He smiled faintly."You stand above my expectations."
Anne's voice was firm. "Don't beat around the bush. Just tell me—why do you want to know about my father? Is it because of Mr. Han?"
Her mind replayed their phone conversation. He had mentioned searching for his friend, Han Seo—a man who had disappeared fifteen years ago. His mother had called her father for help, and without hesitation, her father had rushed to the city.
The man nodded slowly."Yes. You caught it." His gaze sharpened. "You truly deserve the title—the daughter of Mr. Lee."
Anne let out a quiet sigh, a faint smile forming."Then we should meet. This case involves both our fathers."
"Sure," he replied. "I'll send you the location."
The call disconnected.
Anne stood by the window, lost in thought—his calm tone, his confidence, his unsettling awareness. She closed the window, lay down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. She turned her face to the side, trying to control them.
"I miss you…" she murmured.
Sleep claimed her while tears silently soaked the pillow.
The next day, Anne reached the address he had sent. An old building stood quietly, its walls worn by time. She climbed the stairs and stopped in front of Room No. 34.
She raised her hand to knock—
The door opened.
Han stood there.
"You came," he said with a smile. "Pretty fast."
She frowned slightly. She was already twenty minutes late.
Sarcasm.
He stepped aside, gesturing her in. "Come."
Anne entered cautiously, clutching her bag with both hands. The room was clean, well-organized—nothing like the chaos she carried inside.
"How much do you know about your father?" Han asked, pouring water into a glass and placing it gently in front of her.
"Nothing," she replied, lifting the glass but not drinking.
He raised an eyebrow. "Hmm… nothing."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"I came just yesterday," Anne said calmly. "How could I investigate so fast?"
She placed the untouched glass back on the table.
Han noticed.
He walked toward her.
Anne stiffened, gripping her bag tighter, preparing herself.
He stopped—then suddenly turned away.
"Come. Look."
He opened another door.
The moment Anne stepped inside, her breath caught.
The room was drowning in obsession.
Walls covered with photographs, notes, timelines. Red threads stretched across the board like veins, binding everything together. Years of investigation screamed from every corner. A desk buried under files. Dustless—frequently used.
On the board—
Her father's photo.
Next to it—his father's.
Below his father's picture, one word was written in bold black ink:
MISSING
"I started this investigation three years ago," Han said quietly.
Anne finally understood.
"This isn't new for you."
"No."
He sat on the edge of the desk, eyes never leaving the board.
"I found fragments. Not answers."
He pushed a chair toward her. "Sit."
She obeyed and put bag on another corner of desk.
"Fifteen years ago," he continued, "my mother called your father. My father had been missing for ten days. No calls. No trace."
His voice hardened.
"My mother collapsed. She was hospitalized. And your father…"
He paused.
"He took pity on me."
Anne leaned forward.
"He took me to a church house," Han said. "Told me—take care of yourself. When your father is found and your mother recovers, I'll come back for you."
Her chest tightened.
"Did he?"
Han's hand clenched slowly into a fist. His eyes darkened as he stared at the photograph.
"He never came."
The room felt colder.
Threads trembled slightly in the dim light.
And Anne realized—
Whatever killed her father…
had already swallowed his.