The security office at the Grand Theater smelled like instant coffee and stale cigarettes.
Min-Hee sat in a hard plastic chair, staring at a wall of monitors showing different angles of the theater. Backstage. The main auditorium. The lobby. Emergency exits. Every corner of the building under surveillance, and yet somehow—impossibly—someone had gotten close enough to whisper in her ear and write on her notebook.
"Run the footage back again," Seo-Yoon demanded, leaning over the security chief's shoulder. "There has to be something."
The chief—a stocky man in his fifties named Park—scrubbed through the timeline with practiced efficiency. "I'm telling you, there's nothing. Look."
The monitor showed backstage footage from exactly when the lights had gone out. Min-Hee sitting in her chair.
