Chapter 39

Audio transcripts revealed that both the NIS and the Ministry of National Defense had exerted considerable effort to extract personal histories. Because personal backgrounds inherently implied vast context, investigators had sought to verify their pedigree through those details.

Shin and Se-woong shared an identical objective.

Hundreds of defectors crossed the border every year; 330’s circumstances were not uniquely exceptional on their own. Yet the reason the military focused intently on this case was that the deceased comrade was presumed to be a commissioned officer. Military authorities had zero reason to dismiss the possibility of covert espionage.

Even if this were a genuine defection rather than an espionage operation, an officer hailing from a military academy crossing the border was an event unseen in years. Had he survived, he would have served as an invaluable high-value intelligence asset. Although the officer was now dead, the military needed to extract whatever related intelligence they could to justify their investment.

From the fragments 330 had shared thus far, Se-woong deduced that his status was far removed from that of a common laborer. His restrained bearing from the outset, a speaking cadence customary with giving orders, sophisticated vocabulary, and now these latest remarks—all pointed toward an inescapable deduction bordering on certainty.

Rising respectfully from his chair, Chul-joo asked, “I’d like to wash my hands. May I step out to the washroom?”

Se-woong nodded warmly. “Of course, take your time. An attendant will be right outside the door.”

Taking advantage of the brief lull in conversation, 330 had made his modest request. Expressing the desire to visit the restroom through the euphemism ‘washing hands’ was another subtle tell revealing his privileged upbringing.

Their working hypothesis gained firmer ground. However elite his background might be, 330 was definitely not a trained undercover operative; had he undergone espionage conditioning, he would never have slipped so effortlessly into vocabulary that exposed his high status.

The moment 330 exited and the door clicked shut, Se-woong turned his gaze toward Shin.

Leaning in slightly, Se-woong whispered, “Did you hear that? Bonghwa Clinic.”

Resting his chin on his palm, Shin gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Pine resin, sesame oil… he had no idea there was anything problematic with what he was saying.”

Twirling the pen in his fingers over the back of his hand, Shin retraced the defector’s words, murmuring terms like Mount Myohyang, arborvitae, pine resin, and inflammation. The man seemed utterly oblivious that such casual references generated glaring friction.

There were people like that on occasion—the sort for whom abundance was so natural that they could not fathom others living without it. Despite his outwardly prickly temperament, 330 was surprisingly blind in this regard.

Bonghwa Clinic was a premier facility in Pyongyang reserved strictly for high-ranking cadres. It was widely known that without hailing from a military general’s family, no amount of wealth could buy entry through its doors.

Moreover, squandering precious commodities like pine resin and sesame oil in North Korea merely to draw out a bit of pus from a fingernail? Put simply, he had never experienced a single day of deprivation in his entire life.

“He’s definitely no ordinary laborer,” Se-woong noted quietly.

Nodding thoughtfully, Shin added, “Ri Chul-joo’s father was a brigadier general and his mother was a military surgeon, so utilizing Bonghwa Clinic fits. His official records list his hometown as Pyongyang, and Mount Myohyang is relatively close to the capital. His maternal or paternal relatives could easily reside nearby. Let’s direct our interrogation along this angle.”

“Understood, sir,” Se-woong acknowledged with a salute.

In North Korean registries, Ri Chul-joo had already been processed as deceased. Yet Ri Chul-joo had supposedly walked across the border into the South on his own two feet and committed suicide by ingesting cyanide. Because the identification photo matched the corpse, there had been zero doubt that the deceased was indeed Ri Chul-joo.

However, circumstantial evidence was increasingly pointing toward 330 as the real Ri Chul-joo—rather than an officer who died up north or an infantryman who swallowed poison the second he crossed the Military Demarcation Line.

Shin’s eyes lingered on Se-woong’s thumb, which 330 had observed so intently moments ago. A sharp click of Shin’s tongue resonated loudly through the quiet room.

Shortly afterward, 330 returned.

Resuming his seat, 330 took the coffee bottle and unscrewed the cap. Watching his hands strip the wrapper and twist the lid reaffirmed that these slender fingers had never performed backbreaking labor.

Ri Chul-joo’s rank had been first lieutenant—a remarkably rapid promotion given his youth, clearly reflecting the immense backing of an influential household.

As 330 brought the bottle to his lips, Se-woong also sipped his own coffee.

“Quite sweet, isn’t it?” Se-woong asked with a gentle tilt of his head.

330 merely gave a brief nod, clearly finding it superior to instant mix.

With an easy smile, Shin suggested, “Mr. Ra Myung-hoon, let’s chat leisurely over coffee today. Were you and Ri Chul-joo close friends?”

Waiting until 330 swallowed his drink, Shin had posed the question in a mild tone. For an invitation to chat leisurely, diving straight into core business was somewhat blunt, yet neither man took issue with it.

“…Comrades,” 330 replied after a pause. “Aye, we were comrades.”

Shin leaned forward slightly. “Was Ri Chul-joo very ill?”

At the inquiry regarding illness, the defector’s eyes instantly sharpened. In that fleeting flash, the grim exhaustion visible in his initial intake photos resurfaced, and true to expectation, an edge coated his voice.

“Have you only now received the autopsy results?” 330 scoffed bitterly. “Seeing how long it takes to produce them, South Korean medicine is nothing special after all.”

Se-woong offered a placating explanation. “As you know, Mr. Ra Myung-hoon, the livor mortis was exceptionally distinct… so the autopsy priority was slightly delayed.”

330 squeezed his eyes shut with a pained grimace. He evidently knew full well what bodily reactions occurred when someone died from cyanide, choosing not to contest the matter any further.

With quiet seriousness, Shin asked, “Did Ri Chul-joo have cancer?”

“Did your examinations fail to detect even that?” 330 retorted, narrowing his eyes.

“Of course not,” Shin countered smoothly. “We merely wish to confirm it directly from you, Mr. Ra Myung-hoon.”

“Quit playing tricks and speak plainly,” Chul-joo snapped, his voice taut.

With calm composure, Shin asked, “Did he undergo surgery at Bonghwa Clinic? Since Ri Chul-joo was an officer, it seems likely he would have received treatment at such an esteemed facility.”

The major deliberately treated the deceased as Ri Chul-joo in accordance with official interrogation records.

“Even between close friends, one can’t know everything,” Shin added reasonably. “Just tell us whatever you happen to know.”

Why 330 had swapped identities with the deceased remained unknown, but the profound depth of their bond was indisputable. Hearing that friends might naturally keep secrets from each other was designed to rattle his composure, and the tactic hit its mark.

Chul-joo sneered with venomous fury. “That quack’s den of a clinic! It was a slaughterhouse, not a hospital! Didn’t I tell you? Those butchers couldn’t even drain simple pus from a finger!”

330 slammed the glass bottle onto the table with a sharp clatter. Rage saturated his gaze, his voice, and his trembling features—a furious indignation born of deep-seated distrust toward that medical establishment.

Had the deceased received treatment there only to suffer abysmal postoperative care? That confirmed the deceased had indeed undergone surgery at Bonghwa Clinic.

While the man sitting before them appeared to be the true Ri Chul-joo, the deceased had been treated at a high-level facility accessible only to elites of that stature. That meant the deceased had either shared a comparable social tier or had been admitted under Ri Chul-joo’s stolen identity back in the North.

While Shin weighed various possibilities, Se-woong gently carried the conversation forward.

“It must have been agonizing,” Se-woong consoled softly, “traveling such a treacherous path beside an ailing companion.”

330 fell completely silent. His knuckles blanched white against his knees as he fought back a rising tide of emotion.

“The escape route you described in your deposition sounded exceptionally grueling,” Se-woong continued with quiet empathy.

His quiet, understated cadence might have sounded plain on the surface, but it carried an undercurrent of genuine solace. Sensing that warmth, 330 swallowed hard as his throat hitched, the prominent Adam’s apple bobbing along his slender neck.

“I don’t know if this brings any comfort, but because surgical scars were discovered on Ri Chul-joo, a slight possibility has emerged that you two may not be enemy agents after all,” Se-woong explained gently. “Carrying out an espionage mission alongside a severely ill patient would be virtually impossible.”

“I… I told you we weren’t,” 330 rasped, his voice cracking.

“Then please speak with us more openly,” Se-woong urged, leaning forward, “untangling a knot can often be simpler than it seems. Once unraveled, the burden might prove far lighter than you feared. Let us clear this up swiftly so you can hold a proper funeral for Ri Chul-joo.”

Today, 330 had clearly arrived with resolved determination. Having not come merely to exchange pleasantries, the investigators needed to delve into the core truth.

Shin resumed the inquiry.

In a calm, inviting tone, Shin asked, “Why cross directly through the fortified border instead of routing through a third country? With a brigadier general for a father, far easier routes existed. You must have known how tightly guarded the DMZ was lately.”

330 remained silent, his lips pressed into a bloodless seam. A tight knot worked along his jaw under the strain.

“Scaling rugged peaks without equipment, clawing through the frozen earth with bare hands…” Shin noted quietly.

The defector’s shoulders trembled imperceptibly. He lowered his eyes to the table, fighting to keep his breathing steady.

Shin watched him with unwavering intensity. “There must have been an urgent reason you risked everything along that border.”

330 shut his eyes tightly, fine tremors rippling across his square jaw and prominent cheekbones.

“The man who died wasn’t Ri Chul-joo, was he?” Shin murmured, his gaze softening. “Nor are you Ra Myung-hoon. Shouldn’t we restore your friend’s true name so he can be laid to rest with honor?”

Since crossing the border, dozens of interrogators had passed through his room. Some had mechanically fired predetermined questions seeking specific confessions; others had dangled sweet promises of prosperity in exchange for cooperation. And a few, like Shin and Se-woong, had offered words of comfort acknowledging how difficult the journey had been.

Asking whether cancer treatment had been administered at Bonghwa Clinic had caught him off guard, but inquiries regarding Ri Chul-joo’s medical history or why a general’s son had braved the deadly border were hardly unfamiliar; Ri Chul-joo’s documented background had been established early on.

His breath stuttering, the defector whispered, “…Ri… Chul-joo.”

Neither officer interrupted the heavy silence. They waited patiently, granting him the space to gather his composure.

“He was already a dead man in the North,” 330 confessed, bowing his head.

Yet these two were the first to express heartfelt condolences over the loss of his beloved comrade.

Se-woong gave an encouraging nod. “Please tell us everything in detail.”

Though an error was virtually impossible, Se-woong visually checked the digital recorder to ensure the red light blinked steadily.

Warm spring sunlight spilling into the interrogation room cast long shadows over 330’s slumped shoulders.

Watching the nearly motionless figure, Se-woong thought he resembled a fish floating suspended in water, maintaining neutral buoyancy—perhaps with a torn fin of its own.

“The one who swallowed the poison was Myung-hoon,” 330 revealed, staring at the tabletop, “Ra Myung-hoon. And I am Ri Chul-joo.”

They had indeed swapped identities. What had begun as a mere suspicion had now solidified into absolute certainty.

In a steadying voice, Chul-joo explained, “My constitution was always frail, so I attended primary school while staying at my mother’s family home in Kujang. Myung-hoon was my classmate back then.”

The origin of their friendship was uncomplicated. Because of his diminutive stature, Chul-joo had been teased frequently during school days, and the late Ra Myung-hoon had consistently stood up for him. It was an ordinary tale of childhood friends reuniting in adulthood through sheer coincidence.

Chul-joo continued his recounting at an unhurried pace.

“When we met again in the military, Myung-hoon benefited from my standing. Looking after a friend wasn’t difficult with my officer status. But then… one day I saw him, and severe emaciation had set in until he was reduced to skin and bones,” Chul-joo murmured softly.

That had apparently been when the illness first manifested.

Thinness was common enough that nobody paid it heed, but when Myung-hoon’s complexion turned ghastly, Chul-joo had taken him to a clinic. A military doctor instructed them to transfer to an advanced hospital, yet the regional facility merely declared that it was far too late. They refused all treatment, advising him to enter a convalescent home instead.

Realizing his rank granted immediate access to specialized testing at Bonghwa Clinic, Chul-joo booked an urgent appointment under his own name. That was how the swapping of names had begun.

Securing diagnostics under his identity had succeeded, but the diagnosis proved so acute that there was zero time to deliberate over surgery. Naturally, the operation had to proceed under the name ‘Ri Chul-joo’ as well. Lending his name to save a comrade’s life was nothing to balk at.

Both Shin and Se-woong followed the explanation seamlessly. The two men had become inseparable since childhood, and the rationale for the deceased receiving surgery under Ri Chul-joo’s name was entirely plausible.