Yoon Se-ri didn't sit. She didn't pace either.
She just stood there—back against the far wall of the second-floor office, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if her own bones were the only defense she had left.
Kang Joon-ho—ghost, lawyer, smug posthumous squatter—remained exactly where he'd been before her outburst: hovering just slightly above the office floor, hands now resting in his trouser pockets, as if this was all a perfectly normal negotiation.
Which, apparently, it was. To him.
"I don't do ghosts," Se-ri said, her voice dry, almost hoarse. "I do contracts, mediation, civil suits. Not... spectral partnerships."
Joon-ho smiled with maddening calm. "Oh, good. We're starting with boundaries."
"I'm serious."
"I know. That's why it's funny."
Se-ri's eyes narrowed. Her body was still buzzing from the shock of earlier—the flickering light, the involuntary twitch in her hand, the fact that he'd casually entered her nervous system like it was a revolving door.
And he was talking to her like they were setting up a brunch date.
"Listen," she said slowly, trying to keep her voice from shaking, "I'm barely keeping my practice alive. I didn't inherit this place out of sentiment—I needed somewhere with working plumbing and no rent. The last thing I need is a ghost—you—camping out and rearranging my nervous system."
Joon-ho didn't flinch at the accusation. In fact, he looked… faintly amused.
"You make it sound like I'm some wandering poltergeist. I'm a professional. Or was."
Se-ri pushed away from the wall and approached her desk—not close enough to be within arm's reach of him, but close enough that she could set her palms flat against the cool wood and feel something grounding.
She inhaled slowly.
"This isn't normal," she said, more to herself than to him. "People don't just... come back. Especially not arrogant trial lawyers with ghostly gavel fetishes."
He tilted his head at her. "You've got spirit, I'll give you that."
"Stop talking like we're in a sitcom."
"Well, it's either that or watching you have a breakdown. I find this more entertaining."
Her eye twitched.
He floated over to the window again—he seemed to like that spot—and leaned against the frame with all the natural arrogance of someone who believed the world was his stage.
"It's not just a case I want to finish," he said finally, voice quieter. "It's the case. The last one I ever touched. The one that killed me. Literally."
Se-ri turned slowly. "You were murdered?"
"Not quite. But let's say... it wasn't an accident. And the truth was buried faster than I was."
She blinked at him. "You're saying there's a conspiracy? That someone covered it up?"
"I'm saying," he said, locking eyes with her, "that a man died because I trusted the wrong people. And now that man's family still doesn't know the truth. No one does."
He stepped forward. His feet barely made a sound. Se-ri tensed instinctively, but he stopped short of crossing whatever invisible comfort line she had left.
"I need someone who can go where I can't," he said. "Hold papers. Talk to witnesses. Walk into court and file the right motion without phasing through it."
Se-ri didn't speak. She just stared at him.
"Look," he added, "I'm not asking you to believe in me overnight. But we both know you're not exactly drowning in opportunities right now. You need a win. And I need a body. Temporarily. For court purposes."
"Did you just say 'I need a body'?"
He grinned. "For court. Not... recreationally."
"You are unbelievable."
"I've heard that before."
She exhaled again, slower this time, her pulse finally beginning to come down from its previous rocket pace.
"You want to... possess me. So I can try your case for you. And then you'll leave?"
"Yes."
She folded her arms. "Why can't you just... move on? You've been dead for what, thirty-five years?"
"Some people leave behind regrets. I left behind court transcripts and a bloodstained closing argument."
Se-ri's stomach tightened at the image. "Bloodstained?"
He nodded once. "Let's just say I didn't exactly walk out of my final trial."
Silence fell between them.
She looked at him carefully now—past the smugness, the confidence. His eyes were still sharp, still teasing, but something deep in them was... stuck. Like a thought that had never finished forming.
There was weight there. Not just charm.
"You're serious," she said finally.
"I'm dead. I don't have time to joke."
"You've only joked."
"I don't like starting off earnest. It's too vulnerable."
That, she almost understood.
She ran a hand through her hair and walked around the desk slowly, processing, trying not to look at the faint shimmer of his presence in her periphery.
"Let's say I agreed," she said after a beat. "Let's say I helped you. What happens to me?"
"You practice law. Just... with a bonus voice in your head."
"I don't like that."
"I'm very quiet when I want to be."
"Bull."
He grinned again.
"Look," she said, "this is all insane. You being here, this conversation. But something's happening. Something I can't ignore. So—if we're doing this—" she jabbed a finger toward him "—we're doing it my way."
He raised his eyebrows. "Your way?"
"Yes. Ground rules."
"Of course," he said, suddenly straightening like a student about to take notes.
"Rule one," she said, holding up a finger. "No jumping into my body without warning. No surprise possessions."
He held up a hand. "Reasonable."
"Rule two. No... ghostly interference when I'm not in court. That includes lights, doors, windows, or objects that can fly at my head."
"Fine. Though you're killing my dramatic potential."
"Rule three. You stay in this building unless I say otherwise."
He frowned. "I'm not a dog, Se-ri."
"Well, you're not a roommate either. Those are the rules. Take it or leave it."
He stared at her for a moment.
Then slowly... smiled. A real one this time. Not smug. Not teasing.
Almost... impressed.
"You've got bite, Counselor," he said softly. "I like it."
She didn't smile back.
Instead, she walked to the coat rack by the door and pulled down the faded gray suit jacket that had been hanging there since she arrived. It looked like it hadn't moved in decades. She held it out.
"Prove you can do it," she said. "Possess something. Just the jacket."
He looked at her. "You sure?"
"No. But I need to see it."
He nodded once.
Then stepped forward.
The air shimmered slightly.
And then—
The jacket lifted.
First one sleeve. Then the other.
It filled out as if an invisible mannequin stood inside it. The shoulders rounded. The lapels settled.
And then—
It bowed.
Gracefully.
Se-ri blinked.
The jacket straightened again. One sleeve reached up and adjusted the imaginary tie at its neck.
Then the shimmer collapsed. The jacket deflated in an instant, falling back onto the rack like nothing had happened.
Se-ri exhaled, slow and shaky.
"That's... creepy."
"You're welcome."
She walked back to her desk and sat for the first time that evening, elbows on the armrests, hands folded tightly.
"I can't believe I'm doing this."
He hovered beside her desk, his voice suddenly soft again.
"You're not crazy."
"Don't say that like it's reassuring."
"I mean it," he said. "You're not crazy. You're just... lucky. Or unlucky, depending on your opinion of ghosts."
She gave him a look.
He grinned.
Then—he turned to go. Floating toward the corner of the room, where the light from the window had faded into a quiet blue hue.
"You should sleep," he said. "This place gets weirder when you're tired."
"I'm not sleeping here."
"Then where are you going?"
She paused. Looked around the room. Then at the mess of her things still downstairs.
And realized—she was staying here.
The apartment upstairs was part of the property. She'd seen it briefly during her walk-through. One bedroom, small kitchen, half-functional shower. But it had a bed. And privacy. And no landlord breathing down her neck.
Only a ghost.
She looked at Joon-ho.
He raised his hands. "I don't float up there unless invited. Promise."
She eyed him suspiciously.
He smirked.
Then faded from view—just like that. One moment he was standing by the corner.
The next, empty air.
She sat there for a long moment, still gripping the arms of her chair.
The silence was thicker now. But it didn't feel empty.
Her eyes drifted toward the staircase that led to the third floor.
One night, she thought. Just one night.
She stood.
Took her bag.
And climbed.