Chapter 40

Yet how had the death certificate been filed, and why had they switched identities again when crossing the border? Furthermore, who had secured the potassium cyanide, and how?

Se-woong summarized thoughtfully, “So Ra Myung-hoon utilized your name strictly for medical care, since that clinic was inaccessible to ordinary citizens.”

“It wasn’t completely inaccessible to everyone,” Chul-joo clarified, shaking his head. “Timing was the issue. To secure immediate treatment, there was simply no other way.”

Just as he failed to understand that commoners could not mash pine resin with sesame oil over a petty sore, he remained oblivious that ordinary people could never step foot into Bonghwa Clinic. He was an elite through and through.

With an inquisitive gaze, Shin asked, “How was the death certificate processed? You are standing right here, very much alive.”

Having discussed the illness and treatment with relative ease, Chul-joo hesitated when confronting how he had become a registered corpse, carefully sorting through his words.

“That was…”

Chul-joo rubbed his brow in evident torment. His trembling fingers shielded his eyes from their sympathetic gazes.

“My mother did it,” Chul-joo confessed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Being a physician, she possessed the authority to pronounce death.”

His own mother had officially pronounced her living son dead.

The fact that Ri Chul-joo was already declared dead in North Korea had lent significant weight to the theory of covert espionage. A thoroughly convincing rationale was required to dispel that presumption.

Se-woong questioned in astonishment, “Why would your mother do that? To her own son, who was perfectly hale and hearty?”

“Because I said I was heading to South Korea,” Chul-joo rasped, squeezing his eyelids shut. “She told me to go… as a dead man.”

Watching the defector’s face twist in acute agony, Se-woong drew a long, quiet breath, deeply shaken by the unfathomable depth of a mother’s desperate measure.

He had no siblings. His mother had personally pronounced her only son dead and officially submitted the registry.

Glancing aside, Shin also appeared lost in thought. Unable to find words of comfort, Se-woong merely fidgeted with his empty glass bottle. Neither the mother’s shattered heart nor the agony of the son declared legally dead could easily be measured.

As Se-woong stroked the glass with his forefinger, Shin abruptly snatched the bottle away. Staring blankly at Se-woong’s hands, Chul-joo suddenly found himself without a focal point and shifted his gaze toward Shin.

Shin remarked impassively, “Quite the unfilial son, aren’t you?”

“Is that the only unfilial act I committed?” Chul-joo murmured in self-mockery.

Chul-joo let out a quiet scoff. Seeing him smile for the first time, only for it to be steeped in bitter self-derision, tasted painfully bleak. His mournful grin was hollow with despair.

Despite appearing hardened by hardship, he was barely in his mid-twenties, having lived as an elite officer in a closed society with little understanding of the outside world. A man whose home had been an impenetrable fortress had forced his parents into an unthinkable deed and fled across the border, leaving his family behind to face potential retaliation.

Shin asked quietly, “Did you truly have to go that far to cross over?”

Indeed, was crossing the border worth such sacrifice? In North Korea, Chul-joo could have lived without want.

“Myung-hoon was dying,” Chul-joo choked out, his shoulders hitching. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t just stand by and watch him die.”

Shin ceased clicking his ballpoint pen. Se-woong could offer no reply. While Chul-joo had displayed anguish throughout the session, he spoke those final words with serene resignation.

Chul-joo rubbed his weary eyes. “Let us stop here for today. I have suddenly grown exhausted.”

Judging solely by results, the session had proved extraordinarily productive.

Extracting the truth that 330 was Ri Chul-joo was a major breakthrough for the military. As the son of a brigadier general and a former commissioned officer, he was precisely the high-value asset the authorities had longed to secure.

Though Shin and Se-woong made no explicit promises, they anticipated that Ri Chul-joo’s treatment would soon undergo a dramatic shift.

Shin signaled the safe house operative waiting outside, who promptly entered the room.

Bowing his head respectfully, Chul-joo said, “Thank you for today. Let us schedule another date soon.”

Se-woong offered a warm smile and extended his hand. After staring for a moment, Chul-joo grasped it, followed by Shin exchanging a firm handshake.

Whenever they drove back toward Seoul from the safe house, the sunset was magnificent. Having departed at a similar hour today, thick evening hues descended across the western sky, tinted with streaks of crimson and deep violet. Heavy congestion was another notable feature.

“Even heading into Seoul, traffic is backed up,” Se-woong muttered to himself, resting his chin on the steering wheel. “Is everyone heading to Gangnam for the weekend?”

He wanted to urge Shin beside him to admire the sunset, but his superior had been engrossed in work since entering the vehicle. With high-level interest in the task force waning, the Defense Intelligence Headquarters had begun dumping routine administrative tasks onto him again, a burden Se-woong shared in equal measure.

Because Shin was preoccupied, Se-woong could sort through his own thoughts. He enjoyed organizing his mind while driving, occasionally even welcoming gridlock. Having someone in the passenger seat—and that person being Shin—made enjoying the standstill slightly challenging, however.

Glancing through the rearview mirror, Se-woong noted that Shin had not lifted his eyes from his tablet PC, his long legs crossed comfortably.

To prevent Shin from experiencing motion sickness while reading in a moving vehicle, Se-woong took extra care with acceleration and braking.

Suddenly, he realized that despite Shin sitting right beside him, he had been thinking of nothing else. Deliberately seeking a distraction, he replayed the interrogation in his mind.

Even today, confronting 330 had repeatedly brought Shin to mind. It certainly wasn’t appearance, nor did their temperaments or personalities share any obvious similarity, yet the impression lingered.

The only tangible commonality was having a general for a father. Given the immense influence such an upbringing exerted on an individual, a subtle resemblance was perhaps not entirely unreasonable.

Perhaps for that reason, whenever 330 grimaced in anguish during questioning, Se-woong had felt his own chest burning in sympathy.

Again. His thoughts were drifting back to Shin once more.

Reining in his wandering mind, Se-woong eased off the accelerator upon spotting taillights ahead. It was then that the silence inside the car was broken.

“Why did you stop?” Shin asked without looking up.

Se-woong blinked in mild confusion. “Pardon?”

His eyes still fixed on the screen, Shin drawled, “Why’d you stop looking? You’ve been peeking at me this entire time.”

“P-peeking… I wasn’t doing that,” Se-woong stammered defensively.

Shin gave an amused scoff. “Sure you weren’t.”

A smirk curved Shin’s lips—a confident smile of someone fully aware of his own charms.

Quietly studying the upturned corner of his mouth, Se-woong turned back to the road, his grip tightening around the steering wheel.

So. Shin hadn’t slept with anyone else after all.

Learning that the entire grievance had been a misunderstanding brought shameless relief. Though he had disciplined himself into believing he was fine, the rumor had wounded him deeply, feeling like a bitter betrayal.

Yet realizing his suspicion had inflicted an even deeper wound on Shin squeezed his heart with guilt. Anyone in Shin’s position would have felt aggrieved, even if words like trust and betrayal seemed unfitting between an estranged couple.

Shin had demanded once more that he return completely.

Did he truly believe they could be fine? If so, how far, and for how long? If they continued meeting while deceiving everyone, how long could they sustain it? The fleeting joy of learning Shin had not been with another woman vanished, replaced once again by daunting uncertainty.

Se-woong kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Shin-ah, keep reading while you listen. It’s nothing important.”

Shin shifted his gaze toward Se-woong behind the wheel. Resting the tablet against his thigh, he waited for his junior to speak.

“Did I ever mention it?” Se-woong asked with a nostalgic smile. “Back in high school, I never once placed first in the entire school.”

At a prestigious science high school where brilliant minds congregated from all over the country, claiming the top rank was no simple feat. Had he managed to take first place there, the nation’s scientific community would have mourned losing such an invaluable talent to the Ministry of National Defense.

Se-woong chuckled softly into the dusk. “No matter how furiously I studied, I could never clinch the number one spot. The student at the top of our class sat around the ninety-nine point fifth percentile nationwide. How was I supposed to beat a monster like that? But having almost never lost the top rank throughout middle school, accepting that gap was excruciating. Thinking I was bound for the military academy, I went ahead to my third year, hoping that since the high-achieving prodigies graduated early, I might finally have a chance—yet I still failed.”

Golden twilight settled gently over the refined contours of Se-woong’s profile.

“I was reasonably clever, but nowhere near their level. It was simply that I lacked the aptitude to surpass them, but back then, I foolishly convinced myself it was because I didn’t receive elite private tutoring,” Se-woong confessed with a wistful smile.

To claim he lacked elite tutoring was somewhat laughable; Se-gyeom, attending Seoul National University, coached him whenever spare moments arose, and his eldest brother Se-hwan, who graduated from the same university and was completing his residency, assisted him at every opportunity. His mentors’ credentials were unimpeachable. He enjoyed an environment overflowing with privilege compared to most, yet at that immature age, he yearned to blame failure on external factors rather than his own limitations.

“I told myself,” Se-woong remarked, shaking his head, “that if only I had specialized cram tutors, I could easily take first place. I genuinely blamed my report cards on lacking private coaching. If my older brothers heard that, they’d be utterly horrified.”

As Se-woong let out a sheepish laugh, Shin chuckled along in understanding. Indeed, had his elder brothers caught wind of such complaints, they would have been flabbergasted.

Se-woong stared out at the red brake lights glowing along the highway. “I felt so desperately wronged back then. Working so relentlessly, yet never once touching that top spot.”

Imagining an adolescent Cha Se-woong seething in frustration over his report cards, a fond curve touched Shin’s lips. Possessing a fiercely competitive streak deep down, the boy must have huffed with wounded pride. Yet envisioning that young boy ultimately resigning himself to the inevitable pricked Shin’s heart with quiet sorrow.

With an amused glint, Shin inquired, “So what is that number one genius up to these days?”

“I heard he’s completing his medical residency at the same hospital as my eldest brother,” Se-woong replied readily.

“You went to a science high school,” Shin pointed out, arching an eyebrow. “They paid your full tuition on the condition that you wouldn’t enter medical school, yet he turned right around and joined the medical field anyway. Why should you feel wronged by someone like that?”

“He didn’t enter medical school directly; he enrolled in a graduate medical program afterward,” Se-woong replied with a shrug.

Shin narrowed his dark eyes in mild suspicion. “How do you know so much about him? Are you two in touch?”

The absurd leap in logic elicited an incredulous laugh from Se-woong. Only after watching his junior shake his head in utter exasperation did Shin return his gaze to the road ahead.

“Shin-ah,” Se-woong called softly.

Shin murmured a low, questioning hum in response.

At the edge of the fading dusk, encroaching twilight painted a bleeding crimson line across the horizon.

He loved Shin more deeply than anyone else in the world. What Shin favored, what lifted his spirits, and what caused him distress—Se-woong felt confident he understood those nuances better than the parents who had brought Shin into existence. More than anyone else in this world, he yearned never to bring Shin misery.

With his hands resting lightly on the wheel, Se-woong confessed, “I feel… somewhat wronged.”

“Still?” Shin asked, turning his head in surprise. “About not placing first back in school?”

At the preposterous inquiry, Se-woong let out an incredulous scoff. He shook his head slowly, wondering how his lover could be so remarkably perceptive in operations yet so utterly obtuse here.

“Do you really think it’s because of that?”

All this time, Se-woong had felt profoundly wronged.

When his second brother dispatched marriage to Shin’s older sister like an efficient corporate chore, and when Hee-chan announced his wedding after a decade of dating, a suffocating sense of injustice had burned in his chest. His love with Shin had been just as enduring and profound as Hee-chan’s, yet simply because they were two men, the culmination of their deep ten-year bond had ended in separation. It felt unbearably unfair and agonizing.

Yet without even attempting to fight, he had simply surrendered and walked away. Had this been a military fitness trial, he would have gritted his teeth, flexed his core to hoist himself up, and dragged his feet across the dirt to cross the finish line; he had fled only out of terror that their romance would ultimately bring misery upon them both.

Yet if Shin remained unhappy even now… if there was no prospect of that misery lifting… if he was destined to remain forever miserable…

Then what on earth is there that I cannot dare to do?