The maintenance office sat beneath the courthouse.
Most people never noticed it.
Lawyers hurried to hearings.
Judges disappeared into private corridors.
Defendants watched the courtroom doors.
No one paid attention to the room that kept the building running.
Seo Hae-in did.
She stood outside the frosted glass door for a moment before knocking.
"Come in."
The voice was calm.
Unhurried.
She opened the door.
Han Do-jin was kneeling beside an open amplifier, a screwdriver balanced between his fingers.
Music played quietly from an old radio on the shelf.
Classical.
Soft enough to disappear beneath the hum of electronics.
He looked up.
Recognition crossed his face almost immediately.
"The defense attorney."
"The audio technician."
He smiled politely.
"I had a feeling we'd meet."
The room surprised her.
It wasn't sterile.
Shelves held neatly labeled equipment cases.
A potted plant sat beside the window, healthy despite the lack of sunlight.
A mug of coffee had gone cold beside a stack of maintenance reports.
Everything had a place.
But unlike her office...
It felt lived in.
"You don't mind if I ask a few questions?"
"I probably won't like them."
He stood, wiping his hands with a cloth.
"But you can ask."
She didn't sit.
Neither did he.
"You've worked for the court for six years."
"Yes."
"You also maintain equipment in police interview rooms."
"I do."
"And detention centers."
"Sometimes."
His answers came easily.
Not rehearsed.
Just factual.
She watched his hands while he spoke.
Steady.
No tremor.
No defensive gestures.
People lied with their bodies long before they lied with words.
His body wasn't lying.
At least...
not yet.
"Do you recognize this?"
She placed a photograph of the child's drawing on the table.
His eyes dropped to it.
He frowned.
"No."
"Your fingerprint was found on it."
Silence.
Not fear.
Confusion.
"I've never seen that before."
"You've never been to that apartment?"
"No."
His answer came immediately.
Too quickly?
No.
Exactly as quickly as someone answering an obvious question.
He looked back at the photograph.
Then at her.
"Can I ask something?"
She nodded once.
"Is someone dead?"
She didn't answer.
He lowered his eyes.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Have you ever met the child's father?"
"No."
"The victim?"
"No."
"The investigating officers?"
"A few."
He shrugged lightly.
"I repair microphones."
"People don't usually remember the technician."
His smile carried no bitterness.
Just observation.
For a brief moment—
Seo Hae-in almost smiled back.
Almost.
A knock interrupted them.
A young court clerk stepped inside carrying a folder.
"Mr. Han, the microphone in Courtroom Three is giving feedback again."
"I'll be there in five minutes."
The clerk nodded and left.
Han Do-jin sighed quietly.
"Every courtroom thinks it's the only courtroom."
The sentence escaped before he seemed to think about it.
Seo Hae-in noticed.
It wasn't witty.
It wasn't polished.
It was simply...
human.
She looked around the workshop again.
Her eyes settled on the radio.
"Why classical music?"
He glanced toward it.
"It helps me hear mistakes."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Instruments don't hide much."
He adjusted the volume slightly.
"When something is off..."
He paused.
"...you notice it faster."
He looked back at her.
"I suppose that's true of people too."
For the first time—
she held someone's gaze a little longer than usual.
"You think I'm lying."
He said it gently.
Not accusing.
Just curious.
"I think," she replied, "someone wants me to believe you're important."
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're either connected to this case..."
She picked up the photograph.
"...or someone made sure you would appear connected."
He folded the cleaning cloth carefully before speaking.
"I wish I could help you."
"I believe you."
The words surprised both of them.
"So why are you still here?"
"Because believing someone..."
She slipped the photograph back into her folder.
"...isn't evidence."
She turned toward the door.
"Ms. Seo."
She stopped.
"If you find out how my fingerprint got there..."
He hesitated.
"...I'd like to know too."
She looked back.
His expression hadn't changed.
No fear.
No anger.
Only confusion.
Real confusion.
"I will."
Then she left.
Outside the courthouse—
the detective leaned against his car.
"Well?"
"He believes he's innocent."
The detective frowned.
"So did the father."
She nodded.
"That's what worries me."
That evening—
Han Do-jin locked the maintenance office.
Checked each light.
Closed every cabinet.
Routine.
Always routine.
As he reached his car, something white beneath the windshield wiper caught his attention.
An envelope.
No address.
No stamp.
Only his name.
He opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
The child's apartment.
Taken from outside the bedroom window.
On the back...
three words.
YOU WERE THERE.
His breathing stopped.
The photograph slipped from his hand.
A memory surfaced.
Not complete.
A flash.
Rain against glass.
A child's laughter.
Then—
a sharp clicking sound.
Pain exploded behind his eyes.
He stumbled backward, gripping the side of his car.
The memory disappeared.
Just as quickly as it came.
He looked down at the photograph again.
His hands were shaking now.
For the first time all day—
they weren't steady.
Across the street—
inside a parked black sedan—
someone watched him.
The engine started.
The car drove away before he could notice it.
Han Do-jin remained standing alone beneath the courthouse lights.
Staring at the words that refused to leave his mind.
You were there.
Whether as a witness...
A participant...
Or another victim...
He no longer knew.
End of Chapter 18