[3870-09] Clinical Trial Report: Medical Device.
And beneath it, a copy of the final approval permit. In the reference section, a name was etched clearly:
'External Review Opinion - Han Yun-jae'
Seo-yeon slowly verified the dates.
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Date of the Warning (Seo-jun): March 12, 2019
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Date of the Review (Yun-jae): March 18, 2019
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Date of Approval: March 25, 2019
And then— January 15, 2020. 'Medical Malpractice Report'
Seo-yeon’s hands began to tremble again.
At first, she had only intended to look for her brother’s research records. Medical devices. New drug trials. Life science data. The fields where her brother, Seo-jun, had worked as a researcher.
But as she followed the string of the number '3870,' she discovered a recurring pattern. And she realized the scope was far wider than she had ever imagined.
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3870-03: Construction Material Safety Evaluation.
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3870-11: Chemical Environmental Impact Assessment.
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3870-17: Industrial Waste Disposal Standards.
Fields her brother could never have been involved in. Yet, in the reference columns of every single one, the same name appeared.
'Han Yun-jae.'
Seo-yeon slowly began to understand. '3870' wasn't just her brother's research code. It was a part of something much bigger. A massive system. And Han Yun-jae was just one of the cogs keeping it running.
She tracked the outcomes of each case. Some passed without a whisper. But in others— Accidents. Side effects. Damages. Tragedies that someone, like her brother, must have tried to stop.
Seo-yeon picked up her phone. This time, she didn't hesitate.
"We need to meet." Her voice was calm. "...When?" "Can you do it now? Come to my place. I have something to show you."
[2:00 PM — Seo-yeon’s Study]
When Yun-jae arrived, Seo-yeon had already organized the data. Files were spread across the table, categorized by date and case with surgical precision.
"Sit down," she said.
Yun-jae sat slowly. The moment his eyes landed on the documents, he knew exactly what he was about to face.
"I’ll start with my brother," Seo-yeon said, sliding the first file toward him. "3870-09. Cardiac Assist Device Clinical Trial."
Yun-jae remembered the number.
"My brother was a medical device researcher. This is the case he reviewed personally." She pointed to a line.
Original Warning: "Additional verification required. Lack of long-term safety data. Difficult to recommend approval at this stage."
"And you..." The next document was laid down.
Yun-jae’s Review: "Judgment possible based on short-term results. No further review required. Suitable for use as external reference material."
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Yun-jae couldn't pull his eyes away from the paper.
"This device was approved," Seo-yeon said. "March 25, 2019." She pushed the final document forward. "And eight months later..."
Yun-jae couldn't even process the numbers. 3 Deaths. 17 Severe Injuries. Total Recall of Device.
"3870-07. New Drug Clinical Trial." Seo-yeon flipped the page. "My brother was involved in this one, too."
Seo-jun's Words: "Additional observation of side effects needed. Re-evaluation required after supplementing Phase 2 data."
Yun-jae's Words: "Progress possible based on current data. No further delay required."
The result: A surge in reported side effects six months after launch. Sales halted. Massive lawsuits.
Seo-yeon paused to catch her breath, then pulled out another file. "But," she looked directly at him, "it gets different from here."
"3870-03. Construction Material Safety Evaluation. My brother didn't write this."
Yun-jae looked up at her.
"My brother was a medical researcher. He had no business with construction materials. At first, I only looked for his cases—medical devices, drugs, trials." She spread out the other files. "But as I followed the number '3870,' it appeared in entirely different sectors."
3870-11: Chemical Environmental Impact.
3870-17: Industrial Waste Standards.
3870-21: Food Additive Safety Review.
"Things my brother could never have touched. And your name wasn't on these."
Yun-jae looked at the documents. 'Standards met. Utilizable.' 'External Review Opinion - Lee Jae-hyun'
"Lee Jae-hyun, Park Su-jin, Jeong Min-ho..." Seo-yeon spread out more papers. "The names of the reviewers were different. But the sentence patterns? They were identical."
"The habit of omitting the subject at the end of a sentence, the repetitive use of nominalized endings like 'judged as' or 'confirmed validity' to diffuse responsibility... that is your specific linguistic fingerprint, Prosecutor."
She stared at him. "It wasn't just you. You weren't the only one writing for 3870."
Yun-jae looked at the documents. Familiar sentences. The same rhythm he used. But names that weren't his.
"How many people..." he muttered. "Twenty-three," Seo-yeon replied. "From 3870-01 to 23. These are just the cases I’ve found so far."
She began tidying the files. "Some have your name. Some have others. But the result was always the same. Someone’s warning disappeared, and only the words 'Utilizable' remained."
After a long silence, Yun-jae slowly lifted his head. "I..." he started. "I authored seven of these."
Seo-yeon watched him. "3870-05, 07, 09, 12, 15, 18, and 21. A-12 sent me the materials. He told me to use them as reference and write my opinion."
"Only seven?" "I only intended to do a few at first. It started because of my father's hospital bills." He looked at her. "But after meeting A-12... I got pulled in deeper."
"What about the other cases?" "I don't know," Yun-jae answered honestly. "I assume they were written by others—people like me, who received materials from A-12."
Seo-yeon nodded slowly. "So it isn't just you." "...No." "The Paper Mill was a much larger system than we thought."
"Even if it’s just the seven I wrote..." Yun-jae said. "I want to confirm them. I want to see where they were used and what they caused."
Seo-yeon watched him for a beat. "Are you going to do this alone? Only the seven you wrote?" Yun-jae couldn't answer.
Seo-yeon stood up and brought two cups of coffee. She placed one in front of him. "It took me a year just to find my brother's cases. I spent the next two years tracking the entirety of 3870." She looked him in the eye. "Checking only your seven cases won't stop anything. You have to see the whole system. Who built it, and how it works."
"...Why are you helping me?" "I’m not helping you," Seo-yeon said clearly. "I’m verifying."
She turned the laptop toward her. "The things my brother tried to stop. And the things people like you allowed to pass." She pointed to the first file. "We are going to verify every single consequence."
Yun-jae was silent for a long time. Then, he slowly nodded. "...Thank you." "Don't thank me. You were part of 3870, and I’m going to see the whole picture. And I’m going to make sure they pay."
She opened the master list. "Shall we begin?"
Yun-jae opened his own laptop. "Starting with the cases I wrote—" "No," Seo-yeon interrupted. "From 3870-01. In order. No matter who wrote it or where it was used."
Outside, the sun began to set. The two of them, side-by-side, began the grueling task of verification. Case number. Utilization. Consequence.
Some had passed without issue. Some had minor flaws. And some... some had created irreversible tragedies.
It was past 9:00 PM when Seo-yeon finally closed her laptop. "Let’s call it a night." Yun-jae nodded. "...Can I come back tomorrow?" "Of course. We haven't even finished half."
Yun-jae stood up. "Seo-yeon." "Yes?" "Why...?" He stopped himself. He was going to ask why she didn't hate him, but he held it back.
Seo-yeon answered before he could. "You didn't know back then," she said. "Where it was going. What it would do." "But I—" "But you know now. That’s enough. For now."
After Yun-jae left, Seo-yeon sat back down. She pulled out her brother’s notebook. 'A single sentence I add might actually save someone.'
She read the sentence slowly. "Oppa," she whispered. "I’m checking now. To see who your sentences could have saved. And who stopped them."
Stars were visible through the window.
[Next Chapter Preview]
Twenty-three cases. Inside them were accidents that could have been prevented and reasons why they weren't. Seo-yeon and Yun-jae begin to find those reasons, one by one.
And they realize: '3870' isn't just a number. The 'Paper Mill' is still active.
Others were not—
for reasons now becoming clear.
begin tracing those reasons, one by one.
is still operating.