When Our Bodies Finally Go (1 / 2)
ʚ Title: When Our Bodies Finally Go for storyscribbler ♡
ʚ Pairing(s): Kyungsoo/Jongin; Sehun/Jongin
ʚ Rating: NC-17
ʚ Warnings: Violence, language, mentions of sex, death of a minor character
ʚ Word Count: 16,000 words
ʚ Summary: "Is it Jongin or Kai?"
ʚ Message for your recipient/author note: Thank you to my moms for holding my hand throughout the long brainstorming process for this fic. Thank you to the mods for the opportunity to join this exchange! To my recipient: writing this has been quite a challenge, and even after much revision, it still isn’t up to par with what I envisioned. I’m really sorry about that. I did try my best, and I hope you’ll like this still.
“Who is Kai?”
Jongin shrugs. Sehun has asked the question so seriously-his light brown eyes watching him in such a solemn manner he has never seen before-that Jongin feels obliged to answer.
He clears his throat. “Kai is a man with no family, no kids, living comfortably as a nefarious drug dealer can be under all the circumstances. I have to say it’s weird for you to ask me that. Why with the sudden seriousness?”
Sehun laughs, and to Jongin’s ears it seems that the other is trying to sound flippant. “Nothing. Just feeling that you’ve been under the weather lately ever since that deal with Mr. Yoshitaka flopped. You’ve been taking on a lot more and with great success, but you don’t seem satisfied.”
“You’re right. I’m not,” Jongin replies. His mouth forms an appreciative gesture as he finishes his coffee. It tastes just the way he liked it: strong, but milky and sweet. “But who is? Mr. Yoshitaka raked in five times more than all the other nut jobs we’ve dealt with in the last two weeks-who wouldn’t be disappointed when the blue fin got away, only to catch two tons of anchovy?”
Sehun cocks his head. “The Kai before would’ve settled with the anchovy, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” Sehun pauses, gauging Jongin’s severe expression before continuing, “You used to say, ‘any deal is a good deal; all money is good money’. But you seem a thousand times more restless these days. Is there something bothering you, Kai? Anything I can help with? I’ll do everything I can, you know.”
Jongin scratches his head, before flashing him a wry smile. If anything happened, if Jongin ever finds himself in a drastic schism between him and his henchmen, he can trust Sehun to be always by his side, unwavering. It’s both humbling and disconcerting. “It’s nothing you have to trouble yourself with. You know I’ve had my eye on Mr. Yoshitaka’s factory ever since I’ve heard about it. It’s just disappointing that I have to start from scratch again.”
“You’re good at what you do, so don’t worry about it too much.”
“Too much faith is always a bad thing, Sehun.”
Sehun purses his lips in haughty disdain. “Who said I have too much faith? Just stating the facts.”
Jongin chuckles off-handedly as the waiter, dressed in a white flannel shirt and jeans, takes out the empty coffee cups and gives each of them a glass of water. “Is this why you took me out to dinner? To soothe my worry-wart self?”
“What do you think?”
Jongin takes in the hint of a blush coloring Sehun’s high cheekbones, and Jongin reddens despite himself. “I appreciate it, Sehun,” he says quietly. “I always have.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear, but thanks,” Sehun confesses, then laughs. “I think it’s easier for us both, like this. You told me before you haven’t gotten over your childhood friend. I guess that’s still the case.”
Jongin nods, eyes heavily trained on the drips of condensation on the glass. Tonight, Sehun is dressed in a wool sweater, with his hair styled luxuriously from the front up. He internally berates himself for being insensitive, for being an awful person to Sehun.
Sehun then leans forward, elbows on the table. “You haven’t made any effort to contact him, though. It would be better for me at least if you did-I hate seeing you miserable, Kai.”
“He’s,” Jongin sighs. “Not going to be happy to see me. Like this, I mean.”
“Don’t you miss him?”
I do. Terribly. “He’s ended up on the better half of the spectrum,” Jongin explains. “The truth is he’s far better off where he is, without knowing how I turned out to be. There’s the constant danger from my Kai identity. I’ve gotten my hands too dirty for this, and I won’t make that mistake of soiling him just to make myself happy.”
“I know where you’re coming from,” Sehun mumbles to himself, before straightening up and saying, “But even through all that… he’ll like you even if you’re Kai, right? It’s still you essentially. It doesn’t have to be one way or another.”
Jongin laughs flatly. “That’s the thing. He won’t.”
His steps are dark and virtually morose as he’s admitted past checkpoint after checkpoint in the west wing of the hotel. Jongin’s job is daunting as it is life-threatening, especially in the aftermath of the security breach by the police last month and the recent failed contract with the Japanese suppliers. Namil hadn’t been exactly happy about the setbacks.
Jongin exhales wearily. After a decade of sweeping through Seoul’s dingy streets for pot princes and narcotic addicts, Jongin has dug himself a grave deeper than the usual six-feet under. And it’s too early for him to be dead: at twenty-six, he’s the youngest dealer to have ever encroached (and consequently, destroyed) six of the eighteen local drug rings in Seoul. He’d been through the highly lucrative Xing Lao group and shook the whole cavern until it toppled over itself, a feat that no one, not even the kingpin would ever precisely know how he did it.
Jongin had endured bullet wounds, held his ground against irrational business partners, sidestepped every trap that had meant his undoing-and now, Jongin thinks as he stops at the ominous metal door to adjust the stiff collar of his shirt, he’s finally here.
“Ahh, just the man I’ve wanted to see! Please take a seat here, Kai!” Lee Namil greets, swirling his glass of champagne too hard that some of its contents spilled from the rim of his glass onto his hand. He lets out a groan as shakes his hand. “I hope you have some good news to share with us. It’s quite the unlucky month-I’m presuming you’ve heard of that incompetent bastard Seokjin losing the supplier to Mr. Hwan.”
Jongin bows before taking a seat. He can hear the trudges of the combat boots of the two henchmen as they close in on him, as well as the faint moan of poor Kang Seokjin behind the storage doors. The pungent scent of fresh blood in the air is the first thing Jongin noticed when he came inside.
Namil then bangs a fist on the table. Jongin is already used to the heavy sounds coming from his boss that he doesn’t flinch. “Yeesh, we’ve lost sixty million to that saucy, little gnat! Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.” He snaps his fingers impatiently. “You, kid-Kai-just give me something I won’t have to worry about.”
Jongin cranes his neck as he brings out the papers from his suit pocket. He spreads them all over the table and points to the spreadsheets neatly stapled at one end. “Mr. Song Gitae had his Toyota stolen yesterday in front of the function he had attended during dinnertime.”
“And so?”
“The glove compartment contained some of the Im Wongil pharmacy’s classified documents. There’s one that had described all the contract orders coming in and out of the port in Ulsan-in the exact ship Mr. Yoshitaka contact has been smuggling all the chemicals to the country, and at the end of this month they have one shipment that’s heading straight for the lab in Jinju.”
Namil’s eyes turn into slits. “You mean Song’s lab.”
He nods. “The cargo is set to disembark at five-thirty in the morning, and it’ll probably arrive at nine in the latest, assuming there’s no hold-up at the port and they bypass all security-”
“We’re talking about The General, son. He can pull out an elephant from his hat, for all we know.” He strokes his white beard, and then grins widely at Jongin. “How did you steal the car?”
Jongin lets himself smile dimly at the memory. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say steal. Mr. Song gave me the keys.”
“What did you say?”
“The always give the valet the keys.” Jongin takes out a name badge from his pocket. Glossed with enamel, the words Jang Yuki stylized in bold letters.
Namil gives him a subtle once-over, his eyes flickering back and forth from the documents to Jongin’s face, before snorting disdainfully. “If only my men used their brain half as much as you do,” he grumbles, scratching at the roundness of his potbelly. “But what is it that you want me to do with this? I understand what you’re getting at, boy, but I’d be remiss to let you near The General again. Do you remember what happened last time?”
Jongin sighs. “It’s unlikely that I would forget. But get this, Chief.” He flips the spreadsheet to the last page, and points to the highlighted cell at the bottom corner. “Mr. Song is eighty million short to secure the lab.”
“What do you mean?” Namil straightens his posture, ears perked up. “Are you saying he’s in debt?”
“Yes. The lab is apparently on the verge of being foreclosed, as well as Im Wongil’s other properties, and this deal with Mr. Yoshitaka is the only thing that could save them from debt-”
“While that is all uhh-compelling, Kai,” Namil interrupts, shaking his head deeply. “I refuse to be manhandled by that former Yakuza again and his big boss. I can hear you suggesting taking over Mr. Song’s business by streaming most of the funds we have for the casino. And can you hear that my answer is no?”
Without even blinking, Jongin returns Namil’s gaze and squares his shoulders. “How about this, Chief? Mr. Yoshitaka has no inkling that Mr. Song’s lab is about to be foreclosed,” he replies emphatically. “I say we head straight for the foundations. Wreck the old, withering one-”
“And build something new,” Namil finishes for him, nodding.
Much to Jongin’s relief, the chief flips through the proposal, and turns it over to him with a wry smile. “You think you can accomplish this on your own?”
Have you ever even given me a proper team? Jongin wryly asks in his head before replying, “I have Sehun. And I won’t disappoint you again.”
“Of course you won’t.” Namil waves off his henchmen guarding the door. “There’s no more room for mistakes for you. You’re Kai. One mistake is your limit.”
Jongin bows. As the doors open and he slides to the corridor, he hears the echo of a scream hollowly in his mind.
“A matter of concern has cropped up and I need your opinion.”
Jongdae, a short man of vivacious energy despite the weariness that is his job, laughs with great enthusiasm. “You have to stop making yourself sound like you’re forty, Kai. It’ll never make you less of a kid than you really are.”
Jongin rolls his eyes. He dumps a thick folder filled with paperwork on Jongdae’s cluttered desk. “I’d like to emphasize the humungous gap that is our age, professor. And Chief wants you to look up several of Mr. Yoshitaka’s trips to Jinju. See if there are any irregularities on the time, place, date, anything.”
“That’s strange. I thought Namil had already given up on The General as the supplier. Can I blame you for the sudden change of heart? You seem to be the only one who’s anxious to have him on board.”
“That’s why I’m asking you,” Jongin says. Jongdae points at the empty computer chair, and the younger sits, all the while shifting uncomfortably. “This conversation is in strict confidence?”
He smiles indulgently. “I can assure you.”
“Well, this-this deal will be over a hundred million. It’s going to keep Chief and the casino afloat for more than half a decade or so, right?” Jongin pauses to look at Jongdae meaningfully. “I mean, I want to ask you if it’s enough.”
Jongdae seems to think about it for a second. “If Chief plays his cards right, probably even more than ten years. The casino, as I’ve mentioned before, is good investment. With Mr. Jung’s and Mr. Han’s corporation on a standstill due to the huge drug bust five months ago, we won’t have any competition for a good two years. We have the running advantage, assuming that the latest deal with Mr. Ching would go well.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“You’ve talked a lot about leaving before. Do you still think you’d be able to do it?”
Jongin sighs, looking down. “Honestly, I-I don’t think the other me is dead. He’s not crippled. He’s not staying silent either. He’s still inside of me, professor. When I fall asleep, I dream of his life as if it was someone else’s, and I wake up feeling like a part of me has been taken away. I think this is the only way to stop myself from feeling like this. I haven’t… let go of my other life completely.”
“So,” Jongdae nods. “This is your plan.”
Jongin smiles sheepishly. “Not well-thought out, huh?”
“No, no. Brilliant, like you are, but still laden with some holes. I’m guessing you have Plan B?”
He shakes his head, standing up from his chair. “No, not really. Still working on that part. I’m hoping that the plan won’t blow up on me at the last minute, you know?”
“We all wish that, Kai,” Jongdae tells him, giving him a small wave in goodbye. “And yeah-about that other thing in your plan.”
“What about it?”
The elder purses his lips, eyes up on the ceiling. Jongin thinks that Jongdae at that moment is an image of the scholar he really is, hands neatly folded on his lap as he says his thoughts out loud. “I’m sure that it’ll all end well, but really, how much of love depends on memories?”
Jongin stops. He feels the air go thick around him that he finds it difficult to breathe all of a sudden. “He… he won’t remember me.”
“Kai-yah, do you really believe that? Do you want to? Or does it just make things a lot easier?” Jongdae asks him, his tone soft while his gaze is as hard as iron.
“It’s hard,” Jongin’s voice shakes. “But he-I owe a lot to him. He’s the only thing that I have left of my other life. I tried but I can’t sever it. Sever him.”
“It’s been eleven years. Don’t you think it’s foolish of you to keep him within arm’s length? Considering how the tides had pushed you guys to two different shores?”
When Jongin doesn’t answer, Jongdae settles with sighing resignedly. He calmly shoots his empty Styrofoam cup to the trash bin and shrugs. He says, “Well, the odds are one in a million. But who knows, that boy might be just as foolish as you.”
Jongin runs across the street, spinning and turning through the maze of streets, heading right after five blocks and then going left again. He hopes he’s not too late.
He enters the large yogurt shop, the bells chiming along with the ambient noise. The crisscrossing of people going in and out of the store makes it easier for Jongin to slip in and out undetected, and he orders a blueberry flavored smoothie at the counter before making his way down the usual table seated near the rear. From that vantage point, Jongin can see clearly everyone who comes inside.
He looks at his watch. It’s already six thirty in the evening. Any minute now.
A few, wide-eyed teenagers comes in. Some Jongin recognizes as regulars head to their usual seats, the manager greeting them fondly and asking for their orders himself.
The bell chimes.
“Ahh, Kyungsoo-ssi!”
Jongin ducks his head.
“Doohwan-ssi!” the man greets, bowing slightly. His pale skin shines sickly against his black, cashmere sweater-it makes Jongin’s forehead crease, and he wonders whether Kyungsoo had been eating right these days. “How is your wife?” Jongin hears Kyungsoo ask. “She’s been discharged from the hospital, right?”
“Having a third child is vicious,” the store manager Doohwan claims. “I almost regret impregnating my wife with my demon sperm; her wails in the delivery room will be embedded in my head forever.”
Kyungsoo chuckles, and Jongin’s ears perk up. He can feel his cheeks go warm. “She’s a fighter. I wouldn’t disregard her in the battle just yet.”
From the corner of his eyes, Jongin can see Doohwan scratching the back of his head. “Well, Kyungsoo-ssi. My advice: if you want to keep a steady career, don’t ever get married. It’d only be your undoing.”
Kyungsoo snorts. “Funny. My whole department is suggesting the opposite.”
“See, that’s because those dunderheads in your task force haven’t cottoned up to the big picture,” Doohwan shrugs. “With all the things you’ve been exposed to, you folks have a different conception of marriage-like you’ve all grown past the stage of being wise, just so that you’d keep your humanity intact.” The blender cringes to a stop, and quickly, the boy at the counter hands Kyungsoo his drink.
“No matter. You’ve always been the strange one, Kyungsoo-ssi. I trust you wouldn’t turn out as miserable as I am in the long run,” the manager titters, and Jongin stifles a laugh by biting on the edge of his straw. He can almost picture Kyungsoo rolling his owlish eyes in mock annoyance.
“I’m all around pleased that you’ve confirmed my social stigma,” Kyungsoo responds flatly. “Thanks for the drink!”
Jongin looks up as soon as he hears boots trudging on the floor, and just in time sees Kyungsoo walking out of the store. He hungrily takes in the plumpness of Kyungsoo’s lips, the redness of Kyungsoo’s nose, the curve of Kyungsoo’s neck. He watches him hunch back again as he walks out of the store and enters the rest of the world.
With his posture, Do Kyungsoo looks like an ordinary person going out for a walk in the evening, but his right hand betrays him as it constantly brushes against his side. Jongin can tell it’s where Kyungsoo holsters his gun. And there’s also the matter of Kyungsoo’s eyes. Restless, they keep on darting warily, always on the lookout, like its owner is waiting for something bad to leap at him.
Like a routine, Jongin debates with himself whether he’d follow Kyungsoo back to the headquarters or not, and, like always, the righteous side of him always wins. He’s satisfied that Doohwan has managed yet again to make quiet Kyungsoo sputter a word or two, and hands the store manager a tip. Doohwan accepts the five thousand won, confused, but delighted all the same.
It’s nine o’ clock when Jongin arrives home. At the bed, he lies on his back, one arm behind his head. He’s bone-tired from the lack of sleep, but the insomnia creeps up on him tonight, making him feel that rest will once again be light-years away.
But really, Jongdae’s voice rings too loud in his ears. How much of love depends on memories?
Jongin sighs. He wishes that he would remember nothing of his life when he was young, that through the race towards coveting control of the underground drug trade in Seoul, he had crashed into something, cocked his head onto something hard-anything-just so that he’d be the one with no memories at all. And Kyungsoo? Jongin’s sure that he’s the only one backtracking, as the young inspector is set on moving forward in his life.
“I’m an idiot,” Jongin whispers.
His thoughts drift to the deal with The General, the millions of dollars the signing of the contract entails.
Jongin rakes in a deep breath.
It goes without question now that Kai has to succeed.
Kim Junmyeon, dressed impeccably in a royal blue suit, stares straight at the images being shown at the projector. To his side is Zhang Yixing, who serves as Junmyeon’s second in command. Along the oval table, the rest of the investigations division waits for the deputy chief to further comment. With the light coming from the screen, Kyungsoo can ascertain that, except for the chief, all the faces inside the meeting room are grim.
“Tell me about Kai,” is what Junmyeon first says. His voice is light and almost conversational, but it does nothing to mask the tense tenor of authority in it.
Minseok, the superintendent of investigations, speaks up. “That’s… sort of hard to answer. Some swear he’s a spy from North Korea, others say he’s a freelance assassin. We have witnesses and prisoners saying that he killed five Chinese nationals who had crossed him, along with thirty other notorious gang members-the body count is so high it’s ridiculous, Chief. This Kai person is an enigma. The only thing the division has gathered is that he’s indisputably part of or in cahoots with the Black Lotus gang, which is vying for control over the drug market. All I can say is that he’s a very dangerous man and as slippery as an eel.”
“Impressive, if that’s all true,” Junmyeon notes with a firm nod. He flips through the papers on his hand and frowns. “I’ve read the report last night. There’s one statement that says Kai’s eyes are-and I quote, ‘scarlet-red as vivid as blood. It could kill you instantly once his gaze meets yours. Do not cross him’.”
Minseok looks down, his cheeks coloring in shame.
“So you have no idea what the man actually looks like?”
“We’re working on it.”
Junmyeon glances back at the powerpoint, and Kyungsoo watches as the chief’s face morphs into an impenetrable mask. Yixing hasn’t said a word throughout the meeting, studying the graphs displayed on the screen.
“Do Kyungsoo-ssi,” Junmyeon speaks finally. Kyungsoo’s spine stiffens instantly at the sound of his name.
Minseok nudges him slightly, and Kyungsoo replies, “Yes?”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven, Chief.”
Junmyeon is still looking at the powerpoint. “It’s been a month since your promotion. How is it?”
“I’ve been working hard, Chief. Thank you.”
“Good. I guess you can afford to bust your back a little harder for this one. Minseok-ssi, hand over this assignment to Mr. Do. I think we need more youthful vigor for this case.”
Before Kyungsoo could argue, Minseok has the sense to clamp a hand on the younger’s wrist. Let me take care of this.
“Yes, I will.” Minseok bows in agreement. “But what should we do about the embezzlement case with the clothing company-”
“This division has three teams, right?” Junmyeon cuts in, smiling slightly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then pass it on to the other team who has free time on their hands. I hope that’s fair enough.”
No team in investigations has ‘free time on their hands’, but nobody can outflank the deputy chief or has a sound counterargument. Cases go round and round every time in the division, until it’s solved or the trail goes cold.
Kyungsoo keeps his face rigid, expression inscrutable enough to rival Junmyeon’s. His eyes bore holes at the name on the third report on his desk.
Kai.
Kai, Kai, Kai.
Jongin goes down the stairs out of his apartment building when suddenly the hairs behind his neck begin to prickle uncomfortably. The feeling then travels down to his spine, then to his gut.
Immediately, he walks around the block. He stations himself near the rack selling newspapers and tabloids, pretending to flip through some. Automobiles dash hurriedly on the street, and pedestrians snake through as soon as the traffic lights go red. Three young women in high school uniforms walk past him, laughing at some joke Jongin barely hears.
He marks the man wearing a black cap across the road. To any casual observer, it would seem that the person is just window shopping at the ceramic store, but Jongin sees the man’s firm stance. He can decipher that the muscles on his back are coiled and tensed to spring at Jongin at any moment.
Jongin exhales, biting back a curse.
“He’s excellent.”
The General puts down his fork. “How so?”
“Besides breaking and entering and avoiding surveillance,” Yoshitaka Nomura begins. His shirt sleeves are hitched up to his elbow. “Kai seems to know his way around the market, if you know what I mean.”
The General grunts, peering at the slim-faced comrade. He dabs a napkin on the ends of his mouth. “And what about Mr. Song?”
“We’ve backed the wrong horse, sir. Shinhan’s foreclosing Im Wongil in three months,” Yoshitaka reports, handing in an envelope containing all of the company’s intercepts.
“Okay.” The General doesn’t seem to be perturbed at the slightest. “Any sister agencies?”
“None, sir. The Black Lotus is our best bet.”
“I guess it was a mistake to void the deal and cut off the ear of one of Namil’s lapdogs.”
“It was a mistake on my part as well, sir.”
“And Kai sent you this.”
Yoshitaka’s eyes widen. He peers back at the envelope. There’s no return address. “You sound very certain, sir.”
The General lets out a chortle. “The boy smells of subterfuge. Nothing in our database about him?”
“So far the only thing we can pin on him is his association with the Black Lotus, though he’s been with the deflated Daebu. His loyalties are somewhat shaky. There’s a big question mark on his identity, and we still aren’t sure if he’s a big supporter on Namil’s plan to hit a major contractor for his business.”
“Do we have a line on him yet?”
“I’ve dispatched a couple of men to keep him in the grid.”
The General stands up from the dining table and whirls to face the window. The fluorescent lights buzz with static, as it creates an ominous shadow of the two men on the linoleum floor. “He sounds interesting,” he concludes, rubbing the growing stubble on his chin. “He’d probably notice the hounds by now, if he’s really that clever as you say. I hope that you are right, Yoshitaka.”
Yoshitaka eyes the papers with interest. “You wish to use him, sir?”
“That sounds a bit barbaric, don’t you think?” the General says. He grins.
He keeps his head down. Think, Jongin. Think.
He runs. He heads west, directly for the train station. He hurries toward the Euljiro 4-ga entrance, all the while refreshing the application on his phone. He taps the station schedule to check the next train’s arrival.
The train station is clogged with incoming and outgoing passengers. Jongin leaps three steps at a time and tries to get past them, though hampered by the press of people. He has just under five minutes to get on a train to Sincheon. The Line 2 train to Dongdaemun History and Culture Park has already left, and he takes the stairs again to transfer to Line 5. He’ll have to take the longer route to Dongdaemun and transfer there. He cannot afford to wait three minutes for the next Line 2 train. Three minutes can cost him is life. He needs to get onto the next train.
He taps his T-card on the scanner and sweeps through the crowd that thick and thins erratically as he goes. Jongin slips a little on his footing, a tell-tale sign that fatigue is catching up to him. Jongin forces himself to go on.
He takes the stairs down to the Line 5 platform and spots a vending machine. He taps his T-card again, buying every chocolate bar he can under two minutes.
He spots another man lurking at one of the concrete foundations. Jongin curses. “Who the hell are they?” he utters under his breath.
Thirty seconds. He can hear the chimes announcing the approaching train and the distinct rattling of the rails as the train positions itself to a stop.
Jongin rips the wrapper of the chocolate bar with his teeth and spews the torn edge. He bites off a good quarter of it just as he steps in and joins the tide of passengers.
Just as the doors are closing, a man about a foot taller than Jongin-the man he saw studying the ceramics a while ago-scurries inside the same car Jongin is in.
As he sits on the corner next to a primly-dressed grandmother, Jongin watches the man with the cap make his way towards him from the other end of the car. He fishes another chocolate bar from his pocket and eats it as discreetly as he can. The faster he can get the sugar on his system, the better. Another thing that'll come will be the thirst, but that is a problem he'll worry about later.
His phone buzzes in his coat.
“Hello?”
"Where the hell are you?" Sehun's voice is frantic. “The deal is in less than an hour!”
“Sehun! Wait-where are you?”
“What?”
“Right now. Where are you?”
“I'm in Dongdae area. I picked up your suit-”
“Change of plans,” Jongin interjects. The train lurches to a stop. From the corner of his eye, the Capped Man clasps himself from pole to pile, slowly inching towards where Jongin is sitting. “Listen to me, Sehun. I need you to meet me outside Sindang station Line 2. Exit 5. Ten minutes from now.”
“But the deal-”
“We'll make it in time. Just do as I say.”
Sehun is silent for a moment. “I smell something fishy.”
“We'll talk later,” Jongin assures him. “I have the papers tucked safely inside my coat pocket, don't worry. Just trust me, alright?”
“...Alright. Stay safe, Kai.”
The caress in Sehun's voice is hard not to notice as he utters Jongin's alias. Flushing, he hangs up.
The doors open and Jongin steps outside. Weaving through the throng of people, he heads for the stairs. Jongin assumes that somewhere, Capped Man must be concealing a gun. But the sea of people helps him gain a good distance from Capped Man, and he thanks Monday for bringing in the crowd. He wolfs down another chocolate bar to gather his strength, just in case.
Jongin briskly walks out through Exit 2.
He has already memorized every nook and cranny in Dongdaemun, and so he heads to the bicycle parking station of a small restaurant. He picks an old, rickety bike that isn't chained. He sticks two fifty thousand won bills in between the straps of the helmet, hangs it on the railing, and mounts the bike. Jongin pedals with as much force as he can.
A couple of blocks later, Jongin sees Sehun's car parked in front of a 7-Eleven not far from Sindang Statio Exit 5, and after a few yards he spots the owner licking on a strawberry ice cream, poised next to a nearby pole.
It's not over yet, Jongin thinks in dismay, as the hairs at the back of his neck stand up again.
“Nice ride,” Sehun hoots half-heartedly. He hands him a Slurpee.
“I'll explain on the way,” Jongin promises as he unlocks the car door. “Let's get out of here first.”
A look of concern crosses the man's face. “Is everything okay, boss?”
Jongin grits his teeth, and Sehun nods in understanding. “Ahh, we're being tailed. Seems like we're popular now these days,” he says with heavy sarcasm. Trust Sehun to find a ray of sunshine in every trouble. “Or at least you are,” he jeers, raising his eyebrows.
“It doesn't matter,” Jongin tries to wave it off and fails, laughing a little. “Drive fast.”
There are some basic prints on the wall inside the room of the hotel-it's not a grand, five-star one. Just a regular three-star with a dismal standard of service. At least the couriers are not nosy enough to poke around luggage and butt into other people's business.
Jongin has his hair gelled and slipped on his suit. He and a ruddy-faced man he recognizes as one of Ching’s minions are settled on opposite sides of the round table, sitting cross-legged. Only Sehun stands behind Jongin, while the other is backed up by five other burly men.
“Mr. Ching sends his thanks.” He slips his business card across the table, and Jongin studies it briefly. Kang Seungsik. “The mules hadn’t been exactly cooperative, but I am happy that it hasn’t been much of a problem, whereas it would’ve been if we have dealt with someone other than you.”
Jongin smiles the way Kai does. “We deal with only the best.”
Seungsik chuckles appreciatively. “I believe you'd be able to afford our price for our goods. The Black Lotus is famous for its er-salesmen.”
“The price is reasonable for a good stock,” Jongin quips. “It’ll sell like pancakes soon enough.”
The contract signing and the transaction had been swift and silent. As soon as the proper cards are dealt with and swapped over the table, Jongin sighs inwardly. So far so good. Seungsik checks the suitcase filled with small diamonds-the only kind of payment Mr. Ching accepts-and closes the lid after examining the stones at random, satisfied.
Then, Sehun clucks his tongue.
Jongin freezes and turns around. Sehun's face is removed at best, but his eyes are glinting fiercely, sending him a message.
It looks like there won't be time for small talk. Jongin adjusts his lapels and stands up, signaling that the meeting is over. The two men bow at each other and shake hands, and Sehun ushers them outside.
As soon as the door closes, Sehun whispers to Jongin's ear. “Police. The busboy from downstairs beeped me. I've already sent Mr. Kang's men a message.”
“Fuck,” Jongin swears eloquently. “They're getting too smart.”
“We can't take the elevators, and they've probably taken over the stairs.”
Jongin grabs the handles of the suitcases and throws Sehun the car keys. “Let's take the right corridor and take the fire exit at the eight. They probably haven't gotten that far.”
Sehun smiles at him. “The laundry chute?”
Jongin nods, grinning back. They clean the hotel room and hurry out the door. His prediction turns out to be right; the hallways are empty and bleak as they traverse the shadows on the carpeted floor. At the end of it, they climb another flight of stairs to a reinforced metal door.
The small panel can only make way for one person.
Jongin frowns. “Sehun-”
“My limbs are too long,” Sehun reminds him, smile still in place. “You go first.”
“You should get the car ready first. You go-”
“Hey!” The sound of heavy artillery along with the slapping of vests against polyester uniforms is unmistakable. The fear suddenly clutches at Jongin's throat. “You two! Stop right there!”
Sehun then lifts Jongin up by the shoulders, pushing him inside the panel urgently. “Go, Kai! Go! Don’t let them see you!”
“No!” Jongin grips on the edges, letting go of the suitcases in the process. They plunge deep within the chute with a startling sound. “Sehun, you can't-”
A gunshot. With a mighty slap on the back, Sehun pushes Jongin further until the latter tumbles down into the vent. Sehun's sad half smile is the last thing he sees before the darkness invades his eyes.
The fall is too short for Jongin to take in what had just happened. He lands on a heap of dirty clothes, ripping open the big, cotton hamper.
Jongin groans. His head pounds dully, and it seems that he has a bruised rib or two. Tenderly, he kicks the outside of the hamper until it finally breaks. The workers stare after him in shock. Jongin smiles at them weakly.
"Nearest exit?" he croaks.
One fellow points him to the direction with a shaking finger.
Suitcases in hand, Jongin limps towards the backdoor. He pulls back a groan every time he seems to have pulled a muscle but steadies his pace. He exits to a dark alleyway, the asphalt damp from rain, his shoes swishing through puddles.
Jongin grabs the ledge of a chromium ladder on a concrete partition and lifts himself up. With much difficulty, he climbs, the metal railings trembling along as his hands and feet snake upwards to his freedom. He arrives at the top, drops the suitcases to the other side, and places one foot gingerly on the roof of a dumpster.
“Freeze!” Somebody yells at him. Jongin stops in an instant. His other foot slightly scrapes itself on the cement in that moment’s hesitation.
It’s the voice that Jongin had been actively seeking for for eleven years. Even at the ends of the earth, Jongin would recognize it.
“This is police! Put your hands up in the air!” Kyungsoo orders. To his handheld radio, he says, “Southeast exit. I need three men here, stat. And give me Baekhyun on the line.”
Jongin’s heart thunders on his chest. A small seepage of blood is coloring his trousers.
“I said put your hands up where I can see them!” Kyungsoo barks at his back. Jongin can hear the ringing of police sirens in the air, the buzz of the curious neighborhood folk poking their heads out of the windows. Soon, Jongin would be surrounded.
I’m sorry, he thinks.
Jongin leapfrogs from the top of the divider, positioning his feet to lessen the impact. At that moment, Kyungsoo fires his gun, and the bullet grazes his left calf. Pain explodes from his foot, to his thigh, to the roots of his hair when he lands ungracefully onto the asphalt. He bites back a yelp and flees, pushing forward like the wind.
He forces himself not to look back.
The train jounces and rattles along its rails. Crammed inside with the noisy crowd, Jongin sits among them.
He thinks of Sehun. When it comes to him, all of his professional duty and sense of survival had always been bound to his personal feelings. Jongin had once called him out for it, but the man never flinched. He realizes that it’s the essential part of Sehun that Jongin had always depended on, that thin sliver of humanness that he had clung onto desperately. And today, it is exactly the thing that had ultimately saved him.
He understands why his friend did it. Sehun likes him, might love him even, and in the face of despair, Jongin hates himself for it. He wishes with all his heart that Sehun had escaped, but the memory of the sound of the gunshot quashes his hopes immediately.
Jongin feels his eyes prickle with tears, feeling thoroughly shaken. Not only had he discovered some covert organization tailing him, but there’s also the knowledge of Kyungsoo being sent out by the police to capture him. Inside the car of the train, a baby cries, men busy themselves with their smartphones, and women chatter back and forth with equal intensity. Everything and everyone continue on with the burble of the stream, while Jongin remains like a rock, still and alone. He has never felt this sense of being apart from others more clearly than he ever had in his life.
His thoughts drift back to his childhood days, as it always does at times like this. But the happy solace of youth is gone, and the memories are of little service to him now. He misses Uncle, the shaved ice cream he buys for him and Kyungsoo every Friday when he comes home from work.
He misses playing with Kyungsoo when they were kids, misses talking with Kyungsoo at the dead of the night when he can’t sleep, and he wonders whether this is Kim Jongin bubbling up inside of him. An old, familiar sense of sadness sweeps him as he feels the crushing weight of his old life, alongside the epiphany that he won’t ever get to turn things around even after his job is done.
By the time the train arrives to Ahyeon station, the city lights are already flickering on against the early spasms of darkness. The streets are starting to clog as people hurry home or enjoy the night life. The pavement has gotten slippery from the drizzle a few moments ago, making all the drunken partygoers walk in eights as they scramble over the sidewalk with dopey grins. Ignoring the throbbing on his left side, Jongin hails a silver Hyundai.
“To the plaza, please,” Jongin requests. He buries his face on his scarf.
Kyungsoo presses his forefinger onto a fingerprint reader and is immediately rewarded by the clicking of the locks of the door, not unlike a vault of a bank opening. For some reason, he feels awfully uneasy after the drug bust that was executed hours ago. Given that they’ve caught three men more than the usual average (zero), it seems to Kyungsoo that he’s missing something, something very vital. He can feel it violently poking his gut like a harsh, metal rod, refusing to be ignored.
He finds himself in another corridor surrounded by a soft, buttery glow from the lights above. Around the slick, mahogany table is a set of chairs and a sofa that are cramped next to each other. Baekhyun is playing with a deck of cards, his foot propped up on the table in a picture of ease.
“Stressed?” Baekhyun chirps. His brown-blonde hair has been recently styled into a crew-cut after Minseok had thrown a fit over Baekhyun’s badly permed up-do. Kyungsoo remembers the inspector grumbling over the memo for three weeks straight before consenting.
“Right you are,” Kyungsoo sighs, slumping on the sofa next to him. He blows up his cheeks. “I think Deputy Chief Junmeyon made a grave mistake-I’m not sure if I’m up for this assignment without backup. I need a larger team to respond to this. I even failed to catch a man who was trying to cross the perimeter.”
The other man flicks a spade card at him. “Those bastards are masters of that kind of shit, Kyungsoo, no matter how big the crowd of officers are. So don’t worry about it. They love nothing better than to see us running around in circles, chasing our tails, and when they got us off their butts they’d be swooping in for the picking. That’s why we have to stay alert.”
Kyungsoo nods, as if to himself. “How long have you interrogated him?”
“More than hour. Probably an hour and a half. He’s hard to extract information out of, if I may add. There’s a tattoo on his right arm-some kind of flower, maybe, with three skulls and a snake wrapped around its center. They call themselves the Black Leggings or something.”
“Black Lotus,” Kyungsoo corrects. “It’s one of the largest criminal families in Seoul.” Then suddenly, something dawns on him. “Did you ask him about Kai?”
Baekhyun half-grins, half-grimaces. “We did our best, but I feel it my duty to report that the guy laughed in my face when I asked how Kai looked like. He said, ‘You’ll never catch that motherfucker. I swear you won’t’. He’s pretty cute, I’ll give you that, but that guy’s really off his goddamn rocker.”
Kyungsoo tucks this information aside. “What’s his name? And what is he to Kai?”
“Oh Sehun. Around twenty-eight or twenty-nine. The other two prisoners said he’s Kai’s primary linebacker.”
So he’s that important to him, huh, Kyungsoo thinks. He remembers the tall, lanky boy with rich brown hair being shoved roughly inside the police cruiser. Oh Sehun’s expression had remained serene all throughout the drive to the district, and it seemed that he won’t back down without a fierce fight if it meant protecting his boss. He had never expected this kind of loyalty.
Kyungsoo frowns to himself. There are all sorts of wrong in the assignment from the start-the ridiculously obvious venue, the lack of assisting operatives despite of the fact that one of the most notorious drug rings is the core of the case-but Kyungsoo believes that they’re barely scratching the surface. What else is he missing?
Having the second-in-command in custody won’t do. Kyungsoo is sure Kai is strutting around somewhere in Seoul, unleashing his arsenal of nefarious deeds that would lead the city to ruins.
The Black Lotus, that guy who leapt of the hedge. Call him overly righteous, but Kyungsoo hates everyone who thinks that they’re completely above the law, that they think they are perfectly capable to distort peace and order for their own selfish needs.
Damn the SMPA. Kyungsoo is going to catch Kai, even if it means tracking the bastard all by himself.
“Ever gave much thought on ‘good cop versus bad cop’?” he starts after a moment’s thought.
“Now you’re talking,” Baekhyun woops in delight. He immediately springs up from his seat. “Shall we play, Team Leader Do?”
The apartment is on the third floor, down a bleak corridor and surrounded by the silky perfume of air fresheners. The stairs leading up to the room is gracefully tiled, with a fine layer of coating for a slick finish.
Jongin finds the door to the apartment with no trouble. He puts his ear against it, listening for any sort of movement inside. When he hears none, he picks on the lock with the edge of a bobby pin he keeps in his pocket, and turns the doorknob. He gets a whiff of musk as he enters, scrunching his nose in disgust. He has always disliked this particular brand of cologne.
He moves into the living room silently and waits.
It was autumn of November 2010. The wind had been exceptionally frigid and frosty, a warning glimpse of one of the harshest winters to ever enter the city. The grimy streets from what used to be Jongin’s stead had been decorated with paper planes that had been shredded to bits by rowdy kids that ran amok. The nearby orphanage had been struggling with the increasing amount of children they had to take in, Jongin had heard.
He spotted Kyungsoo, wearing a worn-out wool hat up to the lobes of his ears, sweeping the front. He was dumping the yellowing leaves to a trash bag when he finally notices Jongin. Jongin watched him closely, but there was no flicker of emotion that crossed the other’s face.
Kyungsoo eyed Jongin’s tattered jeans, black wifebeater, and beat-up denim jacket. “Who are you?” he asked plainly.
Jongin had been twenty, with Kyungsoo a year older. Was three years really such a long time?
“Stop messing with me, hyung,” Jongin told him, trying for a laugh. He smiled as winningly as he could. “It’s me, your Jongin. How are you?”
Kyungsoo’s lips spread itself over his face into a very thin line, before responding with the longest speech Jongin had ever heard him say, “The Jongin I know wouldn’t leave his family without telling them, then showing up years later looking like a gangster. He wouldn’t be asking me how I am, because that Jongin-that Jongin had always been by our side. He wouldn’t ask because he knows. And that Jongin-if he did leave-wouldn’t expect me to welcome him instantly with open arms.”
Kyungsoo props his broom to the gate and turns his back at Jongin, heading back inside. “No, you are not Jongin. You are not my Jongin,” he said coldly. “So, who the fuck are you?”
PART 2
ʚ Pairing(s): Kyungsoo/Jongin; Sehun/Jongin
ʚ Rating: NC-17
ʚ Warnings: Violence, language, mentions of sex, death of a minor character
ʚ Word Count: 16,000 words
ʚ Summary: "Is it Jongin or Kai?"
ʚ Message for your recipient/author note: Thank you to my moms for holding my hand throughout the long brainstorming process for this fic. Thank you to the mods for the opportunity to join this exchange! To my recipient: writing this has been quite a challenge, and even after much revision, it still isn’t up to par with what I envisioned. I’m really sorry about that. I did try my best, and I hope you’ll like this still.
“Who is Kai?”
Jongin shrugs. Sehun has asked the question so seriously-his light brown eyes watching him in such a solemn manner he has never seen before-that Jongin feels obliged to answer.
He clears his throat. “Kai is a man with no family, no kids, living comfortably as a nefarious drug dealer can be under all the circumstances. I have to say it’s weird for you to ask me that. Why with the sudden seriousness?”
Sehun laughs, and to Jongin’s ears it seems that the other is trying to sound flippant. “Nothing. Just feeling that you’ve been under the weather lately ever since that deal with Mr. Yoshitaka flopped. You’ve been taking on a lot more and with great success, but you don’t seem satisfied.”
“You’re right. I’m not,” Jongin replies. His mouth forms an appreciative gesture as he finishes his coffee. It tastes just the way he liked it: strong, but milky and sweet. “But who is? Mr. Yoshitaka raked in five times more than all the other nut jobs we’ve dealt with in the last two weeks-who wouldn’t be disappointed when the blue fin got away, only to catch two tons of anchovy?”
Sehun cocks his head. “The Kai before would’ve settled with the anchovy, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” Sehun pauses, gauging Jongin’s severe expression before continuing, “You used to say, ‘any deal is a good deal; all money is good money’. But you seem a thousand times more restless these days. Is there something bothering you, Kai? Anything I can help with? I’ll do everything I can, you know.”
Jongin scratches his head, before flashing him a wry smile. If anything happened, if Jongin ever finds himself in a drastic schism between him and his henchmen, he can trust Sehun to be always by his side, unwavering. It’s both humbling and disconcerting. “It’s nothing you have to trouble yourself with. You know I’ve had my eye on Mr. Yoshitaka’s factory ever since I’ve heard about it. It’s just disappointing that I have to start from scratch again.”
“You’re good at what you do, so don’t worry about it too much.”
“Too much faith is always a bad thing, Sehun.”
Sehun purses his lips in haughty disdain. “Who said I have too much faith? Just stating the facts.”
Jongin chuckles off-handedly as the waiter, dressed in a white flannel shirt and jeans, takes out the empty coffee cups and gives each of them a glass of water. “Is this why you took me out to dinner? To soothe my worry-wart self?”
“What do you think?”
Jongin takes in the hint of a blush coloring Sehun’s high cheekbones, and Jongin reddens despite himself. “I appreciate it, Sehun,” he says quietly. “I always have.”
“That’s not what I wanted to hear, but thanks,” Sehun confesses, then laughs. “I think it’s easier for us both, like this. You told me before you haven’t gotten over your childhood friend. I guess that’s still the case.”
Jongin nods, eyes heavily trained on the drips of condensation on the glass. Tonight, Sehun is dressed in a wool sweater, with his hair styled luxuriously from the front up. He internally berates himself for being insensitive, for being an awful person to Sehun.
Sehun then leans forward, elbows on the table. “You haven’t made any effort to contact him, though. It would be better for me at least if you did-I hate seeing you miserable, Kai.”
“He’s,” Jongin sighs. “Not going to be happy to see me. Like this, I mean.”
“Don’t you miss him?”
I do. Terribly. “He’s ended up on the better half of the spectrum,” Jongin explains. “The truth is he’s far better off where he is, without knowing how I turned out to be. There’s the constant danger from my Kai identity. I’ve gotten my hands too dirty for this, and I won’t make that mistake of soiling him just to make myself happy.”
“I know where you’re coming from,” Sehun mumbles to himself, before straightening up and saying, “But even through all that… he’ll like you even if you’re Kai, right? It’s still you essentially. It doesn’t have to be one way or another.”
Jongin laughs flatly. “That’s the thing. He won’t.”
His steps are dark and virtually morose as he’s admitted past checkpoint after checkpoint in the west wing of the hotel. Jongin’s job is daunting as it is life-threatening, especially in the aftermath of the security breach by the police last month and the recent failed contract with the Japanese suppliers. Namil hadn’t been exactly happy about the setbacks.
Jongin exhales wearily. After a decade of sweeping through Seoul’s dingy streets for pot princes and narcotic addicts, Jongin has dug himself a grave deeper than the usual six-feet under. And it’s too early for him to be dead: at twenty-six, he’s the youngest dealer to have ever encroached (and consequently, destroyed) six of the eighteen local drug rings in Seoul. He’d been through the highly lucrative Xing Lao group and shook the whole cavern until it toppled over itself, a feat that no one, not even the kingpin would ever precisely know how he did it.
Jongin had endured bullet wounds, held his ground against irrational business partners, sidestepped every trap that had meant his undoing-and now, Jongin thinks as he stops at the ominous metal door to adjust the stiff collar of his shirt, he’s finally here.
“Ahh, just the man I’ve wanted to see! Please take a seat here, Kai!” Lee Namil greets, swirling his glass of champagne too hard that some of its contents spilled from the rim of his glass onto his hand. He lets out a groan as shakes his hand. “I hope you have some good news to share with us. It’s quite the unlucky month-I’m presuming you’ve heard of that incompetent bastard Seokjin losing the supplier to Mr. Hwan.”
Jongin bows before taking a seat. He can hear the trudges of the combat boots of the two henchmen as they close in on him, as well as the faint moan of poor Kang Seokjin behind the storage doors. The pungent scent of fresh blood in the air is the first thing Jongin noticed when he came inside.
Namil then bangs a fist on the table. Jongin is already used to the heavy sounds coming from his boss that he doesn’t flinch. “Yeesh, we’ve lost sixty million to that saucy, little gnat! Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.” He snaps his fingers impatiently. “You, kid-Kai-just give me something I won’t have to worry about.”
Jongin cranes his neck as he brings out the papers from his suit pocket. He spreads them all over the table and points to the spreadsheets neatly stapled at one end. “Mr. Song Gitae had his Toyota stolen yesterday in front of the function he had attended during dinnertime.”
“And so?”
“The glove compartment contained some of the Im Wongil pharmacy’s classified documents. There’s one that had described all the contract orders coming in and out of the port in Ulsan-in the exact ship Mr. Yoshitaka contact has been smuggling all the chemicals to the country, and at the end of this month they have one shipment that’s heading straight for the lab in Jinju.”
Namil’s eyes turn into slits. “You mean Song’s lab.”
He nods. “The cargo is set to disembark at five-thirty in the morning, and it’ll probably arrive at nine in the latest, assuming there’s no hold-up at the port and they bypass all security-”
“We’re talking about The General, son. He can pull out an elephant from his hat, for all we know.” He strokes his white beard, and then grins widely at Jongin. “How did you steal the car?”
Jongin lets himself smile dimly at the memory. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say steal. Mr. Song gave me the keys.”
“What did you say?”
“The always give the valet the keys.” Jongin takes out a name badge from his pocket. Glossed with enamel, the words Jang Yuki stylized in bold letters.
Namil gives him a subtle once-over, his eyes flickering back and forth from the documents to Jongin’s face, before snorting disdainfully. “If only my men used their brain half as much as you do,” he grumbles, scratching at the roundness of his potbelly. “But what is it that you want me to do with this? I understand what you’re getting at, boy, but I’d be remiss to let you near The General again. Do you remember what happened last time?”
Jongin sighs. “It’s unlikely that I would forget. But get this, Chief.” He flips the spreadsheet to the last page, and points to the highlighted cell at the bottom corner. “Mr. Song is eighty million short to secure the lab.”
“What do you mean?” Namil straightens his posture, ears perked up. “Are you saying he’s in debt?”
“Yes. The lab is apparently on the verge of being foreclosed, as well as Im Wongil’s other properties, and this deal with Mr. Yoshitaka is the only thing that could save them from debt-”
“While that is all uhh-compelling, Kai,” Namil interrupts, shaking his head deeply. “I refuse to be manhandled by that former Yakuza again and his big boss. I can hear you suggesting taking over Mr. Song’s business by streaming most of the funds we have for the casino. And can you hear that my answer is no?”
Without even blinking, Jongin returns Namil’s gaze and squares his shoulders. “How about this, Chief? Mr. Yoshitaka has no inkling that Mr. Song’s lab is about to be foreclosed,” he replies emphatically. “I say we head straight for the foundations. Wreck the old, withering one-”
“And build something new,” Namil finishes for him, nodding.
Much to Jongin’s relief, the chief flips through the proposal, and turns it over to him with a wry smile. “You think you can accomplish this on your own?”
Have you ever even given me a proper team? Jongin wryly asks in his head before replying, “I have Sehun. And I won’t disappoint you again.”
“Of course you won’t.” Namil waves off his henchmen guarding the door. “There’s no more room for mistakes for you. You’re Kai. One mistake is your limit.”
Jongin bows. As the doors open and he slides to the corridor, he hears the echo of a scream hollowly in his mind.
“A matter of concern has cropped up and I need your opinion.”
Jongdae, a short man of vivacious energy despite the weariness that is his job, laughs with great enthusiasm. “You have to stop making yourself sound like you’re forty, Kai. It’ll never make you less of a kid than you really are.”
Jongin rolls his eyes. He dumps a thick folder filled with paperwork on Jongdae’s cluttered desk. “I’d like to emphasize the humungous gap that is our age, professor. And Chief wants you to look up several of Mr. Yoshitaka’s trips to Jinju. See if there are any irregularities on the time, place, date, anything.”
“That’s strange. I thought Namil had already given up on The General as the supplier. Can I blame you for the sudden change of heart? You seem to be the only one who’s anxious to have him on board.”
“That’s why I’m asking you,” Jongin says. Jongdae points at the empty computer chair, and the younger sits, all the while shifting uncomfortably. “This conversation is in strict confidence?”
He smiles indulgently. “I can assure you.”
“Well, this-this deal will be over a hundred million. It’s going to keep Chief and the casino afloat for more than half a decade or so, right?” Jongin pauses to look at Jongdae meaningfully. “I mean, I want to ask you if it’s enough.”
Jongdae seems to think about it for a second. “If Chief plays his cards right, probably even more than ten years. The casino, as I’ve mentioned before, is good investment. With Mr. Jung’s and Mr. Han’s corporation on a standstill due to the huge drug bust five months ago, we won’t have any competition for a good two years. We have the running advantage, assuming that the latest deal with Mr. Ching would go well.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“You’ve talked a lot about leaving before. Do you still think you’d be able to do it?”
Jongin sighs, looking down. “Honestly, I-I don’t think the other me is dead. He’s not crippled. He’s not staying silent either. He’s still inside of me, professor. When I fall asleep, I dream of his life as if it was someone else’s, and I wake up feeling like a part of me has been taken away. I think this is the only way to stop myself from feeling like this. I haven’t… let go of my other life completely.”
“So,” Jongdae nods. “This is your plan.”
Jongin smiles sheepishly. “Not well-thought out, huh?”
“No, no. Brilliant, like you are, but still laden with some holes. I’m guessing you have Plan B?”
He shakes his head, standing up from his chair. “No, not really. Still working on that part. I’m hoping that the plan won’t blow up on me at the last minute, you know?”
“We all wish that, Kai,” Jongdae tells him, giving him a small wave in goodbye. “And yeah-about that other thing in your plan.”
“What about it?”
The elder purses his lips, eyes up on the ceiling. Jongin thinks that Jongdae at that moment is an image of the scholar he really is, hands neatly folded on his lap as he says his thoughts out loud. “I’m sure that it’ll all end well, but really, how much of love depends on memories?”
Jongin stops. He feels the air go thick around him that he finds it difficult to breathe all of a sudden. “He… he won’t remember me.”
“Kai-yah, do you really believe that? Do you want to? Or does it just make things a lot easier?” Jongdae asks him, his tone soft while his gaze is as hard as iron.
“It’s hard,” Jongin’s voice shakes. “But he-I owe a lot to him. He’s the only thing that I have left of my other life. I tried but I can’t sever it. Sever him.”
“It’s been eleven years. Don’t you think it’s foolish of you to keep him within arm’s length? Considering how the tides had pushed you guys to two different shores?”
When Jongin doesn’t answer, Jongdae settles with sighing resignedly. He calmly shoots his empty Styrofoam cup to the trash bin and shrugs. He says, “Well, the odds are one in a million. But who knows, that boy might be just as foolish as you.”
Jongin runs across the street, spinning and turning through the maze of streets, heading right after five blocks and then going left again. He hopes he’s not too late.
He enters the large yogurt shop, the bells chiming along with the ambient noise. The crisscrossing of people going in and out of the store makes it easier for Jongin to slip in and out undetected, and he orders a blueberry flavored smoothie at the counter before making his way down the usual table seated near the rear. From that vantage point, Jongin can see clearly everyone who comes inside.
He looks at his watch. It’s already six thirty in the evening. Any minute now.
A few, wide-eyed teenagers comes in. Some Jongin recognizes as regulars head to their usual seats, the manager greeting them fondly and asking for their orders himself.
The bell chimes.
“Ahh, Kyungsoo-ssi!”
Jongin ducks his head.
“Doohwan-ssi!” the man greets, bowing slightly. His pale skin shines sickly against his black, cashmere sweater-it makes Jongin’s forehead crease, and he wonders whether Kyungsoo had been eating right these days. “How is your wife?” Jongin hears Kyungsoo ask. “She’s been discharged from the hospital, right?”
“Having a third child is vicious,” the store manager Doohwan claims. “I almost regret impregnating my wife with my demon sperm; her wails in the delivery room will be embedded in my head forever.”
Kyungsoo chuckles, and Jongin’s ears perk up. He can feel his cheeks go warm. “She’s a fighter. I wouldn’t disregard her in the battle just yet.”
From the corner of his eyes, Jongin can see Doohwan scratching the back of his head. “Well, Kyungsoo-ssi. My advice: if you want to keep a steady career, don’t ever get married. It’d only be your undoing.”
Kyungsoo snorts. “Funny. My whole department is suggesting the opposite.”
“See, that’s because those dunderheads in your task force haven’t cottoned up to the big picture,” Doohwan shrugs. “With all the things you’ve been exposed to, you folks have a different conception of marriage-like you’ve all grown past the stage of being wise, just so that you’d keep your humanity intact.” The blender cringes to a stop, and quickly, the boy at the counter hands Kyungsoo his drink.
“No matter. You’ve always been the strange one, Kyungsoo-ssi. I trust you wouldn’t turn out as miserable as I am in the long run,” the manager titters, and Jongin stifles a laugh by biting on the edge of his straw. He can almost picture Kyungsoo rolling his owlish eyes in mock annoyance.
“I’m all around pleased that you’ve confirmed my social stigma,” Kyungsoo responds flatly. “Thanks for the drink!”
Jongin looks up as soon as he hears boots trudging on the floor, and just in time sees Kyungsoo walking out of the store. He hungrily takes in the plumpness of Kyungsoo’s lips, the redness of Kyungsoo’s nose, the curve of Kyungsoo’s neck. He watches him hunch back again as he walks out of the store and enters the rest of the world.
With his posture, Do Kyungsoo looks like an ordinary person going out for a walk in the evening, but his right hand betrays him as it constantly brushes against his side. Jongin can tell it’s where Kyungsoo holsters his gun. And there’s also the matter of Kyungsoo’s eyes. Restless, they keep on darting warily, always on the lookout, like its owner is waiting for something bad to leap at him.
Like a routine, Jongin debates with himself whether he’d follow Kyungsoo back to the headquarters or not, and, like always, the righteous side of him always wins. He’s satisfied that Doohwan has managed yet again to make quiet Kyungsoo sputter a word or two, and hands the store manager a tip. Doohwan accepts the five thousand won, confused, but delighted all the same.
It’s nine o’ clock when Jongin arrives home. At the bed, he lies on his back, one arm behind his head. He’s bone-tired from the lack of sleep, but the insomnia creeps up on him tonight, making him feel that rest will once again be light-years away.
But really, Jongdae’s voice rings too loud in his ears. How much of love depends on memories?
Jongin sighs. He wishes that he would remember nothing of his life when he was young, that through the race towards coveting control of the underground drug trade in Seoul, he had crashed into something, cocked his head onto something hard-anything-just so that he’d be the one with no memories at all. And Kyungsoo? Jongin’s sure that he’s the only one backtracking, as the young inspector is set on moving forward in his life.
“I’m an idiot,” Jongin whispers.
His thoughts drift to the deal with The General, the millions of dollars the signing of the contract entails.
Jongin rakes in a deep breath.
It goes without question now that Kai has to succeed.
Kim Junmyeon, dressed impeccably in a royal blue suit, stares straight at the images being shown at the projector. To his side is Zhang Yixing, who serves as Junmyeon’s second in command. Along the oval table, the rest of the investigations division waits for the deputy chief to further comment. With the light coming from the screen, Kyungsoo can ascertain that, except for the chief, all the faces inside the meeting room are grim.
“Tell me about Kai,” is what Junmyeon first says. His voice is light and almost conversational, but it does nothing to mask the tense tenor of authority in it.
Minseok, the superintendent of investigations, speaks up. “That’s… sort of hard to answer. Some swear he’s a spy from North Korea, others say he’s a freelance assassin. We have witnesses and prisoners saying that he killed five Chinese nationals who had crossed him, along with thirty other notorious gang members-the body count is so high it’s ridiculous, Chief. This Kai person is an enigma. The only thing the division has gathered is that he’s indisputably part of or in cahoots with the Black Lotus gang, which is vying for control over the drug market. All I can say is that he’s a very dangerous man and as slippery as an eel.”
“Impressive, if that’s all true,” Junmyeon notes with a firm nod. He flips through the papers on his hand and frowns. “I’ve read the report last night. There’s one statement that says Kai’s eyes are-and I quote, ‘scarlet-red as vivid as blood. It could kill you instantly once his gaze meets yours. Do not cross him’.”
Minseok looks down, his cheeks coloring in shame.
“So you have no idea what the man actually looks like?”
“We’re working on it.”
Junmyeon glances back at the powerpoint, and Kyungsoo watches as the chief’s face morphs into an impenetrable mask. Yixing hasn’t said a word throughout the meeting, studying the graphs displayed on the screen.
“Do Kyungsoo-ssi,” Junmyeon speaks finally. Kyungsoo’s spine stiffens instantly at the sound of his name.
Minseok nudges him slightly, and Kyungsoo replies, “Yes?”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven, Chief.”
Junmyeon is still looking at the powerpoint. “It’s been a month since your promotion. How is it?”
“I’ve been working hard, Chief. Thank you.”
“Good. I guess you can afford to bust your back a little harder for this one. Minseok-ssi, hand over this assignment to Mr. Do. I think we need more youthful vigor for this case.”
Before Kyungsoo could argue, Minseok has the sense to clamp a hand on the younger’s wrist. Let me take care of this.
“Yes, I will.” Minseok bows in agreement. “But what should we do about the embezzlement case with the clothing company-”
“This division has three teams, right?” Junmyeon cuts in, smiling slightly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then pass it on to the other team who has free time on their hands. I hope that’s fair enough.”
No team in investigations has ‘free time on their hands’, but nobody can outflank the deputy chief or has a sound counterargument. Cases go round and round every time in the division, until it’s solved or the trail goes cold.
Kyungsoo keeps his face rigid, expression inscrutable enough to rival Junmyeon’s. His eyes bore holes at the name on the third report on his desk.
Kai.
Kai, Kai, Kai.
Jongin goes down the stairs out of his apartment building when suddenly the hairs behind his neck begin to prickle uncomfortably. The feeling then travels down to his spine, then to his gut.
Immediately, he walks around the block. He stations himself near the rack selling newspapers and tabloids, pretending to flip through some. Automobiles dash hurriedly on the street, and pedestrians snake through as soon as the traffic lights go red. Three young women in high school uniforms walk past him, laughing at some joke Jongin barely hears.
He marks the man wearing a black cap across the road. To any casual observer, it would seem that the person is just window shopping at the ceramic store, but Jongin sees the man’s firm stance. He can decipher that the muscles on his back are coiled and tensed to spring at Jongin at any moment.
Jongin exhales, biting back a curse.
“He’s excellent.”
The General puts down his fork. “How so?”
“Besides breaking and entering and avoiding surveillance,” Yoshitaka Nomura begins. His shirt sleeves are hitched up to his elbow. “Kai seems to know his way around the market, if you know what I mean.”
The General grunts, peering at the slim-faced comrade. He dabs a napkin on the ends of his mouth. “And what about Mr. Song?”
“We’ve backed the wrong horse, sir. Shinhan’s foreclosing Im Wongil in three months,” Yoshitaka reports, handing in an envelope containing all of the company’s intercepts.
“Okay.” The General doesn’t seem to be perturbed at the slightest. “Any sister agencies?”
“None, sir. The Black Lotus is our best bet.”
“I guess it was a mistake to void the deal and cut off the ear of one of Namil’s lapdogs.”
“It was a mistake on my part as well, sir.”
“And Kai sent you this.”
Yoshitaka’s eyes widen. He peers back at the envelope. There’s no return address. “You sound very certain, sir.”
The General lets out a chortle. “The boy smells of subterfuge. Nothing in our database about him?”
“So far the only thing we can pin on him is his association with the Black Lotus, though he’s been with the deflated Daebu. His loyalties are somewhat shaky. There’s a big question mark on his identity, and we still aren’t sure if he’s a big supporter on Namil’s plan to hit a major contractor for his business.”
“Do we have a line on him yet?”
“I’ve dispatched a couple of men to keep him in the grid.”
The General stands up from the dining table and whirls to face the window. The fluorescent lights buzz with static, as it creates an ominous shadow of the two men on the linoleum floor. “He sounds interesting,” he concludes, rubbing the growing stubble on his chin. “He’d probably notice the hounds by now, if he’s really that clever as you say. I hope that you are right, Yoshitaka.”
Yoshitaka eyes the papers with interest. “You wish to use him, sir?”
“That sounds a bit barbaric, don’t you think?” the General says. He grins.
He keeps his head down. Think, Jongin. Think.
He runs. He heads west, directly for the train station. He hurries toward the Euljiro 4-ga entrance, all the while refreshing the application on his phone. He taps the station schedule to check the next train’s arrival.
The train station is clogged with incoming and outgoing passengers. Jongin leaps three steps at a time and tries to get past them, though hampered by the press of people. He has just under five minutes to get on a train to Sincheon. The Line 2 train to Dongdaemun History and Culture Park has already left, and he takes the stairs again to transfer to Line 5. He’ll have to take the longer route to Dongdaemun and transfer there. He cannot afford to wait three minutes for the next Line 2 train. Three minutes can cost him is life. He needs to get onto the next train.
He taps his T-card on the scanner and sweeps through the crowd that thick and thins erratically as he goes. Jongin slips a little on his footing, a tell-tale sign that fatigue is catching up to him. Jongin forces himself to go on.
He takes the stairs down to the Line 5 platform and spots a vending machine. He taps his T-card again, buying every chocolate bar he can under two minutes.
He spots another man lurking at one of the concrete foundations. Jongin curses. “Who the hell are they?” he utters under his breath.
Thirty seconds. He can hear the chimes announcing the approaching train and the distinct rattling of the rails as the train positions itself to a stop.
Jongin rips the wrapper of the chocolate bar with his teeth and spews the torn edge. He bites off a good quarter of it just as he steps in and joins the tide of passengers.
Just as the doors are closing, a man about a foot taller than Jongin-the man he saw studying the ceramics a while ago-scurries inside the same car Jongin is in.
As he sits on the corner next to a primly-dressed grandmother, Jongin watches the man with the cap make his way towards him from the other end of the car. He fishes another chocolate bar from his pocket and eats it as discreetly as he can. The faster he can get the sugar on his system, the better. Another thing that'll come will be the thirst, but that is a problem he'll worry about later.
His phone buzzes in his coat.
“Hello?”
"Where the hell are you?" Sehun's voice is frantic. “The deal is in less than an hour!”
“Sehun! Wait-where are you?”
“What?”
“Right now. Where are you?”
“I'm in Dongdae area. I picked up your suit-”
“Change of plans,” Jongin interjects. The train lurches to a stop. From the corner of his eye, the Capped Man clasps himself from pole to pile, slowly inching towards where Jongin is sitting. “Listen to me, Sehun. I need you to meet me outside Sindang station Line 2. Exit 5. Ten minutes from now.”
“But the deal-”
“We'll make it in time. Just do as I say.”
Sehun is silent for a moment. “I smell something fishy.”
“We'll talk later,” Jongin assures him. “I have the papers tucked safely inside my coat pocket, don't worry. Just trust me, alright?”
“...Alright. Stay safe, Kai.”
The caress in Sehun's voice is hard not to notice as he utters Jongin's alias. Flushing, he hangs up.
The doors open and Jongin steps outside. Weaving through the throng of people, he heads for the stairs. Jongin assumes that somewhere, Capped Man must be concealing a gun. But the sea of people helps him gain a good distance from Capped Man, and he thanks Monday for bringing in the crowd. He wolfs down another chocolate bar to gather his strength, just in case.
Jongin briskly walks out through Exit 2.
He has already memorized every nook and cranny in Dongdaemun, and so he heads to the bicycle parking station of a small restaurant. He picks an old, rickety bike that isn't chained. He sticks two fifty thousand won bills in between the straps of the helmet, hangs it on the railing, and mounts the bike. Jongin pedals with as much force as he can.
A couple of blocks later, Jongin sees Sehun's car parked in front of a 7-Eleven not far from Sindang Statio Exit 5, and after a few yards he spots the owner licking on a strawberry ice cream, poised next to a nearby pole.
It's not over yet, Jongin thinks in dismay, as the hairs at the back of his neck stand up again.
“Nice ride,” Sehun hoots half-heartedly. He hands him a Slurpee.
“I'll explain on the way,” Jongin promises as he unlocks the car door. “Let's get out of here first.”
A look of concern crosses the man's face. “Is everything okay, boss?”
Jongin grits his teeth, and Sehun nods in understanding. “Ahh, we're being tailed. Seems like we're popular now these days,” he says with heavy sarcasm. Trust Sehun to find a ray of sunshine in every trouble. “Or at least you are,” he jeers, raising his eyebrows.
“It doesn't matter,” Jongin tries to wave it off and fails, laughing a little. “Drive fast.”
There are some basic prints on the wall inside the room of the hotel-it's not a grand, five-star one. Just a regular three-star with a dismal standard of service. At least the couriers are not nosy enough to poke around luggage and butt into other people's business.
Jongin has his hair gelled and slipped on his suit. He and a ruddy-faced man he recognizes as one of Ching’s minions are settled on opposite sides of the round table, sitting cross-legged. Only Sehun stands behind Jongin, while the other is backed up by five other burly men.
“Mr. Ching sends his thanks.” He slips his business card across the table, and Jongin studies it briefly. Kang Seungsik. “The mules hadn’t been exactly cooperative, but I am happy that it hasn’t been much of a problem, whereas it would’ve been if we have dealt with someone other than you.”
Jongin smiles the way Kai does. “We deal with only the best.”
Seungsik chuckles appreciatively. “I believe you'd be able to afford our price for our goods. The Black Lotus is famous for its er-salesmen.”
“The price is reasonable for a good stock,” Jongin quips. “It’ll sell like pancakes soon enough.”
The contract signing and the transaction had been swift and silent. As soon as the proper cards are dealt with and swapped over the table, Jongin sighs inwardly. So far so good. Seungsik checks the suitcase filled with small diamonds-the only kind of payment Mr. Ching accepts-and closes the lid after examining the stones at random, satisfied.
Then, Sehun clucks his tongue.
Jongin freezes and turns around. Sehun's face is removed at best, but his eyes are glinting fiercely, sending him a message.
It looks like there won't be time for small talk. Jongin adjusts his lapels and stands up, signaling that the meeting is over. The two men bow at each other and shake hands, and Sehun ushers them outside.
As soon as the door closes, Sehun whispers to Jongin's ear. “Police. The busboy from downstairs beeped me. I've already sent Mr. Kang's men a message.”
“Fuck,” Jongin swears eloquently. “They're getting too smart.”
“We can't take the elevators, and they've probably taken over the stairs.”
Jongin grabs the handles of the suitcases and throws Sehun the car keys. “Let's take the right corridor and take the fire exit at the eight. They probably haven't gotten that far.”
Sehun smiles at him. “The laundry chute?”
Jongin nods, grinning back. They clean the hotel room and hurry out the door. His prediction turns out to be right; the hallways are empty and bleak as they traverse the shadows on the carpeted floor. At the end of it, they climb another flight of stairs to a reinforced metal door.
The small panel can only make way for one person.
Jongin frowns. “Sehun-”
“My limbs are too long,” Sehun reminds him, smile still in place. “You go first.”
“You should get the car ready first. You go-”
“Hey!” The sound of heavy artillery along with the slapping of vests against polyester uniforms is unmistakable. The fear suddenly clutches at Jongin's throat. “You two! Stop right there!”
Sehun then lifts Jongin up by the shoulders, pushing him inside the panel urgently. “Go, Kai! Go! Don’t let them see you!”
“No!” Jongin grips on the edges, letting go of the suitcases in the process. They plunge deep within the chute with a startling sound. “Sehun, you can't-”
A gunshot. With a mighty slap on the back, Sehun pushes Jongin further until the latter tumbles down into the vent. Sehun's sad half smile is the last thing he sees before the darkness invades his eyes.
The fall is too short for Jongin to take in what had just happened. He lands on a heap of dirty clothes, ripping open the big, cotton hamper.
Jongin groans. His head pounds dully, and it seems that he has a bruised rib or two. Tenderly, he kicks the outside of the hamper until it finally breaks. The workers stare after him in shock. Jongin smiles at them weakly.
"Nearest exit?" he croaks.
One fellow points him to the direction with a shaking finger.
Suitcases in hand, Jongin limps towards the backdoor. He pulls back a groan every time he seems to have pulled a muscle but steadies his pace. He exits to a dark alleyway, the asphalt damp from rain, his shoes swishing through puddles.
Jongin grabs the ledge of a chromium ladder on a concrete partition and lifts himself up. With much difficulty, he climbs, the metal railings trembling along as his hands and feet snake upwards to his freedom. He arrives at the top, drops the suitcases to the other side, and places one foot gingerly on the roof of a dumpster.
“Freeze!” Somebody yells at him. Jongin stops in an instant. His other foot slightly scrapes itself on the cement in that moment’s hesitation.
It’s the voice that Jongin had been actively seeking for for eleven years. Even at the ends of the earth, Jongin would recognize it.
“This is police! Put your hands up in the air!” Kyungsoo orders. To his handheld radio, he says, “Southeast exit. I need three men here, stat. And give me Baekhyun on the line.”
Jongin’s heart thunders on his chest. A small seepage of blood is coloring his trousers.
“I said put your hands up where I can see them!” Kyungsoo barks at his back. Jongin can hear the ringing of police sirens in the air, the buzz of the curious neighborhood folk poking their heads out of the windows. Soon, Jongin would be surrounded.
I’m sorry, he thinks.
Jongin leapfrogs from the top of the divider, positioning his feet to lessen the impact. At that moment, Kyungsoo fires his gun, and the bullet grazes his left calf. Pain explodes from his foot, to his thigh, to the roots of his hair when he lands ungracefully onto the asphalt. He bites back a yelp and flees, pushing forward like the wind.
He forces himself not to look back.
The train jounces and rattles along its rails. Crammed inside with the noisy crowd, Jongin sits among them.
He thinks of Sehun. When it comes to him, all of his professional duty and sense of survival had always been bound to his personal feelings. Jongin had once called him out for it, but the man never flinched. He realizes that it’s the essential part of Sehun that Jongin had always depended on, that thin sliver of humanness that he had clung onto desperately. And today, it is exactly the thing that had ultimately saved him.
He understands why his friend did it. Sehun likes him, might love him even, and in the face of despair, Jongin hates himself for it. He wishes with all his heart that Sehun had escaped, but the memory of the sound of the gunshot quashes his hopes immediately.
Jongin feels his eyes prickle with tears, feeling thoroughly shaken. Not only had he discovered some covert organization tailing him, but there’s also the knowledge of Kyungsoo being sent out by the police to capture him. Inside the car of the train, a baby cries, men busy themselves with their smartphones, and women chatter back and forth with equal intensity. Everything and everyone continue on with the burble of the stream, while Jongin remains like a rock, still and alone. He has never felt this sense of being apart from others more clearly than he ever had in his life.
His thoughts drift back to his childhood days, as it always does at times like this. But the happy solace of youth is gone, and the memories are of little service to him now. He misses Uncle, the shaved ice cream he buys for him and Kyungsoo every Friday when he comes home from work.
He misses playing with Kyungsoo when they were kids, misses talking with Kyungsoo at the dead of the night when he can’t sleep, and he wonders whether this is Kim Jongin bubbling up inside of him. An old, familiar sense of sadness sweeps him as he feels the crushing weight of his old life, alongside the epiphany that he won’t ever get to turn things around even after his job is done.
By the time the train arrives to Ahyeon station, the city lights are already flickering on against the early spasms of darkness. The streets are starting to clog as people hurry home or enjoy the night life. The pavement has gotten slippery from the drizzle a few moments ago, making all the drunken partygoers walk in eights as they scramble over the sidewalk with dopey grins. Ignoring the throbbing on his left side, Jongin hails a silver Hyundai.
“To the plaza, please,” Jongin requests. He buries his face on his scarf.
Kyungsoo presses his forefinger onto a fingerprint reader and is immediately rewarded by the clicking of the locks of the door, not unlike a vault of a bank opening. For some reason, he feels awfully uneasy after the drug bust that was executed hours ago. Given that they’ve caught three men more than the usual average (zero), it seems to Kyungsoo that he’s missing something, something very vital. He can feel it violently poking his gut like a harsh, metal rod, refusing to be ignored.
He finds himself in another corridor surrounded by a soft, buttery glow from the lights above. Around the slick, mahogany table is a set of chairs and a sofa that are cramped next to each other. Baekhyun is playing with a deck of cards, his foot propped up on the table in a picture of ease.
“Stressed?” Baekhyun chirps. His brown-blonde hair has been recently styled into a crew-cut after Minseok had thrown a fit over Baekhyun’s badly permed up-do. Kyungsoo remembers the inspector grumbling over the memo for three weeks straight before consenting.
“Right you are,” Kyungsoo sighs, slumping on the sofa next to him. He blows up his cheeks. “I think Deputy Chief Junmeyon made a grave mistake-I’m not sure if I’m up for this assignment without backup. I need a larger team to respond to this. I even failed to catch a man who was trying to cross the perimeter.”
The other man flicks a spade card at him. “Those bastards are masters of that kind of shit, Kyungsoo, no matter how big the crowd of officers are. So don’t worry about it. They love nothing better than to see us running around in circles, chasing our tails, and when they got us off their butts they’d be swooping in for the picking. That’s why we have to stay alert.”
Kyungsoo nods, as if to himself. “How long have you interrogated him?”
“More than hour. Probably an hour and a half. He’s hard to extract information out of, if I may add. There’s a tattoo on his right arm-some kind of flower, maybe, with three skulls and a snake wrapped around its center. They call themselves the Black Leggings or something.”
“Black Lotus,” Kyungsoo corrects. “It’s one of the largest criminal families in Seoul.” Then suddenly, something dawns on him. “Did you ask him about Kai?”
Baekhyun half-grins, half-grimaces. “We did our best, but I feel it my duty to report that the guy laughed in my face when I asked how Kai looked like. He said, ‘You’ll never catch that motherfucker. I swear you won’t’. He’s pretty cute, I’ll give you that, but that guy’s really off his goddamn rocker.”
Kyungsoo tucks this information aside. “What’s his name? And what is he to Kai?”
“Oh Sehun. Around twenty-eight or twenty-nine. The other two prisoners said he’s Kai’s primary linebacker.”
So he’s that important to him, huh, Kyungsoo thinks. He remembers the tall, lanky boy with rich brown hair being shoved roughly inside the police cruiser. Oh Sehun’s expression had remained serene all throughout the drive to the district, and it seemed that he won’t back down without a fierce fight if it meant protecting his boss. He had never expected this kind of loyalty.
Kyungsoo frowns to himself. There are all sorts of wrong in the assignment from the start-the ridiculously obvious venue, the lack of assisting operatives despite of the fact that one of the most notorious drug rings is the core of the case-but Kyungsoo believes that they’re barely scratching the surface. What else is he missing?
Having the second-in-command in custody won’t do. Kyungsoo is sure Kai is strutting around somewhere in Seoul, unleashing his arsenal of nefarious deeds that would lead the city to ruins.
The Black Lotus, that guy who leapt of the hedge. Call him overly righteous, but Kyungsoo hates everyone who thinks that they’re completely above the law, that they think they are perfectly capable to distort peace and order for their own selfish needs.
Damn the SMPA. Kyungsoo is going to catch Kai, even if it means tracking the bastard all by himself.
“Ever gave much thought on ‘good cop versus bad cop’?” he starts after a moment’s thought.
“Now you’re talking,” Baekhyun woops in delight. He immediately springs up from his seat. “Shall we play, Team Leader Do?”
The apartment is on the third floor, down a bleak corridor and surrounded by the silky perfume of air fresheners. The stairs leading up to the room is gracefully tiled, with a fine layer of coating for a slick finish.
Jongin finds the door to the apartment with no trouble. He puts his ear against it, listening for any sort of movement inside. When he hears none, he picks on the lock with the edge of a bobby pin he keeps in his pocket, and turns the doorknob. He gets a whiff of musk as he enters, scrunching his nose in disgust. He has always disliked this particular brand of cologne.
He moves into the living room silently and waits.
It was autumn of November 2010. The wind had been exceptionally frigid and frosty, a warning glimpse of one of the harshest winters to ever enter the city. The grimy streets from what used to be Jongin’s stead had been decorated with paper planes that had been shredded to bits by rowdy kids that ran amok. The nearby orphanage had been struggling with the increasing amount of children they had to take in, Jongin had heard.
He spotted Kyungsoo, wearing a worn-out wool hat up to the lobes of his ears, sweeping the front. He was dumping the yellowing leaves to a trash bag when he finally notices Jongin. Jongin watched him closely, but there was no flicker of emotion that crossed the other’s face.
Kyungsoo eyed Jongin’s tattered jeans, black wifebeater, and beat-up denim jacket. “Who are you?” he asked plainly.
Jongin had been twenty, with Kyungsoo a year older. Was three years really such a long time?
“Stop messing with me, hyung,” Jongin told him, trying for a laugh. He smiled as winningly as he could. “It’s me, your Jongin. How are you?”
Kyungsoo’s lips spread itself over his face into a very thin line, before responding with the longest speech Jongin had ever heard him say, “The Jongin I know wouldn’t leave his family without telling them, then showing up years later looking like a gangster. He wouldn’t be asking me how I am, because that Jongin-that Jongin had always been by our side. He wouldn’t ask because he knows. And that Jongin-if he did leave-wouldn’t expect me to welcome him instantly with open arms.”
Kyungsoo props his broom to the gate and turns his back at Jongin, heading back inside. “No, you are not Jongin. You are not my Jongin,” he said coldly. “So, who the fuck are you?”
PART 2