* when italic is used, you are reading from a completely different perspective of character's states/thoughts in present time. 

It’s a campy teen movie concept come true – pretty, popular, young girl with too many fake friends at too many parties found six feet under the school’s rose bush with her whole entire clique marked under the suspect files. One girl – self claimed best friend for life since age four and three boys – an aspiring writer with reliance on a scholarship to get through his senior years, a childhood friend that should no longer be counted as a friend and the best friend’s boyfriend, who as they speak, is still missing.

“Is this a movie script or…?”

“Nope” Yunho sips his black coffee and finds no humour in Boa’s attempt at a joke, says, “It’s just another case to crack.”

“I know high school’s supposed to be a real hell hole and everything,” she starts wryly, sounding less than grievous about the situation, “But killing the prom queen is a bit too Hollywood, even for some pretentious elite private school with heads kids.”

Yunho frowns, still all eyes on the poorly written report. “Well, Choi Sulli’s dead and I doubt it’s her ghost that dug her dead body a home.”

Boa rolls her eyes at this, says with the tip of the pen between her lips. “I’ve got my money on the Lee kid.”

He considers for a moment, sliding over in his chair to the stack of folders and pulling the one with a bold ‘Lee Taemin’ printed on it out of the pile, holding it up for his partner to see. “You mean him?”

“Yeah,” she nods easily, leaning back in her seat, “Lee Taemin – you know, Lee Jongmin’s kid; rich guy, owns the whole train business –“

“I know who he is,” Yunho cuts her off mid-sentence, “What I want to know why you think he did it.”

Boa shrugs, casually propping her feet on the desk. “Choi Sulli and him can barely be counted as friends, plus,” she pauses, chucking a new folder onto his lap, “Check this out.”

Doing as he’s told, Yunho skims over pages with growing confusion as he fails to find even the smallest trace of ink on the spotless white sheets. There are the usual details, of course, name, age, contacts but no record of any kind, good or bad – only empty spaces waiting for a detective like Boa and him to stumble across then move on.

Glancing up at Boa with furrowed brow, he says, “There’s nothing here.”

“Exactly.”

A brief pause. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it,” Boa raises her voice, bulging her eyes like this is the most obvious thing in the world, “A kid that rich with so many weekly scandals on page six and no previous record of arrest or drug bust or even drink driving? Do you buy it? ‘Cause I don’t.”

He hasn’t familiarized himself with the tabloids but he’s walked pass magazine stalls on his way too work often enough to know her statement holds some plausible truth. Daddy’s got more than enough money to cover up for his rebelling son – that’s not a case he’s a stranger too

Seemingly, dismissive with his ‘yet to arrive’ response, Boa decides to move on to the file on her own desk. “What about the best friend, Jung Krystal?” She suggest, picking it up with a jokester frown, “Fancy name, very American.”

“That’s because she is American.” He says sternly, snatching the file from her grasp. “Her and her sister, Jung Jessica were both born and raised in California and only moved back after a family dispute.”

“Ooh!” Boa teases, wiggling her brows, “I see, you’ve studied up on the pretty underage girl.”

Yunho nearly spits out his coffee at this but somehow managed to swallow it down with straight face. “She’s got no reason to kill Sulli from what I can tell.”

“But,” of course there’s a ‘but’ with Boa, “When I interviewed her, she refused to talk, plus, she kept asking for her lawyer who by the way,” She clicks her tongue, glancing down at her wrist watch, “Should be here any minute now.”

“Um…ok,” Yunho says slowly, looking down at the scattered folders on their connected desk tops, his eyes searching for a particular name they’ve yet to discuss. Finally, he located ‘Kim Jongin’ under photos of dead flowers and even a deader victim.

“Him” He points at the profile picture. “He’s the only one we still haven’t interviewed, apart from Choi Minho.”

Boa nods, sighing. “Do you want to take him or me this time?”
 

“You’re aware that Choi Sulli’s dead, yes?”

With a kind of bland, defeated honesty, the suspect says, “Yes, I’m aware that she’s dead.”

The soundproof room with its reflective window, steel walls and flickering light bulb hanging from the ceiling really sets the mood for emotional break downs and potential mental scars after guilt riddance confessions of robberies and other sorts. Today’s subject is murder, they barely ever get those.

Though, the teenage boy sitting across the table, rubbing his tired eyes; looks too morally stable to even think of picking up a gun but as Boa has learned from Yunho, what meets the eyes doesn’t necessary reflect the inner passage of one’s mind.

“Do you know why you’re here, Jongin?” Boa asks in her best authoritative voice, dragging the heavy chair across the floor, ignoring his cringing at the ear scratching noise.

The kid nods a little, says, “Because somehow you people figure I killed her.”

She cuts to the chase quick enough. “Did you?”

Jongin blinks. “Well, yeah.”

Boa gapes at him. “Do you realize you’ve just confessed to the murder of Choi Sulli?”

Again, he nods as casually as he did a second ago.

“Uh…” she drags, wordlessly throwing her arms up in the air, “Why’d you kill her then?”

He frowns, clearly confused and leans over on the table. “I thought everyone knows.”

“Know what, Jong In?”

“That I am, well, was in love with Jinri and she was always in love with Minho.” Jongin responds simply, relaxed truth resonating in each and every single words of his statement.

“Minho?” Boa asks, raising an imperious brow and cocking her head defiantly. “As in Jung Krystal’s boyfriend, Choi Minho – the one still missing?”

He confirms with dangerous innocence. “Yeah”

Boa remains convinced for a minute of stunned silence, he wouldn’t be the first to kill for a girl, meaning killing the girl herself. It’s not a rare occurrence in her chosen field of work, her psychology degree, useless for most part – have graduated her with one trustworthy fact that betrayal from a loved one is the most common motive for a homicide (next to money).

“Why did you say it like it was a known fact?”

Shifting uncomfortably, he averts his gaze. “Say what?”

“That you loved Jinri and she was all over Minho.” Boa states coolly, rolling up her sleeves and resting her elbows on the cool surface of the table. “You said you thought it was obvious, why would it be obvious to me?”

She can almost hear the wheels turning in kid’s head when he murmurs wearily, “You’re a cop, it’s always possible that you would have somehow found out from one of the students you’ve talked to when you went to the school to,” he gulps, stuffing his hands in his pocket like it’s a protective measure, “Collect the body.”

“So all the students knew about this love triangle dilemma?”

He nods casually, “Well, yeah, this is St. Vincent we’re talking about.”

“You’re telling me that those two were having an affair and all your classmates, one way or another, knew about it?”

Jongin hesitates and gives no answer – an obvious yet, enough for Boa to work with.

“Then why…” she stops to reword her sentence, uncrossing her legs, “If everyone knew then you must have known too, it’s impossible that you didn’t.”

“How could I have not?” Cool and calm as he’s been, he doesn’t deny the accurate observation she’s made. “It’s been going before I even moved into the school.”

“No, no, if you knew that she was after Minho from the get go then why would you kill her for that reason?” Boa tilts her head, thumb pressing down on her chin and her baiting questions go on, “Why would you wait until now to do something? I mean you must have known for a start what you were getting yourself into so why would it get a rise out of you that Sulli was all hot and heavy with Minho when that’s how it’s always been?”

In his wordless perturbation, Boa can conclude, “If you really killed Sulli and we’re saying if here – then that's not the reason why you did it.”


“Jung Krystal never said anything about the affair.”

Yunho tells Boa of this no- fact twenty minutes into her story.

“Clearly,” she mumbles, planting her on the desk, “But my point is, I don’t think the Jongin kid killed our victim here.”

He narrows his eyes. “But he confessed.”

“Yeah but,” she says with an exasperated sigh, “He could be lying; he’s too casual about it.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t feel morose for what he did.” Yunho argues, furiously jotting down all this new found information. “Think about it, the kid thinks she’s the girl for him and she doesn’t. Everyone has their limit.”

“Hmm…you’ve got a point,” she hums, drumming her fingers on her bouncing knees, “I’m still not convinced he did it, there’s just something in the way he looks when he testifies that ticks me off.”

Yunho looks up at her, placing his pen down and feels even more worn out than before. “I know you think you’ve got some physic ability over these things but you’re,” he takes deep breather that prepares him for her sour reaction, “You’re not always going to be right about these things.”

Boa’s about to protest – he can guess in the way her chest rises, her body gearing up for a fight she won’t accept until victory is on her side.

“But,” he rushes, raising one finger in a poor defence, “But I will take that into account and go interview him myself when the captain allow me to.”

She doesn’t look entirely at peace with her temperamental strut of an exit.

He gulps, studying the face of tragedy captured in shots of vacancy.
 

“You really need to leave me alone.” – is the first thing Krystal says to him with a scowl on her queen face when he sets his stack of books down onto the desk next to hers.

In Jongin’s defence, if she didn’t arrive late to class last Thursday; they would have never had this problem to begin with. More importantly, they’ve been in the same Politics class for two weeks now. It’s about time she gets used to the idea, he hasn’t but at least, he’s trying.

He sighs a little at the repetitiveness of this routine and pulls out a chair, letting it make as much noise as possible in hope of irritating her further.

Krystal looks up at him with disgust. “Do me a favour, don’t speak to me.”

“Not a problem.” Jongin replies without missing a beat.

“You just did it.”

He blinks. “Did what?”

“Talk!” she hisses, rolling her eyes then throw one arm up in the air, “Mister Lee, I request a change in seating; Jongin can’t shut his mouth. You have to understand, I won’t be able to perform my best if this keeps happening on the regular.”

The balding man in his late thirties is put in instant panic, nervously loosening his tie with shifting eyes. “We…uh…Miss Jung, I assure you, I’d assign you to a different seat but as you can see,” He says with a choked laugh, “There’s no unoccupied seat left.”

With frightening synchronization, the rest of the class spins around in their seat with nosy interest – girls fishing out their phones, with catty texts forming in minds and boys looking tempted to make some smart comment but had to restrain themselves at the sight of Krystal’s threatening looks.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she snaps, her patience running thin, “Make a new seating plan, move people around, just –“ she pauses to take a much needed breather, “Do something, anything at all – “

“I’ll swap with her.”

At this, Krystal lips pull into a smile so smug, it irritates him more than her pointed glares. Satisfied, she gathers her books and straightens like a queen on a royal mission, strutting off to the back of the room where the voice came from.

Slow footsteps approach him like a lion to its prey; the closer it gets, the more horrified his surroundings appear to be. Jongin feels a painful urge to turn and look but his ego has an even stronger desire to remain careless of the situation, so he sits unmoving and reads ahead on the chapter.

“Jongin,” his name is uttered in a low voice, a firm hand pressing down on his right shoulder along with it, “Is it?”

He’s an image of bed room eyes, slicked back dirty blonde, white shirt hanging out of his black pants and polished shoes that gleam dirty money. It’s Lee Taemin up close, in his face with a grin far from friendly but then again, the blonde’s known for everything but friendly. Of course, he’s just reciting opening lines from trashy gossip columns, though if anything, they certainly do know how to pick their adjectives.

Jongin nods his response; too immersed in the last of the famous international playboys.

“Lee Taemin,” he introduces like Jongin’s too dumb to comprehend his royalty of a name, “I just want to know, if you ever need anything, I’m the guy you come to and if,” there’s a devious pause of intimidation then, “If you ever mess with me, or Krystal, then…you’ll have to find out for yourself. Teachers get scared too, after all they’re only here because we want them to be – or at least our parents do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jongin waves off, the passage of ‘Power’ still swirling in his brain, “You’re the boss, don’t with you – got it.”

History’s proven dictatorship to be a failure of a system; Jongin’s been studying it long enough to know not to live under one. Never mind who it pisses off, in this case it’s the king of s.


Jongin doesn’t ask her where she’s been when he knows but doesn’t want to hear it from her.

She hovers over him in blazing red that makes him squint a little. “Why do you look sad?”

“I’m told I always look like that,” He says more to himself than her and pushes off the floor, dusting the invisible layer of dirt off his blazer. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

Playful as always, she leans over to whisper, “Shouldn’t you?”

He tries to contain his delight and fails miserably. “I’ve got a free, what’s your excuse?”

“To see you.” Jinri announces with a grin, throwing her arms around his shoulders and resting her head on the crooked of his neck, warmth spreading all over him. “That’s a really good excuse, yeah?”

She doesn’t seem to care that they’re under the bike shed where anyone could pass at any moment now – no one should be allowed to see, Jongin thinks, flashing ember with broody, midnight blue that would not appease the general public of this institution.

He moves away from her, slow enough to linger under her fingertips and quick enough to keep her from digging her white painted nails into his shirt.

Despite everything, she’s still smiling , tentative and beautiful. “Taeminnie told me that you don’t seem to like him very much.”

How he hates the way she says Taeminnie, so sweet, when the man that goes by that name is anything but. Averting his gaze, Jongin takes a step forward with his back turned away and concealing his crest fallen expression from her view. “I don’t, that shouldn’t be a surprise considering most people don’t.”

“He’s really mean, sometimes, when he wants to be,” She tells him with a nostalgic edge, bending over to pick up a writhing red rose from the concrete floor, “Minho and I have known him since we were four, do you think that makes it alright that I like him a little bit more than I should?”

“Does my opinion suddenly matter?”

Earnestly, “Of course, it does.”

His face breaks into a relief he can’t hide but the long held in two cents he’s been meaning to give doesn’t register when she’s hopeful for something else entirely. Then the foggy mist that clouds his mind clears up to reveal a galaxy of recollections, glittering dots of reminders swirling into his doom affection for Jinri; Sulli – she’s a representation of the glorified hate for the demons with trust funds, beautiful but nevertheless, the antonym to his synonym. He’s been against the like of hers from the moment he was born; Jongin doesn’t see how he can let go of the first of his beliefs.

“It shouldn’t to you, Jinri.”

He hesitates briefly, and walks off, not too sure of what just happened.

Choi Minho looks too put together for the public transport, in the crowd of the working class. It’s not in the prestigious uniform, the fancy alligator shoes, the Cambridge bag that Jongin bet is empty of any actual homework and is contaminated with three days old pair of socks from soccer practice instead. The actuality of it is the superiority demeanor of a rich kid that comes from the genetics of equally fortunate parents. Maybe he smells like cash too, who knows?

Jongin kind of just nods off to his music and watches from afar like some creepy socialite obsessed freak. It’s like watching a poodle in the wild. Does he even know where to buy a ticket? Has he even seen a coffee splattered seat? Probably not.

He almost half expects Krystal or Taemin to pop out of nowhere but it’s been several stops already and still no sign of either. But what really bothered Jongin from a distance is Minho’s oddly comfortable stance in what is supposed to be his environment.

The golden boy with too much to neglect shouldn’t be here, on this bus – with him.

(Jongin will continue to be a smart for the rest of the ride, doesn’t mean any of it is acknowledged by Minho).



Supposed, Krystal and Jinri will always be best friends, rivals too.

They compete over most things. So it’s not surprising when during a heated volleyball match in gym, Krystal spikes the ball over the net and into Jinri’s head, a mean little smile with tongue curled behind her pearly whites.

Jongin pretends to be reading some Kafka’s essay, lying on newly cut grass with arms behind his head. He ignores Jinri’s defeated look, her bruised knees giving up on her, just as the rest of her team. It’d be much more bearable to watch if Jinri was a fighter, well she is – not when it comes to Krystal though.

She bites her lower lip hard to keep all emotion under tight reign – not that he could see or anything – blinks rapidly a few times then helps herself out, looking like some red headed goddess under the sun with that dignified pose of hers.

Can’t compete with neon pink comet from planet of doom though, she’s a hard hitter, especially in the battlefield of love.

Lee Taemin smokes up a cancer from the bench opposites his and laughs over the entertainment; Jinri meets his Sid Vicious smirk and gives a sad little smile Jong In never got.


“I know what you’re thinking.”

Jong In closes his eyes and opens them again, retorts back. “What am I thinking?”

“That I’m a for pushing Sulli around in gym.” Krystal says, shoving her yellow Lacroste bag into the lower level of her locker and slinging a navy coat over her shoulder. “I’m not doing it without any reasons.”

“Uh…” He doesn’t really know what to do at this point, freezes and swivels around with a confused look on his face, “Why…uh…why are you telling me this, again?”

Krystal frowns at this, a reflective image of him.

“Right,” She says, annoyed, looking unimpressed with him but more so with herself – Jong In can’t really tell, “Why am I telling you this? I don’t really care what you think – oh wait, no one does.”

“Ouch” drips toxic sarcasm.

Bitingly, she spits. “You’re an idiot.”

Pulling Chemistry books into his arms, he snorts to further annoyance with him. “You’re so smart yourself with that come back.”

“You’re an .” She snaps with one of her irritating eye rolls, walking off and down the hall. “Don’t talk to me in class.”

Undeterred, Jongin hollers after her, “Don’t talk to me in or out of class.”