33; Epilogue

‘He whipped out the gun, threw it at his opponents and said, ‘I’m not afraid to use this thing!’, until BAM!’

A deafening clap sounded in the room, startling the audience who each sprung to life in their seats with wide eyes and racing hearts.

‘Open fire was met with flesh. The assailant wailed. He fled from the scene on rickety legs, huddled through obstacles in search of an easy escape, but that’s when we caught him in the thick of his crimes. Headlights zoned in on the perpetrator, in a panicked frenzy, he made a break for it.

‘That’s when I got out. ‘Put your hands in the air!’ I shouted. But he leapt for the slippery shoulder flanking my left; his feet carrying him approximately three meters before he slipped face-first into the ocean. I hunkered down, assuming it was a preempted attack, when KA-SPLASH!’

The audience gasped dramatically at the vivid recollection of the scene. ‘But did that stop me? No way Jose. Before the critter could even attempt swimming, I caught him by the collar, yanking him out, limbs flailing, thrashing all over the place like a starved sunfish.

‘I got him to his knees, slapped on cuffs around his wrists when he began babbling the usual string of denials, and with a great CLACK, got him to his feet and into the cruiser.’

A chorus of impressed whispers and relieved breaths left the audience at the grand conclusion of Kim Jongdae’s tale. He had been standing at the center of a small group of colleagues behind his desk, using whatever office material he could from it to aid his recollections as creatively as they would allow. He at this point brandished a ruler in one hand similarly to a handgun, raising it to his left at a shadow perpetrator.

‘And then I said, ‘you won’t be bothering these good folks anymore in prison, swimming man’.’

He pulled back the ruler, sliding it into an imaginary holster at his side with an Oscar-winning tilt of the chin, similarly to that of a life-sized sculpture of Hercules upon slaying the mighty Hydra. He could almost feel the satisfying glow of his onlookers radiate his being like an iridescent deity returned from war, and felt the corners of his lips rise as promptly as his ego.

Oh, and wasn’t Officer Kim Jongdae’s storytelling expertise as dashing as the blazing sun for the latter of his co-workers, brooding over cups of coffee, suffering from the early morning Monday blues.

Despite the fact that the clock had barely struck 8 AM, the precinct was a bustling hub of activity. Officers and cuffed prisoners alike swarmed in like buzzing bees, either bringing in or taking out work for the morning in the form of cases. The smell of stale coffee beans, fresh aftershave, and warm, chunky foods whirling out of the communal microwave settled in the room like thick fog just as distinctly.

For Kim Jongdae, it was merely another day at the office. Basking in the praises showered upon him, his eyes suddenly flicked over towards clatter bounding in in the form of a familiar-faced colleague. His smile widened, eyes curved in delight, and with a stapler suddenly in his clutches, pointed it in the direction of the clearly unsuspecting individual; his head bowed, focused on something on his shirt, when his head whipped up at the sound of the mighty bellow:

‘And there he is! Our very own Clarke Kent in the flesh, people. The champion of Chims!’

Almost naturally at the announcement, a round of applause broke from the small crowd of uniformed audience. The cheers seemingly grew in succession like a spreading infection, catching the attention of several other coworkers who; upon noticing the cherry-haired man; even stood to express their support.

Park Jimin was not having a good day.

The fact that his left arm was currently in a state of incapacitation rendered menial tasks in his everyday routine far more grueling to execute than he imagined. The first being his morning grooming ritual. Showering with only one arm turned out to be a much more frustrating task than he ever imagined. The same could be said for shaving, which he managed to narrowly avoid ending in a horror story with the fresh nick somewhere under his jaw. What usually took him at most fifteen minutes had suddenly doubled in both duration and difficulty.

The second being preparing breakfast, which – having being reduced from a hearty meal of eggs, toast, avocado and quinoa – consisted of a bowlful of yoghurt and a flaxseed muffin, which greeted his sensitive palate dryly far too early in the morning for his liking.

Yet he was given little to no choice with the current state of his left arm. Moving it around would only increase the risk of the stitches reopening, and that was the last thing he needed considering he was already far behind his schedule.

Donning his left arm in a sling and the breakfast bowl in his suspended hand, Jimin craned his neck to quickly steal a glimpse at the time. The large analogue dangled above on the frame at the foot of the kitchen, and so intent on keeping track of the minutes he had left before being roasted by his boss for tardiness, the officer failed to notice the animal behind him.

The cat let out an ear-piercing screech the moment his heel made contact with its tail, effectively throwing Jimin into just as much of a panic. Cursing and bounding back reflexively, the spoon he was holding clattered to the floor with a ceremonious arch, and; to his dismay; splattering his shirt.

Park Jimin was not having a good day.

Despite rummaging through a variety of choices in his mind subsequent the disaster, Jimin did not have the luxury of choosing either. Already late, all he could do was pat the dark impressions away, mumble a strained apology to his cat who looked more than maddening after what just occurred, ignore the stinging under his stitches from the drama prior, grab his essentials, and leave.

In fact, during his commute to work, the thought of looking just as drab as the sling on his left arm had become increasingly worrying. Did he look decent? Was his tie straight? Would he make it in time? The police chief did specify Monday, right? Is there yoghurt in my hair?

Flustered and uncertain, Jimin's heart hammered in his chest a lot more than it did two days ago even in the face of death. He could feel a cold sweat start from his hairline, gradually seep into the collar of his shirt that suddenly felt like a constricting bind, and if he didn't have that blasted sling on his arm, he was certain he'd be tousling his hair now more often than not out of nervous habit. In his panic, his mind conjured the worst of possibilities on his way to the precinct.

Yet the moment he set foot in the threshold – his mind racing, thoughts leaping, eyes fixed irritably on a small dark spot near his shoulder he seemingly missed – the last thing he imagined was an applause.

If this was Jongdae’s spanking new idea of a joke, it certainly worked. Jimin was speechless; his feet coming to a standstill in the middle of the room; and stared with wide eyes and his mouth agape at the officers looking back at him, who all brandished proud smiles.

‘Good work, Park,’ a colleague in passing commented, throwing him a thumbs up before heading out from behind.

‘Uh…,’ the redhead’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘Thanks…?’

Did he mess up unknowingly? The thought was suddenly terrifying. He’d never received this much attention since... well... never.

It’s the plaster, isn’t it? Jimin’s self-consciousness kicked in as he continued further into the precinct, mindlessly brushing the tips of his fingers over the band aid on his jaw. The only time he could recall a vaguely familiar scene was when he and Kyungja were given a good whipping by the police chief after the first week of their mission, leaving the briefing only to be given a similar sort of attention.

Stalking past Jongdae’s desk – where the clapping had died down considerably, but the cop of the month himself continued his applaud with the accompaniment of dramatic nods of approval – Jimin couldn’t help but shudder.

Jongdae grinned from ear to ear; his lips curling like a jester’s at the corners as he leaned against the latter’s good arm a little too close for comfort.

‘You remarkable little man, you. You killed it out there. And that dive! Whoosh! And those throws. POW!’

Rather than telling a story, the officer – in Jimin’s eyes – looked as if he were shooting a commercial for a home appliance of sorts. He had no idea what throws Jongdae so fondly spoke of, but what he did know was that he wanted no part in such shenanigans this early in the morning.

‘Oh, yeah, that,’ Jimin laughed dryly. ‘Look, Kim, I’ve got to go…’

‘Right!’ Jongdae cried, almost imploding Jimin’s right ear. ‘Don’t want to keep the big guy waiting.'

Jimin relaxed the moment the cop of the month released him from his clutches. Jongdae turned, spotted the secretary floating about with an excited glint in his eyes, and Jimin couldn't help but smile fondly at the latter's unchanging antics. As obnoxious as he was at times, perhaps Jongdae – after today – wasn't all that bad.

He turned around when he heard Jongdae’s final comment upon leaving; the words startling him, but nonetheless, only reinforcing the last of his thoughts.

‘Oh, and you did good out there, hero.’

Yep. Maybe he’s not that bad after all.

‘Ballistic reports show that both firearms found on the scene were unlicensed. That could lengthen the sentence indefinitely, but only for Byun Hyunseok, I’d reckon.’

Min Yoongi leaned back against his desk; arms folded over his chest, and head tilting to one side. His expression was a combination of somber and sleepy. Neither of the officers seated across from him could decipher precisely what it was, but considering the nature of the discussion as well as the man leading it, it was possibly both.

When Officer Woon had entered the room upon having being summoned, all the commissioner offered her lone presence was a glance between his narrow, sleep-heavy eyelids. She wasn’t surprised to see his feet up – the soles of his loafers over stray papers on his desk – and his weight pressed into the plush leather chair behind him, bowing back considerably.

Jimin’s and Kyungja’s eyebrows rose in the slightest at his words, however they preserved silence. Acknowledging their unasked questions, the chief continued; his voice a gravelly mumble as he moved back to his chair as painstakingly slow as a tortoise.

‘His partner’s firearm was recovered with an empty magazine.’

Well, that explained a lot about the headmaster’s oddly excessive threats.

‘So it was just a big scare tactic,’ Jimin remarked, recalling the number of oddities in his behaviour as well as the excessive threats he’d thrown at them which – now he discovered – were more out of desperation than aggression.

The commissioner hummed in response, lowering his gaze into the opened manila file on his desk. ‘Apart from an attempted escape from Officer Kim upon discovery, he also proceeded to claim something about an ‘untrustworthy Finish’, in his words. Not entirely sure what that means, but I reckon the bloke’s off his rockers and could take his chances pleading insanity.’

Jimin could feel himself break out into a cold sweat suddenly at the words 'untrustworthy Finish'.

'O-oh, yeah, um... about that,'

Jimin fumbled for words just as much as he did with his free hand that began waving about wildly in front of him without his consent. The moment the words spilled from his lips, however, he instantly regretted them along with how painfully obvious it now looked that he was hiding something. The chief's eyes narrowed at him skeptically, and Jimin paused. He could sense a menacing stare practically drill a hole into the side of his head from his partner and gulped. Perhaps some things are better left unsaid.

But alas, it was too late. All eyes in the room were on him and he immediately felt a horrifying concoction of embarrassment and uncertainty in the form of colour in his cheeks and sweat along his hairline. His hand still lingered in the air clumsily, and unsure of what to do with it, Jimin rubbed the back of his neck anxiously.

'About what, Park?'

'Oh, no, I just thought...'

Before he had the chance to spill the beans most unceremoniously under the overwhelming scrutiny of the police commissioner, he felt a weight on his left leg. Kyungja's hand rested on his thigh; a soundless warning, but also an unexpected comfort. His uncertainty almost immediately vanished, replaced by his back shooting up as straight as a rod and his strained expression relaxing considerably.

'Indigestion,' he blurted, instantly regretting the absurd claim, but nevertheless, hopeful it would work. 'Sorry. Please continue.'

A brief spell of silence followed, and Jimin was positive – under the level glare of Min Yoongi in that instance – that if not for his partner's reassurance, he would have cracked a long time ago, and miserably so at that. Instead of questioning the officer further however, all the commissioner did was respond with a grunt of half acknowledgement, half amusement before looking away. Jimin stifled a great sigh of relief; his respite expressed in the form of unsaid thanks to his partner who continued from where they left off without a hitch.

‘But what Kim Junmyeon doesn’t know about pleading insanity is that there is a substantial difference between competency and criminal responsibility,’ Kyungja remarked; her voice level as she pulled her hand away again, folding her arms similarly to the police chief and sitting upright in her chair beside Jimin.

‘The odds of his participation in this operation are against him by a long way.’

Yoongi shrugged nonchalantly; blonde bangs falling into his eyes with the movement of his shoulders. ‘Either way, the result isn’t going to get any prettier than it already is.’

‘And Byun Baekhyun?’ the redhead prompted whilst on the topic of the perpetrators.

‘He can’t be considered a juvenile since he's found participant in a crime of this degree, so he’s most likely to get just as much time as his old man,’ Yoongi explained coolly.

‘Poor kid. Handsome carrots like that become idols, you know? Not crooks r