Chapter 26

The building jointly operated as a safe house by the Ministry of National Defense and the National Intelligence Service appeared so utterly unremarkable that its absence from any public map seemed almost unnecessary. In fact, many local residents simply assumed the property was the headquarters of a moderately sized mid-tier enterprise.

Passing through the lobby where spring sunlight stretched lazily across the floor and turning down a long corridor, one arrived at a space devoid of a single ray of natural light, illuminated entirely by artificial bulbs. Perhaps because modern lighting excelled at replicating daylight, the ambiance was not terribly different from the entrance lobby. The gloomy, eerie safe houses frequently dramatized in popular media were relics of a bygone era.

Even so, the interrogation room bore a stark resemblance to those of the past. A single desk stood desolate in the center of the dim space, illuminated by pale overhead fluorescent lighting. The beam tilted ever so slightly toward the subject. It was an intentional design to obscure the interrogator’s expressions, a simple yet effective tactic for psychological pressure.

Deprived of windows in a pitch-black chamber, subjects lost all sense of whether day had turned to night, instinctively succumbing to anxiety. Naturally, their psychological focus drifted entirely toward the interrogator, who remained the only visible figure bathed in light. In the art of interrogation, this condition was often termed submission.

Seated side by side across from each other, Shin and Se-woong faced Ra Myung-hoon—Subject 330—whose photograph they had scrutinized to the point of exhaustion. Though slightly less frail than his photo suggested, his severe, haggard demeanor remained unchanged.

Shin flipped open the manila folder on the desk and offered a disarming smile. “Have you eaten? I wonder if the food here suits your palate. Compared to up north, it must taste rather sweet and salty, wouldn’t you say?”

Se-woong observed the man across the table with quiet, assessing eyes.

Nothing could be deciphered from 330’s gaze. If one had to describe his air, it bordered closely on resignation. If the stubborn resolve never to speak a word and never to heed another soul took physical form, it would surely resemble this man. His lips were clamped tight in an unyielding straight line, making one wonder whether they would ever part at all.

Leaning back comfortably with an easygoing smile, Shin continued, “We aren’t from the NIS, so we don’t possess any fancy interrogation techniques. We simply stopped by to ask a few things we’re curious about. I hope this hour proves useful to both you and us, Mr. Ra Myung-hoon. We traveled quite a distance to get here, and the traffic was dreadful.”

“Stop wasting words in vain and finish this swiftly,” 330 muttered.

In stark contrast to his rugged appearance, his vocal projection was composed and his pronunciation crisp.

According to the preliminary intelligence report, 330’s dialect had been classified as ‘Pyongyang accent.’ Although softer in intonation than the Hamgyong dialect, he was purportedly a common soldier in a construction brigade. In essence, that signified low social standing within the Songbun caste system and an overwhelming probability of lacking higher education. His personal testimony corroborated this profile.

If so, he should have been far more accustomed to serving superiors than commanding subordinates, yet his terse speech carried an unmistakable familiarity with talking down to others.

Se-woong edged his chair back slightly to keep his face outside the direct illumination, waiting patiently for the man to offer something more. If only I had studied North Korean studies or enemy tactical doctrine more deeply back in my cadet days.

“If you appreciate the value of time so keenly, sir, you shouldn’t be keeping so many people waiting,” Shin chided amiably. “Please lend us your cooperation.”

As Shin spoke, the man squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his lips even tighter together.

“Very well,” Shin said smoothly.

Just as the captive remained obstinate, Shin remained entirely unhurried. He had never expected this interrogation to be effortless in the first place. Almost as if to display his complete lack of haste, he leaned his spine against the backrest. With the shift in posture, his chin dipped slightly, angling his gaze downward.

“Serving in the 135th Brigade, you must have witnessed quite a few impressive sights,” Shin remarked casually. “Constructing missile bases, erecting VIP villas—isn’t that their purview? I understand nothing out of the ordinary occurred this past winter, so where were you deployed most recently?”

“…”

“Onpo? What was that project in Onpo again—a swimming complex or a bathhouse? Or perhaps the Pyongyang Golf Course?” Shin prodded.

The informant’s dossier noted that Ri Chul-joo had been marked deceased shortly after serving in Onpo. The moment the name ‘Onpo’ slipped past Shin’s lips, 330’s eyebrows twitched faintly. At the very least, Onpo appeared to be an accurate detail.

“The Pyongyang Golf Course… there’s an underground missile silo beneath it, isn’t there? How many meters deep did you dig? Ah, or should I say meter in the northern style?” Shin asked.

Without letting that microscopic reaction slip by, Shin deliberately steered the conversation in another direction. It was not because he lacked intel on the silo, but to dangle an easy topic and open a communicative breach. Yet far from parting his lips, 330 betrayed no further reaction beyond that solitary twitch of his brow.

“Since Ri Chul-joo was stationed in Onpo,” Shin noted, “you must have been stationed alongside him in Onpo as well, Mr. Ra Myung-hoon.”

During previous sessions, the man had remained impassive against derogatory remarks about the regime or provocations concerning his family, yet questions regarding ‘Ri Chul-joo’ had elicited genuine emotion. Shin pitched this inquiry with the full expectation that the name would produce ripples across 330’s composure.

Having heard it repeated numerous times across prior interrogations, however, the subject’s reaction fell short of expectations. Shin instinctively recognized that subtle baiting would not sway 330. He resolved that directly demanding what was required would prove far more fruitful than coaxing around the edges.

Fixing him with a steady gaze, Shin asked, “The comrade who crossed over with you was indeed Mr. Ri Chul-joo, correct? The deceased.”

“I have answered that hundreds of times already,” 330 snapped fiercely. “Why do you keep asking the same damn thing?”

“Is that correct?” Shin repeated evenly.

“…”

“Perhaps he wasn’t, then,” Shin remarked.

This time, 330 snapped his eyes open and glared at Shin with burning intensity. His gaze blazed fierce and sharp. The muscles in his angular jaw stood taut, carving harsh ridges across his hollow cheeks. He appeared enraged not by the repetitive questioning, but genuinely stung by Shin’s insinuation.

“Because Ri Chul-joo ingested potassium cyanide and died on the spot, you are currently suspected of being an operational agent,” Shin explained methodically. “By your account, you two risked your lives to cross the border and step onto Republic of Korea soil. Why on earth would Ri Chul-joo commit suicide with rare, industrial-grade cyanide unless he was executing an order? Isn’t that so?”

“That—!” 330 sputtered, choking on his fury.

“Which is why,” Shin interjected with calm authority.

“Which is why you need to offer something of substance, Mr. Ra Myung-hoon,” Shin pressed. “Only then can we grant you any consideration. What was the deceased’s true name?”

Sneering with bitter contempt, 330 spat, “Think whatever you please. You South Korean bastards aren’t right in the head either.”

It was a remarkably composed retort under the circumstances.

Even though a sharp edge of irritation bled through when 330 muttered under his breath, “Seems you’re all lacking in basic intelligence too.”

“Mr. Ra Myung-hoon,” Shin said quietly. “I am convinced that neither Ra Myung-hoon nor Ri Chul-joo are your actual names.”

It was an exhausting case. Given the immediate suicide upon interception and the complete lack of pursuit from northern border guards, the National Intelligence Service had practically concluded it was an espionage operation. Even working from the same assessment, however, the Joint Chiefs had to discern why the North remained motionless and formulate military contingency measures. In other words, they were compelled to unearth non-existent evidence from the living survivor.

Such interrogations gave Shin a throbbing headache. His primary responsibility was gathering strategic intelligence regarding North Korean military posture, not deciphering the tragic personal histories of individuals.

Masking his weariness, Shin rubbed his fingertip across the edge of the folder and inquired nonchalantly.

“Forging identification documents up north is hardly an insurmountable feat. And the uniform you wore when crossing—that didn’t belong to you either, did it? The sizing was conspicuously mismatched.”

“Return the poison at once!” 330 screamed, his voice turning raw and desperate. “Didn’t I tell you I would die without uttering a single squeak?!”

It was precisely the outburst he had been anticipating.

Shin regarded 330 with an expressionless gaze. The man did not appear to be raising a shrill fit merely to posture. With his sharp cheekbones and angular jawline conveying a hardened impression, he trembled like someone resorting to fury because he was forbidden from weeping. A thin glaze of moisture even welled in his wrath-filled eyes.

His voice cracking with raw desperation, 330 pleaded, “Hand over the poison. Wouldn’t that make things far easier for you comrades as well?”

Shin replied casually, “I wonder about that. Where in the world would you find comrades who hand over lethal poison just so another comrade can die?”

330 squeezed his eyelids shut once more.

Seated a short distance away, Se-woong released a discreet sigh, taking care not to alert the other man.

Nothing tangible had been extracted from the questioning thus far. Yet the visceral impression that defied written documentation felt decidedly different.

Shin had anchored his angle on the premise that because 330’s uniform might not belong to him, both individuals harbored fabricated identities. Se-woong’s intuition ran in the exact same channel.

Above all, his polished diction, upright posture, and absence of calluses clashed blatantly with his claim of being an ordinary conscript in a construction brigade. Too many traits stood in jarring disharmony with the working class, to the point where one wondered why previous interrogation logs had failed to highlight them.

If so—if the casualty was not Ri Chul-joo—then who had died, and how had they obtained Ri Chul-joo’s uniform? Acquiring an officer’s uniform in the North Korean military was by no means an easy endeavor.

Had they stumbled upon the uniform of a deceased soldier by pure happenstance? Were they truly not espionage agents? Or were they staging this elaborate diversion while covert underwater operations unfolded elsewhere?

With scarcely anything substantive spoken, the designated interrogation window was drawing to a close.

“Mr. Ra Myung-hoon, Ri Chul-joo’s mouth was charred pitch-black,” Shin stated gently, coaxing him. “That is what happens when one ingests that substance. Because the potassium cyanide was of crude quality, his death must have been agonizing. As it stands, a proper funeral cannot even be conducted. Shouldn’t you bring closure to this matter and send your comrade off with dignity?”

At Shin’s coaxing words, 330 kept his eyes tightly closed, his brow furrowing to the limit as he drew ragged, labored breaths. Se-woong kept his gaze unwavering upon the man.

Gently urging him, Shin said, “Head back today and give it some thought. We shall see each other again.”

“A funeral,” Subject 330 muttered.

Turning toward Se-woong to signal that they should wrap up, Shin paused mid-motion.

Lifting his trembling hands, 330 asked, “You claim you will conduct a funeral for him?”

The man’s hands shook visibly. Beneath eyelids that slowly drew upward, deep, inscrutable eyes were revealed, their whites entirely bloodshot.

Se-woong pulled his chair forward into the pool of light. Stepping out of the darkness and into the glare, he met 330’s unblinking, transfixed stare.

“If you cooperate with the investigation and achieve defector status, Mr. Ra Myung-hoon, Ri Chul-joo will very likely be granted defector status as well,” Se-woong said calmly. “Even without an altar, our military will oversee his funeral rites. Afterward, he can be enshrined in the defector columbarium.”

Se-woong locked eyes directly with the man.

Those eyes, which had harbored nothing save despair and wrath, shifted in luminescence at the mention of his comrade’s burial. What was it about that brief exchange of gazes? Se-woong felt a profound, genuine curiosity about the man’s past—about what deep history with the deceased Ri Chul-joo remained locked inside his chest.

How selfish human nature could be. Se-woong was reminded of an academy classmate he had once run into at a funeral parlor.

Though he had assumed his classmate came to pay respects, the friend confessed he had merely dropped by while passing because he was enduring a painful ordeal. Whenever life felt overwhelming, he visited mourning homes to offer condolences to total strangers, drawing solace from their collective grief before moving on.

He had thought there were truly all kinds of eccentric people in the world. Now, Se-woong felt as though he had become that very eccentric. Faced with a story so profoundly heavy, agonizing, and ultimately wretched, his own romantic heartbreak felt like nothing more than a trivial game of love. Entertaining such thoughts amidst this circumstance felt mad in itself.

The seconds waiting for the man’s next utterance ticked by excruciatingly slow. In that interval, 330’s eyes wavered several times, squeezed shut in torment, and finally parted with heavy solemnity.

“When,” 330 asked hoarsely. “When is the next interrogation scheduled?”