It’s 2.36am and Taekwoon is still sitting in front of his computer with his elbows on his desk, his fingers buried under his hair as he holds his forehead in his palms.

Everyone else from the department has already gone home and he should have done so as well, but instead, he keeps staring at the blaring monitor with the browser open at the intranet home page. He doesn’t know how to start this. Or, more like, he can’t start it without having to crawl out of his skin.

When Hakyeon called him into his office, Taekwoon thought he might want to praise him for single-handedly catching the head of that lowly gang of drug smugglers, maybe even tell him to take a few days off as a reward. And Hakyeon praised him, told him he was his best man, and his eyes were sparkling, a happy but nervous smile plastered on his face. However, he didn’t give Taekwoon any rewards, but—and he looked troubled when he did this—gave him a new case that most detectives had failed to solve thus far.

“You are our only hope,” Hakyeon said, sliding a file towards Taekwoon on the desk. “He’s a ing phantom and everyone’s so lost.”

So, for the last three hours, Taekwoon has been sitting behind his computer with the file open in front of him, pictures and screenshots and handwritten notes and printed pages all scattered around, the name ‘Songbird’ repeated on every single piece of paper. This is torture and he’s already cringing so hard.

He has solved so many cases during his career: from criminal possession of weapons through mysterious deaths to some mafia-level , and now he’s been assigned this. He hates it more than anything before.

Maybe he’ll just start tonight, proceed until the point his colleagues have been unable to move on from, and say he can’t do it.

The Songbird’s website is entitled—surprise, surprise—‘Songbird’ and it’s pretty much just a blank index page with a high-resolution picture of some kind of bird with the weirdest reddish-yellowish-orange feathers—the ends of which look like locks of red hair—and yellow and green head that Taekwoon has ever seen (he hasn’t seen a great many kinds of birds in his life). He clicks the image and a welcoming page pops up, asking him to either sign up or sign in.

This is it. This is where he should stop.

Taekwoon lets out a sigh and clicks the sign up button which directs him to a page that asks for his e-mail address, name, gender, the date of his birth, and the details of his credit card.  How can this person be so ing obvious.

He digs out the expired credit card Hakyeon handed him with the documents from under the pile of papers and types up the numbers, filling in the form entirely with fake personal data. He clicks the confirmation link in the e-mail he receives in his—again—fake inbox, and on the new page that pops up the title reads, ‘Welcome to Paradise’, a text box appearing underneath and asking him to write a letter to the owner of the site about how he found them, what he wants from them, and what he wishes to do to them.

Taekwoon lets his head fall on the desk and the pain in his forehead grounds him enough not to start screaming in frustration.