“It has to end”

by Ninigiho

Summary:

What would Seonghwa and Jongho do when the past they’d run away from comes back looking for them?

Notes:

PLEASE be careful while reading this. This story is intense and includes disturbing discussions of blood and gore, child abuse and molestation.
Proceed with caution and pay attention to your mental health.
This story doesn’t relate to ATEEZ members in any way, shape or form.

Chapter 1

 

 

 

Rural Korea, 1997

Late August.

 

 

The cicadas screamed in the trees as the summer heat weighed heavy in the air. Out beyond the rice fields, the gravel road curled around a bend toward the only middle school in the district, where a group of teenagers were lazily piling onto a rattling yellow bus.

 

Among them were Seonghwa and Jongho.

 

Seonghwa stood tall for a sixteen-year-old — all quiet eyes and sun-warmed skin, his black T-shirt soaked in sweat after the end-of-camp hike. He carried both his and Jongho’s bags slung over his shoulder, like always.

 

Jongho, two years younger and half as serious, was trailing behind with his sleeves rolled up and a stubborn cowlick sticking up from his hair. His camp shirt was signed in permanent marker by a dozen classmates, most of whom hadn’t bothered to ask first.

 

“I’m starving,” Jongho muttered, clambering into the bus seat beside his brother. “Do you think Mom will make rice cakes when we get home?”

 

Seonghwa glanced out the window, jaw tensing faintly. “Probably not. It’s too hot to cook.”

 

Jongho pouted. “She always makes rice cakes when we come back.”

 

Seonghwa didn’t answer. He only watched the passing scenery — rice paddies swaying like green waves, narrow roads that stretched for miles, wooden utility poles that stood crooked and creaking. Something in his stomach sat wrong. It had been sitting wrong since last night.

 

It wasn’t unusual to be away from home. Their parents didn’t mind the boys being out of the house — if anything, they encouraged it. Sometimes it was easier. Simpler. Especially after—

 

He cut the thought short.

 

The bus rumbled forward. No one noticed that the smile on Seonghwa’s face didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

 

 

By the time they reached the house, the sky was bruised with sunset and the countryside had begun to quiet. It was a one-story home tucked between a field and a dense patch of trees, worn with time, but sturdy. Familiar.

 

The air smelled different.

 

No dinner cooking. No laundry hanging on the line. No light in the front window.

 

Seonghwa slowed.

 

Jongho almost bumped into him, frowning. “Why’s the gate open?”

 

It was ajar — slightly, just enough to creak in the wind.

 

Seonghwa said nothing. He stepped forward, hand brushing Yunho’s chest to keep him behind. His pace was measured. Careful.

 

“Hyung?” Jongho’s voice cracked slightly. “What’s wrong?”

 

The door was unlocked.

 

Inside, the house was dark. Still. The kind of stillness that never should’ve existed in a home.

 

Seonghwa moved through the front room first, eyes sweeping over everything. Their shoes still by the mat. A glass on the table. The old fan in the corner unplugged. The air was thick — not just with heat, but something heavier. Dense.

 

And then he smelled it.

 

Iron. Rot.

 

Seonghwa’s feet carried him before his mind could catch up — down the narrow hallway, past the bathroom, to the door that led to their parents’ bedroom.

 

He pushed it open.

 

The world dropped out.

 

The first thing he saw was red.

 

It was everywhere — soaked into the blankets, the sheets, the wallpaper, even the floorboards. The bodies were twisted in the bed, their limbs bent unnaturally, their eyes open but unseeing.

 

And the smell.

The smell was something he would never forget.

 

Jongho let out a sound behind him, a broken, breathless sound — before falling back against the wall, shaking violently.

 

Seonghwa didn’t move.

 

He couldn’t.

 

His parents were dead. Long dead. Days.

They were already too late.

 

 

The sky had dimmed to an indigo haze by the time the first squad car pulled into the gravel driveway.

 

Red and blue lights flickered against the quiet walls of the farmhouse. A couple of curious neighbors lingered at the edge of their porches, whispering behind hands, eyes heavy with grim speculation.

 

Seonghwa sat on the front steps, still in his camp uniform. His shirt was stained at the collar from where Jongho had clung to him and cried. His own hands trembled in his lap, fingers darkened with something he hadn’t dared wash off yet. Jongho was inside the neighbor’s house across the fence — a woman who’d forced them to come sit, to drink water, to breathe.

 

But Seonghwa hadn’t been able to sit long. He came back out. He needed to see.

 

Two officers approached. One older, with a thinning hairline and a heavy frown. The other younger, clearly new, notebook already in hand.

 

“You’re the son?” the older cop asked.

 

Seonghwa nodded. “We just… got back from camp. They were already…”

His throat closed off again.

 

The officer didn’t push further. “Alright. Stay here for now. We’re going in.”

 

They entered with care. Shoes off. Gloves on. The smell hit them immediately.

 

Inside the small home, the kitchen and living room were streaked with signs of struggle. Overturned chairs. A shattered plate. Blood that had dried into the floorboards.

 

The older officer motioned for the younger to start photographing.

 

It didn’t take long to find the father — collapsed near the bed in the bedroom, head tilted at an unnatural angle, blood crusted down his temple. And on the bed itself, the mother. Slumped against the headboard. Her face was bloodied. Her blouse torn at the shoulder.

 

And in her mouth — partially stuffed, lodged just behind her teeth — was something pale and wrinkled.

 

“Hold up,” the senior officer muttered.

 

He crouched, pulling on a second layer of gloves before gently reaching forward.

 

He pinched the corner of the object and eased it free.

 

Paper.

 

It was torn roughly on one side, thin like the kind used in journals. Stained near the edges. Folded once, then again.

 

He unfolded it carefully.

 

He stared at it for a moment.

 

Then he stood, voice low but firm.

“Get forensics in here. Now. And call the chief.”

 

A line of writing. Black ink. Slanted and sharp.

 

“It has to end”

Chapter 2

 

 

Busan, 2007

Early May.

 

 

 

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a soft blue haze across the city skyline. The air was cool for May, the windows cracked open to let it in, and in the small apartment nestled between two aging buildings, the scent of toast and brewed instant coffee was the first thing to greet the day.

 

The clock on the wall read 6:03 AM.

 

“You should eat more than that,” Jongho said, nudging a second piece of toast toward his brother’s plate. “Detective work burns calories.”

 

Seonghwa looked up, still in his crisp new shirt, sleeves rolled but unbuttoned, his badge tucked neatly into the leather holder on the table beside his phone. He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even eat breakfast unless I make it.”

 

“Which you did,” Jongho grinned, already chewing on his own toast like he hadn’t slept through three alarms. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Seonghwa muttered, sipping his coffee.

 

Their mornings had followed a rhythm for years now — simple, domestic, quiet. After everything they’d lost, they learned how to build structure out of grief. Seonghwa cooked. Jongho cleaned. Seonghwa ironed. Jongho sang while vacuuming. It wasn’t perfect — nothing ever really was — but it was theirs.

 

Jongho was taller and stronger now. Stronger than Seonghwa, which still felt unfair some mornings. At twenty-four, he had a softness to him that refused to dim — a perpetual light in his eyes, a buoyancy in his voice, even when the world tried to weather him down. His laugh still came easily. His heart still gave first.

 

And he was proud — overwhelmingly, annoyingly proud — of his hyung.

 

“I still can’t believe it,” Jongho said, spinning his mug lazily in his hands. “Detective Park Seonghwa. That’s like… real . You’re official now.”

 

Seonghwa scoffed, but his lips curled slightly. “It’s just a title.”

 

“No, it’s not. You worked your ass off for this.”

 

It was true. After they lost their parents in ’97, they’d moved to Busan to live with their aunt — a kind, quiet woman with a green thumb and a freezer full of homemade meals. She’d given them space to heal, money to survive, and more love than either of them knew how to receive at the time. She got them through school. She helped them believe in the idea of after .

 

She passed away six years later, just after Jongho had started university. It was quiet. Sudden. Seonghwa had been twenty at the time, and the grief hit like a second storm — softer in volume, but no less devastating.

 

But they endured.

 

Their aunt left them the apartment and all her savings. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Seonghwa put himself through the police academy with long nights and part-time jobs. Jongho picked up tutoring and worked at a bookstore between art and history classes. They budgeted. They rationed. They grew.

 

And they held each other up.

 

“I’m proud of you too, you know,” Seonghwa said suddenly, voice low.

 

Jongho blinked. “Me?”

 

“Yeah. Teaching middle schoolers for minimum wage while keeping that idiotic smile on your face every day? That’s harder than detective work.”

 

Jongho beamed. “You just called me a ray of sunshine without calling me a ray of sunshine.”

 

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me take it back.”

 

“You can’t. It’s mine now. Gonna print it on a T-shirt.”

 

Seonghwa laughed — the sound rare and warm — and for a brief moment, the morning felt untouched. No shadows. No ghosts. Just two brothers, eating toast in a too-small kitchen, the hum of the city rising outside their windows like the start of a song.

 

But the day hadn’t started yet.

Not really.

 

And neither of them knew that by evening, the past would come knocking again — louder than ever before.

 

 

 

 

The station was already buzzing by the time Seonghwa arrived.

 

He pushed through the front doors at exactly 7:58 AM, his shirt freshly pressed, sleeves rolled up, two buttons undone, and his badge clipped to his belt for the first time in an official capacity. The precinct wasn’t glamorous — faded tiles, aging furniture, and fluorescent lights that hummed a little too loud — but it held a strange kind of comfort. He’d practically lived here the past three years anyway, running between assignments, assisting detectives, learning every damn system by hand.

 

But today felt different.

 

He was one of them now.

 

“Detective Park!” a voice called from behind a stack of files.

 

Seonghwa turned in time to see San walking toward him, grinning ear to ear. He was in uniform — not the standard blues, but the darker tactical getup that marked his unit. San was bulky, quick-witted, and moved like someone who could break a man in half with one hand and hold a baby with the other. Special Operations — high-risk raids, surveillance, organized crime. Seonghwa always thought he had a death wish.

 

“You’re early,” San smirked, slinging an arm across Seonghwa’s shoulder as he steered him inside. “You trying to make the rest of us look bad?”

 

Seonghwa shrugged. “I’m just punctual.”

 

“Punctual my ass, you’re nervous.”

 

“Am not.”

 

San tilted his head. “You combed your hair.”

 

“…Shut up.”

 

They turned the corner into the main floor — and Seonghwa paused.

 

A small paper banner hung crookedly between two filing cabinets. A tray of convenience store snacks sat on one of the desks. And a few people started clapping — loud, lighthearted applause that echoed through the bullpen.

 

And surprisingly — or not — Jongho was there too, standing near the doorway in his school blazer, holding a coffee cup that said World’s Okayest Teacher .

 

“Had to stop by before class,” he said when Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “Big day, remember?”

 

He grinned. “Also, you left your lunch in the fridge. Again.”

 

And there — at the far end, leaning against a desk with his arms folded — was Yunho.

 

Tall, clean-cut, eyes bright beneath his fringe. He was dressed casually today — jeans, black jacket over a grey shirt — but the badge at his waist still caught the light. His smile was soft. Subtle. Meant only for Seonghwa.

 

Seonghwa smiled back.

 

“You really went all out,” he muttered, brushing past San.

 

“Oh yeah,” San said behind him, deadpan. “Blew the whole budget on those knock-off Choco Pies.”

 

Jongho came forward and pulled Seonghwa into a brief hug. “Congratulations, hyung,” he said, voice warm. “You earned this.”

 

“Thanks,” Seonghwa said hugging him tighter, a little hoarse.

 

And then Yunho was there.

 

Yunho, who for the past three years, had been Seonghwa’s home.

 

They didn’t touch. Not in front of the others. But Yunho’s hand brushed lightly against Seonghwa’s arm in passing, just a whisper of skin — and in that one brief moment, Seonghwa felt the day settle into place.

 

“You ready?” Yunho asked softly, just for him.

 

Seonghwa met his eyes. “Yeah.”

He was.

 

 

Jongho lingered for a few more minutes, teasing San about his combat boots and stealing another bite of Seonghwa’s celebratory snacks before checking the time.

 

“Gotta go,” he said, tossing his empty coffee cup towards Seonghwa. “My students are already little gremlins without me being late.”

 

San ruffled his hair on the way out. “Don’t corrupt them too fast.”

 

Jongho rolled his eyes, then pointed a finger at him. “If you’re free tonight, Samgyeobsal. My treat. But only if you don’t flake.”

 

“If I’m not elbows-deep in gang members, I’m in,” San promised. “Text me.”

 

With a two-finger salute and a last grin at Seonghwa, Jongho ducked out of the bullpen and vanished down the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.

 

The station buzzed along. Phones rang. Keys clacked. Someone dropped a coffee stirrer on the floor and swore loudly.

 

Yunho came to stand beside Seonghwa’s desk, a stack of files in his hands. “You wanna go over the break-in pattern again? The guy hit two more places last week. Still didn’t take a single thing.”

 

San leaned back in his chair, boot propped on the edge of his desk. “Creeps me out more than if he actually stole something. Just walks around your home like it’s a museum and leaves? Nah. That’s serial killer behavior waiting to happen.”

 

“There’s no forced entry,” Yunho said. “We’re thinking inside knowledge. Maintenance staff, postal access, something like that.”

 

“He didn’t trigger a single camera,” Seonghwa added, frowning slightly. “And none of the residents woke up either. It’s like he knows how to move in a house better than the people who live in it.”

 

“Maybe he does,” San muttered.

 

They ran through the rest of the incident reports for another half hour, sketching out timelines and scribbling notes on the whiteboard. Seonghwa kept checking small details, zooming in on the weird consistencies — always alone households, always second-floor balconies, never any valuables disturbed. It was like the guy came just to prove he could.

 

Around 9:15, Seonghwa excused himself to the restroom, leaving the stack of reports open beside Yunho.

 

The station bathroom was as familiar as the rest of the place — cracked tiles, one wonky faucet, and an old mirror with toothpaste flecks nobody ever bothered to clean off. Seonghwa washed his hands slowly, taking a second to breathe.

 

His first day as a detective. It still didn’t feel real.

 

When he stepped out into the hallway, the station’s low hum returned — but something about it was quieter now. Just slightly.

 

Yunho was standing right outside the door.

 

He wasn’t alone — a junior officer was talking to him, handing over a printed document. Yunho nodded, thanked him, and then the younger officer disappeared around the corner.

 

Now it was just them.

 

Seonghwa didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to.

 

Yunho stepped forward — not too close, not risky, but just close enough to feel the intent. He braced one arm casually on the wall beside the bathroom door, body angling in a way that looked like conversation to anyone passing by. But his other hand reached out slowly, palm open between them.

 

Seonghwa looked down at it.

 

Then stepped forward and slid his hand into Yunho’s.

 

Their eyes met — the air between them warmer than it had any right to be in a police station hallway — and then, quickly, silently, Seonghwa leaned in and kissed him.

 

It was soft at first — slow and careful, like breathing. But Yunho tilted his head and deepened it slightly, his free hand grazing Seonghwa’s side, tugging him just a little closer.

 

Seonghwa exhaled against his mouth. He didn’t realize how much he needed this until now — the grounding, the quiet.

 

Yunho pulled back just enough to speak.

 

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, voice low, words brushing warm against Seonghwa’s cheek. “I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked for this. And I swear — tonight, we’re celebrating properly.”

 

“Is that a threat?” Seonghwa murmured.

 

Yunho smiled. “A promise.”

 

They didn’t linger.

 

Not here.

 

Seonghwa straightened his shirt and cleared his throat, brushing past Yunho as if they’d only just exchanged case notes. They returned to their desks a few minutes later, side by side, like any other day.

 

But Seonghwa’s pulse still beat a little faster than usual.

 

And Yunho kept smiling down at his papers, like he heard it.

 

 

 

 

 

The precinct was halfway into a slow afternoon when the call came in.

 

The dispatcher hung up with a sharp clack, and the usual hum of the office dimmed.

 

He stood, already grabbing his jacket. “We’ve got a murder.”

 

The word landed like a dropped glass.

 

Yunho stood immediately. “Where?”

 

“Jagalchi area. Landlord found a couple — said they’re both dead, stabbed. He opened the door himself.”

 

Seonghwa blinked. “Wait — a double murder?”

 

“That’s what it sounds like.”

 

Officers started stirring in the room behind them — quiet glances exchanged, a low ripple of murmurs across desks. This part of Busan — while not the cleanest, nor the wealthiest — wasn’t known for murders. Petty theft, domestic disturbances, maybe the occasional knife fight outside a bar… but this? This was rare.

 

The dispatcher motioned them toward the exit. “Let’s move. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

 

As Seonghwa and Yunho grabbed their belongings, San jogged up behind them, smirking.

 

“Well,” he said, slapping Seonghwa on the back, “look at you, hotshot. First day as a detective and you get a homicide. What a welcome party.”

 

Seonghwa gave him a dry look and flipped him off without slowing down.

 

San laughed, unbothered. “That’s the spirit. Don’t let it get to your head.”

 

The two detectives made their way out to the car, sliding into the front seats with practiced ease. The dispatcher — Officer Kim, who usually handled mid-level operations — climbed in behind them, holding a small notepad already scribbled with details.

 

“They got the call ten minutes ago,” he started. “Landlord’s name is Mr. Baek. Claims he’s been trying to collect rent from the tenants — couple in their late forties, maybe early fifties. He knocked for two days, nothing. Thought they skipped out. Finally got fed up, used his spare key, and walked in.”

 

Yunho adjusted the rearview mirror. “And found them…?”

 

“Dead. In the living room, he said. Covered in blood.”

 

Seonghwa frowned. “Did he touch anything?”

 

“Apparently not. He freaked and ran straight out, then called us.”

 

Yunho exhaled. “Fun.”

 

The dispatcher added. “He’s waiting on-site now. We’ve got a unit already securing the scene, but forensics is on the way. You two are lead.”

 

They reached the main road. The streets were busier now — afternoon buses, delivery bikes weaving between lanes, pedestrians fanning themselves under the spring sun. It all looked too normal.

 

“You said Jagalchi?” Seonghwa asked.

 

“Yeah, closer to the market side. One of the older complexes. Not much security, and even less tenant oversight. It’s practically self-run.”

 

Yunho tapped the steering wheel. “Any prior domestic reports?”

 

“Not that we know of yet. No noise complaints either. But you’ll see when we get there — the place is old. And quiet. Half the residents are out working all day.”

 

The car turned into a narrower lane, older buildings closing in around them. Rusted gates. Hanging laundry. Uneven sidewalks. The kind of place where people kept to themselves, where neighbors didn’t ask questions unless they had to.

 

Seonghwa’s fingers curled loosely in his lap.

 

The first murder case of his career.

Something about it unsettled him.

 

 

The car pulled up to a narrow street pressed tight between a seafood stall and an aging corner mart. The building in question stood four stories high, its cement exterior faded to a tired grey, streaked with grime and salt air.

 

Police tape flapped lazily at the entrance. A patrol officer stood just inside, nodding them through with a clipboard in hand.

 

As Seonghwa stepped out, his eyes flicked up to the second floor — a corner unit, curtains drawn, window slightly ajar.

 

They climbed the stairs two at a time.

 

The smell hit first.

 

Faint from the hall, but unmistakable. Metallic. Rancid. Familiar in the worst possible way.

 

Seonghwa felt his stomach knot, but forced his expression blank.

 

The door was open, held that way by a stool. Inside, the apartment was quiet — too quiet.

 

Yunho entered first, ducking under the police tape. A younger patrol officer glanced up from his notes, then stepped aside.

 

“Scene’s untouched,” he said. “Just how the landlord found it. Forensics should be here in ten.”

 

The front room was modest — low table, two fans, an old television set on a wheeled cart. But it was what lay beyond that made everything else vanish.

 

Blood.

 

Pools of it, dried into the floorboards, streaked up the side of the cabinet, even smeared faintly across the light switch.

 

And there they were.

 

The husband, face-down on the floor, arms bent beneath him at awkward angles. His back was soaked in blood — multiple stab wounds, jagged and uneven. His fingers were curled, knuckles bloodied from what might’ve been a struggle.

 

The wife lay nearby, collapsed against the foot of the sofa. Her nightgown was torn in different places. One hand was outstretched, her eyes open, her mouth—

 

Seonghwa stopped walking.

 

He knew this scene.

He knew it too well.

 

The position of the bodies. The mess. The stillness of the apartment like time had died in here too.

 

His lungs strained in his chest. A memory flickered — wallpaper stained red, the smell of rot, Jongho’s broken sobs from behind him.

 

He clenched his jaw hard, fighting off the dizziness that surged in his gut.

 

Yunho glanced back, just for a second. Their eyes met.

 

“You’re good?” Yunho asked.

 

Seonghwa nodded stiffly and stepped closer. “We need the time of death confirmed, but with this level of decomposition and blood drying…” he paused, glancing around the room. “Probably happened two nights ago.”

 

“Looks like the wounds came from behind,” Yunho said, crouching to examine the man’s posture. “Sloppy. Aggressive. Like they were asleep or caught off guard.”

 

“Overkill,” Seonghwa muttered.

 

They both turned at the sound of footsteps. The landlord had arrived — a middle-aged man in a mismatched tracksuit, sweating and visibly shaken, wringing his hands as the officers let him in.

 

“Mr. Baek?” Seonghwa asked.

 

The man nodded. “Y-yes. I’m the landlord. I live just downstairs.”

 

Seonghwa pulled his notepad from his pocket. “Can you tell us what happened?”

 

Baek nodded quickly. “They hadn’t paid rent. It’s always due the first. They were never late before. I came up… maybe four times since Tuesday? Knocked. No answer. I called. No answer. I started to think maybe they left without notice. But they never did that before. Not once. So this morning I just—” he gestured at the door. “I used the extra key.”

 

“And found them?”

 

He paled. “Yes. Like this. I didn’t touch anything I swear. I ran straight out. I’ve never seen… so much blood…”

 

Yunho spoke gently. “Did the couple have any visitors recently? Or anyone who might have had a reason to hurt them?”

 

“No, not that I know of. They were quiet people. Kept to themselves.”

 

Seonghwa flipped the page in his notebook. “Any family members?”

 

“Yes. They have a daughter. Fourteen. Seventh grade, I think.”

 

“Where is she now?”

 

Mr. Baek hesitated. “She wasn’t home. I asked around. Turns out she’s been staying over with her classmate this week — it was exam prep or something. That’s all I heard.”

 

Seonghwa and Yunho exchanged a glance.

 

A child. She had no idea yet.

 

“What’s her name?” Yunho asked quietly.

 

“Lee Sunmi,” the landlord said. “She goes to the local middle school.”

 

Seonghwa scribbled the name down, then stepped aside to let forensics in. They began working quickly — gloved hands, quiet murmurs, camera flashes lighting up the stillness like lightning strikes.

 

He watched silently.

 

This was his first murder case.

And yet it felt like the second.

 

 

The forensics team had arrived — two specialists from central dispatch. Hongjoong and Yeosang.

 

Hongjoong was the lead — meticulous, sharp-eyed, always looking two steps deeper than anyone else in the room. He moved with a deliberate calm, camera in hand, latex gloves already on as he crouched near the male victim.

 

Yeosang followed quietly, already dusting for prints near the door frame and hallway. He was quieter, precise. The kind of person who didn’t speak unless it mattered.

 

They didn’t say much when they entered — just nodded briefly to Seonghwa and Yunho, then got to work.

 

“Multiple entry wounds,” Hongjoong muttered, voice low but clear as he leaned in. “Consistent with a kitchen blade. At least… twelve stabs to the back.”

 

Yunho winced. “Twelve?”

 

“Give or take. He was attacked from behind.”

 

Yeosang stood by the kitchen now, opening drawers with sterile tongs, careful not to disturb too much. “Set of knives here. One’s missing.”

 

“Figures,” Seonghwa murmured.

 

Yunho crouched beside him. “You okay?”

 

Seonghwa nodded, but didn’t answer.

 

Hongjoong shifted to the second body — the woman. Her posture was slumped but rigid, arms bent oddly, mouth slightly parted.

 

He snapped a few photos first, then gently lifted her wrist to check for lividity, murmuring notes as he worked. When he leaned toward her face, however, he paused.

 

He blinked once.

 

Then twice.

 

“…Yeosang?”

 

Yeosang moved quickly beside him, squinting toward the victim’s mouth.

 

Hongjoong gently reached inside, using a curved tweezer to pull something from between her lips.

 

Folded paper.

 

Stained, slightly crumpled — but still legible.

 

Yunho’s brows furrowed. “What is it?”

 

Yeosang unfolded it carefully. His voice was calm when he read it aloud, but it still seemed to cut through every other sound in the room.

 

“It has to end”

 

Time stopped.

 

Seonghwa froze — spine stiff, breath trapped in his chest.

 

It couldn’t be.

 

It couldn’t be.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

 

Rural Korea, 1997

Late August.

 

 

The small police station smelled like old paper and stronger coffee — the kind that burned on its way down and lingered for hours. A slow fan creaked overhead, doing very little to fight the thick summer heat pressing through the windows.

 

Seonghwa sat on a bench just outside the main office, his hands clasped together tightly in his lap. His knees bounced once — then stopped. Deliberate. Controlled.

 

Jongho sat beside him, much smaller now than he had seemed just hours ago. He hadn’t said a word since the officers brought them in. His shoulders curled inward, and his gaze stayed fixed on the floor, dark hair falling over his face. His sneakers didn’t quite touch the ground.

 

They had been here for almost two hours.

 

No one told them much. One of the younger officers had tried to offer them water. Seonghwa took it. Jongho didn’t.

 

The quiet was thick.

 

From behind the half-cracked door of the main office, Seonghwa could hear voices. He wasn’t supposed to be listening — but he was. Every muscle in his body strained toward the sound like a tuning fork.

 

“…no prints,” one voice said — older, deeper, a rasp around the edges. “None. Not even partials. The note’s been folded and placed carefully — like they knew what they were doing.”

 

“DNA?” came another.

 

“Only the mother’s,” the first replied. “Blood and saliva. Whoever did this placed it in her mouth after she was already gone.”

 

There was a pause.

 

Then a new voice — sharper, with the precision of someone trying to tie things together. “You see the knife wounds? Left-leaning. Consistent entry angles. Aggressive overhand strikes. Matches the handwriting analysis too. The killer’s left-handed.”

 

Footsteps creaked over the old wood floor.

 

“Someone who knew how to move quiet, and how to clean. No different prints. No DNA. No signs of forced entry. They brought the knife. Took it with them. This wasn’t random.”

 

Another pause. Another long silence Seonghwa could feel in his gut.

 

“This was personal.”

 

He swallowed hard, stomach twisting.

 

Next to him, Jongho shifted slightly — not because he heard what Seonghwa heard, but because his legs were beginning to cramp from sitting so long. He blinked slowly, eyes still hollowed and unfocused.

 

“Do you want anything?” Seonghwa asked softly.

 

Jongho didn’t answer.

 

A few minutes later, the door opened with a long, tired creak.

 

The detective that stepped out wasn’t the same one who had brought them in. This one was older — late fifties, maybe — with a thin mustache going grey at the edges and deep lines creased between his brows. His name tag read Jang .

 

“Seonghwa-ssi,” the man said gently. “Do you have a moment?”

 

Seonghwa nodded and stood, glancing at Jongho, who didn’t even look up. Then he followed the detective back into the office.

 

It wasn’t a fancy room. Just a desk, two mismatched chairs, and a corkboard covered in paperwork and old wanted posters. A fan buzzed in the corner. Detective Jang gestured for him to sit.

 

“I’m sorry to make you go through this,” he said, sitting across from him with a heavy sigh. “But we need to ask a few questions. You’re the eldest, and until we find a guardian or relative, we need your help to understand a few things.”

 

Seonghwa nodded quietly, fingers curling tightly around the fraying hem of his shorts.

 

“Was there anyone you can think of who might have had a problem with your family?” Jang asked. “Someone your parents had an argument with? A neighbor? A customer at the market?”

 

Seonghwa shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t think so. My parents didn’t… they didn’t talk to a lot of people.”

 

“Your father — what did he do for work?”

 

“He was a farmer,” Seonghwa said. “But not his own land. He worked for others. Harvesting, sometimes planting. Whatever was needed. Then he sold some vegetables at the Friday market. That’s it.”

 

“And your mother?”

 

“She stayed home. She didn’t really… she didn’t go out much. She cooked, cleaned.”

 

“Did your father have any debts?”

 

“I don’t think so. We didn’t have a lot, but he paid cash for everything. He hated banks.”

 

The detective scribbled a few notes, then looked up again. “Do you have any other family nearby? Aunts, uncles, cousins?”

 

Seonghwa hesitated, then shook his head. “Nobody near by. Just us.”

 

Detective Jang leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose.

 

Seonghwa could feel his gaze pressing down like a weight. Not suspicious, but measured.

 

He didn’t say what he was really thinking.

 

Two people murdered. Brutally. Nothing taken. No sign of a break-in.

And the only survivors… were two young boys.

 

Seonghwa’s hands tightened around his knees again.

 

“We’re going to find who did this,” the detective said finally, more gently now. “But if you think of anything — anything strange, anything that stood out in the last few days — please let us know.”

 

Seonghwa nodded. “Yes, sir.”

 

Detective Jang had just nodded, about to rise from his chair, when he paused.

 

“Actually,” he said, glancing back at the boy. “Seonghwa-ssi — one more thing, if that’s alright.”

 

Seonghwa, already half-turned toward the door, stopped. He hesitated, then slowly walked back and sat down again.

 

The detective leaned forward slightly, folding his hands on the desk.

 

“How were your parents?” he asked.

 

Seonghwa blinked. “Sir?”

 

“I mean,” Jang clarified, voice calm, measured, “as people. As parents. Were they kind to you and your brother? Were they… good parents?”

 

There was no judgment in his tone. No accusation. Just the soft pressure of curiosity — and something else. Experience, maybe. The kind that didn’t ask unless it already suspected something.

 

Seonghwa’s heart kicked harder in his chest.

 

He looked down at his knees, where his hands were resting again. His nails pressed little crescent moons into his skin.

 

“…They were our parents,” he said slowly, carefully. “My father worked a lot. My mom stayed home. We didn’t have much, but… we got by.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

Seonghwa’s eyes lifted.

 

Detective Jang’s expression hadn’t changed. Still calm. Still gentle. But there was something firmer in it now — like he was giving Seonghwa space to choose honesty if he wanted it.

 

“If you tell me they were saints, I’ll write it down,” Jang said. “But if they weren’t… I need to know that too. It matters.”

 

Silence settled again, longer this time.

 

Outside the office, a phone rang. A drawer opened. Someone coughed.

 

Inside, Seonghwa’s throat burned.

 

“…My father could be… harsh,” he said finally, the word small, like it barely made it out. “When he was angry. When he drank.”

 

Jang nodded. He didn’t interrupt.

 

“He didn’t hit us every day,” Seonghwa added, like it meant something. “But… when he did, it was bad. He hit my mom too. A lot.”

 

“And your mother?” the detective asked.

 

Seonghwa hesitated.

 

“She was scared of him. I think… I think she loved us, but…” His voice tightened. “She didn’t protect us.”

 

Jang’s pen scratched quietly across the paper in front of him, but he didn’t look down. His focus stayed fixed on Seonghwa’s face.

 

“Did your father ever hurt you in other ways?” he asked, and there it was — the quieter, sharper edge behind the question. “Did anything happen in the house that you think we should know?”

 

Seonghwa’s breath caught — barely — but it did.

He shook his head once. Too fast. “No. Nothing like that.”

 

The words stuck in his throat like gravel.

 

Jang didn’t press it.

 

He simply leaned back again, pen clicking softly as he capped it.

 

“Thank you,” he said.

 

Seonghwa stood again, a little slower this time. His legs felt unsteady as he dragged himself out.

 

 

Outside the office felt colder than it had when Seonghwa first stepped through it. He walked slower now, shoulders tight, the conversation with Detective Jang still echoing somewhere in the back of his chest.

 

Jongho was exactly where he left him — hunched in the same bench, elbows on his knees, staring down at the pale tile floor like he hadn’t moved at all.

 

His hands were clenched, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt.

 

He didn’t look up when Seonghwa approached.

 

Seonghwa crouched in front of him slowly, knees creaking with the weight of exhaustion more than anything else.

 

“Jongho-ya,” he said softly.

 

The boy blinked, like he was being pulled out of something far away. His eyes shifted to his hyung — dull, tired, but clear.

 

Seonghwa reached out and placed a hand on Jongho’s knee.

 

“We’re gonna be okay,” he said. His voice was calm. Steady. The way one might speak to a frightened animal. Or a child. “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

 

Jongho’s lips twitched, like they were trying to form something. A word. A thought. But all that came was a tiny, weary smile.

 

And then he leaned forward, arms winding tight around Seonghwa’s shoulders — sudden, firm, almost too fast.

 

Seonghwa caught him without thinking, arms wrapping instinctively around Jongho’s smaller frame.

 

They stayed like that.

 

Two boys clinging to each other in the middle of a police station hallway, holding on because there was nothing else to hold.

 

No parents. No certainty. No answers.

 

But they would figure it out.

 

 

 

 

—•—

 

 

Busan, 2007

Early May.

 

 

 

 

The car ride was quiet.

 

Seonghwa stared out the window as buildings blurred past. Yunho drove beside him, focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh — fingers tapping absentmindedly. He hadn’t said much since they left the crime scene.

 

Neither of them had.

 

The note still echoed in Seonghwa’s skull.

 

It has to end.

 

The words didn’t just stir memories — they unearthed them.

 

The school was only ten minutes away, tucked between a row of old apartment blocks and a patch of weary pine trees. They parked just outside the front gate, where kids were running across the courtyard, some in gym clothes, others carrying bread sticks and juice cartons from the canteen. It was break time. Loud, buzzing, full of life.

 

It felt wrong — like the world should’ve paused.

 

“We’re not saying anything yet,” Seonghwa murmured. “Not to her.”

 

Yunho nodded. “We’ll talk to the principal first.”

 

They stepped into the school building, flashing badges to the security guard, who pointed them to the administration floor.

 

The principal’s office was on the second level — a narrow hallway with squeaky tiles and motivational posters peeling slightly from the walls. A secretary ushered them in with polite confusion, then excused herself.

 

Principal Hwang was a tall, bespectacled man in his fifties — a little hunched, a little tired-looking, with a buzzed haircut and a half-buttoned cardigan. He stood as they entered.

 

“You’re the detectives?” he asked, voice uncertain.

 

Yunho gave a short nod. “Yes, sir. Detective Jeong Yunho, and this is Detective Park Seonghwa.”

 

The principal’s eyes flicked to Seonghwa with a faint note of recognition. He gestured for them to sit.

 

“What’s this about?” he asked, folding his hands.

 

Yunho kept his voice even. “We’re investigating a case. The family in question has a daughter enrolled here — seventh grade. Lee Sunmi.”

 

The principal blinked slowly. “Sunmi… yes. A quiet girl. Very polite.”

 

“We’re hoping to speak with her homeroom teacher,” Seonghwa added. “Maybe learn more about the family. Their background, her behavior at school, anything recent that stood out.”

 

“Of course,” Principal Hwang said quickly, already rising from his chair. “Her teacher is Mr. Park. One moment.”

 

He stepped out.

 

Yunho glanced over at Seonghwa.

 

“You okay?”

 

Seonghwa didn’t answer right away. He was staring down at the principal’s desk, jaw tense. “I hate this.”

 

Yunho’s voice dropped. “I understand.”

 

A moment later, the door creaked open again.

 

Seonghwa turned, and—

 

“…Hyung?”

 

Jongho stood in the doorway, still in his brown corduroy blazer, ID lanyard swaying slightly around his neck. His expression was startled at first — brows lifted, eyes bouncing between his brother and Yunho — then shifted into one of cautious concern.

 

“Is everything okay?” he asked, stepping inside.

 

Seonghwa stood immediately. “Yeah— I mean, not really, it’s—” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s… official.”

 

Jongho looked confused. “Official?”

 

Principal Hwang closed the door behind him, folding his arms. “Mr. Park, these detectives are investigating a case involving one of your students — Lee Sunmi.”

 

At that, Jongho’s face sobered.

 

“She hasn’t come in today,” he said instinctively. “I thought she was still with her friend.”

 

Seonghwa and Yunho exchanged a glance.

 

The principal went on, “Her parents were found deceased this morning. Detectives Park and Jeong are just gathering context. No need to alarm the other students yet.”

 

Jongho nodded slowly, then looked back at Seonghwa — but there was something else behind his eyes now.

 

Something unreadable.

 

“So…” Jongho said after a beat, trying to keep his voice even. “You’re interviewing me.”

 

Seonghwa’s lips twitched. “Technically.”

 

Yunho let out the faintest sigh through his nose — like a laugh he wasn’t allowed to release.

 

Jongho’s gaze flicked to him for a split second, and he could tell — they were both fighting it. That smirk. That amusement. That small, inappropriate joy in an otherwise heavy moment. The absurdity of Seonghwa, serious-faced and suited, interrogating his own brother in a middle school office about one of his students.

 

“Okay then,” Jongho said, folding his arms and biting the inside of his cheek. “Detectives.”

 

Seonghwa gave him a look. Yunho turned away briefly to hide his smile behind a cough.

 

The principal didn’t seem to catch any of it.

 

“Shall I leave you to it?” he asked.

 

Seonghwa nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

 

“I’ll be outside,” the man said, stepping out again and closing the door behind him.

 

Now, it was just the three of them.

 

Jongho leaned back against the windowsill, crossing one leg over the other. “I assume you’re not here to tell me Sunmi won the lottery.”

 

“No,” Seonghwa said quietly. “As you heard already. Her parents were found dead this morning. It’s… bad.”

 

Jongho’s expression fell.

 

“Does she know?” he asked, voice suddenly small.

 

“We haven’t told her yet,” Yunho said. “We’ll be going to pick her up from her friend’s place after this. But we’re hoping you can give us a little background first.”

 

Jongho straightened up a bit. “Of course. Ask anything.”

 

 

Jongho glanced between the two detectives, tone steady but threaded with concern. “Sunmi’s a really quiet girl. She’s also one one of the older students in class. Enrolled a year later than she should’ve. One of those students who never causes trouble, but also never really… shows up, if that makes sense. Always polite. Always neat. But distant.”

 

Yunho nodded slowly. “You said she’s been staying with a friend?”

 

“Yeah. This whole week, actually,” Jongho replied. “Her name’s Yuri. They’ve been coming to school together the past few days. Said they were studying for exams. Sunmi’s not great at studying alone, so I suggested she pair up with someone. Yuri’s one of the top in the class and also is very kind to Sunmi. It made sense.”

 

“Her parents didn’t mind?” Seonghwa asked.

 

“They were fine with it,” Jongho said. “From what I gathered, Yuri’s mom thought it’d be good for her too — make her more focused.”

 

Yunho tilted his head. “What do you mean by that? More focused?”

 

Jongho exhaled, rubbing his hands together briefly. “Sunmi’s… she drifts. You’ll be talking to the class and suddenly realize she hasn’t heard a word. Eyes glazed over, like she’s somewhere else. She doesn’t really raise her hand or play during breaks. Even in group work, she sort of just… follows along. Never leads.”

 

“Lonely?” Seonghwa asked.

 

Jongho hesitated. “Yeah. That’s the word I’d use.”

 

There was a pause. The air in the room felt stiller now.

 

“She only ever really talks to Yuri. And even then, it’s not much. I’ve asked her before — you know, just trying to check in, like teachers are supposed to do. Asked her if everything was okay at home. She always said yes, but…”

 

He trailed off.

 

“But?” Yunho prompted gently.

 

“But she’d look so shaken sometimes. Like… she’d flinch if someone called her name too loudly. Or if a book dropped. That kind of thing. You notice it after a while.”

 

Seonghwa’s voice dropped. “Did she ever say anything specific?”

 

“No. Never. I tried, believe me. But she’d shut down. Just shake her head, or say she was fine. And it’s hard, you know? You can’t push too much without risking them pulling away completely.”

 

There was another pause.

 

Then Yunho asked, “Did her parents ever attend any school events? Parent-teacher meetings?”

 

Jongho shook his head. “Not once. Not even the mandatory ones. I tried calling the home line three or four times last semester. No answer. I even sent a letter home, and it came back opened with nothing written on it. No note, no follow-up.”

 

Seonghwa’s jaw tightened slightly. “So they weren’t involved.”

 

“Either that, or they didn’t care enough to pretend,” Jongho muttered. “I can’t say for sure. Sometimes people are just… busy. Or tired. But sometimes they just don’t want to be parents.”

 

It wasn’t bitterness in his voice — just quiet exhaustion. The kind that came from caring too much and being unable to do anything about it.

 

Yunho glanced toward the desk. “Did Yuri come to class today?”

 

“No,” Jongho replied. “Neither of them showed up.”

 

That was enough. Yunho stood, already reaching for his phone. “We need to go to Yuri’s house.”

 

Seonghwa nodded, rising too. “We’ll ask the principal for the address.”

 

Jongho looked like he wanted to say more, but instead, he just pressed his lips together and gave a tight nod.

 

“Don’t worry,” Seonghwa added gently, “We’ll handle that.”

 

“I know,” Jongho said.

 

The brothers shared a brief look — not as teacher and officer — but as something older. Something quieter. A history no one else in the room could name.

 

“Thanks for your help,” Yunho said.

 

Jongho gave a small, tired smile. “Be gentle with her. She’s… she’s just a kid.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yuri’s house was tucked into a quieter residential pocket just west of the school — a three-story complex with narrow balconies and sun-bleached curtains flapping in the wind.

 

Seonghwa and Yunho arrived just past two.

 

The woman who opened the door looked to be in her early forties. She had kind eyes, but worry pulled her features taut the moment she saw the badges.

 

“Good morning,” Yunho said gently. “We’re from the Haeundae precinct. This is about Sunmi — is she currently here?”

 

The woman blinked. “Sunmi? Oh—yes, yes. She and Yuri are inside.”

 

“We’d like to speak with you first,” Seonghwa added. “Privately, if possible.”

 

There was a beat of hesitation, just a flicker of maternal instinct. Then she stepped aside.

 

“Come in, please.”

 

The interior was modest but warm — worn floral cushions, a family calendar hanging beside a shelf of framed photos, the faint smell of tea and lemongrass cleaner in the air. The woman motioned toward the small dining table near the window.

 

“They stayed up a bit late last night,” she explained softly, voice tight with concern. “Watched a movie or two. I told them they could take the morning off — they’re studying together for finals anyway. They’re in Yuri’s room, just down the hall.”

 

She gestured vaguely in that direction, then moved to the kitchen counter. “I was about to bring them some tea, but—here. Let me get you some first.”

 

“You don’t have to—” Seonghwa started, but she was already pouring.

 

She returned a moment later with two cups — still steaming, set gently on coasters between them. Then she sat.

 

Yunho didn’t waste time.

 

“I’m afraid we have some very difficult news to share,” he said carefully. “Sunmi’s parents were found this morning… deceased. We believe they were murdered approximately two days ago.”

 

The cup in her hands stilled.

 

For a second, her entire body seemed to freeze — like a breath caught mid-inhale. “Oh my god…”

 

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I…” She looked down, then up again. “Are you… are you certain?”

 

“Yes,” Seonghwa said softly. “We understand this is a shock. We just need to ask a few questions, to better understand what kind of home environment Sunmi was coming from.”

 

She nodded quickly, as if still trying to catch up. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

 

“Have you ever met her parents?”

 

The woman frowned, thinking. “Only once, really. It wasn’t planned or anything. We were at the park — my husband, Yuri and I — and we saw Sunmi walking with her mother. Yuri waved, so we all stopped and said hello.”

 

“How was the mother?” Yunho asked. “Anything that stood out?”

 

“Not really. She was… quiet. Like Sunmi. Not unfriendly, but not warm either. She didn’t smile much. Just gave a small nod and stood back while the girls spoke.”

 

She folded her hands, glancing between them. “I never met the father.”

 

“Have you ever noticed anything concerning about Sunmi?” Seonghwa asked. “Signs of neglect, or possible abuse? Anything physical — bruises, poor hygiene, unusual behavior?”

 

She paused at that.

 

“No,” she said slowly. “Nothing like that. Actually… the opposite.”

 

Yunho tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

 

“She’s very clean. Almost… obsessively so. I’ve noticed it every time she’s come over — she washes her hands constantly. After eating, before studying, even before watching TV. I’ve seen her wash them four or five times in a row, even if all she used was a spoon.”

 

Seonghwa scribbled something down.

 

“She keeps her clothes spotless. Folds everything, even her socks. She never leaves anything lying around. And she always smells like… soap. Like bar soap.”

 

The woman’s voice dropped a bit.

 

“She’s the kind of child who always says thank you. Always clears her own plate. Never raises her voice, never demands anything.”

 

Yunho exchanged a glance with Seonghwa.

 

“And has she ever talked about her parents? Her home life?”

 

“No,” she said. “Not once. Not in the casual way kids do. You’d ask her, ‘What does your mom make for lunch?’ and she’d just smile and say ‘I eat at school.’ Things like that.”

 

Yunho set his cup down gently. “Thank you. That’s all very helpful.”

 

The woman looked toward the hallway again, where the two girls were still quietly sequestered behind the bedroom door.

 

“What’s going to happen to her?”

 

“We don’t know yet,” Seonghwa admitted. “We’ll speak to her gently. Social services will step in. For now, we just need to hear from her directly.”

 

The woman gave a tight nod, lips pressed together.

 

“I’ll go get her.”

 

 

 

 

The hallway was quiet as their eyes followed Yuri’s mother to the bedroom door. She gave a light knock and waited a second before easing it open.

 

“Sunmi,” she said gently. “Sweetheart, can you come out here for a moment? There are two people who want to talk to you.”

 

There was a rustle, then footsteps.

 

Sunmi stepped out, small and neatly dressed in a lavender T-shirt and grey sweatpants. Her hair was pulled back into a tidy ponytail, her socks mismatched. She blinked at their seated figures with wide, dark eyes — curious, not yet afraid. They stood up to greet her.

 

Seonghwa felt it the moment he saw her.

 

The stillness.

 

The same kind that had gripped Jongho that day. Like something fragile teetering just behind her ribs.

 

“This is Detective Jeong Yunho, and I’m Detective Park Seonghwa,” he said calmly, crouching just a little so he could meet her at eye level. “Do you mind sitting with us for a moment? We just want to ask you a few things.”

 

She nodded slowly.

 

They led her to the couch, where Yunho took one side and Seonghwa the other, careful not to crowd her.

 

The woman disappeared quietly into her daughter’s room, shutting the door behind her.

 

Seonghwa leaned forward, hands loose in his lap.

 

“Sunmi,” he said softly, “do you know why we’re here?”

 

The girl hesitated. Then shook her head, once.

 

Seonghwa’s heart pressed heavier into his chest.

 

Yunho spoke next, voice even and quiet. “We were at your home this morning. Your landlord was concerned — he hadn’t seen your parents for a few days.”

 

He paused, watching her.

 

Sunmi’s fingers gripped the edge of her shirt.

 

Seonghwa saw the moment she started to understand.

 

Yunho continued. “Sunmi… there’s no easy way to say this, but… your parents were found in your apartment.”

 

He slowed then, letting the next words fall carefully.

 

“They’re gone.”

 

Sunmi didn’t blink.

 

Her lips parted, just slightly. A breath. And then silence again.

 

She stared ahead — at nothing in particular — and for a moment, she didn’t move at all. Not even her shoulders.

 

And then—

 

The tears came.

 

Not loud. Not gasping or broken or messy.

 

Just quiet.

 

Like something she’d been holding back for years had finally cracked open, and all she could do now was cry.

 

Her shoulders began to tremble, her eyes flooding faster than her hands could wipe them. She doubled forward slightly, hands curled into fists in her lap, silent tears pouring down her cheeks.

 

Seonghwa instinctively reached toward her — hesitated for a second — then gently touched her shoulder.

 

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You don’t have to say anything right now. You’re safe here.”

 

He stayed close. Just like he had with Jongho ten years ago.

 

Back then, in a different station, in a colder room, he remembered the sound of his little brother’s breath hitching, remembered the way his own chest had burned trying to hold them both together.

 

But Sunmi didn’t have to see it. That, at least, was a mercy.

 

She kept crying. No sound, no words.

 

Just grief — pure and unbearable, sitting raw in the center of the room.

 

Yunho stood quietly, giving her space. He crossed to the kitchen and pulled a few tissues from the box on the counter, bringing them back without a word.

 

Seonghwa took them, gently offered one into her hand.

 

Sunmi wiped her face, still shaking.

 

Finally, after what felt like a long, suspended silence, she whispered, “how?”

 

Neither of them answered.

 

There were no words that would make sense yet.

 

Not until they understood the truth themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

4:17 PM

 

The station lights were dimmer now — not from design, but from the wear of age and long hours. The afternoon was thick with heat, the air conditioner humming uselessly overhead. Desks were scattered with takeout cups, half-finished notes, and crumpled paper. Somewhere in the distance, a printer churned out something loud and continuous.

 

Seonghwa sat at his desk, eyes red from strain, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

 

The murder report was half done.

 

So far, it read like a puzzle missing half its pieces — double homicide, no witnesses, minimal evidence, a traumatized child with no answers, and a message left behind like punctuation at the end of a sentence no one wanted to read.

 

“It has to end.”

 

He kept staring at those words in the scanned image from the crime scene report. He hadn’t looked at it since they returned — but now, in the sterile quiet of the bullpen, it clawed back up.

 

Yunho was across from him, equally hunched over, writing with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other.

 

“We still haven’t confirmed the father’s job,” he muttered. “I’ve called three businesses listed on his ID but they all said he left months ago.”

 

“We’ll ask the neighbors tomorrow,” Seonghwa said, tone flat. “Maybe he took up something informal. Market work. Odd labor.”

 

“We need to get that timeline tight. If they died two nights ago, someone had to notice something — sounds, movement, anything.”

 

“Place was too quiet.”

 

Yunho didn’t disagree.

 

The door creaked open and two familiar figures stepped inside — Hongjoong and Yeosang, both still in their work vests, gloves peeled off and tucked into their back pockets.

 

“Hey,” Yunho greeted them. “You got anything?”

 

Hongjoong looked grim.

 

“We processed the entire note,” he said, crossing to the main desk and placing a clear folder down. “No prints. No external DNA. The only biological material was saliva and blood — from the victim. Which means the paper was inserted post-mortem.”

 

Yeosang nodded beside him. “The ink’s fresh. Local ballpoint. Common brand, sold everywhere. No unique traits. It was written quickly — a strong hand. And based on both the writing slant and the angle of stab wounds…”

 

He looked at the file.

 

“…We’re almost certain the perpetrator is left-handed.”

 

It landed like a punch to the gut.

 

Seonghwa’s stomach twisted violently, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t speak — couldn’t. For a second, the lights felt too bright. The room too close. His vision blurred for half a second before he blinked hard and looked down at his hands, fists curling slowly on the desk.

 

Left-handed.

 

It wasn’t rare. A lot of people were left-handed.

 

But not a lot of people wrote and stabbed with such mirrored precision. Not a lot of people killed like that. And certainly not in a scene so terrifyingly similar to the one from ten years ago.

 

Yunho must’ve noticed something in his face because he leaned forward, voice low. “Hwa?”

 

Seonghwa shook his head. “I’m fine.”

 

He wasn’t.

But he would be. He had to be.

 

He looked up, voice steadier now. “Anything else?”

 

Hongjoong exchanged a glance with Yeosang, then shook his head. “We’re still processing the autopsy. But no signs of sexual assault. The wounds were rage-driven, not clean. We’re estimating the murder happened around 2 to 4 a.m., two nights ago.”

 

“Thanks,” Yunho said.

 

The forensics team moved off toward the back room, papers in hand.

 

Seonghwa exhaled, slow.

 

Yunho didn’t press him — not yet — but his eyes lingered, quiet with concern.

 

Seonghwa sat back in his chair, fingers pressing into his temples. The words echoed again.

 

A decade ago, those words had been etched into his memory. Now, they were in his case files.

 

And that made everything worse.

 

 

 

 

 

By 8:30pm, the station emptied slowly, like a machine powering down in pieces.

 

Reports were logged. Statements filed. Whiteboards wiped clean. At some point, the clock hit eight and nobody noticed until their backs ached and their heads throbbed with too many unanswered questions.

 

Seonghwa leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.

 

“That’s it,” Yunho said beside him, setting his pen down with finality. “We’re done for today.”

 

Seonghwa nodded. “Yeah.”

 

San emerged from the locker room, now out of his tactical uniform and in a loose t-shirt and jeans, his hair damp from a quick rinse.

 

He raised a hand. “I’m off. Dinner with my favorite teacher, don’t wait up.”

 

Seonghwa gave him a tired smirk. “Tell him to pay this time.”

 

San laughed, already halfway to the door. “He won’t. But I’ll try.”

 

The doors clicked behind him.

 

Seonghwa stood, rolled his shoulders, and exhaled. It felt like he’d lived three lifetimes in one day.

 

“Wanna come to mine?” Yunho asked quietly.

 

Seonghwa didn’t need to answer. The look he gave him was enough.

 

⸻

 

Yunho’s apartment was small but clean, lights dimmed to a low amber glow. A breeze filtered in through the cracked kitchen window, and the faint hum of city traffic made the silence feel less hollow.

 

Seonghwa had showered, the tension easing from his shoulders drop by drop. Now he sat beside Yunho on the couch, barefoot, damp hair pushed back, wearing one of Yunho’s hoodies and a pair of sweats that hung a little loose on his frame.

 

Yunho handed him a glass of wine.

 

“You still have this?” Seonghwa asked, raising a brow.

 

“Only for special occasions.”

 

“This is a special occasion?”

 

Yunho tilted his head. “You made detective. That counts.”

 

Seonghwa gave a soft laugh, short and dry. “Yeah. Hell of a first day.”

 

They clinked glasses, more out of routine than celebration, and drank in silence.

 

The wine was dry. Smooth. Seonghwa let it settle in his chest.

 

He stared at the ceiling for a while, then said quietly, “I want to talk to Sunmi again.”

 

Yunho looked over at him. “Yeah?”

 

“Not now. But soon. A day or two. I don’t think she’s… ready. But we need to understand what she saw. Or what she knows.”

 

Yunho nodded slowly. “I had that feeling too. But I didn’t want to push her.”

 

They sat in silence for a moment longer, the weight of the day hanging like a coat they couldn’t take off.

 

Then Yunho leaned in, pressing his shoulder lightly to Seonghwa’s.

 

“You okay?” he asked.

 

“No,” Seonghwa said truthfully. “But I’m here.”

 

Yunho smiled faintly. “You always are.”

 

He reached for Seonghwa’s glass and set it aside, then his own. His touch lingered — subtle, steady. And when he shifted closer, Seonghwa didn’t move away.

 

They sat hip to hip now, knees touching, quiet turning into something else.

 

Yunho’s fingers grazed Seonghwa’s thigh.

 

“Hyung,” he murmured — soft, teasing.

 

Seonghwa side-eyed him. “Really?”

 

“You love it when I call you that.”

 

“I tolerate it.”

 

“Liar.”

 

Yunho leaned in — nose brushing Seonghwa’s cheek — and kissed the corner of his mouth.

 

And just like that, the whole day melted a little.

 

Seonghwa huffed a laugh then kissed him back, slowly at first, his hand finding the back of Yunho’s neck. The kiss deepened — no rush, no frenzy, just quiet need, quiet hunger. Seonghwa exhaled through his nose, letting himself sink into it, letting Yunho pull him gently onto his lap, knees framing his hips.

 

Yunho’s hand slid beneath the hem of the hoodie, resting warm on Seonghwa’s back.

 

“Let’s forget today,” he whispered. “Just for tonight. Just be here. With me.”

 

Seonghwa looked at him and for once, didn’t overthink it. “Please,” he breathed, the pad of his thumb tracing Yunho’s lips. “Let’s do that.”

 

Yunho kissed him again — longer this time, deeper. Tongues tangling, teeth softly grazing his bottom lip, swallowing the tiny whimpers that slipped out.

 

The weight of the day slipped off their bodies as the world outside the window fell away, just for a little while.

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Rural Korea, 1997

July. Late Afternoon

 

 

 

The cicadas were screaming.

 

That kind of endless, oppressive hum that filled every corner of summer in the countryside — relentless and sharp, like the air itself was straining under the heat. All the windows were open, but no breeze came through. The curtains hung limp, sticking faintly to the frames, and sweat clung to Seonghwa’s neck as he sat on the far end of the floor mat, legs crossed, staring blankly at the low table in front of him.

 

His father was sitting in front of the fan, shirt unbuttoned, a bottle of makgeolli sweating against his palm. His voice filled the room like it always did — crass and careless, every word dragging a weight behind it.

 

“There was this new woman at the market today,” he said, slurring just slightly, grin crooked. “Haven’t seen her before. Walked past the bean stall in one of those short-ass skirts — you know the kind. Tight. Real tight. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Even the old butcher tripped on his knife trying to get a look.” He chuckled, low and mean.

 

“Bet she wanted it. You don’t dress like that unless you want people to look.”

 

Across from him, Seonghwa’s mother gave a small, tight laugh. It barely reached her eyes. “She must’ve been… bold,” she offered, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

 

“She was asking for it,” he said. “If I see her again next Friday, I might ask how much.” Another laugh. Cruel and hollow.

 

Seonghwa didn’t speak.

 

He didn’t look up either. Just kept his gaze fixed on a chipped corner of the table, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shorts. His chest felt tight. Too tight. The sweat between his shoulder blades wasn’t from the heat anymore.

 

His mother’s laugh faded.

 

Silence settled in, save for the cicadas and the squeak of the fan blade. A few seconds passed like that — still, fragile — until the water in the bathroom pipes stopped.

 

The shower had ended.

 

Footsteps padded across the floorboards — Jongho’s, light and quick, the sound of a towel being pulled off the rack. He was probably drying his hair now. Probably humming under his breath like he always did when the house was quiet.

 

Seonghwa’s father shifted.

 

“When you shower,” he said, voice lower now, eyes flicking lazily toward Seonghwa, “come help me in the back. Need to move some things in the shed.”

 

Seonghwa’s stomach dropped.

 

He swallowed hard. “I have to finish some notes for the summer class. I can do it later—”

 

A pillow flew across the room, striking him square in the shoulder. “I said after the shower.”

 

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

 

The weight in them was enough.

 

Seonghwa nodded quickly, eyes still down. “Okay.”

 

His father leaned back again, satisfied, turning his attention back to the bottom of his bottle.

 

Then — casually, like he was commenting on the weather — he added, “If you’re too slow, I’ll take Jongho instead.”

 

That hit harder than the pillow ever could have.

 

Seonghwa’s breath caught, head feeling suddenly light.

 

“No— I’ll be there,” he said, too fast. “I’ll come right after.”

 

The old man didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

 

Seonghwa looked up for the first time — not at his father, but at his mother.

 

She wasn’t looking at him. Of course she wasn’t.

 

Her gaze was locked on the floor, jaw tight, nails digging into the hem of her skirt.

 

She said nothing.

 

She always said nothing.

 

A door creaked open down the hall — Jongho stepping out, still damp, hair flattened and curling at the ends. He passed the living room with a faint smile, towel draped over his neck, not noticing anything off.

 

Seonghwa stood slowly, knees aching, and headed toward the bathroom.

 

The afternoon light through the windows had turned dull and heavy, casting long shadows across the floor.

 

The cicadas kept screaming.

 

And the storage shed in the backyard waited — quiet, sweltering, and still.

 

 

 

 

—•—

 

 

 

 

Busan, 2007

Three Days Since the Murder

 

 

The station was quieter than usual.

 

Outside, clouds rolled in over the harbor, heavy with the threat of early summer rain. Inside, the air was thick with that particular kind of fatigue that came not from lack of sleep — but from too many dead ends.

 

Seonghwa sat with a cup of stale coffee in his hands, a stack of reports laid out across his desk like a broken puzzle. His pen tapped restlessly against the edge of a page, eyes scanning the same lines for the third time.

 

Nothing.

 

Still nothing.

 

Three days had passed since the bodies were found. Three days of interviews, phone calls, door-to-doors, and paper trails. And yet—no new suspects. No usable evidence. No fingerprints. No cameras. No witnesses. No known enemies.

 

No known friends, either.

 

Yunho stepped out from the back room, rubbing his temple.

 

“They just sent over the employment file,” he said, dropping a folder on the desk. “Lee Taehwan.“

 

Seonghwa opened it with little ceremony.

 

Inside were scraps of the man’s life — a photo ID, a thin resume, a contract stamped by a logistics company in Nam-gu. A termination letter, dated April 4th.

 

“He was fired about a month ago,” Yunho said. “Got into a fight with a coworker. Punched the guy hard enough to crack his cheekbone. Manager said he was drunk, smelled like soju even before noon.”

 

“Were charges filed?”

 

Yunho shook his head. “Nope. Manager didn’t want trouble. Paid the coworker off, gave Taehwan his last paycheck and told him to disappear.”

 

Seonghwa’s jaw tightened. “And that was enough?”

 

“Apparently. Guy never showed up again.”

 

He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms.

 

“I talked to a few of the old coworkers. No one liked him. Said he was creepy. Always stared too long, laughed too loud. Tried to flirt with the younger workers. Made people uncomfortable.”

 

Seonghwa flipped to the back of the file.

 

“Any history before Busan?”

 

“Not much. They moved here maybe six years ago. No family records in the city before that. No real friends. No one close. Even the neighbors barely knew their names.” He exhaled. “They kept to themselves like freaking shadows.”

 

Seonghwa tapped the edge of the folder. “What about his wife?”

 

“Even less info. Registered as unemployed. No known workplaces. No medical records in the area. She didn’t talk to anyone. A few neighbors remember seeing her walking with the girl sometimes, but that’s about it.”

 

“Nothing at all?”

 

Yunho glanced at the board behind them — the photos, the scribbled notes, the printed headlines. “She was invisible,” he said.

 

Seonghwa rubbed his temple.

 

“Name’s Lee Taehwan,” he murmured. He said it aloud again, slower. “Lee Taehwan.”

 

A name that meant nothing. A man who left behind only bad impressions and unpaid bills.

 

He didn’t like the sound of him. But it wasn’t about liking. It was about what could’ve pushed someone to murder a man like that — and his wife, too.

 

 

 

A soft knock came at the edge of Seonghwa’s concentration. He looked up.

 

San stood in the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame, a folded file in the other. His usually playful expression was nowhere in sight — eyes low, mouth tight.

 

Yunho noticed it too. “What is it?” he asked, already straightening in his chair.

 

San stepped in, dropped the file onto the table between them. “Did some digging. You’re gonna want to read this.”

 

Seonghwa opened it.

 

It wasn’t long — just two sheets, copies of a police record and a small note scribbled by a local contact from outside the city.

 

Yunho leaned closer. “Where’s this from?” he asked.

 

“Gyeongbuk province,” San replied. “Rural district. Near the outskirts. It’s old — predates their move to Busan by a year or so. Was flagged in one of the archived databases from a child protection unit. Buried pretty deep.”

 

Seonghwa’s eyes scanned the page, heartbeat slowing.

 

Subject: Lee Taehwan.

Date: September 1999.

Filed under: Suspicion of child molestation.

 

The victim was ten years old. A neighbor’s daughter.

 

The complaint was made by the child’s mother, but the case never went to trial. Insufficient evidence. No witness. No medical report. The family moved shortly after filing.

 

And so did Lee Taehwan.

 

“What happened to the girl?” Seonghwa asked, voice low.

 

San shook his head. “No record after that. They left the area. Probably changed schools. No forwarding address.”

 

Seonghwa leaned back, spine rigid, one hand coming up to press against his mouth.

 

The room felt colder.

 

“And no one in Busan knew?” Yunho asked, already flipping through the accompanying notes. “This wasn’t flagged when they moved?”

 

“It wouldn’t have been. No conviction. No trial. No registration.” San’s jaw tightened. “Just a footnote in a small-town report.”

 

“But someone knew,” Seonghwa murmured.

 

Yunho looked at him. “You think Sunmi knew?”

 

“I don’t know.” His voice was tight. “But someone did.”

 

There was a long pause. No one moved.

 

Then Yunho reached for the file again. “We need to find that original officer,” he said. “Or someone from the child protection unit. Anyone who was there at the time.”

 

“I’ve already put in the request,” San said. “Should have a contact by tomorrow.”

 

Seonghwa gave a tight nod. “Good work,” he said quietly.

 

San hesitated near the door. “There’s more,” he said. “But I think you’ll want to read that part yourself.”

 

He motioned to the second page — a handwritten note attached to the old report.

 

Seonghwa picked it up.

 

The handwriting was rushed, informal. Scrawled in blue ink:

 

Locals used to say the guy gave off bad energy. One kid even claimed he’d seen Taehwan kill a dog once, in the woods behind the grain mill. Cut its throat and watched it die. Said it was a punishment. Never confirmed. But people stayed away after that.

 

The ink trailed off.

 

Seonghwa laid the paper over the file. No one spoke for a second.

 

Yunho exhaled. “We need to talk to Sunmi again.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They didn’t waste time.

 

By early evening, the rain had started — a low, steady drizzle falling over the city in sheets, smudging the windows of the precinct car as they pulled into the quiet lot of the temporary care home.

 

The building was modest — three stories high, tucked behind a church and shielded by tall, swaying pines. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but the staff had been kind on the phone, and according to the department’s youth liaison, this was the best place available for now. Clean. Calm. Safe.

 

“She’s been quiet,” the intake worker told them as they stepped inside. “Barely speaks. Eats, sleeps, follows routine. No outbursts, no crying. Just… very still.”

 

That same word again.

 

Still.

 

Seonghwa exchanged a look with Yunho. “You talk to her.” Yunho had murmured. Seonghwa stepped forward.

 

“I’d like to speak with her,” he said gently. “Alone.”

 

The woman hesitated for a second, then nodded. “That might be good, actually. Too many officials at once — it can be overwhelming.”

 

“I’ll stay in the waiting area,” Yunho offered, motioning to the small row of seats near the front desk. “Take your time.”

 

Seonghwa gave him a quiet nod, then turned to the vending machine in the hallway.

 

It was old, humming faintly. He scanned the options and settled on two small bags of sweet corn puffs — simple, familiar. He figured they were safe. Comfort food. Something a child might like. He took one for himself too. Just so she wouldn’t feel like a charity case.

 

The staff directed him upstairs.

 

Room 2A.

 

He knocked softly.

 

No answer — but when he opened the door, she was already sitting up on the bed.

 

Sunmi.

 

She wore a clean grey T-shirt and soft green pajama pants. Her hair had been brushed back neatly. She didn’t look surprised to see him — didn’t look much of anything.

 

“Hi,” Seonghwa said quietly, stepping in and shutting the door behind him.

 

She didn’t speak.

 

He crossed to the small table by the window and set the two snack bags down — one on each side.

 

“I thought we could eat a little while we talk,” he said. “Only if you want.”

 

She stared at them for a long moment. Then back at him.

 

“I brought one for myself too,” he added, opening his bag with a soft crinkle. “So it’s fair.”

 

That made her blink.

 

She didn’t reach for hers yet, but she didn’t pull away either.

 

He sat across from her, careful to keep the distance casual. Not too close. Not looming.

 

“I’m not here to make you feel scared,” he said. “And you don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to. I just… wanted to check in. See how you’re doing.”

 

Silence stretched.

 

The rain whispered against the windows.

 

Finally, her voice came — small and dry, like it had been stored away for days.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Seonghwa nodded slowly. “That’s okay.”

He didn’t push.

 

He let the quiet settle again, let it become something they both shared instead of something that pressed against her.

 

“I’ve been where you are,” he said softly. Her eyes lifted at that.

 

“I lost my parents too. A long time ago. I was a little older than you. But… it felt like the world just stopped. Like I couldn’t breathe right for weeks.”

 

Still, she didn’t speak. But her hands tightened slightly in her lap.

 

“You don’t have to talk about them,” Seonghwa said. “Not yet. But I need to ask you something.”

 

A pause.

 

“It’s not about what happened that night,” he clarified gently. “Not directly. It’s just… do you remember anything strange from the weeks before? Anything unusual about your father? Or your mother?”

 

Her lips pressed together.

 

“I won’t be mad,” Seonghwa added. “I’m not here to scare you. I’m not here to trap you. I’m just trying to understand what your life was like before this. What you saw. What you knew.”

 

She looked at the table.

 

Then — very slowly — she reached for the snack bag. Her fingers shook a little as she opened it.

 

She took one puff out, held it between her fingers for a moment. Then ate it.

 

Tiny, quiet crunch.

 

Seonghwa didn’t smile — didn’t want to patronize her. But his chest loosened just slightly.

 

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said. “Just start small.”

 

And after a long silence…

 

She whispered, barely audible—

 

“Sometimes… I wasn’t allowed to sleep.”

 

Seonghwa’s stomach turned. But he didn’t flinch.

 

“Why not?” he asked, voice calm.

 

She stared at the window.

 

“He said… good girls don’t sleep until the house is clean.”

 

A pause.

 

“I cleaned everything,” she whispered. “But it wasn’t right. He’d say I missed a corner. Or a mark. Or a speck. And then I’d have to start over. Or stand in the hallway until morning. Sometimes without socks. Just stand.”

 

Seonghwa’s hand curled slowly into a fist beneath the table.

 

“But I didn’t cry,” she added quickly. “He said crying was selfish. He said—he said it made me ugly. Like my mother.”

 

Her voice broke slightly on that word.

 

Seonghwa leaned in just a little, lowering his voice further. “Did he ever hurt you?”

 

She froze. Eyes wide.

 

Not shocked.

But as if waiting.

 

For permission.

 

Then — the smallest nod.

 

He didn’t ask how. He didn’t need to. Not yet.

 

Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small notepad, laying it flat on the table.

 

“If you ever want to tell me more,” he said gently, “you can write it down. Or you can draw. Or you can just talk. But you get to choose when.”

 

She didn’t reach for it yet.

But she was still listening, eyes flicking to the notepad then his eyes.

 

He smiled gently. “I know how it feels.”

 

 

 

 

 

The hallway was still quiet when Seonghwa stepped out, the rain still murmuring against the windows down the corridor.

 

Yunho stood up as soon as he saw him.

 

Their eyes met — and for a moment, Yunho didn’t say anything. Just waited, his expression steady but alert, like he already knew the answer and just needed it said aloud.

 

Seonghwa let out a slow breath.

 

“She talked,” he said softly. “Not much, but… she’s starting to open up.”

 

Yunho nodded once. “And?”

 

“She said he didn’t let her sleep. Made her clean the house over and over again. Stand in the hallway until morning if she got it wrong.”

 

“Manipulative,” Yunho murmured, his jaw tight.

 

Seonghwa nodded. “Controlling. Dehumanizing. She called crying selfish. Said he told her it made her look ugly. Like her mother.”

 

Yunho’s face darkened slightly.

 

“There’s definitely verbal abuse,” Seonghwa added. “Emotional, psychological. That much is clear.”

 

“But?”

 

Seonghwa paused. His voice dropped to a quieter register, just above a whisper.

 

“She froze when I asked if he ever hurt her. Then nodded. But she didn’t say how.”

 

Yunho didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

 

“I hope it’s not what I think,” Seonghwa said finally, his throat tight. “But we wouldn’t be surprised if it was.”

 

Yunho exhaled, eyes low. “Yeah.”

 

There was a long silence between them.

 

Then Yunho reached out and touched Seonghwa’s elbow lightly — not for comfort, but for grounding. For reality.

 

“We’ll wait,” Seonghwa said. “Let her lead. She needs control over her story.”

 

Yunho patted his back as they left the building.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The apartment was still and quiet, save for the faint hum of the TV and the low voices of a drama rerun playing lazily in the background. The air smelled faintly of garlic and sesame oil — traces of dinner still lingering even after they’d cleaned up.

 

The couch creaked slightly as Yunho shifted, head resting comfortably in Seonghwa’s lap, one arm draped across his own stomach. He was watching him — had been for several minutes now — with a quiet, lopsided smile curving at the corners of his lips.

 

Seonghwa didn’t seem to notice at first. His fingers moved absently through Yunho’s hair, gentle and slow, combing the strands back again and again with a rhythm that was second nature by now. His eyes were still on the screen.

 

But then he caught the look.

 

“…What?” he murmured, glancing down, the faintest flush creeping into his ears.

 

Yunho didn’t look away. “Nothing.”

 

“That’s not a ‘nothing’ face.”

 

Yunho grinned. “Just thinking.”

 

“Dangerous that is.”

 

“Mm.” Yunho’s smile deepened. “Just thinking I like watching you when you’re relaxed. You get this crease in your brow even when you’re watching something silly.”

 

Seonghwa rolled his eyes but didn’t stop playing with his hair. “I’m not creased,” he mumbled.

 

“You are. Right here.” Yunho reached up and brushed his thumb between Seonghwa’s brows. “Adorable.”

 

Seonghwa caught his wrist. “Stop.”

 

“Make me.”

 

A breath of a laugh escaped Seonghwa before he could stop it. “You’re insufferable.”

 

“And yet,” Yunho said, voice low and teasing, “you’re still letting me use your lap as a pillow. Must be doing something right.”

 

“I’m just tired,” Seonghwa muttered, clearly lying.

 

Yunho smirked, fingers now tracing lazy circles on the inside of Seonghwa’s wrist. “You know you’re cute when you try to flirt back.”

 

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “Try?”

 

“Keyword: try .”

 

“Wow.” Seonghwa leaned back against the cushions with a dramatic sigh. “You’re calling me a loser. Unbelievable.”

 

“Don’t worry, hyung,” Yunho said sweetly, “I’ll carry the team. You can just sit there and look pretty.”

 

“I’m not pretty,” Seonghwa grumbled.

 

“You’re gorgeous,” Yunho corrected, matter-of-factly.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Yunho beamed. “Nope.”

 

Seonghwa bit his lip, trying and failing to hide the smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.

 

Yunho’s eyes softened at the sight.

 

“You know…” he murmured, “I wouldn’t trade this. Any of it. Not even the long-ass case reports. Not even your mild cooking.”

 

Seonghwa gasped. “ My cooking?”

 

“You burned the onion.”

 

“It was caramelized!”

 

“It was traumatized .”

 

Seonghwa shoved a pillow over his face with a groan, and Yunho just laughed — full and warm and bright, like the day hadn’t started with an unsolved murder and a child trying to hold herself together.

 

A moment later, Seonghwa lowered the pillow from his face slowly, his cheeks visibly pink now, but there was no hiding the smile playing at his lips. It was soft — tired but real — and Yunho would’ve given anything to keep it there for a little longer.

 

He sat up slowly, turning so they were face to face, knees brushing. The glow from the TV flickered quietly over their skin, but it was the warmth between them that lit the room.

 

“Hey,” Yunho said, voice quieter now.

 

Seonghwa met his gaze, still smiling faintly. “What?”

 

Yunho just looked at him for a second. Then, gently — like a secret — he said, “You’re so safe… You make me feel like I’m home.”

 

Seonghwa’s smile faded just a little, replaced by something deeper, something he didn’t have words for.

 

But he didn’t need them.

 

He reached forward, cupping the side of Yunho’s neck, thumb brushing just beneath his jaw — and leaned in.

 

The kiss was soft.

 

No urgency, no rush — just mouths meeting like they’d done it a hundred times before and would do it a hundred more. Yunho’s hands came up to frame Seonghwa’s waist, fingers curling into the cotton of his oversized shirt.

 

Seonghwa kissed him deeper, shifting closer, his knees bracketing Yunho’s thighs as he sank into the moment. The world outside — the case, the rain, the weight of what they’d heard from Sunmi — fell away.

 

All that mattered now was this.

 

Warmth. Familiarity. Breath shared between them.

 

Yunho’s hands slid up Seonghwa’s sides, fingertips grazing bare skin just under the hem of his shirt. Seonghwa shivered, not from cold but from the way Yunho always touched him like he was memorizing something sacred.

 

“You sure?” Yunho asked between kisses, voice low, breath warm against his lips.

 

Seonghwa nodded, forehead pressing to his. “Yeah… I want you.”

 

That was all Yunho needed.

 

Their kisses deepened, slower now, intimate. Steady. Unfolding in a rhythm they’d written together over nights like this one.

 

Yunho rose from the couch, guiding Seonghwa by the hand. No words. No performance. Just quiet understanding as they moved toward the bedroom, brushing against doorframes, catching one another in gentle laughter and stolen kisses.

 

Inside, clothes fell away piece by piece — not torn off, not discarded, but slid from skin like soft confessions.

 

Every touch was careful. Every look was a promise.

 

And when they finally came together, it wasn’t just about desire.

 

It was about solace.

 

About choosing, again and again, to let someone in even after the world had proven itself cruel.

 

Afterward, they lay tangled under the blankets, Seonghwa tucked against Yunho’s chest, heartbeat calm for the first time in days.

 

“I love you,” Yunho whispered into his hair.

 

Seonghwa closed his eyes and pressed closer.

 

“I know,” he breathed. “Me too.”

 

For the first time since the murder, Seonghwa slept through the night. Wrapped in Yunho’s warmth.

And how Yunho stayed awake longer to watch him sleep? He didn’t need to know that.

 

 

 

Chapter 5

 

 

Rural Korea, 1997

July, Early Evening

 

 

 

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of cicadas filtering in through the open windows. A fan turned lazily in the corner, barely cutting through the thick, humid air.

 

Jongho stood by the doorway, hands dusty from some extra tasks in the field, watching his mother scrub a pot like it had wronged her. She hadn’t noticed him yet — or maybe she had and just didn’t want to look up.

 

He stepped inside.

 

“Mom.”

 

She flinched just slightly at his voice, then glanced over her shoulder, trying to smile.

 

“Done already?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He hovered for a moment.

 

“Why does Dad always take hyung to the shed?”

 

The question hung there. She stilled.

 

For a moment, her knuckles whitened around the sponge. Then she rinsed the pot slowly, setting it aside like she hadn’t heard the shift in his tone.

 

“He’s older,” she said, carefully measured. “He knows how to help with things. Things you don’t need to worry about.”

 

Jongho didn’t reply.

 

He stepped closer, eyes fixed on her back.

 

“Things like what?”

 

She busied herself with another dish. “Tools. Heavy lifting. Stuff you don’t know how to handle yet.”

 

“I’m strong. I can handle things.”

 

Her shoulders rose just a little — tension gathering like breath being held.

 

“Then maybe next year,” she said. “When you’re stronger. Don’t think too much about it, Jongho-yah. It’s just chores.”

 

A beat of silence passed.

 

Jongho nodded slowly.

 

Then, softly:

“I know why he takes him.”

 

The clatter of metal stopped mid-motion.

 

His mother froze, dish still in hand, not turning.

 

The fan creaked in the corner.

 

“And you’re not stopping it.”

 

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe, it seemed.

 

Jongho looked at her for a moment longer. Just her back — rigid, small in that dim kitchen light. Then he turned without a word and walked down the hall toward his room, footsteps slow but even.

 

Behind him, the house stayed quiet.

Except for the fan.

And the cicadas.

And the quiet breaking of something that had already cracked long ago.

 

 

 

 

The room was dim, lit only by the last thread of daylight slipping through the window screen. The cicadas had dulled now, replaced by the low rustle of the trees and the occasional bark of a far-off dog. Jongho lay on his side, facing the door, blanket tucked up beneath his chin.

 

His mind had been restless. But he still noticed the moment the door creaked open.

 

Seonghwa stepped in, hair damp and plastered to his forehead, a towel hanging limply from around his neck. He looked pale. Hollowed out. Like he’d walked back through something heavy just to get here.

 

Jongho sat up slightly. “You look like a ghost,” he said, keeping his voice light.

 

Seonghwa offered a small smile. “I feel like one.”

 

He dropped the towel onto the chair and crossed the room, pulling back the covers. Jongho shifted automatically, making space without a word.

 

They lay side by side for a minute, the mattress creaking beneath them, the silence between them thick, tired.

 

Seonghwa turned onto his side, arm resting loosely between them.

 

“You think the camp will still happen next month?” he asked quietly.

 

Jongho nodded. “Yeah. Teacher said the budget was approved.”

 

“It’s just a week, right?”

 

“Five days and the weekend,” Jongho murmured. “But we’ll be by the river. There’s hiking. Night fire, too.”

 

Seonghwa hummed softly. “Bet they’ll make us sing.”

 

“We’ll be the only ones who don’t.”

 

That earned a faint chuckle from Seonghwa. “Bet you’ll pretend to be too cool for it.”

 

“I am too cool for it,” Jongho said, smirking.

 

“You’re barely fourteen.”

 

“I’m cooler than you were at fourteen.”

 

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, the smile tugging a little higher now. “Not possible.”

 

They let the silence return for a while, but this time it was easier. Warmer.

 

Jongho stared up at the ceiling.

 

In the stillness, Jongho inched just slightly closer until his shoulder pressed lightly against his brother’s.

 

And Seonghwa didn’t move away.

 

That was enough for now.

 

Just a week away. A river. Firelight. Songs they wouldn’t sing. Maybe even laughter.

 

Even if only for a week — they could be boys again.

 

 

 

 

—•—

 

 

Busan, 2007

Two Weeks After the Murder

 

 

The office air had grown heavier with the days.

 

Reports blurred into one another. Leads dried up. Witnesses failed to materialize. Every whiteboard in the precinct was still pinned with the same grim facts — but no fresh ink had touched them in days.

 

It wasn’t from lack of effort.

 

They had canvassed blocks. Spoken to neighbors. Pored over surveillance footage from every nearby business with a camera that wasn’t decades old or broken. But the few working feeds had caught nothing useful — just blurred figures, cars, shadows that offered no answers.

 

A ghost had done it.

 

Or someone good at pretending to be one.

 

The weight of it settled in Seonghwa’s chest like a stone.

 

He was at his desk when the call came.

 

The station phone rang — twice — and an officer called out, “Detective Park, line two. It’s the care home.”

 

His heart kicked.

 

He picked up quickly. “Detective Park.”

 

“Ah, hello,” came the soft voice on the other end. “I’m calling from the Youth Shelter. It’s about Sunmi.”

 

He sat straighter. “Is she alright?”

 

“Yes — yes, she’s fine. But… she asked to speak with you. Specifically you.”

 

Seonghwa’s voice gentled. “Did she say why?”

 

“She said she just… wanted to talk. About her parents. We didn’t press her.”

 

“I’ll be there within the hour,” he said.

 

And he was.

 

Rain hadn’t fallen, but the sky hung gray and tired, and the road to the shelter felt longer this time. When he arrived, the woman at the front desk greeted him kindly — recognition in her smile now.

 

“She’s in the same room,” she said. “Today she just came down after lunch and asked if we could call you.”

 

Seonghwa nodded his thanks and climbed the stairs to Room 2A.

 

He didn’t knock right away.

 

For a second, he just stood at the door — listening to the hush behind it, breathing through his own tension.

 

Then, quietly, he knocked.

 

A pause.

 

He opened the door.

 

Sunmi was seated on the small bed, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked the same — maybe smaller than he remembered. Pale shirt, soft pants. Her hair was tied back loosely.

 

But her eyes were clear. Alert.

 

“Hi,” Seonghwa said gently.

 

She nodded once. “Hi.”

 

He stepped in, shutting the door behind him. This time, he didn’t bring snacks. It didn’t feel necessary. She hadn’t asked him here for comfort.

 

She wanted to speak.

 

He took the seat by the table again, but this time, he waited.

 

Let her begin.

 

For a moment, she just looked at him  like she was trying to decide where to start.

 

After a long silence, he said gently, “they told me you wanted to talk to me… thank you.”

 

She nodded slowly, eyes still lowered.

 

Another pause.

 

Then she whispered, “I had a puppy once.”

 

Seonghwa blinked. “You did?”

 

She nodded again, fingers curling around each other. “He was small. Brown. With ears that didn’t match. One stood up, the other didn’t.”

 

A faint smile ghosted her lips — then vanished.

“One day he… he peed on the carpet,” she continued. “He was still little. I didn’t get mad. I cleaned it. I told him it was okay.”

 

Her hands had started trembling now.

 

“But my dad… saw it. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me. Then he grabbed him. Took him outside towards the forest.”

 

She swallowed.

 

“I begged him not to. I cried. But he said… bad things don’t deserve to be spoiled. He killed him.”

 

Seonghwa’s chest tightened. But he said nothing. Let her keep going.

 

“I buried him in the backyard. At night. My mom didn’t say anything. She just… told me to stop crying. Said it would make him worse if he heard me.”

 

The tears that started then were silent. Slow. Seonghwa passed her a tissue. She took it with shaking fingers but didn’t wipe her eyes — just held it.

 

“Sometimes,” she said, “I wondered if maybe… maybe he would be better if he didn’t drink. But then I realized… he was worse when he was sober. At least when he drank, he was too tired to find something to punish.”

 

Seonghwa’s jaw clenched faintly.

 

“Did he hurt you, Sunmi? Physically?” he asked, gently — not pushing. Just letting her choose.

 

She nodded once. Small. Shaken.

 

“Since I was little. He would say… it was because I looked like my mom. But I don’t think that’s true. I look like him…”

 

A quiet beat.

 

“And your mom?”

 

Sunmi hesitated.

 

“She didn’t stop him. She didn’t join him, but… she didn’t stop him. She drank when he wasn’t home. Slept through things. She used to be kind, I think. Before. But then she just gave up.”

 

Silence stretched again, thick and wet. Seonghwa leaned forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“Sunmi… thank you for telling me. I’m so sorry.”

 

She didn’t respond. Just sat there, tears slipping down silently, tissue clenched in her hand.

 

But she didn’t pull away. And Seonghwa didn’t try to make her.

 

They just stayed there — in the quiet — while the storm outside her heart finally started to find its name.

 

 

 

 

•••••

 

 

 

 

The office was quiet, save for the low hum of the overhead lights and the occasional rustle of paper. Most of the team had other things to do. And Seonghwa was still with Sunmi.

 

Yunho sat at his desk, surrounded by stacks of old files, some yellowed at the edges, others half-crumbling from years of storage and dust. His tie had long been loosened. His sleeves rolled. He looked tired — not from the hours, but from the kind of digging that yields nothing… until it does.

 

He opened a new file — one of the many flagged for containing unsolved or suspicious cases involving family deaths. A rural homicide from 1997. He almost flipped past it.

 

But he read it anyways.

 

Park Doyoung. Kim Injae.

 

Parents.

 

Location: Rural township in Gyeongbuk Province.

 

Date of death: August 20th, 1997.

 

Found a week after their death.

 

Found in their home.

 

Yunho’s brow furrowed.

 

He kept reading.

 

Children: Park Seonghwa (16), Park Jongho (14)

 

He froze.

 

He read the names again. The words blurred, then sharpened.

 

A sudden chill ran down his spine as his eyes scanned the next section.

 

Time of discovery:

Found by the children. Parents had not been seen by anyone for several days.

Boys were away at a school-organized camp.

No immediate suspects.

Cause of death: multiple stab wounds to the abdomen and neck and back.

No fingerprints found.

 

Note left at the scene. Handwritten.

 

Yunho’s throat tightened as he reached for the attached scan of the crime scene report. His eyes locked onto the transcription of the note:

 

“It has to end.”

 

The exact same as the note left in the Lee house two weeks ago.

 

He stared at it for a long time.

 

A long, long time.

 

He skimmed through the report a little longer. Getting to the part written by the detective handling the case at the time— Detective Jang.

 

After talking to the eldest son, (Park Seonghwa, 16 years old) it became obvious that the parents, specifically the father, had been abusive. As far as the boy mentioned, he “could be harsh” and things were worse when he drank. When asked about the role of his mother, the boy said that “she was scared of him. I think she loved us, but she didn’t protect us.”

 

 

He leaned back slowly, heart pounding in his chest, the silence of the office now impossibly loud.

 

What were the odds?

 

Children.

Abusive parents.

Not at home during the murder.

No witnesses.

A note.

 

The same note.

 

Yunho’s mind reeled.

 

And Seonghwa had never mentioned it. Never once. Not even a hint of that summer. Just a vague mention, once, of losing his parents young.

 

He sat forward, threading his fingers through his hair.

 

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

 

It wasn’t. He had to understand. 

Chapter 6

 

 

Rural Korea, 1998

August — One Year Later

 

 

 

The cemetery was quiet, save for the soft brushing of wind through the grass and the distant murmur of other families visiting their own dead.

 

The graves of Park Doyoung and Kim Injae sat side by side — weather-worn stone, offerings of wilted flowers, and ash-gray incense that had long since burned out. The names were etched with formality, dates beneath them. Nothing about them said what kind of people they had been. Just that they had once existed, and now they didn’t.

 

Seonghwa and Jongho sat on a wooden bench facing the markers.

 

They’d been there a while. No one spoke. The villagers who had come — out of habit, or pity, or social courtesy — had given their bows, murmured a few polite words, and moved along to other corners of the cemetery.

 

Now, it was just the brothers.

 

Seonghwa’s hands were folded in his lap, elbows resting on his knees. Jongho leaned back slightly, arms crossed. The sky above was flat, soft with light, thick with humidity.

 

Jongho was the one to break the silence. “Don’t you feel grateful sometimes?”

 

Seonghwa turned his head slightly.

 

Jongho was staring straight ahead — not at the graves, but somewhere past them. His voice was quiet. Flat.

 

“To whoever did this, I mean.”

 

Seonghwa didn’t answer right away. He looked down. Swallowed. Something shifted in his chest, low and bitter.

 

Jongho let out a breath — a humorless sound that barely passed for a laugh.

 

“Sometimes I think I should feel guilty but...” His words hung between them.

 

Seonghwa finally turned to look at him — eyes soft, tired. And something like grief flickered in them, but not for the people in the ground.

 

Jongho didn’t look back at him.

 

And Seonghwa didn’t ask for more.

 

He reached over, slowly, and rested a hand on Jongho’s shoulder.

 

“Sometimes… I do,” he said.

 

Jongho looked at him. And neither of them spoke.

 

They just sat there — two boys, one year older, one year farther from hell, one foot out of the past but not yet fully in the future.

 

The wind moved the grass again.

 

In a few days, they’d be gone from here. A new city. A new school. A house that didn’t remember the sounds of fists and slurred words.

 

But for now — this moment — they stayed.

 

Side by side.

Quiet.

Together.

 

 

 

 

 

—•—

 

 

 

 

Busan, 2007

Evening; Two Weeks After the Murder

 

 

 

The sun had just begun to drop behind the buildings, casting long shadows across the road and tinting the sky with the faintest brush of orange.

 

Seonghwa stepped out of the youth shelter slowly, mind still lingering in Room 2A — in Sunmi’s voice, in the weight of her small frame, in everything she hadn’t said out loud.

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it, thumb sliding across the screen.

 

[Yunho]

I’m home. I really hope you’ll come over.

Please.

 

No other details.

 

A short message. But something in it made his chest tighten.

 

He exhaled, walked straight to the precinct car, started the engine without thinking twice. The drive to Yunho’s apartment was quiet. The streets weren’t crowded. The air outside still heavy with the beginnings of summer. But all Seonghwa could feel was the echo of that message, repeating itself in his head.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up outside the building. By the time he reached Yunho’s door, his stomach was tight with anxiety.

 

He knocked once.

 

It opened almost instantly.

 

And then—he was pulled in.

 

No words. No hesitation. Just arms around him, strong and firm, clutching him like he was something about to fall apart.

 

Yunho didn’t say anything. He just held him. Held him tight.

 

So tight that Seonghwa let out a quiet, strained breath against his shoulder.

 

“Yunho—” he tried to laugh, “I can’t breathe.”

 

But Yunho didn’t laugh.

 

He didn’t loosen.

 

Instead, his voice came low. Cracked. Wet at the edges.

 

“Why haven’t you ever told me?”

 

Seonghwa stilled.

 

Yunho pulled back just enough to look at him — not letting go, just shifting so that their faces were close, hands cupping either side of Seonghwa’s jaw.

 

His eyes were red. Not from crying, but from holding it back.

 

Seonghwa blinked. “What are you—”

 

“How your parents died.” Yunho’s voice broke, just barely. “Why haven’t you ever told me how they really died?”

 

Seonghwa didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

 

His spine locked up — every muscle stiffening like he’d been hit with cold water. His throat went dry instantly.

 

“I—” he started, but nothing came out.

 

Yunho just searched his face.

 

“I read the report,” he whispered. “From ’97. The way they were found. The timing. The note.”

 

Seonghwa’s lips parted slightly. He didn’t deny it.

 

Yunho’s grip stayed gentle, but firm. “It was the same note, Hwa.”

 

A beat of silence.

 

Seonghwa swallowed. “I just… didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

 

“Why would I? Nothing was your fault.”

 

Seonghwa shut his eyes, a quiet breath shaking out of him.

 

Yunho leaned forward, resting his forehead against Seonghwa’s. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore,” he said. “Not with me.”

 

Seonghwa let himself lean into the warmth. Into the truth that had waited ten years to be spoken.

 

 

 

They had moved to the couch a little while later, tangled under a soft blanket that Yunho had pulled from the back of the armchair.

 

Yunho had practically wrapped himself around Seonghwa — arms tight across his chest, face tucked into the crook of his neck like he couldn’t quite get close enough. One leg half-draped over Seonghwa’s, fingers playing absently with the hem of his shirt.

 

Seonghwa leaned back against him, sighing softly.

 

“You’re clingy tonight,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “Like a puppy.”

 

Yunho let out a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice muffled, “a puppy that just found out his favorite person’s been living with half his heart cut out.”

 

Seonghwa didn’t answer. Words failing him how they always did around Yunho.

 

He just reached down to brush his fingers over Yunho’s knuckles. They stayed like that for a moment, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen the only background noise.

 

Then — quietly, almost reluctantly — Seonghwa spoke.

 

“She told me about her dog,” he said. “The little one. Brown, floppy ear.”

 

Yunho lifted his head just slightly, listening.

 

“She said it peed on the carpet once. He was a puppy. Still learning. And her father… killed him.”

 

Yunho’s breath caught.

 

“She buried him in the backyard at night,” Seonghwa added. “And her mom didn’t say a thing. Just told her to stop crying because it would ‘make him worse.’”

 

A silence settled between them.

 

Heavy.

 

“She said her father only got worse when he was sober,” Seonghwa murmured. “And that her mom started drinking just to survive him. She didn’t stop anything. Didn’t protect her. Just turned away.”

 

Yunho exhaled slowly. His arms around Seonghwa tightened again — a silent reflex.

 

“And she told me,” Seonghwa added after a pause, “that he hurt her. In ways she still can’t say out loud.”

 

Yunho buried his face against his shoulder, his voice low. “That poor kid…”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Another pause.

 

Then Yunho whispered, “It’s crazy how similar it is.”

 

Seonghwa’s fingers stilled.

 

Yunho leaned back, meeting his eyes now, voice firmer. “I mean it, Hwa. It’s like the same damn pattern. Abusive parents. Isolated family. No witnesses. Children conveniently not home. Bodies discovered after days. And that note.”

 

His hand found Seonghwa’s again.

 

“It’s like someone planned it… both times.”

 

Seonghwa looked down at their hands.

 

“I’ve thought about that too,” he admitted. “Ever since I saw the crime scene. The way the bodies were left. The precision. It was messy. It was rage-driven. But also it was deliberate.”

 

Yunho nodded. “Clean entry. Quick work. Whoever did it knew what they were doing.”

 

“And they left no prints. No tracks. No witnesses.”

 

“Just that note,” Yunho muttered.

 

He let the words hang for a moment.

 

Then, softer: “It feels… personal.”

 

“It is,” Seonghwa said, too quickly.

 

Yunho looked at him.

 

Seonghwa hesitated, then leaned back again, staring up at the ceiling. “It has to be. That kind of message — it doesn’t come from a stranger. It comes from someone who saw what was happening. Someone who knew what those homes were like on the inside.”

 

The silence that followed was different. Thicker.

 

Seonghwa didn’t speak. Neither did Yunho.

 

All they could do was breathe — slow, deep — like trying to put space between the present and the past.

 

But it was bleeding through now.

 

Even after all these years.

 

Yunho, still watching him, softened his grip. “You don’t have to tell me everything.”

 

Seonghwa gave a hollow smile. “That’s good. Because I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

 

Yunho nodded, his voice gentle. “But… you don’t have to lie to me either.”

 

And Seonghwa let his head fall against Yunho’s shoulder.

 

“I’m not,” he said.

 

Then, barely above a whisper: “I just… I spent ten years trying not to remember. But I can’t keep running now.”

 

Yunho pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

 

And they stayed there — quiet, breathing, hearts knotted around a past that refused to stay buried.

 

 

Chapter 7

 

 

 

Busan, 2007

Mid-June; Start of Summer Vacation

 

 

The restaurant was small— tucked into a quiet corner a few blocks from the precinct, with wooden floors and ceiling fans that did more for ambiance than cooling. The lunch rush had died down, leaving the room half-empty and humming with the low murmur of casual conversations and clinking cutlery.

 

Seonghwa sat across from Jongho at a window table, tie loosened, shirt a little undone, sleeves rolled up. His badge was tucked away, but he still looked every bit the detective on a break — tired around the eyes, posture straight but relaxed.

 

Jongho was the opposite.

 

Sleeveless shirt, slightly tan from recent days in the sun, sunglasses hanging from his collar. He leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world — because for once, he actually did.

 

“So,” Jongho said, poking around his rice bowl, “any interesting cases lately, Mr. Detective?”

 

Seonghwa didn’t even look up — just flipped him off with a slow, graceful hand.

 

Jongho grinned. “Wow. I see your public service manners are still top-tier.”

 

Seonghwa scooped a bite of kimchi into his mouth. “You ask dumb questions, you get dumb fingers.”

 

“Come on. You must’ve had something fun. Did someone rob a bakery again? Or maybe someone’s pet ferret went missing and it turned into a hostage situation.”

 

Seonghwa finally smirked. “Closest thing was a lady insisting her neighbor keeps releasing cockroaches into her apartment.”

 

Jongho paused, chopsticks mid-air. “You’re joking.”

 

“Nope.” Seonghwa picked up his iced barley tea, sipping. “She taped three of them to a piece of cardboard and brought it in like evidence.”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

“She was dead serious. Said they were ‘planted.’”

 

Jongho tried to contain his laughter, but failed — snorting into his hand. “What did you do?”

 

“Filed it as a civil nuisance and passed it to building management. I’m not the cockroach police.”

 

Jongho was laughing openly now. “What a thrilling mystery.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Seonghwa deadpanned. “Could be the work of a serial roach planter. We’re prepping a nationwide manhunt.”

 

They both dissolved into quiet laughter.

 

Jongho leaned back again, brushing hair from his eyes. “I forgot how boring your job actually is.”

 

“I forgot how annoying your face actually is,” Seonghwa replied sweetly.

 

Another grin. “And how’s Yunho?”

 

Seonghwa glanced up at that, something softer warming his expression. “He’s good. We’re good.”

 

“That’s vague.”

 

“We’re… happy,” Seonghwa said, a little quieter. “We have dinners, exchange sleepovers whenever possible. He makes me laugh. I think that counts.”

 

Jongho nodded, smiling gently. “Yeah. That counts.”

 

A beat passed.

 

Then Jongho raised an eyebrow. “So when do I get to mock you both again over dinner?”

 

“You’re banned.”

 

“From your love nest?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re scared he’ll like me more.”

 

“I know he already does,” Seonghwa muttered.

 

Jongho barked a laugh and went back to his rice. “Fair enough.”

 

They kept eating — two brothers catching up in the middle of a regular weekday. The food was warm, the air sticky but not unbearable. A fan turned slowly above them, doing very little, but no one complained.

 

It was just a normal afternoon.

 

 

 

Jongho had just finished scooping the last of his soup when the front door jingled open behind them. The low clatter of shoes and casual conversation drifted in — familiar voices.

 

Seonghwa looked up just in time to see Yunho and San step into the restaurant, eyes scanning for a free table.

 

Yunho spotted them first.

 

He blinked, then grinned. “Well, well.”

 

San followed his gaze and smirked. “What are the odds?”

 

Jongho raised his hand lazily in greeting. “You two lost?”

 

“We came for lunch,” Yunho said, making his way over.

 

San leaned forward on the table. “But now we’re crashing yours.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jongho muttered.

 

“Shove over,” San said with a grin, and slid into the seat beside Jongho without waiting for an invitation.

 

Yunho hesitated for a beat — just a flicker of a glance toward Seonghwa — and then sat beside him. The gap between them was small, but deliberate. Careful. They didn’t touch. Didn’t lean. Just two coworkers at lunch. Nothing more. Despite being three years into their relationship, it was always difficult for them to be together in public. Specially around the few who already knew about them.

 

But Seonghwa’s shoulders eased a little all the same.

 

Yunho flagged the waiter with two fingers and ordered without looking at the menu. San added his request right after, then turned to Jongho.

 

“So,” he said, “what’s it like being the cooler Park brother?”

 

“I sleep better,” Jongho replied. “No trauma dreams.”

 

San barked a laugh. “Solid win.”

 

Seonghwa didn’t even blink. “I’m right here.”

 

“You’re always right there,” San said. “That’s the problem.”

 

“Can’t even eat in peace,” Seonghwa muttered.

 

Yunho gave a quiet chuckle, low and amused.

But the peace didn’t last.

 

“So,” San started, glancing between them, “you two keeping it professional forever?”

 

Seonghwa raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

 

“You and Yunho,” Jongho chimed in, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Keeping it all nice and respectful?”

 

“We’re eating,” Yunho said flatly.

 

“In public,” San added, mock serious.

 

“Where witnesses exist,” Jongho nodded. “Tragic.”

 

“Don’t you guys ever worry someone might notice?” San said dramatically. “Like—what if you get arrested?”

 

“Can’t risk it,” Jongho sighed. “Two officers of the law. Caught in the act of affection.”

 

“The irony,” San said, shaking his head. “Would the headlines survive?”

 

Yunho groaned and put his face in his hand. “Why did we sit here.”

 

“Because you missed us,” Jongho grinned.

 

Seonghwa reached for his glass of tea. “I could kill you.”

 

“You won’t,” Jongho said smugly.

 

“Not in front of the public,” San added.

 

Well… that’s exactly why they keep it as private as possible.

 

Their food arrived then — clattering dishes and a temporary pause in the teasing. But the energy stayed light, woven with the kind of closeness that didn’t need effort.

 

Between bites of dumplings and mouthfuls of rice, talk turned to other things — lighter things.

 

“I’ve got two weeks off starting next Thursday,” San announced between bites. “If I don’t leave the city, I’ll go insane.”

 

“We should go somewhere,” Jongho said. “Like a road trip.”

 

Seonghwa shot him a glance. “You hate road trips.”

 

“I hate road trips with you,” Jongho said. “There’s a difference.”

 

Yunho leaned back. “I’m in, as long as there’s air-conditioning and no tents.”

 

“Agreed,” San said. “We’re not savages.”

 

“Somewhere near water,” Jongho added. “The sea. A river. I don’t care. Just not concrete. I’ll see if Wooyoung would like to join.”

 

“Wooyoung?” San asked with a head tilt.

 

“Friend from work. Eighth grade teacher.”

 

San and Yunho nodded in unison.

 

Seonghwa stirred his soup absentmindedly. “We’ll plan something. Get away for a few days.”

 

It sounded like a promise. Not just a trip.

 

A pause.

A breath.

 

A few days where no one had to pretend, or chase ghosts, or carry memories that still bled when touched.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jongho and San hadn’t waited.

 

Wooyoung had bowed out last-minute — something about family obligations, an aunt’s birthday or a cousin’s graduation. Jongho didn’t blame him. He barely knew what day it was himself. All he knew was that his suitcase was packed, the forecast promised sun, and if he didn’t leave the city soon, he was going to lose his mind.

 

San, already on his two-week break, didn’t need much convincing.

 

“Let’s just go,” he’d said, leaning over Jongho’s kitchen counter with a half-eaten pastry in one hand and a brochure for a dusty little beachside motel in the other. “They’ll catch up.”

 

Jongho had nodded.

 

And so, two days earlier, they’d thrown their bags in the back of San’s car and peeled out of Busan like escapees. The motel was an hour and a half south — cheap, quiet, nothing glamorous. Just two basic double rooms, a salty breeze off the coast, and a stretch of sand that wasn’t yet packed with families on summer break.

 

They swam. Ate street food. Laughed too loudly in restaurants. Got drunk to their asses. Fell asleep with the windows open and the sound of waves creeping in.

 

And now, finally, Yunho and Seonghwa were on their way to join them.

 

 

Seonghwa stood in the hallway of Yunho’s apartment, suitcase handle in hand, hair damp from a quick morning shower. He looked well-rested for someone who had stayed up packing until nearly midnight — though “rested” might’ve been a stretch. More like… relieved.

 

Four days off.

 

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

 

Yunho emerged from the bedroom, slinging a light duffle over one shoulder and adjusting his watch with the other. “Got everything?”

 

“Unless you’re hiding snacks somewhere in here, then yes.”

 

Yunho grinned. “Car’s ready.”

 

“Do we need to stop for gas?”

 

“Already filled it,” Yunho grabbed his keys from the bowl near the door. “I’m terrifyingly efficient.”

 

Seonghwa smiled faintly. “It’s cute when you brag about normal things.”

 

“It’s called domestic excellence.”

 

“It’s called being a functioning adult.”

 

“Which you clearly find exotic,” Yunho shot back as he locked the door behind them.

 

They took the stairs down — a silent agreement not to deal with the building’s temperamental elevator — and stepped out into the warm afternoon air. The city was already humming with summer energy: shirt sleeves rolled high, children yelling from a park nearby, the distant jingle of an ice cream cart.

 

Seonghwa slid into the passenger seat of Yunho’s car, exhaling as the AC kicked in.

 

“This already feels like vacation.”

 

Yunho chuckled, pulling out of the lot. “Just wait till we’re stuck behind tractors and old couples driving twenty under the limit.”

 

“Luxury.”

 

They merged onto the highway — the road stretching out in front of them like a slow unraveling. City buildings gave way to smaller homes, then open land, the blue edge of the sea barely peeking through in the far distance.

 

Somewhere ahead of them, Jongho and San were probably arguing over snacks. Or napping. Or scoping out the best spot to set up chairs by the water.

 

Seonghwa leaned his head back against the seat.

 

They had four days.

 

Four days without cases, without statements, without crime scene photos, or haunted children, or memories clawing at the walls of his mind.

 

Four days to breathe.

 

He looked over at Yunho, who was humming quietly along with the radio — one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absently against his thigh.

 

Seonghwa reached out and gently curled his fingers around that hand.

 

Yunho glanced over, smiled, and didn’t let go.

 

The road stretched ahead.

 

And for once, they weren’t chasing ghosts.

They were just chasing the sun.

 

 

 

The motel was easy to spot — a squat, sun-bleached building a stone’s throw from the beach, its parking lot half-empty and buzzing with cicadas. San and Jongho were already there when Yunho and Seonghwa pulled in, sprawled out on cheap towels in the sand like two lizards who had lost track of time.

 

They were sunburnt — noticeably so — but neither of them seemed to care.

 

“Look who finally made it,” San called out, shading his eyes with one hand.

 

“You two look cooked,” Yunho said, dropping his bag and peeling off his shirt without ceremony.

 

“Deliciously,” Jongho replied, patting the sand beside him. “Join the roast.”

 

And so they did — four men stretched out under a mid-afternoon sun, half-laughing, half-dozing, the crash of the waves just loud enough to drown out the rest of the world. Shirts were forgotten. Ice cream was devoured. The ocean welcomed them all with salt-stung skin and adrenaline. No one asked what time it was. No one cared.

 

They watched the sunset from the shore — skin still damp, hearts a little quieter. It wasn’t dramatic, just a natural pause in the life’s rhythm, golden light soaking into everything like honey.

 

Eventually, they agreed to part ways, for now — a quick rinse, maybe a nap. The motel rooms weren’t fancy, but the water pressure was decent and the AC worked if you kicked it just right.

 

“Meet back here in an hour?” San said, already halfway through the door.

 

“Make it two,” Jongho yawned behind him. “I intend to nap like a corpse.”

 

They’d figure out dinner later — maybe the tiny ramen shop near by, or one of the food stalls by the boardwalk. They’d see.

 

 

 

The room was small — barely enough space for two people to move without bumping shoulders — but it was clean, the air cool, and the sheets now fresh thanks to Yunho’s handiwork.

 

Technically, they weren’t his sheets. They were Seonghwa’s — brought from home, folded with military precision, and unpacked the second they’d arrived.

 

“I don’t trust motel linens,” Seonghwa had said, dropping the bundle onto the bed before heading into the bathroom. “And you shouldn’t either.”

 

Yunho had just smiled and gotten to work.

 

Now the twin beds were pressed together, sheets smooth, pillows fluffed. A make-shift bed big enough for two. More importantly — big enough for them.

 

The shower shut off behind the thin bathroom door, and Yunho glanced up just in time to see it swing open — steam curling into the room in soft waves.

 

Seonghwa stepped out, towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water running down his taut, honey-dipped torso, hair damp and messy, still pushing it back from his face.

 

Yunho whistled low. “Wow.”

 

Seonghwa arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. He padded across the room, bare feet quiet on the floor, his expression neutral — but his mouth twitching, like he was holding back a smirk.

 

Yunho didn’t wait.

 

He crossed the room in two strides, caught Seonghwa by the waist, and pulled him in — towel and all.

 

“Maybe,” he murmured, voice low, “we don’t need to go out for dinner.”

 

Seonghwa huffed a laugh, hands coming up to rest on Yunho’s shoulders. “Oh?”

 

Yunho kissed the corner of his mouth. “Maybe we just stay in.”

 

“Hmm. And do what, exactly?”

 

“Make out,” Yunho said simply. “Make love. Sleep. Repeat.”

 

Seonghwa’s fingers slid into the back of Yunho’s hair. “Bold plan.”

 

“It’s our first real break in forever,” Yunho murmured, brushing their foreheads together. “No cases. No calls. No paperwork. No nightmares.”

 

Seonghwa’s smile was softer now. “No interruptions.”

 

“Exactly.” Yunho leaned in again, slower this time, lips brushing against Seonghwa’s jaw. “Just us.” And with that, he sealed their lips.

 

They kissed like they had time — because for once, they actually did. No one waiting on them. No clock ticking too loudly. Just the sound of the fan overhead and the slow fade of sunset light slipping through the window blinds.

 

Seonghwa laughed into Yunho’s mouth — low and breathless. “You really want to skip dinner?”

 

“Dinner can wait,” Yunho whispered.

 

He kissed him again, deeper, hungrier. Seonghwa didn’t pull away.

 

Their bodies inched closer, warm skin meeting warm skin. Seonghwa’s fingers were firm at Yunho’s nape, guiding him, keeping him close — like letting go wasn’t an option, even for a second.

 

Yunho’s hands slid down, tracing over Seonghwa’s back, anchoring at his waist where the towel still hung on borrowed time. His fingers digging into the skin, leaving little crescents in their wake. Seonghwa’s voice was low when he spoke.

“You sure you don’t want to go out? You did pack nice shirts.”

 

Yunho kissed his cheek. “You can wear them tomorrow.” Then he paused, “Wait. You’re not really hungry, are you?”

 

Seonghwa looked at him, mouth curved in something small and knowing. “I am,” he said quietly, “just not for food.”

 

Yunho blinked.

 

Then blinked again.

 

“Wait—was that flirting?” he asked, mock scandalized.

 

“I can stop,” Seonghwa offered, inching away slightly.

 

Yunho’s arms tightened immediately. “Don’t you dare.”

 

Another kiss. Another laugh — warm and unguarded. Their bodies pressed flush now, no space left between the curve of Seonghwa’s hip and the steady beat of Yunho’s chest.

 

It was easy to get lost in it — the kissing, the heat, the shared rhythm of breath and heart and skin. But Seonghwa pulled back after a minute, eyes dark but thoughtful. A hand curled gently at the base of Yunho’s throat, squeezing lightly.

 

“Maybe,” he said, voice just above a whisper, “we shouldn’t make love.”

 

Yunho froze, brows drawing in, surprised. “What?”

 

Seonghwa leaned in, brushing his lips over the frown Yunho hadn’t realized he was wearing. Then another to the corner of his mouth.

 

“Maybe,” he murmured against his mouth, “we should just fuck.”

 

Yunho’s breath hitched, taken aback by the boldness, the way it sounded coming from him. A small sound left his throat — somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “You’re gonna say that and expect me to behave?”

 

Seonghwa smiled, slow and wicked. “I’m counting on the opposite.”

 

Yunho exhaled, already reaching for the towel’s edge. “Then be careful with the noise.”

 

Seonghwa tilted his head, a challenge in his eyes. “Make me.”

 

And Yunho did.

 

 

 

 

 

The takeout cartons were half-empty, chopsticks clinking lazily as they sat around the little fire San had insisted on building. The night air was warm, the tide low and steady. The motel’s lights glowed faintly behind them, but here — by the fire — it felt like their own world.

 

“So,” Seonghwa asked, stretching his legs out across the blanket, “how were your first two days of freedom?”

 

“Exquisite,” San declared, raising his cup like a toast. “Blissful. Transcendent. We achieved the height of human existence.”

 

“By which he means,” Jongho cut in, smirking, “lying face-down on the sand until we were crispy.”

 

“That was art,” San said solemnly. “Performance art.”

 

They all laughed, Yunho shaking his head. “And here I thought we were missing something spectacular.”

 

“You did,” San said, nodding. “Pure magic. We ate, we swam, we lived like kings.”

 

Jongho leaned back on one arm. “He’s leaving out that he got drunk to his ass the first night and passed out before midnight.”

 

Seonghwa snorted, Yunho nearly choked on his drink.

 

San rolled his eyes. “And you left me there.”

 

Yunho raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean,” San said, pointing his chopsticks at Jongho, “I woke up at the crack of dawn to piss and he wasn’t in the bed. Room was empty. Where’d you go, huh?”

 

For a second, Jongho blinked — like he hadn’t expected the question. His hand paused halfway to his food. Then he shrugged, casual, quick “Probably got air. You snore like a dying animal.”

 

San groaned. “Slander.”

 

The group burst into laughter again, Yunho wiping at his eyes. Even San couldn’t hold the pout for long.

 

But Seonghwa, sitting just across from Jongho, caught the flicker in his brother’s face — the half-beat too long before he spoke, the way his jaw had tightened, just for a moment. It smoothed out quickly, easy as breathing, hidden under the grin and the banter.

 

Still, Seonghwa filed it away.

 

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Jongho had slipped out to flirt with someone, or even hook up, or take a walk, or just clear his head. He was twenty-four, not fourteen. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

 

Seonghwa let the laughter carry him along, let the fire warm his skin, and told himself not to overthink it.

 

After all, it was just a vacation.

 

Chapter 8

 

 

Busan, 2007

Three Days Later

 

 

“Saying bye to freedom will always be hard,” Yunho mumbled as he slid into the driver’s seat, buckling his seatbelt in slow motion. Seonghwa chuckled, though it carried a bit of heaviness too. 

He slid into the passenger seat, throwing his head back against it with a loud, tired exhale. “Tell me about it.” 

With that, they took off.

 

The road back into the city felt heavier than the one that had taken them out.

 

They were both tan — sunburnt in places they hadn’t bothered to cover — and sand still clung stubbornly to the floor mats of Yunho’s car. The ocean felt like it had been days, not hours, behind them.

 

By the time they pulled up to Seonghwa’s apartment, it was barely past nine. Just enough time for a quick rinse. The water was brisk, the AC colder than they remembered, but it did the job. Within half an hour they were both changed — Seonghwa in his pressed slacks and shirt, Yunho tugging on a tie with one hand while checking his watch with the other.

 

“Back to civilization,” Yunho muttered as they locked up behind them.

 

“You mean paperwork,” Seonghwa corrected.

 

“Optimist.”

 

He smirked faintly, though it faded as they reached the precinct steps. The sun was already high, glaring off the building’s glass front.

 

Inside, the station buzzed with the low hum of phones and chatter. But the first thing they noticed wasn’t the noise.

 

It was Officer Bang.

 

He was waiting just inside the entrance, posture stiff, fingers fidgeting against the folder in his hands. Fresh out of academy, maybe two years in uniform, and his nerves still showed in the way his eyes darted the moment he spotted them.

 

“Detectives,” he said quickly, bowing. His voice wavered just slightly. “You’re back.”

 

Yunho and Seonghwa exchanged a look. And knew it. That tone. That face. They’d both seen it before. Something was wrong.

 

Yunho’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

 

Bang shifted, glanced at the folder, then back up at them. “Another scene. Double homicide. Forensics are already on site. The captain wants you there immediately.”

 

Seonghwa’s stomach dropped. Yunho didn’t ask for details — just nodded once and kept moving.

 

Minutes later they were back in the car, Officer Bang trailing in the vehicle behind them with two other uniforms. The drive was quiet, both men bracing themselves for what they already suspected.

 

By the time they arrived, the house was cordoned off — yellow tape fluttering faintly in the humid breeze. A handful of neighbors lingered at the edges, whispering in low voices, while officers moved in and out of the home with careful efficiency.

 

Inside, the air hit them first.

 

Cold. Stale. The AC had apparently been cranked to its highest setting, fighting a losing battle against time. The smell still lingered, unmistakable.

 

Kang Yeosang and Kim Hongjoong stood near the threshold of the living room, both in gloves, masks pulled down just far enough to speak. Yeosang glanced up as they entered, his expression grim. “It’s the same,” he said simply.

 

Hongjoong nodded, holding up a clear evidence bag. Inside: a note, slightly crumpled, but legible. “From the woman’s mouth.”

 

Seonghwa’s chest tightened as his eyes fell on the words.

 

It has to end.

 

Same handwriting. Same phrasing. Same placement — pulled from the mother’s mouth.

 

Yunho cursed under his breath.

 

Hongjoong lowered the bag, his tone flat but certain. “A wellness check was requested by one of the neighbors because she’d heard the AC humming almost all week nonstop and it started making weird noises. Anyways. Whoever did this — it’s the same person.”

 

They moved deeper into the house. The bodies were already covered, sheets draped respectfully by the forensic team, but the scene spoke for itself. Multiple stab wounds. Same angles, same ferocity. Rage, but a controlled one.

 

Seonghwa forced himself to look. To catalog. To breathe through the weight in his chest.

 

Hongjoong broke the silence. “There’s a son,” he said. “One child. Middle school. Eighth grade.”

 

“Where is he?” Yunho asked quickly.

 

“With family,” Yeosang replied. “Cousins in Seoul. He left the day after school ended for summer break. He’s been there since. Neighbors confirm no one’s seen him here since early June.”

 

“So the parents were alone,” Seonghwa murmured.

 

“Exactly,” Yeosang said. “Same as the other case.”

 

Same note.

Same pattern.

Another family destroyed.

 

And the circle was closing tighter.

 

Seonghwa stood a moment longer in the suffocating hum of the air conditioner, in the smell that clawed at all his senses, eyes fixed on the edge of the coffee table where a streak of dried blood had smeared during the struggle.

 

Yunho, who had been silently watching Seonghwa fight his demons, turned to one of the nearby officers. “Find out who the boy’s with.”

 

Within minutes, the answer came back.

“His uncle, sir. Father’s brother. Lives in Seoul. He’s had the boy since the start of vacation.”

 

Seonghwa’s gaze sharpened. “Name?”

 

“Kim Taejun.”

 

Yunho crossed his arms, exchanging a glance with Seonghwa.

 

Seonghwa gave a single nod, then pulled out his phone. “Get him on the line,” he ordered. “Now.”

 

The call was routed through the station. It didn’t take long — within the hour, they had Taejun’s voice crackling through the receiver.

 

“This is Detective Park Seonghwa,” Seonghwa began evenly. “I’m afraid I have difficult news. Your brother and sister-in-law were found deceased in their home.”

 

There was a silence on the other end. A long one. Then a sharp inhale. “What… what do you mean, deceased?”

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim,” Seonghwa continued carefully. “It appears to have been a homicide. We can’t share details yet, but I do need to ask something of you immediately. Do not tell your nephew. Not yet.”

 

Another pause. Quieter this time.

“I… I understand. I w-won’t. He’s been staying with us. Playing with his cousins. He’s—” Taejun’s voice cracked slightly. “He’s just a boy…”

 

“We’ll need to speak with you in person as soon as possible,” Seonghwa said. “Can you make it to Busan today?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I’ll come. I’ll take the first train I can get.”

 

“Good. We’ll meet you at the station. Thank you, Mr. Kim.”

 

The line clicked dead.

 

Seonghwa set the phone down slowly. The room was still cold, but sweat had gathered at the back of his neck.

 

Yunho finally broke the silence, voice low.

“So now we wait.”

 

“Yeah,” Seonghwa murmured. “We wait.”

 

 

 

 

The small glass office was quiet, save for the faint hum of the building’s air conditioning and the muted bustle of the precinct outside. Kim Taejun sat stiffly at the table, hands clasped in front of him, his suit slightly wrinkled from the rushed train ride. He looked like a man still trying to understand if this was a dream or not.

 

When the door opened, both Seonghwa and Yunho stepped inside. They bowed deeply.

 

“Mr. Kim,” Seonghwa began softly, “we’re very sorry for your loss.”

 

Taejun returned the bow with a jerky motion, confusion clouding his expression. “I… I still don’t understand,” he admitted. “How could this happen?”

 

They sat across from him. Yunho spoke next, voice steady but gentle. “Your brother and his wife were found deceased in their home last night. Based on what we know so far, the murder occurred roughly five to seven days before discovery. The bodies were preserved slightly by the air conditioning, but… it was still some time ago.”

 

Taejun’s mouth opened, then closed, eyes blinking rapidly. He rubbed a hand over his face, clearly struggling to process the words.

 

Seonghwa leaned forward slightly, tone deliberate. “We know this is difficult, Mr. Kim. But we need your help. Beyond the legal arrangements, we need to understand more about your brother and his household. Their lives, their dynamic. Most importantly — their relationship with their son, Taeyang.”

 

At the boy’s name, Taejun’s eyes flickered — confusion, grief, yes, but something heavier behind it. He hesitated.

 

“Anything you can share,” Seonghwa pressed gently, “even if it isn’t easy to say… it could help us move quickly toward justice.”

 

The silence stretched. Taejun’s hands tightened together, knuckles paling.

 

Finally, he exhaled. “My brother… he was never good at keeping a job. Always bouncing around. Always trouble with bosses or coworkers. He couldn’t hold anything steady.”

 

“I see. And his wife?” Yunho asked carefully.

 

“She stayed at home. She wasn’t… well-educated. Quiet. Kept to herself. I can’t say much for her. But…” His gaze dropped. “She was passive… didn’t stop him.”

 

Seonghwa’s brows drew faintly together. “Stop him from what?”

 

Taejun swallowed hard. His voice lowered. “From being… harsh. With Taeyang.”

 

A beat of silence.

 

“He was not the kindest father,” Taejun admitted, shaking his head. “Always too hard on the boy. Too strict. Too cruel. That’s why, when summer came, I offered to take Taeyang to Seoul. Let him stay with me. With my family. At least give him a little peace away from that house.”

 

The room was still again.

 

Yunho and Seonghwa exchanged a glance — unspoken understanding tightening between them. The silence in the small office grew heavier. Seonghwa shifted slightly forward, his voice low but steady.

“Mr. Kim… when you say your brother was harsh with Taeyang, can you tell us what you mean? What kind of treatment was he receiving?”

 

Taejun’s eyes flickered. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “My brother… he was never right in the mind. Not even as a boy. Always caused trouble. My parents struggled with him constantly. The older he grew, the worse it got. Uncontrollable temper. Fits. Lies. He had no… balance.”

He paused, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “So, when he reached marrying age, the family thought the best way to settle him was to find him a wife. Someone who wouldn’t challenge him. She was… mildly educated, barely able to read or write. She wouldn’t complain. That was what the family thought would keep him contained.”

 

Seonghwa let the words linger, his gaze fixed and unreadable. Then he asked again, softly but insistently: “And Taeyang? What was life like for him inside that house?”

 

Taejun closed his eyes briefly. His jaw tightened. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher.

“He was beaten. Scolded for anything, everything. Called names. He never got proper rest. Always looked tired. Hollow-eyed. My brother… he hurt him. Over and over. I could see it on him whenever I visited or called, even when he tried to hide it.”

 

A long pause. The sound of the precinct beyond the glass seemed very far away.

 

Yunho, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward. His voice was low but firm. “Mr. Kim… was any of this abuse sexual?”

 

The air froze.

 

Taejun looked at him sharply, startled — but the look only lasted a moment. Slowly, his shoulders slumped. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Yes. I believe so.”

 

Taejun swallowed hard, his hands clasping tighter together on the table. “I only found out a few months ago… I stopped by unannounced one afternoon. His wife was out at the market. My brother opened the door — he looked… disheveled. Not right. I asked about Taeyang, but he brushed me off. Wouldn’t answer. Then… a little while later, the boy came out of the parents’ bedroom.”

 

His voice cracked.

“He was limping a bit… I-I knew then. I didn’t ask questions. I couldn’t… But I knew.”

 

He stared down at his knuckles, his face tight with shame and fury. “That’s really why I insisted on taking him to Seoul for the summer. To get him out of there. At least for a while. To give him… air.”

 

The room was silent again. Heavy. Dense.

 

Seonghwa sat back slowly, his hands folded on the table as he fought the tremors, but his jaw was tight. Yunho’s eyes lingered on the uncle, unreadable, but there was a weight in them that hadn’t been there before. And when he looked at Seonghwa, he saw his eyes glistening.

 

 

 

The door shut softly behind them.

 

Seonghwa lingered in the hallway, hands sliding into his pockets, gaze fixed on the far wall. Yunho stayed beside him, shoulders tense, lips pressed into a thin line. Neither spoke at first. The glass office still hummed behind them, the blurred silhouette of Officer Bang stepping in to sit with Mr. Kim, to guide him through the next legal steps.

 

But here, in the quiet stretch of hallway, it was just them.

 

Seonghwa exhaled, the sound low, almost like it had been pulled from his chest. “It’s the same.”

Yunho nodded slowly. “All of it. Down to the smallest detail.”

 

Silence pressed again. The hum of the overhead lights seemed louder now.

 

“Three families,” Seonghwa murmured. “Ninety-seven. A month ago. Now this. All the same.”

 

“Abusive fathers. Mothers who turned away. Children spared,” Yunho said, ticking them off one by one. “And every time… the kids are out of the house. Always. Almost like it was planned that way.”

 

Seonghwa’s jaw tightened. “Which means whoever is doing this—”

“Knows,” Yunho finished quietly. “Knows what’s happening inside those homes. Knows the pattern. Knows when the kids are gone. Knows enough to slip in and out without being seen.”

 

“And they leave that note,” Seonghwa added, voice low. “For a reason…”

 

Yunho rubbed a hand across his mouth, thinking. “It doesn’t make sense. How does someone on the outside know? How do they see inside the walls? There’s not a single link between the families at all…”

 

Seonghwa’s gaze drifted down the hall, unfocused. “I don’t know… But they don’t guess. They can’t be guessing. Whoever it is… they see it. They’re close enough to know it. Otherwise they couldn’t be so precise.”

For a moment, his throat locked. The words came out softer than he intended. “They’re saving the children.”

 

Yunho looked at him, frowning faintly at the tone. His heart ached slightly.

 

Seonghwa didn’t look back. He was still staring at nothing, his expression caught between thought and something heavier.

 

Finally, Yunho spoke again, careful. “Is this really saving them? By taking their parents out of the equation? That’s not justice even if it seems so. That’s… something else.”

 

Seonghwa’s lips pressed together. He gave a small shake of his head, but didn’t argue.

 

The silence settled again, heavier now.

 

And when Yunho finally turned to walk back toward the bullpen, Seonghwa followed — but slower, his mind still snagged on the pattern. On the note. On the way all three cases weren’t just murders. They were… choices.

 

Deliberate. Calculated. Personal.

 

Somebody was trying to put an end to the children’s suffering. And Seonghwa wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know who it was.

 

 

 

The precinct was quieter in the evening, most of the day’s bustle drained into paperwork and tired silences. Seonghwa and Yunho sat shoulder to shoulder at the long table in their shared office space, computers turned on, crime scene photos scattered between them. Lists were starting to take shape — addresses of neighbors, nearby shop owners, extended family. Possible interviews. Possible blind spots.

 

Yunho leaned back in his chair, pen tapping against the edge of his notebook. “If the kid’s school keeps records on parental complaints, we should get copies. Teachers notice things right?”

 

Seonghwa nodded, jotting it down. “And we need to look into the uncle more deeply. He seemed cooperative, but still.”

 

“Mm.”

 

The low hum of their work broke all at once with the sharp rattle of the door.

 

San barged in like a storm — his brows knitted together, shadowing his eyes with a grave expression. Vest half-zipped, hair damp with sweat, gun holster clipped in hurried movements as he grabbed at the spare gear by the rack.

 

Both detectives startled, rising from their seats.

“San?” Yunho blinked. “What the hell—”

 

“No time,” San cut in, strapping the vest tight. His voice carried the kind of adrenaline that left no room for questions. “The gang—our gang—they slipped. Intel just came in. It’s happening tonight. We move now.”

 

“The drug dealers?” Yunho asked. San nodded once.

 

Seonghwa stepped forward. “Wait, what? You were supposed to still be—”

 

“At the beach? Yeah, well.” San let out a quick, humorless breath as he grabbed his comms unit. “Vacations don’t last when trash like them finally makes a mistake. This is the best chance we’ve had in months.”

 

The room pulsed with sudden urgency. Officers outside were already moving, voices rising, the air shifting toward a raid. But Seonghwa’s first thought cut through the noise. “What about Jongho?”

 

San paused mid-motion, glancing back at him. “He’s fine. I told him I had to cut the trip short.” He slung his gear over one shoulder, ready to go. “He’s catching the 10 p.m. bus. He’ll be back in the city tonight.”

 

For a split second, Seonghwa felt the tension ease from his chest.

 

San was already halfway out the door, calling something down the hall, swallowed by the rush of officers arming themselves for the raid.

 

The office was quiet again, but only in sound. The atmosphere still thrummed with the leftover charge of San’s entrance.

 

Yunho sank back into his chair, blowing out a breath. “So much for one night.”

 

Seonghwa’s eyes lingered on the doorway, his mind already divided — part on the case files spread across the table, part on San’s mission and concern for his safety, and part on Jongho somewhere out there, heading back into their orbit.

 

 

 

 

The precinct clock had ticked past eleven, the kind of hour where even paperwork felt impossible. Files were still spread across the desk, Yunho rubbing his temple as he reread a report for the third time, Seonghwa scribbling cross-references on a pad. The hum of the building was low, punctuated only by the occasional ring of a phone or the shuffle of a night-duty officer.

 

Then the dispatcher’s voice cracked over the main floor. Urgent. Tight.

 

“All units, report of a bus accident — vehicle overturned off Route 7 near the city outskirts. Multiple injuries, possible fatalities. Emergency response en route.”

 

A murmur rippled through the room as officers looked up. Chairs scraped. One younger officer called out, “What’s going on?”

 

“Bus flipped. Coming in from the coast.”

 

Seonghwa froze mid-note. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet Yunho’s eyes. The realization struck them both at once.

 

That was Jongho’s bus.

 

They didn’t waste another second. Papers scattered as they shot up from their seats, rushing for the door.

 

By the time they hit the parking lot, their siren was already wailing into the night. The city lights blurred past as Yunho sped through traffic, Seonghwa gripping the dashboard, his phone clutched tight in his other hand — no signal from Jongho.

 

Halfway there, the radio crackled again, urgent and clipped:

“Update on the Route 7 accident — survivors are being transported to Busan Central Hospital. Repeat: victims and survivors en route to Central.”

 

“Fucking hell.” Yunho swore under his breath, jerking the wheel hard. Tires screeched as he swerved into the next turn, redirecting them.

 

“It’s okay,” Seonghwa spoke, voice low but firm, though his ribcage felt like it was closing in.

 

Neither of them spoke after that. The only sound was the roar of the engine and the siren cutting through the heavy night air, carrying them toward the unknown waiting in the hospital corridors.

 

 

 

The ER was a storm.

Flashing fluorescent lights, the squeak of gurney wheels, the bark of hurried orders, the sharp tang of antiseptic in the air. Nurses darted between beds, doctors bent over charts, officers scattered around, and the whole room buzzed with the restless hum of too many lives colliding at once.

 

Seonghwa and Yunho pushed through the automatic doors, badges flashing just enough to cut through resistance. They caught the first nurse they saw.

 

“The bus from Route 7 — how many?” Yunho asked, his voice taut.

 

She didn’t pause her stride. “So far no fatalities. Two critical, one already in surgery. The rest— mild to moderate injuries. Cuts, fractures, concussions.”

 

Seonghwa exhaled sharply, some of the air finally leaving his lungs. “No deaths?”

 

“None,” she confirmed, before hurrying off.

 

They didn’t wait for more. The detectives moved down the aisle, scanning every bed, faces blurring past — an old man clutching his chest, a young woman with glass cuts across her cheek, a boy with a bandaged head. Their eyes darted, searching, desperate.

 

Then—

 

“Detective Park!” an officer stationed near the back called out, relief coloring his voice. He pointed.

 

And there he was.

 

Jongho sat propped on a bed, a fresh white cast swallowing his right arm from palm to elbow. His left eye was swollen dark, a scrape along his jaw, bruises blooming across his face. Yet when his gaze lifted and landed on Seonghwa, his mouth curved into that familiar, crooked smile.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “I’m fine.”

 

Seonghwa’s chest clenched. The word left him before he could stop it. “Goddammit Jongho!”

 

He crossed the distance in one stride and pulled him into a fierce embrace.

 

“Ah— ow, ow, ow!” Jongho yelped, half-laughing, half-wincing.

 

Seonghwa immediately loosened his grip, pulling back, hands braced on Jongho’s shoulders like he had to keep seeing him, keep touching him to believe he was there.

 

Yunho’s relieved exhale came shaky but softer now, the weight of dread finally easing as he stood at the foot of the bed, watching the brothers with quiet relief.

 

For a moment, in the middle of all that chaos — the shouting, the clatter of carts, the heavy press of the night — all that mattered was that Jongho was alive.

 

Seonghwa still had one hand gripping Jongho’s uninjured shoulder, his brows drawn tight.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he said firmly.

 

Jongho blinked at him, then snorted. “Do what? I wasn’t the one driving.”

 

Yunho let out a laugh, shaking his head. “He’s got a point, hyung.”

 

Seonghwa shot him a glare but didn’t let go of his brother.

 

“So what even happened?” Yunho asked, leaning on the bed rail. “How does a bus just flip over?”

 

Jongho sighed dramatically, shifting his cast with exaggerated annoyance. “I don’t even know. One second we’re stuck with the world’s worst radio station—like, I swear they were punishing us with the playlist—and I was trying to survive it until we hit the city. Next second the tires start screeching. Loud. Then there’s this smell—like when metal grinds against metal, sparks kind of smell, you know? And then—boom. Bus flips. Twice.”

 

Yunho’s brows rose. “Twice?”

 

“Twice,” Jongho confirmed, nodding solemnly before adding, “People screamed the entire time. Loud as hell.”

 

Seonghwa gave him a look. “Of course they screamed. That’s what people do when a bus rolls over.”

 

Jongho grinned crookedly despite the bruise blooming under his eye. “Yeah, yeah. Just saying. My ears hurt more than my arm.”

 

Yunho huffed a laugh, shaking his head again.

 

Jongho leaned back against the pillows, expression softening. “But we were lucky. It wasn’t far from the city entrance. Some passengers still had their wits about them—called it in right away. Help came fast. So here we are.”

 

Seonghwa exhaled slowly, some of the sharpness draining from his posture. He finally released his grip, but not before ruffling Jongho’s hair lightly—half scolding, half relief. “Idiot,” he muttered.

 

Jongho grinned wider, unbothered.

 

 

 

 

They lingered at the hospital until well past midnight, waiting through the last round of checkups, listening to the steady rhythm of monitors and the occasional rustle of nurses passing by. The verdict was a relief: no internal bleeding, no hidden fractures, nothing worse than the obvious breaks and bruises.

 

By the time they finally left, the night air outside felt thick, heavy with exhaustion.

 

At home, Jongho limped a little as he crossed the threshold, Seonghwa hovering at his side with one arm braced to steady him. Yunho following suit behind them.

 

“You’re always going to fuss over me like this, aren’t you?” Jongho muttered with a crooked grin.

“Probably,” Seonghwa said, before smacking him lightly on the head with his free hand.

“Hey!” Jongho laughed, wincing only slightly.

 

They got him settled in his room — blankets pulled up, a pillow propped under his cast, water glass on the nightstand. He insisted he was fine, that he could walk, eat, even manage one-handed if he had to. But Seonghwa made sure he was comfortable anyway.

 

Finally, Jongho closed his eyes with a sigh. “Go on. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Seonghwa lingered at the door until his breathing evened.

 

In the hallway, Yunho shifted like he was ready to take his leave, but Seonghwa turned, his voice quiet but firm. “Stay. Just stay the night. After everything… driving back this late is too much.”

 

Yunho’s lips curved. “Sounds like an excuse for cuddles.”

 

Seonghwa didn’t miss a beat. “Would you really deny cuddles after the day we just had?”

There was a pause, then a soft chuckle. “Honestly? No.”

 

They took turns in the shower, steam washing the exhaustion from their skin. Yunho borrowed one of Seonghwa’s shirts, sleeves a bit short on his arms, and they slipped into bed with the easy familiarity of something long-wanted.

 

The room was dark, the air still carrying the faint smell of soap. Seonghwa tucked himself closer, an arm draped across Yunho’s chest, and for the first time all day, his body loosened.

 

Yunho pressed a kiss into his hair. “Better?”

Seonghwa hummed against him, the sound more like a sigh of release than an answer.

 

For a while, there was no siren, no blood, no fear. Just warmth. Just breath. Just the weight of a day survived.

 

The quiet stretched between them, soft and steady, until Seonghwa suddenly sat up.

Yunho blinked, half-drowsy. “What—?”

 

“You know what?” Seonghwa interrupted, shifting the pillows behind him. “You come lay on me.”

Yunho stared at him. “…huh?”

“Come on,” Seonghwa said, already leaning back and opening his arms wide, tapping his chest once. “I always lay on you. Now it’s your turn.”

Yunho let out a small laugh, shaking his head at the absurdity. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

 

With an incredulous little chuckle, Yunho gave in, lowering himself until his head rested against Seonghwa’s chest. The moment he did, Seonghwa’s arms and even his legs came around him in a cocoon, pulling him in close.

 

Yunho broke into giggles, muffled against his shirt. “What’s gotten into you?”

 

Seonghwa’s voice was quiet, close to his ear. “I don’t want to ruin this… but I have this weird feeling… like things might not stay the same. So I want to make the most out of it. While we can.”

 

Yunho froze, just for a heartbeat. The weight of those words pressed down between them.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he nuzzled into the crook of Seonghwa’s neck, pressing a gentle kiss against his skin. “We’ll be okay,” he murmured finally. “I promise.”

 

Seonghwa closed his eyes, holding him tighter, letting himself believe it for tonight.

Chapter 9

 

 

Busan, 2007

3rd of July.

 

 

 

Three days after the accident, the precinct was still spinning its wheels.

 

Every lead they had dragged them in circles. They spoke to neighbors, to former coworkers, to anyone who had ever crossed paths with Mr. Kim. The picture never changed: unreliable, hot-tempered, a man who burned through jobs and bridges in equal measure. Nothing they heard was new. Nothing pointed them forward.

 

By the time Seonghwa and Yunho dragged themselves back into the office, it was nearly dark. The pile of reports on their desk looked heavier than it had in the morning.

 

“Another fucking dead end,” Yunho muttered, tossing his notebook onto the table.

 

Seonghwa sank into his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “At this rate, we’ll be chasing our own tails until the summer ends.”

 

Neither of them had the energy to argue. The silence between them was tired, filled only by the hum of the overhead lights.

 

When Seonghwa finally made it home that night, the apartment smelled faintly of coffee. Jongho was in the kitchen, one arm still swallowed by the white cast, moving easily around the counter.

 

Seonghwa paused in the doorway, watching.

 

Jongho stirred sugar into two mugs, poured milk with a steady tilt, set everything down without so much as a spill. His movements were fluid, almost practiced.

 

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Seonghwa said finally, stepping forward.

 

Jongho glanced up, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I am resting. Just figured you’d want something comforting when you got back.”

 

Seonghwa sighed, shaking his head, though his lips curved faintly. “Don’t push yourself.”

 

He accepted the mug from Jongho and leaned against the counter with a tired sigh. The warmth of the coffee helped chase off the weight of the precinct, and for a moment, the silence felt like the most welcome thing in the world.

 

“So,” Jongho said after a sip, tilting his head. “Any updates? How was today?”

 

Seonghwa gave a humorless laugh. “Dead end after dead end. Every door we knock on just leads us back to where we started. It’s a fucking ghost at this rate.”

 

Jongho’s gaze softened. “You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”

 

Seonghwa glanced at him then, lips tugging into the faintest smile. No matter how heavy the day felt, his brother’s confidence in him always cut through.

 

“What about you?” he asked, nudging the conversation away from work. “What’d you do all day?”

 

“Not much.” Jongho shrugged. “TV was useless. I made a grocery list, then decided I was too lazy to actually go shopping. Did a little cleaning, read for a bit. Mostly just bored out of my mind.”

 

“You could’ve gone out with San or Yeosang,” Seonghwa pointed out.

 

“They’re busy. But actually—” Jongho smirked a little. “We’re planning something tomorrow night. Friday, you know. Figured we’d go out then.”

 

Seonghwa arched a brow. “So I’ll have the house to myself?”

 

“Exactly. Don’t miss me too much.”

 

Seonghwa chuckled into his mug, shaking his head. For all the weight pressing down on him these days, moments like this reminded him what he was holding it up for.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The station smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old paper when Seonghwa walked in the next morning. Yunho was already there, hunched over the machine in the corner as it groaned out another cup.

 

“Morning,” Seonghwa muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

Yunho handed him a paper cup without looking up. “Morning.”

 

They fell into the easy routine — each doctoring their own coffee, stirring in silence before heading back to their desks. The hum of the bullpen was low this early, just the shuffle of papers and the occasional ring of a phone.

 

As Seonghwa settled into his chair, Yunho leaned slightly closer across the shared desk. His voice dropped, low enough not to carry. “Do you want to do something tonight?”

 

Seonghwa paused mid-sip, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You beat me to it.”

 

Yunho arched a brow. “Oh? And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Jongho’s meeting with Yeosang and San,” Seonghwa explained lightly, setting his cup down. “So the house is mine for the night. You could crash after we grab some takeout.”

 

Yunho’s smirk was immediate, slow and deliberate. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

Neither of them said anything more, but the faint smiles that lingered on their faces made it clear enough. They turned back to the files waiting on their desks, pens scratching and pages turning — but beneath the surface, the day already hummed with quiet anticipation.

 

 

 

 

 

The apartment was quiet when they stepped in, the only sound the rustle of the takeout bag as Seonghwa set it down on the kitchen counter. He was reaching to unbox the containers when a warm weight pressed in behind him.

 

Yunho.

 

Seonghwa stilled, feeling the solid line of his chest against his back, the way Yunho’s arms braced on either side of the counter to box him in.

 

A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “We have all night.”

 

“Exactly.” Yunho’s voice was low against his ear, a teasing edge beneath the warmth. “So why waste it?”

 

Heat curled in Seonghwa’s chest. He turned, his lower back pressing to the counter, until he was face-to-face with Yunho. Close enough to catch the faint scent of soap and cologne clinging to his collar. Close enough to feel the anticipation humming between them.

 

Then Yunho’s mouth was on his.

 

The kiss started slow — a press, a brush, a breath — before deepening with the kind of urgency that left no space between them. Seonghwa’s hands slid up into Yunho’s hair, pulling him closer, while Yunho pressed harder, crowding him against the counter until there was nowhere left to go.

 

Their mouths moved in sync, heated and insistent, punctuated by low grunts and stuttered breaths. The kind of kiss that wasn’t just lips but weight, hands, teeth, every small shift of their bodies against each other.

 

Seonghwa broke just enough to breathe, forehead resting against Yunho’s as he whispered, “You’re ridiculous.”

 

Yunho’s grin was quick, crooked, before he captured his mouth again. “And you love it.”

 

Seonghwa didn’t argue. His only answer was another kiss — hungrier, deeper — as if the long hours and heavy cases could be burned away in the heat of this moment.

 

The counter dug faintly into Seonghwa’s back, but he didn’t care. Not when Yunho’s mouth was on his, hot and insistent, stealing his breath with every kiss. His hands were now snaking their way up Yunho’s torso beneath his shirt.

 

Then, suddenly, Seonghwa moved.

 

In one sharp shift, he reversed their positions, pressing Yunho back against the counter with a surprising force that made Yunho’s breath hitch.

 

“Hyung—” Yunho started, only for the rest of the words to dissolve into a low groan as Seonghwa’s lips trailed down the sharp line of his jaw, then lower, dragging heat along the column of his neck. Sucking the skin in a claiming force.

 

Yunho’s laugh came ragged, threaded through with breathlessness. “Since when are you—” He cut off again as a moan escaped its way out of his throat, fingers slipped deftly to his shirt, working the buttons one by one, sliding fabric apart like it was nothing.

 

Seonghwa didn’t answer. He was too busy kissing lower, his mouth finding sensitive skin just above Yunho’s collarbone. One hand slid further down, tugging at his waistband, teasing without hurry.

 

Yunho braced his palms against the counter behind him, chest rising fast, eyes half-lidded as he looked down at the sudden boldness taking over his usually steady partner. “You’re… unbelievable,” he managed, voice strained, half laughing, half undone.

 

Seonghwa only smirked against his skin, then rose to capture his mouth again in a kiss that was deeper, rougher, full of intent. And before Yunho could catch his breath, Seonghwa’s hands trailed lower still, and he sank to his knees before him.

 

Yunho’s breath caught.

 

Eyes locked on Yunho’s, a small smirk across his lips “Watch.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seonghwa stirred awake to pale light cutting through the curtains. His body was sore in the best possible way, a dull ache lingering in his muscles that made him exhale a quiet laugh against the pillow. The clock on the nightstand read just past seven.

 

Weekend or not, his body never let him sleep much later.

 

Careful not to wake Yunho, still sprawled warm and heavy beside him, Seonghwa slid out of bed and pulled on a shirt and a pair of shorts. The apartment was still and quiet, only the faint hum of the fridge filling the silence.

 

He padded into the kitchen, stacking up the abandoned takeout containers from the night before. Chopsticks left half-wrapped in their paper sleeves, sauce packets torn open — proof of a dinner they hadn’t bothered to properly finish before being distracted by each other.

 

He shook his head faintly, smiling to himself as he tossed the trash.

 

The kettle whistled low, and soon the smell of coffee curled into the air, rich and grounding. Seonghwa poured himself a cup, cradling it in both hands as he leaned against the counter. The quiet was almost foreign after days of constant noise — sirens, radios, phones ringing off their hooks.

 

When he went to clear the fridge door of old flyers and scraps, something caught his eye. A folded slip of paper, held up by a round red magnet.

 

Seonghwa pulled it free. A grocery list. Bread, eggs, detergent, a handful of snacks scribbled in between.

 

Seonghwa felt a faint tug of affection in his chest. He smoothed the paper once, then slipped it into his wallet. No reason not to take care of it later — better than letting Jongho attempt shopping one-handed. Maybe when Yunho woke, they could go together.

 

Coffee warmed his hands. The apartment was clean enough now, the last evidence of last night’s chaos tucked away. He took a slow sip, letting himself breathe, letting the morning stretch out in peace for once.

 

The sound of soft footsteps pulled Seonghwa from his thoughts.

 

He turned — and nearly spilled his coffee.

 

Yunho stood in the doorway of the kitchen, hair sticking out at every possible angle, eyes heavy with sleep. A pair of shorts hung loose on his hips, nothing else covering the constellation of love marks scattered across his chest and collarbone.

 

Seonghwa’s laugh broke out before he could hold it in. “You look like hell.”

 

Yunho scowled, though it was more of a pout than anything. “You left me.”

 

That only made Seonghwa laugh harder, doubling over slightly as he set his mug down. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked comfortable.”

 

“Comfortable,” Yunho echoed flatly, arms crossing his bare chest in mock offense. “So you abandon me in bed for… coffee?” He turned his head away with exaggerated sulkiness.

 

“Oh, come on,” Seonghwa teased, still grinning as he crossed the kitchen. “Don’t be like that.”

 

Yunho ignored him, pretending to study the floor tiles with grave seriousness.

 

Seonghwa only smirked, tipped his chin up, and kissed him full on the mouth.

 

The pout didn’t survive.

 

By the time Yunho pulled back, a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “Cheater,” he muttered.

 

Seonghwa chuckled, victorious, and nudged him toward the counter. “Sit. Breakfast.”

 

Breakfast, in this case, meant leftover fried rice and dumplings reheated. Not exactly healthy, but neither of them had the energy to care. They sat side by side at the counter, trading bites straight from the containers.

 

“What should we do today?” Yunho asked between mouthfuls.

 

“Nothing,” Seonghwa answered immediately, and Yunho laughed.

 

“Fair. But maybe lunch out later? Get some air?”

 

Seonghwa nodded, sipping his coffee. “Yeah. Actually works out. I need to grab groceries anyway.”

 

Yunho bumped his shoulder lightly, lips quirking. “See? A real date.” Seonghwa rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

 

The morning light slanted through the kitchen window, soft and golden, it felt like they had the luxury of simply deciding what to do with their day and they were willing to play along.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lunch had left them full and pleasantly drowsy, the kind of meal that sat warm in the stomach and made the summer air feel softer on the walk back. They carried a small bag of leftovers for dinner, laughing quietly about how they’d ordered too much on purpose.

 

The grocery store was quieter than usual, the afternoon lull leaving wide aisles and polished floors that gleamed under fluorescent lights. Seonghwa held the folded list in one hand, checking items off as he plucked them from shelves. Yunho trailed behind, whistling, with the cart, wheels squeaking faintly with each turn, his eyes more on Seonghwa than the rows of produce.

 

Milk. Rice. Eggs.

Detergent. Toothpaste. Bread.

 

Seonghwa moved briskly, efficient as ever, while Yunho kept silent company, pushing the cart like an anchor at his side.

 

By the time they reached the front of the store, the cart was nearly overflowing. Yunho’s brows knit as he took in the mess of bags and stacked boxes.

 

“Uh,” he said slowly, “do you realize this thing is full?”

 

Seonghwa blinked, turning to look — and frowned. It was true. The cart was packed, far more than the modest list should’ve allowed.

 

“That doesn’t make sense,” he murmured. “Here—” He held out the paper. “Call out the items. I’ll double-check.”

 

Yunho accepted the list with an easy nod, ready to tease him about overbuying. But the moment his eyes fell on the list, the teasing died in his throat.

 

He had seen this before. Not once. Not twice. Three times now

 

The letters were neat, almost too neat. Rounded at the edges, deliberate in their spacing, slanted..

 

The grocery list blurred in his vision, every curve of the letters echoing that same hand.

 

His grip tightened on the paper.

“Who…Who wrote this?”

 

Seonghwa glanced up from rummaging through the cart. “What? The list?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Jongho,” Seonghwa answered simply, distracted. “Why?”

 

Yunho’s throat felt dry. He lifted the paper, angling it toward him. His voice dropped, low and weighted.

“Doesn’t it remind you of something?”

 

The casualness drained from Seonghwa’s face. For a second, he didn’t understand. Then his gaze flicked to the list.

 

The recognition hit like ice water down his spine.

 

The letters. The shape. The deliberate curve of each word.

 

He froze.

 

The grocery cart, the chatter of other shoppers, the soft hum of the store around them — it all seemed to fall away.

 

Yunho’s eyes were steady on him, the list trembling faintly between them.

 

And Seonghwa’s breath caught, realization crashing hard in his chest.

 

It was the same…

 

The handwriting was the same.

 

The very same as the notes left in the mouths of the murdered.

 

 

 

 

 

The apartment was heavy with silence.

 

Neither of them had spoken since leaving the grocery store, walking out with nothing but the paper bag of leftovers and the list. Now, sitting side by side on the couch, the air felt thicker than the summer heat pressing against the windows.

 

Seonghwa leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands knotted so tightly his knuckles blanched. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor.

 

Finally, he spoke, voice rough.

“You know this is ridiculous, right?”

 

Yunho didn’t answer.

 

The silence landed like a blow. Seonghwa’s head snapped up, eyes blazing.

“Say something. Don’t just sit there acting like—like you think Jongho—” He broke off, teeth sinking into his cheek. His chest heaved, anger trembling in his voice. “This is insane!”

 

Yunho’s jaw worked, but he didn’t flinch under the outburst. He let the fury burn itself out before cutting through, low and steady. “It’s not insane. It’s… starting to make sense.”

 

Seonghwa sat up straighter, disbelief flashing hot. “Making sense? What do you fucking mean? Why would— Jongho’s dominant hand is broken. Broken, Yunho! He can’t even tie his shoes right now.”

 

Yunho’s eyes softened, though his words carried no less weight. “Some people can use both hands just as well.”

 

Seonghwa froze, lips parting. He searched for a retort, but nothing came. His throat worked uselessly, anger twisting into something more fragile.

 

Yunho’s voice gentled, as though softening the truth could make it easier to hear.

“Both families… their kids are in Jongho’s school. And the first murder—your parents—that was his too. Three cases. All the same. Always parents who hurt their kids. A bastard father. A mother who looked away. Don’t you see it?”

 

“No.” Seonghwa shook his head violently, as if the motion alone could fling the words away. “No. Stop. You don’t get to say this. You don’t get to put that on him.”

 

“Seonghwa—”

 

“Get out, Yunho.”

 

The words cracked, sharp enough to split the room. Seonghwa stood, fists balled at his sides, his whole body trembling. His eyes burned, glassy not with fury, but desperation.

 

For a long moment, Yunho only watched him. His silence wasn’t guilt, wasn’t fear — it was heavier. A silence weighed down by what this could mean. By the possibility that he might have to stand across from Seonghwa’s little brother with a badge and cuffs.

 

Slowly, he stood. The shift of fabric was loud in the quiet. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t argue further.

 

Only gave Seonghwa one last look — steady, pained. Then he turned and left.

 

The door clicked softly behind him, but inside Seonghwa’s chest it slammed like a gunshot.

 

He stayed there for a long moment, chest heaving, trying to convince himself he wasn’t shaking. His fists unclenched slowly, crescent moons carved deep into his palms.

 

This was ridiculous.

 

Jongho wasn’t—he couldn’t be.

 

And yet Yunho’s words had dug their hooks in.

 

Seonghwa dropped back onto the couch, pressing his palms over his face. His mind replayed the smallest details:

 

Jongho at the counter three nights ago, pouring coffee smoothly with his left hand. Stirring sugar without hesitation. Jongho sweeping the floor, his grip on the broom steady, like he’d done it that way forever. Jongho scribbling that grocery list — each letter precise, clean, far too neat for someone fumbling with their nondominant hand.

 

Ordinary things. Too ordinary. Terrifying now in hindsight.

 

“No,” Seonghwa muttered, shaking his head hard. “He’s just… adaptable. That’s all. He’s—”

 

But the thought wouldn’t let go.

 

Before he knew it, he was on his feet, storming down the hall. He shoved open Jongho’s bedroom door, the neatness of the space like an accusation. Too tidy. As if scrubbed of anything that might be left behind.

 

He yanked open the desk drawers, rifling through notebooks. School notes. Lesson plans. Scribbled reminders. He flipped through pages in a rush, eyes scanning line after line of tidy handwriting.

 

It wasn’t the same.

 

The loops bent differently. The spacing shifted. But the careful slope of each word, the neatness of it—close enough to make his pulse hammer.

 

He slammed the notebook shut, breath ragged, hands trembling. His phone was in his hand before he’d fully thought it through.

 

The line rang twice.

 

“Hyung?” Jongho’s voice was easy, warm. “What’s up?”

 

Seonghwa forced casualness into his tone. “You busy? Let’s grab a drink.”

 

A pause. Then a laugh. “It’s barely afternoon.”

 

“I know.” Seonghwa’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But I really need one right now.”

 

Jongho hummed, amused, no suspicion in his voice. “Fine. Give me an hour. San’ll think I ditched him, but I’ll manage.”

 

“Good,” Seonghwa said quietly. “See you then.”

 

He hung up before Jongho could say more. The phone felt hot in his hand, as if it could burn through his skin.

 

An hour.

 

An hour to decide what he was really about to do.

Chapter 10

 

 

 

Busan, 2007

3rd of July,

 

 

Seonghwa was early. Too early.

 

The bar was half-empty, the lazy hum of conversation drifting under the low light. A half-finished beer sat in front of him, condensation dripping onto the wooden table. He tipped the glass back for the last swallow just as the door creaked open.

 

Jongho.

 

The younger spotted him instantly. Seonghwa stood before he could think better of it and pulled him into a hug, sudden and fierce.

 

Jongho stiffened for a heartbeat, caught off guard, then chuckled quietly and patted his brother’s back. “What’s this about?”

 

Seonghwa let go too slowly, sinking back into his chair. “Sit.”

 

Jongho eyed him, suspicious but amused, before sliding into the seat across from him. “Everything okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said, a little too quickly.

 

The single word didn’t land. Jongho’s brows furrowed, reading the cracks in his brother’s voice the way he always had. “Something wrong with Yunho?”

 

Seonghwa huffed out a laugh, short and bitter. “Yeah. We… had a fight.”

 

That got Jongho’s attention. His posture straightened, eyes sharpening. “Did he hurt you?”

 

The question made Seonghwa pause. He stared at Jongho for a long moment, searching his face. Then, with a faint, humorless smile, he asked softly:

“And if he did? What would you do?”

 

Jongho didn’t hesitate. His voice was low, firm, steady. “Whatever it takes to make sure it never happens again.”

 

Something in Seonghwa’s chest cracked. His smile trembled, his eyes stung with heat he refused to let spill. He tipped his glass back instead, gulping down the bitter swallow until it burned in his throat.

 

“Easy there,” Jongho muttered, watching him with faint exasperation. “You’ll be drunk before we even talk.”

 

Seonghwa set the glass down hard enough that it rattled on the table, but forced a grin. “Then I guess you’d better keep up.”

 

Jongho sighed, flagging down the bartender. Another round landed on the table, and they clicked their glasses together.

 

The sound was small, swallowed quickly by the low hum of the bar. After that, silence settled between them, heavy. A silence that seemed to press down, waiting to see who would break first.

 

The second round was already sweating on the table when Seonghwa slipped a folded paper from his pocket. He smoothed it flat against the wood, sliding it toward Jongho.

 

“You wrote this one, right? The grocery list. It was on the fridge.”

 

Jongho glanced at it, then nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. Did you get the stuff on it?”

 

Seonghwa shook his head, lifting his glass for another swallow. “Didn’t have the chance. Yunho and I were supposed to go, but… we fought instead. Didn’t end up buying anything.”

 

“That’s fine,” Jongho said easily, leaning back in his chair. “We can go together on the way home.”

 

“Yeah,” Seonghwa murmured, nodding along. He let the silence hang for a beat before setting his glass down. His tone was light, almost curious. “I didn’t know you could write with your left hand. You’ve always been right-handed.”

 

The comment made Jongho still just slightly, the kind of pause most people wouldn’t notice. Then he chuckled, casual enough. “Guess I was talented.”

 

Seonghwa forced a small laugh in return. “When did you figure it out?”

 

Jongho tilted his head, thinking. “Mm… a long time ago. Ten, maybe. Somewhere around then.”

 

Seonghwa looked at him across the table, something raw flickering in his eyes — a quiet hurt that slipped through before he could mask it. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

 

Jongho shrugged, lips quirking faintly. “Didn’t think it was special. I thought everyone could do it. Didn’t see the point of bringing it up.”

 

Seonghwa hummed, swirling the last of his drink. “Strange, though. Same person, same brain. But each hand ends up with its own handwriting.”

 

Jongho’s gaze lingered on him then, steady and calm. Too calm. “Yeah,” he said evenly. “That surprised me too.”

 

Seonghwa rolled the glass between his palms, his voice steady but quieter now.

 

“When I first saw the list… it looked familiar. Too familiar. I couldn’t place it at first, but—” He hesitated, his pulse thudding hard. “It wouldn’t leave my head.”

 

Jongho didn’t answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, lifting his drink with his uninjured hand. The ice clinked softly against the glass as he swallowed, then set it down with deliberate ease.

“Yeah,” he said, tone smooth as if they were still talking about groceries. “The note.”

 

Seonghwa’s head snapped toward him.

 

Jongho’s expression was relaxed. Almost gentle. But it carried something else beneath it, something soft in a way that was more terrifying than any flash of anger could’ve been.

 

Their eyes locked.

 

Jongho lifted his glass again, took another slow sip, then let out a quiet chuckle that curled like smoke between them.

“See, hyung?” His voice was low, steady, almost fond. “I told you you’d eventually figure it out.”

 

Seonghwa froze.

 

The sound of the bar around them dimmed into nothing, every clink of glass and low murmur of conversation swallowed by the weight of his little brother’s words. He sat there, stiff, his breath caught in his throat, staring at Jongho like he was seeing him for the first time in his life.

 

But Jongho didn’t waver.

 

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, gaze steady and calm. The softness in his face wasn’t the kind Seonghwa knew — not the boyish grin after a joke, not the bright smile that used to make his chest ache with pride. No, this was something different. Quiet. Untouched by guilt. And it terrified him more than rage ever could have.

 

Seonghwa’s mind spun, caught between instinct and truth. No. This isn’t him. He’s my brother. My kid brother. He can’t—

 

But the pieces pressed closer, sharper, until denial could no longer hold them apart. Coffee stirred with the wrong hand. A grocery list too neat, too precise. The handwriting. The ache in Yunho’s voice when he’d said some people can use both hands.

 

Jongho didn’t look away. He didn’t fidget, didn’t explain, didn’t excuse. He only held Seonghwa’s gaze, unshaken.

 

And then — he smiled.

 

Not mocking. A genuine smile, the same one Seonghwa had spent years protecting.

 

“You’ve always protected me, hyung,” Jongho said softly, as if it were the most natural truth in the world. “You’ve taken so much for me, and I couldn’t keep watching that fucker take life from you bit by bit until you had nothing left.”

 

The words landed like daggers in Seonghwa’s chest. His throat closed. His vision blurred before he realized he was crying — silent, helpless tears rolling hot down his cheeks, dripping onto his hands folded uselessly in his lap. Jongho reached forward, wiping his brother’s tears gently with his thumb.

 

But Seonghwa didn’t move. He couldn’t.

 

He sat there still, watching the boy he had raised becoming something he couldn’t recognize.

 

At last, his voice scraped out, broken.

“Run away…”

 

Jongho’s smile only deepened, and he shook his head gently, like an older brother might to a frightened child. “I’m not scared, hyung. I don’t want to run away.” His voice was steady, certain. “I actually want to get caught.”

 

Seonghwa’s head snapped toward him, disbelief sharp through the fog of grief. He searched Jongho’s face for a flicker of hesitation, for any sign this was bravado. But there was none. Only calm, quiet truth.

 

Jongho nodded once, confirming. “I won’t stop as long as I can. No kid deserves to live that way.”

 

Then, slowly, he pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. Seonghwa’s hands twitched, wanting to reach for him, to drag him back down, to do something — but they stayed frozen in place.

 

“I’ll be home,” Jongho said gently, as though promising something simple. “Let Yunho come take me from there.”

 

He reached out, ruffled Seonghwa’s hair with the same casual affection as when they were younger. For a moment, it was almost like nothing had changed at all.

 

“We’ll be okay, hyung.”

 

And then he turned and walked away, his figure dissolving into the hum of the bar until Seonghwa was left alone with the silence and the hollow ache tearing through his chest.

 

Seonghwa didn’t move.

 

Even as Jongho’s figure slipped into the crowd, even as the doorway swung shut behind him, he sat there, rooted to his seat. His body felt hollow, like someone had scooped out his insides and left only a shell behind. His eyes stayed fixed on the table, on the empty glass still damp from his brother’s hand.

 

Then the silence inside him cracked.

 

It started as a tremor in his chest, a single ragged inhale that broke into another — and then the sobs came. Harsh, ugly, unstoppable. His hands flew up to his face but they couldn’t muffle the sound, couldn’t dam the flood bursting out of him.

 

The bar quieted. A few heads turned, curious, concerned. The bartender paused mid-polish of a glass. A couple at the corner table shifted uneasily.

 

But Seonghwa didn’t notice any of it.

 

He bent forward, elbows digging into the table, tears spilling through his fingers, his shoulders shaking with each broken sound. Years of control, years of composure — undone in minutes.

 

And still he couldn’t move.

 

Couldn’t chase. Couldn’t stop him.

 

All he could do was sit there in the middle of the bar, sobbing into his hands, the weight of Jongho’s words sinking deeper with every breath.

 

He had sworn to uphold the law.

He had sworn to protect his brother.

And now, sitting broken in the middle of that bar, Seonghwa didn’t know which vow was about to destroy him first.

 

 

 

—•—

 

 

 

4th of July.

 

 

A knock on the door echoed through the apartment, slow and deliberate.

 

Jongho had been waiting all day yesterday, waiting all morning today, and still, no one had come. No call. No message. Nothing. Just the weight of absence pressing down on him.

 

With a measured breath, Jongho moved to the door. He swung it open, and there he was. Yunho.

 

Jongho’s lips curved into a small, calm smile, as if this was a casual visit between friends. But Yunho’s expression was a storm of regret and exhaustion.

 

“I… I’m sorry, Jongho,” Yunho began, his voice low, almost drowned by the summer heat. He lifted his badge for Jongho to see. “You’re under arrest for the murders of the Lees, the Kims, and the Parks. Anything you say can be used against you…” He hesitated, looking for the right words that wouldn’t exist. “…All the usual warnings.”

 

Jongho’s gaze remained steady, unflinching. He put his arms out for Yunho, who placed the handcuffs in front of him instead of behind because of the cast. And Jongho let him, obediently.

 

He didn’t say a word. Not a single question, not a protest, not a denial. He simply walked out. Calm. Cooperative. Methodical.

 

Yunho followed his lead, guiding him quietly to the car waiting just outside the block. The sun reflected harshly off the hood, glaring down on them both. Every step Jongho took was deliberate, measured, almost serene, as if he were walking into a world he had already anticipated.

 

And there, across the street, Seonghwa watched.

 

He didn’t move. Couldn’t move. His body was rigid, frozen in a mix of shock, heartbreak, and despair. His eyes were raw and red, swollen from crying and a night without sleep.

 

The sight of his little brother, his baby brother, being led calmly into a police car by the man he loved, pressed into him like a vice. The weight of it threatened to crush his lungs, his chest heaving uncontrollably. He swallowed, his throat tight, unable to form even a single word.

 

Jongho glanced briefly ahead. The faintest flicker of acknowledgment — of recognition — passed between them as their eyes locked.

 

Not guilt, not fear, just that quiet certainty that whatever came next, this was a path Jongho had chosen.

 

Seonghwa’s knees weakened, and he had to lean against the brick wall behind him to keep from collapsing. Every heartbeat was a drum of torment, every breath a reminder of the impossible chasm between the law he had sworn to uphold and the brother he had sworn to protect.

 

The car doors shut. The engine started. And then they were moving. Slowly at first, then faster, carrying Jongho away, carrying Yunho along with him, leaving Seonghwa standing alone on the sidewalk, his soul hollowed out, and the city around him muted as if it, too, mourned.

 

He remained there long after the car disappeared around the corner. Standing. Watching. Waiting. Not knowing how to breathe, how to think, how to reconcile the two worlds that had collided — love and law, family and justice.

 

All he knew was that his brother was gone. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

 

 

 

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as Yunho led Jongho through the lobby. The hum of phones and chatter in the background seemed distant, like it belonged to another world.

 

Then San appeared.

 

At first, his face brightened with recognition. “Jongho-ya!” he exclaimed, stepping forward eagerly. But the moment his eyes landed on the handcuffs clamped over Jongho’s wrists, his smile froze. Confusion rippled through him.

 

“Wait… why—? What—?” His voice faltered, searching for clarity. “Why are your hands—?”

 

Jongho’s expression remained serene, utterly unreadable. Calm. He didn’t answer.

 

San turned to Yunho, hoping for some explanation. Yunho’s jaw tightened, the weight of the moment heavy in his posture. “Later,” he said quietly. There was a firmness in his tone that shut the question down immediately, leaving San’s curiosity and shock suspended.

 

They moved quickly through the station. Each step echoed unnervingly in the sterile hallways. Seonghwa wasn’t there — not yet. Not that anyone noticed the missing presence, but it hung between them like a shadow.

 

Finally, they arrived at the questioning room. The metal table gleamed under the harsh light. Chairs clattered softly as they were positioned.

 

Jongho was guided to a seat. Yunho gently unclasped the cuffs, leaving Jongho’s hands free. The metal clinked softly as it was set aside.

 

Jongho just sat there. Silent. Poised. Eyes steady, as if absorbing the weight of everything around him. It was an unusual stillness, the kind that made even the seasoned officers pause briefly.

 

Yunho gave a subtle nod, then he stepped back.

 

And left.

 

The door swung shut behind him with a soft but final thud.

 

Jongho remained, alone, seated on the hard chair.

 

The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and old metal. The fluorescent lights buzzed. His left hand rested calmly on the table, the other resting heavy in his lap.

 

In that stillness, Jongho just sat. Watching. Waiting. Silent, calm, and unshakable.

 

 

The clock ticked. An hour passed as Jongho sat alone in the interrogation room, waiting. An officer appeared then, carrying a bottle of water and a small cup of orange juice. He set them on the table and lingered briefly in the corner, watching. Jongho took the water, lifting it slowly, sip by careful sip, as if measuring time itself while he waited.

 

Behind the double glass window, Yunho and Seonghwa observed. Neither moved. Yunho’s presence was solid, steady — a quiet anchor. Seonghwa’s chest tightened with every subtle shift of Jongho’s posture. Watching him here, calm, unshaken, made the ache in Seonghwa’s chest pulse sharper.

 

Finally, Seonghwa broke the silence. His voice, barely above a whisper, trembled despite himself. “Start.”

 

Yunho gave a single nod, the signal understood. He stepped out, three folders tucked under one arm, and crossed into the interrogation room. The click of the door closing behind him resonated like a signal of inevitability.

 

Seonghwa pressed his forehead against the cool glass, eyes fixed on his little brother. His heart thundered in his ears, every beat a reminder of how far they had all been pushed — of how much was at stake.

 

Jongho looked up as Yunho approached, his calm gaze unwavering, a quiet intensity in every measured movement. The water bottle sat half-empty before him, forgotten now, as the room seemed to contract around them, leaving only the three of them: the suspect, the interrogator, and the observer who could not intervene.

 

 

Yunho slid the first folder across the table, letting it rest neatly in front of Jongho. The air between them was taut, charged with quiet tension. He leaned forward slightly, voice calm, controlled.

 

“You were supposed to be in camp with your school,” Yunho began. “You and your brother left together, right?”

 

Jongho shook his head, expression neutral. “No. My brother went with the school bus. I waited with my friend. His dad was going to drop us there the next morning.”

 

Seonghwa’s eyes widened in memory, in recognition. How could he have forgotten?

 

“And what happened?” Yunho’s question was soft but precise, leaving no room for evasion.

 

Jongho’s gaze drifted momentarily to the far corner of the room, as if recalling the memory in slow motion. “I waited past midnight to be sure everyone was asleep. Went to my friend’s kitchen, grabbed a kitchen knife, left through the window, entered our house through our bedroom window—it was broken and never closed properly. Grabbed a pair of gloves I’d managed to keep hidden, went to the bathroom to wash my gloved hands and the knife, went back to my room to write the note. I had a new notebook that was still wrapped, so I took a piece of paper from the middle. Then went to their bedroom. The rest was… easy. They weren’t light sleepers, so it wasn’t hard to finish them off.”

 

Yunho’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you did this… with your left hand?”

 

Jongho tilted his head, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “Yes. I discovered I could use my left hand just fine when I was ten or so. So I figured, why not?”

 

“Why not just use your right hand?” Yunho asked, tone even, professional, but not devoid of curiosity.

 

His smile widened slightly, almost playful. “My brother would’ve recognized my handwriting immediately. He’d been the one teaching me how to write, helping me with homework. He’d have known.”

 

It cracked Seonghwa’s ribs open. Torn, aching. His eyes stung again.

 

Yunho exhaled slowly, absorbing the explanation. “I see. In the report, your brother told the detective your father was harsh, and your mother wasn’t protecting you. Is that why you… killed them?”

 

Jongho’s gaze hardened, unwavering, voice steady. “My brother kept out a lot of it. He was constantly molested by our dad. I’d seen it once when I was thirteen. I decided I had to stop it. And my mom? She died because she didn’t stop it.”

 

The room was silent for a heartbeat, only the faint hum of the fluorescent lights filling the space. Yunho’s heart sank to his stomach, but his face remained neutral. Jongho’s calm, deliberate recounting made every word hit harder, each confession heavier than the last.

 

Yunho opened the next folder, revealing the photos of the Lee household. He laid them carefully on the table, the images stark, clinical. His eyes met Jongho’s.

 

“You did this?” Yunho asked, voice measured.

 

Jongho nodded, expression calm, unwavering.

 

“Why?”

 

“Same reason,” Jongho replied simply. “A disgusting father. A useless mother.”

 

Yunho’s gaze sharpened. “How did you know? Did Sunmi confide in you?”

 

Jongho’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darkening with memory. “In the beginning of the second term, I made an activity in class. Distributed little papers to the students. Told them to write one anonymous wish and leave it in the basket on my desk. Before vacation started, we’d go back and pick randomly, talk about the wishes together.”

He paused, a flicker of something raw crossing his face. “After class, I skimmed the cards absentmindedly… until I saw one that said, ‘I wish my dad would stop touching me. I don’t like it.’” His hands flexed slightly, as if holding onto the memory. “I instantly recognized the handwriting. Elegant. Clean. Very familiar. I’d always loved her handwriting whenever she submitted assignments. So… yeah. I started planning.”

 

Yunho’s eyes didn’t leave him. “So you suggested that her friend, Yuri, take her in? To help her study a little… and you knew Yuri’s parents wouldn’t mind?”

 

“Exactly,” Jongho said, voice steady, almost clinical. “That’s what happened, Detective Jeong.”

 

Yunho nodded slowly, letting the weight of the words settle. “And then?”

 

“Same as before,” Jongho said simply. “Snuck in. Finished the job. Left. It wasn’t too hard either. It’s never too hard when you’re isolated.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, calm, methodical, the cold precision of his confession cutting through the room like a blade.

 

Yunho slid the next folder forward. The images of the Kim household stared back, sterile, unflinching. He looked at Jongho steadily.

 

“The boy, Kim Taeyang,” Yunho began, voice controlled, precise. “He’s in 8th grade. Not your class. How did you know about his parents?”

 

Jongho leaned back slightly, expression unreadable. “Yeah, he’s in Wooyoung’s class—Jung Wooyoung, my colleague. You know how we teachers sit together during breaks and talk… about work, students, stuff like that. More than once, Wooyoung mentioned how concerned he was for Tae. He noticed fading bruises every now and then, and when he asked, Tae would just say he fell or whatever.”

 

He paused, letting the memory settle. Yunho didn’t speak; he waited.

“Then,” Jongho continued, voice steady, measured, “we had a parent meeting sometime between April and early May. His father came late—looked unsteady, like he’d been drinking or something. I noticed him from afar. Before leaving, he led Taeyang to a secluded spot. I followed. From what I saw, Taeyang was trying to avoid whatever was about to happen. His father… squeezed his hips, patted his bottom, then left. Taeyang stood there, trembling a little. I went to him, and he flinched, then ran off to his class.”

 

Yunho’s fingers tapped lightly on the folder. “So… how did you know he’d be away in the summer?”

 

Jongho’s lips curved faintly. “Weeks later, Wooyoung was talking about his class again. Said he was happy Tae was going to Seoul for the summer. I guess I was… really lucky.”

 

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Jongho’s calm recounting pressing down on the air.

 

Each calculated move, each observation, each step meticulously planned—it all added up to something terrifyingly precise.

 

Yunho leaned forward slightly, voice steady but edged with disbelief. “But during the estimated time of the murder, you were in a motel on the outskirts of the coast. You, Choi San, Jeong Yunho, and Park Seonghwa—on vacation together. You and Choi San had gone two days before Seonghwa and I. How did that work out?”

 

Jongho’s lips curved into a faint, almost casual smile. “First night, San and I went partying. He drank a lot and passed out early. I left him in the room and took his car. It’s not that long of a drive—an hour and a half. I parked the car seven blocks away, went and finished it off, cleaned up, then drove back. I was back before six a.m.”

 

He said it like he was describing a routine chore, the precision of every detail chilling in its detachment.

 

Yunho’s eyes didn’t leave him, noting every movement, every calm breath, every almost imperceptible flicker in Jongho’s expression. The boy who could sit quietly for hours now confessed to acts that defied understanding—and yet, he spoke as if recounting a carefully planned day, not a murder.

“Do you feel guilty?” He asked finally.

 

Jongho’s lips turned to a calm smile, eyes locked to Yunho’s. “Not at all, Detective.” 

 

Seonghwa’s hands curled into fists behind the glass, his chest tightening so sharply it was like his lungs climbed up his throat.

 

He wanted to scream, to run, to do anything—but he stayed, silent, witnessing every word, every revelation, powerless.

 

Jongho’s gaze remained calm, almost serene, as if nothing in the world could shake him. And in that serenity lay the terrifying truth of just how far he had planned, and how meticulously he had executed everything.

 

Seonghwa’s every rational thought was drowned by a tide of fury, heartbreak, and helplessness. He couldn’t stay behind the glass any longer.

 

He burst into the interrogation room, the door slamming against the wall with a sharp crack. Before Jongho could react, Seonghwa’s hands shot forward, grabbing him by the collar, shaking him slightly as if trying to force the boy to face the storm of emotions he’d been holding in for years.

 

Yunho rose quickly, his posture tense, ready to step in—but he didn’t. Not yet. He let Seonghwa’s grief have its release, knowing intervention now might only make it worse.

 

Seonghwa’s voice trembled, cracking under the weight of everything. “Why, Jongho?! Why?! How could you not think of the consequences?! What am I supposed to do without you now?!”

 

Jongho’s eyes glistened with tears. He looked at Seonghwa’s face, at the raw pain, the quivering lips, the tears streaming freely. His voice was barely audible, a whisper against the storm.

 

“Because you shouldn’t have lived like that. Because nobody else should have… I wanted you to be able to really smile, hyung.”

 

Seonghwa froze for a heartbeat, the words cutting into him in a way nothing else had.

 

Unable to hold back any longer, he broke completely. Sobs wracked his body, his grip on Jongho’s collar tightening as his knees failed him, desperate for some connection to the brother he had lost in every sense but blood.

 

“How am I gonna ever smile again now, Jongho-ya…?” His voice was ragged, choked with grief, rage, fear, and heartbreak.

 

Jongho’s tears fell freely now, unashamed, as he met his older brother’s gaze. The calm, calculated exterior he’d maintained all this time crumbled, leaving only a boy who loved his brother more than the world, who had tried to protect him in the only way he knew how.

 

Chapter 11

 

 

Rural Korea,

mid-August 1997,

School Camp.

 

 

 

The crackle of the campfire was steady, warm against the cool night air. Around them, the other kids laughed quietly, tossed marshmallows, and murmured stories, but Seonghwa and Jongho lay side by side on the blanket, the glow of the fire painting soft shadows across their faces. Above them, the stars stretched endlessly, tiny pearls scattered across the velvet sky.

 

“Jongho-ya,” Seonghwa began, his voice barely above a whisper, careful not to disturb the gentle night, “what do you want to do in the future?”

 

Jongho turned his head to meet his brother’s gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I want to be a teacher.”

 

Seonghwa blinked, surprised. “A teacher? But… you hate school.”

 

Jongho chuckled softly, the sound light and easy. “Yeah, I hate school. But I want to help kids. Give them a little more than I got, I guess.”

 

Seonghwa’s expression softened, thoughtful. “You could help everyone if you became a cop.”

 

Jongho shook his head, eyes reflecting the firelight. “Life and law… they’re not always on the same page, hyung. You know that.”

 

Seonghwa paused, surprised at the wisdom in such a young voice. He reached over, ruffling Jongho’s hair playfully. Jongho swatted his hand away, laughing quietly, and for a moment, the world was nothing but warmth, laughter, and stars.

 

A comfortable silence fell between them, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant whispers of their friends. Then Jongho spoke again, softer this time.

 

“You should be the cop, hyung.”

 

Seonghwa turned to him, curious. “Why?”

 

“Because… you’d always do the right thing,” Jongho said simply. His gaze returned to the sky, and the honesty in his words made the older brother’s heart swell.

 

Seonghwa smiled, and they fell silent once more. Side by side, they watched the stars, letting the night stretch on above them—endless, unbroken, and for now, completely theirs.

 

And though neither of them could know the trials ahead, in this fleeting moment, they were simply brothers—together, unbroken, under a universe that stretched far beyond them, holding possibilities they had yet to imagine.

 

Possibilities they’d never be sure they could endure.

 

Notes:

Thank you for making it all the way to the end. Means a lot 🖤
I hope you “enjoyed” reading this, though I’m not sure why anyone would lol. I’d love to know what you think hehe.