Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

She took a deep breath and felt the dress pull tight across her chest, threatening to give at the seam. Which would, honestly, be something. Possibly a last resort, considering everything she'd done to avoid what was about to happen.

Beside her, Kim Soocheol dabbed at his considerable forehead with a handkerchief — again — looking every bit as unnerved as she felt. Then he offered an arm. Jiwoo accepted it reluctantly, and together they moved toward the lit entrance.

Two weeks earlier, she'd been called to the Inchang precinct and thought things were finally falling into place. Her application to the narcotics division had at last gone through. Across the desk, Cha Giho watched with that fox-clever face of his. The tea set before her tasted like dust.

"It would be a shame to waste an opportunity like this," he said slowly, making sure she followed. "You're like a blank page. Something to that effect."

The metaphor explained nothing. The idea was simple enough: get close to Mujin. Personally.

Madness.

"This is madness."

Giho pressed his palms together as if in prayer and leaned across the desk.

"Think of it as your first assignment. If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out." A nearly soothing smile. "But we'll have tried."

And here she was. At a charity gala for some global crisis or other, playing the niece of a canned-goods executive the police had picked up a month earlier after a rather spirited run through Seoul in a Porsche with a trunk full of product.

Trying.

Music drifted through the hotel's corridors. His hotel. She'd been here before, in another life — always through a side entrance, never the front.

The banquet hall was exactly what she'd expect from a man who had built an empire on other people's misery: beautiful in a way that named its price without apology. Jiwoo lifted a glass from a passing server's tray and took a proper sip.

"There," Soocheol murmured without turning his head.

She'd spotted him the moment they walked in. Standing by a pillar — suit cut for those specific shoulders — among a cluster of men his age, head tilted toward a long, enthusiastic monologue.

Choi Mujin at a charity ball. The world was full of surprises.

"I know."

"I'll introduce you."

"I know."

Perhaps she shouldn't have agreed so readily, because in the next moment Soocheol started toward the group, making no attempt whatsoever to pretend he'd come here for anything else.

"Am I seeing things?" said a heavyset man in glasses as he approached. "Mr. Kim. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Gentlemen." A slight nod. "Mr. Choi. Thank you for the invitation."

A brief pause followed — not quite awkward — as every gaze in the circle settled on Jiwoo, no doubt wondering what Mr. Kim's wife would make of his evenings.

"Allow me to introduce my niece. She's just arrived in Seoul, isn't that right, darling? Paris before this, and now here—"

Jiwoo blinked once. Unevenly.

Paris had never been part of the plan. Soocheol's imagination had carried him considerably farther than Cha Giho had anticipated.

A murmur of appreciation followed, buying enough time to quietly construct a line of defense for the inevitable questions about her French.

Mujin stood perfectly still, listening to Mr. Kim with polite interest. He looked so entirely unremarkable that, for one second, Jiwoo thought—maybe he doesn't remember. Maybe that conversation from a week ago had simply slipped his mind. Maybe he was busy enough that a clumsy police operation in the middle of his own hotel barely registered.

Then his attention shifted to her.

"Niece."

The word landed evenly, as though he were testing its weight. Nothing touched the corner of his mouth.

"Yes." The answer came out steady. A small victory. "His sister's daughter."

Inspired.

"And how are you finding Seoul?"

A normal question.

"Bigger than I expected."

A brief pause.

"The city has a habit of that," he said. "It surprises you."

Mr. Kim laughed loudly, pleased the conversation was gaining traction, and clapped her on the shoulder in a gesture that was probably meant to seem avuncular.

Then the moment passed as quickly as it had arrived. Jiwoo found herself holding an empty glass she didn't remember finishing, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.

Across the circle, Mujin was speaking with an older man—silver-haired, clearly important, judging by the space the rest of the room gave them—and laughing at something he'd said. Not politely. Genuinely. He tilted his head back slightly, dropped his gaze like a person who needs a moment to recover from a good punchline, and the corners of his eyes creased, and—

Jiwoo blinked.

The wine was good. Not that good.

She traded the empty glass for a full one.

People kept finding reasons to approach him. Not the way people approached an executive at a company dinner, but as though they simply wanted to be near him. They drifted over. Laughed a little louder than necessary. Stayed longer than politeness required.

Mujin accepted it all with a patience that seemed effortless, giving each person his full attention. If Jiwoo hadn't seen men drown in the Han under that same expression, she might have mistaken it for kindness.

Then she realized he was watching her again.

His attention travelled along the line of her shoulders, lower, across the narrow strip of bare skin between her neckline and the satin of the dress—a detail the designer had probably considered subtle and which, at that moment, felt about as subtle as a highway.

It lingered a second too long.

Then returned to her face.

One brow lifted.

A millimeter, perhaps two.

No question followed, because none needed to.

The mockery was obvious enough that her grip tightened around the stem of the glass before she noticed.

He was enjoying himself.

"And what do you think?"

The silver-haired man's wife, elegant in red, was looking at her expectantly. Jiwoo had no idea what had been said during the last few minutes.

Not that it would have mattered.

Directly in front of her, a woman who clearly knew exactly what she was doing rested a hand on Mujin's shoulder and leaned in to say something near his ear.

"I think it depends," Jiwoo said, without quite looking at her.

The answer was apparently sufficient, and the woman kept talking.

Of course he'd come with someone. The elegant exit.

Mujin raised his glass.

Their eyes met over the rim.

Well. At least she had a reason to stop embarrassing herself for the rest of the evening. Mission over. She'd circulate a little longer, say her goodbyes, then go home, wash off the makeup, and do her best to forget the whole humiliation.

Turning toward Mr. Kim, she found him working through a plate of canapés with considerable dedication, nodding along to a companion. Soocheol and his drug-fuelled joyride through the city had fallen into Giho's lap like a gift, and she couldn't blame the inspector for making use of it.

The idea itself was worth something.

A glance at the polished tips of her heels.

The execution, rather less so.

Somewhere to her left, a conversation trailed off. A subtle shift in the room, the way people moved when someone passed through.

She didn't look up.

Didn't register the exact moment it happened, either.

Only the warmth of a jacket sleeve along her arm, at a distance that felt several inches closer than it should have been.

Mujin.

Leave, said the voice. Turn around and leave. Call Giho. Tell him it's not going to work. Get them to pull you out of here and forget the whole thing.

The conversation moved on. Mujin joined it with a single unhurried sentence, and somehow the three of them ended up laughing about Seoul in winter, new restaurants in Gangnam, and whether the city was changing too fast or too slowly, depending on who was asked.

"Are you back for good?"

The woman in the burgundy dress smiled at her. Genuine.

Which made it the worst kind.

"For a while. I needed a change."

Mr. Kim's brow furrowed, apparently sensing a missed opportunity.

"My dear niece is staying with me for the moment, but she refuses to impose on my hospitality indefinitely. She's looking for something temporary—you know how impossible it is to find something suitable at short notice."

The woman in red could not have agreed more.

"Mr. Choi's hotel would seem like the perfect solution."

"Of course," Mujin said.

No hesitation. As though the possibility had already crossed his mind.

Jiwoo swallowed.

"That's very kind. But I think I'll manage."

Mr. Kim turned with the momentum of a man who'd had a glass or two more than strictly necessary, beaming with satisfaction.

"Nonsense! You should exchange numbers."

Mujin's attention settled on him, and Jiwoo thought—with the particular clarity reserved for obvious truths—that Mr. Kim's cooperation with the police was going to end very badly. In his position, she'd already be heading toward the Han River to save Mujin the trouble.

"I'll give you my card."

The offer came almost absently.

Jiwoo took a sip of wine and concentrated on keeping the glass steady.

Mr. Kim fought with everything he had to distance himself from the drug-possession charges, and Cha Giho would have been proud. The same could not be said for Jiwoo.

"Is that Chairman Chang?" he exclaimed, craning through the shifting crowd with barely contained excitement. "I simply must say hello—"

Before she could react, he was gone.

The woman in red offered an apologetic smile and, after a brief silence, disappeared into the crowd as well.

"The terrace," said Mujin.

No further explanation.

They went.

Cold air struck her face before there was time to brace for it. The door clicked shut behind them.

Jiwoo turned.

Mujin was already there, studying her. Not smiling.

Hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, he wore an expression she knew better than she wanted to—the one that appeared whenever something wasn't functioning as it should and he hadn't yet decided whose fault that was.

"Terrible."

There was no point arguing.

"You went through your wine like it was a competition. You didn't know where to look." His attention flicked briefly toward the ballroom. Taking stock. Already elsewhere. "And every time someone mentioned my name, your shoulders went up."

"Nobody—"

One step forward.

"I noticed."

Up close, he seemed taller than she remembered. Or perhaps the terrace was smaller.

"I'm not made for this sort of thing."

"Evidently. I find it insulting." The words carried no heat, which somehow made them worse. "I want to make sure you understand that."

"What did you expect?"

"What I always expect." A pause. "Precision."

"It's difficult to be precise." Her voice remained level, which was something. "In these shoes, in this—"

A helpless gesture encompassing the dress, the terrace, the entire evening.

"I just feel ridiculous."

The admission slipped out because she'd spent years telling him everything. Because that had always been the arrangement. Because whatever she thought of him tonight, honesty felt more natural than a convincing lie.

Silence stretched between them.

"I warned you, sir," she continued. "So that you wouldn't be caught off guard. So that you could—"

"Could what?"

A week ago she'd told him about the assignment.

Fine, he'd said.

Nothing more.

At the time she'd taken that as understanding.

Idiot, she thought. Idiot with a police academy diploma.

"So that you could ignore me."

Mujin reached for a cigarette.

"Why would I do that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Inspector Cha is handing me an official back channel into his own division."

Something touched the corner of his mouth. Too small for a smile. Too cold for anything pleasant.

"And he's quite pleased with himself about it."

For a second Jiwoo simply stared.

"I won't waste it."

The cold railing pressed against her back. Her feet ached from the heels.

Across from her stood a man calmly explaining that the trap was excellent and that he intended to walk into it.

"I don't..."

The protest died somewhere between thought and speech.

"What exactly are you afraid of?"

The question was neutral. Too neutral. The kind that assumed nothing and therefore assumed everything.

"I'm not afraid."

"No?"

Smoke lingered between them.

"Then why are you so nervous?"

Jiwoo pressed her mouth into a line.

"Good."

A heartbeat passed.

"We give Giho what he wants."

"What? That's not—"

"I've made my decision."

No change in tone. No room for discussion.

"We'll do this at the right pace."

Another brief pause.

"Provided you stop drinking wine as though someone's holding a gun to your head."

Jiwoo opened her mouth.

Closed it.

"And that woman?" she asked miserably.

A last attempt. A foolish one. She'd known it before finishing the sentence.

Mujin only shook his head.

"Have I ever asked you to do something that made no sense?"

A small shake of the head.

"No."

"Then pull yourself together."

Of course he was leaving.

The conversation was over because he'd decided it was over, just as it had begun because he'd allowed it to begin.

"Come back in three minutes," he said, already heading for the door. "Not together. And be careful with the Paris story. Half the people in there speak French."

Then he was gone.

Jiwoo remained on the terrace, staring at the illuminated façade of the hotel.

For four years, nearly everything she knew about herself had traced back to a single point of origin.

That point of origin was currently on the other side of the glass door, adjusting a cuff.

She drew a breath and went inside.