Chapter Text
Hongjoong looks out over the sea of young, fresh college faces staring back at him.
There is a certain kind of energy that comes with a room full of students at the beginning of their academic careers—the curiosity, the ambition, the quiet hope that they might discover something meaningful about themselves along the way.
He remembers what it felt like to sit in lecture halls like this, to look toward the front of the room and believe the person standing there had everything figured out.
He knows better now.
No one raises their hand. No one asks a question. A few students are already closing their notebooks, their attention drifting toward the next thing waiting for them outside the classroom. Others linger, maybe wanting to ask something but hesitating, waiting until someone else is brave enough to go first.
No one does.
“That concludes today’s lesson,” Hongjoong says, giving the room one last glance. “Email me or come to office hours with any questions.”
The words come automatically. He’s said them countless times before, a routine ending to a routine lecture. He offers the expected smile, the one that reassures students that he is approachable, that he wants them to reach out if they need anything.
But even as he says it, he knows he doesn’t mean it as much as he should.
Not today.
Hongjoong moves to pack up his things, gathering the scattered papers from his desk and sliding his laptop into his bag. He carefully stacks everything together, more out of habit than necessity. He doesn’t bother looking back at the students again as they begin filing out of the classroom.
Normally, he would stay behind.
He would answer the questions students were too nervous to ask during the lecture. He would talk through research ideas, listen to their concerns, maybe offer advice about graduate programs or careers. He used to enjoy those conversations—the small moments where he could see the spark of curiosity in someone else.
But lately, all he wants is to leave.
He wants the quiet of his office. He wants a few minutes where no one needs anything from him, where he doesn’t have to perform the role of the confident professor who knows exactly what he’s doing.
He wouldn’t say he’s overwhelmed. At least, not in the way people usually mean it. His schedule is manageable. His workload is expected. He’s accomplished everything he was supposed to accomplish.
He earned his degrees. He published his research. He fought his way into academia.
He should be happy.
And yet, there is a strange emptiness that follows him through the halls, a feeling that he somehow reached the destination everyone told him to chase and realized he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay there.
His office is waiting for him when he arrives, just as quiet and unchanged as he left it.
The space itself is almost painfully bare. A desk sits in the center, a chair pushed neatly behind it, and bookshelves line the walls from floor to ceiling. The shelves are filled with research papers, textbooks, and journals—enough to make him look like the kind of professor who has spent decades building a career around knowledge.
The reality is that he has only been here a little over a year.
The office still doesn’t feel like his.
He keeps meaning to decorate it. He tells himself he’ll bring in something from home, maybe a plant, a piece of artwork, something personal. Something that makes the room feel lived in rather than like a temporary space he’s borrowing.
But every time he thinks about what he would put here, he comes up blank.
What does someone like him put in an office?
Awards? He has plenty, but displaying them feels unnecessary. Photos? He doesn’t have many. Personal items? He isn’t sure he wants to leave pieces of himself behind in a place that still feels unfamiliar.
So he leaves it empty.
Maybe because some part of him knows he hasn’t decided whether he plans to stay.
Hongjoong sits down at his desk, staring at the neat stacks of papers waiting for him. The work never ends. There is always another article to review, another lecture to prepare, another project to push forward.
He should feel proud.
He does feel proud, sometimes.
But he is still young, especially considering everything he has achieved. He spent years moving from one goal to the next, always chasing the next degree, the next opportunity, the next proof that he was capable of more.
Now that he has finally reached a place people would consider successful, he finds himself wondering what comes after.
Is this really what he wants?
An office with empty walls. A career built around studying something that once fascinated him. A life where he spends more time researching the world than actually experiencing it.
He isn’t ungrateful. He knows how fortunate he is.
But he also knows that something is missing.
And maybe that’s why the thought keeps returning—the idea of something different. Something outside the safety of academia. Something that feels dangerous and impossible and alive.
He still has time to change directions.
He’s young enough that he hasn’t locked himself into one path forever. He has the education, the experience, and the ability to start over if he chooses.
It’s just a matter of figuring out what he actually wants.
The question is no longer whether he can succeed.
It’s where he wants to go next.
And how far he’s willing to leave behind to get there.
Hongjoong sits back in his chair for a moment, staring blankly at the stack of papers waiting for him. The work is there. He knows it is. There are assignments to grade, emails to answer, research notes to organize, and probably at least five things he promised himself he would get done before the end of the day.
But right now, none of it feels urgent.
He leans forward, reaching down to open his bag.
Just one cigarette.
That’s all he tells himself.
He knows it’s not exactly a good habit. He knows what the articles say, what the studies show, what he would probably tell a student if they asked him for advice. He knows all the reasons why he should stop.
But knowing something and actually changing something are two very different things.
A cigarette is a small escape. A few minutes where he doesn’t have to think about his responsibilities or the constant pressure of always needing to be productive. It gives him something to do with his hands, something to focus on when his thoughts start moving too quickly.
He tries to keep himself to one a day.
Usually, he succeeds.
Usually.
But during stressful periods, when deadlines pile up and his mind refuses to quiet down, one can easily turn into three. Sometimes four. He always tells himself he’ll cut back afterward, that it’s only temporary, that he has everything under control.
And technically, this would only be his first cigarette of the day.
So it isn’t a problem.
Not really.
At least, that’s what he tells himself.
His fingers move through the contents of his bag, shifting past notebooks, his laptop charger, a folder of lecture notes, and a half-empty water bottle. He knows exactly where the pack should be, but somehow it takes longer than expected to find it.
“Professor?”
Hongjoong immediately freezes.
His hand stops inside his bag.
For a second, he wonders if he imagined it, if the quiet exhaustion in his head is making him hear things. But then he looks up and sees the woman standing in the doorway.
He quickly lets go of his bag and straightens in his chair.
“Professor Kim?”
The surprise must show on his face because she gives him a small smile.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Hongjoong says quickly. He closes his bag and pushes it slightly to the side. “Come in—have a seat.”
He stands, mostly out of respect, as his boss steps into the office.
Their relationship has always been professional. Friendly, but professional. They weren’t the type of coworkers who went out for drinks after work or shared personal details about their lives. They were colleagues who respected each other, who exchanged ideas and occasionally collaborated on projects.
But she had always been kind to him.
She was one of the people who had supported his transition into the department, who had trusted his research despite him being younger than many of the other faculty members. She carried herself with a quiet confidence that Hongjoong admired.
And, admittedly, she had beautiful hair.
Her long red hair always seemed impossible not to notice, especially against the neutral colors of the department. It was silly, maybe, to think about something so insignificant, but he had always liked it.
Not that it mattered.
He watches as she moves toward the chair across from his desk and takes a seat. There is a brief pause where neither of them speaks.
Hongjoong sits down again, folding his hands together.
“What do I owe this pleasure to?” His boss smiles slightly, but there is something different in her expression. A seriousness that makes him sit a little straighter.
“I have an opportunity that I would like you to review.”
She reaches forward and places a packet on his desk.
Hongjoong looks down at it.
The pages are thick, clearly organized carefully, with official-looking documents and research information. Before he can even open it, the first image catches his attention.
A snow leopard.
The animal is almost perfectly camouflaged against the snow-covered landscape, its pale fur blending into the white around it. At first glance, it looks like it could disappear entirely, another shadow among the mountains.
But the photographer had caught it.
The creature’s eyes stare directly at the camera.
Even through the blurry image, there is something striking about it.
It looks cautious. Intelligent.
Almost aware.
“I was supposed to go and research these creatures myself,” she explains, tapping lightly against the packet. “But a special circumstance has come up.”
Hongjoong looks back up at her.
There is a moment where he doesn’t understand.
Then she smiles.
“I’m pregnant.”
His expression immediately changes.
“Oh my god.” His mouth falls open slightly before he catches himself. “Congratulations.”
The words come out quickly, genuine surprise replacing his earlier confusion.
She laughs softly.
“Thank you.”
Hongjoong isn’t overly close with his boss, but this is still exciting news. She is someone he respects, someone he has worked alongside for over a year. He can imagine how much this must mean to her.
“You and your wife must be very happy.”
She nods, and there is a warmth in her expression that Hongjoong has rarely seen in the office.
“We are. Very much.”
“Good. Congratulations again.”
“Thank you,” she says. Then her expression shifts back toward the packet sitting between them. “But this has left an opening in the research department.”
Hongjoong looks down at the file.
“And that’s where you come in.”
There is a pause.
“Me?”
The question leaves his mouth before he can stop it.
He looks back at the packet, then reaches forward and opens it.
At first, it is just information.
Scientific descriptions. Research summaries. Location details. Notes about previous observations and documentation.
His eyes scan over the words, trying to understand why she has brought this to him specifically.
Then he reaches the center page.
Another photograph.
This one is even blurrier.
But somehow, it feels more important.
A mother snow leopard sits in the middle of a snowy mountain landscape, her body curled protectively around two small cubs beside her. The image captures a rare moment— a glimpse into a world most people will never see.
Hongjoong stares at it longer than he expects to.
Mother.
Snow leopard.
Two babies.
Something about the picture pulls at his attention.
Not just because of the rarity of it.
Because there is something about the way the animal looks at the camera.
Like it knows it is being watched. Like it knows someone is there.
“We have been watching this family for years,” she explains, her fingers resting lightly against the edge of the packet. Her voice is calm, professional, but there is something underneath it that Hongjoong can hear—something heavier than simple concern.
She has an attachment to this case.
“That photo is old,” she continues. “The mother and one of the cubs are dead.”
Hongjoong’s eyes move back to the picture.
The mother’s body curled protectively around her children.
A moment frozen in time.
He looks at it differently now.
Not as a rare photograph of an elusive species, but as a memory of something that no longer exists.
“The mountain they live on is currently unprotected territory,” she says. “Because of that, several poachers and hunters have been attempting to locate the remaining hybrid.”
Hongjoong’s expression shifts slightly.
The word hybrid catches his attention.
“He’s a hybrid.”
His eyes flick back up to her, then down again.
The picture is blurry, the quality poor from being taken from a distance, but now that he knows what he is looking for, he can see it.
The eyes.
The cubs both have the same unnatural brightness, the golden-yellow color that no ordinary snow leopard possesses. It is subtle, almost easy to miss if someone didn’t know what they were looking for.
But Hongjoong has spent enough time studying hybrids to recognize the signs.
Both cubs.
Both hybrids.
The mother is harder to determine. Her features are more animal-like, her face partially obscured by the angle of the photograph and the snow surrounding her. If she is a hybrid, she either has very subtle traits or has learned how to hide them.
“They’re poaching humans,” Hongjoong says quietly.
His boss nods.
“Yes.”
The answer is simple.
Too simple.
There is no shock in her voice, no hesitation, because she already knows exactly what they are dealing with.
“However, because these are wild hybrids, no one really seems to care.”
The words settle heavily between them.
Hongjoong looks back at the packet.
Wild.
That was the term people used when they wanted to separate themselves from the problem. A way of saying that hybrids who lived outside society, away from cities and human communities, were somehow less important.
Less deserving of protection.
As if choosing to live in the mountains meant they weren’t still people.
“I have been watching them for a few years,” she continues. Her voice softens slightly. “And I…”
She stops.
For a moment, she looks away.
It is the first time Hongjoong has seen her hesitate.
She is usually composed. Confident. The kind of person who always knows what to say and how to say it. But now, sitting across from him with this file between them, she looks less like a department head and more like someone carrying a regret she has been holding onto for a long time.
“I wish I could have been the one to help them.”
The sadness in her voice is unmistakable. Not the distant sympathy of a researcher looking at numbers and statistics.
Something personal.
Hongjoong watches her carefully.
“My mother used to live in the town near that mountain,” she explains. “She saw them occasionally when she was younger. I don’t know how often, exactly. She never talked about it much, but she remembered them.”
Her fingers brush against the edge of the paper.
“She told me stories about seeing the mother with her cubs. About how people in the town knew they were there but mostly left them alone. They were just part of the mountain.”
Hongjoong’s gaze lowers.
Were.
The past tense feels important.
“You knew them?” he asks.
The question comes out quieter than he intends.
His eyes skim over the packet again as he speaks, taking in the information he had only glanced at before.
The mother is dead. Her skin was removed from her body and soul, sold for coats, decorations, and luxury goods.
The sentence makes his stomach twist.
It is written so clinically.
Like it is just another fact.
Another statistic. Another recorded death.
But there had been a person beneath that fur.
A mother.
Someone who had protected her children. Someone who had lived.
The first cub’s fate is unknown.
There is no confirmation of death.
No body.
No evidence.
Only a single word written in the report.
Missing.
Hongjoong stares at that line longer than the others.
Missing meant there was still a possibility.
A possibility that he was alive. A possibility that he was somewhere on that mountain, alone.
Or worse.
“I wouldn’t say I knew them personally,” she admits. “Not in the way that matters.”
She pauses.
“But I knew of them. I knew they existed. And maybe that’s why it feels worse.”
Hongjoong looks up.
She meets his gaze.
“Because they weren’t just some unknown hybrids somewhere in the world. They were there. They were real.”
The silence stretches.
Then she pushes the packet slightly closer toward him.
“I feel that you are the only person in the department who is up to the task.”
Hongjoong blinks.
“Me?”
The disbelief is immediate.
He looks down at the packet again.
At the picture.
At the mountain.
At the hybrid cub staring back at him through a blurry photograph.
“Why me?”
His boss pauses for a moment.
For the first time since she walked into his office, she seems to carefully consider her words. Her expression remains professional, almost clinical, like she is approaching this the same way she would any other research discussion.
But Hongjoong knows her well enough now to recognize the difference.
This isn’t just about the research.
This is about him.
“I believe that under all of this…” she gestures vaguely toward him, toward the carefully controlled expression he always wears, the sharp words, the constant need to appear like he has everything handled, “rough exterior, there is a bit of softness to you.”
Hongjoong’s eyebrows lift slightly.
He isn’t sure whether to be offended or confused.
She shifts in her chair, folding her hands together.
“Forgive me for being so blunt,” she continues. “But I believe you are the only person in this department who truly understands what this last cub has been through.”
The words hit harder than he expects.
“That’s—”
Hongjoong immediately opens his mouth to argue.
To tell her she’s wrong.
That she doesn’t know him well enough to make that kind of assumption. That being dedicated to his work does not mean he has some hidden emotional connection to every case he studies. That he is a researcher, not a savior.
But the words never come.
Because his eyes drop back down to the photograph.
The mother snow leopard. The two cubs pressed close to her.
A family that existed once. A family that was supposed to stay together.
Now one is dead.
One is missing.
And one is left alone.
Hongjoong stares at the image, feeling something uncomfortable settle in his chest.
Because maybe that is why this case feels different.
Maybe that is why he hasn’t been able to look away.
He knows what it feels like to lose pieces of a family and still pretend it doesn’t affect him. He knows what it feels like to grow up carrying things that no one else sees. To have complicated relationships, unfinished conversations, and wounds that never fully close.
He knows what it feels like to be surrounded by people and still feel alone.
The snow leopard cub is just an animal in a photograph.
Except he isn’t.
Not really.
Not when there is a chance he is out there somewhere, trying to survive after losing everything familiar to him.
Hongjoong swallows.
His boss watches him carefully but does not interrupt.
“The team has already been assembled,” she says after a moment, her voice returning to business. “A medic and another researcher. Everyone is prepared.”
She nods toward the packet.
“All they need now is a leader.”
Hongjoong looks up.
“You.”
The word hangs between them.
“You would be leading the expedition into the mountains. You would be responsible for finding the remaining snow leopard hybrid.”
Hongjoong lets out a quiet breath, looking back down at the documents.
“To what end?” His eyebrows furrow. “There’s no guarantee he’ll even want anything to do with humans.”
His fingers tap lightly against the edge of the packet.
“Actually, there’s a good chance he won’t. If he has spent his entire life avoiding humans, especially after what happened to his family, why would he suddenly trust us?”
He looks back at her.
“What’s the purpose of finding him? What’s the purpose of introducing him to humans?”
His boss is quiet for a moment.
Then she answers.
“We want to federally protect the mountain.”
Hongjoong waits.
“And to do that, there has to be substantial proof that he is worth protecting.”
She glances toward the photograph.
“That he is not simply an animal living in the wild. That he is a person. That he has intelligence, awareness, and the ability to make decisions.”
Her voice lowers.
“If he is granted federal protection, no one will be allowed to hunt him.”
Hongjoong’s jaw tightens.
“Yeah, but…” He shakes his head slightly. “To get federal protection, I’d have to talk to him.” The realization settles in. “I’d have to prove he’s conscious. Sentient.” His eyes return to the picture. “I’d have to get close enough to him to show that. We’d have to prove he understands us. I’d have to make him comfortable around humans.”
Exactly.
That was the part that bothered him.
Not the mountain. Not the research. Not even the danger.
It was the idea of asking someone who had lost everything because of humans to trust humans again.
His boss leans forward slightly.
“And that is why I believe you are best suited for this job.”
Hongjoong looks at her.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“You understand the difficulty of that.”
He says nothing.
“And again,” she continues carefully, “forgive me if this is too personal, but you do not have the best relationship with your family, correct?”
Hongjoong’s expression immediately hardens.
The question is too direct.
Too personal.
But she continues before he can respond.
“Studies have shown that people often form bonds more quickly with those who share similar experiences. Those who understand their circumstances. Their fears. Their isolation.”
She gestures toward the photograph.
“This hybrid has lost his family. He has been forced to survive alone. He has every reason not to trust us.”
Her eyes meet his.
“And I believe you understand that better than anyone else here.”
Hongjoong stares at her.
For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say.
Then he gives a small, humorless laugh.
“So because my mother is dead, you want me to go seek out the snow leopard?” The words are sharper than he intends. But he doesn’t take them back.
Because underneath the sarcasm is something else.
Something closer to hurt.
His boss doesn’t look offended.
Instead, she looks sad.
“No,” she says quietly. “Because you know what it feels like to lose someone and still keep going.”
Hongjoong looks away.
“And because unlike everyone else in this department…” She pauses. “I think you would see him as more than just research.”
Hongjoong flips to the next page of the packet, expecting more information about the snow leopard.
Instead, he finds the animal is absent.
The pages are filled with photographs of the mountain itself—wide, sweeping landscapes covered in snow and ice, jagged peaks disappearing into the clouds, forests that look untouched by human hands. There are maps detailing the elevation, the terrain, the weather patterns, and the safest routes through the area.
There are notes about the mountain’s history.
The ecosystem. The wildlife. The seasons.
Everything someone would need if they were planning to enter the area. Everything someone would need if they were planning to survive.
It feels less like a research proposal and more like a preparation manual.
A guidebook for stepping into a world that was never meant for humans.
Hongjoong’s eyes scan over the information, taking in the details.
Average temperatures. Potential hazards. Avalanche zones. Limited areas where shelter could realistically be built.
Then his eyes catch on something that makes his expression shift.
Hunting trails.
Old routes used by poachers.
Paths that humans had carved into the mountain for the sole purpose of finding creatures who had no way to defend themselves.
He stares at the marked locations for a moment.
Even here, in a place that was supposed to belong to the hybrids living there, humans had already found ways to invade.
“You want me to bond with him?”
Hongjoong looks up from the packet.
A humorless laugh escapes him, but there isn’t much amusement behind it.
He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.
“You want me to go up there, find a traumatized wild hybrid who has spent his entire life avoiding humans, and somehow convince him that I’m different?”
He looks down at the picture again.
The cub.
Alone.
“Feed him raw meat and hope he opens up to me?” His eyebrows raise slightly. “Hope he sits down and starts telling me about his dead family?”
The sarcasm is there, but underneath it is discomfort.
Because the more he thinks about it, the more invasive it feels.
This was not his home. This was not his territory.
The mountain belonged to the snow leopard.
The mountain belonged to every creature that had lived there long before humans decided they wanted something from it.
And now he was being asked to go there.
To step into the last place this family had been safe.
To walk through their home and convince the last remaining member that he should trust him. Even if his intentions were good, there was still something unsettling about it. To protect the snow leopard, he had to approach him as a human.
A species that had already taken everything from him.
Hongjoong closes the packet slightly, staring at the cover.
It feels contradictory.
He was being sent there to help.
But help was still coming from an outsider.
From someone who didn’t belong.
“The requirements are listed for the snow leopard,” his boss explains, watching his reaction. “There is a time frame.”
Hongjoong looks back at her.
“You have to establish a connection within a few months of arriving. Enough that he is comfortable allowing interaction, enough that we can document his intelligence and communication.”
She pauses.
“I know it sounds impossible.”
Hongjoong gives her a look.
“It sounds like you’re sending me to befriend a mountain cat.”
“A hybrid,” she corrects gently. The distinction makes him look away. She continues. “You will need to prepare accordingly.”
She begins listing everything like she has rehearsed it.
“I suggest you meet your teammates as soon as possible. You’ll need to understand their strengths and how you’ll work together.”
Hongjoong listens quietly.
“Stop smoking.”
His eyes immediately lift.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
There is no judgment in her voice, only practicality.
“If you are going to be spending months at high elevation, in freezing temperatures, carrying supplies, hiking through difficult terrain, you cannot rely on cigarettes to manage stress.”
Hongjoong opens his mouth to argue.
Nothing comes out.
Because she is right.
“And get in shape,” she continues. “The mountain is not forgiving. You will need endurance, strength, and the ability to keep moving even when conditions are difficult.”
She taps the packet.
“You should prepare yourself to be cold for the next four months.”
Hongjoong stares at her.
Four months.
The number feels ridiculous.
Four months away from everything familiar. Four months in the mountains. Four months trying to earn the trust of someone who had every reason to hate him.
He slowly closes the packet.
“Hang on.” He looks up at her. “I haven’t agreed to any of this.”
For the first time, she smiles slightly.
Not because she thinks he has agreed.
But because she knows he is considering it.
“I know.”
Hongjoong narrows his eyes.
“Then why are you already telling me how to prepare?”
“Because you haven’t said no.”
The answer is simple.
Too simple.
Hongjoong opens his mouth.
Then closes it.
Because, annoyingly, she’s right.
He hasn’t said no.
Not yet.
Hongjoong turns the packet back a few pages, stopping once again at the photograph of the mother snow leopard.
He isn't entirely sure why.
Maybe because, out of everything in the file, it feels the least clinical.
The reports are filled with statistics, coordinates, behavioral observations, and timelines. Dates of sightings. Estimated ages. Migration patterns. Scientific language carefully chosen to remove emotion from the facts.
The photograph does the opposite.
It reminds him that they were a family before they were ever a research subject.
His thumb rests lightly against the edge of the page as he studies the image.
The mother lies half-buried in the snow, her body curved protectively around the two cubs. Even through the poor quality of the camera, he can tell she's watching something in the distance, ears alert, muscles ready to move if she needs to.
The cubs, on the other hand, have no idea they're being watched.
They're tucked against her side, one practically climbing over the other, oversized paws awkward beneath them. One has its head buried against its mother's shoulder while the other seems distracted by something in the snow, caught in that strange stage between fearless curiosity and complete dependence.
They're still babies.
Old enough to wander a few feet.
Young enough to believe their mother can protect them from everything.
Hongjoong swallows.
They'd be adults now.
If they survived.
His eyes linger on the smaller of the two, trying to imagine which one was still alive.
Was it the cub leaning into his mother?
Or the one looking curiously toward the camera without realizing what it was?
There was no way to know.
All he knew was that one was dead.
One had vanished.
And one was alone.
"I'll think about it." The words leave him quietly, almost absentmindedly. His gaze never leaves the page. There is an ache settling in his chest that he hadn't expected.
It isn't pity.
It's grief.
Grief for something he never witnessed. For a family that existed long before this packet landed on his desk. For a home that had been shattered because someone decided beautiful fur was worth more than a life.
He exhales slowly.
"...Fine." His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the packet. "Fine." He finally looks up. "I'll do it."
His boss studies him for a second, as though making sure he isn't agreeing impulsively.
Then relief washes over her face.
It isn't dramatic.
Just subtle enough that he notices.
"Thank you."
She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out another folder, setting it beside the first.
"There are several legal documents you'll need to sign. Liability waivers, research permits, access forms..." She taps the stack lightly. "You'll need authorization to enter the protected zone and permission to conduct research on hybrid territory."
Hongjoong looks at the pile with a quiet groan.
"Of course there are."
She smiles.
"Once those are signed, you can choose your departure date."
She folds her hands together.
"The rest of the team will work around your schedule. You'll have a short preparation period before heading to the mountain."
Hongjoong nods absentmindedly, but he isn't really listening anymore.
His attention has drifted back to the photograph.
To those two cubs pressed against their mother.
He stares at them for another long moment before something occurs to him.
He looks up.
"You don't have anything more recent?" She blinks. "The photographs." He lifts the packet slightly. "These are years old."
The images are grainy, distant, clearly taken with equipment that prioritized secrecy over clarity.
"They're blurry enough that I can barely distinguish individual features." He squints at the page. "I know they're snow leopards." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I've gathered that much. But beyond that..." He shakes his head. "I couldn't identify the surviving cub from these if he walked right past me."
His boss's expression falls.
"Unfortunately..." She hesitates. "...that's all we have."
Hongjoong frowns.
"No trail cameras?"
She shakes her head.
"The surviving cub is extremely territorial." Her voice becomes more serious. "We've attempted to install remote cameras several times over the years."
"How many succeeded?"
"None."
He raises an eyebrow.
"He finds them...Every time."
"And people?"
"We can hardly get anyone onto the mountain without him knowing."
Hongjoong pauses.
"What do you mean?"
She leans back in her chair.
"He watches." The simplicity of the statement sends a chill through him. "Our field researchers have reported the feeling of being followed long before they ever saw signs of him."
She glances toward the photograph.
"He knows that mountain better than anyone. By the time someone realizes he's nearby..." She shrugs lightly. "...he's already been watching them for hours."
Hongjoong looks back down at the picture.
"So he's smart."
"Exceptionally. And there have been several cases..." she continues carefully, "...of the cub biting."
Hongjoong's eyebrows rise.
"Biting?"
She gives him an apologetic look.
"...Maiming."
The room falls silent.
Hongjoong slowly lowers the packet.
"Maiming?"
She nods once.
"No fatalities." She is quick to add it. "But several poachers have left the mountain missing fingers."
She pauses.
"He doesn't hunt people. He defends himself."
Hongjoong lets that sink in.
The reports had described him as aggressive. Dangerous. Unpredictable. But hearing the context changes everything.
He wasn't attacking innocent hikers. He was attacking the people who came looking for him.
People carrying traps.
Rifles.
Knives.
People who wanted to do to him what they had already done to his family.
For the first time since opening the packet...
Hongjoong isn't afraid of the snow leopard.
He's afraid of what the snow leopard has had to survive.
Hongjoong leans forward over the packet, elbows resting on the edge of his desk as both hands disappear into his hair.
He rubs at his scalp, fingers catching in the dark strands before tugging lightly.
God.
He wants a cigarette.
Not because he's angry. Not because he's stressed.
Because his brain has reached that point where it doesn't know what else to do with itself.
His thoughts are moving too quickly, jumping from one implication to the next.
Four months.
A mountain. A research team. A hybrid who has every reason to hate humans.
Federal protection. The possibility of being responsible for whether this animal—whether this person—lives or dies.
His thumb taps absently against his temple.
A cigarette would quiet everything for five minutes. Just enough to think. Instead, he forces himself to look back down at the photograph.
The cub.
He can't stop looking at him.
"I'll do it."
The words leave him in a tired sigh.
Hongjoong shakes his head, a small smile of disbelief tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I feel bad for the little guy."
His boss smiles faintly.
"We don't actually know if it's a boy or a girl," she says gently.
Hongjoong blinks.
"What?"
"The surviving cub." She reaches over, pointing toward one of the research notes. "We've never been close enough to determine the sex."
Hongjoong stares at her.
"...Seriously?"
She nods.
"We have theories. The behavior we've documented suggests it may be female."
She pauses.
"Female snow leopards are generally much more territorial than males, particularly after experiencing a threat to their offspring or home range."
Hongjoong looks back down at the photograph.
"So it's a girl?"
His eyebrows knit together.
His boss gives a small shrug.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"The behavioral evidence points in that direction. But we don't know."
Hongjoong lets out a short laugh, though there isn't much humor in it.
"So..." He gestures toward the packet. "You don't actually know. "You don't know how old it is."
"We have an estimate."
"You don't know where it's living."
"We have several possible territories."
"You don't know if it's injured."
"No."
"You don't know if it's even still on the mountain."
"We're reasonably confident it is."
Hongjoong slowly lowers the packet onto the desk.
"...That's not very comforting."
His boss doesn't argue.
Because she knows he's right.
The room grows quiet again.
Hongjoong looks down at the pages spread across his desk. He had assumed this expedition was being sent because years of research had narrowed everything down.
Instead, it feels like the opposite.
They know almost nothing. The photographs are old. The sightings are inconsistent.
Every conclusion in the packet is followed by words like estimated, believed, possible, or unknown. Even the surviving hybrid's sex is little more than an educated guess.
They have spent years watching this family from a distance.
Years documenting footprints. Scratch marks. Occasional sightings through binoculars. Blurred photographs taken from ridges hundreds of yards away.
And somehow...
After all that time...
They still know almost nothing.
Hongjoong exhales through his nose.
They're asking him to find someone they can't even properly describe. Someone who has spent years making sure no one could.
His gaze returns to the photograph one last time.
The little cub nestled safely against his mother.
Unaware that one day people would be trying to hunt him. Unaware that strangers would one day build entire research proposals around finding him. Unaware that a professor sitting hundreds of miles away would be staring at his baby picture wondering if he was still alive.
His fingers rest lightly against the page.
"They really don't know you at all..."
The words slip out before he realizes he's spoken them aloud.
His boss hears anyway.
"No." Her voice is almost a whisper. "We don't."
Hongjoong nods slowly.
That, more than anything else in the packet, convinces him.
Not the research. Not the funding. Not the opportunity.
The uncertainty.
Someone has to go learn who this hybrid actually is before the world decides what he—or she—is worth.
And somehow...
That someone is him.
He is the one who will climb that mountain.
The one who will earn the trust of someone who has never had a reason to trust a human. The one who will carry back enough evidence to convince people that one life is worth protecting.
The weight of that responsibility settles quietly onto his shoulders.
He isn't sure he's ready for it.
But whether he feels ready or not...
He is the one.