Chapter Text
The rain in Yangcheon, Seoul didn’t fall, it leaked. It found every crack, every crease, every failure the city had stopped noticing. It seeped through ceilings that had forgotten what paint felt like, and slid in long beads down rusty fire escapes until the whole block smelled of damp steel and mold.
Inside Park Jimin’s office, it crept through the hairline fracture in the window, leaving the sill perpetually damp, a bruise of water no towel could ever quite dry. He had learned to live with it, just as he had learned to live with the flicker of the overhead light and the hum of the radiator that never did more than growl at the cold.
The sign on his frosted door read ‘J.P. Investigations’ in flaking vinyl, the corners curling away as though the letters themselves were tired of holding on.
Nobody who came here asked for the governor’s son. Nobody used his last name with the weight it once carried. They came because they couldn’t afford the polished agencies uptown, or because they needed someone who wouldn’t write a report in triplicate. His cases were the forgotten ones — a runaway aunt who wasn’t really missing, just hiding, a lost dog hiding out a few blocks over, cheating spouses captured through cracked glass and bad diner light.
It wasn’t a career. It was survival.
The omega sat behind his desk, the wood scarred with the cigarette burns of tenants before him, leaning over a spread of photographs he’d taken that morning. A cheating husband, reflected in a diner window, his hand cupping the waitress’s waist as though his wife’s ring meant nothing. The shot was poorly lit, grainy. Jimin needed better lenses, better equipment, a better life. Instead, he had Yangcheon, a stack of bills under a chipped coffee mug, and the taste of old metal at the back of his throat that never seemed to fade.
He had forgotten the candle burning on the edge of his desk until it guttered, melted wax crumbling into the dish beneath. He reached to pinch it out when the buzzer rasped.
The sound jolted him more than it should have. He glanced at the clock. Too late for clients. Too late for anything but trouble.
“Office’s closed,” he called, but he was already reaching for the door. Old habit.
When he pulled it open, Lieutenant Kim Namjoon filled the frame like a bad memory.
The older alpha’s coat was expensive, wool beaded with rain, and years within the police department had threaded a few strands of his hair with silver, but his eyes hadn’t changed. Slate. Slick and unreadable.
“Park Jimin,” he said, as though testing the name on his tongue. Then, with a rasp of reluctant familiarity, “You look like hell.”
Jimin leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “You must be desperate, Lieutenant. You climbed all the way down to Yangcheon.”
Namjoon’s mouth tugged into the ghost of a smile. “You’re not wrong.”
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The room seemed to shrink around the weight of rain on wool. His eyes swept the office — the single chair meant for clients, the overstuffed filing cabinet whose bottom drawer stuck when the weather turned, the cracked mug of coffee cooling on the desk, Jimin’s scent of lilies wafting through the space. His gaze caught, briefly, on the scar slashing through the omega’s left brow, on his messy hair that had grown long enough to be tucked behind his ears. He didn’t comment. He didn’t need to.
“What do you want, Namjoon?”
“The department wants you,” he said.
The omega laughed, sharp and brittle. “The department stripped my badge, fed me to the wolves, and wrote me off. Forgive me if I don’t leap at the chance for a reunion.” Namjoon winced. It wasn’t theatrical. It was real. But it was also useless.
“There’s a case.”
“There’s always a case.”
“This one has claws.”
Jimin tilted his head, wary.
“It’s happening again, Park. Four omegas in eight weeks,” he said quietly. “Gone. No ransom notes. No chatter on the street. No bodies. Last night, we found a van from the third abduction. Scrubbed clean. Except for one thing.”
He reached into his coat, pulled out an evidence sleeve, and slid it across his desk.
Inside was a photo. The inside wall of a van, metal bleached and wiped until it gleamed unnaturally. Yet someone had dusted with such precision that it exposed what ordinary cleaning had missed, faint, obsessive lines, drawn by fingertip or nail. A curve. A signature not written but carved in restless memory.
Jimin’s leather boots clicked against the cold wood. He didn’t remember moving, only the sudden ice of air in his lungs and the thunder of his pulse.
“Where the hell did you get this?”
Namjoon studied his face. “We were hoping you’d tell us.”
Jimin did not need to. He knew. The symbol wasn’t just a symbol. It was a ritual. An illicit shape a monster had traced against his skin once, breathing in his ear. It’s happening again. The room tilted.
The omega was hunched over the photograph, hands braced against the desk as bile threatened to climb his throat. The panic he had bolted in the basement of his soul three years ago clawed at the door.
The serial abduction case that ruined his life three years ago had finally risen from its grave.
“Yoon Heokjae,” Jimin said, each syllable steady, as though steadiness were armor. “The senator’s son.”
Namjoon’s eyes didn’t flicker, not at the name. “You can’t just throw that name out there like this. We can’t prove it.”
“You won’t,” he said flatly.
“We couldn’t, last time,” Namjoon said. The words came out raw, unpolished, and though he meant to be gentle, they landed like knives.
Last time.
The phrase hollowed the room. Namjoon still didn’t believe him. Last time the media had shredded the omega. Last time ‘consensual’ had spread like rot. Last time his father had stood behind a podium with Senator Yoon, the cameras flashing, his voice steady as he promised his son would be disowned for the dishonor he had brought to the Park name. In return, Yoon had agreed to not press charges against the omega, only to save what little dignity was left with Governor Park.
“Get out,” Jimin whispered.
Namjoon lifted his hands. “Park — Jimin — listen to me. No bodies suggest a trafficking racket. The Chief wants you in. Consultant status. Temporary reinstatement. Big paycheck. Partnered to the lead investigator.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t fall into the gutter, Namjoon. I was pushed.”
He could say nothing. His mouth thinned. “The families need you. It doesn’t matter what you think of us, but at least think of them.”
Jimin stared down at the photograph until the lines blurred, until his own reflection warped in the plastic sleeve. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to Namjoon, but to the ghost of an omega who had lain on a cold floor three years ago, staring at the ceiling, trying not to drown in silence.
“Who’s the lead?”
“Jeon,” Namjoon said.
His stomach twisted. “Of course,” he murmured. “Jeon Jeongguk.”
A rising star. Hard-chiseled jaw, eyes like midnight. The alpha had watched Jimin fall like a man who believed gravity was justice. In the hallway after Jimin’s badge had been taken, he hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t needed to. He’d believed the headlines and his silence had been a verdict.
“Tell the Chief I’ll be at the precinct at nine,” the omega said. “If I’m doing this, I’m doing this for those omegas, and I’m doing it my way.”
Namjoon blew out a relieved breath. “Good,” he said, and then paused. “You ever sleep, Park?”
“Not without a light,” he said, and didn’t watch him go.
When the door shut, Jimin pressed his fingers to the edge of the photograph in the sleeve. The plastic whined faintly. “If you’re back,” he whispered to a man who had never left his head, “so am I.”
Outside, Yangcheon continued to leak. Jimin packed his camera, his pocket knife, the old badge he owned before being promoted as the detective sergeant, that he had kept in a drawer, still polished. He hadn’t worn one in three years, but he folded it into his wallet like a sacrament.
When he turned off the light, the room kept its shadows.
.
.
.
The precinct station had never been beautiful, but once, long ago, it had been his.
Jimin stepped through the glass doors with his chin up and his heart caged behind bone. The smell hit first, burnt coffee, bleach, and the faint musk of too many bodies carrying too much stress. The air buzzed with phones, the static of radios, the shuffle of uniforms.
Conversations faltered as he passed the front desk. A young officer’s voice died mid-report. Paperwork stilled under pens. Heads turned, one by one, grazing his back like cold knives. The silence wasn’t loud — it was worse. It was the silence of recognition. Of memory. Of judgment people thought they were too professional to voice.
The omega walked straighter, as though his spine could cut through it. His boots clicked sharp against the tiles, each step deliberate. He would not give them the falter they wanted.
The whiteboard loomed across the bullpen: a scatter of photos, string, maps, names written in red. Four young omegas — one girl and three boys, stared down at him from glossy sheets, their smiles frozen in time. The chaos of the board screamed panic, desperation, a department trying to pretend it was in control. And then there was him.
Jeon Jeongguk stood in the fluorescent burn of the far corner, sleeves shoved to his elbows, the kind of posture that said he lived here more than at home. He had the look the cameras loved — square jaw, lean muscle, tie hanging loose like he hadn’t been bothered to finish the day properly. His hair was a bit too long at the back, curling just enough, but his eyes were steel.
When those eyes lifted and found his, his jaw locked like a door slamming shut.
“Park,” he said, the word scraped thin. Jimin didn’t let his voice waver. “Detective.”
His hands stayed loose at his sides, though every nerve screamed to clench. He would not let the alpha see his shiver.
Namjoon had beaten him there in that moment. He hovered just long enough to say, “Play nice,” his grin wolfish. He wanted a show. He always had. Then he drifted off, leaving them with the tension like he’d locked two predators in a cage.
Jeongguk stepped closer. Close enough for Jimin to see the faint line of a scar under his cheekbone, close enough to smell sandalwood. His presence filled the space like a shadow.
“You’re here to consult,” he said flatly. Jimin arched a brow. “So your board says. Four omegas. Eight weeks. No bodies.”
“No evidence,” he corrected, then paused. “No admissible evidence.” His gaze cut to the plastic sleeve in Jimin’s hand. “Except that. The Chief wants your read on it. I want your promise you won’t turn this into another circus.”
The omega’s laugh was quick, ugly, a sound like broken glass. “You think I brought the circus?”
He leaned in, voice low. “I was the act.”
Something flickered in Jeongguk’s eyes, quick, almost human. But he smothered it. “Spare me,” he said quietly, like knife under velvet.
“We both know what happened three years ago.” Jimin’s chin tilted. “Do we?”
The words hung between them. Jeongguk’s silence was worse than an accusation — it was a verdict he’d already written.
He turned to the board, forcing the case between them like a wall. His voice was clipped, controlled, as he walked him through the timeline.
The first victim, taken from a parking garage after the late shift.
The second, daylight abduction at a bus stop.
The third, gone after a shift at a home goods store, the van recovered just last night.
The fourth, vanished into silence, his roommate coming home to a warm cup of tea and a dead phone.
He pointed to pins on the map, lines radiating outward like veins under skin. The city pulsed with it — routes, patterns, ghosts.
Jimin listened, the pounding in his chest slowing into something sharper, harder. Focus.
Jeongguk’s hand brushed the board as he leaned in to trace a path. Wide hand, veins running up to his knuckles, the kind of hand that had broken things once and maybe learned how to be gentle after. Jimin hated that he noticed. Hated that it made him human. When he was finished, his eyes came back to the omega. “Well?”
Jimin stepped closer to the van photo. The sigil glimmered faintly under forensic powder. It wasn’t paint, wasn’t marker. It was the kind of thing a man drew with the pad of his finger, slick with someone else’s fear. He let the old terror hum through his veins, just enough to sharpen the edges, then spoke.
“He’s escalating in risk,” he said evenly. “But not in sloppiness. That means confidence. He knows he can walk through your nets. He’s either certain you can’t touch him—or certain you won’t believe what you find.”
Jeongguk’s mouth twitched. “You talk like you already know who it is.” Jimin turned his head and pinned him with his gaze. “I do.” A beat stretched taut between them.
“Right,” he said at last, almost gentle, but a blade beneath.
“Because you were willing to do anything to marry into the Yoon family, and when that didn’t work out, you decided revenge.” The air thinned. The omega’s stomach hollowed. Another bruise bloomed inside his chest. His fingers curled until his nails bit his palm.
“Say that again,” he said softly.
Jeongguk didn’t blink. “Everyone remembers the footage. The photos.”
Jimin’s voice cut through the space like blade. “Everyone remembers what they were told to see.”
He stepped into Jeongguk’s space before he could think better of it. The air snapped between them like live wire. The alpha didn’t move. Neither did he. Too close. Too dangerous.
“You want a circus, Detective?” Jimin whispered. “Keep poking. Or do you want to find those omegas?”
For a fraction of a second, doubt flickered across Jeongguk’s face. Real, human, almost breaking through. Then it was gone, smothered under habit.
“Fine,” he said roughly. “We work. We keep it professional.”
Jimin smiled without warmth. “I’ve always been a professional.”
.
.
.
They took the case file to the interview room. Dim light, no prying eyes unless someone wanted to make it obvious.
Jeongguk threw him a look like he expected him to fail. Jimin ignored it. He asked for the raw parking garage footage and pulled the laptop closer. Onscreen, a blur of motion. Jimin slowed it again. And again. Frame by frame, until the ghost appeared — a man in a black cap, moving like he belonged to the dark. A quick flash on a pillar, chalk lines. The sigil. Gone again in the next frame.
“Back,” he ordered.
Jeon obeyed.
“Again.”
He did.
Jimin leaned in, close enough his shoulder brushed against Jeongguk’s. The shock of contact was instant, electric. Jimin’s muted scent of lilies tickled his nose. He didn’t move away. But Jimin felt the fraction of a second where he stopped breathing, and the absence of it was like a change in weather.
“Did your techs check for residue in the concrete?” the omega asked.
“They did,” Jeon said, his voice tighter now. “Nothing.”
“Because they looked for paint,” Jimin murmured. “He didn’t use paint. He used oil. Something light, cosmetic. A cuticle oil. Absorbs, vanishes. Ordinary solvents wash it away. But under low-band ultraviolet? It ghosts.”
Jeongguk stared at his profile — thick lashes throwing shadows across the omega’s cheek. His voice was quiet, unreadable. “That’s oddly specific.”
Jimin’s eyes flicked to his. They were closer than enemies wanted to be, and further than partners should be.
Something Jeongguk couldn’t name shone behind those droopy eyes, and something in the alpha’s jaw shifted, his silence suddenly heavy. He didn’t flinch, but the air thickened. “I’ll have the lab rerun it,” he said finally. He straightened, stepping back. The room seemed to exhale with him. The armor of glass slid back into place.
“Stakeout tonight,” he said briskly. “Pier 27. He’s using river routes. I want eyes on it.” Jimin folded his arms. “Then you’ll want me.”
His mouth hardened. “You’ll ride with me. You carry only with my say-so. You don’t go off-leash because you think you know this man better than the department.”
Jimin’s gaze was cold steel. “I do know him better than the department. But I’ll ride with you.”
Jeongguk was already halfway out the door. Over his shoulder, without turning, “Wear something warm. It gets cold by the water.”
The omega’s laugh was low, humorless. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I learned how to freeze a long time ago.”
.
.
.
At his temporary desk, a barren corner shoved near the records cabinet, Jimin pulled out his notebook.
He tried to focus on the case details Namjoon had given him — victim timelines, CCTV grids, neighborhood maps. But the murmur of voices in the bullpen kept bleeding into his ears.
“…Senator’s son, you remember? He was all over him. Classic Jimin, thought he could climb higher…”
“…if his daddy hadn’t cut him loose, he’d be in prison…”
“…bet Jeon won’t last a week with him around…”
His pen dug into the paper hard enough to tear it.
“Having trouble focusing?” Jeongguk’s voice cut through the noise. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, looking down at him like he was dirt under his boots.
“Not at all,” Jimin said, without glancing up. “Some of us know how to work under pressure.”
“Pressure?” He gave a humorless laugh. “That’s what you call it when the world figures out what you are?” The omega’s hand froze on the paper. Slowly, he raised his eyes to Jeongguk’s.
“You don’t know a damn thing about what I am.”
The alpha’s gaze hardened. “I know enough.” They stared at each other, the bullpen noise fading into a dull hum. Something heavy coiled in the air—hatred, yes, but tangled with something more dangerous. Jeongguk broke it first. He straightened, pushing off his desk.
“Pier 27. Midnight. Don’t be late.” He turned and walked away.