Chapter Text
Autumn. September 12, 2019
In-ho's office smells of coffee, tobacco, and – faintly – whiskey.
In-ho doesn't smoke. But that smell had seeped in long before the office was even given to him. The previous "owner," according to old colleagues, used to smoke right at that desk, stubbornly ignoring fire safety regulations and common decency. Colleagues were angry back then – some opened windows, some sprayed air freshener, some just cursed openly, and some threw whatever came to hand at him. No one ever managed to fully air out the tobacco smell. Now it has blended with the coffee and whiskey – and become what might be called "the smell of this place."
But, as strange as it might seem to all his other colleagues, In-ho stopped noticing that smell long ago. Just as he stopped noticing that he forgets about food. Just as he stopped noticing that instead of lunch he stifles his hunger with black sugarless coffee – the kind his younger brother says is "undrinkable." Just as he stopped noticing that he doesn't reply to messages. Not to colleagues. Not to his stepmother. Not to those few friends he once had, who are now somewhere in another life – so far away it doesn't even feel like his own.
But that's not the point right now.
In-ho has been sitting at his desk for at least half an hour, maybe a little more, maybe an eternity, mechanically shuffling through papers. His neck is stiff, but he doesn't lift his head. His fingers shuffle through the papers automatically – the edges are sharp, unpleasantly scratching his fingers. His favorite mug, cracked and full of dark coffee, has long since gone cold by now.
But the coffee isn't the issue at all.
He's rereading the report. For the hundredth time. The words blur, the letters slide, they refuse to form coherent sentences. His thoughts are everywhere but here. His head is simultaneously loud and empty – like a radio inside that keeps switching between stations but can't settle on any of them. For someone who had always been able to cut off all extraneous thoughts for the sake of work, this was a rarity and a warning sign – one that In-ho chose to carefully ignore and pretend nothing was happening.
Three loud knocks on the door jolt In-ho away from his work-unrelated thoughts, and without even looking at the door, he knows who it is. A short pause to return from the emptiness to reality. To switch the radio back.
"Yes, come in."
The door opens almost silently. And it is, of course, his younger – albeit half – brother, Hwang Jun-ho, who is also a police officer in the homicide unit. He steps quietly, almost silently, into the office and looks at In-ho with that particular gaze: checking to see if In-ho is even there.
"I brought the reports on the closed case. You need to sign them, as usual."
His voice is even, but there's something wary in it – like a person walking on thin ice and knowing it.
"Leave them on my desk."
In-ho's voice is flat. Too flat. That's how answering machines speak, or customer service operators. Of course, Jun-ho has grown accustomed to this "emotionless" In-ho, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt just as much. The younger officer places a clean white folder with the reports on the edge of In-ho's old, dark desk. Jun-ho doesn't leave. He just stands silently by the desk, and In-ho, of course, feels that familiar intent, searching gaze.
"Something else?"
"You haven't eaten today." – In-ho freezes for a second. Something inside him lurches – not from hunger, but from being found out again. Figured out again, like an open book he'd rather slam shut. Jun-ho, as always, knows everything – even things he shouldn't (at least, in In-ho's opinion). – "Don't try to deny it, I already know everything. Coffee alone isn't food. And you've already had three cups." – Immediate statement of fact, no preamble, no question. There's not a trace of doubt in Jun-ho's voice. He doesn't even give In-ho a chance to say otherwise, cutting him off before In-ho can utter a lie. – "Please eat something, even just some rice," – the younger officer says, holding out a container of rice. In-ho only notices the semi-transparent container now – yet another ringing proof of how disconnected In-ho is from reality, that he didn't even see the container right in front of his face. Heavy silence lasts a few seconds. In-ho feels his voice becoming softer – he didn't plan it, didn't want it. But Jun-ho always knew how to throw him off balance. To break through that wall In-ho so carefully built. It's not the first time Jun-ho has done this, but it still unsettles In-ho.
"Thank you. I'll eat it later."
"You always say 'later'…" – Jun-ho doesn't move. His voice is quiet, but there's something firm in it, almost stubborn. – "And then you forget. Or it gets cold. Or you drink more coffee and don't want it anymore."
There's resentment in his voice. Small, but sincere. Not loud, not hysterical – the kind that's been building for years and now leaks out in small drops with every conversation like this.
"I'll eat it," – In-ho replies. Lying easily. – "Go do your work."
Jun-ho hesitates for a second. Looks at the container, then at In-ho, then at the container again. The younger's fingers clench into a fist – a short movement, almost invisible unless you know where to look. Then he nods and leaves, quietly closing the door behind him, apparently resigned to the circumstances.
Footsteps recede down the hallway – loud at first, then quieter, then fading completely.
In-ho is alone. He looks at the door that just closed. At the white folders, at the report, at the cold coffee in his favorite cracked mug – so old that even In-ho himself doesn't know how many years he's had it.
Everything as always.
Everything like yesterday.
And like tomorrow will be.
Silence presses down for exactly one minute.
A short knock at the door jolts him out of that thought. One. Abrupt. In-ho doesn't lift his head, and from that one small gesture alone, he knows who it is. This time, it's not Jun-ho. A few seconds later, he sees his boss appear in the doorway – Oh Il-nam. That single short knock wasn't a question, but a statement, an affirmation that he's coming in. That's Il-nam for you – asking permission isn't his style. But In-ho has made peace with it; after all, he's known Il-nam for seven whole years. Oh Il-nam appears in the doorway unhurriedly, with his usual light smile that almost never leaves his face. Almost. Sometimes it does leave – but that's rare. He enters, closes the door behind him, takes a few steps, and sits down on the chair across from In-ho without waiting for an invitation.
"Good morning, Detective Hwang! As I understand it, you've been in the office longer than I have today. Why so early?"
Even though In-ho hasn't been a detective per se for a long time and is now a lieutenant (Gyeong-wi), Il-nam still calls him detective – whether out of habit, or on principle, or because he forgets, or because he doesn't attach much importance to it. And In-ho himself doesn't really care; he has more important things to worry about.
"Hello, Mr. Oh. I just never left here. What brings you here? if there is a reason, besides seeing me so early today."
Il-nam freezes for a second – the corners of his lips drop, but immediately return to place. He's used to it. He's spent 4 years getting used to this wall that In-ho builds between them, and every time he still tries to get around it.
"Oh, always with this 'Mr. Oh.'" – Il-nam waves his hand, as if shooing away a fly. Leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest. – "Fine, I won't distract you. This is work-related."
"I'm listening."
"We're getting new personnel."
In-ho lifts his gaze. Empty. Expressing nothing. He looks straight at Il-nam, but there's no interest in that gaze, no anticipation – just emptiness.
"For us?" – In-ho asks, more mechanically than out of interest. – "From where?"
"From the Personnel Psychological Support Unit." – He pauses, watching for In-ho's reaction. There is no reaction. – "The department is launching a program – let's call it 'psycho-emotional support' for homicide unit employees. Particularly difficult cases, high burnout rates. You know the statistics we've put out this year. He's been assigned for an unspecified period for now; how long he stays depends on the circumstances. The program has already been approved. Your signature isn't required, Detective."
. . .
For a few seconds, which seemed to drag on too slowly, there was dead silence, and the only thing audible was the sound of the heater in the corner of the room. In-ho tried to think of what to say.
"His profile – criminal psychology. Recommendations – excellent. As for drawbacks, they noted stubbornness, but I think it'll serve him well here. Three years working with serial offenders in a special unit under the prosecutor's office. Then some personal circumstances. And now he's come to us. He asked for this assignment himself. And not just any unit – specifically homicide. He says he wants to help."
In-ho finally lifts his gaze. Cold. Expressionless. He has absolutely no desire to figure out someone else's motivation, to dissect a new person piece by piece, to guess why he "wants to help." In their unit, people who want to help last right up until the first dismembered body.
"And you're taking him."
This is not a question. It's a statement. Il-nam wouldn't have come just to chat.
"I'm taking him," – Il-nam nods. – "In part because he performed well at his previous positions. And because..." – He pauses for a second, watching In-ho carefully. Now his gaze becomes slightly sharper, more professional. – "Your unit needs new people. You know that."
In-ho is silent. He can't argue. He could say "I'm managing," but that would be a lie. Il-nam knows it. In-ho knows it. Everyone knows it.
"His name is Seong. Seong Gi-hun. Thirty-three years old. As of today, he's assigned to our unit. Officially – as an external consultant for behavioral analysis. Unofficially..." – Il-nam shrugs, – "the higher-ups want to see how he fits in. I've decided to put him under you. You're taking him under your wing, and that's not up for discussion. He'll arrive in an hour or two. Your job is to show him the unit and get him up to speed. Jun-ho will be assigned a new partner, so don't worry about that."
"Understood."
"Good." – Il-nam gets up from the chair across from In-ho, straightens his collar. Il-nam lingers his gaze on In-ho a little longer than usual. He's not looking as a boss – but as an elder, as someone who has seen this person in both better and worse times.
"And Hwang…" – his voice becomes very quiet, almost domestic. – "At least eat the rice. Otherwise your brother will come and complain to me later."
In-ho doesn't answer. Just barely clenches his jaw – a movement that gives him away completely, if you know how to read it. Il-nam knows.
Il-nam chuckles – short, not unkindly – and leaves. His footsteps are loud at first, then fade. The department's front door creaked. Clicked shut.
In-ho's office door closes.
He remains alone.
He looks at the closed door for a few seconds, then shifts his gaze to the edge of the desk where Jun-ho's container of rice was lying, and then to the mug of cold coffee. The ventilation hums somewhere overhead – a steady, lulling sound.
He's not against the new "psychologist." He couldn't care less. This Seong Gi-hun can follow him around and try to ask psychological questions about his feelings and pain all he wants. In-ho will survive it. He's survived worse.