People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can...
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"Fuck..." Jeongguk cursed, clenching his fingers in his long, raven-black hair.
With a heavy sigh, he slumped back onto the uncomfortable wooden chair, which protested with a quiet creak. A sudden, theatrical grunt echoed behind him — international, meaningful. He didn't need to turn around to know it was meant for him.
He looked up and met the gazes of a dozen students who had just lifted their eyes from laptops, notes, and books. Their expressions held no sympathy, no curiosity. Just quiet reproach — as if his frustration had somehow disturbed the sacred order of the place.
Only then did he remember where he actually was. The National Library of Seoul — a monumental building in the Seocho district, all steel and glass, perched on a hill overlooking the Han River. For nearly two weeks, he had come here almost every day, burying himself in old records, documents, and digital archives. He'd spend hours inside, sometimes forgetting to eat or rest. The marble columns, the rows of coldly glowing lamps, the scent of old books — they had all become part of his daily rhythm. To most people, this was a place of study and quiet concentration. For him, it had become a sanctuary — the one place where he could try to piece together his shattered past.
He raised his hands in a silent apology and mouthed a quiet "sorry" before turning back to the glow of the computer screen.
He was searching. Desperately trying to trace even the faintest lead that might point to the person who had taken the lives of his parents — and, in a way, his own. He remembered little from that night. Blurred images. His mother's scream. Pain. Blood. And then only darkness.
And yet he was back.
He didn't know how or why. But he had been given a second chance.
Not for life — for revenge.
He dug through archives, decades-old newspapers, press articles, and police reports, searching for anything that might shed new light on the case. Most of the documents turned out to be useless — short, superficial notes devoid of context. He did come across a few more extensive publications about the wave of violence from twenty years ago, but none of them mentioned him. As if someone had deliberately erased his existence from the records. He found nothing that brought any real progress to his personal investigation. He drowned in hundreds of names and dates, but one kept returning like an echo: Kim Taehwan.
To others — a dedicated officer with an impeccable record. To Jeongguk — a tragic figure. A victim of the same hand that had destroyed his own life. Agent Taehwan was murdered along with his wife just a few days after Jeongguk's parents, under almost identical circumstances.
He looked into the agent's background, searching for some kind of lead, but Kim was clean as a whistle. For years, he had been praised for his effectiveness and integrity. In official reports, he was practically the textbook definition of a model officer: decorations, awards, commendations, no scandals.
