Chapter Text
The first problem is that it’s starting to get quite cold outside, which isn’t so bad except for the fact that the boy gave his jacket to a classmate. He put it around her shoulders in a nice, not romantic sort of way as if to say, see? You’re safe on the train with me. It’s much warmer with me. I won’t let anyone bother you anymore.
But in a not romantic sort of way. The boy doesn’t care for anything like that–not yet.
He does, however, care for his jacket very much and he cringed internally as he watched his classmate shut the front door to her big house with it still draped around her small frame. He cringed externally, too, but she didn’t notice well enough to realize their mutual mistake.
The second problem is that it’s very late. The boy’s classmate lives in the opposite direction but of course he was happy to escort her home. It was he, in truth, who made her stay after school. Well, it was the tutoring program they signed up for, really, but the boy still feels responsible. For her mathematics grade and for her safety both. And he still feels quite cold as well.
The last train should be coming any minute now. If he squints, he can hear its whistle. Not that this type of train has a whistle. But a boy can dream. And a boy can hear an imaginary whistle if he really puts his mind to it.
The third problem is that there’s a man standing awfully close to the tracks. All it would take is a stiff breeze to knock him over. The night is still, but the man sways back, forth, back, forth nonetheless.
Few wait alongside him. A woman dressed for a much warmer day; some businessmen who’ve had enough drinks to hate themselves in the morning; the man who sways; the boy out past curfew who cringes internally and externally at his current situation.
That man is so near the edge. The boy says something through chattering teeth. Back, forth. The boy says something. Back. The boy says something. Forth. The boy says something. Back, forth, back—
The boy hurries forward, grabbing onto the man’s jacket sleeve with the strength of youthful naivety. He can feel the individual threads of the fabric beneath his fingers. The dirt, too. The chill, too.
“I was calling out to you,” he says, tugging just enough for the effort to be felt. The night is still, but the man is so near the edge. All it would take is a stiff breeze. The boy holds tight. “Didn’t you hear me?”
...
Fluorescent lights are kind to no one, and yet Hyunjin still tries to angle himself in such a way as to flatter his features. There’s a camera, after all. People will watch this.
People already are, he presumes. The mirror appears to be just that, and when he looks into it, he sees himself staring back, wide-eyed despite how much they want to droop with the hour.
He’s watched enough television, however, to know that someone could be on the other side. Maybe the officer who escorted him here. Maybe the one who offered to get him a drink. Maybe everyone in the precinct, bored and intrigued by their late-night guest.
A knock on the door. A creak. A voice.
“Here’s that coffee for you, Mr. Hwang,” he says—a detective, Hyunjin thinks.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin says, reaching out to accept the steaming paper cup, though he doesn’t drink from it.
“Sorry it took so long,” the maybe-detective says, holding his own steaming paper cup. He settles into the chair across from Hyunjin, then turns around to check that the camera is unobscured. It’s an old thing–the kind Hyunjin’s mom would use to film home videos. Just in case, she used to say. It could make for good B-roll someday, she used to say.
The camera sits blinking red on a tripod, the lens aimed perpetually at Hyunjin’s seat. The maybe-detective continues: “I got one for myself, too, and I had to change the filter and restock the cups…Fair warning, it tastes like sludge. Now—”
“What was your name again?” Hyunjin interrupts, eyes flicking from the camera to the mirror to the maybe-detective.
“Detective Seo Changbin.”
Hyunjin feels a sense of accomplishment for sort of remembering his job title. “I need to use the bathroom, Detective Seo Changbin.”
“...Mr. Hwang,” Detective Seo Changbin sighs, running a hand down his face.
“I know my rights.”
“I read you your rights, and going potty wasn’t one of them.”
“Should I piss myself?” Hyunjin asks. He considers the sludge-coffee before him, wondering how bad it would hurt to chug if he needs to make good on his threat.
“That’s more of a punishment for you than for me.”
“Why?” Hyunjin asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are you really into the smell of piss or something?”
“Yeah.”
“Ew, Detective Seo Changbin,” Hyunjin gasps, leaning back in his chair with genuine affront.
“I can’t expect you to answer my questions if I won’t answer yours,” he laughs.
“Can I leave?”
“I’m afraid not,” Detective Seo Changbin says, the smile falling from his face. “But the more you cooperate, the faster we get you out of here and to a bathroom. And a decent coffee shop.”
“How much faster?”
“Depends entirely on you,” he says, checking the camera one last time. “Look, I know you’re freaking out. To be honest, I’m kind of freaking out, too. But this doesn’t have to be difficult.”
“...Why are you freaking out?” Hyunjin asks, wondering if perhaps Detective Seo Changbin has been poisoned by the sludge-coffee and, if so, does that hurt or help Hyunjin’s desire to flee?
Detective Seo Changbin turns his focus back to Hyunjin, staring at him with eyes sparkling more than the unkind fluorescent lighting should allow. He studies Hyunjin, tilting his head as he considers his next words.
“Because I’m a fan, Mr. Hwang.”
...
Perhaps they thought the coat check would not be necessary during the height of summer, hence leaving it closed. A kind but overly anxious employee tries desperately to find someone to open the service, though Jeongin insists he’s fine wearing his parka and his scarf and his gloves and his hat. The AC in these places is insane. He’ll be the perfect temperature the whole time he peruses the paintings and the sculptures and whatnot.
And by perfect temperature, he means close to heat stroke.
Seummu Art Gallery is a small place and unpopular by the look of its empty halls. Of course, Jeongin came when it would be empty–midweek, midmorning–because Jeongin doesn’t want to be seen here. Hence the parka and the scarf and the gloves and the hat.
A few retirees give him strange glances. A few in similar getups give him knowing ones. Most leave him alone so he can take his pictures. Of the art, of course. And of the entrances, the exits, the cameras, the layout, the ceiling just in case, the toilets just because.
Apart from the kind but overly anxious employee and the mix of temperature-regulated and temperature-challenged retirees, there appears to be only one other person present at the Seummu this midmorning. Jeongin notices him immediately because Jeongin is here to notice things. And take pictures of them. He doesn’t take pictures of this man, though. At least, not on purpose. If he slips into frame a few times here and there, it’s purely coincidental.
It’s also purely coincidental when they arrive in the same rooms over and over again, though by different pathways. Jeongin keeps his distance, but even with distance he can tell this man is tall. Lean. Probably handsome. Dark hair and light clothes that are much more appropriate for the height of summer than Jeongin’s getup.
Not that Jeongin is looking. He’s not. He’s looking at the art. The man is, too. And when they make accidental eye contact, it’s not because they’re looking at each other. They just happen to be standing next to the art. The art that they’re looking at.
The man smiles. Jeongin averts his gaze. Jeongin smiles, too.
They step away from their respective paintings simultaneously, slowly circling the perimeter of the room at an equal pace, observing and admiring. The art. Because they’re not looking at each other.
It’s like a dance, Jeongin thinks. They never get too close, but they never get too far, either. Back, forth, back again, moving in time to a song only they can hear because they created it.
Eventually, Jeongin loses sight of his dance partner. Bathroom break, maybe. Jeongin won’t follow him there–he already got those pictures. And besides, he was never looking at that man to begin with.
Jeongin returns to the main room in the gallery where the coat check would be if it were open during the height of summer. He’ll make one or two more passes around the building, then be done with it. And even though he’s already taken all the pictures he needs, he’ll continue to take some more. Maybe they’ll think he’s an art student seeking inspiration that way. Or, perhaps, just a bit forgetful and careless with his storage.
Not that Jeongin is careless. Jeongin is quite careful if you ask Jeongin. It’s best not to ask Jeongin these kinds of questions, though.
At home, Jisung has a pair of gloves with phone screen touching technology built into the fingertips so that he doesn’t have to take them off for any reason when it’s cold outside. Jeongin has borrowed them enough times to know how convenient that is. And of course, by borrowed he means taken without permission. And of course, he intended to do the same for today, but Jisung’s winter clothes are still tucked away, considering the summer sun. And of course, Jeongin can’t ask Jisung to fish them out for him. Jisung can’t know he’s here.
Thankfully, the gloves Jeongin actually owns have a hole in the left pinkie finger. Horrible for when it’s cold outside; perfect for tapping on the screen; horrible for when he starts to lose the grip on his phone; horrible for scrambling to grab it as it slips from his hands; perfect for smacking it mid air by mistake and sending it flying across the terribly quiet main room.
Jeongin’s phone skids to a stop in front of a man trying to mind his business and enjoy some art, thank you very much. A familiar man. A stranger, to be sure, but a stranger with whom Jeongin has imagined a dance or two and some other things as well if he’s honest.
Jeongin feels a rush of heat through his system at the embarrassment. He’s pretty sure it’s not heat stroke, but if it is, he welcomes it.
“I’m so sorry,” Jeongin whisper-shouts as he sort of jogs, sort of walks, sort of trips over to the man at whom he’s been pretending not to look this entire time. Up close and well-lit, Jeongin feels a bit like throwing up. Not because the man is ugly—quite the opposite. Jaw sharp, lips plump, skin flawless. Perhaps the most beautiful man Jeongin has ever met.
He couldn’t see the details from a distance, but the details are not shocking. The only thing he doesn’t expect to see is the eyebrow piercing. Not on such a pretty face. Not that pretty faces can’t get piercings. It’s just that–why would they? So perfect as they already are?
“If you wanted a photo, you could’ve just asked,” the man giggles, bending down to pick up Jeongin’s traitorous phone. “No need to throw this at me.”
“I swear, they make them more slippery with each new release,” Jeongin says, only somewhat joking. He hasn’t gotten a new release ever in his life, but he imagines the sentiment is true if only because he wants it to be.
“Big Technology is out to get you.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Jeongin has never said anything of the sort.
“Uh oh,” the man mumbles, his brow furrowing as he brushes the nonexistent gallery dust from Jeongin’s phone. “The screen is cracked.”
“Damn,” Jeongin sighs. He thinks the piercing adds to the pretty face, actually. Some new dimension to it that perfection can’t create on its own. Not that piercings are imperfections. But—aren’t they? “I may have to sue you for damages.”
“Me!” the man gasps, his mouth falling open and his eyes growing wide.
“Yeah,” Jeongin nods, solemn. “If you had approached me earlier, I wouldn’t have had to throw my phone at you and cause the screen to break.”
“That’s not fair,” the man pouts. “I didn’t even know you wanted my attention until you tried to attack me. I thought you were an old man with low iron, considering the outfit.”
“Harsh,” Jeongin says, grateful that his winter disguise kept him as nondescript as he hoped. Although perhaps it only works because he doesn’t have an eyebrow piercing.
“Suing is harsh,” the man counters.
“Fine, no lawyers,” Jeongin acquiesces. “The screen was cracked already anyway. Are you going to give it back, sticky fingers?”
“Think you can manage to hold onto it, butter fingers?” he grins, pretending to dangle the phone out of Jeongin’s reach as if he might keep it, but then gently lowers it into his hands without much fuss.
“So…” Jeongin trails off, shifting his gaze to the painting in front of which they find themselves—this stranger because he was looking at it; Jeongin because phones are much too slippery these days. “Did you really think I was an old man? Because I swear I saw you smiling at me. And if grandpas are your type, that’s fine, but—”
The man laughs loud and shrill, the sound bursting from him as unexpected as the eyebrow piercing nestled into his skin. He covers his mouth in shock, perhaps embarrassment, as his voice echoes through the gallery.
“I cannot believe you just said that,” he says, his voice much more hushed. “My God.”
“What should I have said instead?” Jeongin smirks, proud to have elicited such a reaction from such a man. He doesn’t know anybody else who has an eyebrow piercing. “Can you help me cross the street? Have you seen my grandchildren? Do you come here often?”
“‘Do you come here often’ is crazy,” he says, shaking his head. “Like we’re at some seedy dive bar or something.”
“It’s a good question. I need to know if you’re well-versed in the art world,” Jeongin shrugs. “It would be great to have someone explain everything to me.”
“Each piece has a plaque doing exactly that.”
“No, they don’t help,” Jeongin says, shaking his head. He leans forward to examine the plaque in front of their painting. “You have to already be smart to understand them. Like this one…”
Practice. A series of canvases stapled over one another, each with a freehanded circle painted onto it. The top canvas is the artist’s final rendition of the circle, said to be geometrically perfect.
Jeongin glances back at the painting, noting the circle drawn in red paint and noting, too, how distorted it is—lumpy and wrong all thanks to the uneven canvases over which it lies.
“Oh,” he blinks. “Actually, I feel like I understand.”
“Enlighten me,” the man snorts, unconvinced by Jeongin’s enlightenment.
“It’s like…the concept of practice makes perfect,” Jeongin shrugs. “The artist tried a million times and was finally able to achieve something kind of impossible. Pretty cool.”
“But it’s not perfect. The circle is misshapen.”
“Yeah, but that’s just because of how it’s laid,” Jeongin says. “It would be perfect without the other paintings beneath it.”
“Are you sure?” the man asks, tilting his head. “Maybe the artist is lying. It’s not like you can prove otherwise without dismantling it.”
“Artists can’t lie,” Jeongin says without thinking. With thinking, he says, “Well. I guess artists are just people. And people can lie.”
“And even if it is perfect,” the man continues, “who cares? Nobody can tell how much the artist has improved because the final product is so warped by past failures. Even all lumpy, this could be the best circle out of the entire batch, but you wouldn’t know by just seeing this one. It’s a useless piece with all the failures behind it.”
“I don’t think so,” Jeongin says, his brow furrowing with frustration. “I actually think that makes it cooler. You don’t always get to see someone at their worst to know they’re currently at their best. Sometimes you just see a lumpy person and you accept that this is the version you get. And lumps aren’t a big deal, anyway. It’s not a bad thing that your past shapes you.”
“Misshapes you.”
“Shapes you,” Jeongin insists. “Maybe I get art and you don’t, actually.”
“Maybe you just have bad taste,” the man smirks. “Or possibly heat stroke.”
“So rude,” Jeongin tuts. “I’m going to tell on you.”
“What!”
“Yeah. I’m going to let the artist know we have a serious hater on our hands.”
“Snitch,” the man says, wrinkling his nose. “What’s your name? I need to watch out for you.”
“Yang Jeongin. And yours?”
“Hwang Hyunjin.”
“Well, Hwang Hyunjin, hater of fine art,” Jeongin says, grinning as he extends his hand for the other to shake. He likes him despite his poor understanding of things like cool paintings and warm winter wear. “Here’s hoping we never run into each other again.”
“Here’s hoping,” Hyunjin giggles, clasping Jeongin’s hand with a smile wide enough to rival Jeongin’s own.
Hyunjin leaves as soon as he’s released. Bathroom break, maybe, but he doesn’t return. A part of Jeongin regrets not asking for his number or his home address or his hand in marriage. Another part of Jeongin thinks it’s for the best. He doesn’t want to be seen here, after all.
Jeongin stays longer than he intends, so distracted by his time with Hyunjin that he keeps forgetting to memorize the gallery as he meanders. He returns one final time to Practice, studying it with a fervor he’s never had for studying before. He reads the plaque over and over again, trying to understand if there’s anything he’s missing—anything that makes it bad.
He notices, then, the thing that made Hyunjin so resistant to its praise. The thing he glossed over initially.
Practice. By Hwang Hyunjin.
...
“You’re a fan of…me?” Hyunjin asks, blinking several times in quick succession. Not flirting. Not batting his eyelashes at Detective Seo Changbin. Truly just shocked and perhaps a bit excited. It’s only recently that Hyunjin’s been receiving recognition for what he does. “My work?”
“Yes,” Detective Seo Changbin nods.
“Really?”
“Oh, big time,” he says, leaning back in his chair. It creaks with the effort of staying put together. Hyunjin hopes it collapses, but he feels bad for hoping that. Not because Detective Seo Changbin might get hurt, but because the chair doesn’t deserve such a destructive fate. “I used to watch School for Boys every single day. New episodes when they aired, reruns when they didn’t. My sister would make fun of me, but it had such a good plot!”
Hyunjin blinks again, this time slowly and only once. Any sort of joy he could’ve felt at meeting an admirer fades. He’s so disappointed, he doesn’t even think to use this newly established power dynamic to his advantage.
“And a great cast, too,” Detective Seo Changbin continues. “Was there a huge difference between working on a TV set and on a movie set?”
“...What?”
“I know it’s all acting,” he says, waving his arms about. “But did you have to flex any new muscles when working on School for Boys versus Sunbright?”
Hyunjin doesn’t respond. He stares into the camera lens. He thinks that’s probably weird and makes him look like a serial killer. He stares at Detective Seo Changbin. He thinks that’s probably worse than looking like a serial killer.
“I mean, I guess School for Boys was a little more comedic than Sunbright. Your character was always a favorite. I was so bummed when he got written off.”
Hyunjin thinks it wouldn’t be so bad to become a serial killer if the situation called for it. He might like to start now.
“I never saw Sunbright,” Detective Seo Changbin sighs. “I mean, obviously. I know it got leaked, but I felt that it would be disrespectful to watch it that way. Plus, it wasn’t the final cut, right?”
Of course, based on his current location, Hyunjin might not have what it takes to be a serial killer and get away with it. So, perhaps he’ll retire that idea for the time being.
“Right, Hyunjin?” Detective Seo Changbin prods, sitting forward in his chair again. He places his hands on the table in front of them and furrows his brow. He’s taking all of this very seriously. Hyunjin would laugh if he thought he could do it without crying, too. “Ah. Sorry. It’s probably upsetting to think about that, hm? I know it must be hard…considering…”
“It was hard for a lot of people,” Hyunjin says, glancing toward a corner of the room where nobody is waiting for him to make eye contact.
“It’s different for you than it is for the others, though, isn't it?” Detective Seo Changbin asks, shifting until he can look into Hyunjin’s face properly. “Being at the exhibit tonight must’ve been tough. A huge career moment for you, sure, but you’re surrounded by all these memories. That environment would’ve put anyone into an unstable headspace.”
Hyunjin thinks Detective Seo Changbin must know a thing or two about putting people into unstable headspaces. He’s only been here for a few minutes and already Hyunjin has considered pissing himself, becoming a serial killer, and for just a moment—one small, weak moment, Hyunjin considered Park Hosung.
...
A coat rack is not the same thing as a coat check, but the security guard at the door pretends it is. He offers to take Jeongin’s jacket—nay, insists upon it—even though Jeongin is not in disguise at the moment, so of course he has no jacket to take. This disappoints the security guard, who is trying very hard to be hospitable.
“What the fuck is your problem!?” a voice shrieks from across the studio. It’s a small enough space that a security guard and a coat rack take up more room than is reasonable. But the woman red in the face both with paint splatter and with fury is a rich enough artist—nay, wealthy politician’s daughter trying to break into the art world—that the security is deemed necessary anyway.
Not too sure about the coat rack, though.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Jeongin says, taking a few steps in to greet Hyoseong. She meets him halfway, stepping back from her latest creation. Jeongin stares at her canvas long enough to wish for a plaque.
“I hired you to destroy my painting,” she says, shoving a photo of the piece she has installed at the Seummu Art Gallery into his face. Jeongin recognizes it from one of the articles that’s been circulating. The painting was originally something bland—neutral colors on a neutral background that evoked a neutral reaction from Jeongin. So, of course, he covered it in bright blue glitter.
“Looks pretty destroyed to me,” Jeongin says.
“Yes, and so is every other piece of art in the entire goddamn gallery,” Hyoseong shouts, tossing her phone onto the cement floor. Jeongin winces at the resulting crack, certain her screen has shattered. Maybe he can find a way to sue Hyunjin for that one, too. It might be nice to see him again, even if it’s embroiled in a legal drama.
“Glitter is hard to control once you get it going,” Jeongin says, and it’s true. The AC in those places is insane. The moment Jeongin let a spritz of sparkly vandalism fly from his spraycan, it was instantly taken on a full tour of the gallery courtesy of LG Electronics.
“Then why did you spare one?” Hyoseong asks, patting her pockets for her phone. Jeongin knows what she wants to show him. All of the articles about it are the same. Someone broke into the Seummu, their features totally disguised. They glitter bombed every single piece of art in the entire gallery, ruining many of them. Except for one painting, left completely untouched. “Now everyone is talking about Hwang fucking Hyunjin, whoever the hell that is. They were supposed to be talking about me!” Hyoseong finishes, having given up the search for her phone, still smashed on the floor where she threw it.
“I saw plenty of articles mentioning your name.”
“Alongside the others who were vandalized,” she snaps. “I’m a note made in passing. The focus is on oh, who’s this artist that got out unscathed? Oh, what other work has he done? Oh, forget the real victims of this crime!”
“You paid me to make you a victim.”
“Just me!” she yells. “Just me, Yang Jeongin! Are you an idiot?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs.
“I’m not paying you the rest,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Three-quarters of the original agreed upon amount,” Jeongin counters. He expected something like this. He doesn’t take jobs of this nature often, but he’s taken them enough to know how to haggle.
“Why the fuck–”
“Because you are still getting name-dropped,” Jeongin says, holding his arms out as if to say, it’s really not so bad, is it? “And if you want to capitalize on this moment, start working on a series of paintings that includes a shit ton of glitter or something. Take this horrible crime done against you and turn it into the career maker you wanted it to be.”
Hyoseong stares at him. She narrows her eyes. She stares. She narrows her eyes even more. She stares. Her eyes are shut. She can’t possibly be staring any longer, but Jeongin feels the pressure of her gaze regardless.
“...One quarter,” she offers.
“Half.”
“Deal.”
Half of what Jeongin signed up for does not cover the time he took off work, the money he spent on supplies, and the amount he owes for rent and bills and groceries and all the sorts of things one needs to survive.
Perhaps he should be charging more. Perhaps he should be doing the jobs properly as well. Perhaps he can sue Hyunjin for loss of funds, too. And if doing so draws out their legal battle, so be it.
...
The night shift never gets easier. Especially when he’s not scheduled for the night shift and should be at home sleeping in preparation for the morning shift. Which starts in five hours. But when duty calls, Chan answers.
“Hey there,” he says, poking his head into the interrogation room. He flashes a big, dimpled smile at the man opposite him, but receives no such kindness in return. Understandable, given the circumstances. “Sorry about the wait. Had to get all of my ducks in a row.” Chan waves a manila folder in hand, which contains not a single duck.
“No problem.”
“Detective Bang,” Chan says, extending a hand across the table. He’s pleased when a strong grasp meets his own. “First name Chan. You can call me Chan.”
“Okay.”
“Need anything before we get started?” Chan asks, settling into his chair. He glances back at the old camera sitting on an old tripod and makes a show of pressing old buttons and adjusting who knows what. “Bathroom, water, a quick jog around the neighborhood?”
“All good.”
“Great,” Chan says, turning away from the camera. “You have the right to remain silent or make no statement. Remaining silent cannot be used against you if you invoke that right. If you waive your right to make no statement, anything you say can be used as evidence in a court of law. You have the right to a defense counsel, including during this interrogation. Any questions?”
“No.”
“Can you please state your name? First and last.”
“Yang Jeongin.”
“Date of birth?”
“February 8th, 2001.”
“Home address?”
“Um…” Jeongin begins, breaking eye contact for the first time. “I don’t really have one at the moment.”
“No?” Chan blinks. “Where do you sleep?”
Jeongin shrugs. The movement is restricted and stiff. Chan’s not sure if his white button-up is too tight or if it’s the black vest overtop that’s preventing him from expressing his uncertainty to the fullest extent. Surely it’s not the bowtie.
“It’s still cold out,” Chan says, his brow wrinkling. “You need shelter.”
“Seems to be the least of my concerns at the moment,” Jeongin says, glancing around the poorly lit interrogation room.
“It’s not,” Chan mumbles. He has an extra coat at his desk, he thinks. It’ll be too big, but Jeongin seems fond of wearing clothes that don’t fit properly if his current outfit is anything to go by.
Jeongin shrugs.
“Okay, Yang Jeongin. Let’s get to it, yeah?”
Jeongin shrugs.
“I’m going to be honest,” Chan says, opening his manila folder, but angling the contents away from Jeongin’s view. “With the evidence we have, it’s clear you had something to do with this. The only thing I need to know is what role you played. Brains of the operation? Hired help? Unwilling accomplice?”
“I think you’re making some assumptions,” he says.
“Oh, I definitely am. I don’t have the full picture, Jeongin. That’s why we’re here,” Chan says, staring down at the contents of his folder. “What’s your relationship with Hwang Hyunjin?”
“What?” Jeongin asks, his head snapping up to stare wide-eyed at Chan.
“Hwang Hyunjin,” Chan says, slowly this time. “He’s involved, he’s already admitted to that much. I suggest you follow his lead.”
Jeongin blinks once, twice, coming back into his senses one long moment at a time. He sits back in his chair, letting his gaze fall to the floor before he responds. “I don’t have a relationship with Hwang Hyunjin.”
“No?” Chan asks. “None at all?”
“I don’t have a relationship with Hwang Hyunjin,” Jeongin says again, his voice breaking on the admission of it. He chews on his lower lip hard enough that Chan knows it hurts.
Chan looks down at the contents of his folder one more time. He doesn’t have the full picture, but he does have some pictures of some things. No ducks, but Chan doesn’t need ducks. And if he does need ducks, he’ll have them all in a row by the end of this.