The long corridor is unwelcoming, cold and impersonal with cinderblock walls and tiled floors in desperate need of a good scrub down. Jongin doesn’t really need to be impressed, but he doesn’t understand why they have to make it quite so unpleasant; the smell alone is enough to send him running in the opposite direction. He understands that it’s a police station, that there’s no need for cozy rugs and floral-print curtains, but it’s not like prisoners are ever kept on the premises. In fact, suspects are only detained here for a few hours at most, just until they can be moved to one of the bigger stations. Some fresh paint over the bare and peeling walls would do wonders for this place. A little air freshener wouldn’t hurt either.

His guide looks back over her shoulder, catching him looking up at the too-bright fluorescent lights overhead. “Got a problem with the décor?” she teases, the corners of her red lips quirking up in an obviously amused smile.

Jongin blushes, quickly bringing his gaze back to his guide. She’s not a cop; he can tell that much by her tight pencil skirt and five-inch designer heels. Maybe she’s a dispatcher. Or maybe she’s just a secretary. He didn’t ask and she hasn’t offered information. “No, it’s fine,” he assures her quickly. “I was just wondering why everything is so plain. The last time I was here, there were photographs and things on the walls.”

She shrugs as if the answer is obvious. “It’s a police station,” she says simply.

Jongin only nods. Perhaps the answer is obvious.

The woman in the high heels and the tight skirt stops in front of a closed door with a frosted glass window built into it that says superintendent in peeling black letters. Even if he squints, Jongin can’t see what’s beyond the window other than a few shadowy shapes and the dull crackle of a radio.

His guide holds up her hand like Vanna White, gesturing to the superintendent’s door. “Here you are. Good luck.” Her bright eyes linger on him amusedly as if to add ‘you’re going to need it’ before she totters off down the hall in her heels, click-clacking around the corner.

Jongin takes a deep breath and – before he can rethink his decision for the millionth time – knocks on the door.

There’s a long pause, and then a deep voice calls for him to come in. Maybe he’s only imagining it because he’s nervous, but the superintendent’s voice definitely sounds a little annoyed. He sincerely hopes it’s just his imagination.

The office on the other side of the door is small, cluttered with filing cabinets and bulletin boards plastered with fliers and wanted posters for petty criminals in the area. The desk holds an old computer, piles of paperwork, overflowing ashtrays, and a half-empty cup of cold black coffee. The man sitting behind the crowded desk is tall, broad-shouldered but slender, with a head full of blonde hair and a cigarette hanging loosely from inordinately long fingers.

“Can I help you?” the man asks in that deep voice he has, looking Jongin up and down in much the same judgmental way the secretary had when he’d showed up at the front desk explaining who he was.

Jongin clears his throat nervously, closing the office door behind him with an almost ominous click. “Uh, my name is Kim Jongin,” he introduces himself. “I’m supposed to report in today. I’m new.”

“Ah, that’s right,” the man says impatiently, gesturing brusquely for Jongin to have a seat in one of the worn chairs opposite the desk.

He waits until Jongin is settled uncomfortably in a chair before gesturing expansively around at the tiny office, a sarcastic little smile on his face. He doesn’t have a face that’s meant to smile, Jongin realizes quite away. He’s much less intimidating with a scowl. “Welcome to Precinct 95. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but we make do with what we’ve got.” He takes another long drag off his cigarette, blowing smoke in Jongin’s general direction. Jongin consciously tries not to cough. “I’m Chief Wu, superintendent of this precinct. You will report to me at the beginning and end of every shift here. Understand?”

Jongin nods, then timidly asks, “Will I be working with a partner?” This is his first job after graduating from university, after all, and he’s not exactly sure what to expect. A bit more real world experience would come in handy right about now, he thinks glumly.

The Chief gives him a long look as if to judge whether he’s joking or being serious, and then the older man rolls his eyes and goes back to whatever he was working on before Jongin knocked. “Yes, you’ll be working with a partner. Even if you’re the son of a respected policeman, you don’t get any special treatment.”

Jongin’s face flames at the petty jab. He’s not an idiot. He knows that the only reason he got this job – so high in the social hierarchy of law enforcement – directly out of college is because his father is a retired police chief from this very precinct, but he doesn’t like to be reminded of that. It’s not like he hasn’t worked his off, like he wasn’t at the top of all of his classes, like he hasn’t aced all of his training simulators and proven to be a valuable asset to teams during his internship days. But still, it seems like everything he can ever do will forever be overshadowed by his father’s long and illustrious career.

After a moment of clacking away noisily on his keyboard, the Chief looks up, clearly wondering why Jongin is still sitting there. “See Victoria at the front desk,” he says dismissively. “She’ll get you your badge and show you to your desk.” And with that, Jongin is excused.

He gets lost on his way back to the front of the station, wandering down criss-crossing hallways and corridors until he runs into a baby-faced cop in a crisp uniform, with blonde hair and a completely unreadable expression. “Who are you?” the cop asks suspiciously, lisping the slightest bit. “What are you doing back here? This area is off limits to civilians.”

“Ah, my name is Kim Jongin,” Jongin quickly introduces himself, sticking his hand out. “I’m the new special forces detective. It’s my first day, so I haven’t gotten my badge yet.”

The baby-faced cop looks at Jongin’s hand for a long moment – as if debating with himself internally – and then gives in and shakes it. “Oh Sehun,” he reciprocates with his own name. “And good ing luck. I assume you’ve already gotten yourself lost?”

Jongin sincerely wants to ask about the ‘good luck’ comment but he’s too embarrassed by having gotten lost to press the matter. Instead he just nods. “Yeah, I got turned around. I’m supposed to be going to see someone named Victoria? To get my badge and find out where my desk is?”

“Dude, you’re on the complete opposite side of the station from the lobby,” Sehun replies with a completely static expression.

Jongin shifts rather uncomfortable. “Well, do you think you could maybe show me how to get there?”

The baby-faced cop sighs like it’s the biggest of inconveniences – when in reality Jongin knows that this is a very quiet precinct that doesn’t see a lot of action – but he beckons for Jongin to follow him. They wind their way through the confusing maze of hallways with their lack of anything resembling décor, past closed doorways and loud voices and a break room where everything from the coffee maker to the copier seems to be broken.

Jongin can’t help himself. “What did you mean earlier when you said ‘good luck?’” he asks.

Sehun only chuckles darkly in response, which does absolutely nothing to alleviate Jongin’s mounting apprehension.

Eventually they find their way back to the main lobby, where the leggy receptionist who had taken him to the Chief’s office earlier sits behind her desk, painting her nails a violent shade of crimson. She glances up at the two young men when they enter what is most obviously her domain, something of a smirk on her perfectly done-up lips.

“Marco Polo here got lost on his way back,” Sehun says by way of explanation, rolling his eyes and leaning comfortably against the back of the girl’s chair. “Real genius, this one is.”

The girl seems amused by his casual insults as Jongin stands by and says nothing. “Well?” she prompts. “How did it go? Did you survive your first meeting with the Chief?”

Jongin smiles a bit ruefully, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his trousers for lack of anything better to do with them. “I suppose so,” he admits. “It wasn’t much of a meeting, I’m afraid. The Chief said that you would show me to my desk? And get me my badge?”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” The woman unfolds herself from her comfortable chair and produces a badge from one of the many drawers in her huge desk. “Here you go,” he says, handing it over. “You get a private office right down the hall here.”

“Try not to get lost next time,” Sehun calls after them.