Chapter 27

Safe house personnel entered right on schedule and escorted 330 away. Shin and Se-woong exited the interrogation room as well. Though it felt as though little time had elapsed, the bright afternoon sun was already sinking into a crimson glow.

Before Se-woong, whose vacant gaze betrayed his lingering daze, a large palm suddenly materialized.

Failing to comprehend the outstretched hand demanding something, Se-woong raised his head, prompting Shin to nudge him with a quiet gesture.

Neat hair, a clean-shaven jaw showing not a hint of stubble, a straight bridge of the nose, and deep eyes framed by thin double eyelids. Staring at this impeccably handsome face, why on earth did the frail, razor-sharp image of 330 suddenly overlap with it? Like the lingering afterimage burned into sight by a dying, flickering bulb, 330’s expression seemed superimposed over the visage before him.

Se-woong lowered his gaze and peered silently at the hand. Truly, even his hands were strikingly handsome.

“Are you… asking me to hold your hand, sir?” Se-woong asked hesitantly.

Shin let out an understated smirk. “That works too. Want to hold hands on the way?”

As if. That would never happen.

As Se-woong nervously rubbed his temple in embarrassment, Shin chuckled mildly and gestured toward the parking lot with his chin.

“The car keys,” Shin requested. “I’ll take the wheel.”

“No, sir. You dislike driving,” Se-woong protested.

Shin arched an eyebrow, asking, “Which do you think I dislike more? Driving, or hearing that ‘No, sir’ of yours?”

Se-woong cast a cautious look around the deserted parking structure. The safe house had sparse foot traffic to begin with, and arriving at this ambiguous late afternoon hour meant not a soul was passing through. Had they emerged even slightly later, their timing would have coincided with departing staff, but the hour was well-timed.

“Speak casually,” Shin urged softly. “There’s nobody around.”

Though Se-woong had no difficulty addressing Shin with formal military honorifics, seeking permission to revert to casual speech during moments like this was never an easy hurdle.

If one had to name the most pathetic moment before a former lover turned commanding officer, this was precisely it. Yet before Se-woong could dwell on feeling pathetic, Shin always took the initiative, telling him to drop the formality. Almost every single time, as if he possessed uncanny prescience.

Se-woong replied softly, “It’s fine. It’s not as if it isn’t true that you hate driving, and traffic will pick up before long anyway.”

“Which is why I’m driving,” Shin countered firmly. “Rest a bit on the way back. You’ve been on edge all day, so you must be drained. You got indigestion eating lunch with me, and you couldn’t tear your eyes off 330 the entire time.”

“It wasn’t eating with you that upset my stomach,” Se-woong muttered, trailing off.

Shin extended his open palm. “Hand them over.”

Faced with Shin standing his ground and demanding the keys without any intention of boarding the passenger side, Se-woong could no longer refuse. He had wanted to spare him from driving—a chore Shin so thoroughly despised—at least while they were out together, but bickering here seemed poised to exhaust him even further. He did not wish to burden Shin with any more fatigue today.

Perhaps because they were heading back toward Seoul, the highway proved surprisingly clear. Turning the steering wheel amidst an unburdensome silence, Shin initiated the conversation.

“You think 330 will talk, don’t you? Reviewing just the reports and footage, I was genuinely on the fence. I couldn’t tell whether he was agitated because Ri Chul-joo’s suicide placed him at a disadvantage, or if watching a comrade die before his eyes had simply traumatized him.”

“It feels far more… entangled than that,” Se-woong noted quietly.

While focusing on Se-woong’s words, Shin routinely checked the rearview mirror out of habit.

“They must have been extraordinarily close,” Se-woong reasoned. “Definitely not mere coworkers—at the very least, intimate friends. His eyes turned strikingly mournful the moment the funeral was mentioned.”

“…Mournful. You certainly examined him in great detail,” Shin echoed quietly.

Turning toward the driver’s seat, Se-woong asked, “He seemed desperate to see him laid to rest properly. Didn’t it appear that way to you?”

Tracing his lower lip with his thumb in quiet contemplation, Shin slowly nodded.

“So, Se-woong,” Shin inquired, “you believe 330 isn’t an operative?”

“At least going by intuition,” Se-woong answered.

In truth, as Captain Cha Se-woong of the JCS Task Force, it was not an answer easily committed to record. Writing in an official report that his eyes turned mournful at the mention of Ri Chul-joo was out of the question. Yet as the human being who had shared countless discussions of this nature with Lee Shin, he could speak his mind with unreserved ease.

Shin, conversely, was obligated to approach the situation under the operative premise that 330 was indeed an undercover agent. His duty was to determine what intelligence an operative might possess and what objective drove him across the line, formulating tactical operations accordingly.

“Furthermore, I don’t believe 330’s rank is that of a common soldier,” Se-woong added. “His diction aside, his hands showed no rough wear.”

“…His hands weren’t rough?” Shin asked, glancing over with mild surprise.

“The 135th Brigade must have suffered from poor equipment logistics,” Se-woong explained. “Especially if he were an ordinary private, he would have performed backbreaking manual labor on construction sites. Yet for someone purportedly working with his bare hands, his palms were remarkably pale and well-kept.”

“Pale and well-kept…” Shin mused under his breath.

Reviewing footage from today’s interrogation room on his tablet, Se-woong expanded the screen with two fingers to present the display. While they would have to consult Psychological Operations for formal assessment, it was a meaningful deduction. It merited closer scrutiny.

“Se-woong-ah, put that down and rest,” Shin scolded gently. “I sat you there so you’d take a breather, so why do you keep disobeying?”

“We are technically still on duty, sir,” Se-woong quipped back.

Shin smirked dryly. “Shall I send you to the stockade for insubordination?”

Finally pulling his eyes away from the tablet, Se-woong let slip a soft chuckle. The mention of the stockade summoned memories of petty squabbles where they playfully threatened to call the military police over the most trivial matters.

Using up the bathroom toilet paper without replacing the roll, nodding off during late-night phone calls, or having base-wide weekend leaves canceled—they had bickered over such absurdities with mock threats of confinement. How adorably childish they had been back then. Though it was all in the past now.

“Are we heading back to headquarters?” Shin asked.

“Yes,” Se-woong confirmed. “I need to draft the report, and I have to review the advance questionnaire for the Chairman’s press conference tomorrow.”

Shin clicked his tongue in exasperation. “Are you the only one working in the Secretariat? Why do they keep dumping their workload onto an officer detached on temporary duty?”

“Aren’t you handling your Intelligence Directorate duties simultaneously as well?” Se-woong retorted playfully. “Lead by example, Major.”

Shin’s gaze softened with concern. “Is your stomach feeling better? Seeing you smile, it seems like you’ve recovered.”

The empty medicine bottle from earlier that afternoon remained in the cup holder. Beside it sat the little yogurt drink bottle, still exuding a faint, sweet aroma.

“Yes,” Se-woong replied with a faint smile. “The medicine must have been extraordinarily effective.”

For some reason, 330’s haunting gaze—looking as though everything was shattered and only grief remained—refused to fade from Se-woong’s mind.

Then, out of nowhere, avoiding Shin began to feel utterly pointless. Shin meeting that matchmaking partner again, or even sleeping with her—Se-woong had to accept that these were matters he no longer possessed any right to meddle in. He was no longer his lover, and this distance was nothing less than the outcome of Se-woong’s own choice.

Eight years spent together was no short span. Even after parting ways, he had reacted to Shin’s every breath out of ingrained habit, unable to truly break free. He had not known how to handle the overflowing lingering feelings, nor had he possessed any idea what to do.

Yet now, it is time to put an end to this foolishness.

He shouldn’t have acted so prickly earlier today. Such medicine, such sweet yogurt—before long, none of it would be his to receive. The days where Shin grew irritable watching him draw lines would soon run out as well. He deeply regretted dragging him into that noisy restaurant and interfering just because Shin was taking a phone call from an arranged date.

In the end, looking back would yield only regret, and the time remaining was far too scarce to spend on anything less than kindness.

If Shin wished to remain friends, he could easily accommodate that small desire. After all, how much longer could it possibly last?

The bruised crimson sunset was sinking slowly between the low city skyline.

That evening, word arrived from the safe house. 330 had specifically requested to speak with Shin and Se-woong again. Having confirmed the date of the next session before departing, it was a progression well within expectations.

Yet the follow-up interrogation was not scheduled immediately. Rumors that 330 was on the verge of opening his mouth to the Joint Chiefs had evidently spread, prompting Army Headquarters and the National Intelligence Service to push their own agendas rather than adjust their timetables.

Having requested the earliest available slot from the coordinator, Se-woong re-examined the documents in his hands. The file he intended to share with Shin first was the supplementary autopsy report on Ri Chul-joo forwarded by the Forensic Institute. A grave expression settled over Se-woong’s features as he reviewed the findings.

Feeling the urgency to show it immediately, Se-woong craned his neck toward Shin’s desk. The vacant workspace stood desolate. Only then did he check the wall clock, noting that the hour had quietly slipped past nine. It was certainly late, and hardly anyone remained in the office, yet it was still too early for Shin to call it a day. Evidently, he had stepped away momentarily. As the most frantically mobile member of the task force, he was absent from his desk far more often than present.

Just as Se-woong moved toward his desk to wait, the loud vibration of a smartphone—bzzzt—shattered the quiet office where only intermittent typing and ambient machine hum echoed. The sound was coming from his own workstation.

The vibration cut off before long, but Se-woong stepped back to inspect the caller ID. It was his second brother. Having buzzed scarcely four or five times before hanging up, his brother’s impatience was on full display.

Connecting the call, Se-woong answered softly, “Yeah, hyung.”

—Se-woong-ah, are you still at headquarters?

“Yeah. I haven’t clocked out yet,” Se-woong replied into the receiver.

—Perfect. I’m near your headquarters right now, so let’s see each other for a quick second. Can you step outside?

“You’re near here? Where are you?” Se-woong asked, blinking in surprise. “I’ll head right out the moment you arrive.”

The place Se-gyeom mentioned was not merely nearby—he was waiting right outside the main gate. Gathering his documents just in case, Se-woong pulled his shoes from beneath the desk. He needed to change out of the comfortable slippers he wore around the office.

Though Se-gyeom had occasionally paid surprise visits to his previous garrisons, this was his very first time coming to the Joint Chiefs despite its close proximity. For some reason, seeing his brother felt even more difficult now than when Se-woong had been stationed at the western maritime frontier. Then again, now that Se-gyeom was married, perhaps that was only natural.