Kim leaned back, smirk coming back on his face.
"Yeah… I remember that one," he said, voice low and a little too casual. "The hacker wasn't even good. No proxy chain, no layered obfuscation. Too easy."
He let out a small laugh. "I even muttered it that day — and somehow Cyber Division came up with nothing. No trail. No signature."
He tilted his head, grinning like he was joking. "Funny, right?"
Choi's eyes didn't move. "No," he said quietly. "That's what made it interesting."
Kim blinked once, grin faltering. "...What do you mean?"
Choi spoke calm, voice steady. It cut through all the noise.
"It wasn't that they couldn't find the hacker," he said. "It's that someone didn't want him found."
Kim's smirk froze halfway. His fingers twitched once on the keyboard, then stopped.
Choi remembered that moment — Kim's small mutter, the flash in his eyes when he saw the trace, and the empty report that landed on his desk later by Cyber Division without any lead to begin with.
Every case Kim had handled since then — every digital lead, every potential hacker trail — ended the same way. Nothing. Always nothing.
He knew then it wasn't missing. Someone erased it.
Choi took a slow step closer.
"That's when I realized something," he said quietly. "Hackers don't expose other hackers."
His eyes narrowed, sharp. "They admire it. The tricks, the code, the way it's done."
Kim chuckled, the sound low and sharp.
"Heh… you make it sound like art."
Choi's tone stayed flat. "It is to you, isn't it?"
Kim leaned forward again, elbows on the desk, the glow of the monitor lighting his grin.
"Guess you really do see through people, Detective."
Choi met his gaze without blinking. "Only the ones who leave a trail."
Kim tilted his head slightly, still smiling. "Then tell me this—why didn't you say anything back then? You knew. You could've exposed me. So why stay quiet?"
He leaned in closer, voice dropping a little lower. "And how the hell did you even know my alias? 'Null' isn't exactly public."
For a moment, Choi didn't answer. He just stood there, hands still in his pockets, his face blank.
Then he exhaled quietly. "Another time."
Kim raised an eyebrow. "What, no storytime tonight?"
Choi's gaze flicked to the monitors — the screens full of data streams and half-loaded CCTV feeds.
"Not tonight," he said. "We've got something more important. I need you to find someone."
Kim didn't even look up. His fingers tapped a few keys, quick and sharp.
The monitor in front of him flashed — a paused CCTV frame filling the screen.
It was a man at a subway platform.
Mask off.
Head slightly tilted toward the camera.
Park Joon-ho.
Kim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
"You mean this guy, right?"
Choi's eyes stayed on the screen for a moment.
"…You already found him."
Kim chuckled, low. "Didn't have to. He showed himself."
He tapped the side of the monitor once, bringing up the timestamp.
"CCTV feed, Line 2 station. He looked straight at the camera like he wanted us to see him."
Choi's jaw tightened just slightly. "When?"
"Less than ten minutes ago," Kim said, fingers flying across the keyboard. "CCTV feed from Line 2 — clear shot, no mask. He stared right into the camera."
He tapped another key, the screen splitting into two — one showing Park's old photo from ten years ago, the other a newly rendered face.
"I built a cross-reference algorithm. It ages missing persons using stored facial metrics — bone structure, symmetry, dermal patterning. The system rebuilt what he'd look like today and matched it to the live feed. 99% sure"
He leaned back with a faint grin. "It's him, Detective. Park Joon-ho — ten years later."
Choi's eyes stayed on the screen, his tone calm, almost too even. "Then why show up now? After ten years?"
Kim shrugged lightly. "Maybe he wants to be seen."
Choi didn't blink. His voice dropped lower, like a quiet thought spoken out loud.
"Or maybe… someone wants us to think it's him."
Choi leaned forward, brushing Kim's hand aside as he took over the keyboard.
The video feed flickered on the screen — the subway platform quiet and half-lit, people passing like moving shadows.
He pressed play once, then paused.
The frame froze on the man lowering his mask, his face lifting toward the CCTV.
Choi replayed it again, slower this time, watching every small motion — the pause, the angle, the deliberate way his eyes met the camera.
None of it looked accidental.
Those eyes… they were the same as Park's from ten years ago.
Same calm. Same weight behind them.
But Park had been cautious — the kind of man who thought twice before stepping into light.
The man in the video was different. He was showing himself on purpose. Like he wanted to be seen.
Choi's thoughts turned quiet, circling the same questions that refused to settle.
Why now? Why show your face after ten years of silence? And why right after the DNA came up?
His reflection showed faint on the monitor when he leaned close.
If Park had truly survived, he wouldn't be standing under a camera. He'd be running, hiding, staying invisible.
Choi's jaw tightened. His thoughts sharpened into a single line.
"This isn't him coming back," he said. "Someone's just making it look like it."
Kim laughed behind him, trying to sound chill but it didn't.
"Hold on, you're saying that's not Park?" he said, spinning halfway in his chair. "That's impossible. You saw the report yourself — DNA, facial structure, bone ratio. It's a perfect match."
Choi didn't answer right away. He just kept watching the frozen frame.
Kim shook his head, still talking.
"There's no tech on this planet that can rewrite a person's face and keep the DNA identical. Not even black-market gene-mod or high-tier bio-morph labs can do that. You'd need a whole new body. That's science fiction."
Choi finally spoke, his tone quiet but firm.
"Yet here he is."