The gallery room stretched out like a cathedral of silence. Men and women drifted among the paintings, their attire deliberate, old-world elegance—velvet coats, vintage gowns, gloves. They moved quietly, unnervingly calm, as though the art demanded reverence—or fear.
Eun-ji's eyes flicked over the canvases. Her stomach tightened.
Every painting... red.
Not splashed. Not brushed. Just... red. Endless shades, endless depths. No figures. No forms. Just... red.
"Every painting... there's nothing except red," Eun-ji whispered, her voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet.
Lee Mi-ran's gaze was sharper, calculating. "Not art," she said. "Signals."
Jung subtly guided them away from the drifting crowd. Step by step, they moved deeper into the gallery, careful not to draw attention.
In the control room, dozens of monitors glowed in the dim light. Every camera feed from the museum flickered on, showing angles and halls Eun-ji hadn't even noticed. Jung lowered his voice, his eyes scanning the screens.
"Everyone who died—every so-called 'suicide'—they all visited this museum," he said. "The Premium Lounge."
Eun-ji stiffened.
"Then they vanished," she murmured.
Eun-chae's tone was sharp, tinged with fear. "So now we vanish too?"
Lee Mi-ran's eyes snapped to her. "Eun-chae." A warning sharp as a blade.
Before tension could explode, the cameraman stepped forward, serious.
"This can be one person... or an organization," he said. "And we don't know how big it is."
He looked directly at Jung. "Be careful, Officer Jung. You know who's behind this."
Jung exhaled slowly, conflicted. "I can help you only till the Premium Lounge entry. Beyond that... I can't do anything."
They nodded. Understanding. Respecting the risk.
From outside, a voice cut through: "Hey—!"
The cameraman was called. Jung opened the back door.
"Let's go. Now."
And just like that, they slipped out quietly, melting into shadows as the door clicked shut behind them.
Back at the Cyber Crime HQ, the conference room was sealed tight, high-security. At the head of the table, the Chief sat, unreadable. Beside him, Director Park remained composed, silent but sharp.
Unit heads, legal advisors, senior officials circled the monitors. Officer Jung stood near the screens, alert.
A CLICK. The monitors flared to life—crime scene photos, redacted files, timelines, everything converging.
"What is going on here?" the Chief demanded, voice low but deadly.
"This is unacceptable," he continued as images flashed—burned cars, covered bodies, museum frames.
"Suicides. An explosion. And now... a museum?" His gaze locked on Jung. "Where are we?"
"We have a lead, sir," Jung said. "It points to the museum."
Murmurs rippled across the room.
"And you're reporting this now?" the Chief asked, disbelief creeping in.
"I was assigned today, sir," Jung replied, glancing at Director Park. "Per Director Park's orders—Officers Kang Eun-ji, Eun-chae, and Lee Mi-ran are assigned."
Eun-ji, Eun-chae, and Mi-ran exchanged a look—equal parts tension and determination.
"You brought involved officers into an active lead?" the Chief pressed.
Director Park's tone was calm, unyielding. "They were involved before the lead existed."
The monitor froze on a CCTV frame of the museum lounge. Red paintings. Masked silhouettes.
"This isn't coincidence," the Chief said, turning his sharp gaze to Eun-ji. "If you're in this—you stay in it."
"Yes, sir," Eun-ji replied, voice steady, resolve hardening like steel.
The Chief rose. Everyone followed.
"Proceed. Quietly."
On the screen, a single line blinked: CASE STATUS — ESCALATED.
Silence settled. But the tension in the room was palpable, like a storm waiting to break.