The print shop below the safe house ran from 6 AM to 10 PM. The machines were old — the kind of industrial offset printers that produced vibration through their housing and into the building's framing and up through the floor joists with the persistence of a headache that wouldn't break. The rhythm was regular. Predictable. The specific mechanical pulse of heavy rollers feeding paper through ink stations at a cadence that the building's skeleton had absorbed for years, the way bones absorbed stress until the stress became structure.
Jiho worked at the kitchen table. The table was too small — designed for meals, not operations, too short for the spread of papers and the Foundation's backup laptop and the emergency communications kit that Jin had unpacked within an hour of arrival. The apartment was a two-bedroom in Mapo-gu, above the shop, accessed through a narrow staircase at the building's rear. The Foundation had maintained it as a fallback position since before the fellowship existed. The furnishings had the specific neglect of a space that was visited quarterly for inspection and never lived in — dust on the curtain rods, a refrigerator stocked with canned goods whose dates were checked by someone who didn't eat here, a bathroom whose soap had dried to a cracked disc in its dish.
Jin sat across from him. The analyst had reassembled his workspace with the focused efficiency of a man whose professional value was his ability to process information, and whose contract's cognitive amplification made every minute without data to process feel like a muscle cramping from disuse. He had three notebooks open. The laptop's screen showed a map of Gyeongsang Province — the mountain terrain around Yeongyang, the road networks, the topography that would define any approach to an abandoned silver mine.
"The mine has four documented entrances," Jin said. "Main shaft, two ventilation tunnels, and an emergency egress that was sealed during the Japanese colonial administration. Post-war geological surveys suggest the main shaft drops seventy meters before branching into extraction tunnels. The deeper levels are unmapped — the silver deposits petered out and the mining company abandoned the lower sections before proper surveys were conducted."
"Unmapped tunnels under a mountain." Jiho studied the topographical lines. Contour intervals tight enough to show the grade change — steep terrain, limited vehicle access, the kind of geography that made military approaches expensive and retreat difficult. A bottleneck site. The construction part of his mind read the terrain the way he'd read building plans: ingress routes, load paths, structural vulnerabilities. Except the structure was a mountain, and the load was seventy-two contract holders trying to reach a conduit defended by a man who thought in circuits. "Minjun said no road access."
"No maintained road. There's a forestry service track that approaches within three kilometers, then it's foot traffic through dense mountain forest. The mine's location was deliberately remote — colonial-era mines used forced labor, and remote sites reduced escape potential." Jin's voice carried the clinical detachment of someone processing historical atrocity as operational data. The cognitive amplification did that — prioritized relevant information regardless of emotional weight, the same way a calculator processed mortgage numbers without caring that the numbers represented a family losing their home. "The Weaver chose this site for the same reason the Japanese did. Isolation. Difficult access. Easy defense."
"How long from the nearest road to the mine entrance?"
"Three to four hours on foot. Mountain terrain. Elevation gain of approximately six hundred meters over that distance." Jin tapped his notebook. A calculation. "A team moving with equipment — ward components, communication gear, weapons — adds another hour minimum. We're looking at a five-hour approach through unmonitored terrain, arriving at a site with one accessible entrance and an unknown interior layout."
"And the Weaver knows we know where it is."
"The Weaver has known since Minjun's perception activated three weeks ago. The question isn't whether he's prepared for an approach — he's had time to prepare. The question is what preparation looks like for someone who controls a soul energy grid."
Nari came out of the second bedroom. She'd been sleeping — or trying to. The medium's connection to the spiritual frequency made safe houses uncomfortable. Every building accumulated psychic residue from its occupants, and the Mapo-gu apartment had been visited by Foundation operatives whose contract-sourced anxieties had left the walls feeling like a hospital waiting room. Nari's sensitivity read all of it.
"Coffee?" She was already at the counter. Opening cabinets. Finding the instant coffee that someone had stocked six months ago and that would taste like it.
"Yes," Jiho said.
She made three cups. Brought them to the table. Sat on the counter — no chairs left — and looked at the map on Jin's laptop with the evaluating expression of someone whose operational contribution was intuition backed by spectral perception rather than the data-driven analysis that Jin provided.
"The mine's spiritual density will be extreme," she said. "An abandoned site with decades of death residue and an active conduit feeding soul energy into the barrier between worlds. My sensory range is going to be compressed — too much noise. Like trying to hear a conversation in a factory."
"Can you function inside the mine?"
"Function, yes. With reduced range and accuracy." She sipped the coffee. Made a face that confirmed the six-month age. "I'll be able to detect major energy concentrations — the conduit itself, any active contract connections, ward structures. But fine-detail spiritual perception? Not in that environment. The background noise is too dense."
Jiho cataloged the limitation. Added it to the growing list of operational constraints that made the conduit strike look less like a military operation and more like a construction project where every material was substandard and every measurement was approximate and the deadline was yesterday.
---
Sora chose the meeting location. Not the Association office — too many monitoring systems, too many colleagues whose casual questions about her schedule would accumulate into a pattern that internal security could read. Not a cafe — public spaces had the specific vulnerability of being observed by anyone with a reason to watch. She chose her apartment.
Jiho took the subway. Line 2 to Hongdae, transfer to the Gyeongui Line, two stops to the neighborhood where Sora's building stood among a row of residential towers that looked identical from the outside and differentiated themselves through the accumulated personality of their occupants — window plants, drying laundry, the specific curtain choices that people made when they controlled nothing about their building's exterior and everything about the three square meters of glass that constituted their visible boundary with the world.
She buzzed him in without small talk. Third floor. The hallway smelled like cleaning solution and the chemical sweetness of the adhesive that held linoleum to the concrete substrate — a smell Jiho recognized from his construction days, when cheap flooring installations were the bread-and-butter jobs that kept the crew busy between real contracts.
The apartment was small. Studio. Organized with the compulsive precision that Jiho recognized as a coping mechanism — the specific tidiness of someone whose external life was controlled to compensate for the internal chaos of a mind that never stopped processing. Books on a single shelf, spines aligned. A desk with papers in labeled folders. The violin case in the corner, positioned at an angle that suggested it was accessed regularly — the case's latches showing wear from frequent opening, the stand beside it holding sheet music that was current, not decorative.
A cat sat on the desk. Gray. Small. Watching Jiho with the specific indifference that cats deployed against new humans in their territory — the assessment that preceded either acceptance or dismissal, delivered through green eyes that contained no warmth and no hostility, just measurement.
"Protocol," Sora said. "He won't move."
"I wasn't going to move him."
"Nobody moves him. That's his desk. I work around him." She closed the door. The lock engaged. The sound was different from the compound's hardware — lighter, residential, the consumer-grade security of a woman living alone in a Seoul apartment. "Sit."
One chair at the desk. One at a small table near the kitchen alcove. Jiho took the table chair. Sora took the desk chair, half-turning it so she faced him. Protocol remained on the desk, a gray judgment with whiskers.
"Full briefing," Sora said. "You promised. Forty-eight hours. I'm counting."
Jiho told her.
Everything. The grid — not just the topology but the architecture. The parasitic clauses that connected every Weaver contractor into a circuit that moved soul energy and information simultaneously. The four dormant connections inside the compound — people who'd believed themselves free and had been broadcasting behavioral data through connections quieted to pass under Soojin's wards. The Weaver's influence pulses — subconscious behavioral nudging that made choices feel organic while biasing their direction.
Minjun. The boy who'd been turned into a camera. Three weeks of passive surveillance through a nineteen-year-old whose perception clause let him read the entire circuit consciously while the Weaver read the entire compound through him.
And Sangwon. The classified document from six years ago. The researcher who'd identified the grid architecture, written a report, submitted it to the Association — and watched it disappear into classification, filed away as restricted material, the institutional equivalent of a doctor diagnosing cancer and locking the results in a drawer because the treatment was too expensive and the patient was too inconvenient to save.
Sora listened. Her posture didn't change. Her expression didn't shift in the dramatic way that people's expressions shifted in movies when they received devastating news — no widened eyes, no hand to the mouth, no visible crack in the facade. The change was smaller. Harder to read. The specific micro-adjustments of someone whose processing happened internally and whose external displays were curated to reveal competence rather than vulnerability.
Her tongue clicked. Once. The familiar sound — the hard, diagnostic click that Jiho had learned to read as Sora's version of a construction worker swearing at a structural failure. But this click was followed by a second one. Softer. And then silence.
She stood up. Walked to the kitchen alcove. Filled a glass with water. Drank half of it. Set the glass on the counter with a controlled motion that Jiho's framework read as deliberate — the glass placed rather than put down, the hand releasing the glass with the precision of someone demonstrating to themselves that their motor control was intact.
"Six years," she said. Her back was to him. Facing the kitchen alcove's small window, which showed the building across the street and the window of someone else's apartment where a light was on and a shadow moved with the mundane rhythm of a person living their ordinary life on the other side of the glass. "The Association has known about the grid architecture for six years."
"Since Sangwon's report. Possibly longer."
"Not possibly." She turned. Her face had changed — not broken, not cracked, but reorganized. The bureaucratic precision was still there but it had shifted from defensive posture to offensive stance. The difference between a wall and a weapon was just direction of force. "I've seen budget allocations for contract holder monitoring going back eight years. Pre-Sangwon. Line items that didn't match any active program. Funding channels that terminated in classified operational accounts with no published mandate."
"You accessed classified budget data?"
"I accessed the budget summary reports that every division head receives quarterly. The details are classified. The summary totals are not. And the totals show funding for programs that don't exist in any public or internal organizational chart." She came back to her chair. Sat. Protocol shifted on the desk — a minor positional adjustment, the cat rebalancing in response to the chair's motion. "I noticed the discrepancy fourteen months ago. Three months into my liaison posting. I flagged it through internal channels. My inquiry was acknowledged, logged, and never answered."
"Fourteen months."
"Fourteen months of filing queries that get acknowledged and ignored. Fourteen months of requesting access to program documents that get reclassified every time I submit the request. Fourteen months of watching the system process my questions the way a stomach processes food — breaking it down, absorbing what's useful, excreting the rest." Her voice was steady. Controlled. The control of a blade being drawn, not of a person restraining themselves. "I knew something was wrong. I didn't know what. Now I do."
She opened a desk drawer. Pulled out a folder — physical paper, not digital. The analog caution of someone who understood that digital files could be accessed remotely and paper files required physical proximity to compromise.
"My father," she said. "Kang Daeshik. Killed fifteen years ago in what the official report describes as an unauthorized awakening incident. He was an unregistered awakened — someone who developed supernatural perception without a formal contract. The Association classified his case. His death was recorded as accidental."
She opened the folder. Inside: photocopies. Official documents with classification stamps visible as dark blocks where the classification level had been redacted but the stamp's border remained. A death certificate. A coroner's report. A single-page incident summary with more black bars than visible text.
"He wasn't accidental," Sora said. "He was inconvenient. An unregistered awakened who'd started asking questions about energy patterns he was perceiving — patterns that, based on what you've just told me, were almost certainly early evidence of the grid."
Jiho looked at the documents. The construction worker's instinct for reading blueprints translated — the layout of official paperwork had its own architecture, its own structural grammar. The redaction pattern told a story: heavy classification on operational details, lighter on administrative process. Whatever her father had found, the effort to bury it had focused on the substance, not the bureaucracy. Which meant the bureaucratic trail was still readable.
"You've been building this for fifteen years."
"I've been building it since I joined the Association. Four years ago. The fifteen years before that, I was just angry." Tongue click. Hard. The diagnostic kind. "Anger is fuel but it's bad architecture. You can't build an investigation on rage. I had to learn the system first. Learn where the documents were. Learn who controlled access. Learn the institutional rhythms — who worked late, who left files unsecured, who talked too freely at department dinners after their third drink."
"That's why you took the liaison role."
"The liaison role is the only position that interfaces with both the field operations division and the administrative oversight committee. It's the one seat in the organization where budget anomalies and field incident reports cross the same desk." She closed the folder. Set it aside. Protocol walked across the desk with the careful steps of a cat navigating documents and sat on the folder. Claiming it. "The Sangwon report connects to the same institutional failure that killed my father. Different decade. Same rot. The Association has been aware of contract exploitation infrastructure and has chosen, repeatedly, to classify rather than act."
"And now?"
"Now I'm going to access the classified files." She said it the way Jiho had heard foundation engineers describe the decision to shore up a failing wall — not with enthusiasm or reluctance, but with the professional certainty of someone who'd assessed the situation and identified the only structurally viable response. "Not to share them. Not yet. First I build the case. Complete documentation. Every budget anomaly, every classified incident report, every personnel decision that connects to the cover-up. A chain of evidence that can't be dismissed as a single disgruntled employee's grievance."
"Sora." Jiho's voice was flat. Not from erosion — from the specific gravity of what he was about to say. "Accessing classified files from inside the Association puts you on a watch list. Shin's division monitors internal access patterns. The moment you pull restricted documents outside normal channels, his security team flags it."
"Shin already knows I'm investigating." The statement was delivered without drama. The factual tone of someone reporting the weather. "He's known since my first internal query fourteen months ago. The queries weren't just ignored — they were routed to his office. Every request I've filed has passed through Special Operations Division review."
"He's been watching you for fourteen months."
"He's been watching me since I accepted the liaison posting. I assumed it was standard internal monitoring of a new division head. Now I think it's more specific than that. He wanted someone in the liaison role who would ask questions — because someone asking questions from inside is easier to monitor than someone asking questions from outside."
The implication built itself in Jiho's framework. Shin. The hardliner. The man who'd hidden his own daughter's contract while building a containment program for other people's children. The man who'd provided intelligence on the Weaver — genuine intelligence, verified by three independent sources — and who'd demanded Eunji's file in return.
Shin, who'd known about Sora's investigation for fourteen months and hadn't stopped it.
"He's using you the way the Weaver uses Minjun," Jiho said. "Different mechanism. Same structure. A monitoring channel disguised as normal institutional function."
"Or he's allowing my investigation because it serves his purposes. Which would mean his purposes include exposing the cover-up — not protecting it." Sora's fingers tapped the desk beside Protocol. The cat didn't react. Cats didn't respond to human anxiety rhythms. They inhabited their own rhythms and let the humans adapt. "Shin's motivation is the unknown variable. He's either part of the institutional rot or he's working against it. The intelligence he gave you — the Weaver's grid topology — suggests the latter. But the fact that he's been monitoring me without disclosure suggests the former. Or both."
"Both."
"Both. He's part of the institution and he's working against it. Which is the definition of every whistleblower and every double agent and every person who discovers the system they serve is the system they need to destroy." She stood again. Restless. The motion of someone whose body couldn't hold still while her mind worked at this speed. She paced the apartment's small length — desk to kitchen, kitchen to desk, Protocol watching from the folder with the steady gaze of a creature that had never needed to pace because it had never needed to reconcile loyalty and principle. "We've been approaching this from separate angles. You, the fellowship, attacking the Weaver from outside the system. Me, investigating the cover-up from inside the system. Shin, doing whatever Shin is doing from his position between the field and the administration. Three vectors converging on the same institutional failure."
"Different entry points. Same structural compromise."
"And the Weaver is the load that the compromised structure is carrying." Sora's pacing stopped at the window. "Or the Weaver is the compromise itself. The thing that broke the foundation."
---
The call from Dohyun came at 4 PM. Emergency channel. The encrypted line that Taesung's team had established as the only communication pathway between the compound decoy team and the scattered safe houses.
Jiho took the call in the apartment's bathroom. The smallest enclosed space available — tile walls that reflected sound, a fan that provided ambient noise cover, the operational paranoia that the compound's breach had made permanent.
"Status," Jiho said.
"Compound secure. Portable wards holding. No physical contact from any external party." Dohyun's voice was steady. The voice he'd been building for weeks — the one that layered the Foundation operative's discipline over the brother's concern and produced something functional enough to deliver reports and fragile enough that Jiho could hear the strain underneath. "Minjun's cooperating."
"Define cooperating."
"He's mapping the circuit. Actively. Since the evacuation removed the need for passive secrecy, he's been probing the grid's topology with deliberate queries — testing the connections, measuring response latencies, building a detailed model of the energy flow architecture." A pause. Paper rustling. Dohyun reading from notes that Minjun had dictated. "He's confirmed the conduit location. Yeongyang. The silver mine. But he's added detail. The conduit isn't at the mine entrance. It's at the deepest point of the main shaft — seventy-plus meters below the surface, where the stone is saturated with residual trauma energy from the forced labor deaths. The barrier between the physical world and the demonic plane is thinnest there. The conduit uses that thinness as a channel."
"What else?"
"The grid has a hierarchy. Not just a flat network. There are relay nodes — contractors whose connections are stronger than average, who serve as signal amplifiers for the Weaver's energy routing. Twelve relays total. Minjun can identify their approximate locations through the circuit. Six in Seoul. Two in Busan. One each in Daegu, Gwangju, Incheon, and Daejeon."
"Twelve relay nodes. In six cities."
"The same six cities that the Phase One teams surveyed." Dohyun's voice carried the specific tension of someone who'd recognized the pattern and didn't like what it showed. "The Weaver's relay infrastructure is concentrated in the population centers where the fellowship's intelligence gathering was focused. Either the Weaver positioned relays to counter our operation, or our operation was unknowingly mapping his existing infrastructure."
Or both. The Weaver had been watching for three weeks. Long enough to reposition assets, strengthen relay connections, prepare the grid for the disruption that an informed enemy would attempt. The fellowship's intelligence gathering had been a mirror — the fellowship mapping the Weaver while the Weaver mapped the fellowship, two surveillance operations running simultaneously through different channels with different levels of awareness.
"What's Minjun's assessment of the Weaver's current posture?"
Another pause. Longer. The sound of Dohyun consulting Minjun — voices too low for the phone to transmit as words, the exchange happening in the background of the call with the muffled quality of a conversation held through a four-inch gap in a door.
"The Weaver has noticed the evacuation." Dohyun's voice returned. Tighter. "The compound's energy signature changed when seventy-plus contract holders left. Minjun says the grid's monitoring function detected the dispersal. The Weaver is — Minjun's word is 'recalculating.'"
"What does recalculating mean operationally?"
"The Weaver expected the compound to remain concentrated. Our intelligence showed that concentration served his monitoring purposes — predictable, controllable. The dispersal breaks that. Seventy-two contract holders spread across four cities are harder to track than seventy-two in one location. The Weaver needs to reposition his relay nodes, adjust the grid's routing, reestablish surveillance coverage."
"How long does that take?"
"Minjun estimates three to five days. After that, the relay nodes will be repositioned and the Weaver's surveillance capability in the four safe house cities will be back to operational effectiveness." Dohyun's voice dropped half a register. "Three to five days. Then the Weaver knows where everyone is again."
Three to five days. The construction mind translated: a building schedule that had just lost its margin. No buffer. No contingency time. Every hour between now and the Weaver's recalculated grid was an hour the fellowship could operate without surveillance — and every hour after that was an hour the Weaver could see.
"The conduit strike has to launch within that window," Jiho said. Not a question. A structural assessment. The kind of conclusion that didn't need discussion because the math permitted no alternative — the same way a load calculation either held or it didn't, and when it didn't, you didn't argue with the numbers. You revised the plan.
"Within or before. Minjun says the three-day estimate assumes the Weaver doesn't accelerate. If the Weaver recognizes the dispersal as a precursor to offensive action, he could prioritize grid recalibration. Minjun gives us days, not weeks. And days might be generous."
"Understood. Keep mapping. Everything Minjun can identify about the conduit site — the energy density, the grid convergence patterns, the barrier topology. Anything that helps a strike team know what they're walking into."
"Copy." Dohyun paused. The pause that preceded personal communication — the beat where the operative stepped back and the brother stepped forward. "Jiho."
"Yeah."
"He's doing better. Minjun. The door's still open. He ate something today. Rice and soup that Minho made — Minho's not a cook but he found rice in the kitchen and the compound's gas still works." Another pause. "He asked about you. About your contract. About what sixty-nine percent feels like."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him to ask you himself. When this is over." The brother's voice. Not the operative's. "When this is over, you're coming back here and you're going to sit in that room and you're going to talk to my brother like a person and not an intelligence asset."
"When this is over."
"Promise me."
The word was wrong for operational communication. Promises had no place in encrypted channels between field operatives planning a strike on a supernatural conduit. But the word was right for Dohyun — the boy from the PC bangs who'd signed a contract to find his brother and was now sitting in an empty compound keeping that brother human through soup and open doors.
"I promise," Jiho said.
The call ended. Jiho sat on the bathroom's closed toilet lid and looked at the phone's dark screen and processed the operational math that the call had changed. Three to five days. A conduit seventy meters underground in unmapped tunnels under a mountain with no road access. A strike team that didn't exist yet, from a fellowship scattered across four cities, using intelligence gathered by a boy whose connection to the Weaver made every piece of data simultaneously invaluable and suspect.
He returned to the kitchen table. Jin had been working during the call — the analyst's cognitive amplification making solitary data processing more productive than most people's team efforts. New notes in the margin of the topographical map. Calculations. Distance. Time. The mathematical skeleton of an approach route.
"Three to five days," Jiho said.
Jin looked up. His eyes did the thing that cognitive amplification made visible — the rapid focus shift of a mind processing a new input and immediately integrating it with every existing data point. The eyes of a calculator receiving a new variable and rerunning every equation simultaneously.
"That changes everything," Jin said.
"That narrows everything. We need a strike team. An approach plan. A ward specialist at the conduit site to deal with whatever the Weaver has installed as defenses. And we need all of it within seventy-two hours."
Nari came from the bedroom doorway. She'd been listening. The medium's habit — standing at the edges of conversations, processing the spiritual undertones that accompanied spoken information, reading the emotional architecture of the room as data that complemented the analytical content.
"Soojin is in Busan," she said. "Setting up the safe house wards. She can't relocate to the conduit in three days without leaving the Busan group unprotected."
"We need a second ward option."
"There is no second ward option. Soojin is the only specialist in the fellowship with conduit-level capability. The other ward practitioners are defensive — they can maintain barriers, not penetrate them."
Another constraint. Another material shortage on a project that was already under-resourced and over-scheduled. Jiho's construction mind filed it beside the terrain limitations and the surveillance window and the unmapped tunnels and the nineteen-year-old intelligence source whose data quality was inversely proportional to his trustworthiness.
"Then we need Soojin at the conduit and someone else covering Busan."
"Who?"
"That's the problem I'm solving right now." Jiho pulled the topographical map closer. Studied the approach route that Jin had sketched. Three kilometers from the forestry road to the mine. Five hours through mountain forest with equipment. An approach that would have to happen at night, because daylight movement on exposed terrain was visible and the Weaver's surveillance — even with the grid recalibrating — might include physical assets. Loom operators. The Weaver's human infrastructure.
He started building the plan. Not the full operational design — that would require Taesung's military logistics and Soojin's ward assessment and Minjun's circuit intelligence and time they didn't have. But the skeleton. The structural framework that everything else would hang from. The rebar before the concrete.
Strike team composition. Approach timing. Ward requirements. Communication protocols for a team operating inside a mine shaft seventy meters underground where conventional signals wouldn't penetrate. Contingency plans for discovery during approach. Extraction routes if the strike failed.
The plan grew on paper. Jin contributed calculations. Nari contributed spectral assessments of the mine's likely energy environment. The kitchen table accumulated documents and notebooks and coffee cups in the specific accumulation pattern that operations produced — the layered debris of focused human effort, organized by urgency rather than neatness.
By 9 PM, the skeleton was viable. Not complete. Not detailed enough for execution. But structurally sound — the load paths identified, the stress points mapped, the failure modes cataloged. A plan that could support the weight of an actual operation if the remaining details were filled in within forty-eight hours.
Jiho was marking the extraction route on Jin's topographical map — a secondary path down the mountain's eastern slope, steeper but shorter, faster if the team needed to move without caring about equipment preservation — when Jin's laptop chimed.
A notification. The Foundation's monitoring system — the automated surveillance package that tracked external data sources for operational keywords. The system that Taejin had helped configure before the evacuation, tuned to flag activity related to the fellowship's ongoing intelligence operations.
Jin opened the notification. Read it. His face changed — not dramatically, not with the theatrical alarm that bad news produced in people whose emotional responses operated at normal intensity. The change was clinical. The micro-expression of cognitive amplification encountering data that forced an immediate priority recalculation.
"Jiho."
"What."
"Taejin's sister. Yoon Seyeon at the NTS." Jin turned the laptop. The screen showed a monitoring alert — a flagged access log from a financial investigation database. "Her case files were accessed forty-seven minutes ago by a credential set that doesn't match any NTS investigator in the system. Unauthorized access. Someone outside the tax authority pulled her complete investigation — every financial trace, every corporate filing, every—"
"Which files specifically?"
"All of them. The shell company analysis. The revenue routing maps. The real estate portfolio documentation." Jin's voice was the flat of a man reading disaster in numbers. "Everything she built on the Weaver's financial infrastructure. Someone copied the entire case and
