Chapter Text
Even a tentative breath disturbs the thickened air between Leon and the suspect. He begins with a cough, a sniff, a distraction, before he finally speaks.
“Good morning, Mr. Hak,” he gives a short nod, unsure of where to put and what to do with his body, “My name is—I’m Officer Leon Kennedy, and I'm a detective with the Raccoon City Police Department. I'll be conducting this interview today regarding the series of murders we are investigating.”
An echoing basin of silence and deflected tension—that’s what the interrogation room seems to become. The suspect, with his glittering eyeshadow and pointed smirk, laughs out a lightly accented response, “Ah, Detective Kennedy, a pleasure to meet you. I must say, I expected someone a bit more… experienced for a case like mine.”
The word rolls off his tongue like a tease—as if the two were mere buddies, having a little catch up against the bustling background of a crowded restaurant. Leon’s eyebrows furrow, ever so slightly, a quick sigh disguised as an exhale waving off the suspect’s comment. “ Thank you, Mr. Hak,” he tries not to scoff, ”Rest assured, you’re in capable hands. Now, before we proceed, I must advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
It feels nothing like a movie, nothing like the first time he recited the Miranda rights, leaning over a thief outside of a corner store just a couple years prior. This is a much emptier promise—because Mr. Jiwoon Hak might have these rights, but every officer in this building knows the truth of his situation.
“Detective Kennedy. I understand my rights. But I assure you, I have nothing to hide.”
Damn right, Leon quirks an eyebrow, internally scrutinizing the suspect. Because everyone knows you did it.
Regardless, he maintains his practiced composure, hiding his fidgeting hands and bouncing leg under the desk. “Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Hak. Now, I must inform you that this interview will be recorded for documentation purposes. Is it acceptable to you that we record our conversation?”
He wishes he wouldn’t have asked. Mr. Hak’s eyes light with a sickening buzz, a smile that once might have been charming and pretty, now gritted and manic, pushes up his cheeks. He rests a manicured hand upon the cool surface of the table. In any other situation, this would have been considered an invitation. “By all means, Detective. Let’s put on a performance. I thrive in front of a camera.”
“Thank you for your consent,” Leon clears his throat, maintaining a stoic countenance, “But I have no intention of a performance here today. We want the truth, and nothing but. Now let’s proceed with the interview.”
He can practically feel Lt. Branagh’s hand patting his back for such a collected attitude—but there’s little time to celebrate yet. If any time at all.
Five people. Two women. Three men. Five lives he has to recover, to some extent. Mr. Hak remains true to his word and describes each one of them with alarming precision and sickening detail. Leon can’t help but think of the many times he was dragged into watching Chicago with his friends. Each crime—passionate and premeditated alike—embellished and glamorized to the max. Give them the ol’ razzle dazzle indeed. It feels like eating an overripe fruit. Mr. Hak leaves no performance to the imagination.
“Of course, I have to thank my dear, sweet, deceased dongsaengs for their help. Couldn’t have done it without them.”
Leon tenses. Possible accomplices? Victims? He leans forward. “Who, sir?”
“My young group members. You remember NO SPIN, don’t you? Those sacks of shit that burned up in Korea.”
Ah, right. Leon remembers reading something vaguely familiar on Twitter, just about a year ago, “I believe it was smoke inhalation that killed them.”
“Well, aren't you smart?” The man cackles, legs crossing as he recalls the news, “That was my fault, actually. One year ago—October eighth—I was in a bar, having a glass of something for lunch. I was late to my recording session, but it didn’t matter until my manager started giving me shit for it. I picked up my stuff and left, having a little smoke on the way, as a treat. Got there, threw the cigarette away in a nearby trash can, said hi, and left for the bathroom. When I came back, the room was in flames, and a giant speaker blocked the door. All four of my groupmates were in there, screaming for me. Screaming my name . And it was beautiful .”
Leon remembers it all too well, despite having been nowhere near Korea the year prior. To hear the experience firsthand is almost too much to bear—but Sergeant Price is on the other side of the observation window, and he’s not going to break in front of a superior.
“So…you chose to leave them in there?” He whispers, unable to keep the bias out of his voice as he turns the truth of the story over in his mind. All the articles said that Jiwoon, the last living member, tried desperately to rescue his—his dongsaengs .
“Mhm,” The ex-idol giggles, twirling a lock of dark, greasy hair around his index finger, “Then I started my solo career, which lasted for a few months before I moved here, to America, to try again outside of the industry—which was going just fine until you guys pulled me in. Suppose it’s about time, though.”
Mr. Hak must see the slow furrowing of Leon’s brows, his eyes slightly narrowed with disgust, because he giggles and opens his mouth to speak, “You know, you’re too pretty to be a cop.”
Leon never did have the best poker face, and it shows, as the suspect winks at him. “Uh…thanks for the compliment, Mr. Hak, but I’d rather we remain focused on—”
“I think red would really be your color.”
Before Leon can rocket out of his seat and call for help, Jiwoon launches himself over the table, crazed admiration in his eyes, a gleaming knife held tight in his grip—one he possibly slipped out of the evidence boxes they passed by on the way here. He lunges for Leon, tackling the young investigator and sending the chair toppling backwards towards the ground. Time only seems to slow as the two fall, Leon’s gaze held fast to the knife that inches towards his chest, his hand flying up to catch the wrist that drives it. He should’ve hit the ground by now, but the chair doesn’t seem to stop in its descent. Falling…falling….
Until he closes his eyes and gasps alive, head shooting up off his arms crossed over a counter. When he opens his eyes, he’s in a bar.
How the…what the fuck?
The immediate answer is a rude awakening from a very vivid dream. But it wasn’t a dream, was it? How’d he even get here? Turning towards his left, Leon takes in the sight. A honey brown bar, with glistening, lustrous countertops. Handsome young bartenders with firmly pinned aprons, gleaming smiles at a motley group of customers holding effervescent glasses of wine or small green bottles of other drinks. Two young friends turn away from each other as they simultaneously take their shots, and not a single person is speaking or reading English. It’s all in Korean—which is curious, considering the fact that there aren’t any areas in Raccoon City whose demographics are predominantly Korean. Even if there were, Leon sticks out like a sore thumb here and would never visit on his own accord. He turns to his right, only for his blood to freeze thick in his veins.
There he is. Jiwoon Hak—or Hak Jiwoon, as he’s sure people format it in this country. Hak Jiwoon, serial killer and ex-kpop star, hidden under a black cap and mask.
If this is reality, Leon hopes to God that interrogation was a dream—but then that begs the question, where did that dream begin, and when did reality end? Surely, he would have remembered coming to this bar, or at the very least laying his head down to sleep. “Oh…shit…” He murmurs, winded.
Maybe it really was all a dream. Hak Jiwoon could just be a name in his head, a face he managed to catch sight of before he fell asleep, thrusting upon it a role to play in the performance that was his vision. But that couldn’t be possible! He doesn’t remember falling asleep at all, let alone coming to this bar.
Leon’s blatant gaze remains on Hak Jiwoon for a couple seconds before it darts back down to the empty counter before him, only discreetly peeking at the male from time to time. It’s not long before he inevitably notices, turning a dark eye to Leon, a smirk playing on his lips and a lightly accented English filling the space between them, “Hey there.”
Leon almost falls out of his chair again, struck by shock like it’s lightning. Just minutes earlier, he’d been interrogating this man and extracting information about his five charges of first degree murder. Now Leon sits beside him at a bar. Beside a criminal, roaming free. His hoarse throat can only just mutter back a greeting, “Hello.”
“You look lost,” The murderer huffs a laugh, lips tracing the rim of his glass before placing it back down again, “And thirsty.”
Waving an awkward hand, Leon shakes his head, lips parted in slight surprise, “O-Oh, no, I’m not here to—to drink.”
This draws nothing but a small purr out of his new companion, who tilts the swirling liquid in his glass towards Leon, “At a bar and you’re not even drinking? Are you here for something else, then?” It’s all too clear what his intentions are—his eyes flashing, like a cat stalking a mouse. That’s the moment it dawns on Leon that he might have landed himself in a dangerous situation—and despite never considering himself a mouse, he knows when to be wary. He reaches for his phone, looking for some sort of familiarity to bridge here and wherever he’s supposed to be. It’s one in the afternoon—and looking just below the time, Leon’s mouth grows dry. Today is a year prior to when it should be. One year before Leon last remembers being awake—and suddenly, things are beginning to make sense.
The “dream” was no dream. Rather, it’s the future. A future that Leon has already lived and for some reason, somehow, has been sent back to relive. He isn’t in Raccoon City anymore—and he laments the lack of a Toto to turn and recite this line to. This is Korea, a year in the past, and here Leon is, sitting right next to a future murderer.
October eighth. Today is the day Jiwoon learns his passion for the blissful throes of death, costing the lives of four other individuals as he does. Leon can’t do anything but freeze. “Uh…”
This response, perhaps conveyed as some sort of cute, flustered reaction, elicits that same sharp giggle out of the idol beside him. “You seem nervous.”
In an effort to maintain his composure and not hint at any sort of recognition or knowledge beyond what he should, Leon shakes his head and gasps a breath, “N-No, not nervous, just—it’s nothing important.”
A blatant lie, and Jiwoon can probably sense it, because this is possibly one of the more important moments of Leon’s life so far and he can’t seem to calm his nerves like usual. Okay, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch, but Leon does have the lives of four—no, nine—other people on his hands.
He needs to keep Jiwoon here, at this bar and away from the recording session with his group by all means. Glancing back at the idol and noting that silver glint in his gaze, the way he ever so slightly licks his lips…oh. Oh, jeez. By any means necessary…meaning he’s going to have to play along.
Weakly smiling, Leon wiggles into a new position, laying his chin upon his palm and gazing back at Jiwoon. “W-Were you asking because you wanted to buy me one? A-A drink?”
“What do you think?” The idol purrs, quirking an eyebrow—and damn Leon’s breath for hitching at the sight.
Jiwoon calls the bartender over like he’s an old friend, and soon enough, Leon has a glass nestled in his hands, growing warmer with every moment he holds it in his grasp. He takes a sip.
“You don’t look like you come here often,” hums the man beside him, every word a rumbling caress. His manicured fingertips—this time with nails painted a variety of colors—stroke at the rim of his glass.
Leon only shrugs, a soft scoff on his lips before he remembers he’s supposed to be playing decent, “I don’t. If you couldn’t tell, I’m a…tourist,” Not a lie, not quite a truth.
“Tourist, eh? You don’t suppose I could get you to explore some of the…finer parts of the country?”
The joke draws a soft chuckle out of Leon, against his will. Do girls really swoon over that kind of thing? Or is it just because Jiwoon is hot? He turns to the idol, an eyebrow raised, “That a promise?”
“Why don’t you find out?”
He really isn’t sure he wants to. But for the sake of the victims—for people Leon has sworn his life to protect—he gets up and follows the idol out of the bar, down the street and into a car.
Leon definitely isn’t in Raccoon City anymore.
Not a second into the hotel room is Leon pinned to the door, wrists held tight by a perfectly manicured grip. The thin wisps that the thicker locks of Jiwoon’s hair end in tickle his chin, brushing against the sensitive skin of Leon’s lips—parted slightly with the lightest of soft, sweet gasps. He doesn’t mean to make the noises, doesn’t mean to feel as good as he does, but it’s quite difficult with the sudden wet kisses and careful nips, searing lips that suck bruises onto the pale expanse of his neck. He whines—and that’s the noise that snaps him out of his own stupor. He really, really can’t do this. He can’t have sex with a serial killer no matter how good this feels. Fuck, he’s never even had sex with a guy!
Wiggling his wrists out of Jiwoon’s grasp, he manages to lightly push the idol off him. Respectfully, even if the man is a potential serial killer. “S-Sorry, I…I don’t think I can do this. Sorry.”
Not even a surprised gasp or a frustrated growl. Pure silence separates the two as the idol’s gaze remains downcast, his eyes shielded with locks of hair, giving Leon the horrible feeling he might be on track to become Hak Jiwoon’s first victim. Slightly dizzied by the idea, he reaches for a brochure and a pen on the desk by the door and scribbles down ten digits he has committed by memory. A small, hopeful effort at placating the man he just cockblocked. “Here, this is my number. I—yeah. Bye.”
He leaves the hotel room, the door closing quite loudly behind him.
The trip between the room and the front door that took two minutes when Leon and Jiwoon first arrived here, he makes in thirty seconds. In a few quick steps, he’s across the street, glancing up at the gloom of the sky, and a deep sigh seeps its way out of him.
Three facts to mentally jot down and hang up on a wall like they’re commandments. One—It’s a year in the past. Two—he’s somehow found himself in South Korea. Three—
Ige jeong-uilani? You, you must be kiddin' me! You must be kiddin' me, you, you must be ki—
It takes Leon a good minute to realize that’s his ringtone. Funny, because last he remembers, he keeps his phone on silent. Suppose that’s the world’s cute little way of integrating him into a new city, what with the heads that turn upon hearing the song. With a swift hand, he cuts off Jungkook’s attempt at a rap and answers his phone, shaking slightly as he just barely manages to catch a glimpse of “Claire” spelled across the top.
“Hello?” He coughs against the mic, wandering down a street he doesn’t know the name of.
Sure enough, Chris’ baby sister is over the line. Leon can’t help the soft smile that washes over his face—
someone
familiar at last. So his life as he knew it hasn’t entirely imploded yet. “Leon! It’s been a while.”
“Oh—” He stops, looking left and right like the good cop he is before crossing the street, “Hey Claire. How’s it going?”
Such a casual start compared to the raging conflagration of utter confusion that spreads within him. Still, he maintains the small talk and allows Claire to carry the conversation wherever she desires it.
“Oh, nothing big. Last I checked, Jeremy got food poisoning and Mike’s taking care of him. That’s about it. But what about you? How’s the new assignment? Is South Korea as good as it sounds?”
Of course, she manages to catch him off guard. He remembers their friend, Jeremy, getting food poisoning last year—or, well, this year. All over some badly cooked shrimp he ate. But Leon distinctly remembers being there to see it—even getting a bit of a stomach bug himself from the fish tacos the restaurant had. “Wh-What? New assignment?” He stutters out, still trying to comprehend the fact that Claire knows he’s not in the country.
“Yeah…New assignment. How is it?” The confusion is clear in her voice, slowly repeating herself with tentative emphasis.
To that, Leon really isn’t sure how to respond.
New assignment?
In a whole other country? What could possibly have sent him this far out here, and what is he supposed to be working on? Instead of dedicating his time to elaborating, he sits down at a bus stop bench and sighs softly, feigning exhaustion. “I-It’s good. Great.”
“Hey, is this a bad time? You sound kinda tired, no offense.”
“No,” he shakes his head, despite knowing she can’t see him, “I’m good.”
A bit of silence, some rustling, chewing, and finally Claire splits the silence, “Well, alright. Just make sure to rest enough, Mr. Policeman. So, what’s the apartment like? I heard there’s a lot of uphill, depending on where you live. Kinda like San Francisco.”
For the most part, Leon lets her talk, getting her questions and concerns out of her system. God knows she needs it. So does he. Because honestly, what sort of fucking hallucination is this? Leon has never been a religious man—and maybe that’s why some deity or God out there has done this to him. To play a game? To prevent a tragedy? And what about Leon’s “new assignment,” here in this foreign country that he doesn’t know the language of? There’s no fucking way he, out of all people, would be sent here, on his own, as 23 year old rookie.
Right, he’s 23 again. A year younger. What a fucking trip.
The phone call ends with cheerful goodbyes and promises to correspond again soon, when a sudden tickle on the side of his thigh brings Leon’s hand flying down to slap it, thinking it’s a bug. Maybe not the best course of action to try to kill a bug with his bare hand, but Leon has never been the best with common sense. Turns out, however, it’s not a bug. There’s a folded sheet of paper in his pocket now, which he slips out with ease.
‘RPD’ . Now that’s something. Scanning the document, he takes note of the date—October first, just a week prior—and its message. An assignment, sure enough, seemingly issued to him by his department. “Stationed in Seoul, Republic of Korea…for a year,” he mutters to himself, brows furrowed. A whole year to work on something? There’s no way this document is legit—but the seal stamped on it begs to differ. Leon releases a sigh. A year in a country he doesn’t know, to work on hindering and eliminating the “discussed pending threat” . What the hell is that supposed to be? When did official documents get so vague?
At the very bottom, in some form of a footnote, there’s scrawled in neat pen, “Some forces will not stop at any cost. Sometimes, it takes intervention to derail them.”
The hell is that supposed to mean? Leon groans to himself, beyond confused. Another slip of paper falls from the held sheet, sliding to the curb for him to chase after. Of course, being the responsible cop he is, he picks up the sheet and a couple pieces of litter while he’s down there and reads what’s written on it as he saunters over to toss the waste.
It’s an address, in Itaewon-dong, which he also just so happens to currently be in. Looks like a nine minute walk, according to his phone. Packing the papers back into his back pockets, Leon gets to walking.
The maps app brings him to what seems to be an apartment building—unit 202. Which, for some reason, has a key in its lock, as if it’s just waiting for him to open it. Shrugging his shoulders, Leon takes a hold of the key and twists.
The dim light filtering through the half-closed curtains struggles to cover its bases and illuminate the barren rooms, casting elongated shadows that dance and writhe across the worn furnishings. The apartment appears almost frozen in time, its stillness lending an air of desolation that sends shivers down Leon's spine. Dust particles float lazily in the scant beams of light, lending an ethereal quality to the atmosphere, as if the very essence of life had withdrawn from this forsaken place. With every turn of a corner into a different room, he wields a knife he found in the kitchen just moments into exploring the residence. Anything useful in defending himself in the case that he’s stumbled upon a home of squatters—or really dangerous rats.
After six whole minutes of combing the area of the apartment, Leon’s posture returns to normal, flicking off the lights of the rooms that he’d just turned on. When he reaches the living room, however, he pauses for just a moment. Boxes upon boxes of things sit there—his things. Is this… his apartment? That’s the only plausible conclusion. His apartment, with his belongings stacked in a haphazard pile in the corner of the living room, even a whole week into his stay. Sounds about right.
It’s about the first thing that actually makes sense in this entire situation. Because seriously, what’s he supposed to be doing here? The assignment in his pocket has no point of contact, no reference, no supervisor or briefing officer to unload his questions upon or report to. A giant confidentiality stamp marks the lower half, meaning he can’t even reach out to his coworkers or superiors for help.
The impermanence of his stay in South Korea does relieve him. At least this…whatever this derailment in his life is, will end eventually. All that’s left is to figure out what his mission is here in the first place.
Leon takes a seat on his couch and sighs, pulling an old handheld Simon out of a nearby box. Might as well get to figuring this mess out now.
Keojineun heart b-b-beat, ppallajineunde—
Trash.
Maniac, nasa ppajin geoscheoleom mich—
Fucking trash.
I feel like I became a zombie, meoliwa si—
Absolute shit.
A rumbling growl escapes Jiwoon’s lips as he scrolls down a list of songs, glancing between the road before him and the phone by the dashboard. “Out of all the songs…”
Because apparently, according to Yunjin, having a NOSPIN song as his ringtone is too egocentric. He has to pick someone else’s. Why have a ringtone at all, if it’s going to spew this grating, earbleed inducing garbage? It’s not like he tends to pick up calls anyway.
He makes a sharp turn, diving into his garage with abandon and making little effort to brake before he hits the other side of the room. Storming out of his car and into the elevator, Jiwoon continues on his mental tirade. Because his entire goddamn afternoon was a fucking waste of time.
“Spent a whole hour on that fucking blond…” He growls to himself, slamming open his door and reaching for a cigarette—which he promptly tosses back into the drawer, because he’s not ready to run out of his precious vice so quickly. He ought to find some sort of release, though. Just thinking of that cockblocking prude of an American gets him grinding his teeth. Wasted his time, his money—although, who really gives a shit about that? He can afford it a couple thousand times over.
A silent moment washes over Jiwoon as he slumps into his couch, running a hand through rugged, lilac locks. As much as he tries to will his hand into remaining dormant at his side, his nimble fingers find their way to the brochure tucked into his back pocket. Ten digits, all for him. As if he’d ever even text it.
Jiwoon tosses the brochure aside, a derisive scoff falling from his lips. He doesn’t need this. His flings call him , not the other way around. So what if that blond was inconceivably pretty? So what if even those couple noises he made, those unrestrained gasps of his sent a shiver up Jiwoon’s spine, leaving him with a persistent tightness in his jeans that he refuses to acknowledge? He’d go out and find some bimbo or hopeless tourist to fuck instead, but he’s too damn pissed off to even think about getting into a car—and that’s saying something.
With an angry huff, Jiwoon gathers his supplies, turns on his computer, and seizes his own length. Look at him, jerking off like a fucking virgin. The thought only spurs his hand, slick with lotion and tight with frustration. He’s pissed—and although his computer blares porn, he can’t quite get his head out of the memory of the American’s whines, and the taste of the skin on his neck—the way he stiffened under his touch, melting into it despite so obviously being inexperienced in such a position. So, if he was seemingly enjoying it, why…? Why the hell did he leave?
With a final grunt and jerk of his hand, wrist twisting slightly, he cums. No one turns down Hak Jiwoon. Even now, slowly recovering from his orgasm, it eats at him. Scratches at the tender tissue of his mind. It’s not even because that blondie was that captivating or entrancing—fuck, they knew each other for less than an hour —but instead, simply because Hak Jiwoon has never been turned down when he really wanted something.
The idol spares a glance at the brochure tossed aside, lying abandoned on the couch.
I’m not gonna call it. I won’t.
It’s a simple affirmation uttered to himself, even as he lumbers over to the couch and plops down, gentle fingers reaching for the slip of plasticky slick paper.
Hak Jiwoon hates mysteries. This one, he’ll be sure to make a quick and easy fix.