I left the house out of habit, not even thinking about where to go. I felt that if I stayed inside, my choices would solidify into reality too quickly.
The streets were no different than usual. People walked at their own pace. I tried to think of nothing. Then, my phone vibrated. No ringtone. Just a short, sharp buzz.
[REWRITE TARGET – STAGE 2] Transmission Complete.
A file was attached. I didn't open it immediately. I already knew that even without looking, something irreversible had begun.
Only after I had slipped away from the crowd did I open the file. Case summary. Victim information. Date and time. My eyes froze at the first line. A name I didn't recognize. A case number that didn't match any record I remembered.
I scrolled down slowly. My finger stopped at the date.
That day...
It was the same week I was organizing trial records for an entirely different case during my time as a prosecutor. The timelines, which should never have touched, were now overlapping with terrifying proximity.
I shook my head slowly. "…No."
This wasn't a case I had handled. Suddenly, from the phone's speaker, a low-volume voice leaked out. It was a voice I knew too well.
"A-73."
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I caught my breath. It was A-12. "It is not a case you personally handled," he said. His voice was calm, not a single syllable emphasized. "However, your records are part of the process that brought this case to where it is today."
Then, I heard it clearly. Not a code. Not A-73.
"Mr. Han Yun-jae."
My real name. A title of respect used as a weapon.
"I didn't write this record," I said, my voice strained.
"You simply didn't write it directly," A-12 replied instantly. "But the sentences you did write have served to either stop or propel other records forward."
I was speechless.
A single adjective I carelessly threw out five years ago had returned as a massive wave, sinking someone’s life today. In this system, records are never erased; they snowball, rolling back toward the author.
"Then..." I whispered, after finding my breath. "…How far does my responsibility go?"
A silence followed. Then A-12 spoke.
"You don't have to take responsibility." And yet, the words didn't sound like comfort.
"However, the results will be finalized under the name of Han Yun-jae."
The screen shifted on its own. A new clause had been added to the bottom of the file.
※ This rewrite was not directly authored by Han Yun-jae. ※ This rewrite was processed under the authorization of Han Yun-jae; the results are attributed to him.
My breathing slowed to a crawl. This time, there was no 'Accept' button. No 'Cancel.' It was already 'Completed.'
"There were... no choices, then," I said.
A-12 didn't deny it. "The choice was already made. The moment you began writing those sentences years ago."
The call cut off.
Every result caused by my words was now converging under my name. This wasn't just ghostwriting; it was a trap of cumulative causality, weaving my past and present together.
People continued to pass me by, heading in their own directions. No one knew. No one suspected that at this very moment, something was ready to be unleashed upon the world—signed with my name.
I took a deep breath. The problem wasn't what the Organization was doing anymore. It was how many doors I had already left open.
My phone vibrated again. A single, short sentence this time.
[REWRITE TARGET – STAGE 2] ※ Review is not optional. ※ Authority to refuse: NONE.
I couldn't close the screen.
[Next Chapter Preview] The record has already been executed. Now, the only question left was who would become the accomplice.
Next episode: Lee Seo-yeon and Han Yun-jae. The two perpetrators face each other for the first time.
intent becomes irrelevant.
is attribution.