The rain came down in sheets, washing the neon reflections of Seoul into shimmering rivers across the asphalt. Mirae parked her car under the flickering streetlamp and pulled the hood of her leather jacket tighter around her shoulders. Even from the street, she could see the flashing red and blue lights spinning across the façade of the high-end apartment complex.
The precinct had called it in as a high-priority case: a security guard beaten unconscious—or worse—while trying to stop the abduction of two girls from the building's upper floors. By the time she arrived, the scene was a controlled chaos of paramedics, police officers, and onlookers holding umbrellas like shields against the storm. The smell of rain mixed with the acrid tang of adrenaline and the faint metallic trace of blood.
Mirae didn't wait for introductions. She moved with purpose, her eyes scanning. Broken locks on the side entrance, a toppled vase, a faint smear of blood across the marble floor—subtle clues others might miss in the adrenaline of the moment. The body of the security guard lay slumped near the concierge desk, a crimson smear spreading across his uniform. He was still breathing, though faintly, and a paramedic worked on him with quiet efficiency. Mirae made a mental note of his injuries, noting their distribution. Whoever had done this didn't just want to get past him—they wanted to incapacitate him fast, and with precision.
She crouched by the vase, examining the displaced shards. The angle of the break suggested force far beyond what a single adult could easily manage. She ran her gloved fingers along the edges, careful not to disturb anything. Tiny flecks of paint from a doorframe were embedded in the fragments. There was a smear of dirt on the glossy floorboards, faint footprints leading toward the elevator bay. She crouched lower, adjusting her hood as the rain seeped through, and traced the prints with her eyes. Too fast. Too heavy. Too controlled. Whoever did this wasn't ordinary.
Her gaze flicked upward to the elevator doors. They bore the faint imprint of fingertips smeared with blood. The security footage would likely show something—but she already knew it wouldn't tell the full story. There was something wrong, something the cameras couldn't capture. That lingering sense of… unnatural precision. A strength beyond human limits.
"Detective Han."
Mirae turned to see Chief Park approaching, umbrella angled over his head, face hard and lined from years of making tough calls. He didn't waste words.
"You're late," he said. His voice carried the weight of authority and reprimand, though she suspected his irritation was only half about punctuality.
"I'm here now," she replied, her tone even. She didn't like being rushed. Precision mattered more than speed.
Park's gaze swept over the room, lingering on the paramedics, the scattered evidence, and finally settling on her. "I trust you've scoped it?" he asked, his skepticism softening just slightly.
"I've seen enough to know this wasn't random. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. Look at the force used on the lock. Look at the blood patterns—he wasn't just attacked. He was neutralized quickly, methodically." She didn't need to exaggerate; the scene spoke for itself.
Park's eyebrows lifted, a faint line of concern crossing his forehead. "Methodical, sure. But this is a high-risk scene, Han. You can't just wade in on instinct. Lives are at stake. You follow procedure first."
"I am following procedure," she countered, scanning the hallways and stairwells. Her eyes caught something—a faint smear along the wall beside the elevator, almost invisible. A fingerprint, smeared but distinct. "This isn't just about procedure. The girls are still missing. We don't have time to wait for protocols to catch up."
Park's mouth tightened. "You're stubborn as ever."
"I'm persistent," she corrected. "And if I'm not, two girls might pay for it with their lives."
The chief let out a low sigh, knowing that arguing further would be futile. Mirae's stubborn streak wasn't just temperament—it was effectiveness. And in situations like this, effectiveness meant lives saved.
He nodded once. "Fine. But you keep me in the loop. I don't want surprises."
Mirae gave a curt nod and crouched again, focusing on the traces most officers would have passed by in their rush. A small smudge on the marble floor—too light for the guard to have left—leading toward the side service elevator. She tilted her head, noting the speed and pattern of movement. Whoever had done this was fast, efficient, almost… preternaturally calm.
She stood, brushing rain from her jacket, and moved toward the elevator bay. The overhead lights flickered, casting long shadows along the walls. The faint hum of the rain outside mixed with the distant wail of sirens, creating a rhythm that made her senses sharpen. Every sound, every reflection, every anomaly in the room became a data point in her mind.
A voice came from behind her, hesitant but steady.
"Detective Han? I… I've got the guest list and surveillance logs," said a man stepping forward—Seo Siyoon, her assistant. Glasses slightly askew, a slim frame barely noticeable in the chaos. He held a tablet in his hands, his fingers tapping nervously.
Mirae glanced at him. "Good. Any anomalies?"
He swallowed, adjusting the tablet. "Well… the cameras on the 14th floor, where the girls were taken—there's a three-second blackout. Just before the attack."
Her eyes narrowed. "Three seconds. That's all it took?"
"Yes," Siyoon replied, almost whispering, "and the timestamps don't match the elevator logs either."
Mirae's mind raced. Three seconds wasn't much, but in a life-or-death situation, it could be the difference between capture and escape. The blackout, the precise incapacitation of the guard, the strange strength required—it all fit the pattern she had been sensing. This wasn't just a common criminal.
Chief Park cleared his throat behind them. "Han, this isn't speculation. These kids are missing. You get one chance to work this clean. Don't let instincts get in the way."
"I'm aware," Mirae said, though inside she felt the familiar thrill of being on the edge. Her instincts didn't just tell her something was wrong—they knew. And she was starting to realize that the world was bigger, darker, and more dangerous than her training had prepared her for.
She crouched once more, scanning the floor near the elevator. Tiny scratches on the polished metal. The way the lock had been forced. The faint, almost imperceptible scuff on the wall. Small details, insignificant to most, but each a whisper of what had happened, a breadcrumb trail to follow.
Her eyes lifted to the guard. Even semi-conscious, he tried to speak, to point, but the words failed him. Mirae noted the way his fingers twitched, the tension in his shoulders. Too controlled. Too precise. Something about the attack had been… calculated. Not just criminal, but almost enhanced.
Siyoon shifted nervously beside her. "Do you… think it's an awakened?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes followed the faint smears along the hallway. Something inside her—something she didn't yet understand—told her this was bigger than human limits.
Chief Park's voice cut through the storm. "Detective?"
"Yes," she said finally, straightening, her gaze cold and focused. "This isn't ordinary. Whoever did this—whatever they are—they're fast. They're careful. And they're dangerous."
Park's eyes narrowed. He didn't like the edge in her tone, but he knew better than to argue further. Mirae was stubborn, yes—but she had a record of reading people, situations… and surviving where others failed.
"Then get moving," he said. "And Han… be careful. Don't underestimate them."
Mirae nodded, eyes returning to the hallway. She already had a plan. Start with the cameras, check every inch of the building, talk to anyone who saw movement. Time was against them. And she would not let it slip. Not when the lives of the missing girls were on the line.
The rain continued to pound against the windows, a relentless drumbeat that echoed the urgency in her chest. Somewhere in the city, shadows moved. Somewhere in the storm, someone—or something—had taken the girls.
And Mirae Han, detective, was going to find them.
By the time Mirae and Siyoon arrived at the precinct, the rain had softened into a drizzle, but the city still hummed with urgency. The evidence from the apartment complex had been bagged, labeled, and transported, but the questions it raised were far from resolved. In the quiet of the digital forensics room, Mirae spread the surveillance footage across multiple monitors, the glow reflecting off her determined eyes.
Siyoon hovered nearby, tablet in hand, adjusting his glasses nervously as he cross-referenced timestamps and witness statements. On the surface, he looked almost ordinary—slightly awkward, bookish—but there was a subtle precision in the way he cataloged everything Mirae observed. He didn't just watch; he studied her. Every glance, every methodical motion she made, he noted with quiet attention.
"Detective," he began softly, "I've compiled the elevator and lobby footage. There's… something unusual."
Mirae leaned over a screen. "Unusual how?"
He tapped on a frame. "The cameras on the 14th floor—the floor where the girls were abducted—experience a three-second blackout. No flicker, no distortion. Just… nothing. And the timestamps don't match the elevator logs. Something—or someone—wasn't meant to be seen."
Mirae frowned, her instincts flaring. Three seconds. Enough for an experienced criminal—or more—to bypass every security measure. "And the guard?" she asked.
Siyoon hesitated, fingers hovering over the tablet. "The guard… he appears incapacitated instantly. No visible struggle. The footage skips between him standing and him on the floor, like… like a frame was removed."
Mirae's pulse tightened. "Skipped frames? Or… enhanced speed?"
He nodded cautiously. "Perhaps. Witnesses report conflicting accounts. Some say the attacker moved methodically, almost deliberately. Others describe him moving impossibly fast. Both seem true… in their own perception."
Mirae's mind worked rapidly. "Not perception. Something external is at play—speed, strength… or manipulation. Someone—or something—beyond normal human limits."
Siyoon's gaze lingered on her, noting the way she connected details invisible to everyone else. He typed rapidly, recording every word, every observation, every subtle pattern. To any observer, he appeared innocuous, a diligent assistant. But inside, he cataloged not just the crime—he cataloged Mirae herself.
Mirae continued scanning the footage, frame by frame, noticing minute inconsistencies: scratches on the marble, fingerprints partially erased, dust displaced along unnatural trajectories. Each detail whispered the presence of someone—or something—trained, precise, enhanced.
"Detective Han," Siyoon said, voice soft, almost reverent, "should we… consider awakeners? I mean, the rumors—what if this is one?"
She looked at him, expression unreadable. "Not yet," she said firmly. "We follow evidence, not labels. Jumping to conclusions blinds you. We don't have time for assumptions—not when lives are at stake."
Siyoon nodded, typing even faster, eyes flicking between her face and the monitor. He cataloged every movement, every small habit. Polite. Bookish. Seemingly harmless. But nothing escaped him.
Outside, the storm continued its rhythm, each raindrop against the window a faint drumbeat of urgency. Somewhere in Seoul, the girls remained unseen. And behind the blur of lights and shadows, a presence—silent, calculated, and beyond ordinary human comprehension—had already claimed its mark.
Mirae's instincts prickled as she studied the footage. "We need to trace every frame, every anomaly. Start with timestamps, motion patterns, environmental cues. Whoever did this left a trail—even if it's subtle, it's there."
Siyoon's fingers moved almost instinctively, matching her thoughts, cataloging, observing. To anyone else, he was helping. To himself, he was learning. Every method, every nuance. Every decision Mirae made was an instruction manual, a pattern to remember.
Mirae didn't notice him studying her. Not yet.
But in those quiet moments, a seed was planted—one that would grow, unnoticed, into obsession.
The rain had eased to a persistent drizzle by the time Mirae left the precinct, but the city's pulse remained restless. Neon signs flickered in puddles on cracked asphalt, and the faint smell of wet concrete mixed with the scent of sizzling street food. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded, swallowed by the urban labyrinth.
Mirae's mind churned with surveillance frames, footprints, and the faintest hints of fingerprints. The three-second blackout on the 14th floor played over and over in her head. She could see it even with her eyes closed—the way the guard's body had shifted without struggle, the unnaturally clean displacement, the way the attacker had vanished almost as if the world itself had skipped a beat.
Beside her, Siyoon walked silently, matching her pace. His tablet was tucked under one arm, fingers tapping occasionally to review logs or adjust files. He didn't speak much, but Mirae felt his attention acutely. There was a subtle intensity to the way he observed her—the tilt of her head, the slight pause before she reached for evidence, the way her eyes narrowed at irregularities. He cataloged it all. Polite. Bookish. Unobtrusive. Yet entirely present.
They passed through a narrow alley that smelled of rain, asphalt, and last night's exhaust. A group of street vendors were packing up, muttering about police presence, about another girl gone.
"Detective," a voice whispered from the shadows. A young woman stepped forward, hood pulled low. "You're looking into the disappearances?"
Mirae slowed, glancing at Siyoon before focusing on the woman. "Who are you?"
"I… I report things," she said, glancing over her shoulder nervously. "Call me Sera. I hear things… stories, rumors. People disappear. Girls vanish in plain sight. Some say gangs take them. Some… say awakeners are involved."
Mirae's brow tightened. She crouched slightly to appear less imposing, trying to read the woman's body language. Sera's eyes darted constantly, but there was a flicker of honesty there, a fear that made the whispers credible.
"Gangs?" Mirae prompted. "What kind of gangs?"
Sera swallowed, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her coat. "Local gangs. Some… specialize. They sell them. Others just use them as leverage. But… some of the men involved… they move differently. Not normal. People say—awake, like in the stories."
Siyoon's eyes flicked toward her, carefully noting every word, every inflection. Mirae didn't notice the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly over his tablet.
"Show me," Mirae said.
Sera handed over the note. It was a hastily written list of names, times, and locations—apparently compiled from overheard conversations, street chatter, and gossip in small online forums. "It's not much. But… patterns. Nights. Disappearances. Certain streets. They talk like it's normal business, but it's… not. People vanish. Girls like those two tonight. No one stops them."
Mirae scanned it quickly, her eyes catching the repetition of apartment complexes, small private clubs, and mentions of an underground network called the Crimson Veil. A few entries hinted at people moving unusually fast or behaving with unnerving control—details that didn't fit ordinary crime patterns.
"Criminal network specializing in kids and girls," she muttered under her breath. "And someone—or some people—might have enhanced abilities."
Sera's eyes widened. "Enhanced? Like… awake?"
Mirae gave a measured nod, not wanting to alarm her too much. "Maybe. And if they're involved, these girls are in more danger than anyone can imagine."
The girl nodded, slipping back into the shadows without another word. Mirae tucked the note into her jacket, turning back to the street. Siyoon's presence was quiet, his movements seamless as he logged every detail, cataloging not just the evidence but her response, her focus, the subtle microexpressions of calculation that passed across her face.
They moved toward the precinct again, passing neon-lit streets and shuttered cafés. Mirae's mind replayed the events of the night—the blacked-out footage, the security guard's incapacitation, the displaced objects, the hints of unnatural precision.
Siyoon's voice broke the silence. "Detective Han… do you think the abductor left intentionally subtle clues? Or are we just… lucky to see any traces at all?"
Mirae's eyes narrowed. "Neither. Nothing about this was accidental. That three-second gap, the guard… the methodical way the area was cleared—it's deliberate. Calculated. Someone wants us to notice… but not enough to follow. Someone is playing with us."
Siyoon nodded again, typing notes silently, but internally he thought: So careful, so deliberate. She sees everything. She's precise. She's… remarkable. His attention lingered on her longer than necessary, but he didn't let it show. Not yet.
By the time they reached the precinct, the evidence room was quiet except for the hum of computers and the soft shuffle of officers reviewing files. Mirae spread out the surveillance frames once more, cross-referencing timestamps with the locations listed in Sera's note.
The patterns began to emerge: a cluster of disappearances near high-end apartments, occasional mentions of private clubs that allowed quick exits, and rumors of people moving in ways that defied ordinary human capacity. The Crimson Veil wasn't just a gang—it was part of a system. A network that thrived in the city's shadows.
Mirae's jaw tightened. Each frame, each footprint, each fragment of conversation built a picture of a world she had only glimpsed before—one of hidden power, silent predators, and unseen rules. The veil of the ordinary city lifted slightly, revealing the gears of a hidden society.
Siyoon watched her work, noting every deduction, every connection, every fleeting expression. He saw her frustration at incomplete data, her insistence on following evidence over speculation, her stubborn refusal to let emotion cloud her judgment. Polite, bookish, obedient in appearance—but fully attentive, cataloging not just the criminal's behavior but her method of thinking.
Hours passed, and the rain faded to a whisper against the windows. The missing girls' faces haunted the frames, their absence a gnawing weight in Mirae's chest. Every lead felt incomplete, every surveillance gap a deliberate challenge. Whoever had taken them had thought ahead—planned for every eventuality, left enough breadcrumbs to tease, but not enough to reveal.
Mirae leaned back, rubbing her eyes. Frustration simmered beneath her calm exterior. The evidence told part of the story, but the truth—what had actually happened—remained just out of reach.
Siyoon tapped lightly on his tablet. "Detective… the girls. They're still out there. And the abductor? We don't know who, or what, we're really facing."
Mirae's gaze hardened. "Exactly. And that means we keep moving. Every camera, every witness, every whisper of rumor—we trace it. We push through the gaps, even if the evidence is incomplete."
He nodded, though inwardly he was thrilled by her intensity. Focused, unstoppable… perfect.
Outside, the city lights glimmered in wet streets. Somewhere in the shadows, the Crimson Veil moved with purpose. Somewhere, the abductor—or perhaps an awakened—watched from a distance, aware that someone was already beginning to unravel the threads.
But for now, the girls were still missing, and the case was unresolved. Frustration and determination mingled in Mirae's mind like electricity. She couldn't fail. Lives were on the line, and every second counted.
Siyoon watched her, silent and calculating, cataloging every micro-expression, every pattern of thought. Polite, helpful, unobtrusive. But already, an obsession was forming, subtle as a shadow in the corner of a room. He would remember everything about this night. Every detail of how she hunted, deduced, and pressed forward.
Mirae pushed herself upright, shoulders squared. She turned back to the monitors, the fragments of evidence, the whispered rumors that hinted at a world beneath the city's surface. The storm had passed, but the danger was far from over. Somewhere in the darkness, something waited, patient and calculating. And she would find it.
The rain started to pour harder, but the city's pulse was relentless, just like hers. And Han Mirae would not rest until she brought the missing girls home—and uncovered the truth hidden in the shadows.