“Tipsy Tips:” a red label on a half empty jar. Moo Mama’s bar buzzed with hushed chatter, full despite the sun peaking through cracked blinds. Yixing Zhang took a seat at the counter. The detective’s roaming eyes soon spotted Highgate Ridge’s drummer girl.

Red curls. Orange lipstick. Thousand-yard stare. She found familiar territory in drunk and disorderly patrons — not in playing cops and robbers.

Flashing a shiny badge, he all but challenged her to deny, “Miss Wheein Jung?”

Chipped nails rolled ruby strands behind pierced ears. Stars and stripes lined each lobe. Patriotic to the bone, Wheein greeted with a salute, “Officer.”

Sore to the demotion in rank, Yixing corrected, “Detective.” 

It took three years to graduate from directing traffic. A post under Captain Wu meant “Mayor’s Pooch Back On Its Porch” was sure to be the greatest case of his career. All Yixing needed was an opportunity; surviving the trenches long enough to nab a murderer equals getting the first promotion out of this hellhole of a suburbia.

First things first: dealing with the fox in human skin. 

Dimples dropping by to say hello, she chortled at the assumed act of flirting. “Is that your version of a shiny rolex?” Said item now sat amongst fellow Tipsy Tips — a handout given due to bad judgement. “Whether your collar’s blue or white, day drinking is for the unwise.” A police badge in her jar would draw attention; rumors are surprisingly effective on possible boyfriend material.

“I assume you admit to freely serving Miss Moonbyul Yi during much ‘wiser' hours?” 

“Straight to the point.” Moo Mama’s bartender went on the defensive. Arms crossed. Chest puffed. “Should I call my white collar?”

Artillery rising to shoot him down, onlookers' hesitant whispers became wily heckles. Complaints about big brother here, speeches on basic human rights there. Detective Zhang faced an army of supporters for this petite woman.

All smiles.

Wheein Jung was a face full of pearly whites when he covered his tracks with, “Should you give me no reason to doubt your statement, a lawyer won’t be necessary.” Lawsuits filed against public figures attracts attention; a warmonger during peace talks is liable to be declared a threat. 

The story stayed the same: Moonbyul Yi, jilted (ex-)girlfriend, arrived at 2000 hours. A handful of minutes to midnight, Miss Yi bought a gin and tonic to “soothe her shattered soul.” At midnight, Wheein Jung personally drove Miss Yi home, locking up the local bar early. Miss Jung’s propensity for simplicity left no gaping bullet holes behind.

Yixing had motive. He needed inconsistency. “Anything else you’d like to add?”

She braved his insidious intentions, instigating with, “Exactly what do you want from me, officer?”

“Detective Yixing Zhang.” Slipping a card her way, shots were fired. “Call if you’re feeling guilty.”

"No disease of the imagination is so difficult of cure as that which is complicated with the dread of guilt.” Slapping a towel down, it was too late to extend an olive branch. “I assure you, officer, I would never do myself the disservice of ‘feeling guilty.’ It’s a sickness to contentment I’d very much appreciate you not project upon me.” 

Wheein Jung would pretend not to remember Detective Zhang’s name — or distaste for the inferior title of officer — in the week that followed. The young woman feigned surprise when he called her to apologize for his “accusatory” tone at his superior’s request. Video evidence from a diner on Ahh Avenue caught both herself and Moonbyul Yi in a tiny red buggy, presumably driving home at the time of Sehun Oh’s disappearance. A body had yet to be found. As multiple witnesses stepped forward to corroborate Miss Yi’s alibi, Captain Wu sent Sehun Oh’s file off to missing person’s and called it a day.

Yixing Zhang took on a battle he couldn’t win. News of his tiff with Miss Jung spread quickly. Appearances are everything; history is written by the victors. Looking to soften the blow to his justice-seeking image, he dedicated his next night off to cleaning house.

“Officer.”

“Detective.”

Ignoring the animosity, Wheein passed the good soldier a coaster. “How nice to catch sight of you beneath the moonlight.” 

“I am a wise man.”

“Here’s a tip,” hoop earrings swaying, glass squeaking between cloth, she snickered, “saying it doesn’t make it true.” 

This woman could plead the fifth all she wanted. Never a part of the in-crowd during high school, Detective Zhang wouldn’t bend beneath peer pressure so easily. A pretty face can only mask an ugly lie for so long.

“What’s your poison?”

“Gin and tonic.”

The night passed without incident. Multiple patrons offered to buy the detective a drink. He accepted gratefully. Voices buzzed. Lights swam across lazy lids. He heard a fox purr, “Call a carpool if you’re feeling tipsy,” tapping chipped fingernails on shiny glass.

When Yixing Zhang awoke the next morning, his badge was nowhere to be found. 

Their war of attrition was just beginning.

Sundays were “family night.” Go home, enjoy yourself, but — most of all — be happy: Mrs. Byun ordered during weekly church service. Easy enough when Mr. Byun dubbed himself her personal chef every weekend. Seeing him wear a hot pink apron was a happy bonus.

Despite how important Sundays were, Mrs. Byun invited Wheein Jung over for dinner. Mr. Byun hid his surprise as eloquently as a thirty-year-old with a beautiful wife and nine-hundred-count bedsheets could. The discontent made for a tense evening. “I wore this for nothing,” Mrs. Byun could hear her betrothed grumbling, nondescript pink cloth flinging across the entryway soon after.

“He’s got the libido of a teenage boy after winning a football game.” Solar giggled into cupped palms, already plotting new ways to tease the rich man. 

“The man’s a dog looking for a bone.” Wheein stood close at the house's front door. Whispering. Women and their secrets. “Watch your yard. He’ll be digging holes here before you know it” — and she wasn’t talking about a certain needy husband.

“Heading out, Wheein?” Mr. Byun s a hand round Solar’s waist, teasing with a tug. Coaxing anything out of her past ten would take some doing. Splayed fingertips said he’d take the challenge. 

Wheein creased red curls behind rising ears. “That’s right. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Baekhyun.” Muscles flexing a smile. “My palate’s been ruined by peanuts and cheese fries for far too long.”

Solar’s iconic howl filled the night air, flawless manicure poking at Mr. Byun’s — Baekhyun’s — stomach. “Moo Mama’s cheese fries are what give this its pillowy consistency.”

“You wound me.” He melted into pure putty, more than ready to close the door. “See you this weekend?”

True love has a name: Mr. and Mrs. Byun. At least that’s the story they tell. 

Wheein Jung saluted. Wishing the man’s endeavor well. Wishing for more than Highgate Ridge Police Department property in the Tipsy Tips jar come next Saturday. “There’s a greasy plate with your name on it.”

A/N: Hope you're all liking it so far.