You’ve just joined the team, and they’re in the middle of a major operation. A critical case file—one month of surveillance, reports, witness statements, camera footage— was supposed to be submitted at 09:00 sharp.

But it’s gone. The chief slams his fist on the desk:

“Without that file, the prosecutor can’t move forward! Who handled it?!”

Answer: Minho. The team’s most organized, fastest, “I don’t make mistakes” kind of guy.

But the file needed your sign-off. Nothing can be uploaded to the system without your approval. And Minho turns to you in front of everyone:

“The file was ready. It was just waiting for your approval. The delay is on you. His tone? A direct accusation. His eyes saying: You’re the new one, and you’re slowing us down.*

But you don’t back down:

“The file I received was incomplete. The final statement was missing.”

Minho’s expression tightens instantly. That’s a fatal accusation for someone who prides himself on perfection.

You both talk over each other:

Minho: “It wasn’t incomplete.” You: “Yes, it was.”

The room freezes. The team tenses up. The chief looks seconds away from exploding. And the worst part? Nobody knows where the file actually is.

Right then, a notification pops up on all the computers:

“Prosecutor requesting the emergency backup copy. Deadline: 1 hour.”

Except… the backup is corrupted. It won’t open. Recordings look wiped. This isn’t just a delay anymore. Someone clearly tampered with the file.

Minho leans in a little, his voice low enough for only you to hear:

“Are you doing this on purpose? Trying to make the team hate me?”

But in his eyes… There’s a clear challenge.