The campsite had settled into that soft, brittle hush of late evening. Tents lined the clearing like pale sentinels, lanterns swaying and throwing small halos of light. The fire pit still breathed pale smoke from dinner, the scent of embers and charred wood drifting lazy and honest into the trees. Crickets stitched a steady thread through the dark, and the lake beyond shimmered faintly — a sliver of moon caught in cold water.
Min-jae sat deeper in the woods, where the lantern glow died and the trees took the light for themselves. He perched on a fallen log, jacket pulled over his shoulders though the night wasn't yet cold, gaze lost somewhere between the trunks. The muffled laughter of the staff — a fire-side joke, a clink of cups — came to him like a sound from another life. In the forest's quiet, it just made him feel farther away.
A shadow moved; a warm hand pressed a cup into his. "The staff are asking about you," Ga-young said, voice even, offering him coffee that steamed into the night air.
"Thank you." He took the cup without looking up, letting the heat settle into his palms.
Ga-young sat beside him on the log, the two of them small against the wide dark. She let out a breath that carried equal parts tired and resolved. "I found the mole," she said finally.
Min-jae turned to her, curiosity careful at the edges. "Go on."
She flipped her notebook open and tapped a line of notes. "Design division. They're not supposed to access the Renaissance files until a certain stage, right? But someone's been logging in past midnight. Three nights a week. Same access points, same timestamps."
He stared into the trees. "And IT didn't flag it?"
"They did — once. They were told it was overtime. But patterns don't lie. No one pulls late nights like that without leaving a footprint." She snapped the notebook shut, eyes steady. "If we trace the pattern, we trace the person."
Min-jae swirled his coffee, watching the dark ripple. "They think they're clever — leaking sketches, pilfering formulas, piecing together crumbs. But they forget one thing."
"What's that?" Ga-young tilted her head.
"Everyone signed an NDA." The words were quiet but sharp, like glass pressed to skin. "Find the trail, stitch together the access logs and timestamps, and it's breach of contract. Civil suits, injunctions. The law won't care for excuses — and neither will I."
The far-off glow of the campfire pooled against the trees, and for a moment the light made his face look cut from steel. Ga-young nodded, already running the sequence in her head. "So we don't only lock systems — we prepare the case. Quietly. When the mole slips, we'll have the paperwork waiting."
A thin smirk ghosted his mouth. "Exactly. Let them believe they're untouchable. When the time comes, their own signatures will bury them."
They sat in a companionable silence, the kind that isn't empty but full of plans. Ga-young scribbled a note. "I'll compile every NDA tied to the Renaissance Project and cross-reference with access logs. If there's a pattern, it'll show."
"That's right." He drew the word out like a promise.
"What do we do about the mole?" she asked, curiosity threaded with strategy.
"Let them think they have the leading hand — for now."
Before she could press, a bright voice cut through the dark.
"Oppa! Ms. Choi!" Ye-seul bounded up, cheeks flushed from the chill, waving like she'd been practicing her entrance. "Campfire games are starting."
She paused, lowering her voice like she'd remembered something important. "Why didn't Mrs. Hyun-woo come, by the way?"
"Ji-hye?" Ga-young clicked her tongue, thinking. "Ha-eun has a fencing competition tomorrow. There's no way she could make it."
Ye-seul blinked, a small pout forming. "That's a shame. No one has her vibe here." She glanced around the dim site, then leaned toward them. "We should go before they come looking for us."
Min-jae stood, the log creaking under him. The night air felt sharper at the edge of the clearing, the laughter of the staff folding into the trees as they moved back toward the glow. Ga-young tucked her notebook away with a small, steady movement; Ye-seul skipped ahead, already plotting which game she'd win first.
The fire crackled brighter as the staff gathered in a loose circle, their faces lit gold against the night. Someone had already stacked more logs, and the flames licked high, sparks flying into the dark like fleeting stars. Mugs of hot cocoa and coffee passed around, laughter rose and fell, and for a moment, it almost looked like any other company retreat — except the stakes that lingered beneath the smiles.
"Alright, first game!" one of the younger assistants announced, voice eager. "It's simple: Trust Tag."
A few groans, a few chuckles. The rules were explained quickly — one person would be blindfolded and spun around, while another guided them only with their voice to tag someone across the circle. The whole point, apparently, was trust.
"Trust," Min-jae muttered under his breath, swirling what was left of his coffee. Ye-seul caught the wry curve of his mouth.
"Don't look so cynical," Ye-seul said. "Even this can show you something."
The first round drew laughter — one staff tripped over their own shoes while another guided them in circles until they collapsed giggling. It looked harmless, but Min-jae's eyes weren't on the game. He was watching how people gave instructions. Who hesitated. Who barked orders. Who others listened to without question.
Then someone called, "CEO-nim, your turn!"
The circle erupted into teasing cheers, a few claps echoing against the night. Min-jae didn't protest — he set down his cup, stood, and let them tie the blindfold. The fire's glow vanished, leaving only darkness and the sound of crackling wood.
"Who'll guide him?"
"Ms. Choi would" Ye-seul said, before anyone else could speak.
"Ms. Hwan?" Ga-young said.
Ye-seul just gave her a thumbs up, then "ready?".
Her voice rang out steady as they spun him twice, then set him facing the circle. "Two steps forward. Left. Careful, there's a log. Stop. Now—wait." She measured her words, calm, clipped, like instructions in a strategy meeting. The staff murmured, impressed by how smoothly she navigated him.
But Min-jae tilted his head. "Someone just moved," he said flatly, still blindfolded.
A nervous chuckle rippled through the group. But Ga-young stiffened — she had seen it too, a subtle shuffle across the circle, almost reflexive, like someone didn't want to be caught.
"Forward again," she said, her voice sharper now. "One more step. Reach out."
Min-jae's hand shot forward and landed squarely on the sleeve of one of the designers.
The blindfold came off, and Min-jae's expression was unreadable as he handed it back. The circle roared with laughter, a few claps echoing into the trees. The designer he had caught laughed too — but the sound rang hollow, his smile stretched too wide, too quick.
Ga-young didn't miss the way his hand lingered on his sleeve afterward, as if worried it had betrayed something. She glanced sideways at Min-jae.
He was already watching.
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the firelight seemed to burn hotter between them. No words, no shift in posture — just the smallest flick of his gaze toward the designer, and the faintest narrowing of hers in response.
A signal passed. Silent. Certain.
The staff carried on, calling for the next round, their voices spilling bright into the night. But for Min-jae and Ga-young, the game had ended the moment that sleeve was caught. The fire wasn't a circle of warmth anymore — it was a spotlight. And in its glow, they had found their mark.