Chapter Text
The corridors of the police station were completely silent, except for the constant sound of keys under his fingers and the low murmur among some officers.
Yunho had been alone at his desk since early that morning, sitting in an uncomfortable office chair, surrounded by endless papers and documents that he had to review before noon or his boss would reprimand him later.
A yawn escaped his lips involuntarily.
"Tired already? It's only 6:40."
The bitter aroma of freshly brewed coffee reached his nostrils, accompanied by a hoarse voice. A quick glance out of the corner of his eye was enough to see Jongho's slender figure; his reddish hair, flaming in the morning sun, made him so recognisable even from the side.
"You know I hate office work. Reviewing papers is not my thing," he replied, looking away from the monitor to take the cup of coffee Jongho was offering him.
"I know, but you should have thought about that before jumping like a lunatic from the second floor.”
"In my defence, it was the adrenaline of the moment. We had been looking for that bastard for eleven months. I couldn't let him get away, especially not under my command.”
Exactly one month ago, during an undercover mission, his prime suspect, accused of committing a series of murders, tried to escape after discovering that a police officer had successfully infiltrated his gang and gathered enough evidence to bring him to justice.
In a desperate attempt to flee, a dangerous chase ensued. Seeing that his suspect was about to escape for good, Jeong Yunho had no better idea than to jump from the height of the building where he was operating to try to catch him.
"And look how that turned out," he reminded him, pointing his index finger at the cast wrapped around Yunho's right leg. "Your leg is broken and the suspect is still at large."
Yunho looked down at his own leg, almost out of habit. A grimace of displeasure formed on his lips; the opaque white of the cast remained intact, unchanged, just like the first day he was sentenced to spend his recovery trapped in an office. Far from the field and, above all, far from the operations and missions where his body and mind became one, executing every order without margin for error and courageously leading the men who trusted him blindly.
But on his last mission... he had failed in an absurdly stupid and unacceptable way.
Frustration burned in his chest with the violence of a flame that refused to be extinguished. He had tried to stifle it over the last few weeks, but it was still alive, reminding him of the weight of his mistakes.
"As soon as I leave this office, I swear on my life that I'll put him behind bars myself," he muttered, taking a quick sip of coffee and enjoying the warmth that descended down his throat, barely calming the anxiety that tightened his chest.
"Good luck with that, superhero," Jongho replied, using perfect English for the last word. He turned on his heel to return to his work, but before leaving, he snapped his fingers, as if he had suddenly remembered something. "Ah, I remembered; Hongjoon is waiting for you in the interrogation room."
"Now?"
The redhead nodded.
"A new case has come up. A teenager committed suicide three days ago, but his best friend insists it was murder. I don't know..."
[...]
When he finally arrived at the characteristic room, he knocked three times on the door before receiving an affirmative response. Upon entering, he noticed the presence of several officers from the department, colleagues he had not seen in weeks and other faces he did not recognise. Doubt seized him as he took another step and entered the room.
In an interrogation, attendance should be limited to the investigating officer and the person being questioned, with a defence lawyer in the case of a defendant and, in more serious situations, a prosecutor. It was not normal for so many people to be present. Not in a routine procedure.
It could only mean that the reason they had gathered there was not for a common crime, but for one of utmost importance, serious enough to require the presence of other officials. Including him. Yunho had been expressly forbidden from participating in interrogations and active cases until he was medically cleared. And yet, his presence had been requested.
"Before we begin, I need you to confirm your full name and age."
Hongjoon's deep voice echoed through the room. Yunho finally looked up at him, having been too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice him before.
When the silence lingered longer than usual and the answer he expected never came, Hongjoon sighed, running his hand through his blue hair and anxiously tugging at his own strands.
His gaze remained fixed on the dejected teenager in front of him and then descended to the open file he held in his left hand.
"Song Mingi, seventeen years old," he read.
Hearing that name, Yunho turned his head slightly, just enough for his gaze and attention to immediately shift to the young man sitting in front of his boss. There, in the metal chair, sitting upright with his gaze fixed on the floor, he remained silent. His jet-black hair fell over his forehead, covering half his face; his shoulders remained tense, trembling slightly from the spasms of recent crying.
"So, Mingi, you think Taemin didn't take his own life, but that someone else was involved?" Hongjoon asked, raising an eyebrow. He paused for a few seconds to see the jet-black-haired boy nod his head. "How can you be so sure?"
For a few minutes, silence was the only answer, interrupted only by the sound of heavy but weak breathing. Mingi's.
"I dreamed it."
No one moved, but a murmur rippled through the room.
"You dreamt it?" Hongjoon repeated.
"In my dream... he was on the floor. He was fighting with someone. I was there, but not as myself. It was like watching from outside, in third person."
"Do you have any proof?"
Mingi clenched his hands on his knees so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"No."
He finally looked up. Red. Tearful. Angry.
"I don't have any photos. I don't have any messages. I don't have anything you can file away in a folder. But I've known him for as long as I can remember.
The air seemed to grow heavier with every word, with every statement.
"Taemin wouldn't have left like that. Not alone."
His voice cracked slightly, but he didn't stop or look away.
"And if you want to call it suicide because it's easier... go ahead. But I know what I saw."
Yunho stared at him, unable to look away, his eyes wide. Then something in Yunho's chest tightened until it hurt, a feeling that had no name or reason, but was nevertheless there. It wasn't Mingi's words. It was his tone. That mixture of helplessness and certainty. That way of clinging to the memory as if it were the only possible truth.
The same feeling he had had years ago. It wasn't compassion. It was recognition.
And that, perhaps, was what hurt him the most.
"You must be joking," hissed one of the men with barely concealed irony.
"Taeyong..." Hongjoon called him, his voice firm but controlled, a clear warning.
"What? You don't believe what he's saying is true, do you?" He turned, visibly annoyed, frowning at everyone before fixing his gaze on Mingi and pointing his finger accusingly. "He's just a kid looking for a little attention!"
"The law is clear: no testimony can be dismissed without first being evaluated," Hongjoon interjected,
in a professional tone. "We must act with the seriousness that our work demands. Someone has died; we cannot afford to make mistakes."
"That's the point!" he replied. "You can't prove it! A dream is not real evidence, just an illusion."
It was a cold, almost chilling scene to witness. Yunho stepped forward, involuntarily, almost like a robot. He wanted to intervene, to stop the whirlwind that ran through his veins and quickened his heartbeat, but the words wouldn't come out.
He didn't believe Mingi was lying. Something inside him, a silent and persistent certainty, refused to even consider it. And that was precisely what disturbed him.
But he couldn't accept his words based on his professionalism either. His faith in justice did not lie in the intuitions or perceptions of others, but in what his own eyes could verify as true. If only Mingi could offer solid proof, something that would prove that his dream was more than an illusion born of pain.
Hongjoon looked deeply disturbed, his gaze fixed on an undefined point, as if he were processing every word in a silent debate: to believe Mingi or, on the contrary, to choose to look the other way like the rest of his subordinates.
"I know what I saw is real," Mingi finally said, breaking the silence. His voice conveyed the weight of an ancient sadness, the pain of an unhealed wound. "Taemin didn't hang himself. He was strangled to death. I can prove it."
"How can you say that?" Yunho asked.
Mingi's blue eyes locked onto his. Steady. For a millisecond, they flashed with a fleeting hope.
Then, with quiet certainty, he said,
"Because he had marks on his neck. And you assured me there were no signs of violence."