JAE
I don't blur my name.
I type it clean. Correct spelling. Full legal.
The cursor pauses over it like it's asking if I'm sure.
I am.
COMPLAINANT: Song Jae-In
No initials. No abbreviations.
I turned eighteen yesterday. Today, nothing can stop me.
If this ends me, it ends with me standing.
The office is quiet in the way institutions always are—designed to make everything feel procedural, not personal.
Beige walls. Fluorescent lights. Justice without emotion.
That won't last.
The officer across from me reads the form once. Then again.
"You understand," he says carefully, "that by filing this formally, the subject will be notified."
"Yes."
"And that retaliation is—"
"I know."
He studies me now. Really looks.
I'm calm. Too calm for someone denouncing his own father.
"What's your relationship to the accused?" he asks.
I don't hesitate. "He's my father."
That finally cracks the air.
The officer leans back. Exhales. "You want to tell me why you're doing this?"
I slide the folder across the desk.
"Because he's been laundering money through shell corporations for over a decade," I say. "Because he hid assets during prior legal proceedings. Because he used charities to clean cash and family members to move it."
"And," I add, evenly, "because he taught me how to keep my mouth shut."
The officer opens the folder.
Stops on the first page.
Keeps going.
The silence stretches.
"These are serious allegations," he says finally.
"They're documented," I reply. "Bank records. Timelines. Names. Patterns. You won't need my word."
He flips to the last section.
The one I didn't have to include.
The one I chose to.
Not labeled as evidence.
Just dates.
A fatal crash.
No arrest.
No charges.
A timeline.
A sudden restructuring of assets.
He looks up slowly.
"You're suggesting—"
"I'm not suggesting anything," I cut in. "I'm providing context. You investigate."
That earns me a look. Not hostile. Not kind.
Respect.
"You understand this will reopen things," he says. "For you."
"I've never closed them."
He nods once. Decision made.
"We'll proceed," he says. "Financial crimes first. That's where we have leverage."
Good.
He hesitates, then adds, "Do you have an attorney?"
"I've consulted one," I say.
"You'll need one," he says. Not a suggestion. A fact. "You're a witness, and your father's lawyers won't treat you like one."
I nod.
"Your father will be notified within forty-eight hours."
I feel it then.
Not relief.
Alignment.
I stand before he can say another word.
Outside, the sky is low and gray. Pressing down.
My phone buzzes before I reach the corner.
Unknown number.
I don't answer.
I don't need to.
He'll know.
He'll recognize the precision. The patience. The way this is unfolding not in anger—but in structure.
The way I was raised.
I think of my sister.
Of Laura.
Of the nine-year-old version of me screaming for someone to listen.
This time, they will.
I keep walking and I don't look back.
***
The news breaks while I'm in class.
The headline scrolls across the screen: Billionaire Taken into Custody—Financial Crimes Investigation Underway.
The teacher drones on about statistics. I write nothing.
My pen hovers over the paper.
My mind is somewhere else: spreadsheets, shell companies, offshore accounts.
Years of construction contracts that exist only on paper.
Charities that don't give a dime. A legal empire built on lies—and I'm holding the blueprints.
He has to go down.
My phone buzzes. Detective's number.
I step into the hallway before I answer.
"Yeah?"
"He's in custody," the detective says. No preamble. No softness. "Financial crimes unit is moving forward."
I don't flinch. I don't celebrate.
Because this isn't about triumph yet.
It's about making sure the pieces don't crush anyone else.
I close my eyes for half a second. Open them again.
"And my sister?"
"Child services cleared temporary placement with you," he says. "She's safe where she is. A caseworker will follow up, but we don't anticipate moving her."
"Okay," I say.
"You'll need to submit a brief document confirming you're capable—student, eighteen, stable home environment," he continues. "Child services will reach out. Weekly visits. Standard oversight."
I lean against the wall.
"Your father's influence is… extensive," the detective says. "Expect pressure from his legal team. Media, too. They'll try to muddy this."
"I know," I say. Calm, even. Cold. "I've accounted for it."
"Then we'll be in touch," he says.
The call ends.
Sofia is safe. For now.
That was always the first rule.
Then my mind goes where it's been circling all day, whether I let it or not.
Laura.
The way she looked at me like I was solid. Like I was something she could lean on.
The way she trusts.
She'll know.
Not today. Not from a headline or a knock on the door.
But soon.
Because once my father falls, the truth won't stay buried. And when it comes up, it won't come gently.
I'll have to be the one to tell her.
That I was there.
That I survived.
That the man who killed her parents was my father.
That I loved her before I ever deserved to.
I grip the phone tighter.
I don't know which part will break her.
I only know I won't let anyone else be the one to do it.
Not the media. Not a lawyer. Not a stranger who doesn't know how carefully she holds the world.
I'll tell her myself.
When I can keep her safe.
When I can take the fallout.
When I'm sure the truth won't destroy her trust in me completely.
I don't know if that moment exists yet.
But I'm getting closer.
Taking my father down is the easy part...