Chapter 15

Unable to even articulate his own dilemma, the sergeant had somehow caught their conversation with uncanny precision, booming out his gratitude before throwing the heavy door wide open to clear a path for Shin.

Pausing mid-stride as he reached the threshold, Shin stopped and fixed his gaze on SFC Kim. Straightening up after a deep bow, the young non-commissioned officer flushed scarlet and gave an embarrassed grin the moment his eyes met the major’s. Given the vast gap in rank, standing before him ought to have felt intimidating, yet Kim looked far more starstruck than frightened—as though gazing upon an idol celebrity.

Shin arched an eyebrow. “Tae-jin, was it?”

“Sergeant First Class Kim Tae-jin! Yes, sir, that is correct!” Kim barked.

Pulling an already immaculate posture even tauter, SFC Kim answered with resounding force. It was the crispest, most rigorously disciplined tone Se-woong had ever heard from him. He hadn’t seemed quite so rigid even when rendering a hand salute to the Chief of Staff, a brigadier general—or even when greeting the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for the very first time.

Receiving the booming salute, Shin walked past without offering any response. For an officer renowned for being generous to subordinates, it was an unusually cold reception, yet SFC Kim remained utterly transfixed by the sight of Shin’s departing back.

How old did he say he was again? He hadn’t attended college, so perhaps twenty-five? Twenty-six this year? Se-woong didn’t need to strain his imagination to know how dazzling Lee Shin must appear to someone of that age. The dazed, smitten expression plastered across the sergeant’s face told the entire story.

Se-woong kept his voice low. “What’s the matter?”

Only after confirming that Shin had vanished down the far end of the corridor did Se-woong step outside and give SFC Kim’s shoulder a light tap. Since Shin would be taking the elevator, it seemed wiser for the two of them to use the stairwell. Confirming the location of the emergency exit, Se-woong led the way with the sergeant following close behind.

“Well, sir… it’s not anything major, but…” SFC Kim mumbled.

SFC Kim trailed immediately behind Se-woong’s heels, taking hurried, nervous strides to keep pace.

SFC Kim fidgeted with the hem of his uniform jacket. “I just don’t know anyone on the task force. I sat down at my desk and nobody spoke a single word to me, so…”

Just as he was about to take the stairs of the emergency exit, Se-woong stopped dead in his tracks. Failing to brake in time, the trailing sergeant lightly bumped his chest against Se-woong’s back.

Did I really just hear that correctly?

“What?” Se-woong blurted in utter disbelief.

Cringing in apology, SFC Kim pleaded, “I-I’m sorry, Captain! But everyone else seemed to know one another already, and sitting there all alone felt so utterly humiliating… After all, you’re the only person I know up there, sir!”

Lifting a hand to his brow, Se-woong gently rubbed his temple in sheer disbelief.

Ah, right.

At that age, men like Shin didn’t just look dazzling; being left alone could easily make someone anxious and insecure. He had assumed that transferring to the Joint Chiefs of Staff meant he would never have to babysit enlisted soldiers again, yet an unexpected ambush had been lurking right under his nose. Hee-chan must have quietly shielded this hidden liability all this time. Only now could Se-woong fully comprehend why Hee-chan had fretted so incessantly over the young sergeant.

“Sergeant First Class Kim Tae-jin,” Se-woong called firmly.

SFC Kim shrank back into himself. “Sergeant First Class Kim Tae-jin…”

The vigor had completely drained from the voice stating rank and name. Where on earth had the booming thunder that greeted Shin mere minutes ago disappeared to?

Turning to face him squarely, Se-woong scolded, “You rascal—”

Because this task force was hardly going to disband in a day or two, Se-woong had intended to give him a firm piece of his mind for the many days ahead. Yet before the words could fully form, a vibration buzzed against his wrist from his smartwatch. Checking the caller ID, his eyes narrowed sharply.

“Comms security. Captain Cha Se-woong speaking,” Se-woong responded into the receiver.

Shin’s flat voice crackled through the speaker. “—Ten minutes are up.”

“Pardon?” Se-woong sputtered.

A blunt retort sliced through the receiver. “—I said, ten minutes have passed.”

With those parting words, the call abruptly clicked off, leaving Se-woong staring blankly at the dark screen. Had Shin started counting down the ten minutes from the exact second SFC Kim showed up? Why was everyone, both here and there, acting so impossible?

The sole saving grace was that thanks to this clueless sergeant, he had naturally slipped away from that stiflingly awkward predicament earlier.

Whether Shin met with an ex-girlfriend from ten years ago or ended up marrying her, Se-woong was no longer in any position to meddle. Mortification over having blurted out everything without a shred of dignity had already left his vision spinning dark.

As though possessed by something, he had confessed every detail Shin demanded. Possessed by what? You were bewitched by Lee Shin, that’s what.

“Let’s just move. We can talk on the way,” Se-woong muttered.

Taking the stairs three and four at a time, Se-woong bounded upward. He told himself it wasn’t the worst way to condition for his upcoming physical fitness evaluation.

* * *

The office prepared for the task force headquarters was considerably large for a makeshift setup. Not only had a sizable contingent been drafted from the Operations Directorate, Strategic Planning Directorate, and Civil-Military Operations Department, but policy officers from the National Intelligence Service and the Ministry of National Defense also convened here frequently, making cramped quarters impossible.

Additional intelligence gathered in the brief period since the initial briefing was projected across the screens lining the front of the room. This was the extent of information currently authorized for disclosure, though classified data undoubtedly remained. For instance, the defectors’ parent unit mentioned earlier by the Chairman had not yet appeared on the public display. Details of that nature were treated as tacitly classified.

Off to one side of the office, Shin could be seen delivering a situational report to the team leader, a lieutenant colonel.

Lowering his voice as he surveyed the room, Se-woong said, “Sergeant Kim. The maneuver units and available resource counts on the board haven’t been updated yet. Take care of that first, and make sure every classified document printed by the majors is properly stamped with security seals. Always double-check documents before feeding them into the shredder.”

“I’ll update them immediately, sir. I’ve already been stamping the security seals without fail,” SFC Kim replied briskly.

Tapping the edge of the desk, Se-woong added, “Check the security stickers regularly as well.”

Kim snapped to attention with a sharp salute. “Yes, sir!”

Se-woong nearly explained that there was little he could do to shield the sergeant here, but in the end he merely patted the man’s shoulder. Though a calm explanation would be understood, he ultimately viewed this as a matter of adaptation.

On the other hand, he worried that drawing too sharp a boundary might discourage Kim from seeking help when genuinely needed. How much affection could have developed in such a short span? Yet to Se-woong, SFC Kim felt remarkably like a youngest brother.

Fortunately grasping the unspoken encouragement, the sergeant nodded vigorously with a look of fierce determination.

Catching the gesture, Se-woong warned, “Tae-jin-ah. And that habit of nodding your head like that…”

Shin clapped his hands once, his voice ringing through the room. “We’ll convene for a ten-minute briefing.”

Having just concluded his discussion with the lieutenant colonel, Shin summoned everyone toward the conference room.

That nodding habit was something he needed to correct before a senior officer delivered a harsh reprimand, but the timing was poor. Swallowing his remaining words, Se-woong grabbed his laptop and stepped straight into the briefing room.

Exchanging brief nods of greeting with team members he was seeing for the first time, Se-woong found a modestly inconspicuous seat toward the back. The core of this meeting belonged to the Operations Directorate, tasked with analysis and strategy. Belonging to the Secretariat, his own role was minimal.

Assuming operational command during this emergency, Shin traced a circle onto the main screen with a red laser pointer.

Though several other majors were qualified to oversee the operation, word was that the department director had personally singled Shin out. Hearing endless praise about his stellar capability, the command undoubtedly held high expectations—and perhaps a desire to put him through his paces.

“These are photographs of the potassium cyanide—prussic acid—found in the possession of Subject 330,” Shin announced.

Subject 330 was the designation assigned to the sole survivor among the two defectors. The number 330 held no grand significance; he had been apprehended today, on March 30th, and was labeled accordingly.

Advancing to the next slide, Shin continued, “As you can observe, the coarse, brownish granules indicate industrial-grade poison, confirmed to be distinct from the mission-grade capsules issued by the Party. The compound was wrapped in cloth and stowed in his right trouser pocket, presumably to allow instantaneous access in an emergency. We are currently investigating its origin and acquisition route.”

“Word has it his unit is the 135th. Has this been verified?” the lieutenant colonel inquired.

“The insignia of the 135th Unit is present on his active uniform,” Shin answered, clicking the remote. “G2[1] interrogation officers are currently questioning him on this matter, but following the origin of the cyanide, he maintains complete silence.”

Se-woong scrutinized the briefing materials with meticulous care. Just as Shin presented, the cyanide captured in the photographs was of remarkably poor purity. While potassium cyanide typically displayed a crystalline white hue, compound laden with impurities took on a murky tint like the sample shown on screen. It was difficult to view as standard military-issue.

Then, the photograph of Defector 330 projected beside the evidence caught his attention. Taken during initial tactical containment, the image revealed the youthful, terrified face of a young man. Judging strictly by physical development in the picture, he appeared to be in his mid-to-late teens at most, yet in reality he was likely in his early-to-mid twenties or older.

Though the defector appeared youthful, an austere, hardened countenance reflected an exhaustion rarely seen in someone that age. In another photograph taken with his eyes shut, a flicker of sheer resignation seemed palpable.

And small wonder—the comrade who crossed the border alongside him had perished on the spot, while he had failed to swallow the lethal dose he carried. It was merely a subjective impression, of course. In a crisis demanding analysis through purely objective data, such emotional indulgence had to be rigorously kept in check.

“Has Major Ahn in Strategy requested additional personnel?” the lieutenant colonel inquired. “Once 330 is transferred to the safe house, our team must participate in the joint interrogation as well. Major Lee, who will accompany you?”

Tapping the tip of his pen against the table, the lieutenant colonel awaited a response.

“I will accompany Captain Cha Se-woong,” Shin replied evenly.

As if taken aback, the lieutenant colonel repeated the name Captain Cha Se-woong under his breath. Since the Operations Directorate currently lacked any notable former interrogation officers, scouting other directorates was hardly out of the question.

Even so, Se-woong belonged to the Secretariat. While rumors had circulated of his stellar work as a staff officer in Gyeryongdae, conducting interrogations was an entirely different discipline from executing pristine staff or administrative work.

Frowning slightly, the lieutenant colonel pointed out, “Shouldn’t Captain Cha remain aligned with the Chairman’s schedule?”

Shin met his gaze without blinking. “I will make the necessary adjustments.”

Though the lieutenant colonel’s inquiry carried the unspoken nuance of whether this was truly the wisest course, Shin remained entirely unfazed. A multitude of eyes throughout the briefing room darted about, searching for Se-woong in his corner seat.

Yet the person most utterly bewildered by this turn was undoubtedly Se-woong himself. The military was conservative not merely regarding rank; rigidity defined duties as well, where faithfully fulfilling one’s assigned post took absolute precedence. While occasional exceptions existed, that principle applied only to routine administrative tasks.