𖦹 marigold ✧ @daddy-channie - Tumblr Blog

TWO TRUTHS, ONE LIE. ⎯ featuring lee minho

PAIRING. Lee Minho x implied! fem. reader | TROPE. KCSI! au (Korean Crime Scene Investigator), angst, thriller, forced proximity, enemies to lovers, coworkers! au, slow burn, fluff, thriller, crime! au | PLAYLIST. | WORD COUNT. 11.3k ⭑ 55min read | WARNINGS. mentions of death/killing, guns, a murder takes place, talk of autopsy/torture, reader is injured, sedatives used, kidnapping, cursing

SYNOPSIS. For almost thirty years, murder after murder has been solved seamlessly by the KCSI. Homicides, poisonings, assaults. But when that three decade streak meets its match on a particular case involving a wealthy politician, hired assassinations, and paid silence, you’re forced to pair up with your know-it-all team leader, Lee Minho, wondering if this will be the first crime left unsolved.

AUG'S NOTES. so excited to release my first piece of the autumn season! hopefully i didn’t drone on forever in this, i’m a sucker for anything crime/thriller. please enjoy my beloved softie mimo and tell me what you think!! love you all, thank you for so much support<3

CASE FILE — ( 📁 )

Panicked breathing sounds from the wriggling body, taut, mouth duck-taped shut. They scream, but it’s soundless, and no one will hear them here.

The man, wielding a knife in one hand while a plastic clown mask conceals his identity, inches closer, lips drawn into a sadistically delighted smile.

This is the hunt. His favorite part of this twisted game. His twisted game.

He lets them move, if only a few centimeters, away from him. Lets them experience that fleeting chance of hope.

Except, the human body is a cruel, cruel vessel that can only travel so far before it gets exhausted. And lucky for them, he’s there to put their exhausted self to rest.

For good.

“Yeesh, I’m feeling that breakfast burrito comin’ up,” Han Jisung comments from beside you, flashlight shining on the corpse ahead, expression contorted into disgust.

“Good thing I didn’t eat when I got the call,” You mutter, the half mortified boy cringing as more members of the unit step forward, capturing photos before the scene is uprooted.

After all, Igor Hill—with a tunnel built inside just below the road—was a daily passageway for school kids, meaning each second spent here was a ticking time bomb, scrambling to collect as much evidence as possible before traversing destroys what’s currently untouched.

Left waiting, you allow other members of the scene documentation team to take charge after the coroner left before stepping in to investigate yourself, your job being collecting samples for Trace.

“And to think Bahng’s out for his kid’s ballet recital, talk about a one-eighty.”

It’s hard not to chuckle when Han brings up KCSI’s Supervisor, nodding in agreement. The world of crime isn’t to be underestimated; like some sort of double life behind a wall of periwinkle fantasy.

Evil will always exist, an explanation as to how the Korean Crime Scene Investigation team came to be in the first place.

“..Let’s just hope seeing a tutu will help burn those images from your eyes.”

Mere moments later does Jeongin pipe up, currently on his half a year mark interning and proving himself more than viable on both field and lab work.

Han, on the other hand, is still getting adjusted to the stench of a decomp, taking plentiful breaks a ways from the scene whilst the shutter of cameras lights the otherwise darkened tunnel.

“You’re on evidence today too, Miss Y/N?”

And polite as ever. The team’s sweetheart, in summary.

Your nod suffices, offering a meager smile before beckoning him by your side as Hyunjin and Seungmin step away, checking in with a lingering Minho—team leader and occasional asshole—with cleared sketches and physical evidence captured to be logged before your section steps in.

Truth be told, you had thought the man was out for you that first year on your job; always critiquing your work, triple-checking the basics he only double-checked for others. A higher standard only applying to you, and downright vicious.

In easier terms: a stark pain in the ass.

Worst part? He’s team leader, meaning there’s no way you can not run into him.

Getting warrants, finding leads. It all ties back to Lee Minho.

As for right now, hundreds of photos have been taken, all to be sent back to the lab and carefully handled by forensics for prints.

“How’s the field treating you?” Your voice cuts in, gloved hand venturing through the victim’s pockets in search of identification. An action simultaneously silencing the maelstrom of thoughts rushing through your head and calming the itch to flip that self-righteous jerk—whose eyes are currently boring into your back where he leans against the car—off.

In front of you, Jeongin’s heavy sigh expresses the words he can’t say. Glancing up while bagging lingering hairs for Trace, the quirk of his brow asks a silent: ‘Any luck?’. Responding with a miniature shake of your head, you opt for squatting to begin upon seemingly endless cargo pants pockets.

Aha.

“‘Guess our killer didn’t care too much for identification of the body.” A click of your tongue, haphazardly wetting your lips whilst lifting the retrieved wallet up to your flashlight.

Jeongin assists in snapping a photo.

“Yoon Bo-gum. Asian male, born January 17th, 2001. South Korean citizen, 182 centimeters in height.”

Jeongin whistles, sucking in a sharp breath. Sympathy paints his features while you extend the ID, the man slow to take it in hand.

“Just turned twenty-four.. damn.”

True enough, the anguish is shared. Because no matter the day, hour, minute, cruelty will exist in the most ugly of forms. Live exhibitions of foul intent taken to the next level.

“Tape on the wrists, mouth. Eyes lift uncovered.”

Speaking helps not only for your recollection, but to ward off the nausea building in the back of your throat.

No matter how many cases you work, it never feels as if you’re prepared enough to witness a homicide.

“Says the killer was a masochist,” Jeongin piques, tongue poking at his cheek in contemplation. “Either the killer knew he was gonna whack the guy, or was psycho enough he wanted the victim-“

A glance back to the ID.

“—wanted Bo-gum to see it.”

A heavy exhale through your nose staunches mortification from dizzying your head.

“Only bodily fluids found were urine, likely due to state of panic. As for cause of death, we’ll get a preliminary C.O.D from Seungmin in autopsy. But right now-“

Busying your hands with unbuttoning the victim’s jacket, all words get caught in your throat as the last button falls undone.

Suicide ruled out for certain.

“Jeongin.”

Perhaps the way you say the words, perhaps the dread in your tone—so different from the calmness you usually operate with, prompted the swift lift of his head.

One, five, ten. Nineteen, thirty-eight. Fifty, one hundred-

“I count one-hundred and forty-three stab wounds.”

The next breath is shaky—nerves on overload.

“This wasn’t just homicide. It was manic.”

“Well.. from what we’ve got, we’re looking at a lot of different pieces of evidence.” Bahng begins, placing down an envelope onto the table, photos paper-clipped to the front.

“The soil within a five foot radius of the corpse has distinct marks.” He slides a photo forward, the curves and lines of the dirt formed in a winding motion.

Christopher Bahng, resident sweetheart and the KCSI’S Supervisor. As level-headed as they come and beyond attractive while doing so.

Unlike the prickly team leader in front of you.

“A struggle.” Both him and Minho observe in unison, your gaze flickering down a second too long at the part of his lips. That puffy upper lip, the way his tongue runs across his teeth in thought.

Well, your mind battles, mouth tugging into a tight line of contemplation. It’s not that he isn’tattractive… just, his personality is ugly. Right.

“Meaning our victim was using all their willpower trying to move away from the threat before they were killed,” Your supervisor explains, slipping two more photographs from the envelope.

One featuring blood splatter, the other pictures of a portion of the victims hands, bloodied and battered — skin tinted a purple, waxy hue. Indication of a quick discovery, less time spent postmortem.

“Fiber, blood, and the surrounding area have all been swabbed and documented. A mile out, Hyunjin reported seeing tire tracks, Han’s figuring out if we can find the vehicle. The corpse should be arriving soon for the autopsy and— Seungmin’s taking care of this one.” Bahng nods, the rest of the group humming in agreement as his chaste debrief comes to a close.

“Something that was unusual, however, is this.”

The interjection drags yours and Minho’s attention to the eldest—the two of you being main investigators assigned to the case.

A last photo. Glock, 9mm, nestled in a hedge.

“Found a few miles from the scene by accident from a passerby call-in. We don’t know if it belonged to our killer, or if by some fluke it was left there.”

You spare a glance the man across from you, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at that predictable lift of his brow as if asking: “What’re you looking at?”.

Deciding against egging on his irritable attitude, you instead focus upon mulling over the details, index tapping upon the table’s smooth surface.

“Lifted any prints?” Looking to Bahng for response, he shakes his head after a moment.

“No bullets in the magazine, no gun powder residue in sight. And by the looks of the body, it wasn’t used for the murder, wasn’t even fired. Evidence is just now being transported over here. Once we get ‘em, we’ll start tests.”

Your head tips back in a sigh, thumbs feebly working to ease the ache in your temples.

Incredibly, really. Because while you’re sure you look as if you’d been through the wringer, your heart-breaker of a supervisor and annoyingly pretty team leader could’ve come from a photo shoot.

Cut that out, you internally remind.

Allowing reality to drift off, the evidence appears as a list beneath your eyelids, these muddled puzzle pieces with too many corners, patterns.

So many things to configure, with most seemingly random. A random gun without fingerprints a mile from the crime scene, foreign hair on the body, more than a hundred stab wounds. Tire tracks, motive unknown.

Well, apart from one thing.

Whatever the reason for killing Yoon Bo-gum, his killer wanted him dead.

“Could the gun have been a diversion? Or maybe accidental?”

Minho’s voice breaches your consciousness, eyes cracking open begrudgingly.

“I’ll have Jeongin locate all firearm licenses in the area. Knowing Korea, there won’t be many. ‘Could help narrow down our search.” Chris cuts in, a fond hand patting your shoulder in assurance, helping calm your mind from too much overthinking.

Since day one he’s been a sort of rock for the team, always someone to rely upon.

Nevertheless, the distraction renders you oblivious to the critical eye Minho’s fixed that lingering hand with, the tension of his shoulders loosening as Bahng’s grip releases.

Quiet, subtle.

Whether the weapon became important or not, any bits of the story unveiled would be appreciated. And with the lack of guns in general within Korea, your hope for identification burns just a hair brighter.

Little did you know how integral it really would be.

Thursday mornings consist of two things: coffee and conversation.

In summary, a much needed moment to breathe.

You and Jeongin were the first to arrive at Yoo’s Diner, a central meeting point met at enough that the waitresses knew your orders by heart, down to the amount of sugar preferred in your coffee.

At 9am, the majority of office workers have already clocked in, leaving a comfortable sort of silence to bathe in as a result. Across from you, the youngest searches through recently purchased and owned Hyundai Porter’s—the car luckily linked to be responsible for the tracks at the crime scene—on his laptop, brows furrowed into a focused sort of frown.

“Ay, just the dog I was looking for!”

Just then, the chime of the door opening paves view to an energetic-as-always Jisung, offering the waitress lingering nearby a polite bow before bounding up to your table.

The usual, tucked right by the Diner’s left corner where the checker-patterned floor has gained scrapes and stains over the years, the booth’s divot a perfect fit, perfect evidence of countless hours spent right here.

“Woof.” Like routine, Jeongin offers a sarcastic grunt in response, absentmindedly scooting the sugary-sweet coffee Jisung’s way where he slips beside him. Well, not before gasping and placing a hand over his heart like some sentimental grandmother.

Somewhere in between your pancakes and the second omelette Jisung orders—incredible, considering the animalistic manner in which he shoveled the first one down, Minho appears, the two in front of you dipping their heads in greeting as the older man sidles in beside you.

You barely notice he’s there until the glass bottle of ketchup is slid your way upon moving onto the sausages upon your plate, a habit learned over the years.

“Thanks Sungie—“

Head lifting, you’re quick to pause, momentary eye contact rendering you stuck in a permanent state of gaping for far too long.

A sharp clear of your throat and a slight nod of gratitude and you rip your head in the other direction, suddenly enraptured by the case overview in front of you.

Of the many idiotic things you’ve been witness to with Han Jisung, you’d like nothing more than to bow down to the boy this time around as he speaks up, quick to extinguish the awkward silence.

“Ah! I uh- I got the identification number for your glock and—“

A point of hesitation as he meets your hopeful expression, the dorky boy cringing a bit prior to sharing the disheartening news.

“No luck. In fact, weirdly enough, there’s no owner showing up anywhere. Not even in the database.”

Despite the initial disappointment, you catch yourself mid-grovel, blinking hastily in realization.

Perhaps a glimpse of optimism amid the helplessness.

“If it isn’t registered, then it’s illegal.”

Snapping your fingers, Han matches your determined expression with that signature dimpled-smile, reading that look in your eye true to the four years you’ve worked together.

“I’ll figure out the manufacturer, hold on.”

Frantically searching through his pockets for his phone, the eccentric boy jumps to his feet, slipping outside after dialing a number you assume to belong to the lab.

A good thing if he can locate leads, a bad thing that you’re currently left with a research-busied Jeongin and Minho who, out of the corner of your eye is.. looking up cat food brands?

Without realizing, you subtly lean in to peek at his phone, partially dumbfounded, partially bewildered.

Apparently, you weren’t as subtle as you thought. The observant eye of your team leader catching onto the emanating curiosity in seconds time.

“For my kitties.”

He nods matter-a-fact, swiping out to locate pictures in his camera roll.

A lot of pictures, all perfectly sorted into individual albums. You can’t help but be mildly impressed, nodding along as he introduces them.

“Soonie, Doongie, and Dori.” He points, chest puffing like a proud father. Your eyes catch on that miniature smile of his without intending to. Fixated.

And for a split second, you exist as colleagues, not enemies, not bearing-with-each-other, but getting along.

What you hadn’t noticed? Jisung snickering in front of you while Jeongin pitifully tries to mute his own giggles behind a computer screen, all due to a text sent to each other.

Lovebirds.

.

The honeymoon phase coming to end—a term coined by Jeongin and Jisung—the older of the two clears his throat, simultaneously breaking the benevolent atmosphere, the tension-filled rhythm you’d grown so accustomed to starting up all over again with rejuvenated tempo.

“So! I got some intel.” Clapping his hands together, you try not to startle whilst downing a glass of orange juice as if it were a shot. Some feeble placebo to clear your mind from the sight of Minho’s lips earlier.

What was with you, anyway?

“According to the hottest guy in the lab (he was talking about Hyunjin), our glock at the crime scene belongs to Glock GmbH, a company in Austria that ships out billions of these guns yearly. However, luckily for us, very few—obviously—are shipped to Seoul. The latest import was hidden in the database, a red flag and good news for us!”

The deadpan response earned coaxes the boy to get to the point soon enough.

“Ok ok! Yeesh you guys have no sense of anticipatio-“

“Jisung.”

“GenHan Therapeutics. The shipment was imported to their production building last week.”

Jeongin chokes on his coffee.

“GenHan? Like, every medicinal good you’ll find all the way to Jeju Island?” He manages, wiping at the sides of his mouth with a napkin.

Han’s nod suffices, the chaste silence giving you the opportunity to fit countless puzzle pieces together.

Hyundai Porters, illegal weapon importation. A glock not fired, a victim brutally killed.

“Jeongin, what did Changbin say Bo-gum’s job was after we screened the ID?”

Still recovering from his initial surprise, his attention shifts to the ceiling, wracking his brain to recall any ounce of Tuesday’s conversation.

Then he snaps his fingers, eyes lighting up.

“GenHan. He worked at GenHan Therapeutics.”

The corner piece of your jigsaw snaps together seamlessly, though it’s far from finished.

“Alright.” Hands clasping together, the word serves as a beckon, gathering their attention all at once. “The Hyundai Porters serve as primary delivery cars for GenHan. Deliver pharmaceuticals from store to store, but additionally pose as medicinal delivery while transporting weaponry. Namely, the glocks.”

A deep breath, struggling to measure out the marathon of words soaring through your skull.

“The glock we found was extraneous evidence, likely left by the Hyundai tire tracks Hyunjin found.”

“Bo-gum knew too much,” Minho pipes up, granted a nod in turn before you speak again.

A moment without biting each other’s heads off, significant.

“Someone had to shut Bo-gum up because he found out the truth.”

The truth being?

“GenHan Therapeutics is running an illegal weapon trade.”

While the police would usually handle raids, due to the illegal trade aligning with a homicide case, they reluctantly left the majority of investigation up to the KCSI.

Furthermore, the case was able to be authorized as legitimate given the crucial importation documents Hyunjin retrieved—substantial enough an undercover investigation was launched.

As for who got sent out? None other than you and Minho. Team leader and head investigator on the case, scheduled to head out by sunrise tomorrow morning.

And if dread was personified, you’d look like a pretty good candidate. Because no, it wasn’t that he was bad at the job, merely that you didn’t exactly want to spend a week, possibly weeks, interacting with that same acute awkwardness that bared its ugly face in the Diner, nevertheless nagging upon passing by each other in the lab.

“You ask me, I’d get in and out of there in seconds! Shut the whole thing down in a days time,” Ever the confident one, Jisung and Changbin bicker like a married couple over who could complete the operation faster.

Good to see some things hadn’t changed.

“Five in the morning and I walk into a circus.”

Lo and behold, Forensics specialist Lee Minho steps into the meeting room, grumbling while currently donning the beloved mug Jisung gifted him for his birthday reading: CRIME DAD (of which corrects as ‘DADDY’ on the bottom of the mug, a matter Minho has yet to realize and something both Han and Hyunjin laugh themselves silly about to this day).

“The ID tags work and have been tested, correct?”

Meanwhile, you’ve hastily transitioned from dread personified to a frazzled mother packing last minute—ensuring every little thing is organized perfectly while a sympathetic Chris offers his third: “everything is there, promise,” that you soak up like soup to a cold day.

First order of business: infiltration. In which the both of you will pose as Regulatory Affairs Specialists arriving for their usual pharmaceutical check-in, granted a single week to shut the whole thing down with ample evidence and simultaneously locate the culprit.

Easy, right?

Totally.

.

“Not gonna back out now, are you?”

You’re partially grateful that the drive to the facility had been occupied with your internal groveling, redirecting the attention from your snarky driver and into the depths of your mind for a good thirty minutes.

Your snarky driver who’s leant back just enough in the drivers seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably on the center console. Whose bicep flexes when he turns the wheel ever so slightly, whose throat bobs when he swallows, lashes dust against his cheeks when he blinks just so—

Shit.

Then his voice cuts in, and it feels like seconds ago you’d been safely curled in bed, not about to uncover nasty findings at one of the most trusted companies in all of Korea.

Damn it all. Because you’d rather bite your own tongue than show a shred of fear in front of this nerve-leaching man like Lee Minho, let his ego grow a minuscule amount bigger knowing you’d had (not) been checking him out earlier.

“I never knew you talked to yourself, Minho.”

The biting retort earns his scoff, lips curving into that sneering smile that sends chills soaring up the back of your neck, making you want to curse beneath your breath.

Outside, the cracked window of yours allows September air to wash away the irritating feeling, that harsh thump of your heart in your chest calming at last as fallen leaves crackle beneath the rolling tires, decorating the windshield an intermittent flurry of crimson and orange hues when the wind picks up.

He’s impressed by you, in all honesty. The manner in which you nip back just as hard at his jeers stirring his fascination like a curious feline. Those molten brown irises flicker to you on occasion, careful to peek when you’re looking away.

Tense shoulders, tight-lipped expression. He reads body language, nonetheless yours, like an open book.

A free hand reaches forward, turning up the radio as if to drown out those worrying thoughts of yours. When you look over in response, he can tell you’ve uncovered his uncharacteristic act.

Yet, he simply offers that consistent teasing cock of his brow, smug as always.

“This isn’t just your investigation, hm? I’m here too, whether you like it or not.”

That same hand finds the top of your head to ruffle, like he would to Jeongin, to his junior.

Jerk.

You scorn the reddening of your ears, swatting at his grasp and beckoning the man’s gleeful chuckle in return as he relents at last.

Hopeless, the man is.

Though something tells you this operation might not be.

Hopeful, it could be, but not without a hair of messiness.

With the both of you adjusting your pristine lab coats, it takes but one wrong question—a bit too specific to that of law enforcement—to strike alarms. Security questioning, loose introduction.

One shared look and a moment passes where, despite your odds, mutual agreement must be met. Not for the mere sake of less headaches, but on account of your lives.

For however long this operation takes, you’ll be coworkers. Barely close to friends.

Afterwards? Sharp teasing and irritably snickering can fill the silence between the both of you as it always had.

It’s an enormous building, with reflective glass covering the mass expanse of the modern architecture. At the entryway lies a statue of the founder, Jun Gun-il, appearing almost as some sort of ominous omen, glaring down as if silently picking apart the both of you with eyes that say: “I know the truth”.

Yet squared shoulders and a tight hand clenching around your clipboard whilst stepping inside the bustling building keeps anxiety at bay. And for a moment, watching the collection of elderly, youth, and the everyday worker roaming about dispels the slightest idea of mischief, especially homicide, that could’ve occurred here.

Though you’ve learned well over the last few years that appearances are deceiving, and somewhere in here, murders are being conducted all for the sake of adding more money to an already absurd amount of funds.

One good thing about the team leader as your partner? Despite behaving like an asshole to anyone with your description, to everyone else, the man was perfect. A smooth talker, low and controlled tone. Capable of getting whatever he pleased with a mere cock of his head.

Enough that nobody thinks twice to question his authority as he places his ID forward, leaning down to grasp your own identification clipped onto a lanyard.

For half a second, your eyes meet, and the air is stolen from your lungs.

So close.

Too close.

Resisting the urge to stumble backwards, the click of his tongue and the miniature quirk of his lip before turning back to the front counter seems to utter more complacency than any sentence needed.

Arrogant.

Batting her eyes, the receptionist—a more than cheerful brunette practically preening beneath his gaze—is quick to give the both of you the go-ahead, beginning past elevator doors and into an upper floor smelling of antiseptic and echoing with the ring of cellphones.

Orders, shipments. This guise of goodness concealing an ugly truth. All for what, extra profit?

One step into GenHan’s building speaks of plentiful money to waste. Motive, whether it was a coverup or not, remains unknown.

“Floor 13.” Like this custom alarm set to drag you from your mind, Minho’s voice cuts in upon stepping into a new elevator. Spacious and glassy, a few lab workers busy themselves with tablets or a leisurely book.

A stranger’s finger reaches out to tap that same floor, those signature cat-like eyes boring in the side of your head long enough that you’re tempted to grant a him a glowering stare before noticing the words he mouths.

“Watch.”

Arrogant and insufferable, frankly.

Waiting two steps behind the worker, the both of you stay silent as a mouse whilst the entryway is used, eyes flickering instinctively to the lingering security cameras.

Natural, for a KCSI. Instincts that must be suppressed for the sake of the act.

As the underground doors slide open, that smug bastard looks to you with an expression downright insufferable.

“Got the password,” He silently mouths, subtly nodding towards the keypad with a lift of his brows before either of you step inside.

Crates upon crates line the walls, some hundreds of feet in the air. All marked distinctively using tape. According to a very helpful Changbin, he’d been tasked with brunt work on GenHan infiltration from the sidelines, logging all order of operations, past allegations, and routine maintenance.

Of those order of operations came the organization of billions of drugs.

How they did it? Tape.

With each crate marked individually, one could discern whether it fell into stimulants, depressants, opiates, or hallucinogens by four different colored tape.

Then came the enigma in the form of a fifth color. Black, found to be the indicator of weaponry.

That was the goal.

Get enough substantial evidence of who’s controlling it, nevertheless that there’s illegal weapons here in general, and the entirety of GenHan would be shut down in days time.

Seems easy enough.

“So,” Minho piques, hands shoved into his pockets against the chilled air, looking far too appealing in a lab coat for your mental wellbeing. “Locate the black-taped crates, snap pictures if possible. If not, we camp out till the floor clears out this evening.”

Managing a hasty nod, you fight the urge to observe how he looks like a (haughty)refined doctor, striding about as if this was his home territory, not a man under a false name and even falser intentions.

Per a mixture of annoyance and an act of nursing your pride, your chin lifts just a bit higher, falling into step next to him.

Sure, maybe the action is childish, but seriously, your ego is on the line.

Oblivious, you seem to miss the upward curve of his lips when he notices the action.

Burdensome.

“Is there any way I can help you two?”

Two steps from the desired black-taped crate, fortunately deserted—not to mention without cameras in sight, and the plan instantly goes to shit.

Should’ve wagered the mission to be far from easy. Still, it’s damn frustrating.

How quickly you swerve around came almost unnaturally, hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there before feigning an itch as a cover. Well, frankly, a gun that was located in your reserved hotel room until the banquet.

Ah, right.

Per GenHan’s tenth anniversary celebration, a banquet was occurring tomorrow evening. Inviting insurmountable guests and established employees alike, the event served as both horrible and crucial timing to gain intel and learn some background.

Background, as in, what rumors were circulating between the workers. A worker that could’ve been your victim, Yoon Bo-gum.

Currently, however, the rumors entail those like the man in front of you, with this boyish grin and facial gestures that appear far too young to be working for a billion dollar pharmaceutical company.

And, once proven, the source of illegal gun importation as well.

“I know, I know. I look twenty. If you’d believe it, I’m actually almost thirty-two!”

Beside you, Minho stifles a choking spell.

“The name’s Jae-ho, head of the security office. It’s been a while since GenHan has had a check with the R.A considering how well operations have been going.” He proudly taps his own GenHan ID card, black hair swept back with a bit too much hair gel.

Sharing a look, your eyes speak louder than words at a simple glance, practically rolling your eyes despite not a shred of emotion staining your features.

Yeah, right.

“I’d be more than happy to answer any of your questions-“

The movement of the desired crate by a forklift in your peripheral simultaneously grasps both of your attention, Minho patting the boy’s—man’s—shoulder and ushering a fake business card into his hand, stalking after you with a nod of gratitude.

“Yeah yeah, thanks. Keep that number. If anything goes amiss, call it.”

Just a setback, you tell yourself, watching where the crate is transported to with an eagle eye.

To your left, Minho mutter a curse beneath his breath, brows furrowed into a vexed knit.

Though, perhaps your imagination, he softens when you meet his eyes, a quiet, almost telepathically understood feeling finding its way woven within the confines of your division.

For this mission, you’ll relent.

If only a little bit.

Right now? You regroup and wait until the evening.

Never in your life had you imagined yourself as someone sharing a bagel with Lee Minho, but at 11am when lunch wasn’t available at most restaurants and the gnawing of your stomach practically eating itself became deafening, you decided against dwelling too long on the matter.

He takes one side, you take yours. Something that comes habitually in a miraculous way, like the extension of his butter knife in lathering more cream cheese on your half of the bagel without even having to ask.

As for you, you ask for a refill on his orange juice instinctively—evidence of years together even with a line of sourness keeping the majority of words at bay.

His grunted thanks, your eyes meeting his momentarily as the waitress places down the glass.

Morning light sheds twinkling rays upon his skin, caramelizing dark brown hair into gold as an irritated hand of his swipes stubborn strands from tickling his forehead.

Little things. The scrunch of his nose, furrow of his brow.

A second longer and you forget about the investigation, chewing on your lip in contemplation.

“Shut it.”

And.. now you almost suffocate on your cup of coffee, head tilting with a nonsensical expression.

“I didn’t say anything..?”

He grumbles beneath his breath, tugging the manila case folders from a cross-body bag to place on the table.

“Your eyes are too loud.”

A single bout of clarity, then right back to square one. Straight edges and a sharp tongue.

Though, before you can press your own snide remark forward, the waitress approaches, chipper and looking much more lucid than either of you right about now.

“Anything else I can get for you two? We have our latest pumpkin waffles, apple cider, or the two pancake couples order? I think you guys would love it! It has two orders of sausage, bacon, and eggs for just half the pric—“

“Apple cider. Apple cider would be great. Thanks.”

How raspy your voice comes out surprises even yourself, clambering for a solution to the utter horror staining your shared features, looking down at the wood of the table like scolded children.

Just as peppy, she jots down the request, offering you a grin as if the woman hadn’t just been responsible for the massacre of your ego in a single sentence prior to disappearing into the kitchen.

Recovering comes in the form of ignorance, pretending that the “couple” portion was a mere bluff.

Of course, the steaming apple cider serves as a painful reminder, but the embarrassment fades as fast as it came, paving way to serious conversation.

Past plentiful legal papers, the team leader retrieves at least five photos, all documenting the weaponry found in those black crates last night whilst appearing thoroughly unfazed.

The ‘bingo’ sort of feeling to the investigation. Though in all honesty, only the beginning.

An aspect you had yet to know of just yet.

Nevertheless, leaning back in the booth—similar to the feel of Yoo’s Diner but never quite as homely—a spark of accomplishment blooms in your chest, warm and bright and a rightful shift from the aching dread that had been rendering you exhausted these past couple of days.

The guns were a small start. Because while their existence had been genuinely proved and simply in need of locating, the person in charge of the operation, no less your murderer in general, remained shrouded in mystery.

Hopefully the banquet tonight would open up new leads.

Your almost-minute of eye contact with Minho seems to spread the message, earning his short nod in response before pointing out a photo.

“Gun-il isn’t involved in the brunt work enough to be primarily responsible. Most times he’s abroad. That leaves us to configure who in the GenHan building is actively involved in the murder,” Voicing the thought aloud, you’re too busy noticing the veins stretching along the top of his hand, reaching up, up into his forearm and disappearing beneath pale skin, beneath sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Involuntarily, you gulp, fighting the urge to flush crimson when his stare catches yours for a time you couldn’t count.

“Think of it like this: Gun-il acts as their chess queen. All this effort is by his pawns, serving him under the idea he’ll probably pay them more, so on and so forth.” Glaring down at the photos fortunately helps at clearing your mind, if only slightly.

“But who’s our sole pawn? Calling the shots?”

That thoroughly disgruntled expression of his makes you want to both smack him across the face and kiss his cheek all at the same time.

“That I.. don’t know. Not yet.”

Perhaps it’s you who needs to pick a struggle, but your pride would never allow such a realization. Struggling between both hating this man and hating the way you’re feeling about him. The warmth building amid a creeping autumn breeze, September nipping at your fingertips if you aren’t careful to place them in your sweater.

Or someone else’s sweater.

Whatever.

Clearing your throat helps ward off the thought.

Apple cider will do the job just fine, thanks very much.

Yet, little did you know he’d been staring at you all the same, breaking his own listlessness with a

sudden clear of his throat.

“…Is it too early to order a beer?”

“Alcoholism or being a workaholic, pick a struggle, old man.”

Prior to readying for tonight’s event and picking up his suit from the cleaners, an opportunity presents itself in the form of your recent acquaintance.

Namely, Jae-ho.

Aiding in your investigation, the man was more than happy (is everyone close to GenHan eerily cheerful or what?) to give access to security footage under the assumption you were simply “double checking honest work”.

From merely walking into the security office, you feel like you’ve become someone playing god with how many cameras span just about everywhere. All labeled and located at hundreds of corners of GenHan that it looked almost impossible to manage.

“And those?” Minho nods to a separate computer away from the wall of cameras, six boxes for camera footage reduced to a grainy blur.

“Those are camera’s I’m rewiring. Just faulty is all.”

Interest sated, Minho moves on to the matter at hand, squinting in search of the monitored floor sought after.

Nonetheless, no dice. And upon finally locating the depository sector, the crate merely appears via delivery truck to one location, then another by a random assortment of workers. Some young, some old. Yet none that look outwardly suspicious nor even aware of what they’re delivering around Seoul.

Smaller company outposts, organizing the weapons before shipping elsewhere all over the country. A fanciful operation no one will know about until the weaponry is used in a vile manner, until someone else ends up like Bo-gum. A victim to a secret they never asked to know.

As for what piques your attention, it’s this minuscule, barely noticeable cut in the recording at around 5:00am the morning the guns was hauled in. Just slight, but enough of a glitch that called for some sort of explanation, curiousity as to what was skipped in the process.

Jae-ho, peeking his head past the office’s doorway where he’d slipped out for coffee, offers a grin, head tilted.

“All good?” He asks, oblivious as ever.

Your frustration bubbles, but a tight-lipped nod keeps the urge to interrogate someone for answers at bay.

For now.

That, and the warning look from Minho to your left, seeming to sense the steam threatening to billow from your ears.

Because working on a time crunch is hell for your stress levels, and the frustration in finding barely anything to work off of three days in was beginning to ebb away at your sanity.

..Having warring feelings for your coworker turned investigation partner isn’t doing great things for your mental health either, but that’s a conversation for another time.

“Great, yeah. We have to get ready, see you at the banquet.”

Maybe Minho’s sarcasm was a language only the team spoke in, maybe Jae-ho was simply aloof by default, but understanding the concept is completely lost to you the moment he takes your hand to lead from the room.

A firm grip, though not too tight.

Warm hands, steadying.

You can hear your heartbeat in your eardrums like an amped-up stereo, nearly deafening.

The feeling, however, is chaste. Lo and behold, he’s quick to release from your grasp the moment you step outside, shoving his hands into his pockets like some pouting teen.

“Don’t think too much of it.” An unconscious focus of his searches for his keys, clicking his tongue in light scolding as if dispelling the inkling in your chest wishing for it to be something a little more, something genuine.

It hurts, if barely.

“You’d sit there stupefied between killing the guy if I hadn’t dragged you out.”

It sucked that he wasn’t wrong either.

“Now.”

Interrupting your own bout of pouting, the jingle of his keys that he aimlessly twirls around his index diverts your attention.

“I’m going to grab my suit. You wanna check into your room ‘n get all dolled up or come along? I’ll drop you off on the way to the cleaners.”

Blinking back confusion, you have to keep the judgmental look off your face in favor of digesting the fact he’s being nice to you.

Not that he wasn’t nice this morning.. but still.

It was odd for you two, though certainly not unwelcome.

Per your pride, however, you opt to be dropped off on his way, stepping into the pricey hotel—paid for by KCSI, thank goodness—with high hopes and an aim to take a small nap before getting ready.

Well, before your heart sinks to the floor as the man at the front desk hands you not two, but one keycard.

As for Minho, you can imagine his surprise walking out the door with a suit in hand only to receive a second-long call in which you say one thing:

“There’s something wrong.”

…

“Hey uh, what room did you say we’d be in again?”

This is like some fantastically horrible romcom where the two love interests are actually enemies in real life and have to pretend to enjoy each other’s presence for the sake of the show.

If it was a show, you and Minho would be in every episode. Main characters, actually.

Instead, reality is hitting like a brick.

“Hm.. Room 0801? Yeah, ‘s the one.” Chris’ voice, once a source of comfort, feels more like getting drenched in ice water right about now.

Minho, meanwhile, is already having his share of a temper tantrum, grumbling a mixture of curses and angry mumbles whilst busying himself with unpacking.

At least one of you is accepting your fate, and it’s certainly not you.

It seems your pause incited a flicker of confusion from the team supervisor.

“What, something wrong? ‘Could check in with the staff or ask Jisung, he booked it.”

Ah.

That dick.

Of course Jisung booked the room, probably having laughed himself silly requesting a single bed.

Your first night you’d been blessed with the impromptu booking of two different rooms, able to sleep safe and sound without the man you’re already spending almost every waking hour this week with beside you.

Apparently this time you aren’t that lucky.

“No,” You hastily disregard, voice taut with a mixture of irritation and gnawing exasperation. “It’s fine, we’re fine. Call you if anything comes up.”

As hasty as your excuse do you hang up, hand dropping to your side following the slump of your shoulders.

One thing after another and it doesn’t seem as if you’re getting any further from the man.

“I’m taking the bed.”

And if anything could’ve grated your nerves further, it’s those four words of his. The stink-eye you deliver him with is downright lethal, and yet he continues to fold his clothing as if sharing a room, no less sharing a bed, was a daily occurrence.

Checking the clock, however, eases your nerves a bit. Thankfully the hour gives just enough time to ready yourselves for the banquet. No necessity for small talk, no attempts at filling a silence that’s downright suffocating.

This time, you don’t try at arguing, merely grabbing your dress and slipping into the bathroom for a much needed breath of not-Minho-infested air.

An argument for another time. Only three days left in the investigation’s timeline, with the banquet being too crucial to spend hung up on a man you want nothing to do with.

Totally.

.

The same man who now stands in front of you in a slim-fit black suit, long legs framed by a perfectly ironed pair of trousers, usually unkempt pieces of chestnut hair adjusted to linger just so above his brow. Dress shoes, an expensive watch you’d hate to know the price of.

And damn does he look good.

With your eyes too busy finding anything to look at but him, it’s easy to lose sight of his own gaze, drinking you in like a man starved.

Respectfully, of course. That oftentimes cunning visage failing to unveil even a shred of emotion as he surveys the fabric upon you, unconsciously adjusting his suit’s sleeve.

Because you’re beautiful, and Minho seems to be suffering from the same predicament of fluster as yourself, merely hidden behind unwavering facades you two refuse to rid of.

Flushed ears you’re ignorant to, the clamminess of your hands he has no idea about.

“Re.. Ready to go?”

Maybe it was your imagination, but you could swear he just stuttered.

Did I just stutter? Minho internally reprimands, wanting nothing more than to cave in on himself.

What was up with him?

Perhaps the answer lies in the way he follows you out like some idiotic guard dog for a reason he himself doesn’t understand, the unconscious hand finding the small of your back to guide through the hotel lobby and past lingering eyes— the touch a matter you don’t complain of.

Perhaps it’s in the downright venomous glare granted to a leering man in the parking lot as he stands in front of the passenger door, offering a bit of modesty as you clamber in whilst clad in a dress before wrapping around to the drivers side.

Tonight, Minho looks handsome. Too handsome for his own good, for your impression of him up till now.

Tonight, you’re breathtaking. And Minho can’t wrap his head around why he feels like this.

Protective, even when he knows you’re more than capable of yourself.

Protective, because that’s how someone feels when things grow into something more than friends.

A reality he’s unwilling to face.

His behavior at the banquet is a different story entirely, and like a switch had been flicked on, the personality you’ve long since grown accustomed to bares itself in full glory.

Boastful, teasing.

And sort of refreshing, considering the backflips he’s been sending your heart into acting all caring, gentle.

“C’mon, Mr. Lee, it’s just like when you attend conferences.”

In turn, you’d decided against humbleness as well.

Play the cunning bastard, expect it back.

Nevertheless, sauntering behind him becomes as action far too easy to follow through with, acting on pure instinct as you pluck the tie from his grasp.

Each exhale tickling his neck where your hands have reached over to loop the fabric sparks goosebumps prickling along his nape, gaze meeting with his in the intricate mirror for a moment too long.

Close enough his cologne fills your nostrils, possible that your chin could weigh against his shoulder if you so desired.

The grandfather clock at the front of the banquet hall acts as a background sound, tick tick ticking all the thoughts from his head, sensibility from yours.

Tension able to be severed by a blade.

This investigation has left you far too comfortable in the presence of a man you used to avoid like the plague.

“So when we have the banquets, do you have someone do it for you then?”

A whisper, flickering orange within his irises reflecting the lick of a candle illuminating the dimmed dining hall, finding yours at last.

Minho has no problem keeping eye-contact, and beneath that unchanging face, you’re sure a shit-eating grin is stowed away.

“Hm,” A slight nod in affirmative, careful to keep the movement to a minimum where you loop the tie for the last time.

The roll of your eyes whilst tightening the tie a bit too tight for the sake of payback earns his huff of satisfaction.

And a minute longer that he can watch your expressions in the mirror.

Tonight’s lie?

Minho’s been great at tying a tie since day one.

.

“Yeah yeah, his name’s Yoon Bo-gum, I heard he works here. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”

For at least two hours now, you’ve been at the same game with what feels like the same people. Swirling a glass of untouched wine, slipping around here and there in search of something, anything to work off of.

So far? Nervous glances and sheepish smiles deny any and all information about Bo-gum’s existence in general. And apart from the brunette remarking about their victim’s absence this past week and how he’s definitely fired, Minho’s only received shaken heads, phone numbers, and an itching suspicion that the last woman who just flirted with him had a ring on her finger.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Meeting in the middle, beneath the dark red lights everything seems to blur into a sea of bodies and blank spaces, the supposed afterparty after maintaining such properness and poise amid key figures during dinner had been quick to fade, now replaced with what felt to be some high-class nightclub.

One you didn’t want to be part of, the events of today dizzying your head into a hazy stupor.

And maybe your imagination, maybe some sort of hallucination, but the highly intoxicated man once ramming into your back has abruptly stopped, currently replaced by Minho wielding his own failed-to-be-drank wine.

“You sure you aren’t drinking, sweetheart?”

Everything a blur, that internally sober part of you wants to roll your eyes, turn away and scold the stupid nickname.

The other part of you seeking a source of foundation clings to the lack of sarcasm in his words, wanting nothing more than to down your glass of wine and pretend as if your time isn’t dwindling, as if he didn’t just look at your lips like you had in the diner those days ago.

“Not on the job, you know that.” Like a compulsion, your mouth finds the ability to speak once more, wetting your lips as if it would solve the dryness of your throat.

The entrance of a woman keeps his response silent, extending a paper that Minho dreads to see a number inside of upon gingerly tapping his shoulder.

“My friend over there said this is for you,” She grins, nodding to a group of ladies in the far corner, stumbling about in too-tall heels and one too many glasses prior to rushing off in the same fashion. Clumsily, excitedly.

“Not again,” Minho grumbles beneath his breath, hesitant to unravel the crumpled paper whilst you peek over, awaiting the familiar digits overflowing from his pockets like a gluttonous carnage of fortune cookies.

It appears you had forgotten that this investigation was a maelstrom of one surprise after another.

That goes for Minho too.

Because written on the paper isn’t a number.

Yoon Bo-gum has gone missing, and I think I have a hunch about who did it.

It’s a tip.

“First thing’s first, we find that woman in the morning. It’s our last day, and if need be we can give the illegal gun trafficking portion to the Feds. Our job is to bust the murderer.”

Your back turned to Minho, he hastily works at loosening his tie, brows furrowed into a stubborn knit as you busy yourself with tugging off your heels.

Almost midnight and you’re more than happy to agree with leaving the brunt work for the morning, currently tidying up for bed.

“Whoever it is, I think it’s about time we get a break in the case,” Chuckling weakly to yourself, you disappear into the bathroom, toothbrush peeking from your lips as you prepare the couch for a likely sleepless night.

Minho’s own weary chortle earns your begrudging smile, grabbing an additional blanket to drape over the hotel’s alarm clock.

Wait.

A second take, tugging off the blanket in favor of lifting the alarm clock to your eyes.

Instantly your heart plummets to the soles of your feet.

A camera, veiled inside of a number eight.

“But that’s the thing.”

A shaky breath, lifting the flashlight of your phone to different surfaces.

The light in the main room, bathroom. Alarm clock, nightstand lamp where cameras illuminate. Not just one, almost five. Everywhere.

Hotel Vera, room 0801. Sponsored by GenHan.

“While we thought we infiltrated them, the killer been one step ahead this whole time.”

.

Despite incapacitating the cameras and even ensuring they were fully disabled with the help of a call-in, you still feel it in your bones. The paranoia, anxiety. Like a pair of eyes boring into your back, your face. Documenting it all down, figuring out your whereabouts, intent.

Having been offered a change of rooms, a portion of you scolds yourself for letting your ego make the decision of staying.

Your skin crawls, and you’re quick to tug the blanket further over yourself when the room lies shrouded in darkness, shifting against a terribly uncomfortable sleeper sofa. Eyes that refuse to close shift to Minho, lips tugging into a tight line of contemplation as your eyes bore into his back.

The last thing you want to seem like is some sort of coward, but the longer you lay here, the greater that sense of dread becomes. Invisible hands once pressing on your chest, now venturing to your throat to wrap around.

Tighter, tighter.

Until you can’t breathe, throwing off the covers to clamber into bed with your partner.

Lab partner, that is.

Fortunately, he appears asleep with each slow inhale and exhale.

Good.

Please don’t remember this is the morning.

Slipping into bed with evident hesitancy, you’re slow to curl up, forehead bumping against his back, a heavy sigh resounding.

Warm, smelling like a mix of petrichor and traces of mint you date back to the floral shop he’d searched for a boutonniere in earlier that day for the banquet.

“I’m just paranoid, sleeping like this.. helps. Y’know?”

Who you’re speaking to remains unknown to even yourself.

“The camera-thing kind of freaked me out.” You begin, forcing your voice steady. “Hope you don’t mind.”

As a matter of fact, Minho’s was wide awake the whole time, focusing on the blinds in front of him while you spoke.

And when your head rests against his back, the loosening of his tense muscles is an aspect he’d instantly deny, blame as a bout of sleepiness overtaking him.

Closing his eyes, a single thought flutters across his fading consciousness before dissipating into the abyss of slumber.

No, I don’t mind.

Oh how quickly something so good can sour. Even lemons would taste sweet on your tongue at the moment.

Bright and early the following morning, Hyunjin relayed that the tipper belonged to a Reyna Park, an American Korean receptionist who covered Floors 12 and 13, namely the floors your crates belonged inside of.

Utilizing your fake R.A positions, it would be easy for you to beckon her for questioning if need be—a liberty you’d certainly use with the lack of time remaining.

Like a harrowing countdown until jurisdiction snatched all evidence from your grasp, leaving the case to dissolve into the depths of an unsolvable ocean.

Meanwhile, Minho’s foot releases and presses upon the accelerator, navigating past cars going too slow for his liking whilst the occasional droplet of rain pelts the windshield, cloudy sky overhead acting as a dreary omen upon turning into GenHan’s parking lot.

“Reyna gave hints that Bo-gum had been brought into the security office hours before he didn’t show up for his shift—“

“And you think what was discussed there is tied into his death?”

He shrugs, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“Like you said, we deserve a break, hm?”

That you can’t argue with.

Today acts as an off-day, with most employees vacant from the building. A piece of luck that you savor, especially while accessing the underground Floor 13 without so much as a single doubtful glance.

Directly situated behind the security office, you can merely hope that whatever was discussed there was captured by some kind of recording device.

Though you’d be a liar to admit that the thought of cameras didn’t make you queasy after last night.

“I take left, you take right. That way we can make sure the space lacks a witness before conducting the search for footage.”

Although apparently unconvinced, the cock his brow leads way for his nod of approval, a moment long glance to your thigh asking a: “got your weapon?” responded to with a short nod.

Quick footsteps patter along marble floors, aiming to reduce to volume as much as possible, whilst scouring in search of stragglers.

Empty, seemingly. All corners, all machinery unoccupied—

A shadow passes by as if a trick of the mind, hushed conversation residing from the outlet closest to the security office, reflexes kicking where a hand lingers over your weapon.

Your slow gait brings you closer and closer to the corner, breath caught in your throat the moment you see the face responsible for such mumbled whispers.

Resisting the urge to tremble, you force yourself to reach for the walkie talkie without clumsily dropping it to the floor, ensuring your voice stays as quiet as possible.

“Control, this is KCSI L/N, I have my eyes on a body and suspect by the name of Ja-“

Unable to finish your report, the crack of a bat acts as the last input into the walkie talkie.

And the world turns upside down into a labyrinth of unconsciousness.

“Hello, Lee Minho.”

On your partner’s end, he faced the brunt of the same bat you did, crumpling to the floor just as he came upon the sight of your knocked-out form.

As for where he is now lies up to his training as a KCSI to discern, blurred eyesight taking in the rectangular window allowing feeble light into the warehouse-looking room. The expanse vacant apart from the chair he’s found himself restrained to placed dead center.

“Something’s gone amiss. About time I called, hm?”

Chills scatter all the way to Minho’s ears, fingers involuntarily twitching where they’re bound behind his back.

He knows that voice, recognizes it.

Recognizes the business card dangling from a hand.

“Keep that number. If anything goes amiss, call it.”

His own words, cited from the mouth of someone he thought he could trust, use as a viable source of input in solving Bo-gum’s murder.

Jae-ho.

That snake.

The knight in this game of chess. Unpredictable attacks, forking out opponents while remaining nearly undetectable until those last few plays of the game.

Something terrible tells him that if he isn’t careful with his words, this may be his last time playing the game.

He knew the whole time, targeted them while aware of their fake identities, intentions. Monitored the situation continually through the cameras—his doing.

Head of the security office, responsible for monitoring every Floor of GenHan constantly. How had he not have pieced it together earlier?

If conversation had arisen, he’d be the first to hear it.

Rumors, accusations.

Most likely Bo-gum’s realization as well, all caught on a screen Jae-ho’s been watching the entire time.

Additionally, the reason for those “faulty” six camera’s comes to light now, existing as the viewing side to the one’s placed in your hotel room.

Full circle to the entirety of the investigation. Because out of all of GenHan, Jae-ho would be Gun-il’s most important lapdog, responsible for fabricating all the happenings, all the operations.

In summary? The one conducting all the dirty work.

“You guys were so close, I’ll give you that.”

Jae-ho clicks his tongue, haphazardly twirling the baseball bat in his grip.

“And you two are cute, really. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and be nice just this one. I’m in a good mood, after all.”

With a stare that could kill, three words fall from busted lips.

“Where is she?”

This brings a sadistic smile to his lips, stepping behind his chair and out of sight.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see her soon enough.”

“Oh, and Minho? Your girlfriend has a great pair of tits.”

Attempting to look back to where he speaks, he sees red just listening to the son of a bitch.

“I’m going to gut you like a fish when I get out you fucking-“

Thwack!

For a second time, everything falls into black.

“Hey.”

Your head throbs, an ache the result of the bat cracking over your skull.

Through blurry vision, your head slumps down, the strength to move evading you.

Yet, upon attempting to shift, you’re quick to learn that movement wasn’t evading you, but was something you had become deprived of, the sting of rope-burn responsible for your wince as you feebly try moving your wrists.

Bound feet, hands, torso where you’re tied to a chair just as he was.

Specifically having been brought to the same warehouse, the murderer, Jae-ho, resting out of earshot for now.

The same man you had both trusted. The same man you saw standing over the dead body of Reyna Park.

Dammit.

“Y/N.”

Your name being called, no less the voice it belonged to, offers just enough will to lift your gaze.

Across from you sits Minho, a gnarly gash decorating his usually unblemished porcelain skin. Once somewhat tidied dark hair rests currently disheveled, the unfamiliar light he’s seen in sending you into an even dizzier spiral.

Kidnapped.

Where? You can’t be sure. All you know is that this is all too much at once, too much for you to process whilst battling what you think could be a minor concussion.

“Hey hey,” He grasps your attention for a second time, that signature unbreakable gaze a source of comfort you bask in—maintaining longer eye contact in those few moments than throughout the entirety of working together.

“Breathe for me.”

Despite appearing just as adrenaline-drunken as you, he’s guiding you on how to relax, to stay as calm as a hostage can be.

And for a flickering second, you know without a doubt you would’ve kissed him senseless if you weren’t currently restrained. Out of relief, out of fear, you aren’t sure.

“We’re gonna be okay, yeah? Just keep looking at me.”

You manage a nod, lips parted as if sucking in every ounce of air bruised lungs can sustain before the words tumble from your mouth like a crack in a dam’s wall, water unable to be contained.

“It’s- It’s Jae-ho. He killed Yoon Bo-gum and then killed Reyna after she slipped-“

“I know.”

Your head tilts, voice so unlike yourself you nearly have to repeat yourself to ensure it’s truly you speaking. Hoarse, pitched.

“Y.. You do?”

Any other occasion and stuttering so profusely would’ve caused you to shrivel up like a prune.

“Yeah, we had our own little meet ‘n great before this.”

This calls for the concerned furrow of your brows, searching over him for injury, broken limbs, scrapes.

Any other occasion for Minho and he would’ve admired how cute that expression was on you.

“I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m real tough, you know that.” A peek of his true self shows through, this attempt at consoling those watery eyes of yours dissipating into withering silence as a delighted Jae-ho saunters in, first to turn towards you.

A maniacal grin stretches upon his lips, your head jerking from the grasp he uses to lift your chin.

Behind him, Minho glowers, the movement of his tied wrists going unnoticed.

“Good work, KCSI L/N,” He mocks, clicking his tongue. “Y’know, I really was impressed. Coming in here with those pretty white R.A coats, all authoritative, in charge.”

Another click of his tongue, brows arching in amusement before patting your cheek.

“But a good disguise can’t hide the stench of law enforcement, and I’m sure a smart kitty like yourself would’ve caught onto that with the cameras, hm?”

He paces back and forth, chuckling to himself here and there.

“Unfortunately, I was disappointed. Lucky for me, dear old Reyna helped me out. Shame she had to die.” Bending down to where you sit, the moment he leers close enough to your face grants the ballsy opportunity to work up a wad of spit landing straight onto his cheek, his laugh of disbelief resounding whilst wiping away your saliva.

Yet the swift change of his expression tells you shit’s going to hit the fan real fast, those crazed eyes fixed on you like a predator about to pounce.

For a second, you feel the same fear Yoon Bo-gum must have felt, freezing your soul in horror as Jae-ho’s bat-holding arm winds back, slamming over your right knee in a mind-numbing flash of white hot pain.

You can’t even hear your own scream, deaf to the sound rattling the warehouse.

Broken, certainly. And just then does Minho—using chipped wood poking from the back of his chair as a way to cut the ropes—free himself, instinctive hand slipping into his jacket pocket for the one thing everyone always misses: a pocket knife.

The same knife that finds itself plunged into the murderer’s shoulder, his own cry of pain like a sick sort of revenge that acts as the ideal diversion for Minho to shout for backup in his walkie talkie.

Reeling around, the glock Jae-ho reaches for—likely GenHan’s—is never given the chance to fire before Minho slices a clean cut along his trachea, bringing Jae-ho down upon his knees in recording time, clawing at his neck to no avail.

In your case, the nauseating throb of your leg renders each reaction slower than the last, making out Minho’s form hurrying to squat in front of you, mouthing words you think align with “you’re safe” and “it’s okay” as the approaching wail of police sirens rattles in your head like a cackling cacophony.

Then he cuts the bounds and hoists you bridal-style into his arms, ripping another cry from the depths of your chest, the hellish pain promoting your fingers to dig into his nape, shoulder with a vice-like grip.

“I know, I know,” Minho mumbles against the side of your head, wincing with each desperate sob you scream into the air as he guides you out to waiting police cars, the ambulance having yet to arrive.

Just then, a dark blue truck swerves onto the scene, an out of breath Jisung located within the drivers seat the vehicle Minho rushes towards first without a second thought—his KCSI coworker barking orders from the drivers seat to tape off the warehouse and leave the rest for the team to cover as their team leader helps angle you into the back seat with as little pain as possible.

Quite impossible, for a fractured leg.

.

“This is an emergency, what the hell are you going the speed limit for?!”

As for who Minho isn’t gentle with, it’s the frazzled Jisung who receives the majority of complaints, peeling out of GenHan on nearly two wheels and gunning it to the nearest hospital.

“Have you ever had a body in your backseat?” The boy argues, passing red lights like a madman.

“I’m not dead yet, asshat!”

Contrary to your pained state, the fiery retort manages to loosen the atmosphere if only a little bit, hand clutching the back of the passenger chair like your life depends on it.

“A mean body!” Jisung squeaks, simultaneously answering to incoming calls on his cell by the other team members.

As for a solace to the overwhelming feelings wracking you numb, sedatives pumped into your veins silences it all in one fell swoop, a peaceful sleep arriving at last.

“Mmnh..”

Expression knitting, blinding white lights permeate your vision to blurry splotches, a dull ache settling over your now-wrapped up right leg.

When your hand moves, you note the IV attached at your wrist, the beep of machinery echoing faintly.

After that the man to your left comes into view, a fluffy head of hair face down in the blanket, a chair pulled up to your bedside.

Minho.

It’d be embarrassing if someone saw how much you softened seeing him here.

“He’s been here this whole time.”

Apparently, someone did.

Good thing it was Christopher Bahng, leant against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

“We tried getting him back to his place, but the guy insisted on staying until you woke up.”

Ah.

You want to cry.

Wobbly lips part to nod gratefully towards your supervisor, excusing himself from the room to leave you to your privacy.

Slowly, a single hand extends, carefully smoothing through his hair in a rhythm unbearably fond.

“Minho.”

His name, spoken like someone in love—unbelievably—earns a groggy groan as the man awakens, plenty unhappy about being woken up.

Cute.

Though when those eyes truly acknowledge you’re awake, you can’t help but keen watching the dilation of his pupils, the boy-ish smile you’ve only seen once in your life—aimed at his cats—now directed at you.

And like he was reading your mind, calloused hands cup your cheeks to gently usher you in for a tender kiss, sighing into the contact as if it were the breath of relief you had been searching for this whole time.

As for Jae-ho, the killing of Reyna Park and Yoon Bo-gum had been avenged in a way. Case dismissed, accomplices and case evidence still sought after.

The photos taken of the weaponry served as just enough justification for the mandatory shut down of all GenHan shipments, with the reinstatement of staff still left to question.

Jisung earned twenty dollars after winning his bet—a bet that wagered on whether you two would get together by the end of the investigation, and as for you?

You would like to say everything went back to normal in the lab apart from the pair of crutches you donned and the hefty acclamation the case brought.

That would be your first lie.

Waking up beside him served as the first change. The kiss pressed to your shoulder, the arms snaking around your waist as he mutters a sleepy “good morning” against your neck the second.

Two truths, one lie.

FIC TAGLIST. @tirena1 , @idkwhoisthis1971 , @bookswillfindyouaway , @127ismylife

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