“Jongin, you’re finally here.” His chief looked grim, the wrinkles on his face suddenly seeming deeper than before. He motioned for Jongin to sit down at one of the empty chairs available, next to his fellow associates. The room had a heavy atmosphere; it brought great unease to his senses. With the somber looks appearing on everyone’s faces, he could feel a weight pull him down. 

“As some of you may have already heard, Jang Myungdae, one of our frontlines working on the Gangnam unsub case has succumbed to his injuries about four hours after being admitted to the hospital today. Unfortunately, we believe that this is the work of our unsub--but have yet to uncover anything as the autopsy has been scheduled for tomorrow morning…”

Jongin was no longer listening. He felt a choke slowly creep up to his throat, like a parasite forcing its way out. His lungs seemed to stop working; he no longer knew how to breathe. Something that used to be so simple, so automatic, was drowned out by the thought of one of his partners just...gone. Through the midst of this sadness, the grieving he was suffering through, were the warbled words of his chief. The sentences no longer made sense to him. From deep down inside of Jongin, there was a new fiery anger that started to erupt.

“...Please continue to remember the achievements and hard work Jang has continued to put out alongside us. As one of our brothers, we will make sure he is laid to rest with the respect he deserves. That is all.” 

Later that night, Jongin buried himself in the case once again. He had done it so many times before, it had almost become part of his nightly routine. Scanning the same pages over and over, rereading all the minute details; this was not work meant for the lazy. However, this night had brought up a new type of ferocity inside of Jongin. He wasn’t working so hard because it was his case, no--it was because he hadn’t worked hard enough to find the unsub before that bastard found Myungdae. 

Yet he found nothing new. By this point, he had already memorized everything about the unsub and there wasn’t anything he could find to reach new leads. That same choke was crawling back in his throat. With all the pent up stress, anger, anxiety, and grievance, he couldn’t hold it back anymore. His right fist curled into a ball, knuckles turning white from the strength and pressure he was putting into it. He slammed it hard onto the table as tears started rolling down his face. His left hand was gripping the binder, wanting to rip every single page into shreds, but doing all he can to not to. 

They say death is a blessing to the dead; they are finally able to let go of any human suffering. But they don’t say that it is also a curse to the grieving.