Chapter 22

The atmosphere of today’s briefing was markedly different from usual. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had attended in person. An icy tension rivaling a presidential visit hung thick in the air. At least within the walls of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Chairman was a figure of no lesser stature than the President himself.

The intelligence officer announced, “Here is the intelligence on the deceased: Name, Ri Chul-joo. Age, twenty-four. A lieutenant assigned to the 135th Unit under North Korea’s Storm Corps, presumed to have served as a platoon leader. His father is an active-duty lieutenant general commanding a corps, and his mother is a military surgeon—confirmed to be a quintessential second-generation revolutionary elite. The anomaly is that he has already been officially recorded as deceased in North Korea. This information was secured through HUMINT[1].”

With no unusual provocations from the North at present, the military had lowered the threat level of the defectors and eased the heightened alert posture. Accordingly, the Task Force focused its investigation on verifying the defectors’ personal identities and uncovering their true motives for crossing the border. Manpower had been adjusted to match the new priorities.

While the scaling down of the emergency was a relief, the real issue was that reporters had begun leaking fragments of information. Even ordinary civilians who typically showed zero interest in military intelligence were becoming curious, which proved to be an enormous headache. Everyone hoped the situation would wrap up cleanly before conspiracy theorists could embellish the scraps into sensationalized fables.

The Chairman tapped the conference table with his reading glasses. “There’s always something that goes sideways with these folks. With a corps commander for a father, a military surgeon for a mother, and holding the rank of lieutenant himself, it should be virtually impossible for us to lack data on him. Yet our military has no record of this kid whatsoever?”

“Yes, sir, that is correct,” the intelligence officer replied.

“Come on,” the Chairman pressed, leaning forward. “If he’s already been processed as dead over there, isn’t this an open-and-shut black op? Huh? What does Major Lee think?”

Shin answered without hesitation. “We have found no matching records in our active operative database, sir.”

“What a mess, seriously. He could’ve just handed over some clean intel and lived a comfortable life here. Tsk. Why does he have to make things difficult for so many people? What did he have to go and die for? Since he crossed over anyway, he should’ve enjoyed this fine world for the rest of his days.”

The Chairman rubbed at his tired eyes with the heel of his hand.

“Still, they say that 330 talked a bit about his family?” the Chairman remarked. “Like what his father does, what his mother does—though coming from his own mouth, it’s hard to tell if it’s worth a damn. His family was all blue-collar laborers, so what business would a kid like that have mingling with an elite officer?”

Just as the Chairman had noted, once the joint interrogation commenced and veteran interrogation officers were deployed, intelligence regarding 330 was trickling out little by little. Yet nothing yielded the crisp, definitive answers everyone had hoped for. In fact, critical aspects regarding the motives and route of the defection remained shrouded in complete darkness.

The Chairman sighed, shaking his head. “Anyway, that side has stayed quiet for over a week now, haven’t they? Even the propaganda leaflets have stopped lately. It’s so quiet it makes me anxious. Regardless, whether those folks do something or do nothing, they’re a headache either way. Total bundle of trouble.”

Se-woong traced meaningless circles across the margin of the documents before him. The briefing sheets—bearing photos of the deceased Ri Chul-joo taken at the scene, his personal profile, and photographs of the military uniform he wore at the time of death—were destined for the industrial shredder once the meeting concluded anyway.

“Let’s wrap this up quickly. You people wouldn’t understand because you don’t have to do one-on-ones with the VIP. It is extraordinarily grueling. Reporters keep badgering me, driving me half to death. Ah! Cha!” the Chairman barked.

Absorbed in drawing mindless circles across the margins of the file, Se-woong snapped his spine straight in his seat the instant the Chairman suddenly barked out his family name.

“Captain Cha Se-woong, sir,” he answered crisply.

“I hear you’re heading down to interrogate 330 as well,” the Chairman said. “Get it done quickly and wrap it up. You need to return to the Secretariat.”

Se-woong gave a firm nod. “Yes, sir. I will do my utmost.”

Pushing his chair back, the Chairman said, “Right. Let’s adjourn. Busy people shouldn’t be dragging out meetings.”

The moment the Chairman rose to his feet, the officers seated around the conference room stood up in unison. Without even waiting for formal salutes, the Chairman swiftly exited the command facility. Standing at attention and merely watching his former superior depart alone still felt profoundly awkward to Se-woong.

“Captain, are you heading into the safe house after lunch today?” SFC Kim asked.

Entering to tidy up the briefing room, Sergeant First Class Kim began clearing the tables starting right beside Se-woong. It looked suspiciously like a calculated maneuver to close the physical distance between them.

Lately, the sergeant had been acting noticeably affectionate toward Se-woong. He clearly believed their shared Task Force assignments had forged an unbreakable bond of camaraderie between them.

Se-woong arched an eyebrow without looking up from his stack of folders. “Why? Planning to order that abalone gimbap for lunch again?”

“Ayy, of course not, sir. I was genuinely panicking back then. But wasn’t it delicious? That place happens to be a personal favorite of mine,” Kim protested with an embarrassed grin.

Se-woong let out a dry snort. “I was so shocked by the price tag that I can’t even recall the taste.”

“Then how about trying it once more?” Kim beamed eagerly. “My treat, Captain! It tastes infinitely better when you eat it fresh on-site!”

Se-woong didn’t find SFC Kim particularly bothersome either. Having the junior officer fuss around him so warmly naturally made Se-woong care for him all the more. Whenever Kim received a scolding from a superior, Se-woong even felt a pang of guilt, wondering if it had happened because he hadn’t looked out for him properly beforehand.

Leaning in closer, Kim pressed eagerly, “There’s also an incredible café right next door, sir. Coffee’s on me as well!”

“I really appreciate the thought, Tae-jin-ah, but I only drink sweet coffee—like old-school dabang coffee. So go enjoy that delicious gimbap place and the fancy café with your friends,” Se-woong replied with a gentle smile.

Se-woong could not fathom why the sergeant wanted to visit such trendy spots with an awkward superior officer. Given their noticeable age difference, hanging out with him could hardly be comfortable. Above all else, Se-woong was acutely aware that he was not an entertaining person to be around.

Yet SFC Kim merely gnawed on his lower lip, looking like someone holding back words he couldn’t bring himself to utter. Gathering up the papers around his seat on the sergeant’s behalf, Se-woong ultimately couldn’t bring himself to ignore him. The kid possessed a personality that relentlessly tugged at one’s conscience.

Se-woong set the stack of papers down with a resigned sigh. “What is it? Speak up. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t have friends,” Kim confessed in a small voice.

“…What?”

Kim lowered his head, shoulders slumping miserably. “I don’t have any friends to go to places like that with. I never went to college, I don’t keep in touch with anyone from high school, and I was an outcast in my previous unit, so…”

“Hold on!” Se-woong interjected.

Cutting Kim off before he could plunge any deeper into his tragic autobiography, Se-woong pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. Wasn’t this playing a bit foul? Yet every word sounded distressingly genuine, making it impossible for Se-woong to brush the kid off.

Going out for a private meal off base really crosses a line, though.

Se-woong waved his hand in surrender. “Alright. Let’s go. We can go, okay?”

Surely just once wouldn’t hurt.

“Buy me lunch too,” an unexpected voice called from overhead.

At the sudden command descending from above, Se-woong snapped his head upward. Having slipped into the room unnoticed, Shin sat propped against the conference table with his arms folded across his chest. Not only Se-woong, but SFC Kim had also recoiled a startled pace backward—though the sergeant hurriedly snapped back into position.

Only then recovering his wits, SFC Kim sought confirmation from Shin in a pitch strikingly different from the tone he had used when coaxing Se-woong.

His eyes widening with reverence, Kim stammered, “Are you serious, sir? Will both of you really accompany me? When would suit you best? I will make a reservation immediately!”

While SFC Kim buzzed with enthusiasm as if ready to secure a booking this very second, the man who had demanded to be treated in the first place looked entirely lukewarm.

Shin tapped his fingers against his forearm with an indifferent air. “Sergeant Kim, wouldn’t that violate the Kim Young-ran Act? That gimbap looked like it easily exceeds thirty thousand won. Did anyone file a corruption complaint over those luxury lunchboxes from last time?”

“Pardon? The Kim Young-ran Act?” Kim choked on his words, his face draining of color. “In… in that case… should… should we go Dutch, sir?”

Gauging Shin’s icy demeanor, Kim cast a tearful, pleading expression toward Se-woong for rescue. The sergeant clearly could not tell whether Major Lee was teasing him or dead serious.

Stepping between them, Se-woong gave Shin an exasperated look. “Why are you teasing the kid? SFC Kim, I’ll finish tidying up here. Go clear the other tables first.”

The only way Se-woong could protect SFC Kim right now was to send him as far away from Shin as possible. Quick on the uptake, the sergeant scrambled away without a second thought. No matter how much Kim admired Major Lee, the Kim Young-ran Act was evidently terrifying.

“Then you can have lunch with me and head down to the safe house together afterward. Right, Captain Cha?” Shin noted, tilting his head.

Se-woong kept his eyes fixed strictly on his papers. “I apologize, sir. I have a prior lunch engagement. I will have everything prepared so we can depart for the safe house the moment you return from dining.”

“A prior engagement… With whom?” Shin asked, his tone flat.

Should I change his contact name in my phone to ‘With Whom’? Lately, all he ever does whenever he sees me is harp on ‘with whom.’

In truth, there was no prior engagement whatsoever, but Se-woong didn’t bat an eye, smoothly replying that he was meeting Officer Oh Hee-chan. Lately, dodging Shin like this had become a daily routine. Since he naturally ended up sharing a table with Hee-chan whenever he went down to the staff cafeteria anyway, it was technically half-true.

Shin let out a quiet scoff. “You’ve gotten quite good at avoiding me lately.”

“Not at all, sir,” Se-woong replied evenly.

Catching sight of Shin toying with his lower lip, Se-woong promptly shifted his gaze back to the documents.

Dodging him was an exercise in futility anyway. Once he reported to work, he was doomed to look at Shin’s face all day long, report whenever summoned, and go on joint field dispatches just like today’s. That was simply his reality. Even so, clinging to the singular resolve that he had to keep his distance from Lee Shin, Se-woong was making his own desperate effort in his own quiet way.

If we drift along as casual friends like this, I might even end up emceeing Lee Shin’s wedding.

Shin conceded, “All right. Then we’ll hit the safe house first and grab dinner afterward. You don’t have plans tonight, do you?”

Se-woong kept his eyes fixed downward. “…I’d like to go home early and rest today, sir.”

“And tomorrow won’t be any different, I take it?” Shin challenged.

Shin regarded Se-woong with an impassive expression. An easygoing man by nature, he smiled readily regardless of what he felt inside. Because a pleasant smile came so effortlessly to him, seeing his face completely devoid of expression was a rare occurrence.

“You have time to eat and drink coffee with that half-wit,” Shin noted dryly, “yet with me, neither lunch nor dinner is acceptable.”

Lowering his head, Shin lightly tapped his fingers against his crossed arms.

Unable to endure the prickly atmosphere any longer, Se-woong exhaled a short, quiet sigh.

“Would the cafeteria be all right with you, then, sir?” Se-woong asked.

They had to share a car later anyway. His initial plan had been to take care of lunch separately and only travel with Shin, but at this rate, he felt he would suffocate long before they even set off for the safe house. If so, having an uncomfortable lunch together might be the lesser evil.

Shin gave a simple nod. “Yeah.”

His docile, immediate agreement drew a helpless, self-deprecating chuckle from Se-woong.

How could I possibly explain this?

Unlike you, who thinks we can remain friends regardless of how long we dated or how much lingering feeling remains between us, I simply cannot do that. How can I explain it properly so you’ll finally accept it?

Coordinating schedules to eat together, playing soccer video games when bored, sharing a bed without an ounce of ulterior motive—those are things only real friends can do. That is why I need to tell you, Lee Shin, that I cannot do a single one of those things with you.

For now, though, I’ll have to put that explanation on hold.