Chapter Text
One of the officers was already waiting by the curb when Jinyoung pulled in, the cruiser’s engine ticking as it cooled. The officer stepped forward, jaw tight, voice low with something like disbelief.
“Detective Park,” he started, almost breathless. “You have to see this.”
Jinyoung shut the door with one hand, the other adjusting his blazer as he straightened. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, a tailored coat that hugged his frame just enough to draw attention without inviting conversation, black trousers creased to perfection, and matte dress shoes that didn’t make a sound. His jaw was freshly shaved, lips parted slightly as he exhaled into the cool morning. He looked more like a funeral director or an actor playing God in a minimalist play than a detective, but there was no mistaking the way the air shifted around him.
Dashing, yes. But with that severe, unreadable gaze that made it impossible to flirt with him. The kind of man you’d stare at in line at a gallery and never dare speak to.
He raised an eyebrow, not slowing his stride. “What happened?”
The officer scratched the back of his neck. “It’s hard to explain, sir. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Jinyoung didn’t ask again. He just nodded and followed him through the building’s cracked foyer, up the stairs, and into the apartment. Room 404.
The moment the door opened, the scent hit him. Sweet, too sweet. Daffodils. Artificial and cloying. Like the kind you find in discount air fresheners or cheap perfume. But beneath that: blood. Fresh. Still wet in some places. It turned in his stomach.
The apartment was eerily quiet. Warm-toned lights glowed from soft, hidden strips along the baseboards. Someone had taken the time to dim the overheads. On the far wall, a white faux fireplace flickered silently, its heatless flame casting slow shadows.
And there, seated like he’d just finished preaching, was the corpse.
The victim was positioned upright on a velvet armchair, spine perfectly straight, head tilted back just slightly. His mouth and eyes had been sewn shut with thick, red yarn. Crude, but deliberate. The thread was taut, almost ceremonial. His shirt had been torn open down the back, the seven stab wounds aligned like vertebrae. Not chaotic. Not frenzied. Each placed with surgical patience.
On the glass coffee table before him sat a Bible, opened, the thin gold edges of the pages glinting under the warm light, untouched by blood. The verse had been underlined with a clean, straight red line.
“My hand will be against the prophets who see false visions and utter lying divinations.
Ezekiel 13:9. ”
Behind the man, taped to the wall, were dozens of printed quotes from his book. Jinyoung stepped in closer.
“You are already healed.”
“Shame is the lie you tell yourself.”
“Let go of guilt. You are your own saviour.”
Each one written in a different font. All professionally designed. A branding exercise in delusion.
“Who is he?” Jinyoung asked, glancing over his shoulder as he tugged on the latex gloves he’d only half-finished putting on.
One of the uniforms, young, eyes still too wide for the kind of shit they saw, answered from behind him. “He was one of those motivational speakers. Just self-published a book called Healer .”
He paused. Cleared his throat. “Made a shitload off of it. People ate that crap up. 'Healing through energy,' 'rewriting your soul's story.' That kind of new-age scam.”
Another officer chimed in, voice low. “He was a phoney, actually. But no one expected to find him like this. This is... this is like a scene, sir. Not a killing. A fucking scene.”
Jinyoung didn’t respond to that. He stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he scanned the space. He bent slightly at the waist, reaching out with gloved fingers to gently flip the cover of the book lying closed beside the victim’s knee. The same title: Healer . Glossy. Self-important.
Inside, on the dedication page: “For the seekers who believed I could save them.”
Jinyoung’s lips thinned into a straight line.
Then his eyes dropped to the highlighted Bible verse again.
“My hand will be against the prophets who see false visions and utter lying divinations.”
He let out a slow breath. Not tired. Just controlled. And then, sharp as a whip:
“Preserve all evidence properly. Nothing gets touched. Photos, samples, trace…everything logged. I want every word on those pages scanned, and I want the yarn bagged immediately. Whoever did this wasn’t in a rush. They want us to see it.”
He straightened again, adjusting the sleeves of his coat.
“And we will.”
***
The precinct was quiet that morning, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only followed truly brutal cases. No ringing phones. No chatter. Just the low hum of fluorescent lighting and the distant creak of a rolling cart from forensics.
Jinyoung sat behind the sleek black desk in his office, elbows resting neatly on the glass surface as he flipped through the open case file. Not a single thing on his desk was out of place. Not the pens, not the leather notepad, not the black porcelain cup cooling on its matte saucer. The office itself looked less like a workspace and more like the inside of a design showroom, immaculate and clinical, save for the faint smell of espresso and worn paper.
A framed commendation hung crooked on one wall. He’d never fixed it.
The man in question: Henry Sanders. Male. Thirty-four years old .
Jinyoung’s eyes scanned the report with the same focus he gave to autopsy photos and empty crime scenes.
Former construction worker. Laid off last year due to "injury and departmental downsizing." No insurance. Lived alone. Parents both deceased. No siblings. One ex-wife. No kids.
That was where it should’ve ended. But it didn’t.
Henry had taken the trauma of unemployment and turned it into a self-styled awakening. First came the YouTube channel, cheap lighting, poorly cut monologues about “spiritual transformation through masculine energy.” Then the TikToks. Then the podcast. Then the Patreon. The numbers climbed. The videos got glossier. The voice was more convincing. Less construction site, more “intuitive sage.”
He called himself “The Healer.” Branded. Trademarked. Capitalized.
He had posted daily. Charged for online seminars. Pushed paid one-on-one “coaching” sessions, up to $250 an hour.
His last public event had sold out within twenty minutes.
Jinyoung didn’t look impressed.
There was a knock on the doorframe. Officer Kelley stepped in, holding a manila folder and looking like he hadn’t slept.
“Morning, sir. We got an early version of the autopsy report.”
Jinyoung nodded once. “Give it to me.”
Kelley crossed the room, careful not to bump anything on the desk as he handed it over.
“We’re still waiting on toxicology, but the stab wounds were clean. Sharp blade. Probably surgical or chef’s grade. Depth consistent. No hesitation marks.”
Jinyoung’s eyes stayed on the file as he asked, “Defensive wounds?”
“None. He was either unconscious or completely still.”
Jinyoung nodded again, flipping to the medical diagram. Seven neat punctures along the back. Each one angled downward. Controlled. Elegant, even.
He leaned back slightly in the chair. “Time of death?”
“Estimated between 2 and 4 a.m. Rigor had just started to set in by the time first responders got there.”
“Any signs of sexual assault?”
“No, sir. The body was intact. Clothes were changed postmortem, though. No prints, no trace. It was… clean.”
Jinyoung looked up for the first time. “Too clean?”
Kelley hesitated. “Yeah. Like the killer didn’t just know what they were doing. Like they wanted us to admire it.”
Jinyoung closed the file and exhaled slowly through his nose. “So he sold false hope for profit and died like a sainted corpse.”
“Pretty much. People online are already calling it symbolic. Some of his fans are saying it’s staged by the government to silence him.”
He scoffed quietly. “Of course they are.”
Kelley hesitated at the door. “Sir… if this is the same person who did The Liar's Mouth case last year, we’re not dealing with a thrill killer.”
“No,” Jinyoung said, reaching for his untouched coffee. “We’re dealing with someone who thinks they’re right.”
The lab smelled like steel and bleach, like everything had already been burned clean before anyone touched it. A chill settled over the white tile floors, made worse by the sterile light above, overhead panels that never flickered, just buzzed faintly like distant flies.
Jinyoung stood with his arms crossed, watching the lead forensic tech work through the digital scans. The screen lit up with side-by-side comparisons. Victim. Wound pattern. Traces, or the lack of them.
“No hair, no fluids, no prints,” the tech said, not turning around. “No fibers, no skin flakes, not even a smudge on the doorknob. Scene was clean. Spotless.”
She clicked to another slide. The seven wounds appeared in a heat-mapped simulation. Each one uniform. Sharp blade. Deep enough to kill, but not messy. Not wild.
Jinyoung’s jaw tensed. “Anything on the yarn?”
“Sterilized. Probably boiled. No skin cells, no microscopic debris. We ran it through everything. It’s never been used before. Not even touched, chemically speaking.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “So, he wore gloves.”
“And either a full suit, or he has zero skin.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then she clicked again. “But, sir, there is something else.”
The screen changed.
“Structurally and composition-wise, this case lines up almost identically with a file from last year.”
Jinyoung didn’t speak. Just looked.
She continued. “Case ‘ The Liar's Mouth ’.Female victim. Name was Megan Lu. Half Chinese. Fake therapist. She ran an unlicensed ‘healing practice’ out of her apartment. Mostly online clients. Targeted vulnerable people, sold them affirmations, then used their trauma to manipulate them into expensive ‘soul retrieval sessions.’”
He remembered. That was the case Kelley was also talking about.
“I ran the old crime scene files next to this one,” she said. “Look.”
Side by side: two staged deaths.
Megan Lu’s body had been propped in a recliner, her head angled toward a freestanding mirror. Her mouth was sewn shut with pink thread, and in place of a gag, pages from her own client intake notes were shoved deep into her throat. Her eyes had been open, lashes brushed with mascara, like she had prepared herself for her own therapy session. Her own voice played from a tape recorder beside her body, soft and sweet and grotesquely comforting.
“You are safe with me. You are safe with me.”
The final suffocation was done with gauze soaked in lavender perfume. The entire apartment smelled like a spa wrapped in death.
Jinyoung’s voice was low. “We never solved that one.”
“No leads, no footage, same as this one. Entry undetected. Exit clean. Whoever did this… isn’t just meticulous. They’re intelligent. Ritualistic.”
She clicked again. A still of the open Bible on the coffee table. Ezekiel 13:9, underlined in red.
“And theatrical,” she added.
Jinyoung uncrossed his arms and leaned in slightly, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “The killer is not leaving a trail. It’s leaving a pattern.”
***
Baychester Academy - Miami, Florida - 14 years ago
The field gleamed under the late-morning sun, a rich green clipped so perfectly it could’ve been painted there. The air was warm with that sticky, golden heat Miami always saved for the end of April, the kind that clung to skin and made everything smell faintly of salt and grass. Beyond the field, the cream-stone buildings of Baychester Academy rose in neat, symmetrical lines, their glass panes catching the sunlight like polished jewels. This wasn’t just a school; it was a shrine to privilege, every corner manicured to perfection. Red-brick pathways curved between palm trees heavy with fronds, and even the basketball court looked like it had been ironed smooth. The faint hum of distant traffic mingled with the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on the court and the lazy calls of seabirds overhead.
Jinyoung sat with his friends near the edge of the field, a basketball resting between his legs. A few paces away, the varsity team practised in perfect rhythm, orange arcs flying through the air, sneakers squeaking in controlled chaos. The air smelled of cut grass and sun-warmed asphalt, the kind of Miami day that made everything seem sharper, too bright to hide in.
Derek, the basketball captain, leaned back on his elbows, his hair still damp from practice.
“This Wang guy, he’s out again.”
Jinyoung’s grip on the ball tightened. He knew exactly where this was going, the same tired conversation they always circled back to.
Mikey snorted, rolling a pebble across the grass with the toe of his shoe.
“Yeah, probably holed up somewhere reading again. His aunt’s always the one dropping him off and picking him up…like he’s five.”
Another boy, Ryan, tossed his water bottle from hand to hand.
“I’ve heard stuff, man. Real stuff. Like, hospital stuff.” He dropped his voice as if they were swapping ghost stories. “Mental hospital.”
That got a laugh from most of them, low and mean. Someone in the back muttered,
“Wouldn’t surprise me. He never talks to anyone. Just sits there like he’s too smart for the rest of us.”
“Yeah,” Derek added with a grin, “like he’s plotting your funeral in his head or something.”
The agreement came in small chuckles and nods, everyone feeding the image of Jackson as the school’s polite, quiet, but vaguely dangerous ghost.
Jinyoung rose to his feet, brushing grass from his shorts, every muscle tight with irritation. He was done listening to this.
A third boy, lounging on the grass, added, “I heard he’s a freak. Goes to a mental hospital.”
“Well, I’m not surprised if it’s true!”
Laughter broke out in little bursts, quick and mean, the kind that grated more than it amused.
Jinyoung frowned and stepped toward the hoop, forcing himself to focus on the game instead of their voices. The ball bounced under his palm, thud, thud …before arcing cleanly into the net. The satisfying swish did nothing to drown them out.
Derek, unfazed, leaned forward on his knees. “Well, it suits him, honestly. He’s such a freak. I tried to talk to him once…barely even answered. He’s legit like that sparkly vampire guy from this new movie Twilight .”
Jinyoung caught the ball, dribbled once, then twice, eyes locked on the hoop. He told himself to ignore it, to keep moving, to let the rhythm…
Thud, thud, swish …
It was the only sound he heard.
One of the boys tilted his head. “How come?”
“Because he vanishes for days at a time. In the movie, it was because the weather was good. But for him—”
The ball slammed against the court, louder this time, echoing like a gunshot through the afternoon air. His patience snapped.
“Enough, all of you!” Jinyoung’s voice carried across the court, sharp and cutting. “Stop gossiping like old hags drinking sweet tea!”
A couple of the boys raised their brows, but Mikey smirked. “Since when are you sensitive about this Wang boy? You don’t even talk to him.”
Jinyoung caught the rebound, sending it through the hoop again without breaking eye contact. The steady thump of the ball against the floor was his only answer for a beat.
Derek scoffed. “Yeah, man. He’s a weirdo.”
Jinyoung laughed once, short and sarcastic, catching the ball as it bounced back into his hands. He stepped closer, holding it loosely against his hip, gaze pinned on Derek.
“Oh, yeah? Says the guy who knows the entire plot of that vampire chick-flick movie.”
The group erupted into laughter, loud and careless, the kind that meant they’d drop the subject.
At least for now. It still left a bitter taste in Jinyoung’s mouth. He shook his head and drifted toward the far end of the court, the ball bouncing lazily at his side. The further he got from them, the easier it was to breathe, but the sound of their voices still clung to the back of his mind like static.
He liked that kid, Jackson. Not that he’d ever admit it to these idiots.
They wouldn’t get it. They’d chew it up and spit it out as another joke.
Sure, Jackson could be closed-off and odd, but Jinyoung had seen him in the right crowd, in the right moment, and the boy could hold a room like he owned it without even trying. It wasn’t loud charisma, it was gravity.
One afternoon, Jinyoung had stumbled into the library while the book club was in session, lugging a stack of spare chairs for some after-school meeting. Jackson had been standing at the center of a half-circle of students, the late sunlight cutting across his face, talking about a passage from Friedrich Nietzsche. Philosophy, which should’ve sounded dry and overcomplicated, rolled off his tongue like a story you actually wanted to hear. His words were clear and deliberate, sharp without being cruel, breaking down Nietzsche’s ideas like he was letting everyone in on a secret instead of showing off what he knew.
The teacher had been leaning forward in her seat, completely caught in the rhythm of his explanation. Even the usual chatterbox kids were silent, hanging on every word.
Jinyoung had paused at the door longer than necessary, holding the chair awkwardly against his chest, pretending he was just catching his breath when really he was just…watching.
Head of the student council since ninth grade, shooting guard for the basketball team, star of the school drama program, volunteer for every fundraiser, Jinyoung knew what it meant to be watched. He knew how to make people pay attention. But Jackson Wang didn’t just attract attention; he reshaped it. He bent the whole atmosphere around himself and handed it back to the room, making everyone believe they’d been part of something they’d remember.
And that, more than anything, was why Jinyoung hated hearing them reduce him to weird . Because he wasn’t.
They just didn’t have the eyes to see it.
***
Jinyoung sat behind his desk, the blinds half-drawn so sunlight striped across the pristine surface like clean geometry. His office was immaculate, files squared into perfect stacks, pens lined in a glass holder, not a fingerprint on the polished wood. He’d been there for nearly an hour, watching the same video on loop, each play making his jaw tighten a little more.
The last victim’s YouTube channel filled his monitor: Henry Sanders, beaming under studio lights in a home office dressed to look expensive. The man’s voice was warm and oily, promising healing, transformation, purpose.
It was bullshit. All of it. Empty words sugarcoated with faux compassion, sold to desperate people like snake oil in digital form.
The comments section ran like a river of misplaced faith.
“Your words saved my marriage. God bless you, Henry!”
“I’ve been following you for a year now, you’ve changed my life.”
“I just bought your book for my daughter. She’s been struggling and I know this will help her.”
The profile photos told their own story: mostly middle-aged women, many with smiling family portraits in the background, some selfies framed by living rooms with floral couches and wall crosses. Naïve. Hopeful. The kind of people predators like Sanders counted on.
Jinyoung scrolled once, then shut the comments. The sweetness in their devotion only made the rot more visible.
It was lunch time when the door opened without a knock.
“Detective Park? You seem… baffled. What are you watching?”
Sali stepped in, a brown paper takeout bag swinging from her hand like she’d just finished a victory lap. She placed it on his desk without waiting for an invitation.
Jinyoung didn’t look up right away. “Detective Hernandez, you got me lunch… again.” His tone was flat, but not unkind.
He’d told her before, several times, that he handled his own meals. He’d also tried to insist on paying her back, but she always brushed it off with “Don’t worry about it.” So he Venmoed her later anyway.
“It’s not part of my culture,” she’d once said when he challenged her. “Hospitality is in my blood. Twice over.”
Half Guatemalan, half Iranian. A mix Jinyoung had never met before, and she embodied both halves in ways that were stubborn and loud, but her heart—he’d admit—was in the right place. She was a good cop. Brave. Sharp-minded.
But she had a thing for him.
And he… didn’t.
That part bugged him, not because he thought less of her, but because she was always trying. And Jinyoung’s rule was carved in stone: never date a colleague. Especially not in a job like this, where bad endings could destroy more than just a relationship.
“I told you I don’t need you to get me food, Sali,” he said, smiling faintly but already peeling the bag open.
She dropped into the chair across from him, unwrapping her own lunch. “Oh, please. I like doing it.”
“Well, I don’t.” His voice was light enough to pass for a joke, but the undercurrent of seriousness was impossible to miss.
Sali just grinned. “Come on. I know you like this place. They’ve got amazing bibimbap.”
“You know I don’t eat that many carbs.”
“You don’t eat at all sometimes, sir,” she countered, pointing at him with her chopsticks. “As a woman, I feel like that’s my duty.”
“It’s really not,” Jinyoung muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Okay, okay. Please, let’s just eat.”
He sighed, picked up his own chopsticks, and let her win this round. She’d already started in on hers when her eyes slid to the file on his desk.
“So… what’s the deal with the guy in the videos?” she asked through a mouthful of rice.
Jinyoung chewed slowly before answering, partly to buy time, partly to see if her brain would catch up to his. “Henry Sanders. Thirty-four. Former construction worker. Lost his job last year, reinvented himself as a ‘healer’ after going down the rabbit hole of online spirituality. Started with free videos. Then online coaching. Then a self-published book. By the time he was done milking his audience, he was making more money than he ever did with honest work.”
Sali raised an eyebrow. “And no one saw through it?”
“They saw. They just didn’t care. They wanted to believe.” He leaned back in his chair, watching her reaction. “The autopsy’s still pending, but we know he was stabbed seven times in the back. Mouth and eyes sewn shut with red yarn. Scene smelled like daffodils. No prints. No DNA. Just like The Liar’s Mouth case last year.”
Sali’s chewing slowed. “The fake therapist?”
“Mm.”
“The one with—”
“Pages of her own notes shoved down her throat, lips sewn shut, affirmations playing on a loop,” Jinyoung finished for her, setting his chopsticks down. “Yeah. That one.”
Sali set her chopsticks down, her eyes sharpening in a way that meant she was already thinking two moves ahead.
“I’ll pull the file from last year,” she said, brushing rice from her fingers. “If this guy’s work matches the therapist’s case, down to the threads, then we’re not looking at a copycat. We’re looking at a repeat customer.”
Jinyoung nodded once. “Find every detail. Color, texture, needlework, anything the average cop would overlook.”
“On it.” She slid the remains of her lunch aside, already mentally drafting her evidence checklist.
A while later, the hum of the precinct felt heavier, a low static of ringing phones, shuffling papers, and printers whining in the background. Jinyoung was halfway through rereading Sanders’ financial records when there was a brisk knock on his open door.
It was Torres from the forensics lab, holding a folder like it was fresh out of the oven.
“Got something,” he said, stepping inside. “Took us longer than usual to confirm because the tox screen didn’t flag anything on the first pass.”
Jinyoung straightened in his chair. “Go on.”
“Henry Sanders was sedated before the stabbing. Same with the woman from last year. No defensive wounds, no signs of restraint. Our best guess is an intramuscular injection while they were distracted, fast, quiet, clean.” Torres flipped the folder open, showing the highlighted line in the report. “The drug’s called gamma-hydroxyvalerate. Street name’s rare, but in the medical field it’s a modified analog of GHB. In low doses, it knocks someone into a compliant, dreamlike state. Higher dose and they’re barely conscious. The kicker? It metabolizes fast, really fast. If you don’t know to test for it within a certain window, it’s gone. That’s why it took us almost a week to nail it.”
Sali, now leaning against the doorframe, crossed her arms. “So whoever did this knew exactly how to keep them awake enough to feel it… and helpless enough not to stop it.”
Torres nodded grimly. “No injection site bruising, either. Whoever gave it to them was good, probably hit a major muscle clean, minimal trauma.”
Jinyoung closed the file in front of him, his mind already assembling the pieces. The sedative. The surgical precision. The staging afterward. It wasn’t sloppy rage, it was choreography.
“Check medical supply theft reports,” he said finally. “Hospitals, clinics, private labs. Someone’s getting this stuff, and it’s not off the shelf at CVS.”
Sali smirked faintly. “On it, boss.”
***
The workroom was silent except for the soft hiss of the climate control unit keeping the air at exactly 18°C with a relative humidity of 45%. In here, oxygen was a controlled luxury; every breath felt measured.
Jackson sat at a wide oak table under a bank of filtered lights, their intensity precisely calibrated to prevent ultraviolet damage. Spread before him was a folio wrapped in acid-free tissue, its corners secured with mylar strips. He was wearing thin, powder-free nitrile gloves, not the bulky white cotton ones people imagined, but the kind that let him feel every ridge, every brittle fiber, without transferring a single trace of oil from his skin.
He worked alone. Always alone. The other archivists knew not to disturb him when the red lamp over his desk was on.
Today’s task was a repair and cataloging of a 17th-century maritime map, a vellum sheet so fragile that one careless exhale could lift its flaking pigment. He bent over it with the stillness of a sniper, applying a Japanese tissue repair to a tear in the upper left quadrant, using a brush so fine it could pass for a single eyelash. The adhesive was reversible wheat starch paste, pH balanced, a formula he could prepare blindfolded.
Once the repair was in place, he noted the intervention in the digital conservation log, entering precise metadata: material type, damage assessment, repair technique, historical provenance. Each field was filled in without hesitation, his fingers moving over the keyboard like a pianist who knew the piece by heart.
To his left, an archival scanner, high-resolution, non-contact, sat ready. He positioned the map on the cradle, adjusting the cradle’s angle to relieve stress on the vellum. One scan for reference, one under raking light to reveal texture, one under infrared to detect underdrawings invisible to the human eye.
Jackson checked each image, zooming in until a fleck of pigment filled the screen like a mountain range. Perfect. He filed the scans into the museum’s shared database, cross-linked them to the university’s private research server. The catalog record now bore his initials, discreet but unmistakable, marking the piece as having passed through his hands.
The door behind him stayed closed. No one spoke to him. No one dared. They all knew Jackson Wang was the department’s ghost: the one who handled the most delicate acquisitions, the pieces too important, or too secret, for interns and junior staff. If a donor’s bequest came in smelling faintly of mold and carrying centuries of dust, it went to Jackson. If a private collection offered a single night’s access to an item the museum could not yet own, Jackson was the one who worked through till dawn.
In here, under this clean white light, he was immaculate . Methodical. Almost holy.
The irony, of course, was that the same precision that could preserve history for centuries… could also erase a life without leaving a trace.
Jackson had just finished rewrapping the maritime map, sliding it back into its custom-built clamshell box, when the sound of stilettos clicked across the polished floor behind him. Nobody in the conservation wing wore heels , too impractical, too loud, except for one person.
“Mr. Wang,” a low, velvet voice said from the doorway.
He looked up from his workbench. Nell Hernandez was framed against the frosted glass, a silhouette of sharp lines: tailored charcoal suit, silk blouse the color of wet ink, and her usual gold architectural pendant swaying gently against her collarbone. She didn’t walk into a room; she claimed it.
“You’re early,” Jackson said, removing his gloves with practiced, quiet snaps. He folded them precisely before tossing them in the disposal. “The viewing isn’t until six.”
She smiled, small, deliberate. “When has anyone ever told you I wait for schedules?” She stepped inside, ignoring the Restricted Access sign as if it were a suggestion for other people. Her perfume, something woodsy with an undercurrent of white pepper, threaded into the sterile air.
Jackson closed the archival box and sealed the clasp, his movements slow and neat. “Still,” he said, “most people in your field are allergic to humidity controls and fluorescent light.”
“That’s because most people in my field don’t have the right connections to get an invitation,” Nell replied smoothly. She set her leather portfolio down on the table, fingers brushing a little too close to his arm as she did. “And unlike most, I know beauty when I see it.”
He didn’t look up from aligning the edges of the box with the shelf guides. “Yes. Seventeenth-century vellum, rare pigments, irreplaceable.”
They both very well knew what Nell meant.
Jackson closed the archival box and sealed the clasp, his movements slow and deliberate. Nell’s gaze lingered on his hands, not long enough to be obvious, but enough to register.
“You work like a surgeon,” she said, stepping closer to the workbench. “Precise. Controlled. Almost… artful.”
He didn’t look up. “The material demands it.” He slid the map into its slot and keyed the digital lock, the faint click echoing in the sterile quiet.
Nell’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Not everyone can handle this kind of discipline.” She spoke as though she were commenting on the artifact, but her eyes said otherwise.
Jackson straightened, meeting her gaze briefly before turning back to align the shelf guides. “Discipline keeps things from falling apart.”
For a moment, her expression shifted, the smallest quirk at the corner of her mouth, before she collected herself and set her portfolio on the edge of the table.
“The museum’s board approved the restoration schedule for the east wing archives. I’ll need your oversight on the initial catalogue.”
He nodded once. “Send me the specifications.”
She tilted her head slightly, as though weighing something unsaid. “Of course. And Jackson—” her tone was light, professional, “—don’t work yourself into the ground.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied without breaking his rhythm, already unlocking the next case.
Nell lingered for another heartbeat before retrieving her portfolio and heading for the door, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. She didn’t look back, but the faintest trace of her perfume, warm, spiced, deliberate, lingered behind her, curling into the quiet of the room long after she was gone.
***
People turned when she passed, though they couldn’t say why. It wasn’t her beauty, though she had that, or the sharp tailoring of her slate-grey suit. It was the precision. Every step, every glance, every flick of her wrist seemed deliberate, like she was always conducting a meeting the rest of the world hadn’t been invited to.
Nell Hernandez walked down the museum’s marble corridor with the quiet authority of someone who had never been told “no” in a way that stuck. Her heels didn’t click; they whispered, expensive leather making contact with polished stone in a rhythm as measured as her breathing.
Nell understood architecture, both the kind made of steel and glass, and the kind made of people. She could walk into any institution, a university hall, a city office, a private estate, and within five minutes, she’d know exactly where the cracks were and how to widen them.
Her contacts were the sort of people who had their own security details, private jets, and offshore accounts. She didn’t flaunt it. She didn’t have to. Influence was like oxygen for her, invisible, essential, and fatal if withdrawn.
She moved between the university and the museum with ease, her name always at the top of guest lists for events she never seemed to fully attend. She would smile at the right people, make them feel seen, and vanish before they realised she had learned far more about them than they’d learned about her.
If you asked anyone who she really was, you’d get a different answer each time: respected architect, consultant, cultural patron, discreet problem-solver.
All of them true. None of them complete.
And somewhere, in the shadows between those titles, was the part of Nell that people didn’t talk about. The part that remembered every favour owed and every secret whispered. The part that, in time, would matter most.
***
The air in the room was thick, oppressive, heavy with a scent that didn’t belong. Copper, sharp and metallic, tangled with the faint sweetness of roses. Not the fresh, living kind, but the ghost of roses, like perfume clinging to a dress long after the wearer has gone. There were no flowers in sight. The smell was intentional, curated, a signature he’d decided would linger in the memory of anyone unfortunate enough to step inside. It was the kind of scent that would stick to their clothes, their hair, their dreams. A stain you couldn’t wash out.
She sat slumped in a high-backed wooden chair, the kind you might find in an old kitchen or a grandmother’s parlor, now transformed into a stage prop. The taut red thread bit into her wrists and ankles, thin enough to seem delicate, strong enough to draw beads of blood where it pressed deep into skin. Her limbs hung unnaturally loose, boneless, as if she’d been taken apart and put back together by an amateur puppeteer. The muscle relaxant was already doing its quiet work, stripping her body of control but leaving her mind cruelly untouched.
Her head lolled slightly to the side, but her eyes… her eyes were wide open, sharp and wet, following him. Tracking his every movement. The glassy surface of them caught the low light, turning each blink into a slow shutter-click. She could see him, the half-white, half-black mask, the glitter-dusted smears around the eyes like makeup melted under heat and time. And he knew she could see. That was the point.
Half white, half black, the mask clung to the sharp planes of his face like a secret split clean down the middle, purity on one side, shadow on the other. The division was so precise it looked surgical, as though someone had cut reality in two and fitted it to his skin. The surface wasn’t smooth; faint brushstrokes rippled under the light, giving it the texture of something handmade, intimate, touched by human hands rather than stamped by a machine.
Around each eyehole, dark smudges bled outward into irregular halos, the black pigment feathering into his skin like bruises painted on. Embedded in the stains were flecks of silver and gold glitter, catching the light with each slow shift of his head. The effect was strange, almost wet, as if the mask had once wept and the tears had dried into something precious and permanent. From a distance, the glimmer softened the brutality of the mask; up close, it made the whole thing more obscene, as though he were wearing the aftermath of some glamorous, corrupted ritual.
He stepped into her space without hurry, each footfall so quiet it felt deliberate, not to avoid sound, but to let her hear the absence of it. The faint cologne clung to him, ghosting over the sharper scent of antiseptic leather gloves. His fingers brushed the taut red thread tying her to nails hammered deep into the wall, tracing along it as if testing the tension of an instrument string. It radiated outward from her limp hands like a spiderweb, fragile to the eye yet unyielding to the touch.
Her head lolled toward him, the muscle relaxant making her neck feel like water. A muffled, breathy moan shivered out of her throat, her lips barely forming the shape of a plea. “Please… I’ll stop…” The words slurred together, heavy with chemical fog, collapsing before they could fully live.
He tilted his head, studying her face as though it were an exhibit behind glass. When he spoke, his voice was low, warm, the kind of tone meant to soothe a child, or a confessional whispered in the dark.
“Do you know what Nietzsche once said?” His gloved thumb hovered just above her cheekbone, tracing the air, careful not to touch. “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”
Her eyes, wet and glassy, searched his mask as if trying to read a man behind it. Only glitter and shadow stared back.
“You became one,” he murmured, each word unhurried, sinking in like a pin through fabric. “You take women already drowning… and sell them to the ones who tied the stone around their neck. You turned the pain of others into your stock and trade. Your hands, ledgers. Your heart, currency. And you call that ‘support.’”
Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, a faint whimper catching on the paralysis.
He leaned closer, until the glittered smears around his eyes shimmered in her periphery. His tone softened further, like the last notes of a lullaby. “Every marionette has a master. And every master… must pay for the strings they pull.”
The garrote waited behind her chair, red thread fine as a hair yet strong as steel. His hands moved with the grace of a florist tying the last ribbon on a bouquet. He looped it behind her neck, the silk bite of the thread brushing her skin like a kiss before it tightened.
Her breath came faster, desperation clawing against the chemical stillness. “I… I can change…” she rasped, voice breaking in the middle like a snapped string.
He almost smiled, not with joy, but with recognition. “You already did. Twice. The first time, for survival. The second… for profit. That second one is the one I’m here for.”
He drew the thread taut. Her throat flexed weakly under the pressure. She made a strained, wet sound, not quite a scream, not quite a sob, as her chest began to heave in short, useless bursts.
Her breath hitched again, shallow and trembling, the sound fragile as a moth’s wing. The garrote’s red thread, fine enough to look harmless, strong enough to sever breath from life, hung in his hands, trailing over the back of the chair like a drop of blood sliding down porcelain. It waited, coiled, patient.
He leaned in until she could feel the faint warmth of his breath through the mask. His tone was intimate now, almost tender, as though this was not murder but confession.
“Every marionette has a master,” he whispered, his voice melting into the quiet like warm wax into water. “And every master… must pay for the strings they pull.”
Her gaze wavered, unfocused, but she was still awake enough to understand the weight in his words. Her lips twitched as though to form another plea, but the paralysis held her tongue captive.
His hands moved with the calm precision of someone arranging flowers for a lover’s grave. He brought the garrote forward and looped it slowly behind her neck, drawing it into place as if fitting a necklace. The thread kissed her skin first, a deceptively gentle caress, before it began its steady bite.
A thin, wet sound rose from her throat. Not quite a scream. Not quite a sob. The chemical fog dulled her strength, but the terror sharpened her eyes. Her chest began to rise and fall faster, each breath stuttering as though her lungs had forgotten the rhythm of life.
“It will be quick,” he murmured, tightening his grip by the smallest degrees. “But not so quick that you can’t remember. You will have time to see every name you betrayed. I imagine their faces will come to you now. The mind is cruel like that… it likes to show us a gallery before the curtain falls.”
Her head jerked weakly, the only rebellion her body could offer. He pulled tighter. Her eyes began to bulge, tears sliding freely down her cheeks. The glitter around his mask caught the dim light, fracturing it into tiny shards, so that the last thing she saw was her own distorted reflection staring back at her, black, white, and shimmering.
He didn’t blink. He wanted her to see him, not his face, but the idea of him, until the final moment, when her body’s fight gave way to surrender.
When her limbs slackened and her breath dissolved into silence, he eased the thread. She sagged forward, falling exactly as he intended, her chin resting lightly against the marionette cross he had fastened to her chest. Two broken rulers, lashed together with the same red thread, pressed into her sternum like a final verdict.
The strings running from her limp fingers to the nails in the wall stretched taut, holding her upright even in death. She looked almost posed, a puppet waiting for its master’s next command.
He stepped back, tilting his head to take it in. The dim light painted her in soft shadows, catching on the red thread, glinting faintly on the glittered smears around his masked eyes. The air smelled faintly of daffodils and the metallic tang of blood.
It was grotesque. It was intimate. It was art.
Not for the police. Not for the headlines.
This was only for him.
***
Saturday afternoons in his mother’s backyard always felt like stepping into a bubble of temporary peace. The wide, sunlit lawn spread behind the house like a perfectly combed green carpet, hemmed in by tall hedges that kept out the suburban noise. Two small basketball hoops, one child-sized, one adult, stood side by side on the patio.
Jinyoung was sweating under his black T-shirt, crouched low with his knees bent, eyes narrowed in mock seriousness as his oldest nephew, Minjae, tried to dribble past him. The boy’s 12-year-old hands slapped at the ball with all the enthusiasm in the world but only half the control, his tongue poking out in concentration.
“Uncle, you’re going down!” Minjae shouted, trying to fake left before darting right.
“Down? The only thing going down here is your ego,” Jinyoung shot back, swiping for the ball.
Before Minjae could reply, the younger one, Jihoon, a wiry 10-year-old with the slyness of a pickpocket, dashed in from the side and smacked the ball clean out of his brother’s hands.
“HA! Mine now!” Jihoon cackled, taking off toward the hoop.
“Oh no you don’t,” Jinyoung said, lunging after him.
Jihoon managed two triumphant dribbles before Jinyoung reached around from behind and snatched the ball away, tucking it under his arm like a football.
“Foul! Foul! That’s cheating!” Jihoon yelped.
“Life is cheating,” Jinyoung said, grinning as he held the ball above his head so both boys had to jump for it. “What, you think your enemies on the court are gonna play fair? Not in this world, my boys.”
“You’re so old, Uncle,” Minjae groaned, jumping and missing by a good six inches. “Your knees are probably gonna explode in five years.”
“My knees are fine. My patience, though? That’s on its last thread.” Jinyoung twisted the ball out of reach, dribbling with an exaggerated, showy spin.
“Bet I can take you,” Minjae challenged, shoving at his uncle’s hip.
“You can try,” Jinyoung said, bouncing the ball between his legs, “but be ready to lose in front of your little brother. Again.”
Jihoon giggled. “I’m recording this in my brain forever.”
“Oh, you’ll both remember this,” Jinyoung said, driving toward the hoop and sinking the shot with a smooth, one-handed layup. “That’s what a winner looks like.”
“You’re a show-off,” Minjae complained, but he was smiling.
“Yeah,” Jihoon added, crossing his arms. “Bet you only win ‘cause we’re kids.”
Jinyoung grinned, passing the ball back to them. “Then grow up fast. I’ll be waiting.”
The ball hit the backboard with a satisfying thud, rebounded high into the sky, and Jinyoung caught it in one smooth motion, his palm closing around the leather like it had been waiting for him all along. He spun it lazily on his fingertips, feeling the faint texture of the worn grooves under his skin, then gave it a gentle toss toward Jihoon, the youngest. The boy caught it clumsily, stumbling a little before grinning up at him with a mix of triumph and mischief.
It wasn’t just a game, it never was. For Jinyoung, these few hours in his mother’s backyard had quietly become the brightest point in his week. Not the thrill of solving cases. Not the polite praise from the precinct. Not the neat, labeled stacks of solved files lining the shelves of his immaculate office. Those things brought a sense of order, maybe pride, but not this. This was different. This was the sound of sneakers skidding on concrete, the warm sting of sunlight on the back of his neck, the unguarded, chest-deep laughter of two boys who still thought their uncle was the coolest man alive.
And yet, even as the joy warmed him, there was something else threaded through it, a quiet, stubborn sadness that never fully left. It was the kind of melancholy that followed him like a shadow, clinging to the edges of his happiest moments, reminding him that when the ball stopped bouncing and the laughter faded, he would still walk back into a life where his bed stayed cold, and his phone rarely lit up with anyone’s name who wasn’t work.
“Jinyoung-ah!”
His mother’s voice floated out from the kitchen window, breaking his thoughts.
He turned, shading his eyes with one hand. She stood there in a neat apron, one hand waving him in, the other still holding a wooden spoon. From where he was, he could see the steam curling up from the grill pan on the counter. The air carried the rich, savory scent of galbi, smoky and sweet with a ribbon of sesame oil cutting through. It made the boys perk up immediately.
“Coming!” he called back, his voice carrying over the yard. He gave both nephews a quick pat on the head, Jihoon tried to dodge it but failed, and promised, “We’ll finish this game later. And I’m still winning.”
They groaned in unison as he jogged toward the back door.
The Park family house was big without feeling cold, the kind of place where the walls felt like they’d absorbed years of laughter and arguments in equal measure. Sun-warmed hardwood stretched across the floors, the faint creak under his steps familiar and comforting. Wide windows filled the rooms with afternoon light, soft and golden, glinting off framed photos that charted every stage of the family’s life.
His two married sisters lived close by, just a few streets over, close enough for casual drop-ins and shared meals, but far enough to avoid the suffocating closeness their mother sometimes dreamed of. The third sister was the wanderer, restless by nature, splitting her time between Korea and the US for work. She never stayed long enough for their mother to truly relax, always breezing in with gifts and stories, then disappearing again before the next holiday.
Lunch gatherings had become a kind of ritual, predictable, warm, and bittersweet in equal measure. His sisters were already inside, their voices overlapping in easy chatter, laughter bubbling between clinks of glassware. The dining table groaned under the weight of too many dishes, steaming jjigae in earthenware pots, bowls of glossy japchae, grilled meat still sizzling on a tabletop plate, and side dishes in every color from pale green namul to bright red kimchi. The air was thick with the scent of soy, sesame oil, and slow-cooked broth, wrapping the room in a kind of comfort that was almost cruel in its familiarity.
He loved them. He truly did. The sound of his sisters’ laughter was one of the constants of his life, steady, reliable, something he could fall into like a favorite old coat. But even here, surrounded by blood and history, there was a part of him that remained untouched, sealed off. No matter how loud the table got or how many hands reached across to pile banchan on his plate, he always felt as though he were watching through glass, close enough to see every detail, too far to feel the warmth.
His mother had tried, God, had she tried, to bridge that gap with marriage. Sometimes she brought it up softly, as if planting seeds she hoped would take root. Other times, she wielded the idea like a weapon, the sharp insistence of a woman convinced her son was wasting his best years. He’d snapped at her once, the words harsher than he intended, his patience breaking under the weight of her concern. It was the only time she’d truly backed off, though the look in her eyes afterward had almost made him wish she hadn’t.
It wasn’t as if he’d ignored the idea of love. He had tried. Earnestly, at times. He’d dated both men and women, each time stepping in with a flicker of hope that maybe this one, this person, would be the one who made the glass wall disappear. Some, he had liked more than he cared to admit. A few, he might have even loved.
His last relationship had been with a half-Chinese, half-American woman—a whirlwind of bright intelligence and sharp humor. She’d loved him with a kind of sincerity that should have been enough, and he had cared for her in return. But one night, over takeout and tired silences, she had told him she couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t live with the constant worry, the waiting for a phone call that might tell her he’d been hurt, or worse. She asked him to quit. He didn’t even hesitate before refusing. It was non-negotiable. And just like that, they unraveled.
That had been a year ago. In the time since, his work had only grown heavier, pulling him further into the orbit of other people’s tragedies, and his personal life had thinned to the barest thread. Dates were rare. Connection rarer. His phone, when it lit up, was almost always work.
Stepping into the kitchen now, he wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. His mother glanced up from the grill, her face brightening.
“Wash up, Jinyoung-ah,” she said, gesturing toward the plates stacked on the counter. “The meat’s almost ready.”
He nodded, the smallest of smiles tugging at his mouth, and moved toward the sink. Here, he slipped easily into the role he knew best, dutiful son, quiet observer, the uncle who could make his nephews laugh until their sides hurt.
The rest, the heaviness, the empty stretch of nights that belonged to no one but himself, he folded neatly away, like a letter no one would ever read.
“Finally,” his eldest sister said, mock-scolding as he slid into his seat. “We thought you’d run off again.”
“I was showing your kids how to play properly,” he replied, stealing a piece of meat before it hit the communal plate.
“Properly?” the younger nephew, twelve, piped up from across the table. “Uncle Jinyoung, you cheated like, three times.”
The younger one, ten, snorted. “Four times.”
“Five,” Jinyoung corrected smoothly, smirking as they burst into giggles. “And I still won. Which makes me the reigning champion.”
“You just tripped me on purpose!” the ten-year-old protested, jabbing his chopsticks at him.
“You tripped over your own feet,” Jinyoung countered, deadpan. “Don’t blame me for your clumsiness.”
The boys exchanged conspiratorial looks. “We’re gonna team up next time and crush you,” the older one vowed.
“I’ll be waiting,” he said with mock gravity, leaning back in his chair like a man issuing a challenge for the ages.
His mom shook her head, smiling faintly as she refilled bowls. “You encourage them too much.”
“They started it,” he said, grinning before turning to accept a plate from his second sister.
For a brief moment, he let himself sink into it, the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, the casual brushes of elbows and hands passing dishes. This was the closest thing he had to peace. And God, how he wanted to keep it that way for just one day.
But his phone vibrated against the table, shattering the moment. He glanced at the screen. Sali.
“Detective Park?” Her voice was brisk, but there was an edge to it. “We’ve got a scene. Downtown. It’s bad. You’ll want to see this.” She hesitated just long enough to make his gut tighten. “And… it’s got the same kind of setup as the others. Could be our guy again.”
He inhaled slowly through his nose. “Send me the address.”
“Already did.”
When he hung up, the table had gone quiet. His mother was watching him, her jaw set in that way that meant disappointment was brewing.
“You’re leaving,” she said flatly.
“I have to.”
“It’s Saturday,” she replied, voice tightening. “We hardly see you. You can’t even finish one meal with us?”
“Omma…” He rubbed the back of his neck, standing. “It’s work.”
“It’s always work,” she said, and the words hit harder than he wanted to admit.
He didn’t argue. There was nothing to say that she didn’t already know. He simply pushed his chair back, crossed the room, and headed for the stairs. By the time he returned in a clean shirt and his jacket, the boys were quiet, the warmth at the table dimmed.
“I’ll be back later,” he said, though they all knew “later” could mean anything.
As he stepped out into the crisp afternoon, the weight settled on him again, crushing and familiar. It hit like a wrecking ball every time, that reminder that no matter how much he liked his job, this part of it would always own him. The part that ripped him away from the few moments that felt like home. The part that decided when he ate, when he slept, when he could laugh with his family.
He hated it, hated the way his life bent to the will of crime scenes and corpses. He liked the work, the pursuit of truth, the puzzle of justice. But this? The control it had over every scrap of his personal life? That part, he could never learn to love.
By the time he reached the car, the easy warmth of the backyard was gone, replaced by the cold, familiar armor he wore to every scene. Whatever waited for him downtown, he’d face it the same way he always did, alone, under the shadow of the badge.
The address Sali sent led him to an aging apartment block, the kind that still clung to a faded coat of pale green paint and smelled faintly of mold when you stepped inside. The hallway was narrow, the hum of the elevator broken, the climb up three flights of stairs slow enough for the tension to crawl in.
The door to 3B was propped open, yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the draft from a rattling window at the far end of the hall. Jinyoung stepped under it, gloves already pulled on, his boots silent on the worn carpet.
The smell hit first. It was thick, almost syrupy, curling into his lungs before his eyes even registered the horror. Sweet, heady, layered with the sharp metallic tang of blood. Roses. Not the weak echo of them you’d find in drugstore sprays, but the pure, uncut oil, potent enough to stain the air like invisible velvet, clinging to his throat. Expensive. Intentional. Like the killer wanted it to be remembered.
The living room was a small, airless box, bathed in a dim, gold glow from a single floor lamp leaning in the corner, its light warped by the angle of the shade. Shadows crowded the edges of the room, giving the space an almost theatrical intimacy.
And in the center of it, like an exhibit carefully curated for maximum impact, sat the victim.
A woman, mid-forties. Upright in a faded high-backed chair, body fixed into a ghastly stillness. Her wrists and ankles bound with that same vibrant red thread, the lines pulled taut and drawn away to nails hammered into the wall, transforming her into a grotesque marionette. The threads glimmered faintly in the lamplight, their weave fine enough to suggest a craftsperson’s patience.
From her limp fingers, the strands stretched outward like veins feeding into the room’s bones. Across her chest lay a crude cross made from two snapped wooden rulers, lashed together with more red thread, its broken edges jagged enough to draw skin if handled.
Her head lolled to the left, neck tilted as though someone had considered the angle for effect. The garrote’s bite was still visible, a dark, clean line that disappeared beneath her collar. Her blouse, once ivory, bloomed dark at the throat where blood had soaked the fabric and dried in irregular, almost floral patterns.
The scent of the roses mingled with the copper sting of blood in a way that made Jinyoung’s stomach tighten, not from nausea, but from the unnerving deliberateness of it all. This wasn’t just a killing. It was a statement.
Sali stood a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight, her gaze locked on the marionette strings. “Jesus,” she muttered under her breath, low enough for only him to hear. “This is… getting scary, Jinyoung. The staging’s different, but the… feeling? It’s the same.” She glanced at him. “The similarities...”
He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the threads, the rulers, the perfect stillness of the woman in her chair, like he could almost hear the whisper of the rose oil settling into the air.
“Different staging,” Sali said, her voice low but edged. “Same… feeling.”
He stepped closer, careful not to brush the taut strands of red thread. His eyes followed their path from the woman’s limp fingers to the nails sunk deep into the plaster walls. “Marionette motif,” he murmured. “He likes control. Every angle chosen. Every knot exact.”
“And this woman…” Sali flipped open her notepad, her pen tapping against the paper as if the act of writing might steady her nerves. “Ran a women’s support group—fake one. Smile-and-lie routine. We’ve had three confirmed statements already: she sold her victims’ personal info to their abusive partners. She made money off fear.” She glanced toward the body and shook her head. “That’s motive enough for someone unhinged.”
“Unhinged,” Jinyoung agreed quietly, “and deliberate. The garrote mark is perfectly symmetrical—like it was measured. And the thread… same grade, same hue, same tension as the Liar’s Mouth case last year.”
Sali’s eyes narrowed. “How do we know it’s a he ?”
He looked at her, caught off guard. “You think it’s a she ?”
She shrugged. “I’m just saying—don’t be sexist.”
Jinyoung gave a small, humorless huff. “Statistically, men have more records of doing fucked-up shit like this. So… you see why we always say he ?”
Sali’s lips twitched, but she didn’t answer.
“Different props, though,” she continued, glancing back at the victim. “Back then it was the gauze and perfume. This time…” She gestured to the crude marionette cross pressed against the woman’s chest. “Broken rulers. Childhood object, schoolroom nostalgia—weaponized. It’s not random.”
One of the techs approached, a latex-gloved hand holding a tablet. “Building’s security is useless. Not just missing frames, full drive corruption. They didn’t just delete, they gutted the system. No chance of recovery without months of work.”
“No witnesses?” Jinyoung asked, still crouched slightly, examining the threads.
“Nothing credible. Neighbors swear they didn’t hear a thing. Given the way she died…” The tech glanced at the woman’s slack jaw. “…muscle relaxant makes sense. She’d be awake, aware, but unable to make a sound.”
Sali exhaled sharply. “So no visuals. No sounds. No prints. No DNA. Just like last year.”
Jinyoung straightened slowly, the scent of pure rose oil thick in his lungs, making the air feel almost heavy. “Not just like last year,” he said. “Back then, the perfume was a veil—soft, cloying, hidden in the fabric. Now it’s the first thing you notice. He wants us to breathe it in before we even see her. Wants it burned into memory.”
Sali’s gaze flicked to him. “You think he’s sending a message?”
“I think…” He scanned the lamplight glinting off the crimson threads. “…we’ve got him, in every inch of this. And he’s getting bolder. Last year, he made his art in the shadows. This?” He gestured to the center of the room. “This is a performance.”
They called this case ‘ The Puppeteer ’.
***
Baychester Academy - Miami, Florida - 14 years ago
November in Miami wasn’t anything like the Novembers people saw in movies, but Jinyoung wouldn’t know any other way. He’d grown up with this: no breath fogging in the air, no crunch of fallen leaves, just the same high, relentless blue sky and sunlight pressing down in warm sheets. The breeze carried that faint mix of ocean salt and city exhaust he’d known since childhood, drifting through the open school gates. Students still wore T-shirts and sneakers like summer hadn’t gotten the memo to leave.
The day before the big charity play and art exhibit, the drama club’s practice space looked like a hurricane had passed through, but a hurricane with a budget and a to-do list. Props leaned against the walls, costume racks wobbled with last-minute alterations, and voices bounced off the high ceiling in a chorus of “Where’s the tape?” and “Don’t touch that backdrop!”
In the middle of it all, Jinyoung stood like a general in civilian clothes. Clipboard in one hand, pencil tucked behind his ear, he navigated the chaos with the precision of someone who actually enjoyed this kind of stress. He directed a tech crew to check the lighting rig, told the stage manager to hold a rehearsal in fifteen, and reminded the costume lead to double-check the hem on Juliet’s dress.
It didn’t help that almost every time he passed through a group of students, a ripple of giggles followed him. Girls, and a few boys, couldn’t help watching him. Tall, handsome, effortlessly polite, the captain of the basketball team and head of the student council… he was the kind of teenage dream straight out of a chick-flick, the one who could look good in a rumpled T-shirt while holding a stack of schedules. He’d offer a quick smile or a warm “thanks” without missing a beat, and that was enough to make someone’s week. Even while juggling props and deadlines, he had the same calm, kind energy that made people want to impress him, or just be near him.
He directed a tech crew to check the lighting rig, told the stage manager to hold a rehearsal in fifteen, and reminded the costume lead to double-check the hem on Juliet’s dress. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of someone moving along the far wall, quieter than everyone else, almost ghost-like in the noise.
Jackson.
He was lugging a framed canvas nearly as tall as he was, flanked by two other art club members. The late afternoon light from the high windows slid across his lean frame, all wiry lines and understated strength, as he adjusted his grip on the piece. His dark T-shirt clung slightly at the back from the humidity, and his hair, a little mussed from the work, fell forward every time he leaned to listen to one of his friends. Jinyoung caught himself smiling involuntarily, the kind that tugged at his mouth before his brain had a say in it.
They carried the pieces to the lobby where the exhibit would be set up, speaking only in short, practical bursts. Jackson didn’t complain once, even when one of the frames nearly slipped from a sweaty grip. For a second, the chaos around Jinyoung thinned, fewer people in the immediate space, the usual chatter fading into the background. It was as if the room itself had given him a window, a perfect opportunity to cross the floor and speak to him without a dozen interruptions.
He took it.
“Hey,” he called, jogging a couple of steps to catch up.
Jackson paused, shifting the frame against his hip. “Yeah?”
“You’re in the art club, right?”
Jackson nodded once. “Design and graphics. Extra credit.”
Jinyoung tilted his head. “I thought I saw you in book club once. Were you the one talking about… Nietzsche?”
That earned him a small smile, polite but a little shy. “Yeah. I like to read a lot.”
“‘A lot’ as in Nietzsche-level heavy reading? At sixteen?” Jinyoung grinned, genuinely impressed. “I didn’t think anyone in our year even knew how to spell his name.”
Jackson’s smile widened just a touch, his eyes crinkling. “Most people in book club didn’t either. I think half of them thought I was making him up.”
Jinyoung laughed. “Maybe you were. How do I know you’re not just inventing philosophers for clout?”
Jackson adjusted the frame in his grip. “Guess you’ll have to check the library catalogue.”
“Or,” Jinyoung countered, leaning in slightly, “you could just give me a reading list. Expand my intellectual horizons.”
There was a pause, not tense, just… still. Jackson’s gaze flickered briefly over Jinyoung, like he was trying to decide if this was a real request or just small talk. “You’d read it?”
“Try me,” Jinyoung said with a smirk. “I’m not scared of a few big words.”
Jackson’s polite smile held, but there was the smallest quirk at one corner of his mouth. “Fine. But I’m warning you, my list won’t have pictures.”
“Aw, no pictures? Harsh. How will I survive?”
“Maybe you won’t,” Jackson said lightly, the line dry but not unkind.
Jinyoung chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ll risk it.”
They stood there for another beat, the noise of the rest of the room muffled under their little exchange. Jinyoung was used to people either leaning into conversation with him or retreating fast, Jackson did neither. He stayed. Quiet, but present. And that made Jinyoung want to keep pulling threads, just to see what was under the surface.
“So…” Jinyoung’s eyes darted to the painting Jackson was holding. “Is this one yours?”
Jackson glanced down at it, then back up. “No. Mine’s still in the art room. I’m… procrastinating on hanging it up.”
“Procrastinating?” Jinyoung raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous word in my dictionary.”
“I’m sure you have a perfect, color-coded schedule for your dictionary,” Jackson replied.
That caught Jinyoung off guard, making him laugh again, not the polished laugh he used on teachers or parents, but the unguarded one he let slip with friends.
Before he could answer, the stage manager’s voice cut sharply through the room, calling his name.
“Duty calls,” Jinyoung said reluctantly, walking backward toward the stage. “Don’t forget…I want that list.”
Jackson gave the faintest nod. “I won’t.”
As Jinyoung turned away, clipboard in hand, he realized he was grinning again, not because the lighting cues were perfect, or because the play was ahead of schedule, but because talking to Jackson Wang had felt… easy.
The day after, Jackson showed up early for all the backstage work.
He didn’t have to. The art exhibition was already set up perfectly, thanks to him the day before. The art club had been told they could skip the day entirely if they wanted, the play was the drama club’s show now. But Jackson still walked through the auditorium doors, hands in his pockets, looking for Jinyoung.
“How else can I help?” he asked simply when he found him near the stage.
Jinyoung blinked at him, pleasantly surprised. “You… want more work?”
Jackson shrugged. “Might as well. I’m here.”
There was a mountain of things to do, helping the caterers arrange the refreshments in the lobby, placing folding chairs in neat rows, greeting parents and guiding guests to their seats. Jackson moved through it all without complaint, quiet but efficient. By the time the lights dimmed, he was leaning against the wings backstage, watching the play unfold.
Jinyoung, dressed as Captain Flint, stepped into the spotlight. The production was a satire inspired by Treasure Island , but it had Jinyoung’s fingerprints all over it. He’d rewritten whole chunks of dialogue, slipped in jokes so sharp and unexpected that even Jackson, who never liked “drama people”, found himself laughing, unironically.
And beyond the humor, there was something else, the way Jinyoung commanded the stage, balancing wit with presence, as if all the chaos of the event was just fuel for him. Jackson had never been interested in a school play before, but now he couldn’t look away.
When the curtain fell, Jackson was the first to start clapping, loud and fast, until the rest of the audience roared along.
After the show, Jinyoung immediately shifted gears, putting people back on duty, giving instructions while still in partial costume. By the time he slipped into the changing room, Jackson had worked his way there, knocking lightly on the doorframe.
“Come in!” Jinyoung called.
Jackson stepped in, and immediately froze. Jinyoung was shirtless, toweling sweat from his hair, though his costume pants had already been swapped for jeans.
“Oh, sorry—” Jackson backed up a step.
Jinyoung laughed, tossing the towel aside. “Oh, come on, it’s fine. I’m not gonna charge you for looking.”
Jackson’s ears went pink, but he stepped inside again, awkwardly clearing his throat. “I, uh… just wanted to say you were… really good out there.”
Jinyoung grinned. “Oh yeah? Thanks, man!”
Jackson smiled and nodded.
“That’s actually my dream, you know. I wanna go to film school. Maybe write, maybe act.”
“You should,” Jackson said without hesitation. “You could probably walk straight into Hollywood.”
The words hung there for a moment, neither of them quite sure what to add. The silence was… nice, though. Easy.
Then Jackson remembered something, pulling a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “As promised.” He held it out. “Some books you might like.”
Jinyoung took it, eyebrows lifting. “You actually made the list?”
“Of course,” Jackson said matter-of-factly. “I promised.”
Jinyoung’s smile was softer this time, the kind that reached his eyes. “Well… guess I have homework now.”
And for a beat, they just stood there, two teenagers in a cramped changing room, grinning like idiots, not knowing that years later, this small, warm moment would feel like something from a different lifetime entirely.
***
The Coral Bay Hotel was all gleaming chandeliers and polished marble floors that night, the kind of place where champagne flutes never seemed to empty and everyone’s laughter echoed just a bit too brightly. The Miami evening outside was warm even in November, but inside, the air was crisp with expensive cologne and the hum of wealth, and underneath it all, a tension that prickled under Jinyoung’s skin.
He hated these gatherings. Hated the small talk, the forced smiles, the way people clinked their glasses like they weren’t all hiding their own dirty secrets. He didn’t belong in glittering ballrooms with polished speeches and curated guest lists. He belonged in alleys, crime scenes, dark rooms filled with files and photographs. That was where his mind lived now, whether he wanted it to or not.
And tonight, that mind was a mess. The cases, the bodies, the smells, the doll-like strings they had carved into his sleep, turned his thoughts into a broken carousel he couldn’t step off. Every laugh in the ballroom grated against him, every whiff of expensive perfume seemed to mix with the phantom metallic tang of blood in his memory. He took another champagne flute off a passing tray, more for something to hold than to enjoy, and leaned into the coldness of the glass just to ground himself. He already wanted the night over, wanted to go home, lock the door, and breathe in silence.
But the second he’d seen the banner by the entrance, the Tuan Family Foundation plastered across it, he knew the night was going to be worse than usual. He should have expected it, of course. The Tuans had money, power, connections in every polished corner of Miami. Of course they’d show up to sponsor a police charity event, write fat checks, and buy themselves another round of goodwill.
Jinyoung sipped hard from his glass, the fizz stinging his throat, and swallowed down the bitterness clawing its way up. If he already hated nights like this, knowing Mark Tuan’s family was behind it made the whole thing feel like a bad joke.
Mark Tuan stood at the center of it all, blond hair catching the chandelier light like it was spun gold, his posture polished and effortless, his glass lifted with that same infuriating half-smile that had followed him since high school. Jinyoung’s glare found him across the ballroom, sharp and venomous, but he turned away just as quickly. He didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to hear his voice smooth over the crowd, didn’t want to watch the room eat out of his hand like he was some golden prince.
But Mark was inevitable. He always was.
He worked the room like a born diplomat, shaking hands, trading jokes, lighting up each corner he passed until the entire department seemed half in love with him. The younger detectives laughed too loud at his quips, the captains nodded approvingly at his charm, and even Jinyoung’s boss beamed like a proud parent. Everyone adored Mark Tuan. Everyone except Jinyoung.
Jinyoung had known him too long to fall for that act. Since Baychester Academy, back in high school, he’d hated him. Always. Mark had been the quiet one with the smug half-smile, always trailing just a little too close behind Jinyoung, always turning everything into a competition for no goddamn reason. Basketball team, grades, student council votes, whatever Jinyoung touched, Mark was there, pretending not to care while making sure he outshone him somehow.
And his friends. God, his friends were the worst. Weird, hollow-eyed boys who laughed at the wrong times, who walked like they owned the school even when no one liked them. There was something off about all of them, like they were playing at being normal teenagers but never quite fit the part.
So Jinyoung had avoided him. Kept his distance. Right up until the incident.
That night had burned his entire life into a before and after. Senior year, and after it, Jinyoung had graduated, cut every string, and never looked back. He hadn’t spoken to anyone from those days again. He buried Baychester and everyone in it like it was a past life he’d never lived.
At least, until three years ago, when the name Orion Systems International (OSI) appeared on the precinct’s procurement sheets. Main supplier. Contracts. Equipment. Communications systems. Their logo stamped on every box, every invoice. That was when the bottom dropped out of Jinyoung’s stomach. He knew then he’d have to face Mark again, like a shadow that refused to stay buried.
And he had hated it ever since. Every meeting, every fundraiser, every glance across a table at that same smug face, it was like a curse that wouldn’t lift. Three years of swallowing bile and pretending not to care, three years of feeling the ground shift every time the Tuans smiled their way into another contract.
And now, here Mark was, blond and golden, drinking in the adoration of the crowd. Jinyoung’s jaw locked tight as he took another swallow from his champagne, the fizz doing nothing to drown out the bitter taste.
As Jinyoung set his empty glass down and started weaving his way toward the bar, Sali appeared at his side, sharp-eyed as always. She didn’t miss a thing, especially not the way his shoulders stiffened every time Mark’s laugh carried across the room.
“You really don’t like this Mark guy, do you?” she said, her tone halfway between amusement and observation.
Jinyoung arched a brow at her. “What gave it away? The dagger eyes? Or the fact that I’ve downed three glasses in the last ten minutes?”
Sali smirked. “Both. Plus, I’m a detective too. I can read the room.”
He exhaled, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to roll the tension out of his shoulders. “It’s nothing dramatic. We just… went to the same high school. Didn’t exactly braid each other friendship bracelets, let’s put it that way.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Ah, high school beef. That explains a lot. You still holding grudges from teenage cafeteria politics?”
Jinyoung gave a dry little laugh, more bitter than amused. “Trust me, it’s not about who stole the last carton of chocolate milk. Let’s just say I got a front row seat to the golden boy routine long before you did. It was exhausting back then too.”
Sali tilted her head, eyes glinting. “So you’re saying you’ve hated his cologne since age sixteen?”
“More like his whole face,” Jinyoung muttered, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Hate’s a strong word. Let’s just say I don’t find him… likable.”
“Mmhm. Sounds totally nonchalant,” she teased. “You only look like you want to commit homicide every time he smiles.”
He shot her a side glance. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Before she could answer, Mark’s laugh rippled closer. And then there he was, blond, polished, impossible to ignore, gliding straight toward them with that smooth, practiced confidence. He greeted Jinyoung first, a smile so perfect it made his jaw tighten, then turned to Sali with a polite, courteous nod, as if he hadn’t just poisoned the air around Jinyoung by existing.
“Awhhh,” Mark’s voice cut through the noise like velvet over a knife, smooth and practiced. “Detective Park and Detective Hernández. What an honor to see you both here tonight.” He wore that half-smile Jinyoung knew too well, the one that never reached his eyes, just sat there like it owned the room.
Jinyoung’s jaw ticked, but his answering smile was picture-perfect. “Mark Tuan. Miami’s finest… philanthropist.” His tone curled just slightly around the word, like it tasted sour in his mouth.
Mark chuckled, tilting his glass. “What can I say? Giving back to the community runs in the family. Some of us never grow out of our… leadership roles, I suppose.”
“True,” Jinyoung replied lightly, his grin sharpening. “Some of us also never grow out of needing the spotlight.”
Sali cleared her throat, stepping in quickly with a too-bright laugh. “Well, you both certainly have your strengths. One of you makes sure the streets are safe, the other makes sure there’s funding for—”
“—traffic safety speeches,” Jinyoung cut in smoothly, his eyes fixed on Mark.
Mark’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flash of steel in his gaze. “And some of us make sure to… enforce the law. Though I must say, Jinyoung, I always admired how hard you worked back in school. Always chasing perfection.”
Jinyoung tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “And I always admired how little effort you put in. Remarkable, really, to coast through life on a last name alone.”
Sali cleared her throat and took a longer sip of her drink, clearly wishing she was anywhere else. Jinyoung let out a laugh that sounded rehearsed, sharp around the edges, before adding, “It’s fine, Detective Hernández. No need to feel awkward. Right, Mark?”
Mark’s laugh was low, smooth, but there was a curl of mockery under it. “Of course. We’re just… catching up. Old classmates, old memories.”
Jinyoung’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed just slightly, his voice even softer, dangerous in its calm. “Some memories deserve to stay buried.”
Mark swirled his drink lazily, as if savoring the moment. “And yet, some things always resurface. Funny how that works.”
The silence stretched between them, polite on the surface, venomous beneath.
Sali glanced between the two men, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t interrupt this time, didn’t joke to break the tension. She simply stood there, glass in hand, feeling the sharp edge of something unspoken cutting through the air.
To anyone watching, it looked like a pleasant exchange between old acquaintances, smiles, nods, laughter in all the right places. But to Sali, it was clear: every word was a blade, every grin a dare, and neither man had the slightest intention of backing down.
Mark tipped his glass toward Jinyoung, the smile still painted on his face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, it’s been… enlightening. Some things really don’t change, do they?” His gaze flicked briefly over Jinyoung, then to Sali, polite but edged. “Detective Hernández, a pleasure as always. Detective Park—” a pause, just long enough to bite, “—try to chill a bit from time to time. Hm? .”
With that, he pivoted smoothly, sliding back into another circle of donors and officers, laughter already on his lips as if nothing heavy had passed between them at all.
Sali exhaled slowly, muttering into her glass, “Subtle as a hammer, that one.”
Jinyoung’s jaw clenched, though he managed a thin smile. “Trust me,” he murmured, eyes following Mark across the room, “that was him being polite.”
***
Baychester Academy - Miami, Florida - 14 years ago
The late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of Baychester Academy’s library, painting the rows of bookshelves in long strips of gold. It was one of those hours after the final bell when the building didn’t quite feel like school anymore, basketball practice echoing in the gym, debate club rehearsing their arguments down the hall, and the faint buzz of music leaking from the art rooms where someone had left a speaker on.
Jinyoung had just come from the gym, his hair damp with sweat, the hem of his basketball jersey peeking out beneath his hoodie. His legs ached pleasantly from drills, but instead of heading home, he found himself wandering, drawn to the library with the excuse of looking for one of the books Jackson had recommended.
When he pushed the heavy door open, the sound surprised him. Laughter, loud, unrestrained, nothing like the usual hush that lived between the stacks.
There they were. Jackson and three boys he vaguely recognized, tucked into a corner where carts of books waited to be reshelved. The volunteer crew. They were supposed to be cleaning, but instead they were crowded together on the floor, trading jokes that bounced between English and Mandarin in quick, fluid bursts.
“Bro, you don’t even know how to krump ,” one of them teased, shoving the smallest boy in the group.
“Shut up, I can pop better than you!” the smaller one shot back, and to prove it, he leapt up and started jerking his arms stiffly, trying to mimic a street dancer’s moves.
The others howled, nearly collapsing against the carts. Jackson’s laugh cut through the noise, not loud, but genuine, his shoulders shaking, his lean frame folding over as if he couldn’t hold it in.
From where he stood half-hidden behind a shelf, Jinyoung found himself smiling without meaning to. Jackson, the quiet kid who barely spoke up in class, who always had that unbothered look on his face, suddenly alive with laughter, caught up in a language that slipped between Mandarin and English without hesitation.
“Man, you’d break your neck before you pop anything,” Jackson said finally, still chuckling. His voice was warmer like this, loose, unguarded.
They started arguing about music next, whether it was better to dance to Jay Chou, to Usher, or to some underground DJ only they seemed to know. Jackson leaned back against the shelves, his expression half-teasing, half-thoughtful, tossing in comments that made the group roar even louder.
It bothered Jinyoung, not in a jealous way, but in the gnawing realization that he didn’t know this side of him. He didn’t know anything about him, really. And that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
The small boy spun clumsily into a half-baked windmill attempt and ended flat on his back, legs flailing. The others erupted, rolling across the carpet in helpless laughter. Even Jinyoung couldn’t stop himself, a laugh escaped, soft but real.
And then one of the boys saw him. Froze mid-laugh. He elbowed the others sharply and nodded toward the aisle. In a second, their noise died down. They scrambled back to the carts, putting on the act of diligent workers, spines stiff as if the headmaster had just walked in.
Caught, Jinyoung stepped out from behind the shelf, lifting his hands slightly. “Hey, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Sorry.”
Jackson was still crouched by a stack of books, scanning barcodes into the system, but when he looked up and saw him, he smiled, easy, natural. The kind of smile that softened the sharpness of his face.
“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, setting the scanner aside. “We were just taking a break. What’s up?” His fingers absentmindedly returned to the stack, moving books with quiet precision even while he spoke.
Jinyoung reached into his bag and pulled out a worn paperback. He held it up. The Catcher in the Rye.
Jackson’s smile deepened, recognition flashing instantly. “Wow. You finished it already?”
Jinyoung nodded, eyes lowering to the cover in his hands. For some reason, he couldn’t quite meet Jackson’s gaze. The book felt heavier than it should as he held it out.
Jackson took it, brushing his thumb along the frayed edge of the spine. “So?” he asked, his tone half-curious, half-playful. “What did you think of it?”
Jinyoung hesitated, shifting his weight against the edge of the table. Then, blunt as ever:
“…Honestly? I didn’t get it. Or maybe I just didn’t like it. The guy spends half the book hating everyone, calling them phonies, but he’s just as fake as the people he’s judging. It felt—” He shrugged. “—overrated.”
Jackson’s mouth curved into a grin, head tipping slightly.
“Wow. You just offended half of America’s literature teachers. Congratulations.”
Jinyoung smirked back, leaning casually against the shelf.
“Should I expect a mob of angry librarians coming after me? Because that would actually be entertaining.”
A low chuckle slipped from Jackson as he set the book on the cart. Then his expression sharpened, just a little.
“So you didn’t connect to it at all?”
Jinyoung shook his head.
“Not really. It was like… watching someone spiral but refusing to admit he was spiraling. Just made me want to yell at him to get over himself.”
Jackson laughed under his breath, turning the book in his hands as if reacquainting himself with it.
“Yeah, that’s Holden. He’s a pain in the ass. But… I don’t know. I weirdly connected with him.”
Jinyoung tilted his head, curiosity flickering.
“You? Mister ‘everything in its place, scanning barcodes like a machine’? You connected with him?”
Jackson snorted, amused.
“First of all, I’m not a machine. Second, yeah. I get him. He’s not just whining…he’s calling bullshit on the world. Everyone’s pretending all the time, putting on masks, smiling when they don’t mean it. Holden sees through it. He hates it. I respect that.”
Jinyoung watched him more carefully now, his tone dry but edged with genuine interest.
“So basically, you like him because he hates everyone as much as you do.”
Jackson grinned, but there was something sharper under it.
“Not everyone. Just the fakes. And trust me, there are more fakes than real people. You ever notice? How quick people are to laugh when they don’t mean it? Or act like they care when they don’t give a damn?”
Jinyoung leaned back a little, half-teasing, half-thoughtful.
“You sound like you’ve been keeping a notebook of people’s lies.”
The smirk tugged at Jackson’s lips.
“Maybe I have. Maybe that’s why Holden doesn’t bother me. At least he admits he’s screwed up. That’s more honest than ninety-nine percent of the world.”
For a moment, Jinyoung was quiet, studying him. Then, with a soft sarcasm meant to cover the intrigue settling in his chest.
“You’re really dramatic, you know that?”
Jackson shrugged, sliding the book across the table toward him.
“Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t buy the act everyone else is selling.”
Their eyes met then, Jinyoung’s guarded, Jackson’s unreadable, the air between them charged with something neither of them wanted to name.
“…You make him sound different than I read him,” Jinyoung admitted at last, his voice quieter.
Jackson’s reply came low, cryptic.
“Maybe you just weren’t ready to read him the way I do.”
Jinyoung raised a brow, but there was a flicker of something else behind his smirk now.
“So basically, you like him because he hates people as much as you do.”
Jackson’s grin curved, but there was steel under it.
“Not people. Just the fakes. And there are a lot more fakes than real ones.” His voice dropped, almost conspiratorial. “You ever notice? The way people laugh too quickly? Pretend to care when they don’t? It’s disgusting.”
Something flickered in Jinyoung’s chest then, a mix of intrigue and a faint unease. The way Jackson said it was too certain, too personal, like he’d spent far too much time watching the cracks in people’s faces. It was unsettling, but it made him lean in rather than step back.
Jackson flipped the book casually, then added almost offhandedly, “You know, the guy who shot John Lennon… Mark Chapman? He said this book impressed him too. Carried it with him, even signed it for someone the day he pulled the trigger.”
Jinyoung froze for a second. “You’re telling me that like it’s… what? An endorsement?”
Jackson’s mouth twisted into a half-smile, not quite serious but not dismissive either.
“I’m just saying, it gets under people’s skin. That kind of story stays with you. Makes you see things differently. That’s powerful, isn’t it?”
A faint shiver of unease ran down Jinyoung’s spine, though he masked it with sarcasm.
“Right. Nothing screams healthy admiration like sharing a favorite book with an assassin.”
Jackson laughed quietly, leaning back against the cart, and for a moment his gaze lingered too long, a little too amused by Jinyoung’s discomfort.
“As I said…you’re really dramatic,” Jinyoung muttered, trying to shake it off.
“Maybe.” Jackson shrugged, his grin softening but his eyes staying locked on Jinyoung’s. “Or maybe you just don’t like that I make the book sound more interesting than you thought it was.”
Jinyoung held his stare, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.
“…Maybe you do,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before.
Jackson leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice in that conspiratorial way again.
“Careful. If you keep listening, you might start liking me as much as you hate Holden.”
Jinyoung’s smirk faltered just enough to give him away, that he was intrigued, that he was unsettled, and that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Jinyoung let the silence stretch, watching Jackson scan another barcode with easy precision. His mouth curved into a small smile he didn’t quite mean to give away.
“…Fine,” he said finally, breaking the quiet with a bluntness that wasn’t as sharp as before. “I’ll read your other suggestions.”
Jackson didn’t look up immediately, just slid the book across the scanner with that deliberate slowness of his.
“Oh?” he said lightly, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’s that?”
Jinyoung tilted his head, pretending nonchalance, though his eyes lingered on Jackson longer than they should.
“Because you’re… interesting,” he admitted, almost offhand but not quite. “More interesting than the book, anyway.”
That earned him Jackson’s full attention. Jackson finally looked up, grin sharp, eyes glinting with something unreadable.
“Well then.” He scanned the next book, the beep sounding like punctuation on the moment. “I’ll wait, Mr. Park.”
Jinyoung’s stomach did a strange little twist. He gave a sarcastic scoff, trying to mask it, but his ears warmed as Jackson went back to his task, smirk still firmly in place.
And just like that, with nothing more than a sly smile and a challenge hanging between them, something shifted, small but undeniable.
The next day, Jackson was gone.
When Jinyoung asked the vice principal where he was, the man only said, “He’s sick. Out for a while.” No elaboration, no detail.
Jinyoung pressed further, a casual word here and there with people Jackson usually sat near in class, but they only shrugged.
“He never answers his phone,” one said.
Another added, “He told me once he’s got some lung condition. Goes to the hospital sometimes. Leaves his phone behind. That’s just… him.”
Jinyoung tried to laugh it off, but it sat heavy in his chest. The cafeteria noise, the echo of footsteps in the hallway, all of it blurred while his thoughts snagged on Jackson.
He was popular enough himself, people liked him, sought him out, laughed with him. He had a circle, a rhythm, a comfortable place. Jackson, though… Jackson was a closed book. Jinyoung knew he could be extroverted, sharp, even playful, he’d seen flashes of it. That sly wit, that unguarded grin, the way he teased without mercy. It was there, hidden under the armor, and Jinyoung had been allowed a glimpse.
And he loved that.
He loved that Jackson had chosen him, even briefly, to show that side. Because with him, Jackson was thoughtful. He was teasing. He was light.
But to the rest of the world? He barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through their classes, invisible until he wanted to be seen.
Then Jinyoung learned something by accident, Jackson was a dancer. Not just someone who liked music or messed around with moves at parties. A real dancer. Jinyoung had never known.
The image hit him harder than he expected: Jackson… precise, controlled, sharp-minded Jackson… on a stage, body moving in ways his words never did, every line of him exposed to the world and yet somehow untouchable.
Jinyoung sat with that thought longer than he admitted, staring at the empty seat in class where Jackson should have been.
everything circled back to the same vague answers: he’s sick, it’s his lungs, he goes to the hospital. Eventually, Jinyoung gave up. Or rather, he forced himself to.
Instead, he buried his curiosity in the only thing he could hold onto — Jackson’s book list.
This time: The Picture of Dorian Gray.
He carried the book with him everywhere. Between basketball practice, in the locker room, under the desk during dull classes. He read slowly, carefully, pausing to underline phrases, committing them to memory. He wanted to be ready, to have something to say when Jackson came back. When — not if.
Three weeks passed before that happened.
When Jackson finally returned, he looked different. Sleep-deprived. His skin paler, shadows under his eyes, his uniform hanging a little looser than before. In art class, Jinyoung spotted him across the room, bent over a sketchpad, but when their eyes met, Jackson didn’t light up. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t even acknowledge him beyond a polite nod.
It unsettled Jinyoung. But he didn’t push. He gave him space.
It wasn’t until a few days later, on the basketball court, that Jackson came to him.
Jinyoung was mid-practice with a teammate, sweat running down his neck, when he noticed Jackson at the entrance. Arms crossed, faint smile tugging at his mouth like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to be there.
Jinyoung dunked the ball, slapped hands with his friend, then waved him off for a break. Grabbing the ball, he walked toward the doorway.
Before he could say anything, Jackson bent down, picked up the water bottle from the floor, unscrewed the cap, and held it out. “You’re really good, Mr. Park.”
Jinyoung smirked, wiping his forehead. “I see you’re more talkative now.”
Jackson let out a soft sigh. “Well… when I was back, I was still out of hospital. Not very on routine. Now I’m… back.”
The word hospital snagged Jinyoung’s attention. “Why hospital?”
“Lung infections.” The answer was clipped, like it had been rehearsed.
Jinyoung narrowed his eyes. “You’re out every now and then… all of them are lung infections?”
Jackson’s face hardened for a moment. His smile thinned. “Well… I have very weak lungs.”
They stared at each other — silence stretching, taut as a rope. Eventually Jinyoung blinked, uncomfortable, and took the water bottle, gulping down a mouthful just to break the moment.
When he lowered it, he tried a different tactic. Softer. “I read another book from your list.”
That pulled a flicker of life back into Jackson’s expression. His brows arched slightly. “Oh? Which one?”
The Picture of Dorian Gray, ” Jinyoung said, watching him carefully.
Jackson’s whole posture shifted. He leaned against the doorway more casually, almost playful again. “Awh. One of my favorites. What did you think of this one?”
Jinyoung had been waiting for this. He squared his shoulders, determined not to sound unprepared. “It was… eerie. In a good way. The way Wilde plays with beauty and corruption, how Dorian’s surface stays perfect while everything underneath rots. It felt like… a warning, but also kind of seductive.”
Jackson’s smile spread, slow, knowing. He nodded, eyes half-lidded as if he already knew exactly what Jinyoung was going to say.
“And the portrait,” Jinyoung went on, almost rushing now, “how it took all the damage, all the sins, that part stuck with me. Like the cost of living however you want isn’t erased, it’s just… hidden. Somewhere. Waiting.”
Jackson’s gaze stayed locked on him the whole time, sharp but oddly soft, like he was studying something he found both amusing and impressive.
When Jinyoung faltered, running out of memorized lines, Jackson simply tipped his head, smiling faintly. “Hm.”
No long explanation. No debate this time. Just that little smile and a nod, as if Jinyoung’s effort was enough.
And somehow, it was worse and better than any critique.
“What?” Jinyoung asked.
Jackson tilted his head, his tone dropping just slightly. “Nothing just….I have to ask: would you take the deal, though? If someone told you a portrait could carry all the weight of your mistakes while you stayed young, untouched, beautiful… would you do it?”
The question caught him off guard. He hesitated, then smirked, playing it off. “Why? You offering?”
Jackson chuckled under his breath. “Answer the question, Mr. Park.”
For a moment, Jinyoung considered brushing it aside. But instead, something reckless in him stirred. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “…Yeah. Maybe I would.”
That glint sparked in Jackson’s eyes again, amusement edged with something darker. He leaned in just slightly. “Dangerous answer.”
“Or just honest,” Jinyoung shot back, lips curling. “You like honesty, don’t you?”
Jackson’s grin spread slowly, cryptic. “Sometimes. Depends on what it reveals.”
“You sound like you’ve already tried it,” Jinyoung teased, watching him carefully.
Jackson snorted softly, straightening up, though the calm, unsettling smile lingered. “Maybe I have. Maybe I just hide it better than Dorian did.”
A laugh slipped out of Jinyoung, but beneath it there was that twinge again, unease tangled with fascination. “You’re really weird, you know that?”
Jackson only grinned wider, turning toward the door. “And yet, you keep listening.”
Jinyoung’s voice followed, low and wry, almost admitting too much. “…Because you’re interesting.”
That made Jackson pause. He ran his fingers across his own pants as if he was trying to feel the texture of the fabric. “Oh, I’ll wait more for your thoughts, Mr. Park.”
And standing there, his pulse hammering in a way he couldn’t name, Jinyoung knew something had shifted. “…Yeah,” he murmured to himself, “I know you will.”
***
Summer came fast. The halls emptied, the air grew heavy, and the school dressed up its idleness with “volunteer opportunities.” Jinyoung signed up without thinking twice. Anything to pass the long days. Anything that might, by accident, mean seeing Jackson somewhere that wasn’t between rows of desks and chalk-dusted walls.
At first, it was just texts.
Jinyoung was sprawled across his bed, one leg hooked over the side, the ceiling fan stirring warm air above him. His phone screen glowed inches from his face, thumbs moving quick, sharp, impatient.
Jinyoung (typing fast, smirking):
Don’t tell me you’re gonna spend the whole summer hiding in your cave.
In his room, Jackson lay stretched on his back, lights off except for the faint glow of a desk lamp. His room was quieter, neater, shadows pooling in the corners. He stared at the message for a long second, lips quirking, then tapped out his reply slowly, deliberately.
Jackson:
It’s called a house, Mr. Park. Some of us enjoy air conditioning.
Back in his room, Jinyoung let out a snort, the sound muffled into his pillow as he hammered out the next message.
Jinyoung:
Wow. Revolutionary. AC. Next you’ll tell me you discovered pizza.
Jackson’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up lazily, scrolling his thumb across the screen, eyes half-lidded.
Jackson:
First of all, I have refined taste. Second, volunteering is for overachievers with too much energy.
Jinyoung rolled onto his back, one arm folded under his head, grinning at the ceiling as his thumbs flew.
Jinyoung:
Exactly. Which is why I’m asking you. You’re clearly wasting both your brain and your legs.
Jackson arched a brow at the glowing screen. His reply came slower this time.
Jackson:
My legs?
Jinyoung chuckled to himself, biting his lip as he typed, mischievous satisfaction flashing across his face.
Jinyoung:
Yeah. You’ve got dancer legs. Don’t think I didn’t notice in P.E.
A quiet laugh slipped from Jackson’s throat. He rubbed at his temple, thumbs poised, then answered.
Jackson:
Flattered. Concerned. Also declining.
Jinyoung rolled onto his stomach, chin propped on his arm, grin widening.
Jinyoung:
Come on. I’ll even let you sit in the shade while I sweat running drills with twelve-year-olds. Free entertainment.
Jackson:
So… babysitting.
Jinyoung:
So… leadership, responsibility, character-building. You’d know if you tried it.
Jackson’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. The three dots appeared, blinked out. Appeared again. He sighed, then hit send.
Jackson:
…Fine. But if I get stuck organizing dodgeball teams, I’m suing you.
Jinyoung laughed, burying his face in the pillow before answering quickly.
Jinyoung:
Deal. You can file the lawsuit in the same court where you’re secretly flattered I asked.
There was a pause. Then Jackson’s reply came in — short, clipped, but heavy enough to make Jinyoung’s chest tighten unexpectedly.
Jackson:
…Maybe.
Jinyoung lay back, phone resting on his chest, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
And somewhere in the quiet dark, Jackson stared at his own screen longer than he meant to.
Eventually, Jackson caved.
It had taken a week of texts, Jinyoung nagging, teasing, dangling the promise of “free entertainment” until Jackson’s dry replies softened into reluctant agreement. Of course, when sign-up day came, Jinyoung had pushed him.
“Library,” Jackson said flatly, scanning the clipboard.
“Figures,” Jinyoung muttered, leaning over his shoulder. “You’d pick the quietest corner in the city.”
Jackson only smirked, pen scratching his name down. “Better than babysitting sweaty twelve-year-olds.”
“Leadership,” Jinyoung corrected, jabbing him in the ribs. “Character-building.”
“Paper cuts,” Jackson shot back.
“Fine,” Jinyoung said, rolling his eyes, but there was a grin tugging at his lips. “Go organize your shelves, Mr. Wang. Just don’t disappear on me again.”
And so, summer split them.
Jinyoung threw himself into the sports program, whistle hanging around his neck, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead as he herded juniors into teams. He was loud, bossy, half coach, half babysitter, and everyone adored him for it.
Jackson, on the other hand, tucked himself away in a neighborhood library. The place was small and sunlit, with crooked shelves and dust dancing in the air. He spent his afternoons scanning barcodes, stacking donations, pointing little kids toward adventure books. He liked the quiet. The stillness. Nobody demanded much of him except patience.
But the library had a neighbor. A dance studio. And three times a week, after closing the register of returns and straightening the shelves, Jackson slipped inside with his friends.
The first time Jinyoung stumbled on it was by accident, a teammate offhandedly mentioned Jackson hanging around “some studio” after his shifts, and Jinyoung didn’t think much of it until one evening, trudging down the block, he heard it: bass thrumming through wide windows, laughter spilling into the street. He slowed, frowning, and peered in.
And froze.
Jackson was in the center of the room, drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, grinning so wide it lit up the whole mirror-lined studio. His body snapped sharp and fluid through the beat, movements alive with confidence Jinyoung had never seen. His friends whooped and clapped from the edges, egging him on, and Jackson only laughed harder, chest rising and falling as if the music itself was breathing him alive.
This wasn’t the Jackson who shrugged through class, sharp-eyed and quiet, rationing out his words. This was someone else. Free. Loud. Uncaged.
Jinyoung almost forgot to breathe.
From then on, it became a ritual. After drills, after matches, when the juniors were gone and his voice was hoarse from shouting, he’d wander down the block. He’d lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, pretending he just “happened to pass by.” And then he’d watch.
Jackson, unguarded. Jackson, extroverted. Jackson, alive.
And Jinyoung, caught somewhere between fascination, envy, and something he wasn’t ready to name, kept coming back.
The studio lights still blazed overhead when practice ended, the heavy thrum of music dissolving into the muffled hum of traffic outside. Jackson leaned back against the mirror, towel draped loose around his neck, laughing faintly at something one of his friends said, until his gaze, almost unconsciously, flicked toward the doorway.
And there he was.
Park Jinyoung.
Shoulder pressed against the doorframe, arms folded like he owned the place, hair damp and curling at the ends from his own practice, grin tugging at his lips as though he’d been standing there longer than he should have, watching.
Jackson didn’t move at first. He just blinked, the smallest hitch betraying him, and then a smile, brief, crooked, almost unwilling, edged at the corner of his mouth. He bent down with deliberate calm, pulled his bag closer, and crossed the floor with the kind of practiced ease that might have fooled anyone else. But the flicker in his eyes gave him away.
Jinyoung pushed off the frame, voice carrying that teasing lilt only he managed.
“Told you. You have such nice Dancer legs.”
Jackson tugged the towel free, letting it hang from one hand, voice pitched low and amused.
“Correction. You said dancer legs. ‘Nice’ is new.”
Jinyoung’s grin deepened, steady and sure as he met his gaze head-on.
“I don’t lie, Mr. Wang.”
Jackson paused, letting the towel rest over his shoulder, his eyes catching and holding Jinyoung’s a moment too long before he dropped them.
“Guess I’ll take the compliment, then.”
That was all. Nothing more. But it was enough. Enough to shift something between them, quiet, invisible, yet heavy with a charge neither could name.
The next day, Jinyoung found him again, this time leaning against the chain-link fence of the basketball court, tossing a ball from hand to hand as if he had been waiting. Jinyoung didn’t need an invitation; he jogged onto the court, sneakers squealing against the asphalt, breath filling with laughter as they fell into rhythm.
And the day after, it was Jinyoung stumbling into the dance studio, half-joking that he wanted to see if “dancer legs” came with lessons. He tripped over his own feet more than once, Jackson’s grin twitching wider each time as he counted the steps with maddening precision.
It became routine.
Basketball. Dancing. Then basketball again.
Jinyoung mocked Jackson’s dramatic spins, earning a shove in the shoulder. Jackson ridiculed Jinyoung’s sloppy layups, smirking when he missed another shot. Afterward, they collapsed onto benches side by side, sweat cooling their skin, swapping water bottles without a second thought. The banter was sharp, sometimes merciless, but threaded with a warmth neither of them dared acknowledge.
They called it friendship. Just two guys, killing summer hours together.
But sometimes Jinyoung caught himself staring when Jackson laughed, chest tightening in a way he couldn’t explain. And sometimes Jackson’s gaze lingered when Jinyoung dragged a towel down his jawline, something raw and unguarded breaking through before he smothered it in another sarcastic quip.
Both of them confused. Both pretending not to notice.
And still, there was something.
A spark.
Fragile. Dangerous. Magnetic.
The kind of spark that kept drawing them back to each other, day after day, as though neither had a choice in the matter.
***
November bled cold.
Two more bodies. Two more immaculate performances. The city whispered copycat, the press drooling over the idea of a rival killer. But Sali knew better. It wasn’t mimicry, it was mastery. Everything was too clean, too deliberate, like someone composing a symphony in blood, each victim a carefully placed stanza in a score only he could hear.
And the newest case, the one that dragged them from half-slept beds just before midnight, was the most grotesque performance yet.
The called this case ‘ The Mouthpiece ’.
The victim was a glossy-haired internet talk show host, the kind who carved out fame by tearing people to shreds under the flimsy banner of “truth.” His shows weren’t remembered for insight but for the tears of the guests he cornered, the viral humiliation clips that trended for days. He thrived on suffering, turned pain into entertainment, and tonight, someone had finally written his last script.
Now he was the one silenced.
The body sat slumped in his own studio chair, the same chair where he once sneered and tore people apart for clicks. Above him, a single spotlight burned down, merciless and white, less illumination than judgment. His throat had been brutalized, stuffed so deep with a microphone cover it looked as though the lining had been ripped raw from the inside. Over his face, a plastic bag was taped tight, suffocation sealed into place. His lips glistened red, smeared with his own blood like a grotesque kind of lipstick.
Across his mouth, a strip of duct tape. On it, written in a furious scrawl of black marker, one word:
TRUTH.
Behind him, the wall had been turned into a gallery of his own cruelty. Paper after paper, printed screenshots lined in perfect rows, nailed into plaster like exhibits at a trial. His most vicious soundbites stared back at the room, words that had once gone viral, words that had broken people.
If you’re weak enough to cry on camera, you’re weak enough to deserve it.
No one ruins your life but you.
Each sheet pinned neatly, almost obsessively. Not random. Not sloppy. It was theatrical. Surgical. A stage designed with precision, as if the killer had wanted the world to applaud and recoil at the same time.
When Jinyoung and Sali stepped into the studio, the air was thick with the kind of silence that followed hysteria. The scene techs still looked rattled, pale under the fluorescent wash of lights. Three women from production had fainted when the spotlight first came up on the body, and one detective, voice low, almost reverent, muttered something about nightmares that would stick.
The studio reeked of bleach and cold metal, the kind of sterile air that only made the horror sharper. A talk show host sat slumped in the chair, his lips painted with blood, a microphone cover stuffed brutally down his throat. Overhead, the tilted studio lights bore down like cruel interrogators. On the wall behind him, pages of his own tweets were nailed in uneven rows, their edges curling under the heat.
Sali crouched in front of the body, her gloves catching the light, her jaw rigid as she scanned every angle. “Too clean,” she muttered. “Again. No prints, no DNA, nothing under the nails. Whoever did this…” She shook her head, her voice flat, grim. “…it’s like he doesn’t exist.”
Jinyoung stood just behind her, arms folded, eyes sweeping the room with a simmering frustration. “He exists,” he said, his tone clipped, sharper than intended. “He’s just laughing at us while he scrubs the stage.”
Sali rose, exhaling hard, her gaze sweeping to the spotlight and the duct tape sealing the victim’s mouth. The word TRUTH was scrawled across it in thick black marker, the letters jagged, furious. She gestured toward it. “It’s more than scrubbing. Look at this. He’s staging morality plays. Each one mocking the very thing they built their lives on.”
Jinyoung’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering under the skin. His eyes didn’t leave the word on the tape. “Hypocrites,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “He’s cutting down hypocrites.”
Sali’s head snapped toward him, suspicion flashing in her eyes, but he didn’t meet her stare. His gaze was still locked on the word, almost entranced.
“Every time we get to the scene,” she muttered, frustration roughening her tone, “he’s already gone. No trace, no trail. We’re chasing a goddamn ghost.”
“Not a ghost.” Jinyoung’s voice came out harder than he intended, the words slicing through the silence. “But the more we miss, the bolder he gets.”
For a moment, the whole room stilled. Even the scene techs seemed to sense the weight pressing down, shuffling awkwardly at the edges while a camera shutter clicked in the corner, each sterile snap echoing like mock applause.
Sali folded her arms across her chest, deliberately mirroring his stance, forcing her voice into calm evenness. “Then we stop missing. We find the pattern. Because no one’s this precise without rules.”
Jinyoung’s silence stretched, long and heavy. When he finally spoke, it was quieter, almost as if he was talking to himself. “…Rules can be broken. Patterns can’t.”
Something shifted in Sali’s expression. Her anger didn’t ease, but beneath it flickered something else, an acknowledgement, a sliver of respect. She gave a small, curt nod. “Okay then.”
The case before this one was another scene out of a nightmare.
They called that case ‘ The Cheater's Bed ’.
He was a well-respected university professor.
The bedroom looked like something out of a grotesque painting, decadence curdled into horror. The man lay sprawled across crimson silk sheets, his body half-naked, lips parted around the gleam of a wedding ring wedged inside his mouth. His throat had been slit with surgical precision, the blood collected neatly in a golden bowl resting just below, as if it were some obscene offering.
Around him, Polaroids littered the sheets, faces of women caught mid-smile, unaware they were catalogued as trophies. Two faint lipstick kisses bloomed across his shoulders, smudges of intimacy that felt more like scars.The air smelled thick of very expensive women’s perfume, cloying and elegant, mingled with the rich bite of luxurious wine turned sour.
It was theater, every object arranged with cruel deliberation, every detail designed to expose him not just as dead, but as unmasked.
The board looked like it was staring back at them. Faces, names, headlines, and blood-red circles drawn by Sali’s marker glared under the flickering fluorescent.
“We need to get ahead of him,” she said finally, voice flat. “If the bastard is picking people at the moment they’re celebrated, then we don’t wait for the next body to show up, we figure out who’s about to get their fifteen minutes and get there first.”
Jinyoung gave a humorless laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Because the city doesn’t hand out applause every other day.”
But he pushed up from his chair, restless, and started pacing. “Okay, okay. Let’s think practical. Who’s scheduled for ceremonies, public events, press spotlights?”
That night bled into the next day, and then the next. They combed through calendars, community center newsletters, city press releases, award announcements buried in local papers. Sali hacked her way through social media feeds, tracing hashtags for award nights and galas. Jinyoung pulled favors from reporters he still had on speaking terms, sliding his badge across desks, leaning harder than he liked on his reputation.
The days blurred together, each evening ending in take-out boxes stacked like bricks around their desks. The precinct teased them for turning the office into a war bunker, but neither of them gave a shit.
On the fourth night, Sali tossed a printout onto the mess of files. “Here. Christmas Charity Gala. Big flashy thing. Sponsored by one of the city’s biggest donors, he’s pouring money and stock options into both the university and the museum.”
Jinyoung’s eyes lingered on the glossy flyer: December 12th, The Ritz. An evening of celebration, generosity, and community spirit. The names scrolled down the page like a guest list of people desperate to shine, academics, curators, professors, board members. The kind of crowd that lived for appearances.
“Perfect fucking hunting ground,” he muttered. “A room full of masks.”
Sali leaned forward, jabbing her finger at the list of honorees. “Councilman Han is getting a humanitarian award. Great PR move if half the city didn’t already whisper about his offshore accounts and the interns he ‘mentors.’ And look at the others, an academic who’s plagiarized half his research, a museum chair who’s been covering up embezzlement. If our guy wants irony, he’s spoiled for choice.”
Jinyoung’s jaw tightened. He tapped the flyer once, decisive. “It’s him. Han. He’s too loud, too shiny, and too easy a target. Our guy won’t resist.”
Sali shook her head. “Not the only one. Look at the other honorees. One’s a philanthropist CEO who just laid off half her staff before Christmas. Another’s a charity founder whose books don’t balance. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Jinyoung tapped the photo of the councilman again. “No. It’ll be him. If our guy’s got a sense of irony, and he does, he won’t be able to resist.”
The room was quiet again, the only sound the hum of the ancient radiator and the scratch of Sali’s pen as she circled the name in thick ink.
“Then we’ll be there. Both of us. Undercover, wired, ready. If the bastard shows up, this time he doesn’t get to vanish.”
Jinyoung narrowed his eyes at the flyer again, doubt tugging at him. “These kinds of events are locked down, though. Too exclusive. Invitations, background checks. We shoulda ask that guy John and I must say I hate him.”
Sali’s mouth curved into a sly grin, the first real spark of amusement he’d seen from her in days. “Detective, you underestimate me, and that honestly saddens me.” She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “I’ll ask my sister. Nell.”
His brows lifted. “How come?”
Sali exhaled through her nose, almost like she didn’t want to admit it. “We practically hate each other’s guts. But she owes me, and Nell always pays her debts. She’s an architect, works with the museum and the university, unfortunately one of the best in her field. She’s got connections, and I know for a fact she can get us invitations.”
“Interesting.” Then his voice hardened with authority. “Fine. Prepare everyone. We’ll take ten people in with us. I’ll draw up the list. All of us go undercover.”
Sali’s grin widened, sharp as a blade. “Good call.”
The hum of the precinct filled the silence between them, but for the first time in weeks, the air shifted, like the noose was tightening, like the hunt was finally about to corner its prey.
Sali tapped her pen against the file. “You know, the thing is, our guy won’t attack Han the same night as the gala. That’s not his style. He waits. He stages it. Always seven to ten days after the praise.”
Jinyoung nodded slowly, his jaw tight. “I know. I don’t expect blood on the ballroom floor. I just want to keep an eye on this Han guy.”
Later that night, Jinyoung dug deeper into Han’s background. The man’s reputation glittered on the surface, respected scholar, generous donor, well-loved academic, but underneath, rot bled through the cracks. Rumors ran rampant, buried between old press clippings and forgotten message boards.
Allegations. Endless allegations.
He’d been accused of stealing research from his graduate students, entire projects rewritten with his name at the top. Time and again, the accusers were crushed in court, buried under Han’s lawyers and influence. Jinyoung read the stories with clenched fists.
One detail stopped him cold: a Chinese PhD student, brilliant by all accounts, who’d disappeared from the academic scene after finishing her work under him. Whispers said Han had been sleeping with her, exploiting her. She returned to China immediately after graduation, her name barely mentioned again.
The more Jinyoung read, the more certain he became.
Han was a mask. The perfect kind. Celebrated. Applauded. Rotten to the core.
And the murderer, whoever the hell he was, wouldn’t be able to resist.
Jinyoung sat back in his chair, the screen glowing against his tired eyes, and whispered to himself: “Yeah. You’re next.”
***
Miami, Florida - 14 years ago
Things were going smoothly between Jackson and Jinyoung, untill…
Mark started showing up. At first, it was only once or twice, leaning against the wall of Jackson’s dance class with that unreadable smirk. Then he began staying longer, sometimes slipping into the language Jackson loved most, Mandarin, and for that, Jackson didn’t push him away. Speaking their mother tongue gave them a thread of familiarity, something grounding in a school where everyone else looked at them like outsiders.
Jinyoung never trusted him.
Mark was… strange. Not in the way Jackson was strange, brilliant, sharp-edged, misunderstood, but in a way that set Jinyoung’s teeth on edge. He moved awkwardly, like he never quite fit his own skin, and he collected people the way other kids collected baseball cards. His “friends” weren’t really friends at all, more like shadows orbiting him, a gang of rough kids who laughed too loudly and never seemed to care about rules.
And then there was the money. Mark’s father sat at the top of a tech conglomerate that seemed to have its hands in everything: encrypted comms systems, police radios, military surveillance, jammers, trackers, if it could listen, follow, or silence someone, his father’s company sold it. They supplied everyone from federal agencies to private contractors. On paper, it was all above board.
But Lieutenant Park had never liked the man.
Jinyoung had overheard pieces of his parents’ late-night conversations. His father’s low voice carrying through the thin apartment walls, always edged with frustration. I know he’s dirty. I just can’t prove it. To the world, Lieutenant Park respected him, shook his hand at official dinners, even exchanged polite words when duty demanded it. But behind closed doors, he spoke of digging, searching, chasing trails that vanished before he could catch them.
Jinyoung never told anyone about those overheard whispers. But they stuck, threading suspicion through him every time he saw Mark. His father’s instincts had saved lives before. If he thought something was off with that family, Jinyoung believed him.
And Mark only seemed to prove the point.
That summer, while most kids lounged at pools or worked summer jobs, Mark spent his days volunteering at the local animal shelter. On paper, it sounded noble, even sweet. He cleaned cages, fed strays, walked the dogs that no one wanted. People admitted he was good at it, he had a calmness around animals that surprised them. But still, every person who stopped by the shelter said the same thing afterward: the boy working there was odd.
Too quiet sometimes, too sharp other times. He could soothe a snarling dog with one hand, then look at you with eyes that made you want to look away.
Even then, Jinyoung felt it in his gut, something about Mark didn’t add up.
Jinyoung had never liked the kind of people who tore others down just to lift themselves higher. Not in friendships, not in classes, not in the subtle competitions that threaded through high school. Even when it came to Jackson, his boy-crush, though he’d never dared name it out loud, he refused to play dirty. It just wasn’t in his nature.
Which was why, when Jackson suddenly vanished(again!), unease gripped him like a vice.
It started small. One afternoon, he went by the library, but the chair at the corner desk sat empty. The librarian said he hadn’t shown up in days. The next stop was the dance studio, where Jinyoung half-expected to catch him laughing, sweat-slicked, music pounding. But the mirrors only reflected strangers. Jackson’s friends shrugged, said they hadn’t seen him either.
And strangest of all: Mark was gone, too.
That was when the jitter in Jinyoung’s chest turned into full-blown panic. He couldn’t sit still. His mind spun with ugly possibilities until, against his better judgment, he did something he’d sworn he wouldn’t, he texted Mark.
Jinyoung: Do you know where Jackson is?
The reply came minutes later, curt, like Mark had been waiting for the chance to drop it.
Mark: idk. He doesn’t answer his phone. Probably hospitalized again for the lung issues.
Jinyoung stared at the screen, heat crawling up his neck. That was it? Just hospitalized again ? He read it three times, jaw tightening with every word.
Why people kept saying that like it was the most normal thing on earth?
Because it didn’t make sense. Hospitals didn’t take away your phone for a lung infection. Even in an oxygen mask, you could text. Even on IV meds, you could send a reply. Jackson would never leave him hanging like this, not unless something was seriously wrong.
And Jinyoung didn’t buy that shit for a second.
***
December 12th. The night of the charity gathering.
Jinyoung always felt it in his body before a mission, like a ripple under his skin, a warning wave. He’d had those instincts since he was seventeen, ever since the night he lost his father. Before that, he’d been a social creature, easy-going, light on his feet, the kind of boy who could laugh his way through a crowded room. But when his father died, something inside him snapped. A thread pulled too hard and broke.
He wasn’t calm anymore. He wasn’t sweet.
The grief hardened into a fuse, one that burned too fast. Back then, he was always in fights, sharp, reckless, bloody. He remembered the crack of a boy’s nose under his fist, the sting of knuckles split open. There had been so many nights when he couldn’t tell if he was punching others or trying to beat the ache out of himself.
Police academy had given him direction, a channel for the anger. Training became release. He overdid it, overpushed, ran until his lungs tore, lifted until his muscles screamed, but that was the point. Pain forged strength, and strength was the only way forward. He built himself into a weapon, a body honed to perfection, every muscle tightened and cut for the work.
But there was another side to him, one no one in the precinct ever saw.
Behind closed doors, Jinyoung carried no morals, no restraint, when it came to sex. He was a maniac in bed, pure intensity, the same rage and control that burned through his work now funneled into fucking. He never crossed consent, never forced, but when someone gave him the green light, he didn’t hold back. His appetite was too sharp, too heavy for softness.
That was why he never touched anyone at work. He knew the eyes on him, plenty of women, and more than a few men, who would’ve said yes just for the thrill of it. But he wasn’t about to fuck colleagues. The precinct was no place to bleed out that part of himself.
He had his own people for that. Only for fucking. Nothing more, nothing less.
And even that, always heavy. Always dangerous.
When there was a mission, Jinyoung’s mornings didn’t begin with coffee. They began with fucking. It was the one ritual that stripped his head clean, made his body razor-sharp and his nerves steady before a day like this. Gala night or not, he needed it.
The boy was already bent under him, narrow waist arched, skin gleaming with sweat and candle wax. Each thrust drove a guttural cry out of him, high and sharp, as if the air itself was being torn. Jinyoung’s fingers dug into his hips, steady and merciless, as if the boy’s small frame was built to take this exact punishment.
“Please—Jinyoung—please…” Hao’s voice broke, half-whimper, half-moan. His dyed-pink hair clung damp against his forehead, his body twitching every time the wax splattered and burned.
On the bed beside them, Joanna, his other regular, leaned on one elbow, candle in hand, lips curved into something sinful. She let the wax drip down in steady streams across Hao’s back, across the curve of his ass. The boy jolted with every drop, crying out louder, which only made Jinyoung slam in harder, breath ragged, jaw clenched.
“Beg prettier,” the woman whispered, dragging the word out like a taunt. She bent to Hao’s ear, kissed his temple, and whispered filth he could barely process between sobs. “Such a sweet little toy, taking him so deep… you love it, don’t you?”
Hao gasped, twisting, eyes wet. “Y-yes… ow! God! Yesyesyesyes… awh! ”
Joanna’s body moved like a blade in the dark, lean, carved, unapologetic. She wasn’t delicate, not at all. She was all sharp edges, perfect angles, and breasts so generous they looked obscene on her slender frame. Her skin carried the faintest gold glow from years in Florida sun, and her hair, brunnette, cut into an expensive bob, always smelled like sandalwood perfume and red wine.
She was no random fling. Joanna was a very well-respected realtor in Miami, rich, popular, admired in the circles Jinyoung usually avoided. They had met years back when she helped him find his current apartment. He hadn’t needed anything sprawling, just a place that didn’t suffocate him, with enough square footage for a king-sized bed. When he asked, half-joking, if the master bedroom could be soundproofed, Joanna had smirked knowingly, eyes glinting.
That smirk was her invitation. She had leaned against the kitchen island and told him straight, “Listen, Detective, I’m recently divorced, and I’ve always had a thing for Asian men. Don’t worry, I’m not after anything serious. I just like it clean. No stings attached!”
Jinyoung had declined politely at first, but Joanna was relentless. Her persistence wasn’t desperate. It was predatory, playful. She wanted him, and she didn’t mind saying so. He eventually gave in, and discovered quickly that she was a freak with no ceiling for limits. Joanna had zero cap in the bedroom. No shame, no brakes.
When he confessed one night that he swung both ways, she didn’t blink. Instead, she leaned in with a grin, lips brushing his ear as she whispered: “Then let’s go find you a boy.”
It was Joanna’s idea to hit a bar near the art school, a place crawling with pretty, wasted students. That was where they found Hao. He had been lounging with his friends, pink hair glowing under the neon lights, but from the moment Jinyoung walked in, his eyes never left him. Hao looked like trouble, like temptation dressed in soft skin and lean lines.
Joanna had noticed instantly. She slid off her barstool, crossed the room in heels that clicked like gunfire, and bent low to whisper something in Hao’s ear. He laughed, glanced at Jinyoung again, and with a slow, deliberate wink, agreed.
That night, they took him home. Together, they fucked Hao senseless until the boy couldn’t even crawl off the mattress, until his moans broke into helpless sobs. After that, Hao became a regular fixture. Sometimes, it was all three of them; sometimes, it was just Jinyoung and the boy. Joanna didn’t mind. She didn’t need to. For her, it was never about possession, it was about the game, the dirt, the chaos.
And on mornings like this, with wax dripping and Hao crying into the sheets, she played her part perfectly, feeding Jinyoung the fuel he didn’t even know he craved.
Joanna tilted the candle lower, and another drop of searing wax landed on the side of his neck. Hao shrieked, body jerking against Jinyoung’s cock.
“Say thank you,” she purred, voice sharp.
“Th-thank you!!!” Hao sobbed, biting down hard on the pillow, obeying through clenched teeth.
“Louder,” she ordered, dripping another trail of wax across his collarbone. “Say: thank you, Detective Park, for fucking me.”
Hao’s whole body trembled, shame and desperation warring on his face. His voice cracked as he cried out, “Th-thank you, Detective Park, for fucking me!”
Jinyoung snarled, heat ripping through him at the sound, and brought his hand down on the boy’s ass with a brutal smack. Then again. And again. Each slap echoed, sharp and merciless, until Hao’s pale skin flushed crimson under the assault.
The boy screamed into the sheets, his delicate body shuddering with every blow. His ass turned scarlet too quickly, too raw, the fragile skin blooming red under Jinyoung’s relentless hand.
“Pathetic little slut,” Jinyoung hissed, pounding into him even harder now, his other hand gripping Hao’s hip like a vice. “Your little cunt was made for this.”
Hao’s pale skin glowed in the thin morning light leaking through the blinds, his dyed-pink hair catching fire at the edges. He looked fragile, almost delicate, but every whimper only spurred Jinyoung deeper, rougher, until the sound of skin meeting skin slapped against the walls. The boy’s body was shockingly bendy. Every arch, every twist, every flex of his back was deliberate, trained from years of dancing. He bent like silk under Jinyoung, tightening around him, showing off every way his small frame could take and mold to what Jinyoung gave.
Sometimes Hao mumbled soft Chinese words when his brain started to short out, little gasps spilling from his lips as precum leaked onto the dark sheets beneath him. Jinyoung didn’t always understand the words, but the sound, the rawness, hit something inside him he tried not to name.
Because the truth was, he loved Hao’s frame. Petite, narrow-waisted, delicate enough to break if Jinyoung lost control. He had never admitted that, not even to himself, but the boy’s softness burned him precisely because he was Chinese. Because he reminded him of him .
Of Jackson.
Jinyoung had never fucked Jackson, never even touched him that way, but he had never moved on either. And every time Hao sobbed in Chinese under him, the ghost of that memory twisted like a knife.
The boy always cried out louder the closer he got, his voice high and cracked. His thighs shook around Jinyoung’s hips, his fingers clawed at the sheets, and he screamed in broken Mandarin when he was about to spill, “快要射了!快要射了!Kuàiyào shèle! Kuàiyào shèle!”(I’m about to cum) , the desperate cry of a boy begging for release. And then he came hard, sobbing into the sheets, leaving wet streaks down the fabric.
But Hao wasn’t done. He had a kink Jinyoung both despised and craved, the boy loved being filled. Every time he climaxed, he’d roll onto his back immediately, eyes glazed, lips trembling, legs spread wide and shaking. He wanted to watch Jinyoung finish inside him, wanted to feel it, begged for it without words. And Jinyoung, gritting his teeth, gave it to him, pounding harder, mercilessly, until the only sound was Hao’s breathless crying and the slick, wet noise of his body taking it.
Two months of this, two months of this spoiled little brat crawling back to his bed, dyed hair in a different shade each time, wasting family money on art school and still begging like his life depended on it. Jinyoung never admitted it out loud, but Hao was addictive. Pretty, lean, always trembling on the edge of pain and pleasure.
“Look at me,” Jinyoung growled, one hand threading into Hao’s damp hair. Their eyes locked. The boy shuddered, lips parted, tears streaking his face, and nodded helplessly.
Jinyoung smirked, breath hot against his ear. “Good boy.”
Jinyoung’s hips snapped forward in brutal rhythm, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the dim apartment. Hao was face-down, ass up, his narrow waist trembling under Jinyoung’s grip as he drove into him, cock stretching him open with every savage thrust. The boy’s cries broke the silence, high-pitched, desperate, equal parts pain and pleasure.
“Fuck…fuck, it’s too much —AWH! ” Hao whimpered, knuckles white where he clutched the sheets.
Jinyoung leaned forward, breath hot against his ear, voice a low snarl. “Too much? Then why’s your little hole sucking me in like it can’t get enough?” His hips slammed forward again, harder, making Hao choke on a sob.
On the side, Joanna laughed under her breath, candle tilting, and let another stream of hot wax spill down the boy’s spine. Hao’s back arched instantly, a broken scream ripping out of him.
“Shhh,” she whispered into his ear, kissing his damp temple. “Pretty slut. You love it when it burns, don’t you? Say it.”
“I—I love it,” Hao gasped, voice shaking, “fuck—I love it—”
“God, listen to you,” Jinyoung growled, grabbing Hao’s hair, yanking his head back so their eyes met. The boy’s face was flushed, streaked with tears, lips parted as he sobbed for more. “Pathetic little toy. You’d let me split you open every day if I wanted, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes—yes, please, don’t stop—”
Jinyoung kissed him hard from behind, biting down on his lip until it nearly bled, then shoved Joanna away when she leaned in again.
“Move,” he growled without looking at her, his eyes locked on Hao, on the way the boy’s narrow hole gripped him, raw and stretched, his whole body trembling from the pounding.
But Joanna didn’t retreat. She smirked, snuffed the candle, and stepped around with a dark strap buckled to her hips, the silicone slick with lube. Sliding in front of the bed, she grabbed Hao by the chin, forcing his flushed face upward while Jinyoung slammed into him from behind.
Her voice was low and venomous as she taunted, “Look at you. Nothing but a slut for us, aren’t you? Begging to be filled, begging to be ruined.”
Hao whimpered, eyes rolling back, and when she shoved her thumbs into his mouth, he sucked them obediently, tears leaking down his cheeks. His muffled cries echoed around the room as his body convulsed, cock twitching, and he came once, then again almost immediately, spraying across the sheets while his legs buckled beneath him.
By the time the second orgasm ripped out of him, he was a complete mess, sweat-slick, body feverish, skin reddened with angry welts from the candle wax. The hardened chunks of dark wax clung to his skin, only to slide off with every shiver because of the sweat coating his skin. He cried out as he rolled onto his back, the sting of tender burns lighting him up again the moment his skin touched the sheets.
Jinyoung barely gave him a second. He pried Hao’s thighs apart and pushed back inside in one hard stroke, the boy’s broken moan piercing the air as he immediately wrapped his legs tight around Jinyoung’s waist, locking him in place. Jinyoung leaned forward, bracing himself on the mattress, driving deeper with each thrust. Joanna moved in close, chest heaving, the strap hanging heavy between her thighs as she pressed herself against Jinyoung, kissing him feverishly.
Pinned beneath them, Hao writhed helplessly, his voice raw, tongue darting out to lick Jinyoung’s chest. When his mouth found a nipple, he latched on desperately, sucking, nibbling, his velvety tongue teasing as if to milk another reaction from the detective. Jinyoung’s groan vibrated into Joanna’s mouth as he kept fucking him, harder, deeper, while the boy under them sobbed into his chest, clinging to him like he’d break apart without it.
Jinyoung slammed in harder, his rhythm breaking down into raw force, sweat dripping from his hairline onto Hao’s flushed face. The boy was sobbing in Mandarin, his hands clutching Jinyoung’s back, nails raking.
“Detective—detective, please—” he cried, voice splintered. Then it broke into a scream as he writhed, choking on his words, “Kuàiyào shèle! Kuàiyào shèle!”
“Say it properly,” Joanna hissed, still straddling the mattress with the strap dangling lewdly, fingers buried in Hao’s hair. “Say it—tell him you want his seed.”
“Please—please, Detective Park—give me your seed!” Hao sobbed, biting down on the pillow when Jinyoung smacked his ass raw, strike after strike, until the boy’s delicate skin turned a furious shade of red.
“Good boy,” Jinyoung growled in his ear, before thrusting so deep Hao nearly screamed again.
Hao’s whole body quivered, every muscle tense and then collapsing as he cried out one last time, clamping down around Jinyoung’s cock. “Please—inside me—” his voice cracked, a desperate whimper.
That was all Jinyoung needed. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his thrusts short, sharp, merciless, before finally shuddering and spilling deep inside. He ground down against Hao’s pelvis as the boy locked his legs tighter, holding him in, moaning through tears as the heat filled him. Jinyoung’s release came in thick pulses, and Hao sobbed in relief, whispering broken Chinese between breaths, “Inside—yes—inside me, Detective—don’t stop—”
When the last tremor faded, Jinyoung pulled out with a rough drag, breath still heavy. His eyes locked instantly on Hao’s swollen, pink rim, fluttering, opening and closing involuntarily as if begging to be filled again. His release mixed with the lube, spilling freely, slick trails dripping onto the dark sheets and sliding down toward the floor. Hao whimpered at the sensation, shifting his hips as though to coax more out of himself, his thighs trembling from the aftershocks.
The room smelled of sweat, sex, and extinguished wax. The sheets were ruined, damp and sticky with come and streaks of melted blue wax clinging to the fabric. Hao stumbled weakly toward the shower, legs shaking. Joanna smirked, gathering the candles from the nightstand, blowing out the last stub of one before setting it down.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, strutting toward the bathroom to check on Hao before returning to stand in front of the mirror. She was lean, all sleek lines and subtle muscle, but her tits were full, perfect handfuls that always distracted men in meetings. She leaned forward as she pinned her hair, the heavy strap still swinging from her hips before she tugged it off and tossed it aside.
She slipped back into her skirt, clasped her bra, then leaned toward the mirror again to fix her eyeliner, sliding earrings into her lobes one by one. Her reflection met Jinyoung’s from across the room.
“Something’s on your mind,” she said simply.
Jinyoung didn’t answer. He just raised an eyebrow, smirking, lips curled around the cigarette he lit with one hand. He exhaled smoke slowly, leaning back naked in the chair, his cock still half-hard, clothes crumpled in a pile in the corner.
“Oh, babydoll,” Joanna murmured, tilting her head as she dabbed on lipstick. “I know you. I know how you fuck. And when you fuck like that …” She adjusted her skirt, smoothed her blouse, her voice dipping into a knowing purr. “It means you’re stressed. Work-stressed. And since you’re Detective Park, I’m guessing it’s not about overdue paperwork.”
He said nothing, just tapped his ash into a tray, eyes following her reflection. She was a striking woman, rich, popular, always perfectly put together, yet with just enough edge in her piercings and nose ring to remind you she liked her chaos, too.
Behind the sound of the shower, Hao whimpered faintly, water splashing as he washed the wax and come from his feverish skin. Joanna slipped into her blazer and gave herself one last look in the mirror. Jinyoung stayed silent, cigarette smoke curling in lazy spirals above his head, watching her with detached calm, saying nothing at all.
She slipped on her heels, the sharp sound of them against his floor slicing through the heavy quiet. Then she strolled toward him, leaning a hand on the back of his chair.
“Ooooh, detective,” she purred, tilting her head, “are you trying to be a good op and just keep everything to yourself?” She bent forward, pressed a teasing kiss against his lips, light, sweet, a deliberate contrast to what had just happened in the bed.
He laughed, low and dry, shaking his head slowly. His fingers brushed her hair back from her face in an almost tender gesture. “You have to leave, Jo. I need to get ready for work.”
Joanna hummed as if disappointed, but her eyes glinted. She twisted her body in that feline way she knew got her noticed, then straightened, smoothing down her skirt.
“Please stay alive, detective,” she drawled with a crooked smirk. “Took me a long time to find a dick as good as yours.” She puckered, blew him an exaggerated kiss. “Mwaaaaaah.”
Jinyoung only smirked around his cigarette as she clicked her way out of the apartment.
The bathroom door opened just as the front door shut. Steam curled out first, and then Hao padded into the room, a towel slung lazily at his hips. His damp pink hair clung to his forehead. He pouted, lips soft and petulant.
“What’s wrong, pretty boy?” Jinyoung asked, tilting his head, tone smooth but unreadable.
Hao turned around, pulling the towel down to bare his back. His skin was reddened and spotted, welts from candle wax still angry. “I’m hurt, gege…” he complained, voice thin, almost trembling.
Jinyoung chuckled quietly. He flicked ash into the tray, then lifted a hand, beckoning. A silent command. Hao obeyed, crossing the room with small, careful steps before settling onto his lap like he belonged there. His hair was still damp; Jinyoung’s hand slipped into it, combing through slowly before trailing down the line of his spine. His touch softened to a feather-light caress as it skimmed the irritated skin.
He reached to the table, plucked up the small tin of ointment that always lived beside his ashtray, and worked some onto his fingertips. “Don’t worry, pretty boy. It’ll get better,” he murmured, cigarette still tucked between his lips. He rubbed the ointment in slow circles over the burns, pressing just enough to soothe and sting at the same time.
Hao moaned, a tiny breathy sound, biting down on his lip. “It stings, gege…” he whined, though his eyes had that sinful little glimmer, always turning pain into play, trying to reel him back in.
Jinyoung smiled faintly, never lifting his gaze from Hao’s marked skin. “Don’t be a brat, pretty boy. I have to get ready.”
But Hao shifted on his lap, stretching his neck, tilting his shoulder, brushing his body against him like a spoiled cat demanding affection. His eyes lingered on Jinyoung’s mouth.
“I’ll miss you… from time to time,” he whispered, soft but pointed.
Jinyoung only exhaled smoke, a smile ghosting across his lips, and said nothing at all. Hao leaned against his chest like a spoiled pet. He let the silence stretch, rubbing the last bit of ointment into the boy’s tender skin until Hao’s breathing slowed and the bratty whine dulled into soft little hums.
Then Jinyoung tapped the cigarette out, slid Hao gently off his lap, and stood. His movements were deliberate, precise, already shedding the weight of the morning, the body heat, the noise. He tugged on his slacks, buttoned his shirt halfway, and glanced at the mirror.
Whatever softness lingered in him evaporated as quickly as the steam from the bathroom. His expression was unreadable again. Sharp. Focused.
By the time he lit a fresh cigarette and gathered his jacket from the hook, his mind was clear. The sex, the sweat, the sting of candle wax, rituals that stripped everything unnecessary away.
Now there was only the night ahead.
The gala.
The hunt.
***
Jackson’s house was cavernous in the way that silence becomes a sound. High white walls, polished floors, glass edges everywhere, the kind of space that could have been staged for a magazine spread if not for the books. Books everywhere.
Entire walls devoured by libraries: spines of philosophy, history, literature, case studies. Row upon row lined the living room, the halls, even the bedroom, each one filed with such precision that they looked more like monuments than possessions. Luxurious, yes, but stripped bare of warmth. No family photos. No clutter. No softness.
Somewhere in the distance, a song trickled faintly from hidden speakers, so low it was barely more than a hum, like a heartbeat he wanted no one to notice.
The click of shoes on marble cut the stillness. Kole appeared, hands steady, eyes downcast as he crossed the room. He carried a bow tie and a mask, both perfectly pressed, like offerings.
“Alpha,” he murmured, setting them gently on the edge of the table as though they were relics. His voice cracked in that strange way it always did around Jackson, equal parts reverence and obsession.
Jackson didn’t look at him right away. He buttoned his shirt slowly, precise fingers pulling the fabric together like a ritual. Kole hovered, too close, his breath shallow.
“You’ll wear it tonight,” Kole said softly, fingertips brushing the mask as though it were holy. “Everyone will see, but no one will know. Just like you planned.”
Jackson’s gaze slid to him then, unreadable, sharp enough to freeze Kole in place. He stepped closer anyway, eyes shining with something between devotion and sickness. His pupils caught the faint light of the room, sparkling almost feverishly as if Jackson’s very existence ignited something uncontainable in him.
“You are the Alpha. The only Alpha,” Kole whispered, voice trembling now. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Anything.”
For a long stretch of silence, Jackson said nothing. Just let the air thicken, heavy and suffocating, until Kole shifted on his feet like a child waiting for punishment—or reward.
Finally, Jackson reached out, lifted the mask, and held it between them. His lips curved faintly, almost a smile but not quite.
“Then watch,” he said. “And follow.”
Kole’s eyes flickered like he’d just been touched by God, shimmering with something desperate. Jackson tilted his head, studying him the way one studies an animal, assessing not the man but the obedience inside him.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” Jackson said finally, voice low but absolute. “Until I come back.”
Kole’s breath caught, chest rising quick. “Yes, Alpha. Do you… do you want me to prepare something? To clean? To—”
Jackson cut him off with a look, a glacial sharpness that quieted him instantly. “Just wait.”
Kole nodded quickly, shoulders straightening. But then his voice softened, almost childlike. “Am I allowed to eat anything while you’re gone?”
Jackson let the question linger in the air, the corner of his mouth twitching at the absurd devotion behind it. “You can. But no dairy these days.” He paused, deliberate. “Dairy is not good for dogs.”
Kole swallowed hard, the words hitting him like a command carved into his skin. His head dipped, obedient, his voice hushed.
“Yes, Alpha.”
Kole stood still in the middle of the room, his head slightly bowed, the overhead light catching on the collar circling his neck. It wasn’t leather or metal like the ones you could buy in a fetish shop. Jackson had it custom-made. Black strap, lined with steel, and studded with small, gleaming gems that spelled out one word across the front: KOLE.
But everyone who saw it knew what it really meant. Dog.
A faint red light blinked from the tiny device at the back, shock collar, wired, remote-controlled. Jackson rarely used it. He didn’t have to. Kole behaved too well, obeyed too quickly. The threat alone was enough to keep him docile, trembling, desperate.
Sometimes, though, Kole begged for it. Dropped to his knees, clutching at Jackson’s shoes, pleading in broken whispers, “Please, Alpha, punish me.” The memory of one particular night still flashed in Jackson’s mind like a cruel joke, Kole shaking violently on the floor, the current from the collar making him spasm, eyes rolled back, moaning until his body convulsed and he came in his own pants.
Jackson had laughed. Cold, sharp, merciless laughter that cut through Kole’s gasps. He leaned over him, looking down at the pathetic mess sprawled across the floor. “Pathetic,” he’d said, voice dripping with mockery. “You can’t even take pain without creaming yourself like a bitch.”
And Kole, cheeks wet with tears, had smiled. Smiled. Whispered, “Thank you, Alpha,” as though humiliation itself was a gift.
Jackson hadn’t expected it to be so entertaining. Torturing someone without killing them. Drawing out the sickness inside Kole and watching him unravel on command. It wasn’t the same thrill as a kill, but it was… amusing. It scratched an itch he didn’t know he had. And as long as Kole kept begging for more, Jackson found himself indulging it.
It had been nearly a year now. A year of Kole serving him, existing in Jackson’s house like a ghost with chores. Washing bloodied clothes without being asked. Ironing his shirts so sharp the cuffs could cut skin. Laying out the mask on gala nights like a holy relic, his trembling hands always careful not to smudge it.
It hadn’t begun this way. Jackson still remembered the first night, Kole waiting outside his apartment, smiling at the bag in his hand. “Do you want me to wash your dirty, bloody clothes?” he had asked, eyes lit with something unnatural. Jackson had stared, unnerved, asked him how he knew. And Kole, laughing and crying at once, had whispered, “I can smell it.”
Jackson should’ve killed him. He had dragged him inside, starved him, injected him, locked him in the room beneath the house. He’d waited to see if Kole would break. But he never begged for release. Never threatened to tell. Instead, he whispered that he adored him, wanted to serve him, would die for him if asked.
And somehow, against Jackson’s own expectations, Kole became useful. The boy had a degree in sociology, a fact Jackson once dismissed until he realized how sharp Kole could be when analyzing the patterns of people. Victims. Lies. Public facades. While Jackson created the art of the kill, Kole quietly traced behaviors, linked hypocrisies, helped him build the philosophy around them. It wasn’t brilliance, but it was perspective. A second set of eyes, warped but loyal.
More than that, Kole still had access to his father’s connections. His family despised him, but his name opened doors. Through them, Jackson gained whispers from private lawyers, access to sealed documents, even leaks about who was about to receive awards or recognition. Every so often, Kole returned from a dinner he wasn’t even wanted at, reciting something he’d overheard, details that fed directly into Jackson’s next “art piece.”
It was grotesque, symbiotic. Kole lived to please him, to abase himself, to prove his devotion wasn’t weakness but strength. And Jackson, who should have slit his throat the moment he knew too much, kept him. Not just because Kole was obedient. Not just because humiliation was entertaining. But because, in his own warped way, he had become an accomplice. A willing conspirator.
And every time Kole knelt at his feet, calling him Alpha , Jackson was reminded that this wasn’t mercy. It was ownership.
And so Jackson hadn’t killed him. Not yet.
It was easier to let him stay. Easier to use his hands, his silence, his obsession. And in return, Jackson had learned Kole’s sickness ran deeper than his own.
When Kole was sixteen, he’d slit his uncle’s throat. Walked in on the man fucking his son’s babysitter. The girl had tried to run; Kole had made sure she wouldn’t have to. His family, rich and viciously protective of their name, covered it in hours. No police. No trial. Just a hushed silence and a new suit for the family portrait the next week.
They didn’t care about him. Not Kole. They had his older brother to inherit everything. When Kole announced he was moving out, no one asked where. He still had access to their lawyers, their money, their shadows. Which meant Jackson had access too.
Now the boy was his. A servant. A pet. A liability he turned into a shield. Kole’s obsession was grotesque, but grotesque was useful.
Jackson smoothed the mask across his palm, sliding it into place with practiced precision. In the corner of his eye, Kole trembled just from watching.
“Alpha,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ll wait.”
Jackson didn’t reply. He adjusted his bow tie, slid on his cufflinks, and let the faint music drift through the house like static. Kole stayed still, sparkling eyes fixed on him, ready to starve or kneel or burn if Jackson told him to.
And that, Jackson thought, was exactly why he kept him alive.
Notes:
Ok guys :D
Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase let me know what you think of this start 😁💚I honestly don’t know when I’ll be able to send the next chapter, because right now I’m practically homeless and my job transition is turning into a huge pain in the ass.
(Please send me good energy and prayers. I really need it!)But you know me... I write whenever I can steal the time ✨
So please, let me know your thoughts, they mean the world to me 💕See you all soon :D
Chapter 2: "The Forgotten Name"
Notes:
Hello everybody! Hope you’re all doing well 💚
First of all, I’m so sorry for the delay. As I mentioned before, I’m in the middle of moving, and honestly… it’s been hectic and stressful as hell. A lot of things happened that were completely out of my control, and it turned into a bit of a nightmare. There were some sleepless nights and restless days, but thankfully that part is behind me now, and I’m finally getting ready to move this week.
Through all of this, writing has been my anchor, the one thing that kept me sane and gave me a little space to breathe. So here we are! This chapter is another long one (I know, I know...I ramble too much 😅), but I’m actually really excited for you all to read it.
As always, your comments mean the world to me. I’m not kidding when I say I take screenshots of every single one. I even have an album just for them, whether they’re from Tumblr, here on AO3, Twitter DMs… wherever they come from. They truly keep me going.
So please let me know your thoughts on this chapter, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Happy reading, my loves! 💕
My Tumblr and My Twitter Account:
🎶 And as I told you before, I made a playlist for the story. If you like to set the mood, give it a shot:
Spotify Playlist Link
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jinyoung straightened the lapels of his suit in the car window’s faint reflection before stepping onto the marble path that led to the venue. His suit was midnight black, razor sharp at the shoulders, the fabric catching the faint sheen of the floodlights like a blade drawn in moonlight. The tie was perfectly knotted, the shoes polished enough to throw back the chandelier glow from the lobby. He looked taller in that suit, harder, colder, untouchable in a way that made people shift when he walked by.
Behind him, the door clicked shut, and Sali emerged. For a moment the light seemed to catch only her, her black sequin dress scattering silver sparks with every step. The cut was elegant, hugging her figure in a way that was undeniably striking without being inappropriate. Her heels gave her a regal posture, and her hair swept up high revealed the clean line of her neck, brushed with the faintest glimmer of perfume. She didn’t often look like this, and she knew it. But tonight, undercover or not, she wanted to.
She adjusted the strap of her clutch, caught him watching, and smiled with a softness she usually buried. “You clean up dangerously well, Detective Park,” she said, her voice pitched just a little lower than usual.
He allowed himself the faintest curl of a smile, sharp but polite. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Detective Hernandez.”
Her cheeks warmed immediately. She smoothed them with a small exhale, forcing herself back into the role. She couldn’t let it linger, he never did. Instead, she held out a sleek black mask trimmed in satin, her fingers steady despite the flutter in her chest. “Here,” she said.
And though she kept her face composed, her heart betrayed her. She was smitten, hopelessly, quietly smitten with the man who never let anyone in.
Jinyoung frowned, turning the mask in his hand as though it were a toy someone had handed him by mistake. “What’s this?”
Sali pressed her lips together, already braced for his reaction. “It’s a ball masque. Tonight’s theme.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “So I won’t see their faces,” he said flatly, voice low and sharp. He flipped the mask over, the satin glinting under the lobby lights. “Brilliant. We’re chasing a killer, and you want me blindfolded at a masquerade.”
Sali stepped a little closer, her dress catching the glow of the chandeliers as she lowered her voice. “Not blindfolded. Blended. If we walk in bare-faced, we’ll stick out like targets.”
Jinyoung gave a humorless chuckle, slipping just a hint of sarcasm into his tone. “Targets, huh. Seems like everyone in this place is a target. And if it’s a ball masque, what’s the point? It’s basically a costume party for people with too much money and not enough sense.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, steady but firm. “Stop bellyaching, Detective. You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it.”
His grip on the mask tightened. “I don’t like games, Hernandez. Especially not when bodies are piling up.”
“And yet here we are,” she countered evenly, tilting her head. “So put it on, walk inside, and do your job. You can glare at everyone later.”
For a moment, he looked at her like he wanted to snap back again, but then he exhaled slowly through his nose, slipped the mask over his face, and muttered, “Fine. But if I trip over some idiot in a peacock feather costume, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal,” she said, lips twitching in a restrained smile. Then, she slipped her hand lightly through his arm as though they were just another pair of guests.
“Perfect,” she murmured.
The chandeliers inside blazed golden light across a sea of sequins and velvet, masked faces turning in laughter, champagne flutes clinking in perfect rhythm. It was beautiful and suffocating all at once.
In his ear, the line buzzed softly as Sali’s voice clicked through the comm. “We’re live now. Channel’s open.”
Jinyoung kept his head forward, his lips barely moving. “Copy.”
They drifted into the crowd, two predators wrapped in silk and steel, voices low in their ears as the night opened its jaws around them.
The chandeliers inside blazed golden light across a sea of sequins and velvet, masked faces turning in laughter, champagne flutes clinking in perfect rhythm. A string quartet played at the far end of the hall, their bows moving in flawless unison while the crowd buzzed with artificial warmth.
To anyone else, it might have looked like glamour. To Jinyoung, it was suffocating. Every sound, every expression grated against him, the laughter pitched too high, the smiles stretched too wide, the conversations flowing with practiced ease but no sincerity. Even behind the masks, he could read it in their body language: liars all of them, drunk on their own importance.
His eyes swept the room, sharp and deliberate, but inside he bristled. He hated gatherings like this. He hated the way people leaned too close, clinked glasses as if that meant something, spoke of charity with one hand while hiding filth in the other. Every chuckle sounded hollow, every handshake rehearsed. It was a ballroom dressed as a stage, and every guest another actor playing a role they didn’t even believe in.
Sali’s voice broke into his thoughts, low in his ear. “Relax your shoulders, Detective. You look like you’re about to strangle someone.”
His lips barely curved, more sneer than smile. “Only because I am,” he muttered back, eyes scanning the room.
She sighed softly. “Play the part. Smile a little. They’ll never see you coming if you look like one of them.”
Jinyoung’s gaze cut across a cluster of men laughing into their glasses, spitting champagne between their teeth as though each joke was the cleverest thing they’d ever heard. His chest tightened with something hot, bitter. He forced the corners of his mouth up just enough to pass. “Fake smiling among fake people. My favorite pastime,” he murmured into the comm.
Sali’s laugh crackled faintly in his ear, quick and quiet. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re naive,” he said, eyes never leaving the crowd. “But maybe that balances us out.”
From across the room, he saw her glance his way, shaking her head with a faint smile. It might have been the closest either of them came to camaraderie during missions like this, distance, but connected.
And then, out of the swell of sequins and masks, Nell appeared.
She was impossible to miss. A silver sequin dress that clung like liquid metal, a matching mask catching the light every time she turned her head. She moved with deliberate poise, smiling as though she’d already won the night. When her eyes found Sali’s, that smile sharpened.
“Oh, so glad to see you here, sis,” Nell said, her voice smooth as champagne.
Sali’s smile was tight, forced. “Sí…likewise”
Nell tilted her head, eyes glinting beneath the mask. “Pero no lo estás mostrando mucho.” (“But you’re not showing it that much.”)
Sali rolled her eyes, voice clipped. “Ay, Nell… por favor, solo ve a Mingle. No estoy aquí para chitchat.” (“Oh Nell, please just go and mingle. I’m not here to chitchat.”)
Nell’s laugh was soft, mocking. “¿Mingle? Hermana, yo invité a todos aquí, y todos me deben mucho. Yo poseo esta sala… así como te poseo a ti en este momento.” (“Mingle? Sis, I invited everyone here, and they all owe me big. I own this room, just like I own you at the moment.”)
Sali’s jaw tightened. Her reply was sharp, low. “Oh no, You do not! Solo me devuelves el favor que me debías.” (“Oh no, you do not. You’re just returning the favor you owe me.”)
Nell sighed, smiled as though amused, then let her eyes sweep the room until they found Jinyoung standing in the distance. She let out a theatrical little gasp. “Ah! There he is. I see why you like him. He’s tall, well built, and look at those precious man boob—”
“¡Ayi joder!!!!¡Cállate!, por el amor de Dios!” (“Shut the fuck up, for Christ’s sake!”) Sali snapped before Nell could finish.
Nell’s laugh rang too loudly, heads turning for just a moment before she softened it to a chuckle. “Oh come on, we both have a thing for hot Asians. I just feel sad for you, you know?”
Sali looked away, exhaling through her nose. “Nell… por favor. Vetepala.” (“Nell, please. Just get lost.”)
But Nell leaned closer, voice sugary, cruel. “Debe estar matándote saber que él se folla a diestra y siniestra y tú no eres una de ellas.”(“It must be killing you to know he fucks left and right but you’re not one of them.”)
Sali turned back sharply, lowering her voice as she stepped in closer. Her Spanish came clipped, every word like a knife.
“Ok, ‘hermanita.’ Sé que quieres bug me, hacerme enojar con tus palabras estúpidas. Y sé que te metes entre los idiotas corruptos como los de esta sala. Pero No te metás en mis mierdas y vuelve con los hijos de puta que no saben qué tan puta eres. ¡Ahora cállate!”
(“Ok, ‘sister.’ I know you want to bug me, make me angry with your stupid words. And I know you find your way through corrupted idiots like the ones in this room. But take your nose out of my business and go back to the motherfuckers who don’t know how much of a whore you are. Now shut the fuck up!”)
Nell’s smile stayed, but her eyes flared. She didn’t back down, but she didn’t push further either. The two sisters stood locked in glittering silence, their words burning between them like acid under the masks they wore.
Nell’s smile didn’t falter; if anything, it grew sharper, cutting clean through the glitter and music around them. She leaned in close enough that Sali caught the brush of her perfume, expensive, metallic, with a sweetness that lingered like poison.
“Ay, hermanita… tanta rabia solo significa que te duele. Y eso me encanta.”
(“Oh, little sister… so much rage only means it hurts you. And I love that.”)
Sali froze, her lips pressed in a hard line. The words landed like claws, dragging across old wounds she refused to show. Nell only tilted her chin, eyes flashing silver beneath her mask, and with one final smirk she pivoted gracefully back into the crowd, sequins catching the chandelier light until she dissolved into the sea of bodies.
From across the ballroom, Jinyoung had heard enough. His Spanish was clumsy, patchy, but his ear caught the cadence, the bite, the venom.
Words like dolor. Encanta. Hurt. Love.
The poison of siblings who knew each other too well. He didn’t need fluency to understand the sting behind the language.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t show it. Instead, his finger flicked the comm channel, static replacing their voices. He switched to another officer on the floor, tuning out the private war he wasn’t invited into. Still, his eyes lingered on Sali. Even masked, her body betrayed her: the stiff set of her shoulders, the death grip on her clutch, the way her head tilted slightly down as though to hide her anger from anyone watching.
It wasn’t new. He had clocked this dynamic before. Once, maybe a year ago, Nell had stepped into the precinct, a sharp silhouette in heels, delivering something for her sister. He remembered the way the entire room seemed to shift around her, people watching, whispering.
That time, she and Sali had spoken in Farsi. He hadn’t understood the words, but he’d understood enough. Sali had burned hot with irritation, Nell had smiled as if she’d orchestrated the entire exchange. The energy had been identical to what he witnessed tonight. He hadn’t asked then. He wouldn’t now.
Better to leave sleeping wolves alone.
So he moved, slipping deeper into the press of sequins and tuxedos, weaving through conversations that reeked of privilege and empty charity. Champagne flutes clicked like tiny hammers. Jewelry glittered under chandeliers. Perfume clung too thickly in the air, mingling with the faint tang of expensive liquor.
Everywhere, people bragged.
Two men in matching velvet jackets argued over a donor’s plaque at the university library, whose name would come first, whose line of legacy would shine brighter in gilt letters. A woman in a feathered mask whispered to her companion about the museum’s upcoming exhibit, how she’d “convinced” the board to approve it only after promising her family’s checkbook. Across the way, another cluster burst into shrill laughter about a graduate student’s paper that had been rejected, mocking his “lack of polish” while sipping vintage champagne that could have funded his research ten times over.
Every sound grated. Every laugh felt like glass scraping on glass.
Jinyoung drifted past, expression unreadable, listening without appearing to. It was always the same, the hollow charity, the purchased respectability, the rot under the sequins. His fingers itched to pull the mask off every face, force them to stand bare and ugly under the lights.
A brush at his side pulled him from his thoughts. Another detective, Ruiz, mid-thirties, sharp suit but with the restless energy of someone who’d rather be anywhere else, sidled up to him with a glass in hand. He leaned just close enough to be heard.
“Jesus,” Ruiz muttered under his breath, lips barely moving. “You hear that shit? They’re talking about students like they’re racehorses. One guy just said he practically owns his intern because he pays her stipend.”
Jinyoung’s jaw tightened, his eyes fixed ahead as if he hadn’t heard. But he had. And Ruiz wasn’t wrong.
“They all sound the same,” Jinyoung said finally, voice so low it could have been mistaken for a sigh. “Like they’re auditioning for each other.”
Ruiz huffed a humorless laugh, covering it with a sip of his drink. “If I stay here any longer, I’m gonna forget which side of the law I’m on.”
Jinyoung didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth ticked, razor-sharp. “That’s the trick of rooms like this. You think you’re here to watch them, but they’re the ones putting on the show.”
Ruiz shook his head, muttered something about “fucking parasites,” and drifted back into the crowd, leaving Jinyoung standing alone again.
His gaze flicked upward, back to the north wall, to the lean man in the half-black, half-white mask. Still silent, still smiling that small, unreadable smile. And suddenly all the other laughter in the room sounded even hollower than before.
And then he saw him.
The figure stood near the north wall, lean and composed, dark blonde hair slicked back with ruthless precision. The suit was simple but flawless, cut so sharp it almost gleamed under the chandeliers. But it was the mask that caught Jinyoung’s eye, half white, half black, a clean divide down the center, the edges around the eyes blurred faintly, as though shadow itself had smeared across them. Unlike the feathered, glittering masks the others flaunted, this one was stark. Clinical. Unsettling in its restraint.
He held a champagne flute with practiced ease, posture perfect, head tilted as if listening to the men around him. They barked laughter about endowments, museum scandals, students they dismissed like afterthoughts. But he didn’t join in. Not once. He sipped. He smiled, faintly, lips curved into that quiet, unreadable half-smile.
It wasn’t friendliness. It wasn’t mirth. It was something else.
Jinyoung felt it immediately, a pull in his gut, sharp and unwelcome. Recognition without memory. Something in the stillness of the man, the way he didn’t move unless he had to, the way his eyes didn’t reflect the room’s brightness but seemed to absorb it whole.
He didn’t want to be superstitious. He didn’t believe in “auras” or “vibes.” But this one, this man….felt different. Not like the others, not like the room full of parasites puffing up their own importance. His presence was quieter, but heavier, like gravity bent a little differently around him.
Almost without realizing it, Jinyoung shifted. A step closer through the crowd, then another. Subtle enough to pass as coincidence, but deliberate all the same. He pretended to study the paintings along the wall, pretended to be interested in the wine on the passing tray, all the while angling himself nearer to the figure in the mask.
And the closer he got, the stronger the itch in his chest became. The slope of the shoulders. The easy grace of the posture. The shape of the jaw beneath the mask. None of it was familiar outright, yet something in it scratched at the edges of memory. Like a song half-remembered, like a name on the tip of his tongue.
Jinyoung narrowed his eyes, forcing his expression to stay neutral. Whoever he was, he wasn’t just another donor. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t filling silence with noise. He was observing, the way predators observed.
He lifted his own glass, disguising the movement of his lips as he murmured into the comm.
“Sali,” he said, voice low and tight, “keep an eye on the group by the north wall. Especially the one in the half-mask. He doesn’t fit the rest.”
The words landed heavy in his ear.
Because Jinyoung knew the type. He’d spent his career learning the difference between performance and authenticity, between masks people wore and the truth that slipped through the cracks. This man in the half-mask wasn’t laughing with them because he wasn’t one of them. He was watching. Measuring. Waiting.
And for reasons Jinyoung couldn’t yet name, that half-smile gnawed at him like a secret he should have already known.
The ceremony began with the clinking of glasses against crystal, the sound swelling across the ballroom until the chandeliers seemed to shimmer in rhythm. All attention turned to the stage at the far end of the hall where a banner, pretentious and gilded, proclaimed: “Honoring the Luminaries of Tomorrow.”
Councilman Han Min-soo walked up the steps like he owned them, his tuxedo too sharp, his smile too rehearsed. The applause rose in a wave, polite and performative, echoing beneath the dome of chandeliers. Jinyoung stayed where he was, glass in hand, eyes narrowed. He’d read enough about Han, plagiarized work, stolen projects, rumors of relationships with students buried neatly under “allegations dismissed.” Now, somehow, the man stood there receiving a humanitarian award.
“Tonight,” Han’s voice boomed into the microphone, his bowing exaggerated, his words drenched in humility that didn’t reach his eyes, “we celebrate not just achievement, but service. I have been humbled, deeply humbled, by my years on the university board. By the privilege of nurturing the next generation of bright minds. And by the trust of this city to let me serve not just as an academic, but as a Councilman who believes in giving back.”
Polite laughter rippled when he added a line about “spending more time on campus than in his own home,” a quip rehearsed for maximum relatability. Jinyoung wanted to roll his eyes; he could practically hear the publicist’s pen scratching the line into Han’s speech weeks ago.
“Students are our future,” Han went on, his smile widening as camera shutters clicked. “And what greater honor than to stand behind them, to lift them higher, to remind them they are never alone in their journey?”
The clapping swelled again, louder, emptier. People leaned toward each other whispering about how inspiring it all was, their words hollow, their laughter fake. Jinyoung didn’t clap. His jaw tightened as he scanned the room, the corners of his vision prickling with impatience.
And then…there.
Near the north wall.
The man in the mask.
Clapping, yes, but unamused…slow, deliberate, detached. The half-black, half-white mask covered more than half of his face, obscuring detail, but that somehow made him more compelling. His presence was still, his smirk faint, his posture immaculate, eyes locked on Han with a kind of disdain so quiet it was almost reverent.
The rest of the room blurred around him. Jinyoung knew it was ridiculous. Ridiculous to find interest in one silent figure in a crowd of hundreds, but he couldn’t look away. The mask unsettled him. The perfect split of light and dark, the bleeding smudge around the eyes that gave the illusion of shadowy tears. Pretentious, maybe. Or artistic. But on him? It didn’t feel like costume. It felt like a declaration.
The hair on the back of Jinyoung’s neck prickled, and he realized his grip on his glass had gone taut.
Something about this man felt different.
Minutes later, Jinyoung’s eyes caught the subtle shift, just enough movement to stand out in the room’s glittering monotony. The man in the half-mask tilted his head at something one of the donors said, offered that faint, unreadable smirk, and then excused himself. He moved with unhurried grace, cutting through the crowd as if the sea of sequins and tuxedos parted for him.
Jinyoung’s gut tightened.
He set his glass down with deliberate care, adjusted his cufflinks to mask the twitch of his fingers, and followed. Not too close, never too close. Just far enough to keep the figure in his sights as he slipped toward the side hallway.
The man didn’t glance back once. Didn’t pause to check his phone, didn’t nod at anyone along the way. His steps were measured, purposeful. As though he knew he was being watched. As though he wanted to be.
The ballroom’s noise dulled behind Jinyoung with every step. The heavy carpet swallowed the sound of his shoes, the hallway colder, quieter, lined with portraits of donors whose painted eyes stared too knowingly. At the far end, the masked man pushed open the door to the restroom without hesitation, disappearing inside.
Jinyoung lingered for a beat outside the door, his pulse sharp against his throat. Then he went in.
The bathroom was marble and chrome, sterile under white lights that hummed faintly overhead. A line of sinks gleamed, mirrors stretching endlessly, reflecting back fractured versions of himself. The stalls stood closed and silent.
He slipped into one, let the door click softly behind him, and waited. The sound of water running reached his ears, steady, deliberate, unhurried. A ritual.
Jinyoung stepped out just as the masked man leaned over the sink, washing his hands with surgical care. The gloves he’d worn in the ballroom were gone now, revealing long fingers, pale under the water. He dried them slowly, folding the towel with a precision that made Jinyoung’s skin crawl.
And then their eyes met in the mirror.
For one terrible, dizzy moment, Jinyoung’s stomach flipped. He saw it, the cut of the jaw, the slope of the nose, the sharp, cool stillness.
His mind screamed at him: No. It’s not possible. Fourteen years. You don’t even remember his face right. You’re seeing ghosts.
Still, the resemblance clawed at him.
Jackson.
Jinyoung forced his voice to stay polite, steady. “Nice mask,” he said evenly.
The man’s gaze lingered on him in the mirror. Then he smiled, small, wordless. The kind of smile that revealed nothing and promised too much. He dried his hands with meticulous care, set the towel aside, and without a word slipped past Jinyoung, his cologne trailing faintly in the air, vanishing through the door as smoothly as he’d entered.
Jinyoung stood frozen, his chest tightening until the air itself felt hostile. His eyes followed the man’s retreating back as the door eased shut behind him. Rationally, he knew what he’d seen, a stranger in a mask, another arrogant donor, another face in the crowd. Nothing more. His brain told him he was tired, strung out, desperate to find meaning in the mess of cases piling on his desk.
But his gut screamed something else.
That jawline. That quiet way of moving, like the room bent to him instead of the other way around. That smile, small, careful, too practiced. He hadn’t seen Jackson in fourteen years, and yet the resemblance gnawed at him like a splinter he couldn’t pull free.
No. Impossible.
Jackson was a boy frozen in memory. A boy with sharp wit and soft smiles, with books tucked under his arm and a restless energy that couldn’t be contained.
He wasn’t this man, this stranger wrapped in polish and secrecy.
Jinyoung’s mind was just playing tricks on him. Grief, stress, exhaustion, they did things like this.
And yet… the thought wouldn’t let go. The longer he stood there, the more he felt it coil tight inside him, the pull he couldn’t explain.
His hand twitched at his side, his lips parting before he could stop them. He should’ve stayed silent. Should’ve walked back to the ballroom, back to the noise and safety of the crowd. Should’ve locked the feeling down where it belonged.
But his voice betrayed him.
“Excuse me?” he called out, too sharp, slicing into the quiet hallway.
The man stopped. Turned slightly, patient. “Yes?”
The voice…it wasn’t right. It wasn’t familiar. But Jinyoung’s throat closed anyway, raw, unthinking, a word surfacing that should have stayed buried forever.
“…Seuna?”
The name fell from his mouth like a wound reopening.
The man’s brow lifted beneath the mask. Polite confusion. “Pardon?”
And just like that, the floor dropped from under Jinyoung. His mouth went dry, ears burning. What the fuck had he just said? Fourteen years, and he had thrown a ghost’s name into the air like it belonged here.
He shook his head too quickly, muttered, “Nothing. Sorry,” and retreated, shoving himself back into the restroom.
The stall door locked behind him, the thin metal shaking with the force of his breathing. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
Shame burned in his chest.
Stupid. Pathetic. Fourteen years, and you still…
He pressed his palms against his knees, head bowed, hating himself for seeing shadows where there were none. Hating himself more for the slip of the tongue, for admitting to the empty air that somewhere inside him, Jackson Wang still lived.
When Jackson left the restroom, mask adjusted, composure restored, he found himself confronted. A man had followed him outm tall, broad-shouldered, wearing his own mask, the kind of presence that filled the hallway without even trying.
Jackson’s gaze flicked over him automatically, cataloguing details the way he always did: the controlled stance, the sharp line of his suit, the way he carried himself like someone who lived in command. Attractive. Undeniably so. Handsome, even with the black mask obscuring most of his face, maybe because of it. The mask only heightened the outline of his jaw, the intensity of the eyes. His build was clean, well-trained, disciplined.
But Jackson didn’t know him. He was certain of that. He would’ve remembered a man like this.
And yet…
“Seuna?”
The stranger voice was tight…. Hesitant.
What does that even mean? It’s a name?
But the word hit him like a blade pressed against the inside of his ribs.
Jackson blinked. The syllables were nothing familiar, not a name he had ever answered to in his life. But the sound of it did something to him. A sharp, electric tremor knifed through his chest, so sudden he almost faltered. His breath caught, though his face stayed still. He didn’t know what the word meant, didn’t know why it struck him like that. It felt like something tugging at the edge of memory, something buried, unreachable, too deep to grab but impossible to ignore.
He forced composure into his voice, the faintest frown behind his mask. “Pardon?”
The man looked immediately stricken, as if he’d made a mistake. Apologized quickly, retreating.
Jackson stood there a beat longer, still feeling it, the strange sharpness the word had carved into him. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t place it, but something inside him had been touched. Something he didn’t have words for.
And for the first time in years, Jackson Wang didn’t entirely trust himself.
Nell was standing right where the masked stranger had been. Silver sequins glittered like sharp scales under the chandelier light, her posture perfect, her smile already waiting for him.
He sighed inwardly. Of course.
He walked toward her anyway, steps unhurried, expression smooth. He had never liked her. Nell Hernandez was the type who thought her edges made her magnetic—her sharp humor, her daring smirks, her way of sipping champagne like she owned the room. She was fabulous, undeniably. Sexy, pretty, and clever enough to hold her own against anyone in this circle. But Jackson didn’t care for any of that.
What he hated most was the way she thought she was subtle, that she believed Jackson didn’t know she had a thing for him. That she imagined her glances were unnoticed, her casual brushes of contact innocent. He never cared for her attention. He never cared for anyone’s attention. To him, Nell was simply a tool. A sharp, beautiful tool, yes…but still just a means to an end.
And she was useful.
She always brought the good pieces, artifacts, maps, first-edition books, sometimes manuscripts whose very existence should have been lost to history. She knew who to reach out to, what strings to pull, what smugglers to sweet-talk. She had her ways into the underground auctions, the private collections, the whisper networks that kept rare items moving in and out of the black market. And she had the Tuans on speed dial.
That was the real business.
People whispered that the Tuan family built their empire on tech, encrypted radios, surveillance contracts, government deals. That was true, but only half the truth. Their big money came from the black market. Smuggling antiquities, stolen artifacts, rare manuscripts stripped from crumbling monasteries and war-torn ruins. They sold to the highest bidder, billionaires, private collectors, even foreign governments with quiet hunger for history. It was dirty, dangerous work.
Jackson knew all of it. He had known since the end of high school, since the days Mark trailed him like a shadow, feeding him pieces of their world. Mark never went to university, he went deeper into his family’s empire. Jackson, on the other hand, built a veneer of respectability: Brown, then the museum, the university. But he never severed the tie. He didn’t need to.
He didn’t even have to.
Because Jackson was useful to them too.
Whenever a rare book arrived, half-decayed or scarred by time, it was Jackson who restored it. Whenever a map was frayed, ink bleeding into parchment, Jackson’s hands made it whole again. His archivist work was immaculate, obsessive, flawless. And for every artifact he mended, for every volume he gave new life, Jackson took his cut. A generous cut. Enough to keep his house spacious, stark, fortified with the best security systems money could buy, ironically supplied by the same Tuan contacts who smuggled the treasures in.
Everyone in this circle knew Nell was connected. Everyone knew she could open doors to things the law should have buried. She knew exactly what the Tuans were, though she never said it aloud. She didn’t have to.
Jackson knew, too. But unlike her, unlike Mark, unlike anyone else in this glittering circle, he had another secret, one no amount of money, no encrypted radio, no black-market transaction could touch. Nobody here, not even Nell, not even Mark, knew that Jackson Wang killed people.
Nobody but Kole.
And as for Mark…Mark was just content that Jackson was still in his orbit. Still there, still polished, still beautiful, still unreachable. Mark’s obsession had never dimmed since high school; it had only sharpened, grown stranger, more possessive with every passing year. Jackson knew it. He saw it in the way Mark’s gaze lingered too long, in the way he maneuvered to keep him close.
But Jackson never cared.
To him, it was all just part of the game.
***
Miami, Florida – 14 years ago
The second week of July dragged like wet clothes. Everyone at school still murmured the same excuse, Jackson’s sick again. Lung infection. Always the same words, always the same shrug.
But Jinyoung didn’t believe it.
He’d seen the way Jackson carried himself when he was around, quiet but alert, always sharper than he let on. Fragile? Maybe. Sickly? No! Being gone for three weeks straight without a word? Without even a single reply to his texts? No. That didn’t add up.
And Jinyoung wasn’t the type to sit back and let questions rot.
So, for the first time in his golden-boy student council career, he broke a rule. One sticky afternoon, under the excuse of “organizing equipment in the sports room,” he slipped into the school office. The air smelled like dust and old toner. His hands shook as he opened the files, flipping fast, scanning until he found it…
Wang, Jackson. Address.
He memorized it.
That evening, after basketball practice, he biked to the address. A quiet suburban street. Lawns neatly trimmed, kids riding scooters, the hum of sprinklers. The Wang house was ordinary, almost too ordinary. Beige siding, a well-kept porch, curtains drawn tight.
He didn’t ring the bell. Just stood at the curb, staring.
The next day, he came again. Still no sign of life.
By the third day of circling that quiet suburban house, Jinyoung felt both ridiculous and restless. He’d loitered with a basketball under his arm the first time, pretending to be passing through. The second time, he’d told himself he just wanted to “double-check the street.” Now, on the third afternoon, sweat clinging to his collar after practice, he finally caught sight of someone.
A woman.
Tall, elegant, with glossy hair swept into a twist, her heels clicking smartly against the path. She carried herself like she belonged somewhere far more glamorous than a quiet street with trimmed lawns. Her perfume drifted ahead of her, a sharp, expensive sweetness that made Jinyoung think of department stores he could never afford.
Without giving himself time to think, he jogged forward. “Excuse me…uh, hi!”
She stopped, brows arching, her dark sunglasses catching the sunlight. “Yes?” Her tone was polite, but coolly measured.
Jinyoung tried to smile, tried to look casual though his pulse was racing. “Is this the Wang residence?”
Something flickered across her face, too fast to catch, like a shadow. But she answered smoothly, “Yes. Who is asking?”
“Oh. I’m—” he hesitated, suddenly aware how sweaty and disheveled he looked, “—I’m Jinyoung Park. I go to school with Jackson. I just…wanted to check in on him.”
Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. She tilted her head. “And how did you find this address, Mr. Park?”
Jinyoung swallowed. “We walked home together once.”
Her expression sharpened. “Did you now?” She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “That’s interesting, because Jackson never walks home. He is always driven.”
Heat crawled up Jinyoung’s neck. He stumbled, quickly correcting himself: “Right. What I meant was…he told me the address. Just once. I remembered.”
“Mm.” She took off her sunglasses slowly, eyes trained on him, steady and unreadable. “Why did you lie the first time?”
It felt like a trap, the way she asked it, as if she already knew the truth. Jinyoung shifted awkwardly, forcing a laugh. “It wasn’t…lying. Just… misspoke. I was worried, that’s all.”
She said nothing. Just kept looking at him, like she was weighing him on invisible scales.
Finally, Jinyoung’s patience cracked. He drew in a breath, shoulders tight, and said more firmly, “Look, I know it’s not really my place, but Jackson’s been absent for a while. Nobody’s seen him. He’s not at volunteering, he’s not at dance, he’s not at the library. I just… Can you please tell me where he is? I’m worried about him.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint hiss of sprinklers across the street. Then she smiled and sighed softly, almost theatrically, and said, “He’s in the hospital. He has a lung infection.”
Jinyoung stared at her.
Because it didn’t make sense. Hospitals didn’t take away your phone for a lung infection. Even in an oxygen mask, you could text. Even on IV meds, you could send a reply. Jackson would never leave him hanging like this…not unless something was seriously wrong.
And Jinyoung didn’t buy that shit for a second.
He nodded politely anyway, bowing his head just slightly. “Thank you.”
She replaced her sunglasses, perfume lingering as she brushed past him and walked to the door. “You’re a persistent boy, Mr. Jinyoung,” she murmured over her shoulder, not quite a compliment. “But some things are better left alone.”
Jinyoung stood rooted on the sidewalk, fists clenched at his sides. He knew she was lying. He could feel it in his gut. And whatever it was, it wasn’t a lung infection.
Not even close.
It gnawed at Jinyoung’s mind, day and night. That conversation with the aunt replayed over and over in his head, her calm, perfectly practiced answers circling like vultures. He’s in the hospital. Lung infection. It sounded too neat, too rehearsed, too prepared.
He lay awake in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he should have pressed harder. Wondering if he should have just shouted at her until she cracked. But he couldn’t. Not then, not when she had looked at him with that faint perfume-clouded smile that made him feel like a child trespassing in a game meant for adults.
Still, instinct burned in his gut. And instinct wasn’t enough. Not for anyone else. But for him, it was everything.
He couldn’t stay away.
So, one late afternoon, after basketball drills left his shirt sticking to his back and his muscles sore, he found himself pedaling down that quiet suburban street again. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and warm asphalt. Birds perched on telephone wires, watching him as though they, too, were waiting for him to make up his mind.
Their house stood exactly as it had the last time: beige siding, shutters shut tight, porch steps swept clean. A house that looked normal, unremarkable, like it had been deliberately designed to hide its secrets.
Jinyoung stopped his bike at the curb, one sneaker resting on the pavement, and just stared. His throat was dry, his palms sweaty against the handlebars. He thought about walking up and ringing the bell, but the thought of that aunt’s eyes flicking over him, dissecting him, made his stomach twist.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, chewing on his lip. How many times had he come here now? Three? Four? And each time he walked away with nothing but the same gnawing hole in his chest.
The curtains stayed closed. No sound, no movement. Just silence.
The kind of silence that felt deliberate.
He exhaled shakily and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to care this much. He had basketball tournaments coming up, council work stacked on his desk, friends expecting him to joke and laugh like always. And yet all he could think about was a boy who wasn’t even really his friend. A boy who vanished for weeks at a time and came back thinner, paler, always carrying some invisible weight.
Finally, out of sheer desperation, he turned away from the house. If the house wouldn’t tell him anything, maybe someone else would.
That was when he noticed the neighbor across the street, an old woman bent over her flowerbeds, trimming roses with a patient, steady hand. She looked like the type who saw everything without ever leaving her yard.
His chest tightened. He stood there for a long moment, hesitating, heart pounding like he was about to commit a crime. Then, swallowing hard, he walked toward her.
“Excuse me,” Jinyoung said, his voice tight with nerves. “I—I’m sorry to bother you. Do you know the family that lives there? The Wangs?”
The woman straightened slowly, bracing her knees with gloved hands before peeling off the gardening gloves. She wiped them on the front of her faded apron and studied him with pale, sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. After a moment, she nodded. “Yes.”
Jinyoung swallowed hard. “It’s… been days they’re not home. Do you know where they are?”
Her head tilted slightly, suspicion flickering in her gaze. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jinyoung,” he blurted, too quickly. His throat worked, but he forced the words out. “Their son’s… friend. Do you know where they are?”
The woman pursed her lips, thoughtful. “They’re normally away on business trips, the aunt especially. She’s in and out. Always so elegant, that one. Smells like those perfumes you only see locked in glass cases.”
Jinyoung’s heart clenched. “And their boy?”
“Oh yes. They have a boy…” She sighed, and her expression softened with something like pity.
Jinyoung’s chest tightened. “The boy…Jackson?”
“Yes.” Her gaze flickered back toward the silent beige house, and when she looked at Jinyoung again, her sharpness had eased into something gentler. “Quiet one. Smart. But… troubled.”
Jinyoung’s mouth went dry. “Troubled?”
The old woman lowered her voice, glancing around as though she were sharing a fragile secret. “He’s got… mental issues, dear. Needs to go to the hospital from time to time. A special kind of hospital. That’s why you don’t see him for stretches. The aunt takes him. Always comes back thinner, paler. Poor child.”
Jinyoung’s breath caught in his throat, but before he could speak, the woman shook her head, her eyes shadowed by memory. “His mother once told me about it, years ago. I remember it because…well, one night, I woke to the sound of shrieking. It was past midnight. The kind of sound that makes the hair on your arms stand up.”
Jinyoung’s pulse roared in his ears. “Shrieking?”
She nodded slowly. “The boy was crying, screaming… inconsolable. His mother told me later it wasn’t the first time. They had to call an ambulance. Lights flashing, right out there on the street. They carried him out in the middle of the night. He was so small then. So fragile. His cries cut right through me.”
The woman sighed again, her lined face creasing with sorrow. “It broke my heart. A boy like that should be laughing with friends, not… haunted by whatever demons he’s fighting.”
Jinyoung’s lips parted, but no sound came out. The weight of her words pressed down on him until he thought he might collapse right there on the pavement.
Something inside Jinyoung collapsed at her words. The quiet finality in the old woman’s voice echoed in his skull like a bell toll. He mumbled a stiff, hurried thank you and turned on his heel, walking quickly away, but the world blurred around him as he went. The neat row of houses, the trimmed lawns, even the burning Miami sun, all of it swam out of focus. His chest ached as if something vital had cracked.
By the time he got home, his legs felt like they were carrying stone. He shut himself in his room, pressing the lock with trembling fingers, and leaned against the door as though the silence on the other side might crush him.
And then, for the first time in years, Park Jinyoung cried.
Not the small tears of childhood scraped knees, not the frustrated tears of losing a game. These were silent, shaking sobs that wracked through him, ripping from somewhere deep, somewhere raw. He buried his face in his hands, and the tears came until his skin felt raw and hot.
Because the truth wasn’t what he wanted.
He had been bracing himself for secrets, for lies, for something sinister. He had imagined kidnappers, abusive guardians, something external that he could fight, something he could fix if only he pushed hard enough. But this? Jackson being sick. Jackson being locked away in some sterile hospital. Jackson suffering alone, again and again. It wasn’t a story he could fight his way into fixing, it was just pain. And it broke him in ways he hadn’t prepared for.
Why didn’t he tell me? The thought circled him like a noose. Why didn’t he trust me?
But almost as quickly, guilt followed.
Because why would he? Who was I to him? Just a classmate who kept hovering, pretending to know him, pretending to matter.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst in the darkness. His chest was tight, his breath ragged. He wanted to run to the hospital, wherever it was, break through whatever walls held Jackson, swear to him that he wasn’t alone, not anymore. But he knew, deep down, he knew…that was the last thing Jackson would want. Pity. Exposure. Being cornered with someone else’s sorrow.
No. He couldn’t do that to him.
Not yet. Not like this.
When Jackson was ready, he would tell him. When Jackson decided to open that door, Jinyoung would be there, waiting. Until then, the only thing he could do, the only thing he decided he would do, was make sure Jackson never felt alone, even if he didn’t realize it.
Still, the weight of it was too much for a seventeen-year-old to carry alone. That night, when the house grew quiet and his sisters were asleep, he sat on the edge of his bed, hugging his knees, and thought of the only person who might understand. His father.
Lieutenant Park had seen everything. Crime, grief, liars, broken people. He carried burdens that made Jinyoung’s school stress look like dust. And if anyone could tell him what to do with the ache in his chest, it would be him.
For the first time in his life, Jinyoung considered confessing, not about the snooping, not about the address, but about the boy named Jackson Wang. The boy who vanished. The boy who made him want to protect someone more fiercely than he had ever protected himself.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would talk to his dad.
The next evening, Jinyoung couldn’t sit still.
He had finished his volunteer shift early, but instead of hanging out with his friends or shooting hoops until dark, he’d come straight home. He tried to distract himself, booting up a computer game, listening to music on low volume, even flipping through one of Jackson’s book recommendations again, but nothing held. Every road in his mind circled back to the same haunting image.
Jackson.
He kept picturing him in some sterile white room, the kind Jinyoung had only seen in TV shows. A narrow bed with a metal frame. White walls. White sheets. The cartoonish, cruel idea of a “mental hospital” his teenage imagination had stitched together. Jackson sitting there, thin and pale, alone. Maybe strapped down. Maybe crying out with no one to hear.
Jinyoung shook his head hard, dragging the mouse across his screen just to break the thought, but it came back again and again. By the time the sun dipped low and the kitchen lights switched on, the weight of it pressed on his chest until it felt hard to breathe.
When his father came home, Jinyoung practically leapt up to help with the table, setting out plates, pouring water, ferrying dishes to his mother while his younger sister trailed behind, tossing in jokes about his sudden “domestic streak.” They ate together, warm and familiar, but Jinyoung barely tasted the food.
Afterward, as he was clearing the plates, his father leaned back in his chair, studying him with those sharp, kind eyes. “Are you alright, son? You’ve been quiet.”
Jinyoung froze for a moment, caught. He tried to deflect with a shrug. “Just… tired. Long day.”
But his father didn’t look away. He had a way of holding silence like it was a mirror, forcing you to fill it with truth.
Finally, Jinyoung sighed. “Can we… talk? Later?”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his father’s mouth. He nodded. “Of course.” He stood, stretching, then glanced at the clock. “It’s been… what? Two and a half months since I’ve had a cigar.” He said it casually, almost to himself, but Jinyoung caught the glimmer in his tone. His father always had a way of marking the moment when something important was about to be said, when it was time to sit down and really listen. He knew his son better than anyone, knew when silence meant struggle, when Jinyoung’s shoulders carried more weight than he let on. And he always made sure Jinyoung understood one thing: no matter how heavy the secret, no matter how confusing the feelings, he could bring them here. His father was his anchor, and this porch, this ritual, was his safe place.
His father only smoked cigars on rare occasions, when the mood was right, when he wanted to think, to really talk. El Conquistador Especial. The name alone was like a ritual in their family, a quiet signal that the night was meant for something deeper, something that wouldn’t end with small talk.
Jinyoung smiled faintly, some of the tension easing in his shoulders. “Guess it’s that kind of night, huh?”
His father chuckled, low and warm. “Seems so.” He clapped a hand gently against Jinyoung’s back, the kind of gesture that always reminded him he was seen, understood without words. “Come on, help me light it on the porch. Best conversations happen out there.”
The words carried a kind of promise, one Jinyoung had grown up with, his father’s quiet way of saying: I’m here. You’re safe. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.
The porch was their place. His father had always liked to sit there in the evenings, even when Jinyoung was little, sometimes with a book, sometimes just watching the streetlights come on. Tonight, as he struck the match and the faint, rich smoke curled into the cool air, Jinyoung felt his pulse hammering.
This is it. Say something. Don’t choke now.
His father sat back in the old wooden chair, relaxed but attentive, always present in a way that made Jinyoung feel seen.
Inside, Jinyoung’s conflict roared.
He didn’t know how to start.
How do you tell your father you’ve been sneaking around school files? That you found out your classmate disappears to hospitals and you’re scared for him, though you can’t even explain why? Would his dad think he was naïve? Overstepping?
But then again, if there was anyone he trusted, anyone who could hold this without judgment, it was him.
His father wasn’t just a detective with a PhD in forensic science, the man everyone at the precinct respected for his brilliance. He was Jinyoung’s anchor. The reason he volunteered. The reason he kept pushing, leading, trying.
Jinyoung sat across from his father on the porch, the faint glow of the cigar ember flickering in the dark like a tiny lighthouse. The night air was cool for summer, the kind of breeze that carried the smell of cut grass and the faint hum of cicadas. His father leaned back in the chair, smoke curling from his lips in slow ribbons, patient, as though he had all the time in the world.
“Appa…” Jinyoung started, but the word snagged in his throat. He shifted in his seat, rubbing his palms against his knees. “Appa, I—” He stopped, his tongue thick, his pulse loud in his ears.
His father turned his head, brow furrowing slightly, the cigar balanced between two fingers. “Jinyoung-ah. What is it that’s baffling you like this? You’re twisting yourself up, I can see it. Whatever it is, it’s making you restless. Tell me. You’ll make me worry.”
The gentleness in his tone made Jinyoung’s chest tighten. He bit his lip, then forced the words out. “Appa… can I ask you something… about… mental hospitals?”
That earned him a pause. His father lifted the cigar, puffed once, then exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the dark. “Mental hospitals?” he repeated, his deep voice thoughtful, even cautious. “Well… that’s out of the blue.”
“I know.” Jinyoung’s words tumbled out too fast. “I know it’s strange.” He hesitated, pressing his lips together, his eyes fixed on the boards of the porch floor as if the knots in the wood might give him courage.
His father said nothing, only drew on his cigar, the soft ember glowing in the dark, waiting.
Jinyoung exhaled sharply through his nose, a sigh of surrender. “Okay… I have this new friend.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I really like him. He’s… different. He makes me try new things…new books, new hobbies. And it’s… it’s fun to hang out with him.” His voice dipped, trailing off, and for a moment he stayed quiet, chewing on his bottom lip.
His father puffed slowly, watching him through the smoke.
“Okay. But?”he said, tilting his head, giving Jinyoung room to continue.
Jinyoung rubbed his palms together nervously.
“Well, he… he disappears. He’s absent from school from time to time. And people keep saying it’s because he has lung infections, but…” He shook his head. “I knew that wasn’t true.”
His father finally spoke, his tone calm, probing. “How did you know it’s not true?”
Jinyoung’s brow furrowed. “Because it doesn’t make sense. He seems… different whenever he comes back, like it’s not just being sick. And whenever I text him during that time, he doesn’t answer. Ever. And I know, if you’re in the hospital for an infection, they don’t take away your phone. You can be hooked up to an IV and still reply, even just once. But every time he’s gone, nothing. No reply. Not once.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not just suspicious, it’s impossible.”
His father leaned back in the chair, the leather creaking faintly, and let out a long, thoughtful hum. “Hmmm.”
The sound stretched in the quiet night, heavy and contemplative, as if he were already weighing the unspoken truth Jinyoung was circling.
His father stayed silent, just leaned forward a little, his eyes fixed on Jinyoung through the curl of smoke.
He didn’t push.
He never pushed.
He waited.
Jinyoung’s fingers twisted hard in his lap, his throat tightening until the words came out broken. “I… I did something really bad, Appa.”
His father’s eyes flicked over, calm but sharper now. “What did you do, son?”
Jinyoung’s breath stuttered in his chest. “I…I snooped in the school files,” he admitted, voice low and guilty. “Because… because I wanted to know where he lived.”
His father straightened slightly, studying him with more concern than judgment, but it only made Jinyoung’s ears burn hotter.
“I found his address,” Jinyoung continued in a rush, his words tumbling out. “And I went there. More than once. I couldn’t help it. I just…” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening.
“And then?” his father prompted gently.
Jinyoung swallowed hard. “There was this woman. She said she was his aunt. I asked where he was, and she just told me the same thing everyone else says, that he’s in the hospital with a lung infection. Exactly the same words.” He shook his head, his chest aching. “But I knew she was lying.”
His father leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, listening.
“So I went back,” Jinyoung whispered, his voice thinning. “I asked a neighbor instead. An older woman. She… she told me the truth.” He went quiet, the weight of it clogging his throat.
His father’s voice broke the silence, low and careful. “What truth?”
Jinyoung’s shoulders hunched. His lips pressed together before he forced the words out. “She said… he has mental issues. That he goes to a hospital, not for his lungs, but for that. She said his aunt takes him, and when he comes back he’s thinner, paler.” He stopped, his breath shaking.
For a moment he couldn’t look at his father, because saying it out loud made it feel heavier, crueler, like he was betraying Jackson by speaking the words at all. Finally he forced it, bitter on his tongue: “…He’s actually being hospitalized for mental issues.”
The porch went quiet but for the faint hiss of the cigar. His father leaned back slowly in his chair, studying his son, waiting…letting the silence do its work.
His father let the cigar burn slowly between his fingers, the glowing tip pulsing in the dim light as thin ribbons of smoke curled upward into the cool night air. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, eyes fixed on some point in the garden beyond the porch, his expression unreadable.
For Jinyoung, the silence was unbearable. The steady chirp of crickets only made it worse. Every second stretched like a wire pulled too tight, and his pulse hammered in his ears, so loud it almost drowned out his own breathing. His hands twisted in his lap, restless, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek just to keep from blurting out more.
Finally, Appa drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting like a veil before his face. When he spoke, his voice was calm, steady, the kind of tone that made Jinyoung sit straighter without realizing it.
“First,” he said, eyes finally cutting back to his son, “I’m proud of you for telling me.”
The words hit Jinyoung like a slap of cold water. He blinked rapidly, caught off guard. Proud? He hadn’t expected that. He’d braced himself for disappointment, maybe even anger, for his father to tell him he’d gone too far, that snooping into school files was reckless. He hadn’t expected warmth.
“You didn’t have to,” Appa continued, turning the cigar between his fingers with quiet precision. “You could have kept this to yourself, hidden it, let it eat you alive. But you didn’t. You trusted me enough to speak. That matters, Jinyoung-ah. It matters more than you think.”
Something in his chest loosened, but it didn’t ease the sting of guilt. If anything, it made the lump in his throat heavier.
Appa continued, his voice steady, thoughtful, measured like a man who had spent years weighing evidence and people with equal care. There was something almost clinical in the way he spoke, but it was softened by the unmistakable warmth beneath it, the kind that always reminded Jinyoung why he trusted his father more than anyone else.
“Mental illness isn’t a shame, Jinyoung,” he said, rolling the cigar slowly between his fingers. The ember glowed, then dimmed, then glowed again with each calm breath. “It’s an illness. Like pneumonia, or a broken bone, only harder to see, harder to explain. It doesn’t always have clean edges. It doesn’t heal in ways you can measure with X-rays or blood tests.”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee as he tapped ash into the tray. His eyes didn’t waver from his son’s face. “Families don’t like talking about it because people judge. Because the world is quick to point fingers, quicker to whisper. And because it’s messy, more complicated than most people want to deal with. That aunt of his?” He gave a small shake of his head, smoke drifting from the corner of his lips.
“She wasn’t lying to you to hurt you. She was protecting him in the only way she knew how. Guarding him from pity. From gossip. From being reduced to a problem instead of a person.”
The words landed heavy, sinking into Jinyoung’s chest. His father let the silence stretch, long enough for Jinyoung to feel every beat of his own conflicted heart.
“And you…” Appa’s tone gentled, though his gaze stayed sharp, unwavering. “You’re carrying guilt because you found out the hard way. Because you crossed a line. But the reason you did it…” He gestured slightly with the cigar, as if pointing at the truth itself. “The reason was because you care. That’s not a sin, champ. That’s compassion. Even if it was clumsy. Even if it came with mistakes.”
Jinyoung swallowed hard, his throat thick. He could feel the heat of shame and relief warring inside him, his chest tight with both. His father had always had that effect on him, taking the tangled knots inside him and loosening them, not by dismissing the weight of what he’d done, but by naming it for what it truly was.
Jinyoung still felt unbearably heavy at heart. His throat closed up tight, like he was choking on his own thoughts. He opened his mouth once, twice, but no sound came. The silence stretched, and for a moment he hated himself for not knowing how to put it into words.
Appa leaned forward slightly, cigar balanced between his fingers, his dark eyes steady on him. “What matters,” he said gently, “is what you do now.”
Jinyoung’s lips parted again, and finally the words stumbled out, rough and halting. “Yeah… that’s the question. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to lose my friendship with him. But at the same time, I can’t not care about this matter. I don’t know what to do.” His voice cracked, boyish in a way he hated. He pressed his palm against his knee to stop it from shaking. “Appa, please… help me.”
His father exhaled slowly, smoke drifting into the cool night air, and sighed. “You say you like this boy. You like spending time with him. He’s fun to be with.”
Jinyoung nodded instantly, too quickly. “Yeah. Very much. He…he has these really cool book suggestions, He knows many things and he makes me think about things differently. He even got me to think about dancing. And it’s fun.” A nervous laugh escaped him, soft, almost embarrassed. “It’s really fun.”
Appa smiled faintly at that, though his eyes stayed thoughtful. “Okay. Then don’t push him. Don’t treat him differently. Don’t demand answers he’s not ready to give. Just… be steady. Be someone safe. Be his friend.”
The words landed like stones in Jinyoung’s chest, simple, but weighty. He shifted on his seat, absorbing them.
Appa tapped the ash from his cigar and continued, his voice carrying a calm authority. “People with wounds, visible or invisible, they know when someone is looking at them with pity instead of respect. Don’t be that person. Don’t pity him. Respect him. If he really wants to, he’ll share his dark secrets with you. Until then, just be his friend. Steady, constant.”
He puffed on the cigar again, the ember glowing bright before fading, his eyes softening as the smoke drifted away into the night. His voice grew quieter, but it carried deeper. “If you really want to be his friend, Jinyoung-ah, don’t make his illness the center of it. Make him the center. His books. His jokes. His stubbornness. Treat him like the boy you already like. Because that’s what he’ll need more than anything: someone who doesn’t run away when things get complicated.”
Jinyoung sat frozen, staring at his father, the words threading through him like a needle pulling tight the seams of his thoughts. It made sense—so much sense it hurt. He wanted to protect Jackson, to guard him, but Appa was right. Protection wasn’t about pity. It wasn’t about prying. It was about being there, steady and unshaken.
He swallowed hard, throat thick, and nodded slowly. Okay. I’ll do that. I’ll just… be there. I’ll be the person who doesn’t leave.
And for the first time in days, something inside him eased, just a little.
The ember of the cigar had burned low, shrinking to a faint orange glow that pulsed with each draw. Appa let the last stream of smoke drift into the night before pinching the butt out in the ashtray. The porch fell quiet, only the soft hum of crickets filling the silence.
Finally, he glanced at Jinyoung. “Do you feel better?”
Jinyoung nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. The heaviness in his chest wasn’t gone, but it had lightened. “Yeah. Thank you… for listening. And for not judging.”
Appa raised a finger, his expression stern but not unkind. “That said, don’t you ever snoop in school files and private business again. If you get caught, it’s going to end badly, and I’m not going to pull you out of the fire. You’ll have to accept the consequences.”
Jinyoung’s eyes widened. He knew his father meant every word. He bobbed his head quickly, eager, contrite. “Yes, Appa. I won’t do it again. Promise.”
Appa gave a final, slow nod, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth as he leaned back in his chair. “Good boy.”
And Jinyoung felt it…that anchor, steady and unshakable. Whatever came next with Jackson, at least he wasn’t facing it alone.
***
The applause still rattled the rafters of the University Grand Hall long after Councilman Han stepped off the stage. Marble floors gleamed under the chandeliers, masks glittered, and the crowd of donors and academics buzzed with rehearsed cheer. Han had just been honored with a humanitarian award, his name floating high above the chatter, tethered to words like “children’s hospital funding” and “charity partnerships.”
The Tuan family’s name was dropped more than once, alongside other corporate sponsors, with glowing assurances that their “generosity” would heal sick kids and clothe the poor. Jinyoung rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. He didn’t even bother to hide it, because everyone in this room was too drunk on champagne and self-congratulation to notice.
All motherfuckers, he thought bitterly, watching masks tilt back with fake laughter. Not a damn one of them cares about anything but how they look in the papers tomorrow.
On stage, Han gave his closing bow, his black mask still fixed neatly to his face. The audience clapped as though their palms had been rehearsed too. He disappeared down the velvet-draped steps, swallowed quickly by the crowd.
For a while, Jinyoung let himself scan the room. Sali’s voice crackled faintly in his ear.
“Do you see Han?”
Jinyoung kept his jaw tight. “No. What about you?”
“No,” she sighed, frustration cutting through the static. “It’s crowded. Groups are breaking off everywhere. People are laughing, drinking… it’s a mess.”
Jinyoung swept his gaze across the masquerade of silks and feathers, but his mind wasn’t only on Han. It kept snagging on him. The man in the half mask, half white, half black, sharp as a blade in his clean suit. Jinyoung had clocked him earlier near the champagne tower, that faint smirk never shifting, his applause too precise, too unamused. Now, he was nowhere.
And it wasn’t just irritation that gnawed at Jinyoung. It was worry. A cold, irrational wave building in his gut, whispering that Han and that man were tied together somehow, that this was already spiraling into something more than a gala.
He tapped his earpiece. “Spread out. Everyone. Find Han. And find the man with the black and white mask. Half and half. Tall. Clean suit.”
One by one, detectives murmured their negatives. No visual. Not on the south balcony. Not by the catering hall.
His pulse spiked.
Finally, one of the younger detectives broke in, voice tense: “Sir, maybe they slipped out of the hall. We should sweep the other wings. Offices. Classrooms.”
Jinyoung’s jaw clenched. He didn’t hesitate. “First place we check is Han’s office.”
He caught Sali’s glance as they broke from the crowd. She didn’t question him. She just matched his stride, her heels sharp against the polished floors as they cut down the quieter corridor.
The farther they went, the more the sound of the gala thinned, until only their footsteps echoed against stone. They reached Han’s office, tucked behind carved double doors. One was pulled nearly shut, but not quite. A pale sliver of light bled through the gap.
Jinyoung’s chest tightened.
He pushed first, slow. The door creaked open.
And the stink hit them like a blow.
Perfume, expensive, chokingly sweet, layered over wine and coppery blood.
The office unfolded before them, grotesque and deliberate. Councilman Han was slumped over his desk, but not in any natural collapse. His body had been staged, posed as though he were still writing, head bowed, hand stretched forward. A fountain pen jutted from his throat, rammed deep enough that the black ink leaked with the blood, dripping in thin, uneven rivers across the papers beneath him.
But the papers weren’t his.
They were printouts of his students’ drafts, original works with their names highlighted in red. The ink-stained trails ran down their words, blurring brilliance that had never been his to claim.
Above him, on the wall, a crude face stared back at them, a mask assembled from pages taped together, jagged sentences and cut-up paragraphs layered into something almost human. Plagiarized words, stolen voices, given shape as the murderer’s latest mockery.
Han’s academic robe had been draped over his chair, limp and mocking, like a costume ripped away from its actor.
And across the whiteboard behind him, written in strokes so large they nearly screamed:
NOTHING YOU EVER WROTE WAS YOURS.
A crueler touch still: taped to Han’s chest was the torn title page of a journal article, his name burned off the paper, replaced with the names of the graduate students he had robbed. They looked less like credits and more like accusations, the true authors laid bare in death.
Sali clapped a hand over her mouth. Her voice trembled. “Holy God…”
Jinyoung didn’t move. His jaw clenched until it ached. His fists curled so tight the veins bulged at his wrists.
He turned sharply, snapping at the roomful of detectives flooding in behind them. “Get ready. Secure everything. Preserve every goddamn shred of evidence.”
They froze at his tone.
Sali glanced at him sidelong, her pulse quickening. She’d seen this look before, the dangerous one. When Detective Park was angry, truly angry, he became something near uncontrollable. And right now, standing over Han’s desk, he wasn’t just angry. He was humiliated.
Because the bastard had done it here. Tonight. Under their noses. While half the precinct was undercover in the building.
Later, when exhaustion finally pulled them into the precinct briefing room, Sali tried to soften it. Her voice low, almost apologetic: “We couldn’t have foreseen this, Jinyoung. Normally he waits, one, two days after the celebration. This was…”
“His logic isn’t working properly anymore,” Jinyoung cut her off, voice like steel. His hands dragged down his face as though he could scrub the fury away, but it only burned hotter. “He wanted to humiliate us. To humiliate me. He knew we were here.”
By the time the University Grand Hall had emptied, when forensics had finished, photographs were taken, and the air reeked of bleach and blood, Jinyoung was still pacing.
He stopped only once, to glare at Sali. “Did you find him? The man with the half mask, white and black?”
She shook her head. “No trace.”
Jinyoung’s nostrils flared. “Then we need the name of every single person who attended this event. Every donor, every faculty member, every piece of shit who bought a mask tonight.” His voice rose. “I want him on that list. And when we find him, we interrogate all of them if we have to.”
Sali hesitated. “That’s… a lot of people, Jinyoung.”
“I don’t care.” His voice cracked like a whip. “We’re not letting him vanish again.”
He was being illogical. He knew it. She knew it. But fury had already hijacked his reason. Somewhere in that glittering crowd, the murderer had been watching him, laughing at him. And Jinyoung would not let that stand.
The precinct conference room stank faintly of burnt coffee and exhaustion. Reports were spread everywhere, taped crime scene photos pinned up on the board: the grotesque mask of plagiarized words, the pen in Han’s throat, the chalkboard screaming NOTHING YOU EVER WROTE WAS YOURS.
Hours had passed, and still nothing. Not a fingerprint, not a hair, not a single fiber that didn’t belong to Han himself. The forensics team had combed through every inch of the office and come back with the same answer they always did: clean. Too clean.
Jinyoung sat at the head of the table, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was drumming his fingers on the file in front of him, jaw tight, the vein in his temple beginning to show. His eyes moved from one detective to another as they gave their reports. Each one ended the same way…empty.
Finally, he snapped.
“What about cameras?” he barked, the sharpness in his tone making the junior detective across from him flinch. “This is a university grand hall. Don’t tell me no one thought to check the cameras.”
The tech officer shifted nervously in his chair. “We did, Detective Park. Most of the feeds are intact. People coming and going, staff in and out, guests mingling…” He hesitated. “There’s only one anomaly.”
Jinyoung’s eyes narrowed. “What anomaly?”
The officer clicked the remote, pulling up the grainy black-and-white footage. There, in the far corner of the lobby, stood a tall figure in a black suit, half of his face hidden by a mask, one side stark white, the other jet black, eyeholes smeared with glittery streaks that caught the light. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just standing there, holding a glass of champagne, still as a statue while the crowd buzzed around him.
Sali leaned forward, squinting. “That’s him…”
Jinyoung’s throat went dry, but his voice came out like gravel. “That’s the one. The man I saw in the bathroom.”
The video rolled forward. The masked man set his glass down on a table and drifted casually toward the corridor leading to the restrooms. Then…static. A flicker of distortion. And when the feed cleared again, he was gone. No entry. No exit. Nothing.
“It’s like he walked off the edge of the earth,” the officer muttered.
Jinyoung shot to his feet so fast the chair legs screeched against the floor. His hand slammed against the table. “Don’t you fucking tell me this is coincidence. No trace at the crime scene, no DNA, and now the cameras magically cut out the exact second he walks into a hallway?!” His voice rose, echoing against the glass walls. “He’s mocking us. Every single one of us. He’s playing a goddamn game!”
Sali lifted a hand, trying to calm him. “Jinyoung—”
He turned on her, eyes blazing, his hands trembling with contained rage. “What is this guy? Some sort of…some sort of Magic Man?”
The room went silent at the words.
“Magic Man,” one of the younger detectives repeated under his breath, almost testing the weight of it.
And just like that, the name stuck.
Jinyoung sank back into his chair, chest heaving, staring at the frozen frame of the man on the screen. Half white. Half black. A mask no one could see behind.
For the first time that night, the great Detective Park felt something he hated more than anger.
He felt the edge of fear.
***
Saturday bled gray from the start.
Jinyoung didn’t drive to his mother’s house that morning. He texted her a curt excuse, work came up, I’ll come next week, but she didn’t buy it. The phone calls followed. First from her, then from his sisters. By noon he’d fought with all of them, clipped words escalating into sharp edges, until he hung up and immediately hated himself. The guilt sat heavy in his chest, souring everything.
So he smoked. One after another, leaning on the balcony railing, shirtless, the winter sunlight thin across his shoulders. The cigarettes left a bitter film on his tongue, but it was better than letting the fury stew unchecked. Normally, when he burned like this, he locked himself down, alone, unreachable. But today was different. He didn’t want silence. He wanted an outlet.
He wanted Hao.
It was almost too easy. One call, Hao’s sing-song voice answering with that bratty lilt, teasing like he always did. “Oh? Detective Park finally remembers me?”
Jinyoung’s jaw tightened. “Come over this afternoon.”
There was a pause, then a sly little hum on the other end. “Joanna too?”
“No,” Jinyoung said, calm but flat. “Just you and me.”
And just like that, he could hear Hao’s smile in the pause before he spoke again. “...Just us? Okay. I’ll bring wine. Five o’clock.”
Click.
Jinyoung leaned back against the wall, staring at the smoke curling up into nothing. He knew what he was doing. He always did. Control had never been a mystery to him, it came as naturally as the way people’s eyes lingered when he walked into a room. He had the face, the body, the gravity that pulled others in without effort. And he’d learned early on how to use it, how to tilt the balance just enough to get what he wanted.
But it had been years since he cared about what those people felt afterward. Years since emotions meant much more than a passing inconvenience. His father’s death had burned something out of him, some tether, some gentler instinct that used to keep him anchored. He didn’t stop caring about people altogether, not exactly. He still wanted justice, still wanted truth. But intimacy? Attachment? That part of him was ash.
Now everything came down to utility. If a smile could get him compliance, he used it. If his body could bleed the pressure out of his mind on nights like this, he’d give it away, or take what he needed. There was no moral crisis in it for him anymore. A fuck was a release, nothing more, nothing less.
And tonight, that release was Hao. The boy was reckless, too young, too easy to read, but he was beautiful, bendable, bratty enough to spark Jinyoung’s temper in all the right ways. And that was enough. If it took fucking a pretty twink into the mattress to quiet the storm in his head, then Jinyoung would do it without hesitation.
By late afternoon, the knock came.
When he opened the door, Hao stood there like some pretty little offering. A bottle of red clutched in one hand, a sly grin tugging at his mouth. He wore a cropped white tee under a half-zipped gray hoodie, hanging loose off one shoulder. The shirt rode up just enough to expose the line of his stomachو slender, pale, that dangerous waist Jinyoung had thought about too many times. His jeans were tight, low, teasing. Twink to the bone, but with the cocky posture of someone who knew exactly how he looked.
“Surprise,” Hao chirped, wiggling the bottle. “You look like shit, by the way.”
Jinyoung’s eyes flicked over him once, slow. He didn’t smile. “Get inside.”
Hao’s grin widened, bratty and pleased, as he stepped past him into the apartment. He smelled faintly of expensive shampoo, something citrusy, clean. Jinyoung followed him in, watching the way Hao’s hips swayed, almost unthinking.
And beneath all the simmering anger still twisting in his gut, Jinyoung felt it, a pulse of hunger. This boy was trouble, delicate and dangerous in ways he didn’t even understand, but right now Jinyoung didn’t care. He wanted to ruin something. He wanted to ruin him.
And Hao, bratty, crushing harder than he should, was more than willing to be ruined.
Hao kicked off his sneakers, humming some tuneless little melody under his breath, the kind of thing that was meant to irritate. He set the wine bottle down on the counter and turned, leaning back against it with his hands braced behind him, tilting his head like he was posing for a camera.
“Gege, you look scary today.” His grin was all teeth, sly, challenging. “Should I be scared?”
Jinyoung didn’t answer at first. He just watched him, silent, until Hao’s smirk faltered for a split second under the weight of that stare. Then he said, low and flat:
“Shut the door.”
The latch clicked.
Jinyoung crossed the space in two strides, catching him by the collar and shoving him back against the wall so hard the picture frame rattled. Hao laughed, breathless, a sharp little bark of sound.
“What, no hello kiss?” His voice was sugar-sweet mockery. “Just gonna use me like your toy?”
“Exactly,” Jinyoung growled, mouth close enough to brush his ear. “That’s all you are tonight.”
Hao shivered, but the brat in him couldn’t resist. He dragged his lip between his teeth, eyes gleaming as he whispered, “Mm. Promise?”
Jinyoung’s response was to rip the hoodie off Hao’s shoulders in one hard tug, dragging the thin crop top up with it. The fabric tangled, caught, then gave way with a rough sound before hitting the floor.
Hao squirmed, laughing through a sharp gasp, his bare skin prickling under the sudden chill. “So impatient, gege,” he taunted, voice lilting, chest rising fast. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”
Jinyoung ignored him. His hand skimmed low across Hao’s ribs, fingers pressing hard enough to leave lines that flushed red almost instantly. Goosebumps spread in their wake, a shiver racing through Hao’s lean frame.
“You smell good,” Jinyoung muttered, voice low, distracted for a second as he inhaled near his shoulder, the citrus-sharp shampoo mingling with skin and sweat. “Too good for the shit you’re about to get.”
Hao’s grin widened, bratty even as his breath caught. “Mm, you notice everything about me, Detective. Careful, I might start thinking you like me.”
Jinyoung answered by spinning him around, shoving him down against the arm of the couch. Hao’s palms hit the leather with a slap, sliding before finding grip. His knuckles whitened as he steadied himself, spine arching, his cropped shirt still bunched beneath his arms.
A laugh broke from him, shaky this time. “Ah…fuck. You don’t waste time, do you?”
Jinyoung leaned close, voice rough in his ear. “I told you. You’re here to be used. Nothing else.”
Hao shivered, the line of his back prickling with gooseflesh, half from the cold leather, half from the way Jinyoung’s breath burned hot against the nape of his neck. His toes curled and his whole body caught between tension and thrill, pulse hammering under his skin.
And still, brat to the bone, he tilted his head just enough to flash Jinyoung a sly smile over his shoulder. “Then use me properly, gege. Don’t hold back.”
“Spread,” Jinyoung ordered.
Hao threw a look over his shoulder, the smirk still painted on his mouth even as he did exactly what he was told, feet braced apart, palms firm on the couch arm. “So bossy when you’re mad,” he teased, voice light, needling. “Did someone piss off Detective Park today?”
The only answer was Jinyoung’s hand twisting in his hair, yanking hard enough to arch his throat back. Hao groaned, but there was no resistance, only that cocky grin that never seemed to fade.
“Mm, I knew it,” Hao breathed, words spilling in a mix of thrill and mockery. “You called me over just to use me like this, didn’t you? Lucky for you, I came prepared.” He wriggled his hips, jeans riding low, daring Jinyoung to make good on the threat.
Jinyoung’s eyes flicked once to the coffee table, where the bottle of lube already sat waiting, as though it had been part of the plan all along. He gave Hao’s hair another sharp tug. “Always such a little slut,” he growled. “You knew what this was going to be the second you answered the phone.”
“And you knew I’d come running,” Hao shot back, smirk curling. “Guess we’re both predictable.”
The laugh that tore from Jinyoung’s chest was humorless. He shoved Hao forward, ripped his jeans down in one hard motion, and when Hao’s arousal sprang free, flushed and shameless, Jinyoung’s mouth curved into something between a sneer and a smile.
“Pathetic,” he muttered, hand ghosting low just to make Hao shiver. “You get this hard just from me pulling your hair?”
“Mm, maybe I just like it rough.” Hao wiggled his hips, voice deliberately bratty. “Or maybe I just like you, gege.”
The words earned him another hard yank, dragging him upright. Jinyoung spun him around and shoved him down onto the couch cushions, looming above him. Hao sprawled back, laughing breathlessly, then deliberately slid down until he was seated, eye-level with the outline straining against Jinyoung’s black sweatpants.
He bit his lip, dark eyes gleaming. “Tch. You look like you’re about to explode. Let me take care of that first.”
Jinyoung arched a brow, amused despite himself. “Is that what you want?”
“No,” Hao smirked, fingers already brushing at the waistband. “That’s what you want.”
Jinyoung didn’t stop him. He just stood there, still gripping Hao’s hair, as the boy tugged the sweatpants down. When Jinyoung’s cock fell free, half-hard but heavy already, Hao laughed softly, low in his throat, almost humming in delight. His tongue darted out over his lip, eyes glittering.
“God, I love it when you’re like this,” he whispered. “Big, mean, and about to ruin me.”
Jinyoung smirked, the kind of expression that promised exactly that. “Then get to it. You wanted to serve…so serve.”
Hao’s grin widened as he leaned closer, hands braced on Jinyoung’s thighs, the air between them taut with heat and promise.
He tugged Jinyoung’s black sweatpants down in one swift motion, briefs and all, and Jinyoung stepped out of them without hesitation. Hao’s lips curved in a soft laugh, a sound both bratty and triumphant, before he leaned in and engulfed Jinyoung’s shaft eagerly. His head bobbed in steady rhythm, mouth stretching around him, feeling the weight and pulse of his erection throbbing against his tongue.
For Hao, this was a reward as much as it was a game. He had always known his tongue was an instrument, something sharp and artistic, and he relished the way tall, bulky men, men like Jinyoung, melted under his nibbles, his swirls, his little vicious tricks. A soft laugh hummed in his throat, vibrating against Jinyoung as though to mark his victory.
“Oh, Detective… you like that, don’t you? “我是不是很好？”(Wǒ shì bú shì hěn hǎo? —“Am I so good at this or what?”)
Jinyoung only caught fragments of meaning. His Chinese was limited, barely a handful of ECA lessons in high school, mostly taken because of Jackson, and Hao had a habit of murmuring the filthiest lines under his breath. He didn’t always understand the words, but he didn’t need to. The cadence alone, low and taunting in Hao’s accent, was erotic enough to make his nerves catch fire.
His hand pressed to the back of Hao’s head, fingers threading through the soft strands, sometimes caressing, sometimes tightening. He hissed through clenched teeth as Hao’s tongue flicked mercilessly at the sensitive tip.
“You’re so good with that tongue… oh god…” Jinyoung’s voice cracked, his hips pushing forward, sliding deeper into Hao’s mouth, seeking more.
Hao responded with a sharp suction, cheeks hollowing before he pulled back and released him with a wet, obscene pop. His lips glistened as he looked up, eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, you’re not the first daddy who enjoys my pretty mouth…” He licked his lips slowly, savoring the taste, teasing himself with the salty smear of precum that coated his tongue.
Then, with no pause, he swallowed him down again, head moving faster, throat relaxing against the weight. Jinyoung’s muscles tightened, his breath coming shorter, until the burn in Hao’s throat was matched only by the sting of salt at the back of his mouth.
Eventually Jinyoung grunted and pulled him away, shoving him down onto the couch. Hao’s spine hit the leather with a muffled thud, and a soft, surprised “ah” slipped from his swollen lips. His mouth was red and slick, glistening with spit and Jinyoung’s taste, shining in the dim light like he’d been marked.
Jinyoung dropped to his knees, spreading Hao’s thighs apart with firm hands, exposing him without ceremony. He lowered his mouth over the small, pink rim, sucking hard.
Hao grunted, his shaky hands clutching his own thighs to keep them raised. His voice cracked into a whine: “对，就是那里…好厉害啊，侦探。” (Duì, jiù shì nàlǐ… hǎo lìhài a, zhēntàn — “Yes, right there… you’re so good, Detective.”)
Jinyoung growled against him, sucking harder, until Hao cried out, his legs trembling, heels drumming lightly against the couch cushions.
Before he could fully unravel, Hao reached forward desperately, dragging Jinyoung up, kissing him with little gasping moans. Their mouths collided wetly, Hao tasting of Jinyoung, something Jinyoung loved, something primal and consuming, the taste of himself on another’s lips.
“Please, gege… just… do it,” Hao whispered, arms winding around his neck, voice ragged with need.
Jinyoung held him close, hugging him tight as though he’d tear him apart if he let go. Then, in one fluid motion, he lifted Hao into his arms. Hao clung on, wrapping his legs around Jinyoung’s waist, burying his flushed face in the crook of his neck. He inhaled deep, trembling, as the bitter-cold scent of Jinyoung’s cologne filled his lungs, a sharp contrast to the heat burning between them.
Jinyoung carried Hao into the bedroom, barely pausing before throwing him down onto the bed. The mattress groaned, Hao’s spine arching as he landed, a small involuntary cry slipping past his lips. His hair stuck to his forehead, eyes glittering as he panted up at Jinyoung.
“So now,” he whispered with a smirk that trembled into something needier, “are you gonna fuck me?”
“Yes,” Jinyoung growled, his chest heaving as he reached for the lube on the nightstand. “Now I’m gonna fuck you.”
He twisted the cap with a click, squeezing out a generous amount into his palm before coating his shaft. His cock gleamed slick in the dim light, thick and engorged, and when he pressed the coldness of the lube against Hao’s rim, the boy gasped sharply, crying out, his voice breaking into Chinese pleas.
The sound jolted something deep in Jinyoung, riling him up more than he wanted to admit. He had been with Hao countless times, fucked him hard enough to know every curve, every angle, but every time felt new, unnervingly so. Hao’s body was always tight, impossibly tight, as though he’d regenerated himself fresh each time, a vampire body reborn, virgin again under Jinyoung’s hands.
“Please, Detective… please, please, please…” Hao whimpered, voice catching as Jinyoung slid into him inch by inch, until he bottomed out, filling him to the hilt. Hao’s back arched off the mattress, eyes rolling back, tears clinging to his lashes.
“I wanna move, pretty boy…” Jinyoung murmured against his ear, his breath hot, his voice a low rasp that trembled with restraint.
“Please do… please fucking do…” Hao wept, his arms shaking as small tears spilled from the corners of his eyes.
Jinyoung’s hips drew back and then pushed forward again, his rhythm building, each thrust wringing out another broken cry from Hao.
“快点快点舒服…” (Kuài diǎn, kuài diǎn, shūfú — “Faster, faster, it feels so good…”).
This one Jinyoung understood perfectly. The words struck him like a match. He snarled and sped up, driving harder, his guttural grunt tearing free.
Hao’s mouth kept opening, trying to form words, but only moans came out, babbling fragments drowned in ecstasy.
After a long while, Jinyoung raised his head, sweat dripping down his temple, and caught sight of his own reflection in the window glass. His face looked unfamiliar, hard, furious, almost monstrous.
Angry.
And he was angry. This whole case, this Magic Man bastard, had twisted him too tight, wound his nerves until he could barely breathe.
“Cunt…” he hissed between clenched teeth.
“What?” Hao gasped, confused, his voice breaking.
Jinyoung didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out sharply, flipped Hao over like he weighed nothing, spreading his lean frame across the sheets.
He shoved his cheeks apart and slid back in, the sound wet and obscene.
“对…就是那里…嗯，爸爸。” (Duì… jiù shì nàlǐ… ng, bàba — “Yes… right there… mm, daddy.”)
Hao babbled the words over and over, voice cracked and trembling. Jinyoung spanked him hard, the sound sharp in the dark room, his own grunt echoing low. His mind scattered, his focus unraveling.
He looked up again, drawn back to the window…and froze.
Across the way, in the building opposite, a silhouette stood still in the shadows.
The figure was tall, unmoving, a darker patch against the unlit room. The lights were off, curtains parted just enough, and though the distance blurred detail, the shape was unmistakable.
Someone was there.
Watching.
His heart stuttered, panic prickling through the haze of lust. His chest tightened as he blinked once, twice, three times, still the silhouette remained, motionless, as if carved into the night. His thrusts faltered, his breath turned ragged, the sensation of Hao around him fading into static as his mind locked on the figure.
Hallucination, he told himself.
Stress.
Lack of sleep.
His body moved, but his nerves were detached, numb, all attention swallowed by that unmoving shadow.
“Gege…ahh…I’m coming, I’m coming…” Hao sobbed beneath him, legs shaking, voice cracking.
The words snapped Jinyoung back, yanking him into the present. He clutched Hao’s hips and drove into him with brutal force, chasing release, fucking through the haze until Hao broke apart under him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck – “ Jinyoung kept hissing, interspersed with heavy, growling moans as he slowed in favour of driving into Hao deeper.
“Unnhh – ‘mmhhff – “ Hao tried to say something, but it came out as a mumble. He went limp a little, head lolling and convulsed uncontrollably around the thick shaft prising him open.
Jinyoung didn’t pull out straight away. Instead, he fell on Haos’s back, still buried balls-deep as they both caught their breath. When he made a move to, Hao gasped in protest and quickly shook his head.
“N-no, stay inside me – I need you inside – “ he said quickly, clinging to him with every part of his body.
Jinyoung groaned.
“Come inside me…I beg you. Don’t pull out…” Hao cried.
Jinyoung froze, then nodded slightly, the smallest gesture, but enough. He heeded the request without a word, anchoring himself there, still pressed deep, keeping him filled. He let go, releasing tears through him as he came hard inside Hao. The boy cried out, almost screamed, clutching the sheets with trembling hands as Jinyoung filled him, warm essence spilling deep, pulsing waves that made Hao’s rim clench even tighter. The cries mixed with sobs, his whole body shuddering from the overwhelming stretch and heat.
Jinyoung’s eyes, though half-lidded, dragged back to the window. His vision blurred with sweat, his reflection staring back at him, red-faced, panting, drenched. The silhouette was gone, vanished into the night, leaving only his own shadowed figure in the glass, the image of a man undone.
Hao collapsed forward onto his stomach, boneless, face half-buried in the sheets. His chest heaved, skin slick, every muscle trembling. He had already come twice, his body wrung out, shuddering from the aftershocks.
Jinyoung pulled out slowly, then crawled up the bed and lay on his side, his breathing still rough, sweat cooling on skin. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, silent, before he felt Hao shift.
The boy turned toward him, trying to crawl into his arms, lips searching for another kiss. Jinyoung kissed him back briefly, but the moment Hao leaned closer, he turned his head away, his eyes dragging once more toward the window. The image of that silhouette was still stamped into his vision, stubborn, unsettling.
Hao frowned faintly. “Gege… did you not like it?” His voice was hoarse, still breathless, but tinged with a small pout.
Jinyoung blinked, then looked at him. “No. It was good.” His voice was flat, careful. Then softer, almost an afterthought: “You’re good. You’re a very good pretty boy.”
That earned him a bratty grin. Hao flopped onto his back, stretching languidly, the glint of mischief already back in his eyes despite his ruined state. “Mm, of course I am. But I’m tired, gege. You should take me to the shower and wash me.”
His tone was half-demand, half-tease, pure pillow princess indulgence.
Jinyoung studied him for a moment, lips quirking into a smile that looked warm but felt ceremonial, a facade worn easily, without weight. “Go on ahead,” he said smoothly. “I’ll join you later.”
Hao pouted, then leaned in to peck his lips before bouncing up, his narrow frame moving with light, careless energy that didn’t match the bruises already blooming along his hips. He disappeared into the bathroom, and soon the hiss of water filled the silence, echoing faintly through the apartment.
Jinyoung sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His body still hummed with exhaustion, but his mind refused to settle. He moved to the window, the floor cool beneath his bare feet, and pressed his palm against the glass.
Outside, the night was still, the city lights flickering between buildings, curtains drawn tight in every window he could see. This neighborhood was private, respectable, one of the reasons he’d chosen it. No one pried here. No one watched. And he never did either. That was the unspoken rule.
But what he had seen just minutes ago, the silhouette frozen across the way, dark and immovable, that was new.
Disturbingly new.
***
The door clicked shut behind him. Jackson slipped out of the chill night and into the quiet of his apartment, the faint smell of disinfectant and leather lingering in the air. Kole was already there, standing in the entryway like some deranged sentinel. The shock collar glinted around his neck, its strap snug against pale skin. His posture was tall, but everything else in his bearing was dog-like, eyes wide, eager, waiting for permission to breathe.
“So, Alpha,” Kole asked in a voice soft with anticipation, “how was it? Did you have fun?”
Jackson exhaled slowly. He removed his gloves first, then reached up to unclip the mask, setting it down on the console with deliberate care. His watch came off next, then the coat, button by button, and finally the bow tie, loosened with an easy tug. All the while, his smile never slipped.
“Yes,” he said at last, his tone smooth, almost pleasant. “I had fun.”
Kole’s lips stretched into a grin. His eyes shimmered like a child awaiting praise. “So, Alpha… did you like what I did? Did anyone disturb you?”
Jackson stepped closer and laid a hand on his head, patting him lightly, like one might reward a loyal hound. It was almost comical, given that Kole was a little taller, yet the gesture fit perfectly, the hierarchy carved into their every interaction.
“No,” Jackson said calmly. “You did a very good job. Good boy. You deserve a treat.”
He drifted into the kitchen, Kole trailing behind. From the tin on the counter, Jackson picked up a cookie, nothing unusual except for its shape: a neat little bone. He placed it at the corner of Kole’s mouth, watching the boy shiver with anticipation.
“You can have this with a glass of milk,” Jackson said, voice smooth as silk.
Kole’s eyes sparkled. He bit into the cookie with almost ceremonial reverence, whispering between crumbs, “Thank you, Alpha. Thank you, Alpha.”
Jackson poured a glass of milk, set it on the table, and slid it toward him. Kole accepted it with trembling hands, swallowing it down in silence while staring at Jackson the whole time, his gaze unwavering. Jackson sipped his own water, serene, as if this grotesque ritual were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Later, he retired to his room, changed into simpler clothes, and ordered Kole to hang up his discarded suit. Kole obeyed instantly, fussing over each piece of fabric like a priest dressing an altar.
But Jackson’s mind wasn’t here. It lingered elsewhere, on the tall man in the black mask, the one who had spoken that name.
When Kole returned, Jackson was seated at his desk, idly spinning his cufflinks between his fingers. Without looking up, he asked, “Cole, how were you with English classes in university?”
Kole blinked. “I was very good, Alpha. I did very good.”
“And other languages?” Jackson’s voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp when they finally met his.
Kole straightened, almost proud. “Alpha, I took Latin classes. Spanish too. And Japanese…because my mother is Japanese.”
“Mm.” Jackson hummed, turning the cufflink once more between his fingers.
Kole waited, hesitant. “May I know… why do you ask, Alpha?”
Jackson tilted his head, studying him. “Do you know the meaning of the word Seuna?”
Kole frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “I’m so sorry, Alpha. I do not know what it means. But I can look it up for you. I am sorry I don’t know it now. If you want, you can punish me for it.”
Jackson’s smile was faint, unreadable. “No. I don’t need to punish you right now. I’m tired.”
Silence stretched. Kole’s breathing quickened, but Jackson didn’t elaborate. His thoughts remained elsewhere, circling, circling.
After a moment, he asked, “Do you have access to the security cameras from tonight’s charity event?”
“Yes, Alpha,” Kole replied quickly. “But I promise, I edited everything. No one knows it was you who went to Han’s office. Everything is distorted, erased.”
“I don’t care about that,” Jackson interrupted softly. “I want to see the people. The ones who were there.”
Kole blinked, confused, but eager as always. “Of course. I can show you.”
He rushed to fetch his laptop, pulling up the distorted footage. Jackson leaned in, eyes scanning the blurred figures until he froze. There. The man. The one who had looked at him. The one who had called him by that name.
“Do you know this man?” Jackson asked, tapping the screen.
Kole leaned closer, frowning. “No… but I can find out.”
Jackson’s smile returned, faint and sharp. “Yes. Please do. Find his information. Find out who he is.”
When Kole finally left the room, laptop tucked under his arm and head bowed like a servant awaiting his next command, silence rushed in to fill the space. Jackson sat motionless at his desk, staring at the faint reflection of himself in the window glass in the dim light of his office.
At first, it was only a whisper in the back of his mind. A faint tremor. A word.
Seuna.
His jaw clenched. The syllables echoed in his skull, alien and intimate all at once. He didn’t remember it.
He really didn’t.
And yet, there was something there.
Something sharp scratching against the inside of his chest.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. But closing his eyes only made it worse.
Seuna.
Seuna.
Seuna.
It rolled through his thoughts like water dripping endlessly in the dark.
He mouthed it under his breath once, twice, again and again, tasting the strangeness of it on his tongue. The name didn’t belong to him, not in any memory he could grasp. And yet it pulled.
Jackson exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.
His skin felt clammy, his muscles taut, as if his body knew something his mind refused to. It was gnawing at him, tickling the edges of a place he had locked away so deeply he didn’t even know the door was there.
He tried to picture the man, the tall silhouette, the glint of his eyes, the sharp outline of his jaw beneath the mask. But no matter how hard he searched, the features slipped like smoke. Familiarity should have struck, but there was nothing. Only emptiness. Only the name ringing louder, shaking him from the inside.
Seuna.
Seuna.
Seuna.
He whispered it until it became meaningless, a string of sounds without shape.
Still, his pulse quickened, his chest tight, as though something deep in his bones remembered even if his mind could not. It was as if some ancient nerve had been plucked, vibrating endlessly, awakening something dormant and dangerous.
Jackson opened his eyes and stared at his own reflection in the window. For a split second, the face looking back seemed younger, softer, like someone else’s. He blinked, and it was gone, only himself remained. Calm. Composed. Mask intact.
But the tremor inside did not stop.
It would not stop.
***
Miami, Florida – 14 years ago
The library smelled faintly of paper and polish that morning, a warm quiet hanging in the air. Jinyoung hadn’t planned to come in, his schedule was empty while the kids at the sports camp were away, but something had pulled him here anyway.
And when he pushed open the door, he found Jackson.
He was behind the counter, shelving books with methodical precision, shoulders drawn in as though the weight of the world pressed on them. Narrower than before, pale, but steady. Jinyoung’s chest lifted.
“Jackson,” he called, his voice bright with relief.
Jackson turned, pressing a finger to his lips. “Shh. This is a library.”
Jinyoung grinned, lowering his tone. “I’m just glad you’re back.”
For a second, Jackson stared at him, as if surprised by the sparkle in his eyes. Then he smiled faintly. “Thank you.”
“So…how was it?” Jinyoung asked eagerly.
Jackson tilted his head. “How was what?”
“You know,” Jinyoung pressed, “the hospital. You always say you have lung infections, right? And they treat you for that.”
Their eyes held. Something flickered behind Jackson’s expression, unreadable. He was sharp, far sharper than he let on. Finally, he smiled again, but there was a cool edge to it. “Yes. Hospital is fun.”
Jinyoung rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say it was fun. I asked if you’re okay now. Was the treatment okay?”
“It’s just a bunch of antibiotics I have to get from time to time. That’s fine.” His tone clipped the conversation short, making it clear he didn’t want to talk about it.
Jinyoung raised a brow but let it go. “Okay then. So what’s your plan for this afternoon?”
“Nothing. If I have the energy, I’ll go to dance class.”
“Is Mark coming?”
Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”
“I don’t like that guy,” Jinyoung admitted flatly. “He’s weird.”
Jackson smirked faintly. “He’s okay. Just… different.”
Jinyoung knew he couldn’t push further, so he tried a different approach. “Hey, do you have any time this week?”
Jackson frowned. “Why?”
“Because I want to invite you to my house,” Jinyoung said, shrugging like it was nothing.
Jackson blinked. “Uh… to do what?”
“I don’t know. Watch a movie. Play basketball. I can ask my mom to cook. Korean food is delicious, you know.”
Jackson’s smile softened a fraction. “Yeah. I like Korean food.”
“Perfect. Then it’s settled.”
Jackson hesitated. “Can I tell you later? I’ll have to ask my parents.”
“Sure. No problem.”
That night, Jackson didn’t go to dance class. He walked home instead, stepping into the warm comfort of his house.
“I’m home,” he called.
His mother, Sophia, emerged from the kitchen with flour still dusting her hands. She had just come back from a business trip and looked relieved to see him. “Baby, welcome back. How are you today?”
They never treated him differently, not even the diagnosis. And he loved them for that.
He sat at the table, where his favorite food already waited. “Mom… one of my friends invited me to his house.”
Sophia frowned lightly. “A friend? Which friend?”
Jackson shrugged, trying to sound casual. “We’ve been hanging out for a while. He’s the captain leader. He invited me to watch a movie, maybe play basketball.”
“To his house? To do what?”
He repeated patiently, “Movie. Basketball. He said his mom would cook for us.”
Sophia arched a brow. “His mother will be home?”
“Yeah. He said she’d make Korean food.”
Sophia’s face relaxed a little. “Ah, so they’re Korean?”
“Seems so, yeah.”
She nodded. “Hmm. Yes, you can go. But I’ll drive you myself. I’d like to meet his mother.”
Jackson sat cross-legged on his bed, phone balanced loosely in his hands. The blue glow lit his face in the darkened room, throwing long shadows across the walls. He typed the message with care, thumb hesitating over each word before finally sending:
My mom said yes. So whenever you want, we can hang out at your place.
He set the phone down, almost regretting it immediately. But the reply came quickly, too quickly.
Jinyoung: Oh wow. Miracles do happen.
Jackson frowned, a crease forming between his brows. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he sent back:
Jackson: …?
Across town, Jinyoung lay sprawled on his bed, one arm thrown behind his head, a grin tugging at his mouth. He could practically picture Jackson’s confused expression. His thumbs moved fast.
Jinyoung: Nothing. Just surprised your mom trusts you with the menace of the neighborhood.
Jackson’s lips twitched despite himself. He leaned back against his pillow, shaking his head.
Jackson: You? A menace? Please.
The grin widened on Jinyoung’s face. He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes gleaming as he typed:
Jinyoung: Don’t act innocent. I’ve got a reputation, you know. Captain Leader, scary face, probably breaks kneecaps in his spare time.
Jackson let out a short laugh through his nose. His reply was simple, almost deadpan:
Jackson: That explains why you’re always alone in the library.
Jinyoung blinked, then chuckled, caught off guard by the sharpness of it. “Touché,” he muttered under his breath as his fingers flew across the screen.
Jinyoung: Touché. Anyway. What do you want to eat? I told you, my mom can cook.
Jackson tilted his head, considering. His stomach tightened, not from hunger, but from the strange warmth creeping up at the thought of someone’s mother cooking for him.
Jackson: Anything. I like Korean food.
Jinyoung sat up fully now, laughing under his breath. His thumbs typed fast, playful.
Jinyoung: Brave. You just signed up for enough kimchi to burn your soul clean.
Jackson’s mouth curved into the faintest smile as he typed back:
Jackson: Come on! My parents are Chinese. I’m familiar with spices enough.
That grin was back on Jinyoung’s face, sharper this time. He stretched out his legs, settling deeper into his bed like a king making proclamations.
Jinyoung: Good. Then it’s settled. Don’t bail. Or I’ll come drag you out of bed myself.
Jackson stared at the message longer than he should have. His chest felt tight, though he didn’t know why. Finally, he typed:
Jackson: …I’ll be there.
The reply came instantly, like Jinyoung had been waiting with the same restless energy.
Jinyoung: Good boy.
Jackson’s thumb lingered over the screen. He let the phone fall onto the blanket beside him, staring at the ceiling with a faint, bewildered smile tugging at his lips.
***
Sophia parked in front of the Park family house just before noon, the sun high and bright, heat shimmering faintly across the quiet street. Jackson climbed out of the car, clutching the strap of his backpack. His stomach felt oddly tight, not fear exactly, but a restless energy that made every step feel heavier.
The front door opened before he could knock. Jinyoung was already there, grinning, one hand shoved in his pocket like this was the most casual thing in the world.
“You’re late,” he said.
Jackson raised a brow. “You told me twelve. It’s eleven fifty-eight.”
“Mm. Late.” Jinyoung smirked and stepped aside.
From the hallway, a girl peered out, a slim fifteen-year-old with sharp eyes that softened when she saw Jackson. She leaned lightly against the doorframe, her posture casual but curious. “So this is the famous Jackson,” she said, half-teasing, half-genuine.
Jackson flushed slightly. “Uh…hi.”
Jinyoung rolled his eyes. “Ignore her. She’s just nosy.”
“Protective,” she corrected, sticking her tongue out before retreating upstairs
The mothers exchanged polite smiles, their voices carrying the gentle rhythm of introductions. Hands were shaken, pleasantries offered, and the air filled briefly with the kind of warmth that made everything feel simple, easy. It was clear they approved of the boys spending time together.
Jackson glanced at Jinyoung, who pretended to be fascinated with the floorboards. The faint pink at his ears betrayed him, though he covered it with a scoff.
They didn’t linger long inside. Soon the boys were out in the driveway, sneakers squeaking against the concrete, a basketball bouncing sharp and steady between them. The younger sister came barreling out with boundless energy, hair pulled back, eyes gleaming. Without a word, she stole the ball and sank a shot with perfect form.
“Wow,” Jackson said dryly, hands on his hips. “Didn’t know I was signing up for a 2v1.”
“Don’t be bitter,” Jinyoung taunted, stealing the rebound and passing it to her again. “She’s carrying the team. You should thank her.”
Jackson smirked. “She’ll get tired.”
“Or maybe you’ll just lose faster,” the sister shot back, sticking her tongue out as she dribbled around him.
Jackson lunged for the ball, missed, and groaned. “Unbelievable. I’m being humiliated by children.”
“Correction,” Jinyoung said with a grin, “you’re being humiliated by my family. We’re a package deal.”
The sister cackled when she scored again, high-fiving Jinyoung dramatically. Jackson narrowed his eyes, lips twitching as if he were suppressing a smile.
“Yeah, enjoy it while it lasts,” he muttered, finally stealing the ball back. “Because when I start trying…”
“You’ve been trying,” Jinyoung interrupted, laughing.
Jackson barked out a laugh despite himself, shoving Jinyoung with his shoulder before sprinting toward the hoop.
They played like that for another ten minutes, half-serious fouls, sarcastic digs, bursts of laughter echoing down the street, until the sister finally collapsed against the fence, wiping sweat from her forehead.
“I’m done,” she groaned. “You guys are insane.” Tossing the ball back to Jackson, she trotted inside, shaking her head but smiling all the same, leaving the two boys alone in the warm afternoon light.
The game shifted the moment his sister disappeared inside. Without a third player, the balance tipped; every move became sharper, more personal. The ball slapped against the pavement in a rapid rhythm, sneakers screeching as they circled each other like predators sizing up prey.
Jackson’s arm brushed Jinyoung’s, the contact brief but electric. Their shoulders collided a second later, harder, both of them refusing to yield. Laughter spilled out, but it was tight at the edges, threaded with something unspoken.
“Come on, Captain,” Jackson goaded, dribbling quick and low, his grin daring. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Jinyoung smirked, eyes gleaming, lunging forward to steal. Jackson twisted at the last second, the ball bouncing under his palm with practiced ease. Sweat ran down his temple, catching in the curve of his jaw, his chest heaving with each breath.
“You’re not bad,” Jinyoung admitted, circling him, lips quirking. “For a library nerd.”
Jackson laughed under his breath, flicking the ball from one hand to the other. “Library nerd, huh? Guess that makes you the loudmouth who never lets me read in peace.”
Jinyoung barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Please. You’d fall asleep in five minutes without me.”
They crashed together under the hoop, arms tangling, bodies pressing in closer than either intended. Jackson pivoted, trying to twist free, but Jinyoung held firm. The ball slipped loose, bouncing once before rolling out of reach.
In the scramble, Jackson tripped over Jinyoung’s foot. Momentum carried him forward, chest colliding against Jinyoung’s as they tumbled to the ground. The air rushed out of Jinyoung’s lungs in a sharp grunt, and suddenly Jackson was sprawled on top of him, palms splayed against the concrete to brace his weight.
The ball rolled away, forgotten.
For a moment, neither moved. Their faces hovered inches apart, breath mingling, sweat slicking their foreheads. Jinyoung’s lips parted, not in words but in something uncertain, something caught between laughter and silence. Jackson’s heartbeat thundered, loud enough he was sure Jinyoung could feel it where their chests pressed together.
The world seemed to narrow to the space between them, the heat of skin against skin, the sharpness of their breaths. It was just basketball, just an accident, yet neither could ignore the spark that flared in the aftermath.
Jackson’s heart hammered so hard he thought it might burst through his chest. Something inside him pulled, confusing, thrilling, terrifying all at once, as if every nerve in his body had suddenly woken up. And for the briefest second, he swore Jinyoung leaned up, just slightly, like gravity itself was tugging them closer, dragging them into a place neither had ever been before.
Then reality crashed back.
Jackson jerked away as though burned, scrambling back onto his knees. His face had gone pale, his breath ragged, words tumbling out too fast. “I…I’m so sorry.” He pushed to his feet, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand as if he could scrub the moment away, as if sweat could explain the flush burning in his cheeks.
Jinyoung stayed where he was on the pavement, palms pressed to the ground behind him, staring up with wide eyes. His pulse thudded heavy in his ears, a strange mix of disappointment and exhilaration flooding his chest. He parted his lips to say something…anything…but no words came.
The front door creaked open.
Jinyoung’s mom stepped out, apron still tied around her waist, her smile warm and unbothered. “Boys! Lunch is ready.”
The spell shattered like glass.
Jackson mumbled something incoherent, ducked his head, and hurried past Jinyoung toward the house. The rich smell of food, garlic, sesame, something warm and familiar, washed over him, grounding him in safer territory. Jinyoung rose more slowly, brushing dust from his palms, his gaze lingering on Jackson’s stiff shoulders.
Later, after the meal, they sprawled in the living room, stomachs full, the air heavy with the drowsy comfort of food. The lights were dimmed, the television flickering blue against their faces. Top Gun played, jets roaring, Tom Cruise smirking from the cockpit, but neither of them paid it much attention.
Jackson leaned back against the couch, arms folded tightly across his chest, as if holding himself together. Jinyoung sat close. Too close. Their shoulders brushed lightly, sending sparks across Jackson’s skin each time one of them shifted.
Neither spoke. The movie filled the silence, but the memory of that near-collision outside pulsed between them, alive and insistent. Wordless. Undeniable. And frighteningly new.
The fighter jets screamed across the television screen, contrails cutting the sky in streaks of white. The living room glowed in flickers of blue and orange, the sound of engines filling the silence between them.
“God, he thinks he’s hot shit,” Jinyoung muttered, nodding at Tom Cruise’s cocky grin.
Jackson huffed out a laugh. “You say that like you don’t have the same smirk.”
Jinyoung turned his head, arching a brow. “Excuse me?”
Jackson’s mouth quirked into the faintest grin. “Whenever you beat others in something. You hide it well, because you’re the leader, the role model. But I see it.”
Jinyoung blinked, caught for half a second before his lips curled into a slow smirk. “You pay that much attention to me, huh?”
Jackson shrugged, eyes sliding back to the screen. “Hard not to. You don’t exactly blend in.”
The corner of Jinyoung’s mouth twitched, half amusement, half something heavier. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Jackson gave him a sideways glance, voice soft but edged with sarcasm. “Wasn’t one.”
Jinyoung laughed, low and genuine this time, before nudging him with his elbow.
The cheesy pick-up lines earned a scoff from Jinyoung. “Who actually talks like that?”
Jackson leaned back, arms folded loosely. “The movie’s from the eighties. Life was easier back then.”
Jinyoung glanced at him, smirking. “Easier? You sound like an old man.”
“Maybe I am,” Jackson said lightly, eyes still on the screen. “No phones glued to your hand, no Facebook or Myspace or these kind of bullshits watching every move you make. Just… fly a plane, win a game, kiss the girl. Simple.”
Jinyoung tilted his head, considering. “Yeah, well, some of us weren’t alive back then, grandpa.”
Jackson chuckled under his breath. “Neither was I. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell the difference.”
Jinyoung studied him for a moment, the flicker of the TV catching the sharpness in his features. “So… would you kiss the girl?”
Jackson arched a brow. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just curious,” Jinyoung said, smirk tugging at his lips. “You talk like life was simpler, like that kind of thing was easier. So… would you?”
Jackson shifted, feeling heat crawl up his neck. He shrugged, evasive. “Maybe. Depends who she is.”
Jinyoung leaned in just a little, his smirk deepening. “So you do have someone in mind.”
Jackson snorted. “That’s not what I said.”
“But you didn’t deny it,” Jinyoung pressed, enjoying the way Jackson’s jaw tightened.
Jackson sighed, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “What about you, Captain Leader? You’d kiss the girl?”
Jinyoung’s eyes flicked back to the screen where Maverick leaned in close to Charlie, their mouths a breath apart. He smirked faintly, but his tone was softer. “If it was the right girl… yeah.”
Jackson gave a small laugh. “You sound like you’re giving a motivational speech.”
“Better than sounding like a coward,” Jinyoung shot back, grin flashing.
Their eyes met. Just a second too long, just a shade too sharp. The playful edge of the banter thinned into something heavier. Neither looked away.
Jackson’s throat bobbed. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who doesn’t care.”
“I never said I didn’t care,” Jinyoung replied quietly. His smirk faltered for the first time, giving way to something that looked almost earnest.
The sound of jets roaring filled the silence between them. Their knees brushed again, and this time neither shifted away. The flicker of the TV painted their faces in alternating light and shadow, and for a moment, it was hard to tell whether the heat in the room came from the movie, or from them.
Jackson smirked. “What about you?”
Jinyoung blinked, caught off guard by the sudden turn. “What about me?”
“You’ve had girlfriends, right?” Jackson asked, his tone light, almost casual, but his eyes sharp, curious in a way that made the question land heavier than it should have.
Jinyoung stretched his arms across the back of the couch, feigning ease. “Yeah. A few. Nothing serious. What, are you writing a biography?”
Jackson chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Just making conversation.”
“Mm. Sure.” Jinyoung tilted his head, studying him in the flickering light of the TV. The glow cut across Jackson’s face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw, the restless way his fingers tapped against his arm. “And you? Any crushes? Or do you spend all your time hiding in the library pretending not to care?”
Jackson exhaled slowly, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or scoff. “I’ve had a couple. Girls from class. You know how it is.”
“Which ones?” Jinyoung pressed immediately, his eyes glinting with something sharper than simple curiosity.
Jackson turned, giving him a sidelong glance. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Jinyoung shot back too quickly, the denial tumbling out before he could stop it. A beat later his smirk returned, thin but stubborn. “Just curious. Trying to figure out what kind of girl could actually put up with you.”
Jackson laughed softly, shaking his head, but his voice was quiet when he replied. “Probably none. Maybe that’s why I’m still single.”
Their laughter overlapped, lighter this time, but the sound lingered strangely in the air, just a little too warm, a little too brittle. On screen, Tom Cruise leaned into a kiss, but neither boy was watching anymore.
Their knees brushed when they shifted. Neither moved away.
The conversation hovered, suspended in that narrow space between sarcasm and something more. It was sharp-edged and playful, yes…but underneath, both of them could feel it, something unnamed circling closer and closer, waiting to be acknowledged.
The credits rolled, music swelling, but neither boy had really been watching for the last half hour. The movie ended in a wash of blue light across their faces, and still they sat there, close enough for their shoulders to touch, pretending they weren’t aware of it.
Jinyoung’s sister yawned loudly from the hallway, announcing she was bored, and within minutes she’d dragged them back to the rug for cards. The afternoon slipped by in bursts of laughter, mock arguments, and Jackson pretending to sulk every time he lost.
By the time Sophia’s car pulled up, Jackson’s chest felt strangely light, his cheeks still faintly sore from smiling. He rose, thanked Jinyoung’s mom politely, and let himself be ushered out with a wave. Jinyoung leaned in the doorway, smirking. “We’ll have a rematch next time. Don’t think I’ll go easy.”
Jackson shook his head, fighting a grin. “You cheated. Everyone saw it.”
“Liar,” Jinyoung shot back, and his sister cackled behind him.
It carried with Jackson into the car, the teasing, the warmth, the strange sense that something inside him had shifted without his permission.
Sophia glanced at him as he buckled in. “So,” she asked gently, “how was it? Did you have fun?”
Jackson hesitated, staring out the window at the retreating house. Then he turned back, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile that felt unguarded. “Yeah. I did. I really did.”
Something inside Sophia eased at those words. Her chest swelled with relief, with hope. For so long she had lived with the ache of worry—worry that her son, so bright, so capable, might never quite fit, might always remain on the outside because of the illness that shadowed him. Jackson was brilliant, endlessly curious, full of wit and life when he let it show. But he was not a “regular” kid, and the world was not always gentle with boys like him.
The hospital stays had carved her down bit by bit. Every time she signed the admission papers, every time the nurses wheeled him away for another round of treatment, another episode kept under control, something inside her cracked. It was a private pain she never spoke aloud—the way some small part of her seemed to die each time she left him in sterile white rooms, clutching his pillow and books. She hated the thought of his body tied to medication, of his mind labeled and monitored. And yet, she had no choice. Without it, the mania could surge, and she would lose him even more completely.
Her sister had helped more than she could ever say, stepping in when she and Ricky were traveling, keeping Jackson company, steadying the house when Sophia felt she couldn’t hold all the pieces together. Jackson loved her in his way, though they had never been close. Sophia carried gratitude for her sister like a weight in her chest.
But today felt different. This…Jackson laughing with another boy, coming home flushed from games and food and ordinary conversation, this felt like a new chapter. He wasn’t just stable, he wasn’t just “under control.”
He was living.
Blending. For the first time in a long time, she saw the extroverted spark in him, the bright, lively side that could fill a room. He had always had that spark, buried beneath the quieter, inward face he wore when the illness pressed too close.
Most days, she couldn’t tell which side was truly him, the sociable boy who loved people or the introspective one who pulled away. Maybe both. Maybe neither. The line was never clear.
But around Jinyoung, he was different. He smiled without forcing it. He teased. He looked like a teenager who belonged. That was all Sophia wanted for him, not perfection, not brilliance, just the chance to be normal, even if only for an afternoon.
Still, even as her heart lifted, her fear tightened its grip. She could never let people see the full truth. Not the bottles of pills, not the routine of dosages and side effects, not the quiet specter of relapse that stalked their lives. If Jinyoung’s family ever invited Jackson for a sleepover, she knew her answer would be no. She had already promised herself that. Not because she didn’t trust her son, but because she couldn’t bear the risk of questions, the risk of anyone learning the secret they had built their lives around hiding.
Her hands tightened imperceptibly on the steering wheel, the smile never leaving her face. “I’m glad, baby. I’m really glad.”
Jackson didn’t notice the strain in her voice, or the way she bit the inside of her cheek until it hurt. He only sat by the window, staring out with a faint smile lingering on his lips, lost in the memory of basketball and laughter and the flickering light of a movie.
And Sophia let herself breathe. He had a new friend. A boy who made him laugh, who drew out the extrovert she feared had been lost, who made him feel like just another teenager.
For today, that was enough.
Summer passed in a blur of sunlit mornings and quiet library afternoons. Their volunteer work ended with more laughter than Jackson had expected, and he found himself surprisingly grateful that Jinyoung had pushed him into it.
The library had been more than books, it gave him space to move, to dance a little when no one was watching, to feel like more than just a boy caught between labels and hospital stays.
For the first time in years, it had been a good summer.
The new school year began, and with it, a shift. Jackson and Jinyoung fell into an easy rhythm, orbiting each other closer with every passing week. Jackson suggested books, sometimes novels, sometimes strange history texts, and Jinyoung, despite his sarcasm, always read them, always came back with opinions sharp enough to spark debates that stretched long past their classes.
When the school drama called for volunteers, Jinyoung dragged Jackson into the auditorium. At first, Jackson stayed behind the scenes, his sharp eye landing on details no one else noticed, how to shift the set pieces smoothly, how to adjust the choreography so it flowed instead of clashed.
His ideas carried weight, and people listened.
Eventually, Jinyoung convinced him to take a small role on stage, something almost invisible. Jackson relented, and when the night of the play arrived, he delivered his lines with such clarity, such unexpected presence, that the audience leaned in.
He stole the scene, just for a moment, and Jinyoung’s grin from the wings was brighter than any applause.
They were closer now.
But not everyone liked it.
Mark watched from the edges, his expression unreadable. His group of friends lurked in hallways like shadows, loud, reckless, always in trouble. They dressed like they belonged in gangs, though they were just boys, too young for the image they tried so hard to project.
Teachers whispered, other students steered clear. But Jackson still sat with him sometimes, still spoke with him.
They shared Mandarin, an anchor between them, a language that belonged to both and separated them from everyone else.
It made Jinyoung restless. He never said it outright, but jealousy had a way of sitting in the corners of his chest, prickling.
He hated Jackson and Mark's friendship. He hated how they shared something he couldn’t share with Jackson.
So he signed up for Mandarin as an extracurricular.
At first, it was just stubbornness, a challenge to himself. But the similarities to Korean worked in his favor, and his progress was steady.
What surprised him was how much time it gave him with Jackson.
Afternoons in the library stretched long, quiet except for the scratch of pencils and the low murmur of Jackson’s voice as he guided Jinyoung’s pronunciation. Jackson was patient, sometimes amused when Jinyoung stumbled, sometimes mercilessly teasing him until Jinyoung threw a crumpled paper at his head.
In return, Jinyoung taught him Korean slang, breaking rules of grammar with a grin, coaxing Jackson into trying the words on his tongue. Jackson never asked for the Korean lessons but he accepted it willingly as Jinyoung delivered.
They traded secrets in syllables. Whispered slang that no teacher would approve of, phrases that belonged only to them. Sometimes they laughed so hard the librarian had to shush them, which only made them laugh harder.
And beneath it all, the connection deepene, word by word, glance by glance, until the library felt less like a place for books and more like a place that belonged to them.
The library was quiet that Friday afternoon, the last of the students long gone. Sunlight stretched in golden bars across the floor, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. Jackson leaned against one of the long tables, textbook open, pencil tapping idly against the margin. Jinyoung sat across from him, one elbow braced on the wood, chin in his hand, looking less like a student and more like someone enduring light torture.
Jackson smirked. “Again. Say it.”
Jinyoung groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” Jackson said flatly, flipping a page. “You butchered it the last three times.”
Jinyoung narrowed his eyes, then repeated the word carefully, lips shaping around the syllables. “朋友 (péngyǒu).”
Jackson tilted his head. “Not bad. Except you sound like you’re trying to seduce someone, not say friend.”
Jinyoung laughed, shoving at his arm across the table. “You’re impossible. How do you even know what I sound like?”
“Because I have ears,” Jackson deadpanned, then grinned when Jinyoung rolled his eyes.
They went back and forth like that, Jackson correcting pronunciation with exaggerated seriousness, Jinyoung mocking him in Korean whenever he got annoyed.
“gwaenchanha, gwaenchanha,” Jinyoung said at one point, smirking, “It’s fine, teacher. You’re doing a very good job.”
Jackson squinted at him. “That’s what I was supposed to say to you.”
“Too late,” Jinyoung teased.
Their laughter filled the empty library, bouncing off the high shelves. For a moment, it didn’t feel like studying at all, it felt like something else, something lighter and warmer that neither wanted to name.
As the clock ticked toward evening, Jinyoung leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Okay. I give up. My brain’s fried. But… thank you.”
Jackson arched a brow. “For what? Making you sound like less of a fool?”
“For helping me at all,” Jinyoung said, voice softening just a fraction. He smiled, then added, almost too casually: “Thanks, Seuna.”
Jackson blinked. “Seuna? What does that mean?”
Jinyoung shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. “Just a cute way to shorten your name in Korean. Don’t think too hard about it.”
Jackson stared at him for a beat, then looked down at his book, hiding the way his mouth tugged into a smile. He didn’t say anything, but the warmth lingered in his chest long after.
And from that day on, the name stuck.
***
Jackson sat alone in the dark, the only light coming from the muted glow of the lamp on his desk. A mug of steaming herbal tea rested in his hand, fragrant and sharp against the quiet. His office was a world unto itself, dark green walls and polished wood, minimalistic but chic, stripped of clutter yet rich with intention. Every line was clean, every piece purposeful. The kind of room that looked calm at a glance but carried the weight of control.
A knock broke the silence.
“Come in,” Jackson said without raising his voice.
The door opened and Kole stepped inside, his shock collar glinting faintly in the lamplight. His posture was obedient, but his eyes burned with excitement.
“I found him, Alpha,” Kole said. “The man you wanted identified, it’s Jinyoung Park. The same detective who’s been following your work.”
Jackson set the mug down with deliberate care, expression unreadable.
Kole pressed on, eager. “I traced every single policeman involved with your cases. They’re all idiots. They never stood a chance, Alpha would never leave a trail for them. But one of them stood out. Not clever enough to catch you, but… less dumb than the rest. Jinyoung Park. Head detective at the precinct.
Kole’s mouth curved into a thin smile, eyes gleaming. “I always kept my eyes on his tracks. And if he ever dug too deep, if he ever found out anything about my Alpha, I would kill him myself. Dissolve him in acid until there was nothing left.”
Jackson leaned back in his chair, lifting the mug of herbal tea to his lips. His expression didn’t flicker. He took a slow sip, savoring it, before answering in that quiet, almost bored tone that carried more weight than shouting ever could.
“Acid is never a good solution,” he said evenly. “It stinks. And you know how much I hate stench.”
Kole’s eager grin faltered for half a second, but Jackson continued smoothly, placing the cup back down with deliberate care.
“That’s why,” Jackson murmured, eyes lifting to meet his, “I always groom my dog properly.”
The word lingered. Dog. His gaze sharpened, cool and precise, making the meaning unmistakable.
Kole’s throat worked as he swallowed, a shiver running down his spine. He knew Jackson meant him. He also knew Jackson’s obsession with hygiene, how he forced him into the shower sometimes three times a day, scrubbing until there was nothing left of sweat, scent, or filth. Kole’s smile returned, softer now, almost reverent.
“Yes, Alpha,” he whispered.
The truth was… Kole has never been afraid of killing.
Not once.
The uncle he had killed when he was sixteen… that man was his birth father.
His mother had cheated on her husband after discovering his infidelities. In her fury, she’d slept with his brother.
That was how Kole had been conceived.
Kole didn’t remember how the truth came out.
Only the yelling. Endless, vicious yelling. He was eleven when it happened, and by then, his mother’s husband wanted nothing more to do with him. He couldn’t keep Kole in the house, couldn’t look at him without seeing betrayal.
The alibi was simple: better schools in another neighborhood. Kole was bright, brilliant even, so the excuse held.
But the truth was far darker. He was sent to live with his biological father.
The house was a mansion, sprawling and cold. He should have thrived there, but he never slept properly in those walls.
Every night, for five years straight, he lay awake to the sounds of his uncle’s wife screaming. Crying. Begging.
He had caught them once, when he was fifteen, after a particularly brutal fight. He had seen her thrown by the hair, her body slammed against furniture. She barely reached five foot four, and he towered over her at six foot three. It was grotesque, watching the violence, the cruelty. But what broke Kole wasn’t the fight. It was what followed. She climbed back on top of him afterwards, riding him like nothing had happened, moaning like a whore in a brothel.
He hated it. He fucking hated it.
Until he was sixteen.
One day, the handyman came by and left behind a hammer.
The house was huge; no one noticed it missing.
Kole tucked it away in his room. Just in case.
Two nights later, the shrieks started again.
His uncle’s wife’s voice split the silence with its familiar, awful pitch. But this time Kole wasn’t helpless. He had the proper tool for it now.
He remembered the weight of it in his hand. The clean arc as it swung through the air. The sound, the wet, meaty crack, shattering through his uncle’s reddened, hideous face. His uncle had turned just in time to see him before it landed, before his nose was clawed nearly clean off. Kole hit him again. The second blow sent his eye popping from its socket.
That night, Kole felt what it meant to be powerful. Truly powerful.
Murder… it’s labor. Nothing romantic about it. It’s what separates those who can act from those who only think. Ending something that took years to make…that’s not bold. That’s just decisive.
His aunt turned slowly, fresh off an orgasm, not immediately aware that the cock inside her now belonged to a dead man.
He never forgot her face when she realized. She screamed. Then fainted.
It was the maid who found them.
An old Hispanic woman who had seen too much in her life already.
She took the hammer from his hand and he never saw it again.
Kole didn’t flinch. He didn’t cry. He didn’t feel a thing.
The uncle’s wife was gone within days, sent back to Japan. She never returned. Both brothers had married there once; it was as though she’d been swallowed by the country again, erased from his story. Word reached him later that she lived under heavy psychiatric care, sedated and controlled.
The maid, however, did not disappear. She went directly to Kole’s mother. She told her everything, just in case, she said, anything ever surfaced that could be used against the boy. Kole’s mother, immediately contacted their lawyer. Within a week the case was reshaped into something else.
The story became this: an intruder had broken into the mansion, killed Kole’s uncle, the ruthless head of a construction company, despised by many of his workers, and fled into the night.
A year later, a man from Mexico who had once been employed by the company was declared guilty. The case was closed neatly, officially.
Kole returned to his mother’s house, but not as he had left it. They moved him into an entire floor of the triplex mansion, remodeled and furnished to contain him. It was his domain, his cage. He was forbidden to appear when his mother’s husband was home, kept hidden like an inconvenient truth.
His mother never treated him differently…not outwardly. She still smiled at him, still kissed his cheek, still called him her bright boy. But she obeyed her husband all the same. She kept Kole separate, out of sight, as if love and secrecy could live side by side.
And Kole learned to live in that separation, in the space between being hidden and being loved.
When Kole finally said he wanted to move out, no one asked where he planned to go. He simply told his mother, “I want to move in with my friend.”
She only smiled, patted his hair, and said softly, “As long as you’re happy, my son… that’s all that matters.”
The words were warm, motherly even, but in them was the quiet truth that she did not ask, did not care, and perhaps had already resigned herself to letting him belong to someone else.
Notes:
Whew… what a long one! You’re all absolute troopers for making it through this chapter 💕
I have to admit, it’s a bit tricky keeping track of every detail as the story grows, but I’m doing my best to keep all the little puzzle pieces clear so they can come together into the bigger picture I want you to see. I really hope it’s working the way I imagine it in my head!
Please let me know what you think! I love reading your thoughts so much, and they really help me stay grounded in this story.
As for the next chapter… I’m so sorry in advance, because I’m not sure when I’ll be able to upload it. But once I’m settled after the move, I promise I’ll be back with the next update as soon as I can.
Until then, toodles, my loves! 💚✨
Peggy (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sun 24 Aug 2025 03:24PM UTC
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Aurum_Warden on Chapter 1 Tue 26 Aug 2025 09:36AM UTC
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GOT7stan on Chapter 1 Sat 06 Sep 2025 11:53AM UTC
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Aurum_Warden on Chapter 1 Sat 06 Sep 2025 03:45PM UTC
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GOT7stan on Chapter 2 Sun 07 Sep 2025 01:44AM UTC
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Aurum_Warden on Chapter 2 Sun 07 Sep 2025 11:28AM UTC
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