Chapter Text
The interrogation room hums before it breathes.
Fluorescent lights vibrate faintly overhead, a constant, insect-like buzz that never fully fades into the background. The camera in the upper corner blinks red at steady intervals, patient and unblinking, recording everything and nothing all at once. The table is bolted to the floor, metal legs anchored deep into concrete, its surface scarred with years of careless scratches and the faint outlines of hands that once pressed down too hard. The chairs are identical on either side; uncomfortable by design, light enough to move, heavy enough to remind you where you are. There is no window. No clock. No softness anywhere.
Everything in here is meant to strip people down. To make them feel small, temporary, contained.
Soobin knows this room well. He has sat on this side of the table dozens of times, has learned how to read the way shoulders tense under pressure, how eyes flick to the camera when lies begin to form. He has learned how to keep his face neutral, his voice steady, his body still. He has learned how to let the room do the work for him.
He steps inside with a folder tucked under his arm, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click. The sound echoes more than it should. For a moment, he doesn’t look up.
The file is heavier than it should be. Thick with printed reports, surveillance stills, witness statements. Corruption. Underground fighting rings. Drugs moved through betting networks that stretch wider than they should, deeper than anyone wants to admit. This case has been whispered about in corridors for weeks now, spoken in careful tones, accompanied by looks that linger a little too long. A mess like this doesn’t just take people down, it reshuffles careers.
Soobin knows what it could mean if he handles it right. He knows how closely his superiors are watching. He knows this could be the case that cements him as someone reliable, someone sharp enough to be trusted with uglier truths. Someone who can be depended on to choose the job over sentiment.
He breathes in, slow and measured, and finally lifts his eyes.
The chair across from him is occupied.
For a fraction of a second, his mind refuses to cooperate. It tries to catalogue details the way it always does: male, mid-twenties to early thirties, restrained posture, hands cuffed loosely in front. It tries to keep things orderly and distant. It almost succeeds.
Then recognition hits, sudden and brutal, like a punch thrown without warning.
Yeonjun sits on the other side of the table.
The room doesn’t change, but something inside Soobin does. The hum of the lights sharpens. The air feels thinner. His grip on the folder tightens without him noticing, fingers curling into the cardboard edge until it bends slightly under the pressure.
Yeonjun looks different. Older, obviously. Leaner in a way that speaks of wear rather than health. His hair is longer than Soobin remembers, it’s dyed too. Ashy blond with black at the tips, pushed back from his forehead in careless disarray. But it’s the injuries that register first, because they always do. It hasn’t gotten any less brutal since the first time he’d seen them on the older man.
A split lip, still faintly swollen, dried blood cracked at one corner. Knuckles darkening into deep purples and blues, skin scraped raw where it’s torn. One shoulder held just a touch too stiffly, as if lifting his arm too high would hurt. These are not the marks of a bar fight or a random beating in an alley. They are the aftermath of controlled violence. Of rules and rounds and hands wrapped tight before impact.
Soobin catalogues it all automatically, almost clinically. Left hand worse than the right. Bruising consistent with repeated strikes, not defensive wounds. No visible swelling around the eyes yet, but that might come later. He files it away the way he’s trained to, the way he has taught himself to do.
Not the way someone in love would.
There is a beat of silence where Soobin realises he is still standing.
The chair on his side of the table waits, legs angled slightly away as if it has been nudged back by someone else. He remains where he is for a second too long, body caught between instinct and restraint. Sitting would make this official. Sitting would mean he has accepted the shape of this moment.
He forces himself to move.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor as he pulls it out and sits, the sound grating in the quiet room. He places the folder down with care, aligning it with the edge of the table, smoothing one corner that doesn’t need smoothing. His movements are practically rehearsed. He gives himself something to do with his hands.
Only then does Yeonjun look up.
Their eyes meet across the table, and the effect is immediate and fatal.
Yeonjun’s gaze is steady and unflinching. There is no surprise there, no flicker of confusion or relief. Whatever he felt when Soobin walked in, he has already buried it. What remains is sharp and contained, a look honed by years of learning how not to give anything away.
Soobin feels it like a physical impact, right in the chest.
The last time they looked at each other like this was years ago. Not in a room like this, but close enough. Different lighting; warmer, dimmer, shadows thrown long against concrete walls. Handcuffs between them then too, cold metal biting into skin. Soobin standing where authority placed him, Yeonjun staring up at him with disbelief that curdled into something much worse.
That memory flashes through him unbidden, vivid and merciless. The echo of raised voices. The taste of panic at the back of his throat. The way Yeonjun’s expression changed when he realised what Soobin had done.
Here, now, there are no raised voices. No movement at all.
Yeonjun’s eyes flick briefly over Soobin’s face, as if confirming what he already knows. The tailored suit. The badge clipped neatly at his belt. The calm, controlled posture of a man who belongs on this side of the table. There is something almost bitterly amused in the curve of Yeonjun’s mouth, though it never quite becomes a smile.
Soobin swallows.
He tells himself this is just another interrogation. That the room has seen worse reunions, uglier truths dragged into the light. He tells himself he is prepared for this. That whatever history exists between them has no place here.
The room doesn’t care what he tells himself.
The red light on the camera continues to blink. The fluorescent hum continues unabated. The table remains bolted to the floor, immovable and cold.
Across from him, Yeonjun doesn’t look away.
Neither does Soobin.
For a moment that stretches too long to be comfortable, they are simply two men staring at each other in a room designed to break people apart. The past sits between them, heavy and unspoken, filling every inch of space that the room itself refuses to acknowledge.
Soobin draws in another careful breath, straightens his spine, and reaches for the version of himself that knows how to survive moments like this.
He has a job to do.
Whatever else this is – whatever it was – it will have to wait.
Soobin clears his throat.
The sound is small, almost lost beneath the hum of the lights, but it feels too loud in his own ears. He straightens the folder in front of him one last time, places both hands flat on the table, and lifts his gaze just enough to fix it somewhere neutral – Yeonjun’s shoulder rather than his face.
“Detective Choi Soobin,” he says, voice level, professional. “Major Crimes Unit.”
The words land between them and stay there.
He does not say Yeonjun’s name.
For a moment, it almost feels like it works. Like this thin layer of formality might hold, might protect them both from what sits beneath it. Like the badge clipped to his belt and the title on his tongue are enough to redraw the lines between them.
Yeonjun doesn’t react.
He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t scoff. He doesn’t look away.
He simply sits there, hands resting loosely together on the table despite the cuffs, posture relaxed in a way that is anything but. His eyes remain fixed on Soobin now, sharp and unyielding, the faint curl of his lip gone flat. There is no fear in him, Soobin has seen fear too many times to mistake it for this. This is refusal. This is a deliberate withholding, a choice made and held onto with teeth clenched tight.
It is hatred, restrained but undeniable.
Soobin feels it like a pressure against his ribs. He keeps his expression carefully neutral, schooling his features into something impassive and unreadable. He has done this before. Hundreds of times. He knows how to sit across from people who despise him. He knows how to endure their glares, their silence, their accusations disguised as stillness.
This is different.
This is not a man being questioned by a stranger. This is not even a man being questioned by the law. This is someone sitting across from the person who already failed him once, refusing to offer even the courtesy of pretending otherwise.
Soobin exhales slowly through his nose and opens the folder.
Paper rustles. The sound is mundane, grounding. He lets his eyes drop to the first page, lets the printed words anchor him. Names. Dates. Locations. Facts that exist independently of memory and regret.
He begins as if reading from a script.
“You were taken into custody last night at approximately twenty-three forty hours,” he says, tone even, measured. “The arrest took place near an unregistered gym operating in the eastern district. Do you understand why you were detained?”
Yeonjun does not answer.
Soobin waits the appropriate amount of time, long enough to allow for a response, short enough to maintain control of the room. When none comes, he continues without comment, as though this is expected, as though he has not just asked a question that echoes with years of shared history.
“You are suspected of involvement in the management and facilitation of illegal betting operations connected to underground boxing matches,” Soobin says. He flips the page. “These operations are believed to be tied to a wider network responsible for the distribution of controlled substances.”
His voice remains steady, but there is a faint tightness there, a careful precision that borders on restraint. He hears it himself, the way he sounds as though he is walking a narrow line, measuring every word before it leaves his mouth.
Yeonjun shifts slightly in his chair. Just enough for Soobin to notice the stiffness in his shoulder again, the way he adjusts to avoid pain. His gaze never leaves Soobin’s face.
Still, he says nothing.
Soobin keeps going.
“We have evidence placing you at multiple locations linked to these operations over the past six months,” he continues. “Surveillance footage, witness statements, financial records connected to betting exchanges.”
He lists them calmly, methodically, as if ticking items off a checklist. As if this is not a catalogue of accusations that could dismantle a life. As if the man sitting across from him is not someone he once knew better than himself.
The red light on the camera blinks.
“So far,” Soobin adds, “you have declined to make any statement.”
Yeonjun’s mouth twitches, barely perceptible. It is not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. If anything, it looks like something bitter caught behind his teeth.
Soobin pauses, eyes still on the file. He knows this moment. The lull before pressure is applied. The space where suspects either fill the silence themselves or retreat further into it.
He lifts his gaze again, meeting Yeonjun’s eyes directly this time.
“This is your opportunity to explain your involvement,” he says. “To clarify your role.”
Yeonjun’s stare sharpens.
The silence stretches.
Soobin is aware, distantly, of the way his pulse has begun to thrum in his ears. He keeps his shoulders relaxed, his posture open but firm. He does not lean forward. He does not raise his voice. He gives Yeonjun nothing to push back against.
Finally, Yeonjun breathes out through his nose.
It is a quiet sound, almost a laugh, stripped of humour.
“So,” Yeonjun says at last.
His voice is rougher than Soobin remembers. Lower, edged with something worn down by use. Hearing it again after all this time feels like a shock to the system, a jolt that sends old reflexes flaring before he can suppress them.
“So this is how you’re doing it,” Yeonjun continues, head tilting slightly. “Reading it off a page.”
Soobin’s jaw tightens before he can stop it. He forces it to relax again just as quickly.
“I’m asking you to cooperate,” he says. “That would be advisable.”
Yeonjun’s eyes flick briefly to the folder, then back to Soobin. The look he gives him is assessing, cutting, as though he is measuring just how much of this is real and how much is performance.
“Advisable for who?” Yeonjun asks.
The question is quiet. It hits him anyway.
Soobin does not answer it. There is no answer that fits within the boundaries of this room.
He turns another page.
“You are also suspected of acting as an intermediary between these operations and a group of drug traffickers currently under review,” he says, the words tasting sharp in his mouth.
Yeonjun’s expression does not change, but something in his posture does. A subtle tightening, a barely perceptible alertness that sets every nerve in Soobin’s body on edge. It is the kind of reaction Soobin has learned to notice, the kind that suggests not surprise, but calculation.
For a moment, Yeonjun says nothing. He studies Soobin with a focus that feels uncomfortably intimate, as if the years between them have collapsed into something thin and brittle. His gaze drifts over Soobin’s face, the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders are held square and still. Then, without warning, he asks,
“What do you think?”
Soobin blinks.
“I’m sorry?” he says, before he can stop himself.
Yeonjun’s mouth curves slightly, not into a smile so much as a distortion of one. There is no humour in it, no warmth. He leans forward just enough to rest his forearms on the table, chains shifting with a faint metallic sound.
“Don’t play dumb,” Yeonjun says quietly. “You’ve known me longer than anyone in this building.”
Soobin’s chest tightens.
“What do you think?” Yeonjun repeats, voice low. “Do you think I’m guilty?”
The question hangs between them, heavy and dangerous. It is not procedural. It is not something Soobin can deflect with policy or protocol. It is personal in a way that feels almost cruel.
Soobin forces himself to inhale.
“This interrogation isn’t about what I think,” he says carefully. “It’s about the evidence.”
Yeonjun’s eyes narrow, just slightly. “That’s not what I asked.”
Soobin feels the room closing in on him. The hum of the lights grows louder, the blinking red of the camera suddenly oppressive. He knows every angle of this room, every rule governing what he can and cannot say. He also knows Yeonjun will not let this go.
“I have sufficient evidence,” Soobin says at last, choosing each word with precision, “to assume your involvement.”
For a heartbeat, Yeonjun simply stares at him. Soobin thinks he sees the slightest hint of hurt flash across the elder’s eyes, but he can’t be too sure.
Then he smiles.
It is small and humourless, the kind of expression that doesn’t reach the eyes at all. If anything, his gaze darkens, something sharp and feral flashing there before he leans back in his chair. The movement is slow, deliberate, as though he is retreating behind a wall he has decided will not be breached.
“Right,” Yeonjun says softly. “Figures.”
The word lands like a verdict.
Soobin swallows and flips the page again, refusing to let the moment linger.
“Can you explain your presence at the eastern district gym last night?” he asks. “Multiple witnesses place you there–”
“No,” Yeonjun says.
The interruption is immediate, flat.
Soobin pauses. “No?”
“I’m done,” Yeonjun replies, gaze fixed on a point somewhere past Soobin’s shoulder. “You’ve got your evidence. You’ve made up your mind.”
“That isn’t how this works,” Soobin says, a thread of strain creeping into his voice despite his efforts to keep it level. “Your cooperation can still affect how this–”
“I said no,” Yeonjun repeats, more firmly this time.
He shifts again, leaning back fully now, arms folding loosely across his chest despite the cuffs. The posture is defensive, closed off, unmistakable. Whatever tentative engagement he had offered earlier is gone.
Soobin tries again, asks another question about the betting operations, about the alleged transport routes, about names and dates pulled from the file. Each time, Yeonjun either stares at him in silence or gives a curt, one-word refusal.
“No comment.”
“So you’re refusing to answer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you deny these charges?”
Yeonjun’s lips press together. He says nothing.
The silence that follows is thick, almost suffocating. It stretches until it stops feeling like a tactic and starts feeling like a wall. Soobin stares at the closed line of Yeonjun’s mouth, at the way his jaw has locked into place, and something inside him twists painfully tight.
This isn’t working. He knows it isn’t. Whatever fragile control he had at the start of the interrogation has slipped through his fingers, and now all that’s left is procedure grinding uselessly against something far more personal.
He shouldn’t say anything else. He knows that. He should stand, end the session, let someone else take over before he does something unforgivable.
Instead, he hears himself breathe in.
“Yeon–” he starts, then stops.
The name alone feels like stepping over a line already drawn in blood.
He swallows, heart thudding harder, louder, until he’s sure Yeonjun must be able to hear it. His hands curl slightly on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening.
“Yeonjun-hyung,” he says softly.
The title slips out without permission, worn smooth by years of use and memory. The moment it leaves his mouth, he knows he’s made a mistake.
“Please,” Soobin adds, voice cracking just enough to give him away. “If you just cooperate you can still change–”
Yeonjun moves.
It happens so fast it barely registers as motion. One second he’s leaning back in his chair, cold and distant; the next, he’s on his feet, the chair screeching violently across the floor before it topples over behind him with a sharp crash.
Soobin flinches hard.
Instinct takes over before reason does; his shoulders tense, his body recoils, a split-second, visceral expectation that Yeonjun is going to hit him. That this is how it ends. That he deserves it.
Shouts erupt around them.
The door flies open. Two officers are on Yeonjun in an instant, hands gripping his arms, forcing him back against the edge of the table. The cuffs clink loudly as he’s restrained, the sound jarring and ugly. The camera continues to blink red, indifferent.
“Detective Choi,” someone snaps. “Step back.”
He doesn’t realise he’s frozen until his legs finally obey, carrying him a step away from the table. His heart is pounding so hard it makes him dizzy, breath coming shallow and fast.
Yeonjun doesn’t struggle.
He lets them hold him, muscles taut under their grip, shoulders rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. His eyes never leave Soobin’s face.
Then he smirks.
It’s sharp and humourless, a mirror of the smile from earlier but stripped of even its faint restraint. His split lip pulls slightly, a thin line of red reopening at the corner of his mouth.
“You scared of me?” Yeonjun asks.
His voice is calm. Almost amused.
Soobin’s throat works. He shakes his head immediately, too quickly, as if the answer needs to be visible as well as spoken.
“No,” he says, though his heart is still racing, hammering against his ribs like it wants out. “I’m not.”
It’s the truth. Or close enough to it. What he’s feeling isn’t fear, it’s something worse. Something heavier.
Yeonjun studies him for a long moment, eyes dark and burning with something that looks dangerously close to contempt. Whatever he sees in Soobin’s face seems to confirm something for him, because the smirk fades, replaced by an expression so cold it makes Soobin’s stomach drop.
The officers tighten their hold, murmuring reassurances, asking if they need to remove him from the room. Yeonjun ignores them completely.
His gaze stays locked on Soobin, filled with such open disdain, such raw, unfiltered hatred, that it almost feels unreal. As if this is someone else entirely. As if the boy who once climbed into his window, who laughed with his mouth full of food, has been erased beyond recovery.
Soobin stares back, chest aching, mind reeling.
He doesn’t know how they got here.
He doesn’t know how love turned into this, into a room full of cold light and metal restraints and eyes that look at him like he’s the enemy. He only knows that somewhere along the way, something essential broke, and neither of them knows how to put it back together.
The officers finally pull Yeonjun away from the table, dragging the fallen chair aside. The noise is loud, chaotic, everything the room wasn’t meant to be.
Soobin stays where he is, hands trembling faintly at his sides, watching Yeonjun be restrained in front of him.
The red light on the camera continues to blink, recording the silence.
And Soobin realises, with a sinking weight in his chest, that something has just shifted irrevocably between them, locking into place with a quiet, lethal finality.