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The memory was still vivid in his mind. His cold hands were tightly clasped, and laughter echoed off the walls of the apartment he had lived in for the past year. His slender fingers intertwined with the slightly taller guy, hand in hand, as if that was the most natural place for them to be. He almost believed they were meant to be together. Enchanted by his smile and the crescent moon that formed on his eyes as his lips curved into a sign of happiness, their long legs moved in time to the song playing from the bluetooth speaker they had hunted down during Black Friday sales. Paris, Chainsmokers—too modern to be the song for a romantic dance, but they didn't care.
“The song. We are in Hawaii, though. Not Paris,” Euijoo laughed.
“But you said you want to go to Paris. Let’s pretend we’re there,” Nicholas replied, sweetly.
(Fake. Fake. Fake!)
Two days ago he was in Hawaii. There was no view of the historic landmark from the window of the two-bedroom apartment. The evening arrived without any romantic scene. Only the orange sky gradually darkened, as their dance continued, with the same song. Repeatedly. He almost felt bad—because the man in his arms looked so happy, so sincere. He almost felt guilty because at that moment his heart was sinking into uncertainty, wanting to tighten his embrace.
If we go down, then we go down together—the song played in their small apartment.
But darling, the one who must go down is—
—you.
Once again, he almost felt guilty as he let go of his hand. He released his embrace from the slender waist he had hugged countless times. Goddammit. His heart ached as two helicopters flew low toward the balcony of the 15th-floor apartment. The roar of the wind drowned out the song. The dance ended when footsteps echoed and the door was forced open. He didn't realize his hands were trembling as he pulled the gun out from under his jacket. He aimed the barrel at the man he had called his lover for the past year.
Yixiang might never forget the confused face of his lover—ah, no—Euijoo.
“Nicholas? You knew, right?” Euijoo's expression slowly changed from confusion to a slight smile. Nicholas. Yixiang tried hard to ignore the name that Euijoo kept calling softly for some reason. Goddammit. Again. “Took you—how long, to let them do this?” Euijoo's hand gestured toward the two helicopters and machine guns aimed at his back, but his gaze swept across the apartment, where ten shooters stood. Each with a long-barreled rifle. And Yixiang was the center of Euijoo's attention at that moment.
“Euijoo Byun, as per the law, you have been sentenced for 40 murders—you will be executed on sight.” Yixiang did not answer Euijoo's question. Instead, he repeated what his superior had said a year and a half ago: Euijoo Byun was a fugitive with a shoot-on-sight order.
(“We went through hell to track him down. It's a shame, right? He's too pretty.” His unit leader showed a photo of Euijoo from a year and six months ago. Yixiang didn't budge.
“Nothing to be regretted, Sir. He has more than 20 body counts, innocent lives had gone because of his sick obsession,” cold and straightforward, Yixiang Wang, an agent with more than five years of experience—would not back down from his duty; to trap Euijoo Byun.)
A dingy bar in Shinjuku, Tokyo, is indeed a perfect place to drown in memories. His thoughts wandered, jumping from his memories of the day he was assigned the task of trapping the cold-blooded serial killer to the moment when the international police decided that Euijoo Byun could no longer be allowed to breathe free air. The order was absolute, that day was counted as the last day of the mission to capture the serial killer. As the agent directly responsible for the mission, Yixiang was the key to ensuring the target did not escape.
Nicholas, the taste of that name lingered on his tongue, Nicholas Wang and the fabricated story about a life Yixiang never lived—the mask he wore was so perfect that even a killer's instincts were defeated. Nicholas Wang, known to Euijoo, was an accountant. They met one autumn afternoon, exchanged names and phone numbers. Six months later, Nicholas declared his love for Euijoo and rented an apartment for them to live together. For a year, Yixiang Wang lived as Nicholas, Euijoo's lover.
His hand was currently clutching a glass of alcohol, but his mind kept replaying the sensation of his fingers gripping the handle of the Glock G22 entrusted to him. The pistol was fully loaded with sharp bullets, its muzzle aimed at Euijoo's forehead. The sound of sirens and radio transmissions drowned out the melody that had previously accompanied their dance, and the apartment, which usually felt very comfortable, became tense. His throat was dry at that moment, feeling as if it were blocked by a large rock.
Euijoo laughed, laughing so hard that his slender neck was clearly visible. His brunette hair was tousled by the wind that blew in, carried by two pairs of copter propellers that continued to monitor the target's movements. The target, a serious criminal, an international fugitive—Yixiang closely observed every tremor in the man's shoulders, how his hand brushed his hair, and Euijoo didn't lose his smile. “So, no Paris? And no more my Nichol?” Yixiang could hear the disappointment at the end of Euijoo's question, the way he used Japanese, which was usually only spoken when they were talking to each other alone. The man seemed to take a deep breath and exhale quickly.
“I'm so in love with you, Nicholas, I don't remember you can do this to me anytime,” Yixiang felt a chill down his neck, running down his spine. He knew. Euijoo knew his disguise all along.
A strange feeling stirred in his chest at that moment. Yixiang tried to bury it, to ignore it. His heart was racing wildly and his mind seemed to want to throw away all the reasons so that this situation would change 180 degrees. His fingertips longed for the warmth of holding Euijoo, as he had done every day for a year. The forehead marked by every muzzle in the room somehow looked so lonely that his lips felt like kissing it, as he did every night before they fell asleep in each other's arms. It was their routine, Yixiang tried to make his mind work harder, forcing himself to believe that these feelings were just the result of their routine. His routine when disguised as Nicholas Wang, who deeply in love with Euijoo.
Just muscle memory. Just the remnants of a year-long habit.
“I'll miss you and our non-existent trip to Paris,” Euijoo chuckled softly. If it weren't for the helicopters and dozens of guns pointed at him, Euijoo would have looked like a man chatting with his lover. Barefoot, wearing his favorite pajama pants and Yixiang's hoodie. So comfy, the embodiment of home if only Euijoo didn't have a crazy obsession that made him an international fugitive after brutally killing dozens of people. “I can't run, right? It's a shame, the flooring is too nice to be dirtied by blood,” Euijoo sighed, staring straight at Yixiang, “I remember you chose this wooden floor.”
The air at that moment was like a tightly strung string, full of tension, and the slightest movement could break the chaos. Yixiang still kept his gun pointed, while Euijoo walked backwards. “Don't worry, Nichol. Just want to choose where I should die,” Euijoo's laugh was too relaxed for someone whose life was on the line.
“No funny business, Byun Euijoo,” it felt strange to say that name sharply, instead of with a soft tone.
“No, I promise.”
Yixiang stared at Euijoo, who was standing on the balcony, raising both hands. He wasn't trying to escape, that was true. But Euijoo's arms suddenly dropped, gripping the iron railing on the balcony, his back pressed against it.
“Goodbye, Yixiang.”
It wasn't his gun that fired the bullet. Another officer next to him fired a single shot straight at Euijoo's forehead. Yixiang was stunned when Euijoo's body swayed and fell from the railing. He fell freely after the bullet lodged into his forehead, breaking his balance. He heard footsteps, and the other members quickly moved out of the apartment, some approaching the balcony. Including himself, who moved unconsciously. His brain tried to process that his lover, no, their target, had been taken down. Falling from the 15th floor with a near-zero chance of survival.
Yixiang held his breath as he peered over the balcony, his gaze fixed on the body lying on the asphalt. Well, Yixiang had successfully completed his mission according to the assigned objective.
But Nicholas had just lost his lover.
✺
Two days ago, his commander gave Yixiang time to pack and fly from Hawaii to Tokyo. Yesterday, the day after his mission was completed, he left on the earliest flight to Tokyo. Throughout the trip, his jaw felt stiff. He remembered the email from his unit chief, the autopsy report stating that the fugitive murderer, Euijoo Byun, had died after being shot right in the forehead and falling from the 15th floor. The case was officially closed. Another win for justice, they said. The last two days' newspapers were filled with headlines about the death of the serial killer, about the International Police once again saving justice.
At the beginning of the assignment, Yixiang dreamed of the day of his freedom—when the task was over and he could rest for a day or two. He dreamed of sleeping peacefully, lazing around in his studio apartment, which was not very spacious but comfortable for someone who lived alone. Unfortunately, on the second night after his assignment was over, he found himself unable to close his eyes for more than a few seconds. It felt strange to lie alone on the bed.
It didn't matter that he didn't sleep that second night. But when morning came, it felt strange again because he prepared only a bowl of cereal, instead of two. Sitting alone watching television, he ate his unappetizing breakfast. The long sofa was too big for him. Yixiang stared blankly at the show in front of him. Hollow. Bleak. It was as if the colors of the world around him had faded. It frustrated him to no end. Because Yixiang had never faced such emptiness before, because he shouldn't have felt this way.
On the third night, unfortunately, he still felt the same emptiness.
It lingered, like the name he used as a cover. It lingered uncomfortably inside his head, along with Euijoo's face, Euijoo's laugh—everything.
He was lonely. He missed him.
He missed Euijoo.
This is where Yixiang sought solace. A small, hidden bar, not on the glitzy side of Manhattan. Margarita, he downed his first glass without even enjoying it. The thoughts in his head did not disappear after the first glass. His logic struggled to reject the idea that the emptiness had turned into pain in his heart. He refused to accept that the feeling that had enveloped him for the past two days was sadness. Yixiang Wang, an undercover police officer, should not feel heartbroken over the death of his wanted target. He should not miss Euijoo.
God forbid, an undercover police agent is missing a dead murderer. What a joke. If cursing could simplify his turbulent feelings, Yixiang wouldn't need to choose alcohol as his second alternative. Another shot, gin and tonic. He drinks it with his eyes closed, but instead it dampens his thoughts, he sees Euijoo beneath his eyelids. Vivid memories of Euijoo. He curses at the last drop of his second glass, almost smashing the glass in his hand.
Nauseous. He raise his hand to call the bartender, and his third glass arrived. Whiskey. Dry. Euijoo's favorite drink. Once again, he is lost in his memories, his subconscious even choosing the drink that Euijoo usually sips on in the evening, every weekend.
“Wait. Excuse me?”
Yixiang narrows his eyes. He stares intently at the glass of whiskey while gesturing for the bartender to come over. “I don't remember ordering a dry whiskey,” he says as soon as the bartender is within arm's reach. Confused. Because the glass arrived before he said what he wanted. The bartender slowly says, “Oh,” then turns to his right. Yixiang follows the bartender's gaze.
“He said, you look like you could use a dry whiskey for your thoughts,” the man in question is in the direction of the bartender's nod. A man with his head bowed, wearing a gray long coat and oxford shoes. A young executive type. Yixiang is stunned.
Shivers run down his neck.
The whiskey glass is left on the table. The tall man gets up. He moves away from his seat and walks casually. Yixiang doesn't understand why he moves his legs to follow the man. His heart is pounding behind his ribs. The music from the dimly lit bar's jukebox is muffled as his steps get closer to the exit. The man seems to wait until the distance between them is just an arm's reach, then moves again. Yixiang is like a person in a panicked state. The logical side of his mind screams for him to stop. However, his feet do not pause.
Shinjuku and its buildings left narrow, damp streets between them. As soon as the door opened, he stepped onto wet asphalt. Clouds hanging in the sky at half past nine in the evening. He can hear his own breathing. A few meters ahead of him, the tall man is still the only thing in his focus.
“Wait up. You,” he tries to speed up his pace. The figure remains distant. He keeps walking, his footsteps pounding the road. The sound of soles hitting wet asphalt. He turns suddenly, the man in the coat taking the corner between the buildings at the end of the block.
Something’s wrong inside his head. Definitely. Or heart.
Yixiang can't explain why, rationalize why he's chasing someone without any real reason. The further he gets from the main road, the narrower the space between the buildings gets. The lights fade. The pounding of his heart sounds way louder than the faint car horns and the barking of stray dogs looking for food.
“Did you miss me?”
Stop. His heart truly feels like it’s rising up to his throat.
Crazy, Yixiang, seems to have lost his mind. Because, as soon as the tall guy turns around, he rushes over. Both arms reach out, embracing with urgency and greed. Greedy to burn away the longing.
“Ah, you missed me,” says the man who should be dead.
“Nicholas—no, Yixiang?” Warm fingers caressing his back, the embrace is returned. Euijoo, this voice and body, it’s real if Euijoo is being embraced by Yixiang. Tightly.
“You’re alive.” He stutters. The young agent still can’t believe it, but it is indeed Euijoo. His trembling hands caressed the now darker strands, stroking his cheeks. He let go of the embrace to observe. Yixiang almost lost his balance, hugging him again. Still holding him tightly, afraid that Euijoo would disappear from his arms at any moment. He hears a soft laugh, feels a kiss on his cheek.
Euijoo sighed. His fingers were still on the back of the man who promised him a trip to Paris. A short murmur was heard, “You're not afraid if I killed you here, Yixiang?” The secret agent should have been alert, not shaking his head. He's almost like a child. Euijoo can't respond, except with a chuckle.
From a distance, the sound of an explosion echoes.
And, Euijoo smiles.
“You're supposed to run and save lives, Mister Policeman.”
“Don't care. Let's go to Paris.”
Euijoo laughs, closing his eyes as Yixiang gently kisses his lips.
“We go down together?”
“Together.”
Yixiang shut down his mind. He killed his better judgment. Instead of thinking about where the explosion happened, he’s busy pushing Euijoo against the nearest wall. Busy admiring the sound of his heavy breathing and the soft sighs he’s been longing for, while his lips keep kissing greedily.
“I killed you. No more Yixiang?” Euijoo replies with a series of kisses from his jaw to his neck.
“You killed Yixiang. It’s Nicholas from now on.”