The scream hadn't helped.
Neither had the swearing.
Nor the two full minutes she'd spent pacing in circles in front of the desk, muttering to herself like a lunatic.
"I didn't see him. I didn't see anything. There was no one there. I'm sleep-deprived. That's it. Caffeine withdrawal. Low blood sugar. Stress. I've been gaslit by my own eyes."
She stopped pacing only to chug what remained of her now-warm canned coffee, ignoring the metallic aftertaste as it burned down her throat.
The office stood in perfect stillness again. The lo-fi music still played softly in the background. The light above her didn't flicker this time. No dramatic chills crawled down her arms.
And yet...
She kept glancing over her shoulder. Every few seconds. Like her body hadn't gotten the memo that nothing was supposed to be there.
The newspaper sat folded on the desk. She hadn't touched it since the front door episode.
It remained as it was: old, yellowing, and—unmistakably real. The photo was there. The headline was there. No publication name. No dateline. No contact information or advertisement. Just that bold black title across the top:
"Justice Denied: New Witness Emerges in 1987 Kang Trial."
And Kang Joon-ho's face.
Mocking her from a photo that shouldn't exist.
A part of her wanted to tear it up and throw it in the trash. The other part—the annoyingly practical, deeply curious lawyer part—wanted to analyze it under a microscope.
Instead, she poked it with her finger.
It didn't move.
She looked toward the stairs.
The ghost—if that's what it was—had been there. At the top of the staircase, backlit by hallway shadows. Watching her.
That smug, self-satisfied expression, so casual on his face. As if he'd been waiting years just to have that exact moment with her.
She hadn't hallucinated the smirk. Or the shape of him. The pinstriped gray suit. The crisp white collar.
It was exactly like the framed photo upstairs.
Exactly.
She stood frozen for a long moment, hand still on the desk.
Then, with exaggerated calm, she said aloud to the empty room:
"I'm going to go upstairs. Slowly. Like a person who is very sane. And I'm going to pretend that didn't happen."
She picked up her phone, turned off the music, and walked with rigid, deliberate steps toward the stairwell.
The second-floor office was just as she'd left it.
Almost.
The framed photo of Joon-ho that had been on the bookshelf now sat on the edge of the desk.
Front and center. Propped up. Looking right at her.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then looked toward the bookshelf.
There, in the dust, was a clean square patch where the photo used to be.
A perfect outline.
Her hand slowly reached toward the frame. She touched it. Lifted it slightly.
Still warm.
She put it back down, very gently.
"Okay," she said, voice cracking a little. "Okay. Ghost. Poltergeist. Paranormal nonsense. This is fine. I've seen enough TV dramas to know how this works. Step one: ignore it. Step two: leave."
She spun on her heel.
And froze.
He was there.
Again.
But this time, closer.
Standing just inside the doorway, hands in his pockets, his expression as casual as if she'd just interrupted him mid-lunch. He looked fully formed now—not shimmering or fading at the edges. His shoes even cast the faintest reflection on the polished wood floor.
They stared at each other.
Or rather, she gawked. He... smirked.
"Oh," he said finally, voice smooth and amused. "You can see me."
Her mouth opened. No sound came out.
He raised a brow. "You were screaming earlier. Quite loudly. I was going to introduce myself, but I figured I'd let you calm down first."
Still, she said nothing.
"I'm flattered, really," he continued. "Not everyone reacts to my face with that level of passion."
Her hands moved before her brain caught up.
She grabbed the nearest object—a heavy law book—and launched it at him.
It passed straight through his chest.
Thudded against the back wall. Slid to the floor.
He didn't even blink.
"That was rude," he said, adjusting his cuff links. "I haven't done anything to you. Yet."
Se-ri backed away, breath short, heart pounding.
"I—I don't—" she stammered.
"Words, Counselor," he said, crossing his arms. "I'm partial to arguments well made."
"You're not real."
He sighed. "They always say that."
She stared harder. "You're dead. You're literally dead."
He nodded. "Yes. Unfortunately. It's been a bit inconvenient."
"I saw you in the photo. Upstairs."
"Good lighting in that one," he said, almost wistfully. "1985, I think. My last great trial."
"Don't talk like this is normal!"
"I'm not the one throwing books."
She felt her legs wobble and leaned against the desk.
"This can't be happening."
"You'd think after the newspaper stunt you'd be less shocked. That was clever, wasn't it? I found it in the archives of my—well, my memory, I suppose. Thought it might jog yours."
She shook her head. "This is a nightmare. Stress hallucination. My brain is melting."
He stepped forward.
She stepped back.
"Don't come closer!"
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, exasperated. "What do you think I am? A horror movie extra?"
"You're a ghost!"
He paused.
"I prefer 'posthumous legal consultant.' Has a better ring to it."
She stared at him.
He gave a modest bow.
"Kang Joon-ho. Former trial attorney. Still technically practicing, in a... limited capacity. You are?"
Her mouth opened and closed.
He waved a hand. "Don't bother. I know. Yoon Se-ri. Granddaughter of Yoon Hae-jin. Fiercely independent. Graduated from Korea University. Failed your first two solo cases. Now hiding in my office and drinking expired vending machine coffee."
Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"
He tapped his temple. "Ghost perks."
"That's not a thing."
He tilted his head. "How would you know?"
She hesitated.
"Exactly," he said, lips twitching.
She gripped the desk behind her, trying to ground herself. The wood felt real. Solid. Cool against her palms.
This wasn't a dream.
And he wasn't going away.
Not yet.
He circled the room slowly, not quite walking—floating just slightly, like his feet barely remembered how to touch the floor.
"So," he said. "Since we're here, let's establish a few ground rules. Number one: don't throw things at me. Number two: stop denying reality. And number three—this one's important—I need your help."
She snorted. "With what? Moving on to the next life?"
"No," he said. "With court."
She blinked. "Court?"
"Yes. Legal proceedings. Lawsuits. Justice. Truth. Ring any bells?"
"You're dead."
"Yes. And you're not. That's why this will work."
"I don't even know what this is!"
He walked toward the window, hands still behind his back.
"I've been here a long time," he said, voice softer now. "Watching the world move on. Cases change. Laws evolve. People forget. But I didn't get to finish what I started. I have... one case. Still unresolved. I think you're the key."
She laughed, once, sharp and tired. "Me? I can barely afford groceries."
"You're desperate."
"Gee, thanks."
"It's a compliment," he said. "Desperation sharpens instinct. You've got good bones. And you don't scare easy. Not really."
She stared at him.
He turned to face her again.
"I need to finish this case. I need someone who can walk into a courtroom and argue it for me. Someone who can hear me. Channel me."
She shook her head, arms crossed tight. "Absolutely not. I'm not about to become some ghost's puppet. I don't even believe in possession."
He grinned. "You will."
"No way."
"I'm very persuasive."
"No."
His grin widened.
And then—
Suddenly—
The office light above her desk flickered, buzzed, and popped. The old brass lamp on the corner turned on by itself.
Her fingers twitched.
She looked down.
She wasn't moving her hand.
But it twitched again.
Just once.
She yanked it back and stepped away. "What the hell was that?"
He gave her a sheepish smile.
"I said I was persuasive."
She stared at her hand. Then at him. Then at the now-glowing desk lamp.
"Oh no," she said. "No, no, no. That was you. Inside me. Just now."
"Not all the way in," he said quickly. "Just a toe. A very respectful toe."
She picked up the law book again. This time, he actually flinched.
"Okay, okay!" he said, hands up. "Boundaries. We'll set boundaries. Just—listen, Se-ri. If you help me, I'll leave. I'll move on. You get the office. The legacy. Maybe even some real success."
She hesitated.
"Or," he added, "you can go back to living in your tiny apartment with a leaky ceiling and no clients. Up to you."
Silence.
Then—
A long, slow exhale from her lungs.
"I hate this."
"You'll get used to it."
"I don't want to get used to it!"
He smiled, almost gently.
"Neither did I."