Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights hum like they’re tired too. It’s just past nine when Geum Seongje steps through the glass doors of a half-empty convenience store, shoulders stiff from a fourteen-hour shift. He still smells faintly of stale coffee and sweat beneath the sharp tang of rain outside.
He drags a hand through his hair, scanning the aisles. It’s habit more than anything—his eyes flick automatically to the corners, the convex mirror near the ceiling, the clerk behind the counter, the one other customer leaning against the instant-noodle shelf scrolling on his phone. He’s off duty, but his mind doesn’t have an off switch.
He grabs a triangle kimbap and a six-pack of beer, lingering in front of the cooler doors a moment longer than necessary, letting the cold air hit his face.
“Rough night?” the clerk asks when he finally sets his things down at the counter.
Seongje smirks, voice low. “You could say that.”
The register beeps. He fishes for his wallet.
Then the door slams open behind him.
A man stumbles in, face half-covered by a hoodie, a knife glinting in his shaking hand. “Hands up!” he yells, voice cracking halfway through. The phone-scrolling customer drops his snack and freezes, while the clerk’s hands shoot up immediately.
Seongje doesn’t move, just heaves a long-suffering sigh before slowly turning around. “Really?” he mutters.
The robber jerks the knife toward him. “You too! Hands up!”
Seongje raises one hand, eyes heavy-lidded, tone mild. “Couldn’t you have waited five minutes? I was almost done.”
Something in the way he says it makes the man hesitate. There’s no fear in Seongje’s eyes—just irritation, with a faint spark that looks dangerously close to anger.
When the man steps closer, Seongje moves.
It’s fast and ugly: his hand catches the robber’s wrist, twists hard enough for the knife to clatter to the floor, then drives a knee into his stomach. The man folds, gasping. Seongje’s elbow follows, precise and cruel. He grabs the back of the hoodie and slams the guy face-first into the counter.
The clerk yelps. The customer bolts for the door.
But the robber isn’t done. Desperate, he grabs the closest thing he can—someone who’s just walked in behind him, a teenager with a backpack slung over one shoulder. The knife, knocked aside, is suddenly in his hand again, trembling at the boy’s throat.
“Back off! I’ll—I’ll do it!” the man shouts, voice high and shaking.
Seongje straightens, breathing slow. His gaze flicks to the kid—wide-eyed, frozen, one hand still gripping his backpack strap. For a moment, Seongje looks like he’s calculating odds. Then his mouth curves into a small, almost cheerful smile.
“Don’t think you will,” he says softly.
The robber tightens his grip, causing the boy to wince.
Seongje’s grin widens. “Because if you do, I’ll break every finger you’ve got before the knife hits the ground.”
Something in his voice—calm, certain, a little too eager—makes the man flinch.
That half-second is enough.
Seongje steps forward, kicks the robber’s wrist, catches the blade mid-drop, and drives his shoulder into him. They crash against the candy rack; metal rattles, chocolate bars scatter, and the knife skids harmlessly across the floor.
The robber’s face hits the tile again, but this time, he stays down.
Seongje exhales through his nose, crouches, and cuffs the man’s hands behind his back using a spare pair he always keeps in his jacket pocket. The kid stands there shaking, all the color drained from his face.
“Hey,” Seongje says, glancing up at him. “You hurt?”
The boy shakes his head.
“Good.” Seongje’s tone softens for a beat. Then he straightens, wipes a smear of blood off his sleeve with his thumb, and smirks. “Guess I can skip my workout tonight.”
Outside, sirens start to wail—the clerk must’ve hit the panic button.
Seongje sighs again, more amused than tired this time, and mutters, “Always when I’m off duty.”
The wail of sirens grows louder, flashing red and blue through the store windows. A minute later, the first patrol car skids to a stop out front.
Seongje stands near the counter, arms crossed, watching two uniformed officers rush in. They freeze as they take in the scene, then one of them points at the subdued robber sprawled on the floor.
“Detective Geum?” the younger officer asks, recognition flickering across his face.
“Yeah.” Seongje jerks his chin toward the man on the ground. “He’s all yours. Knife’s under the candy rack.”
The officers move quickly, hauling the robber upright. The guy groans, his nose bleeding, muttering something that dies under Seongje’s flat stare.
Another patrol car pulls up, and the store fills with the sounds of radios crackling, shoes squeaking against the linoleum, someone taking the clerk’s statement in low, practiced tones. The adrenaline has already started to drain from the room.
The kid—the hostage—still stands where Seongje left him, pale and silent. Seongje waves him over and nods toward one of the officers. “They’ll need your statement, kid. You good to talk?”
The boy hesitates, then nods.
“Name?” Seongje asks, reaching for his notepad out of habit even though this isn’t his case.
“Seo Jaemin.”
Something about it catches faintly in Seongje’s mind, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He just jots it down and gives the boy a once-over. “Alright, Jaemin. I know it was scary, but you did good. How you feeling? Still a little scared?”
The boy’s mouth twitches. “A little.”
“Good. Means your instincts work.” He gives a small, approving nod, tone dry. “Get checked out before you go home. Officer Kim here will get the rest of your statement and call your parents to come pick you up.”
Jaemin mutters a quiet “thank you,” voice trembling, and lets the officer lead him aside.
Seongje turns back to finish his statement, leaning one hip against the counter as he recounts the scene to another patrol officer. His words are clipped and efficient, the delivery effortless—he’s done this too many times.
Outside, rain begins pouring down again, pattering against the glass doors.
It’s another fifteen minutes or so before someone bursts in—a man in his early forties, still in work clothes, hands stained with oil, breath coming hard like he’s been running. He scans the chaos, voice breaking when he spots the kid.
“Jaemin!”
The boy’s head jerks up. “Dad!”
He runs to him, and the man wraps him in a hug, then pulls him back and checks him over like he can’t believe he’s real. “Oh God, oh God… Are you hurt? Let me see—”
“I’m fine, Dad. Really. It’s okay.”
The man exhales shakily, hands still gripping his son’s shoulders. His voice is rough with relief when he mutters, “Jesus, you scared me half to death. When I got that call…”
Seongje glances over, half-listening, arms folded as the officers zip up the evidence bag with the knife inside. The sound of the father’s voice draws his eyes again—something familiar about the tone, the slope of the shoulders, the way the man’s hand trembles as he tries to compose himself.
Then the man looks up.
His gaze sweeps the store—and freezes on Seongje.
He blinks once, as if his brain needs time to catch up with what he’s seeing.
“Geum Seongje?” he blurts, disbelief cutting through the noise.
Seongje turns to face him fully, confusion creasing his brow. He studies the man more carefully, eyes narrowing as old memories start slotting into place.
Then he exhales a quiet, surprised laugh. “...Eunjang?”
Juntae just stares at him, like he’s seeing a ghost.
Beside him, Jaemin looks between the two, baffled. “Dad? You know him? He’s the guy who took down the robber.”
The words hang there, sharp and strange in the fluorescent light.
Seongje finishes the last line of his statement and hands the clipboard back to the patrol officer without breaking eye contact. Then he strolls over, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth.
“Well,” he says, looking Juntae up and down, “I’ll be damned. Fancy seeing you here.”
Juntae doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Seongje—the same face, older now but unmistakable—and swallows hard.
“Yeah,” he manages finally, voice unsteady. “What are the odds?”