CHAPTER 44: CHAPTER 44 - GHOST BEHIND THE DOOR

The Chief stared at the five folders for a few long seconds.

He didn’t say anything at first. His jaw moved a bit, like he was trying to hide it, but Choi already caught it.

"Alright... if these are your choices," the Chief finally said.

But his tone was stiff. Forced.

His eyes said something completely different.

This wasn’t relief.

This was "I’m already regretting this."

The truth was, when the higher-ups dumped those ten profiles on his desk this morning, the Chief already felt sick.

Misfits.

Trouble-makers.

People who gave their previous supervisors migraines.

And now Choi picked five of the worst ones.

The Chief swallowed, the inside of his throat dry.

He glanced at Choi again — and that familiar uneasy feeling hit him right away.

Choi was too calm.

Too quiet.

Too sharp.

Whenever Choi looked at him, it felt like the man was checking every corner of his mind.

Like the man could see everything he didn’t want others to know.

The Chief broke eye contact first.

He grabbed at stuff on his desk on purpose, just so he didn’t have to look at Choi.

He rubbed his forehead again — same spot, same pressure.

The stress was building, and he could already imagine what was coming:

Meetings.

Questions from above.

Reports piling up.

Colleagues complaining.

Superiors yelling.

And the worst part —

these five misfits were now his responsibility.

"Fine," the Chief muttered, barely loud enough for the room to hear.

"No backing out now..."

He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging just a bit.

One clear thought hit him: I’m going to suffer because of this guy.

Choi stood up when the Chief waved him off.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t bow. Just turned and walked toward the door with the same quiet steps as always.

The door clicked shut behind him.

But Choi didn’t leave.

He walked toward the small corner beside the office door — the spot everyone used for instant coffee during work. A stack of paper cups leaned against the wall beside it.

Choi picked one up. Turned it once between his fingers. Then walked right back to the Chief’s door.

He pressed the cup to the door and put his ear on it.

He held his breath.

Everything inside him went silent —

no exhale, no movement, nothing.

Then he listened.

Inside the office, the Chief let out a long, tired sigh.

A second later, the man in the black suit finally opened his mouth.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"Chief... the higher-ups are not satisfied with your performance."

The Chief didn’t say anything. Choi heard the tiny sound of a throat being cleared — fear or stress, he couldn’t tell yet.

The man continued.

"You declared Park Joon-ho’s death ten years ago. Fire incident. Accidental. Case closed."

The Chief’s chair creaked slightly.

"He did die..." the Chief said quickly. "That night... I checked the scene myself. I signed the report."

The man in the suit didn’t react to his panic. Not even a breath changed.

"Then explain," he said, "why that same man is walking around now."

The Chief froze. Choi could hear it — the sudden stop of movement, the dry swallow.

"I... I don’t know," the Chief whispered. "Maybe someone— No... it’s not possible... His body was—"

The suited man cut him off.

"Someone interfered," he said.

"Someone made sure the truth was buried."

His footsteps moved — slow, deliberate — closer to the Chief’s desk.

Then his voice dropped.

"Tell me, Chief... were you the one who covered it?"

The Chief gasped like someone pulled the air out of his chest.

"What?! No— no! I swear on my badge, I didn’t hide anything! Park Joon-ho... he really died that night. I saw the body. I filed the report. I had no reason to lie—"

The man didn’t move.

"Watch your words," he said quietly.

"Everyone who touched that case is under scrutiny now."

The Chief’s reply came out weak, cracking.

"I’m telling the truth. I really am."

Silence stretched for a few seconds.

Then the man said:

"You better be. If they find out you’re lying... you won’t survive what comes next."

Choi kept listening.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t even shift the cup a millimeter.

His breathing stayed locked inside his chest.

He replayed every sentence in his head, putting them together one by one.

A dead prosecutor.

A fake accident.

A covered-up case.

Higher-ups panicking.

A shadow organization watching the Chief.

Someone trying to erase the past.

Choi slowly moved the cup away from the door.

His eyes opened, calm but colder than before.

Because now he knew —

the problem wasn’t only the Underworld Judge.

It was what was hiding behind him.

The dead man.

The buried case.

The people who made sure no one ever spoke the truth again.

And if someone as high as that black-suit man was involved...

then this wasn’t a simple hunt anymore.

This was war inside the system.

Now he knows something important—

the real danger wasn’t just the Underworld Judge.

It was the people trying to erase the past.

Choi slipped away from the door the moment their voices stopped.

He still had the paper cup in his hand — the same one he’d used to listen.

His face didn’t show a single change. No tight jaw, no quick breath. Just his usual blank calm.

He walked to the coffee kiosk like this was what he came for in the first place.

He held the cup under the machine and pressed the button.

The machine hummed softly.

Steam came up and brushed his face, covering the cold look in his eyes for a second.

He lifted the cup, pretending to sip.

He picked up the quiet sound of shoes tapping in the hallway.

He heard slow footsteps in the hallway, each one calm like the person wasn’t in a rush.

Choi didn’t move.

He kept the cup near his mouth, looking relaxed like there was nothing to care about.

The man in the black suit turned the corner.

He stopped for half a second.

Even behind the sunglasses, Choi could tell the man was scanning him — not openly, just that tiny shift of his chin, like he was checking for any crack in Choi’s face.

Choi tilted the cup again. A small fake sip.

Nothing.

Just a detective drinking his morning coffee.

The man gave a short glance, then walked past — no words, no sound except the quiet tap of his shoes on the floor.

When he disappeared around the next turn, Choi lowered the cup.

He walked to the sink and poured the whole thing out.

A soft splash, nothing more.

He crushed the cup in one hand — smooth and slow — and dropped it into the bin.

His face didn’t change.

Nothing in him moved.

Everything he heard earlier just sat quietly in his head, hidden under that calm look everyone mistook for cold.

Choi just straightened his coat and walked down the hallway.

Like nothing ever happened.

Like he hadn’t just heard the kind of conversation that could bury people.