The sounds of hurried footsteps are chasing him. There are two—his own and someone else’s. The sounds are after him, and he doesn’t know where to go. The gallery is dark. He bumps onto displays and shelves all the time, knocking them down and tripping himself down, too. The folder of documents in his hand is crumpled. Sweat and panic flood his body. This was supposed to be a simple breaking in, Donghee you lying bastard, he seethes inside. I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die—

A searing heat lances through his left calf, and this time he does fall. His head hits a bust on the display, and the hat on the bust falls on him. Flailing his hands, he grapples onto the display and his left calf. Wet and sticky and painful. He’s been shot, he realizes.

“Stop, stop, please stop. I’ll return the documents. Please don’t kill me. Please.”

A tall man appears from the darkness. He doesn’t have a gun in his hand. Is he not the shooter? he thinks. Then, who—

The tall man approaches him, his expression one of concern. His brows meet on the bridge of his nose as he frowns, and his crooked nose looks even longer because of that. “Young man, you okay? What’s happened? Why are you here?”

Oh good, a security, he thinks. Good, good. I’m saved. It’s al—

Pain lances through his side, and when he looks down he finds the tall man’s hand pressed against his bone. He can only see the handle of the knife, but when the tall man’s hand twists pain explodes throughout his body, head to toe, making him dizzy and delirious.

As he slumps against the display, through half-lidded eyes he sees the tall man take the folder from him, taking the documents and checking them, then whispering to the receiver of the headpiece he wears. “I got him,” he hears the tall man, before he is turning to him again. “Understood.” The tall man’s face morphs into bland mien. Then, one corner of his thin lips lifts in a foul smirk. To his surprise, the tall man puts back the folder in his limp, bloodied hand. Then the tall man leaves, his steps steady, not looking back even once as if he’s already known his victim is going to die.

I’m gonna die, he thinks. I’m gonna die for sure. Damn you to hell, Sooyoung Choi. Damn you.

The last thing he does is to write a message with his blood.

-.-.-

Superintendent Yuri Kwon’s first call for the day is supposed to be for her mother, but the moment she’s awoken by the loud ring of her cell phone she knows that it won’t be the case. Annoyed, she throws away her blanket and reaches for her phone.

“Kwon.”

“Sups, I’m sorry for calling at this time, but you are needed in Gwangbok-dong.”

One of her juniors, she realizes. Who sounds nervous and at the same time distressed. Who dares to call her at—she squints at her table clock—5:02. “I’m on sabbatical.”

“SG Lee advised we call you.”

Ah, she thinks. That explains the distress.

She promises her junior to be in Gwangbok-dong in 20 minutes. By 7:25, she has rounded up the information from the crime scene, reconfirmed them twice, finished a Grande-sized Americano, and been waiting for the superintendent general at her office for ten minutes.

Superintendent General Lee comes at 7:30 sharp as always, with coffee in hand and pressed uniform. She doesn’t look amused, and neither does she look surprised, to find Superintendent Kwon on her guest couch. “Sups,” she greets. “I hope you’ve had your morning coffee, because all three of this goddamn office’s coffee makers are broken again. I had to run to the coffee shop across the street for this.”

“What a bad luck,” Kwon drawls.

“How do we survive without coffee, right.” Lee offers a minuscule version of her trademark smirk.

Rolling her eyes