toward the street where a black sedan had just pulled up, tinted windows gleaming. Inside, a driver in a plain suit waited patiently.
"Let me guess," I said. "No license plate, no ID, and no return address."
"Exactly."
I sighed. "Why do all my adventures start with cars that shouldn't exist?"
"Because truth travels quietly," he said.
We walked toward the car together, the air humming faintly around us. Just before the door closed, I glanced back at the gingko tree—the leaves catching the wind, gold and trembling.
For a moment, I could almost see faint threads of yellow light winding between the branches, like veins of living truth.
Then the door shut, the city noise faded, and the engine purred to life.
"Ready, Mr. Mystery?" Seok-min asked.
"Not even close," I said. "But let's go anyway."
The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the sea of traffic, carrying us toward whatever secret the world had tried so hard to bury.