Chapter 32: The Wolves Stir
The morning after Ji-hoon's televised confession, Seoul buzzed with a different kind of electricity. News anchors scrambled to verify his claims, while the hashtags #JihoonTruth and #LumaExposed trended across every platform.
Eunha hadn't slept. Her phone was flooded with requests—journalists, anonymous tips, former industry employees. The dam had burst.
But in the chaos, something colder stirred beneath the surface.
Someone had broken into her apartment.
She noticed immediately—the bookshelf slightly moved, a USB stick missing, her laptop fan still warm.
Ji-hoon was already on his way when she called him.
"They didn't take much," she said, voice tight, "just enough to remind me they were here."
Ji-hoon's eyes narrowed. "They're rattled."
"They're warning us," she replied.
---
By midday, Eunha received an encrypted message through a burner account she used only for deep sources.
> They know about the ledger. Min-jae's inner circle is preparing a counter-narrative. One that ends with your discreditment—or your silence.
It was unsigned, but Eunha knew the style. It was from someone who'd once worked inside the Ministry of Culture.
A second message followed:
> Tonight. 11PM. Warehouse 47. Yongsan. Come alone.
She forwarded the location to Ji-hoon anyway.
"Like hell you're going alone," he said.
---
That night, they arrived together—cloaked, careful, watching every shadow. Warehouse 47 sat abandoned, its rusted doors yawning open like a forgotten mouth.
Inside, the air smelled of oil and dust.
A man waited in the shadows. Face partially covered. He stepped forward slowly, hands visible.
"You don't know me," he said, "but I know what Kang Min-jae did in Busan. 2016. The girl in the red dress."
Eunha stiffened. "That was... buried."
"I helped bury it," he said. "I worked in his crisis team. I destroyed tapes. Falsified records. But she wasn't the first."
He pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Ji-hoon. Inside were transcripts, flight logs, NDAs—all pointing to a pattern of coerced silence and carefully constructed disappearances.
"I can testify," the man said. "But I need immunity."
Eunha nodded slowly. "You'll get it. If we live long enough."
---
Elsewhere, in a sterile boardroom at Luma Entertainment, Kang Min-jae stood before a screen displaying Ji-hoon's face mid-broadcast. Executives whispered, agitated.
"We push the narrative," one said. "Frame him as unstable. Delusional. Tie it to Sae-jin's case."
Min-jae smiled faintly. "Too predictable. Let him burn a little more rope. When he's halfway to the truth, we snap it."
He turned to an assistant.
"Activate Protocol D."
She hesitated. "That's for internal targets only, sir."
"He is internal," Min-jae said. "Or he was."
---
Back in Ji-hoon's apartment, Eunha pinned the last printout to their corkboard. The wall was covered now—photos, maps, codenames, arrows connecting all the rot they'd uncovered.
"We're not reporters anymore," she said. "This is a war."
Ji-hoon looked at her, tired but resolute.
"Then we fight smart. We fight loud."
He lifted his phone and hit "Record."
"To everyone watching this—if something happens to me, it's because I told the truth. And I'm not the only one who knows it."
He stared into the lens.
"Now it's your turn to choose."