chapter seven

Matthew couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so . . . at a loss.

Even when Somin was kidnapped, Matthew had held himself together, convincing himself that she would be back—that he would get her back—and not leaving room for any doubts.

But this time, there was no room for doubt. In the wrong way.

Matthew rubbed his face with his hands. The initial shock that had kept him from being able to move had now turned into a sort of numbness, and he was able to think of anything but that.

Jiwoo was sitting on the same staircase as Matthew—the same staircase the janitor had run down—only a few steps higher. Jae was pacing on the landing between the first and second floors, and watching him go back and forth was kind of therapeutic. None of them tried to initiate a conversation—none was needed, anyway.

There was the sound of a scuffle down on the first floor, and Jae stopped pacing as he looked down to see who was approaching. He froze, and then looked up at Matthew with wide eyes. Though Matthew wanted to do nothing more than just go home and sleep, he stood up and leaned over the railing to see who it was.

His stomach dropped when he recognized the form of Hongbin walking up the stairs, being guided—and maybe restrained—by the officer that was holding him by the elbow. Hongbin’s appearance was disheveled, his usually combed and neat hair tousled as if he had just woken up and left the house without as much as checking his appearance . . . which was probably the case. His face was paler than usual, his eyes darting around anxiously.

Hongbin soon saw Jae on the landing, and then looked up as he turned, seeing both Matthew and Jiwoo as well. His eyes focused on Matthew. “What did you find?” he asked. He sounded desperate.

Matthew was at a loss for words, unsure of how to respond. Of how to tell him.

When Matthew didn’t respond, Hongbin laughed nervously. “Did you . . . did you even find anything?” Silence. “You found something, right?”

Hongbin slowed to a stop once he was on the landing and looked at the officer escorting him. “What did they find?” His voice was significantly diminished; realization seemed to be seeping through as each second of silence only confirmed his fear. “What did they find?”

“S-sir, we need you to calm do—”

“What did they find?” Hongbin said, emphasizing each word. But he knew the answer, just by looking at their faces, at the way they all avoided his question and refused to make eye contact. For a long moment, everyone seemed to be standing still, the only sound being their breathing.

Then Hongbin yanked his elbow free from the officer’s grip and dashed up the stairs.

Matthew had to move quickly, and he grabbed Hongbin by the arm to hold him back. “Hongbin, wait!”

“Let go!”

“Hongbin—”

“Let go!” Hongbin shoved Matthew backward, nearly pushing him down the stairs. As Matthew caught his balance, Jiwoo also grabbed onto Hongbin, somehow managing to hold him back despite her small frame. Jae ran up to help them, and all three of them were required to drag Hongbin away from the second floor and back to the landing.

He was screaming the whole way, a jumble of her name and cries of denial, and it was only after they had restrained him for a few minutes that he began to calm down, his thrashing becoming weaker as exhaustion took over.

Matthew didn’t know what to say—couldn’t say anything. In a way, he could have prevented this . . . if he had gotten there earlier, if he had asked her more about the convention, if he been paying more attention to the connection between the locations and warned her, then maybe, just maybe—

A few minutes later, Hongbin was sitting with his head between knees at the corner of the landing. He was no longer trying to run toward the crime scene, and he had ignored the moment when the other medical examiner passed by them on his way out.

Jiwoo made eye contact with Matthew to catch his attention. She pointed to her watch, and when Matthew checked the time on his phone, he was surprised to find that it was almost three in the morning. He glanced to where Hongbin was still huddled on the floor.

Hongbin and . . . they had been there for him when he needed them, even though he didn’t know he needed them at the time. Though his mind was unable to completely forget Hongbin’s past, his attitude had significantly been altered by the present.

Letting out a sigh, Matthew crouched down beside Hongbin. “Hey, um . . .” Asking if he was okay was ridiculous and would probably come off as insensitive, since there was no way he was okay. Matthew decided that just getting to the point was the best option. “It’s really late . . . it’s probably best to get going.”

Hongbin didn’t move, and Matthew remembered how hard it still was for him to be in his apartment alone. And Hongbin, unlike Matthew, didn’t have the benefit of the doubt to keep a positive outlook—it was confirmed, and it was permanent . . .

“You can, uh, crash at my place, if you want . . . there’s an extra room.”

When Hongbin didn’t respond, Jae spoke up. “That’s a good idea. Let’s go, Hongbin.” He walked toward Hongbin, and though Hongbin made no effort to move, Jae pulled him up from the ground. “Where’s your car, Matthew?”

Jae and Jiwoo took Hongbin’s car to head back to the station, while Matthew took Hongbin to his apartment in his own car. Hongbin was silent the entire ride, and Matthew didn’t know what to say to lift the silence. So it dragged on.

Matthew showed Hongbin to the guest bedroom and gave him one of his sweatpants and t-shirts to wear to sleep. They were most definitely going to be too big, but they would be more comfortable than the button-up and slacks he was currently wearing.

He didn’t know how many hours passed since they came home, but before long Matthew was jolted awake by a sound from outside his bedroom. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.

“Hongbin?” he called out as he entered the living room. The lights in the kitchen and dining area were on, and when he turned the corner he was greeted by the sight of Hongbin sitting on one of the bar stools next to the kitchen island, hunched over on the counter top. There were glass shards on the floor, and Matthew quickly walked over to the front door to get a pair of sandals before heading toward Hongbin.

Matthew cleared his throat. “Hongbin? You okay, man?” He noticed that Hongbin wasn’t wearing shoes, so Matthew would have to clean up the glass pieces first.

Before he could move to get a pair of gloves, Hongbin laughed. It sounded tense, forced, and Matthew froze. “Hongbin?”

“This was never supposed to happen,” Hongbin said, laughing again as he shook his head. The pitch was too high to be normal, and Matthew uneasily asked what he meant. “Neither of them was supposed to be hurt. He promised. He ing promised. Swore on his mother.” He laughed again, the volume increasing. “Probably killed her, too.”

Wanting to ease the tension before the situation escalated, Matthew brought another glass of water for Hongbin. Setting the glass in front of him, Matthew carefully placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hongbin, I think you should—”

Hongbin shrugged off Matthew’s arm. “I took the blame for everything.” Matthew took a step back when Hongbin slammed his hands against the tabletop. “I ing saved Somin, damn it, but then I took the ing blame for it. She wasn’t supposed to get hurt again!”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed. There was only one thing he could be talking about—the car accident—but what he was saying made no sense. “You . . . saved her?”

Hongbin scoffed, taking the glass and observing it as if scrutinizing the water. “I thought you were smarter, Matthew. I used to love her, for ’s sake. Of course I saved her.”

Matthew cringed at the reminder, but his attention was more focused on what Hongbin was still saying.

“I put up with this for Youngji, and now she’s—she’s ing dead.” And then, without warning, he threw the glass onto the floor, his eyes blazing. The glass shattered, water spilling everywhere, but the thought of cleaning up the mess was at the back of Matthew’s mind. “How the can she be dead?”

Hongbin then buried his face into his hands, resting his head on the counter top. “She can’t be dead.” His shoulders shook, and he took a ragged breath. “She . . . she can’t,” he said, and his voice broke near the end.

After a moment’s hesitation to analyze the level of risk, Matthew decided now was not the time to ask questions. He wordlessly placed an arm over Hongbin’s shoulders, and Hongbin let out a shuddering sob. “I . . . I did everything I could.”

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That night, even when she finally cleared her mind, Somin didn’t sleep. She couldn’t sleep, what with the image of . . . with that image imprinted in her mind. She could see nothing but that scene every time she closed her eyes just to blink, so she did not want to know what she would see if she were to fall asleep and dream.

J.Seph was gone the entire next day, and Somin was grateful. She still couldn’t sleep, though, and she jolted herself awake each time she felt herself slipping. Her fear of what she might see—as well as what she might miss, if J.Seph decided to come back—outweighed her desire to sleep.

Besides, the penthouse seemed to be getting especially cold, and halfway through the day Somin realized that couldn’t walk barefoot without her toes going numb. Since she couldn’t find a pair of socks anywhere, she pulled the edge of her pants, which were too long for her, over her feet. By the end of the day, the additional warmth was negligible.

That was the second night in the penthouse after the . . . incident, and Somin must have fallen asleep for about half an hour from sheer exhaustion before she woke up trembling. It took her a second to identify the reason, and when her body spasmed again she realized that it was freezing.

When she stepped out of bed, about to stand, she jerked her feet back involuntarily and fell back onto the bed—the floor was so cold that it actually hurt. Though her hands were shaking, Somin carefully tied the extra length of the pants around her feet to provide some sort of barrier before trying to stand again. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed up and down her arms to try to generate some heat.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, she realized that nowhere in the penthouse could she find a thermostat. She had no idea what the temperature was, but she was positive that it was much, much too low to be safe, let alone comfortable.

The second day came and went, and there was still no sign of J.Seph. Somin could no longer get herself to open the fridge since the extra burst of cold air was too much; in fact, she barely had the energy to pull herself up into a sitting position on the bed. As she sat with her back against the headboard and knees pulled up to her chest, she pulled the blanket tighter against her to try to keep herself warm—but it was too thin to be effective, and her shivering never stopped. She didn’t leave the bedroom that day except to use the bathroom.

Somin was too tired to feel alarmed when the cold tap water felt warm to her hands.

By the third night, Somin had too little energy from lack of sleep to use exercise as a way to warm up, and the way she was trembling only used up more energy. Her fear of sleep and her fear of J.Seph now felt insignificant in comparison to her need to feel warmth.

She didn’t know if she actually slept or if she was simply passed out, but when it was light again outside Somin had only one thought on her mind: She was going to die. She had tried the previous day to open the closet, intending to layer on the thickest, warmest clothes she could find, but it had been locked, and Somin had been stuck in the flannel pajamas she was wearing, though she didn’t remember wearing them. Her thoughts were a jumble, anyway, so she wouldn’t put it past herself to have just forgotten. She vaguely recalled the first time she had woken up in the penthouse . . . she had somehow been in different clothes that time, too.

Her senses weren’t the sharpest, but she somewhat made out the sound of the door opening. It was so cold . . . she didn’t bother with opening her eyes.

“Rather chilly in here, isn’t it?” The voice was familiar, and Somin felt a natural pang of panic go through her body. But she couldn't muster the energy to act on it, so she just stayed where she was sitting, curled into a fetal position with the blanket pulled tightly around her. Her muscles ached from the tremors.

“It’s not nearly at freezing quite yet . . .” he said quietly, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Are you cold?”

Yes. Her movements were slow and jerky, but she managed to nod.

“Maybe these clothes were too light . . .” he said, almost as if speaking to himself. “No matter. What would you do if I said I would make it warm again?”

Somin’s eyes opened slightly, her brain screaming at the mention of warmth, but her head began to pound so she closed them again. It was too cold. It was much too cold.

She swallowed to try to get to work, but the action barely helped—her voice was still raspy, and she couldn't stop stuttering because of how much she was shaking from the cold. “A-a-any . . . th-thing . . .”

There was laughter. “Anything? Isn’t that a tempting offer.”

At this point, Somin knew that she would quite possibly do anything to end the cold. She would regret this later, she knew; but the idea of regret seemed like a luxury. Would she even be alive to feel regret?

“P-please.”

The bed shifted. Somin’s eyes were still closed, so she could only guess that someone had gotten on the bed. His voice was closer, so Somin knew she was right. “Do you promise?” He paused. “I don’t make promises lightly, and I expect the same in return.”

“You’ll see each other again, I promise. And I don’t make such statements lightly.”

She couldn’t die—Matthew, he didn’t deserve to suffer more because of her—

“I—I p-p-promise.”

Somin felt herself being pulled up into a near sitting position. His hands were warm, and she was so cold that she could feel the heat through the scanty blanket. Without any thinking—not about the actions, the motives, or even the consequences—she moved closer to him, closer to the source of warmth.

His arms wrapped around her, and she buried her face into his chest, still shivering. She was terrified, but she was warm.

She cracked her eyes open again and noticed that he was wearing a suit—a neutral color, pitch black, but it could have just been the lack of sufficient light through the blanket.

Somin finally felt some feeling returning to her fingers. Exhausted, she drifted off to sleep.

um i'd google "cia use of cold cell" ...? idk i think ap psych is getting to my head and it's starting to drive ME crazy

thank you all so much for your comments! they never fail to put a smile on my face :)