Detective Yixing Zhang didn’t think. If he did, then he wouldn’t be parked on Dore Dr. at 2 a.m. Early morning jogs became voluntary shifts for the neighborhood watch. Late night drives became unwarranted stakeouts of Highgate Ridge’s prized bachelorette.

Wheein Jung didn’t need a security detail. If she did, then she wouldn’t have successfully stopped her own kidnapping. The ambitious detective begged to differ—quite literally. Perhaps to smite his dreams in spite, all sorts and assorted sizes of ne’er-do-wells kept to their hidey-holes for two weeks straight. 

2:11 a.m. and feet click up to the detective’s patrol car. Doors unlocked, a dimpled smile creeps in from the cold. “Coffee for my guardian angel in blue?” speaks the devil wearing pink bunny slippers.

“Already flying high, Miss Jung.” Yixing feigns nonchalance, shaking his empty thermos. 

“Hold this.” Wheein stacks books four years high atop his lap. Highgate Ridge High School Year 2002-3, read the first spine. “Many thanks, officer,” she sings below her breath.

“Detective,” he corrects for posterity’s sake; change ran in defiance of Wheein Jung’s credo. 

Comfortably snug in the passenger seat, she props open the floodgates of her past: “Girls love a good bad boy.” Yearbook pages flip open. “Don’t I look darling?” She points at a curly-haired, saxophone-toting freshman. 

Yixing thumbs through with his mightier-than-thou chess club glory aglow. “You were a band geek,” he proudly declares. “Let me guess: the baddest boys played the tuba.”

“Guess again,” she eggs on the assorted complexes that add tragedy to his heroism. Another inappropriate staring contest proceeds her teasing laughter. Wheein Jung: 27; single; Moo Mama’s bartender. Her dossier needs some padding, yet Yixing firmly believes she is all surface—all curls, laughter, and cited quotations.

“First chair violin?” he assumes she appreciated a good classic. 

To his credit, he was right: her cat thief was a he. Obsessed with a still image of a picket-fence, small-town, big dreams bombshell next door; he was her neighbor for 10 years, for Pete’s sake. Suburban living normalizes psychopaths with high school year books and home owners’ associations. 

“Close enough, detective.” Debunking band geek myths, she establishes a cliché instead: “Kris Wu: varsity basketball captain; voted MVP two years in a row; baddest boy at Highgate Ridge High.”

“Go figure,” Yixing scoffs. He isn’t wholly surprised Captain Wu’s apathy towards criminal behavior is suburban grown. The 18-year-old Casanova rocks Highgate Ridge High’s signature gold and purple on a two-page spread. It’s a dedication reminiscent of god worship. 

But count on Wheein Jung for a good twist. “Moonbyul’s boyfriend pre-band-geek.” R.I.P mars the superlative’s “Best Couple” nomination. “Skipping the juicy tidbits: a curly-haired freshman tore apart childhood friends turned high school sweethearts by dinner.” 

“I can imagine it,” he says. Imagination begging for more fodder, he attempts to relieve her of her past: Highgate Ridge High School Year 2003-4. The disappearance of Sehun Oh necessitated gathering all the juicy tidbits of the bartender’s facade Detective Zhang possibly could. 

Two weeks ago, a warm welcome into her home proved irresistible. Checking behind closed doors under the guise of police work, he failed to her back to his patrol car. Rookie mistake: letting her take the keys. The gentle woman was manhandled into the passenger seat: her stalker’s split second, life-changing decision. 

Unsurprisingly, she refused to alter the status quo—the computer geek never gets the girl. Cue their 100-feet battle for the wheel, dented fender on Officer Brown’s mailbox, Yixing’s one-second foot chase through pouring rain, handcuffs, sirens. End scene.

Two weeks later, it’s 2 a.m., and Yixing begs for a shot at redemption. 

Comforting incapable men was second nature to Wheein Jung. Experience taught her to curl fingers around slumped shoulders, “Girls love a good bad boy, but women love good—good—men,” laugh away pitfalls, “So as much as I revel in the pity party you’re throwing in my honor, you caught the bad—bad—man,” and quote for levity, “There’s no place like home.”

So Detective Yixing Zhang went home and spent the remainder of his month-long probation cleaning the gutters—at the insistence of his local HOA.

“Out with it, Sherlock,” the infamous Captain Kris Wu finally acknowledges Yixing’s presence at the threshold of his office. 

HRPD’s gold and purple color scheme previously went unnoticed. Now accomplice to the inside joke, Yixing chews his mars bar with obvious contempt. Ten minutes of savoring nougatty goodness leads to a retrospectively bad callout. 

“You dated Wheein Jung in highschool,” Yixing declares.  

He watches for a visible reaction; one does not simply ignore darling, curly-haired freshmen. Seconds pass before Captain Wu answers with, “Sorry, I assumed you were stating fact. Did you hear that from the horse’s mouth?” 

“Did Moonbyul Yi—”

Captain Wu interrupts his circumstantial insinuations, “Of course you did. A man only learns the intimate tidbits of Wheein Jung’s past when she’s so inclined to do her job and teach the subject.” His tone exhibits all the signs of a bad breakup. “Yes, detective—we dated.”

“Congrats on graduating from every boy’s teenage dream,” Yixing quickly defuses the tension. Best not to be benched another month for upsetting the MVP. He moves to leave, but unanswered questions have him backpedaling to mention, “I never caught your fiancé’s name.”

“Want a wedding invitation?” the Captain asks, pulling a golden-trimmed leaflet from his desk. Yixing is inches from his first clue into the disappearance of Sehun Oh when Captain Wu says, “Don’t take it if you’re not RSVP-ing. The envelopes alone are 20 bucks a pop.” 

Rookie mistake: wasting his cash on 20 $1.50 mars bars and counting. “If you’ll excuse me, sir,” Detective Zhang salutes suburbia’s gold and purple-trimmed, evidence-filing god-king. Any and all conspiracy theories are benched until Wheein Jung’s next history lesson.