Chen waited in his car until all the police officers and hangers-on had left the graveyard. Then he got out and began slowly walking up the gravel path between the ranks of identical graves.

When he came level with the row where Baekhyun’s grave was located, he found that not all the officers had left after all. One man was still kneeling in the grass, cap tumbled to the ground beside him, bare head bowed. As Chen paused, the skies opened. The rain battered down, soaking him to the skin almost instantly. Chen waited, but the kneeling man showed no sign of even noticing the rain. Chen saw that this was the man who had run to Baekhyun’s body, gathered him in his arms, wiped the blood from his face, and begged him to wake up.

Chen could not approach Baekhyun’s grave with the officer still there. He walked partway along the row behind, picked a grave at random, stood in front of it. Cold rainwater trickled down his scalp, plastering his hair to his skull. He gazed at the officer’s back. His broad shoulders were bowed, as if something had crumpled him from within. Like Chen, this officer had done his best in the way he thought right, and like Chen, his best had not been good enough.

All Chen’s convictions about what he was doing seemed to have died with the light in Baekhyun’s eyes. He couldn't stop the flood of sharp, disjointed memories replaying in his head. Baekhyun’s chalk-white, battered face. His eyes, staring at Chen like he was something to fear. How his head had jerked to the side with the impact of the bullet. How the life had just gone out from his eyes, like someone turning off a light switch.

The most painful memory of all was Baekhyun’s last words. Tell me you’re not Chen.

Chen pressed a fist to his aching chest, trying to force the words away.

He didn’t understand what had happened. He couldn’t think of any reason for a sniper to be waiting up there in the woods. The killing shot to Baekhyun’s head had been deliberate, precise. The shots that had hit the ground at Chen’s feet were clearly warnings, fired with the intention of driving him back rather than hitting him. Had the shooter known Baekhyun was police? Then why hadn’t they taken out the other two officers who had appeared on the scene? And if they had not known, and thought Baekhyun was part of the gang, why shoot only Baekhyun and not Chen? Nothing made sense.

Movement in his peripheral vision. Someone was standing on the gravel path that ran between the graves. A thin, sharp-jawed man about Chen's height, wearing a long black raincoat, the collar turned up. He held a black umbrella over his head, blocking his features from sight, but Chen didn't need to see his face to know who he was. He started to turn towards him. As he did so, the man spun around and began to walk quickly back down the path towards the car park. Chen followed, keeping well back. His heart was starting to pound against his ribs, his breath coming harder. He bit down the emotions, forced himself to take steady breaths. Getting upset wouldn’t help. He needed to stay rational.

It was easy to tell himself that, but not so easy to actually do it. The man ahead of him climbed with a light step up the five or six steps up to a traditional-style, green-roofed pavilion set to the side of the carpark and onto the wooden platform. He folded the umbrella and leaned it against the railing. His soaked shoes left small puddles as he moved to the centre of the pavilion and stood still, his back to Chen. Waiting.

Chen leapt onto the platform with the soundless grace of a cat. Before he even knew what he was doing, his gun was in his hand, arm outstretched, hand rock-steady, as it always was. He released the safety and knew his target heard the tell-tale click by the way his shoulders stiffened.

Slowly, the man turned to face the barrel of the handgun Chen pointed at his head. Their eyes met and locked. Chen felt his face twist uncontrollably, teeth baring, eyes tightening, whole face expressing the anguish that he could no longer hide. He clenched his jaw and held the gun steady, while the storm inside him raged.

“Jongdae,” the older man said. His voice was steady, but Chen could see the fear bleeding in from the corners of his eyes.

“Why?” Chen ground the word out. He could barely recognize his own voice, it was so full of anguish. “Why? Why did you send Baekhyun there? Why Baekhyun?”

“I didn’t send him, Jongdae," Jeongsu said, slowly raising his hands. “You know I’m the director of the whole station now. That’s hundreds of officers, dozens of teams. The special units don’t report their every detail to me. I had no idea they were –“

“You were supposed to protect him!” Chen cried. The words felt like they were tearing out of him, leaving gaping wounds in his chest where they had been. “That was our deal! You promised me!”

“I know,” Jeongsu said. “Jongdae, please, listen to me. You need to calm down. This was an accident. Nobody expected Baekhyun to be taken off site. I’m not the one responsible. I’m not the one you’re angry with.”

“Who killed him?” Chen didn’t move his gun so much as a millimetre.

“We don’t know yet,” Jeongsu said. “We’re investigating –"

Chen jerked the gun up and shot into the roof. The bullet embedded in the wooden beam, showering them with chips of painted wood. Jeongsu flinched, raising his hands higher as Chen re-levelled the gun at his head.

“That’s not good enough!” he screamed. “I need to know!”

Jeongsu’s words came faster, almost falling over each other. “Jongdae, listen. Right now, you’re the prime suspect. The special unit in charge of this case have heard your name. Other dealers have implicated you. They think you were involved in this drug deal. If you kill me now, it will be the end. The truth will die with me. I’m the only one who knows who you really are.”

“You broke your promise," Chen cried. "You betrayed me!”

“I did not betray you.” Jeongsu’s voice was firm. “But if you do this, you’ll forever be a criminal, a murderer who killed two police officers. Jongdae, that’s not who you are. You are not one of them.”

Chen stared at him mutely. He realised his face was wet. His eyes were leaking of their own accord, tears flowing freely down his face, dripping from his chin.

“Who are you, Kim Jongdae? Remember. Tell me.”

His arm fell to his side, and then he was crouching, the weight of grief pressing him down. He placed one hand flat on the wooden floor, barely holding himself up as sobs racked his body. He felt Jeongsu crouch down next to him and carefully take the gun from his unresisting fingers. An arm went around his shoulders. A concerned face looked into his. So familiar. So many years between them.

There were so few people Jongdae could trust.

“Jongdae?” His voice was gentle, yet firm. “I need you to tell me who you are.”

“I’m Kim Jongdae,” Jongdae whispered, brokenly. “I’m officer Kim Jongdae, undercover agent for Seoul Gangdong Police Station.”

---

There was a girl reflected in Seungwan’s mirror. Her hair was gathered back into a messy ponytail, long strands escaping to frame a pale face, and her eyes were smudged with shadows. Seungwan stared at the girl. She could barely recognize her. The foundation of her life had been torn away, and she was lost. Peter Pan had gone forever, leaving Wendy all alone in a cold and empty world, where there was no magic. There was no trust. No faith, or hope, or pixie dust.

The police uniform was much too big for her. Baekhyun was not a tall man, but he had still been a good 20 centimetres taller than Seungwan. The black jacket with its metal buttons and stiff, embroidered badges hung off her, but she wore it anyway. She’d been wearing his clothes for the whole week since he’d died. His shirts, the hem reaching down to her mid-thigh. His jeans, the cuffs rolled over four times, belted tight around her waist to keep them on. His socks, half of them with holes in the heels and toes. He never bothered to replace them until they were more hole than sock. If she hugged herself tightly, pulling his clothing to her, she could just catch a hint of the tea tree shampoo he always used. She could feel the softness of the fabric that had rubbed against his skin. A couple of his unwashed t-shirts smelled faintly of his sweat, and she curled up with them at night, lying on his bed, her face pressed into the fabric, breathing him in.

In her hand she held a letter. The day before Baekhyun had died, she’d taken her written examination for the police academy.

“I passed, Baekhyun,” she whispered to the mirror. She held up the letter to the mirror to show the man who should be reflected there, wearing the uniform she wore. “I got the highest mark of all the entrants. They want me to start with the next intake group in three weeks.” She lowered the letter, ran her fingers over the embroidered name badge on her left chest, white characters on black fabric. Byun Baekhyun. “You thought I would struggle with the writ