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One hundred and fifty million won.
Agust sighs as he gazes at the sheet in his hands – the only document he currently possesses from his temporary job placement. A major heist at the central bank of Daegu, pulled off brazenly by someone who managed to slip away from law enforcement right from under their noses the hood of an official vehicle, in broad daylight. It's quite the spectacle for a detective specialized in homicides. However, disagreements with his temporary superiors are the last thing he wants to engage in, especially on the very next day after arriving. One hundred and fifty million won, damn it. That's how much the kid with black hair, dressed in a blue bomber jacket and jeans, managed to make off with in a sports bag. That's how the eyewitnesses described him. Captain lets out a noisy sigh. Half the population of Korea probably looks like that, yet only one dared to have the audacity to break into a secure bank and make off with a sum that would be astronomical for an average citizen.
"Hyung, did you get the documents?" A familiar, low voice interrupts his dull scrutiny for the hundredth time. Stepping into the office, Taehyung holds two paper cups of coffee – it's his day off, but he still came to the station, albeit in civilian clothes.
"If this," he says, waving the paper with the suspect's description that is trembling slightly in his hand, "is what you call documents, then yes, I got them."
"Jisung said there's very little information," Kim nods sympathetically, placing one of the pleasantly smelling espresso cups on the table and taking a sip from the other. "Is it really that bad?"
"Take a look for yourself."
After a couple of minutes of relief from the already detested piece of paper, Min reaches for the cigarettes, audibly sighing. He learned about this case only this morning and is already tired of it, both the case itself and the one who committed it, leaving almost no leads.
"Well," Taehyung stretches out the word thoughtfully, returning the description of the presumed perpetrator to the table and turning to the quietly smoking captain. "What are you going to do?"
"Tae," Agust rolls his eyes with a sense of hopelessness. "What can I do? They gave me five days, and this," he indicates the paper with disgust, "to find that bastard and the money,". "One hundred and fifty million won, damn it," he adds mentally, taking a drag. "And I know exactly nothing about him."
Even a conversation with the higher-ups, who possess information, didn't yield the expected results. On the contrary, the headache of Agust, who received new facts about the suspect, only intensified, transforming from a dull buzz in his ears into a pounding migraine. Minor robberies over the course of a few years, suddenly escalating into ruthless murder and a major bank heist – one hundred and fifty million won, damn it – and not a single clue, not the slightest hint about the person who decided to play with the law, and simultaneously, with Agust. This lawless game, with just a single player, who had managed to haul in a decent sum barely at the start, was driving him almost to outright fury.
"He killed one of the guards who stopped him at the exit. How? He had a gun, but the pathologists didn't find any bullets or gunshot residue in the body, only two puncture wounds."
"You won't believe it," Min mutters quietly, pressing the cigarette into the ashtray with excessive force. "With disposable chopsticks."
"What?" Coughing, Kim raspily speaks, setting the coffee cup stained with the hot drink in the corner of the table and shaking his hands that are smeared with the hot beverage. "And how did you figure that out?"
"He left them right in the body," Agust grimaces, recalling an unpleasant image, and empties the remains of the bitter coffee in a gulp, tossing the cup into an empty urn. "Don't get too excited," he adds, noticing enthusiasm on his partner's face. "There are no fingerprints in the database, I checked."
"Great..." Taehyung stretches out the word, rereading the description of the suspect – there's really nothing unusual about it. The guy is about 170-175 cm tall, with curly black hair, dressed in a blue windbreaker and blue jeans – you can find plenty of those on the streets of Daegu. And among them, there are probably even more who'd be willing to go after such a sum. "What do you think we should do?"
"I'll go there today," Agust sighs, running his hand tiredly over his face. "I need to interview the bank employees and the nearby diner again – maybe someone there remembered something."
Once again, he glances at the lonely sheet with the description of the suspect lying on the table and covers his eyes – his work on this case is just beginning.
***
"Damn it," the captain hisses irritably, rereading the description of the guy who walked away from the bank with a tidy sum. Even after personally questioning several people who were working at the bank that day, he didn't get a single new detail. No one could remember any distinctive features about the guy's appearance – no tattoos, no brightly colored hair, no scars. Agust quietly chuckles, touching the thin, uneven scar that crosses his right eye. In other words, nothing that could lead him to the suspect. The last hope for obtaining new information rests with the employees of the ramen shop adjacent to the bank – according to the assumptions of the police officers working on the case, it was from there that the suspect took the chopsticks he chose as a weapon.
The appearance of police personnel in the eatery doesn't seem to surprise anyone anymore – each of those present has already been interrogated more than once, so the familiar uniforms only evoke resigned sighs and eye rolls from the waitresses and chefs. Agust himself isn't thrilled to be here – anything is better than another round of questioning about the robbery and murder with no leads. However, he tries to maintain a more suitable expression for a police captain and heads towards a group of waitresses standing near the cash register.
"Good day. My name is Min Agust, and I would like to ask you a couple of questions regarding the recent incident involving the Uri Bank branch located next to your establishment," he utters the standard phrase, showing his identification card to the women staring at him and nodding towards an empty table at the far end. "I'll ask you to follow me one by one and provide the necessary statements."
Nearly an hour later, Agust is on the verge of exasperation. The staff interview, despite a considerable number of individuals questioned, hasn't yielded any new details. The answers are all the same – the familiar description of the suspect's appearance and the sequence of the criminal's actions. He entered the eatery around 11 in the morning, ordered a bowl of ramen, but instead of eating it after receiving the order, he took the bamboo chopsticks and left the restaurant. After that, none of the staff saw him. However, guessing where he went wasn't difficult – most likely, straight to the bank building. There, he first used the chopsticks he had taken from the restaurant to neutralize the guard, then seized the guard's service weapon and forcefully made the cashiers hand over the desired sum, the mere mention of which gives Agust a headache. One hundred and fifty million won, damn it.
He breathes a sigh of relief when the last of the waitresses takes a seat across from him. Lee Chaeryeong nervously smiles, stating her full name and passport details. She smooths out a crease on her dress as Min begins asking questions once again.
"Was it your shift yesterday?"
"Yes, I worked until lunch," the girl flinches as a brunette plops down at a nearby table with a noisy sigh. One of the waitresses places a plate of steaming ramen in front of him. Agust frowns, briefly surveying his silhouette out of habit, noting details – black, untidy curls cascading over his face, a shirt somewhat resembling Hawaiian attire over a white t-shirt, bracelets on his wrists. A typical Daegu resident. Min sighs quietly, looking away when a single question pops into his head: "Who twists their hand like that while picking up chopsticks?"
Realization hits him a couple of seconds later – the gesture the stranger used to pick up the utensils, awkwardly twisting his hand and firmly clamping the chopsticks together, almost perfectly matches the presumed gesture of the murderer, who had chosen Chinese chopsticks as his weapon. The captain nods absentmindedly at Cheon's answers, hastily filling out the witness interrogation protocol, occasionally throwing brief glances at the stranger. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to enjoy the hot dish – on the contrary, he's taking his time, scrutinizing the vividly crimson chopsticks and then the vegetables and steaming noodles. After an uncomfortably long while, he finally brings the chopsticks to his mouth.
Agust shakes his head, covering his eyes. The absence of any details in the case can't lead to accusing just anyone. He has to calm down, compose himself, and stop staring at the stranger who's calmly enjoying his meal. Or not so calmly. Min narrows his eyes skeptically as his professional habit of noticing details hidden from the ordinary observer and his growing frustration manifest in what he hopes are well-justified suspicions. After all, the guy's behavior is truly odd – he's glancing nervously towards the police officers by the entrance, haphazardly twirling the noodles with a hurried slurping sound, tapping the chopsticks against the rim of the porcelain bowl. And he's looking at them with such disgust, as if they're covered in blood, leaving dark-red indentations on the skin, squeezed between his fingers – as if the broth isn't a fragrant liquid, but somebody's blood, streaming down the plate in streaks.
The captain hears a noisy, resigned sigh, and he tightens his grip on the pen, beginning to count slowly to himself.
One.
The half-filled porcelain bowl, with its distinctive, melodic clinking, rings softly. Lacquered chopsticks tap rhythmically against the edges.
Two.
An old stool creaks as the brunette abruptly stands up from the wobbly table, paying no mind to the curious onlookers. He heads towards the exit, disappearing into the heat haze.
Three.
Agust quickly gathers the protocol sheets, securing their soft corners with a paperclip, and hurries over to the sergeant standing near the cash register. Out of habit, the sergeant accepts the documents thrust into his hands, his gaze following the commander who's hastily leaving the restaurant, paying no attention to his colleagues' calls. His attention is solely focused on the guy dashing out of the ramen shop.
He trails behind the stranger, keeping a prudent distance, not wanting the suspected individual to know he's being tailed by the overly vigilant captain of the Seoul Police. He glances around in surprise as the scenery turns progressively grayer and duller. Memories become brighter and more vivid in his mind. Of course. It was thoughtless of him to assume that returning to the long-forgotten city of his childhood wouldn't affect him. Even now, catching glimpses of buildings he used to know well, his heart tightens with an unpleasant, cold spasm – he used to love this neighborhood.
Min shakes his head, dismissing the unwelcome wave of nostalgia, and slows down, looking around. Lost in reminiscences, he momentarily loses sight of the suspect, who's likely vanished into one of the side streets, concealed from view. Chasing him through a place he hardly remembers would be a futile waste of time; it's wiser to return to the station and put out an alert for the guy. Maybe they can catch him on the run.
He exhales quietly in disappointment, preparing to turn back, when out of the corner of his eye, he catches a familiar silhouette hurriedly ascending a dilapidated fire escape on a corner building. His gaze fixes on the surprisingly well-remembered print of a Hawaiian shirt, snugly covering the rolling muscles of the guy's strong-looking shoulders. In the span of a fraction of a second, the silhouette disappears behind an open window.
"Fucking rock climber" Agust hisses, rolling up his coat sleeves. Looks like he's in for a bit of a chase. Hoping to find a proper entrance into what seems to be an abandoned building, he heads down the street along a house with a revoltingly faded turquoise paint, covered in cobwebs, one of the windows of which the fugitive had vanished from just moments ago.
The quiet alleyways greet him with the musty scent of dripping water from the gutters and gusts of cold wind, gently ruffling his hair. The ground floor of the long-uninhabited building isn't any friendlier, cluttered with old furniture covered in drops of water. Agust cautiously skirts around what seems to be a soft armchair, draped in crumpled plastic, and makes his way toward a dimly lit staircase leading upstairs. His hand instinctively moves towards the cold metal of his firearm concealed in an inner pocket, as footsteps echo from above – one, then another, as if the unknown person is retracing the same short route over and over, nervously pacing in small circles around the room. Agust grips the pistol's handle, pulling it from his pocket, and ascends the steps carefully, trying to minimize any noise – no need to create unnecessary commotion.
The second floor appears relatively more presentable – if for no other reason than the absence of dusty, disheveled furniture and the lack of the damp smell and patches of settled dust on the skin. Agust cautiously peers into a doorway, squinting to make out the surroundings in the dim light. The room is illuminated by a few small wall lamps, and the meager light is just enough to reveal the modest furnishings, seemingly gathered from various places. What surprises him even more is the marble-clad bathtub standing prominently in the middle of the room. Even more striking is the guy reclined in the tub, fully clothed and casually spread out among a pile of banknotes. The stranger doesn't seem to notice the uninvited guest armed with a firearm.
The captain sighs softly as he enters the room, approaching closer. The stranger, possessing all too familiar facial features, remains unaffected even by this. He shifts a wobbly wooden chair nearer, seating himself next to the filled bathtub of water and banknotes. He presses the muzzle closer to the stranger's temple. His gaze falls on the safe in the corner; stacks of bills are visible through the slightly open door, each secured by paper bands imprinted with the bank's seal. A hundred and fifty million won, damn it. Min exhales audibly, shaken by the sum. While it's undoubtedly substantial, he didn't expect to see a safe almost half-full and left open so carelessly.
The guy sprawled awkwardly in the bathtub that's oddly placed in the middle of the room, feeling a soft pressure on his temple, lets out a noisy, somewhat annoyed sigh. He opens his eyes, shifting his indifferent gaze to Agust. His dark curls cascade in soft waves, gently touching the cold metal of the firearm. He slowly traces Min's face with the barrel. Min responds to the silence with silence, confidently pressing the gun's barrel to the stranger's temple. The robber merely raises an eyebrow with nonchalance, lazily closing his eyes again and tilting his head back, supported by the damp rim, forming tiny droplets. The suffocating silence starts to get tiresome after a few minutes of complete disregard from the thief. Agust sighs and, with a quick motion, prods him in the temple, holstering the pistol back into his coat pocket. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lighting up. The bitter smoke stings his throat. Min exhales softly, releasing a cloud of vapor from his mouth that gently dissolves into the stuffy air. He leans back in the creaking chair, openly intrigued, observing the features that used to be so familiar.
"Just tell me one thing," he rumbles, drawing another drag of interest from the dimly glistening pupils. "What the hell do you need so much for, Yoongi?"
His younger brother doesn't say anything. He scans Agust's face with a scrutinizing look, as if looking into a twisted mirror reflecting his own features. He hasn't seen Agust in so long that he can hardly remember the warmth he used to feel when those fox-like eyes and once-round childish cheeks used to elicit simple, easier emotions in him. Yoongi reaches for Agust's face, pinching the tip of the cigarette, cautiously removing it from the twin's mouth, much to Agust's surprise. He brings it to his own lips and takes a deep drag, feeling the acrid smoke mix with the lingering touches left by a foreign presence on the filter.
"And what do you think?" he rasps out along with a thick plume of white smoke, wrinkling his nose in discontent. Agust's cigarettes are much pricier and stronger, carrying a hint of luxury in their venomous taste, a far cry from the cheap rolls made from thin, easily tearing paper, stained with cheap lip-staining dye and low-quality, stale nicotine, each drag tainted by an unpleasant, acidic harshness that scorches the mouth. "Why would I need money when I've been fired from both my jobs and they're threatening to kick me out of university for unpaid tuition?"
His voice grows into a furious hiss as he shifts his gaze back to the silently observing captain, who remains unresponsive. The silent policeman only sighs, extending his hand for the smoke, which gets interrupted by an unexpected, sharp movement. Yoongi pinches the cigarette between his fingers, lightly flicking it into flight – straight toward the stack of unmoving banknotes in the corner, under the frozen flame in his twin's eyes, struggling against the urge to draw his gun once again and yet, also resisting to put a couple of bullets into the thief's temple. The cigarette lands with a soft slap nearly a meter from the safe.
Agust exhales quietly, allowing himself to relax his shoulders for a couple of seconds as the thin ember almost extinguishes upon hitting the cold concrete, cascading into a shower of tiny sparks. Rising almost soundlessly from under the black flame in the stranger's gaze, he approaches the smoldering stub, lightly pressing it with the tip of his shoe, producing a muted sound. An inevitable tired sigh escapes him. It slips from his half-open lips, dissolving into the existing silence. As Agust closes the softly creaking safe door, he irritably rubs his nose. Just a few minutes of interaction, barely passing for a "conversation," with his younger brother had thoroughly rattled him, further disrupting the already tense situation. He takes a step, then another, gradually approaching his silently observing brother. The strangely gentle touch surprises Yoongi, in contrast to the overly composed demeanor, a soft touch gliding over the top of his head.
However, Min doesn't have time to be surprised by either the stranger's calm demeanor or the unexpected gallantry that just a minute ago had Agust ready to tear his head off. The grip on his hair tightens instantly, and a strong motion confidently presses him into the cool water's surface, with soaked banknotes floating on it.
Instinctively, he inhales, shocked by such an action. The bitter water floods into his nose, unpleasantly scalding his sensitive skin, and panic wells up, knocking him off balance. He's hit by a wave of cold water and panic simultaneously, obscuring his vision, and fully concealing his torso, wrapped in the wet, unpleasantly clinging floral fabric, and his crown, where thin fingers grip with excessive force in a successful attempt to hold his head underwater. A couple of hellishly long seconds for Yoongi pass before the pressure that kept him submerged vanishes as suddenly as it appeared. Breaking the surface, he takes a deep breath, attempting to restore his breathing. Water, which invaded his eyes and ears, trickles down his cheeks and neck with an unpleasant burning sensation, causing pain no less than the firm grip on the nape of his neck. It seems that the genuinely angered Agust isn't shy about inflicting pain, going against all moral and professional norms.
"What the fuck... — he raspily chokes out, his fingers clenching the slippery edges of the bathtub until they turn pale – the captain, absorbed in twirling the wet locks at his nape, doesn't react to the profanity. — ...do you think of yourself?".
"Clearly less than you think of yourself", Agust scoffs contemptuously, gripping his hair. There's no need for Yoongi to hold back his movements now; he's much more concerned with trying to get rid of the excess water that got into his nose and mouth than with the twin sitting beside him. However, he can't and doesn't want to deny himself the pleasure of causing as much pain as possible. "Yoongi, I will indeed put you behind bars," he huskily whispers, sharply pulling the stranger's face closer to his, peering intently into the eyes that look exactly like his own – even the fiery blaze uncontrollably ignited within the pupils looks identical.
"Really?" the other taunts, a sly grin curling his lips. He grabs the perfectly fitted collar of Agust's uniform shirt with his long, nimble fingers, trailing his gaze over the features that deviate from the ones he observes in the mirror, the only irregularity being a slightly uneven old scar that he neither knows nor wants to know the history of – why should he care about who marred his twin's face in the past, which never was and never will be their shared history? "Do you really want to put your little brother behind bars?" he whispers insinuatingly, squeezing the soft fabric tighter. He takes pleasure in noticing how Agust flinches and leans backward, dragging his clinging brother's clothing along with him. "Mom will be so disappointed in you," he continues to whisper, lips pursed in sympathy, not bothering to hide his blatant mockery, the venom dripping from his hoarse voice. Yoongi smirks – he knows his twin's weak points perfectly well, and he remembers them even better, the ones that emerged when they were still young kids. He doesn't hesitate to push those buttons. Agust has always been more attached to their mother than he was. Perhaps that's why after her divorce from their occasionally inebriated father, who drowns himself in his own alcohol for days at a time, he's the one who ended up with her in court, while the younger one was handed over to a man who miraculously, or perhaps with the help of substantial bribes, managed to convince the court of his ability to raise and provide for the child. Perhaps that's why now, when mentioning the only person important to him, Agust, for the first time since their meeting, falters, letting the flames in his eyes momentarily subside, and Yoongi sees in the police captain not just an older brother but someone who's spent twenty years separated from him. Someone who held a mixture of incomprehension, hatred, and dull longing for all those years. He expected, and truth be told, desired such a reaction from his twin. However, what he didn't expect and couldn't predict despite his desire was the firm fist that swung straight into his round nose. He lets out a low moan of pain when the back of his head hits the bathtub's rim, immediately yielding an uncomfortable sensation, and his already sensitive nose is pierced by a sharp pain that brings tears to his eyes. A few hot droplets fall on his lips, imparting a metallic taste, and onto foreign fingers, contrasting with their pale skin. Agust indifferently gazes at the red spots on his hand for a couple of seconds, then he lowers it into the water, observing the blood spreading through it in pale streaks.
Yoongi quietly wheezes as he presses his broken nose with cold, damp fingers, glancing sideways at his twin, who reclines on the backrest of the wobbly chair – he meets his gaze with silence, impassively observing his futile attempts to stop the bleeding. The captain's gaze sweeps over blood-stained hands, shirt collar, pale bruises under the eyes, a couple of minor cuts, and faded thin scars on the cheek. He traces the thin trail of blood that made its way to his dry, chapped lips and, with a nonchalant chuckle, reaches for the waterlogged banknotes floating on the surface, delicately picking up a few with his slender fingers. The cutoff notes made of a soft blend of paper and cotton make a wet, sloshing sound when the captain clenches them, causing the water to uncomfortably run down his fingers, leaving damp trails.
"Dry yourself off," he snorts disdainfully, thrusting the wet wad of bills into the bloodied face of his twin, eliciting a dissatisfied groan and a string of curses that spill from the stranger's mouth as the papers collide with his battered nose. Yoongi doesn't hold back on profanities, expressing everything he thinks about his twin, about himself, and his "fucking concern." However, he presses the notes against his face, feeling the pleasant coolness dull the burning pain that's spreading across his face.
The captain rolls his eyes, silently observing his younger brother. The sound of blood pulsating in his ears rhythmically drowns out the noise of his thoughts, which are a mixture of the sitting twin, his waiting mother back in Seoul, stolen money, and an indecently short timeframe allotted to him for its recovery.
"You have two options," he starts unexpectedly after contemplating for a couple of seconds, letting out a tired sigh. "Either you confess that you stole the damn money from the bank, and I'll do everything in my power to reduce your sentence, or you don't confess, and then I'm going to put you away for a very, very long time. Think about it."
Yoongi raises an astonished eyebrow upon hearing his twin's condition. He clutches the damp notes tighter against his bleeding nose and lets out an unconstrained, muffled chuckle.
"They don't give much for theft."
"They do give a lot for murder," Agust counters easily, pulling a lighter and a cigarette out of his trouser pocket. Finally, he notices the long-awaited emotion in his brother's eyes. Fear. "You killed a person, Yoongi," he explains softly, as if to a little child, lighting his cigarette. "And no matter how hard you try, you won't escape from that."
The younger one remains silent, trying not to betray the rising sensation of panic. He had easily overlooked the severity of his crime in the face of Agust's words, which now seems to be much more serious than robbing a bank vault of stacks of fresh banknotes. Something he hadn't counted on at all when he entered the bank without any weapons, armed only with an imprecise plan and a desire to take out a sum that would help him survive a little longer. Something that the order-loving Agust, who so fervently sought to maintain an illusion of order, could easily exploit for his own purposes, justified by his duty and contradicting his own choices, formed by a far from ideal life.
The captain smirks briefly – it seems the surprisingly effective amateur thief in the form of his younger brother had overlooked a small detail in his plan. The corpse of a bank guard, killed by his own hands. Seeing a pale shadow of fear on his twin's face – even if it's not directed at him, but rather at his own mistake that inadvertently offered Agust invaluable assistance – is satisfying and somewhat amusing. He reaches for his phone, dialing the number he's memorized during his short time in Daegu.
"Taehyung?" Agust starts quietly, not taking his probing gaze off his brother. "I need a squad and an arrest warrant."
The conversation with the surprised Kim, who promptly fulfilled the stranger's request, takes only a couple of minutes – during this time, Yoongi confidently maintains eye contact, seemingly forgetting about the almost ceased dripping of blood from his injured nose. Agust hides his phone, running his hand through his hair in an attempt to shake off the phantom sensation of awkwardness that had spread like a cool cobweb from his scalp down his neck and shoulders, entwining them with delicate threads of unspoken words that had accumulated over the years of separation and were recklessly exchanged between them during their unexpected and less-than-pleasant reunion.
Fortunately, the police squad led by Kim, who is determined to find out why his friend needed a whole squad, doesn't take much time to reach the location provided by Min – Yoongi, who until then had been staring relentlessly at his twin, lazily closes his eyes when the sound of a siren approaching the building fills the air from the open window. Meanwhile, Agust, who extinguishes his cigarette against the edge of the bathtub, says nothing as he stands up, leaving the room. Law enforcement officers, acting on Agust's tip, invade the room, handcuff him, and haul his limp, thoroughly soaked body out – first from the bathtub that was once covered in bills, now turned into evidence, and then from the frail, dilapidated structure that once served as a shelter for a penniless student.
Agust doesn't respond to Taehyung's inquiries when they lead his younger brother, whose expression at the moment is indistinguishable from his own – wet, blood-splattered, and in handcuffs – out of the building. Their eyes meet for just a moment – the captain flinches subtly, barely perceptibly, when that pitiful second manages to mercilessly drown him in his brother's apathetic, faded pupils, and he sharply turns away, knowing full well that Yoongi, who briefly scans his figure with his eyes, does the same, helplessly clenching his fists. He offers a sad smirk, not listening to the low bass voice of Kim persistently questioning him, tucking his hand back into his pocket to find a cigarette. He burns away tangible, and therefore even sadder thoughts along with paper and nicotine, the smoke wafting into the distance behind the irrevocably departing figure, now appearing in the distant past, a former part of his family. A family now irreparably shattered due to stacks of banknotes, carefully packed by the police into separate bags as evidence against the person who invariably resembled him not only in appearance.
One hundred fifty million won, damn it.