Chapter Text
2nd June 2016
Very few people can claim to know Prosecutor Hwang Si-mok, from the Criminal Division at the Western Seoul Office. Absolutely no one can claim to know him well. He is known to turn up every morning at the office, five - or sometimes six - days a week at ungodly hours, looking pristine, composed, and permanently wearing a mono-expression that could mean anything from polite disinterest, to raging disdain, and all that comes in between. He speaks little to very few people, and never engages in any discourse that falls outside of the parameters of work.
The Prosecutor’s looks, considered objectively handsome by all women - and covertly also by some men - who crossed his path along the years, are accentuated by expertly tailored suits and a mane of magnificently maintained waves, the surprising attractiveness of which acts in complete contrast to his obvious indifference to the opinion which is held in his regard by any person he meets.
It is, in fact, rather a mystery how Hwang Si-mok, who lives his days with no desire to connect, still manages to leave an indelible impression on every life he passes through, without knowing.
Without wanting to.
So indeed, no one knows Prosecutor Hwang, even though many would secretly like to, and even more of them would be curious to know why on the night of his thirty-fourth birthday, he is sitting alone at a random pojangmacha, downing soju and wearing an expression that perhaps, if one had to look very carefully, may almost be interpreted as distress.
June 2nd, 2016 had started off like any other day. Hwang Si-mok did not care that it was his birthday, did not have any recollection of the last time he had celebrated - or enjoyed - the day, and had not approached it differently to any other day of the year. It had been a normal Friday at the office, with his head buried in his closing statement, a quick win in court, and a half eaten solitary meal at the office canteen. Then had come the call from the Yongsan police station, alerting the Criminal Division of a murder-suicide attempt that had left an elderly woman fighting for her life and her middle aged son begging the police to kill him as he repeatedly banged his head against the wall.
Now sitting at the pojangmacha, Hwang Si-mok downs yet another drink, trying desperately, and in vain, to block out the interrogation that had followed the arrest of Lee Son-wan. He can’t help but notice that the hand that is holding his glass is shaking slightly, and he frowns, not understanding what is happening to him, and feeling, for the first time in a very long while, unable to recover the comfortable state of detachment that is his long embraced permanent state of being.
Prosecutor, please tell them to let me die. It’s the pain, I can’t bear it anymore.
It’s my head, no one understands .
She was making noise, so much noise. I killed her, I killed her didn’t I?
I want to die … I want all this to stop. Please tell them to kill me, Prosecutor!
It had only taken him a few minutes to realise that Lee Son-wan suffered from his same condition, pre-surgery. This man who had tried to kill his mother, and who had spent the interrogation screaming in pain, was his past, and could have easily been his present, had the doctors not taken away his pain… and everything else from him … that goddamn day almost twenty years ago. And on this day, the start of this thirty-fifth year, life has decided to give him a glimpse of the person that he would have undoubtedly turned out to be - a criminal overcome by despair whose only way to numb the pain was to silence everything around him.
Instead, surgery had silenced him.
While scanning the sobbing culprit dispassionately, Prosecutor Hwang had seriously wondered whether, had he been given a choice, he would have opted for a third option, that which Lee Son-wan attempted today, and the one to which he will inevitably resort once life in prison drives him to complete, agonising, madness. It had been that thought that led him to walk out of the station after the interrogation, leave his distinctive backpack in his car, and walk aimlessly around the area until he found an anonymous pojangmacha to drink himself into a stupor on this balmy spring night.
Lee Son-wan’s escape will be self-inflicted. However, Hwang Si-mok knows that his way out has been denied to him by the surgical dulling of the emotions that could lead him down that path. The soju is not strong enough to shake that thought - disappointment? - , so he calls out for something stronger. The owner winks at him, and brings out a bottle of scotch whiskey which Si-mok knows will cost him a ridiculous amount. Fuck it. He downs the whiskey, thinking of the decades of numbness that await him, and relishes the feeling of his throat burning as he downs the alcohol.
That , at least, he can feel.
“I want what he’s having,” calls a voice close to him, and he looks to see a young woman, round about his age, maybe a bit younger?, walking towards a table next to him, slouching on her seat and staring at a fixed point at the corner of the tent through swollen eyes. He doesn’t even need to spark on his investigative instinct to realise that she has obviously been crying.
Si-mok does not particularly care. A lot of people cry, and it is very rarely due to a scenario that is of any interest to him. He stares at his empty glass, and signals for another. This time he sips it slowly, trying to make the lightness in his head last longer and to quell the need to go back to his apartment. There is one missed call from the morning on his phone, from his mother. He had not called back. She had not tried again.
He raises the glass in a silent toast to himself and downs the rest of it.
Happy fucking birthday.
After a few minutes, his eyes wander to the woman next to him, who’s now, if one had to look at the glasses on her table, on her second whiskey. Her hair, a blunt bob that barely covers her ears, reveals a graceful neck that Si-mok keeps looking at, and a side profile that, to his annoyance, seems to completely mesmerize him.
And this is one of the many reasons why he should not drink. There is absolutely no reason to stare at complete strangers, especially not at their neck. Or their face. Even if it is an intriguing face.
She seems to sense him looking at her, and turns to him, with their eyes meeting for a second before they both instinctively look away. He cannot understand why, because he is not interested, he really isn't, but Si-mok finds himself looking at the woman again, and again, and the visual dance with her repeats itself for a number of times until she finally speaks again.
“Don’t judge me, I’ve had a bad day,” she says, her voice low and broken with previously shed tears.
“I’m not judging. Not in a position to do so,” he replies curtly before gesturing at his own table of empty soju bottles and the whiskey that he is currently nursing in his hand.
“I’m a cop,” she murmurs softly, to which Si-mok replies with a noncommittal grunt. “A bad one,” she adds with a sigh before downing what remains of her own whiskey.
“I don’t care.”
“Then fuck you, don’t stare at me.”
Si-mok nods at that.
“That’s fair,” he replies, and an awkward silence falls between them. Si-mok gestures for another drink, and without knowing why, looks again at the woman with a questioning gaze. She nods, and he asks for another drink for her as well.
“What makes you a bad cop?” he asks after a short while, after finally admitting to himself that he is actually intrigued. There seems to be nothing particularly bad with the woman next to him.
“I reacted late to a Code One,” she replies. “My first Code One since I transferred to my current station. An old lady is fighting for her life after being stabbed by her son because I got to the scene too late.” She wipes away the tears that are now openly flowing down her cheek and stares at him pointedly, as if willing him to try and contradict her.
Si-mok stiffens at the mention of what is very clearly the Lee Son-wan case and looks away without answering. Instinctively he grabs his phone and sends a text to his trainee, Prosecutor Young Eun-soo.
Send me details of the latest condition of suspect’s mother.
Prosecutor Young is new and eager to please, and he knows that she will react soon.
From the corner of his eye, he sees the cop looking increasingly upset as she gestures for yet another whiskey.
“I think you should stop,” he says quietly.
“I think you should mind your own business,” she snaps back.
“We need cops, even bad ones. You shouldn’t kill yourself by driving in that state.”
“I’m not driving, I’ll phone a cab. And you said you don’t care.”
“Still don’t.”
“Fuck you."
“This time, not fair,” he finally mutters, and looks intentionally away as she slowly stands up, and sways to the owner of the pojangmacha to pay. She is unsteady on her feet, still tearful, but nods sadly at him before leaving the tent.
At that moment, his phone lights up with a return text from Young Eun-soo.
The suspect’s mother is out of surgery. Injuries are grave but not life threatening. An eventual full recovery is envisaged. Good night Prosecutor Hwang, please let me know if I can be of any further assistance.
Si-mok replies with a short “ok” and pays quickly, exiting the tent while looking around to see if he can find the woman. He catches sight of her a few metres away, leaning dejectedly against a a wall.
“The old lady is not going to die,” he says as he jogs to her. He doesn’t know why exactly, but he feels that it is very important for her to know that.
At the news, that woman’s face brightens. “How do you know?” she asks.
“Irrelevant. I just do,” he replies impatiently.
She stares at him for a few seconds, before her face transforms with a little smile. “I believe you,” she breathes out in relief.
Si-mok stares at her smile for a second or two longer than he logically should have, before looking away. “Get home safely,” he murmurs, before walking off.
He receives no answer, and looks back to where the woman still stands, alone in the empty street. He’s not sure how he feels about that. But it doesn’t seem to feel right.
“Is a taxi coming soon?” he asks, wondering why he cares
The woman shakes her head. “My phone died,” she replies. “I’ll wait here until my head is clear enough for me to walk home.”
Si-mok frowns at her. “You’re not just a bad cop, you’re an irresponsible one,” he remarks, annoyed, and dials the number of a taxi company while deliberately ignoring the middle finder that the woman is pointing at him.
He gives the location to the taxi driver and is advised that a taxi will be dispatched within fifteen minutes.
The woman nods her thanks and resumes her resting position against the wall, which is covered in rather angry looking graffiti. Si-mok knows that he ought to start making his way back to the car, which is parked far enough for him to sober up by the time he reaches it, but a look at the neighbourhood makes him wonder whether he should wait for the taxi to pick up this woman who is nothing but a stranger to him.
He tells himself, a number of times, that he doesn’t ultimately care if she makes it home or not. He also reminds himself that she is a cop and perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and that he is of no use whatsoever in any situation that does not require him to spout legal text and interrogate suspects. So waiting for the taxi with her would make no sense.
He decides to stay anyway.
It is not a long wait, but an awkward one, as he and the woman sneak glances at each other as they stand at a respectful distance from each other. He sighs in relief when the taxi turns up and nods his goodbye to the woman.
“Thank you,” she says, and then gives him a long, unguarded look that hitches his breath for a second.
“Get home safely,” he tells her again, with a small nod.
They hold each other’s stare for a long, silent moment and then she smiles, a little sadly, and walks to the taxi after giving him a final goodbye bow. Si-mok stands in place, unable to move while he waits for her to open the back door. By nature - and profession - suspicious, he sneaks a look at the taxi-driver and notices with a frown the look that he gives her. It is a look of someone who likes what they’re seeing, and would not mind acting on it, with or without consent.
The next thing he knows is that he is walking briskly to the car and slides into the back seat with the woman, who looks at him in surprise.
“I will accompany you home,” he announces.
“There is no need really,” she replies, now starting to look a little alarmed.
“I think there is,” Si-mok answers, focusing his narrowed eyes on the driver.
“You heard the lady. Get out,” the driver snarls.
Si-mok leans forward and stares at the driver with narrowed eyes. “No, you hear me instead. I suggest that if you want to keep your license, you never look at this woman, or any other woman who uses your service, in that way again,” he threatens.
The woman is now shifting her stare between him and the driver, who is now staring ahead and sweating visibly. “What way? What’s happening? Are you a cop too?” she asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies. “Just please just give him your address so that we can finally end this goddamn night,” he adds before leaning back, suddenly feeling completely exhausted.
A few minutes into the drive, Si-mok feels the woman moving next to him and he opens his eyes to see her looking at him with a little smile. The street lights give her face a soft glow which, to his annoyance, makes it very hard for him to look away.
“Thank you. For everything,” she whispers.
He just stares at her, and maybe it’s the alcohol, or the stupid fucking street lights that are making her face glow, or maybe it’s Lee Son-wan who is living the misery that Si-mok escaped from, or maybe it’s his stupid birthday, or the fact that his mother did not try to call again, or maybe it’s all of this or nothing at all, but he can’t take his eyes off her lips and his mind off the fact that he really, really, wants to kiss her.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he whispers.
She just looks at him wordlessly, and the rest of the ride is silent, with the only sound being that of their breaths, quickening slightly as the tension between them intensifies. A few minutes into the ride she brushes the tips of her fingers tentatively against his, and it takes all his will power not to reach out and kiss her, pouring all his want onto those lips that continue to mesmerise him.
What the hell was happening to him?
When the taxi drops them off in front of her building, it takes just one look, with her beautiful eyes staring at him in a silent invitation, for him to follow her out of the taxi, handing the driver far too much money and taking a second to memorise his number plate for inquiry purposes, just in case .
The apartment is on the roof of a four storey building, and they jog up the stairs together, the exertion leaving them breathless by the time they get to the door. They stare at each other in silence as they catch their breath, and Si-mok clears his throat nervously, suddenly realising the awkwardness of their situation.
“Do you want to come in for a …coffee?” she asks.
Si-mok blinks, wondering if he has misread the whole situation.
Sensing his hesitation, she speaks again looking at him closely. “A coffee, and maybe if you want…” Her voice trails off, leaving the rest of the invitation hanging just within his reach.
“I do want … maybe…,” he replies cautiously.
“Only if you’re sure… that you want to.” She blushes at that in a way that makes Si-mok’s answer flow faster.
“I am. Can we go in now?”
“Ok. Ok then,” she replies with a relieved smile.
Si-mok is however suddenly hit by a thought. “How drunk are you?” he asks seriously.
She understands what he’s asking immediately. “You’re not taking advantage of me,” she replies. “I’m just drunk enough to act on something that I really really want to do right now,” she adds, somewhat nervously, but with a look that leaves no room for doubt.
She slides open the door, and they step inside her tiny apartment. “Excuse the mess,” she murmurs, but Si-mok hardly hears her. He takes her in, her naturally styled hair, her make up free face, her eyes, her neck. Her impossibly long neck. He feels himself getting hard just at the thought of running his tongue over it.
The tightening against his trousers brings a sudden thought to his mind, and he groans internally.
“I don't have anything with me,” he confesses.
She frowns momentarily in confusion before going to what he presumes is the bathroom. He hears her rummaging about for a few seconds before she comes out and sheepishly hands him a condom.
“It’s old. Should still work. From when I was with my ex,” she says with a shrug, while looking at him with a look that Si-mok can’t quite decipher. There seems to be concern, but also defiance, but he doesn’t like the fact that she believes that she ought to explain herself to him.
“It is none of my business, and it really doesn’t matter,” he answers with a small frown. He places the condom in the pocket of his trousers. “And anyway, you should stop caring about what other people think,” he adds seriously.
She nods and smiles, suddenly reaching for his hand and squeezing it. He stares at her impassively, trying to understand how it feels for some people to be so openly demonstrative and wondering why her touch does not bother him in the least. His look causes her to frown at him in puzzlement. “You don’t smile much do you?” she remarks.
If only she knew.
Si-mok just gazes at her and finally takes a step towards her. Fuck this. “You probably smile enough for the both of us,” he murmurs before he decides to take the plunge and kiss her.
Her reaction is immediate, and stuns Si-mok in its intensity. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him towards her, kissing him deeply, almost frantically, while acknowledging his straining hardon with a little gasp. Si-mok pushes her against the wall, covering her slim body with his as he breaks the kiss and finally finally trails his tongue down her throat, nipping and sucking at her neck as if his life depended on it. Her scent, her taste, her skin is intoxicating.
“I don’t even know your name,” she whispers suddenly.
Si-mok stiffens and straightens up in order to meet her eyes.
“I’m not good for you,” he replies.
She frowns at him, blinking rapidly. “What? Are you - are you married?”
Si-mok shakes his head.
“I’m not good for you,” he repeats. “And I’m not good for anyone ,” he adds with utmost seriousness. “Tonight, this is not going to happen again. I won’t stay over and I won’t be here in the morning, and I don’t want there to be any way in which we can keep in touch. The less you know and see of me, the better.” He looks away, suddenly feeling something that perhaps could be explained as shame. He is not sure.
She stares at him silently with widened eyes, still in his arms, and threads her fingers tenderly through his hair.
“Is that something you can accept?” he asks, his stomach clenching as he dreads the answer he expects to receive.
Her reply takes a second or two to arrive, and Si-mok doesn’t realise that he is holding his breath until he releases it when her lips meet his again, and he feels her nodding against his cheek. He thinks he feels relief, but he mostly feels her lips, her tongue and the warmth of her body as she arches against him. Their hands start to fumble at each other’s clothes, and various items of clothing end up being thrown across the apartment in between frantic kisses and muffled moans. When she gets to his shirt, he involuntarily flinches when he hears something rip as she tugs at the buttons of his shirt.
“Sorry,” she murmurs between kisses.
At this point, she is clinging to him in only her underwear, and torn shirts can just be damned.
“Fuck it,” he replies and lifts her up so that her impossibly long legs are wrapped around him, pushing her against the wall and grinding against her. “Bed, couch, table, where?” he gasps.
She breaks off the kiss and takes a second, which to Si-mok is half a second too long, to actually think about it. He looks at her incredulously.
“Bed. Now,” she moans and does not detach herself from him until he lowers them both down on her mattress, with less grace that he will ever admit to, and she stares at him with hooded eyes, leaning back on her elbows, back arched in anticipation. He positions himself on his knees between her legs, and lowers the straps of her bra to finally free her breasts, staring in awe at her dusky nipples. She unhooks her bra, impatiently murmuring something that sounds like “if I had to wait for you…” and sits up, guiding him towards her breasts, responding to each lick and suckle with wanton moans.
Si-mok has had women before, not that many really, and all his sexual encounters have been with women whom he barely knew, whether at university or from work, and who, like him, needed a quick physical fix from someone who would come with no attachments or complications. Never however has a woman reacted to him so strongly, so wholly. He kisses her again, relishing the feeling of her lips against his, and nipping at them in a selfish desire to leave his mark. When he breaks away, he stares at her, face flushed and lips swollen and thoroughly kissed, and he thinks that he has never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
“Please,” she whispers, reaching for him inside his underwear. He rests his head against her shoulder as he allows her a couple of strokes before removing her hand, trying to avoid the humiliation of coming embarrassingly quickly. He lowers her down gently on the mattress, trailing his tongue down her body, wanting to lavish and taste every part of her, while her body arches against him as it follows his movements. When his tongue reaches the waistband of her panties, he feels her stiffen against him, and he looks up in surprise.
“You don’t have to,” she murmurs.
“I want to,” he answers with a frown.
“I haven’t showered since this morning,” she explains blushing.
“Neither have I,” Si-mok murmurs in reply, calmly removing her underwear and placing soft kisses on the inside of her thigh.
She gasps softly and reaches for his hair, pulling at it slightly to make him look up. “Are you sure?” she asks softly.
Si-mok blinks at her impatiently. “Stop that. You talk too much,” he remarks and spreads her legs wider, opening her lips and lavishing her clit with focused licks and attention. He tastes her want, and is intoxicated by her scent and feel in a way that he has never experienced before. He is lost in her and the movement of her hips bucking against him only serve to entice him to focus further on that small nub of hard flesh until he can hear her cry out her release and feel her throb against his face. He blows gently at her clit, and peppers her inner lips with soft kisses and licks until she whimpers at him to stop.
He moves up and kisses her deeply, wanting her to taste herself on him, before breaking away to locate his trousers amongst the strewn clothes, and the condom that he has stupidly placed in his pocket. She lies back on the mattress, looking at him with a languid, satisfied smile, as Simok unwraps the condom and closes his eyes and tries to steady his roiling nerves. He focuses as hard as he can on his breathing rather than on the gorgeous, naked woman splayed out for him on the bed, waiting.
He enters her slowly, feeling her warm and wet, so very wet , even through his condom, and wraps an arm around her tiny waist, steadying himself and desperately trying not to embarrass himself by coming there and then. As he starts to move slowly, he hears her soft whimper through the coiled pleasure that is starting to unravel and he stops abruptly, looking at her with concerned eyes.
“Are you ok?” he whispers.
She nods, but her eyes are closed and her grip on his shoulders tightens. “It’s just been a while, give me a second to get used to you,” she replies with a little gasp.
He lies completely still for a few seconds while she opens her legs wider, marvelling at his self control as the action nearly drives him insane with want. She soon nods with a little smile, raising her hip slightly to meet his slow thrusts. When she finally wraps herself around him, pushing him deeper inside her with entwined legs, all that he feels is a sensation that feels like flying and like falling all at once. His nerves are suffused with an unfamiliar, indescribable urgency for more, for faster, for now , and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to succumb to the rapture that his body seeks with each thrust.
She lies beneath him with her mouth slightly open, responding to his movements with tiny gasps, and her eyes closed. Si-mok is unable to look away, wondering if all this would disappear the minute he averts his eyes, and whether he will find himself, alone as he is meant to be, once this illusion ends. It’s a thought that makes his stomach clench.
“You’re beautiful,” he pants, the words slipping out of his mouth before he can stop them. Are you real?
She opens her eyes at that and pulls him towards her for a deep kiss as he rams against her, his thrusts become shallower and faster as he finds it harder to keep away from the release he craves. He reaches down between them for her clit, circling his middle finger against her folds, wanting her to climax with him.
“I don’t think I can -” she gasps.
“Let’s try anyway, shall we?” he murmurs in her ear. Her moans quicken as he strokes her, matching the pace of his finger with that of his thrusts. She shatters under him, quickly and suddenly, and the feeling of her tightening against him brings him over the edge with her as he comes with a loud groan, riding wave upon of wave of pleasure that he has never come close to experiencing, and which leaves him entangled with her in an exhausted mess of trembling limbs.
Si-mok tries to regain his breath, feeling, through his post-coital haze, her fingers trailing up and down his spine, slowly and lightly. He moves to slide out of her but she tightens her embrace, holding him closer to her.
“A minute, just a minute,” she whispers.
He looks at her in wonder, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, sealing such action with a kiss. He caresses her throat with his lips and feels her pulse racing, its rhythm matching his own. He doesn’t know what he is feeling right now, it is not easy for him to tell, but his mind is clear, and his thoughts are pleasant, calm. It feels … good.
It takes more than a minute, much much more, to finally disentangle himself from her. He grabs his discarded clothes and moves to the bathroom without a word, sensing her eyes on him but refusing to meet them. He discards the condom and cleans himself quickly, the enormity of what they had done slowly starting to hit him.
When he exits that bathroom, he is already tucking his shirt back in his trousers, and stops in his tracks as he finds her in the kitchen leaning against the table wearing an oversized t-shirt and nervously nibbling at the nail of her thumb. Her hair is mussed up, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright.
She is stunning.
“Would you like that coffee?” she asks in a small voice.
Si-mok would definitely like a coffee. He actually desperately needs one, as the rising sun in the horizon reminds him that he has not slept in almost twenty-four hours, and that he still needs to find a way to his car, and back to his apartment. He is also reeling from the mindblowing sex he just had with this woman, and he also really, really, wants to stay.
Which is the most important reason for him to leave.
He shakes his head politely and puts on his suit jacket, stuffing his tie into his pocket. He already looks like he has been thoroughly fucked, and actually walking around at dawn with a tie and sex hair seems to be unnecessarily pretentious. She walks with him to the door, watching him slide into his shoes wordlessly.
“You’re not a bad cop,” he tells her suddenly. He’s not sure why that is important, but it somehow feels like it is.
She starts and blinks at him rapidly. “No?” she replies with a small smile.
“Bad cops don’t think they’re bad cops,” he replies with a shrug. “The fact that you question your ability shows that you care, and bad cops don’t care.” He frowns, trying to get his thoughts straight, an action that is not usually so elusive. He really really needs to leave. “And that Code One, you couldn’t have prevented it, even if you had arrived earlier. It was a situation that is beyond your control, anyone’s really,” he adds.
She looks at him curiously. “How...do you know all this?”
“I just do.”
She stares at him for a second, and scrunches her nose before nodding.
Si-mok is unable to look away.
“Thank you, for … all this,” she finally says.
He stares at her wordlessly before leaning forward for a last kiss. They stand at her doorway, embraced and lost in each other, their lips sealing the connection of two bodies that just don’t want to let go.
He finally steps back, and with a last bow, walks down the stairs without looking back.
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January 2017
“I’m Prosecutor Hwang from Western Seoul Prosecutors’ Office,” he tells her, annoyed. She is there, the bad cop who is not really bad , standing in front of his car and hindering his pursuit of the main suspect in the murder of Park Moo-sung. There is a split second of recognition, and spark of something which probably means something important to other people, but for which he just has no time. They exchange a few words of no consequence, and his annoyance increases.
“Can you turn off the siren? He will run away.”
--------------------------------
March 2017
“Goodness sorry! Oh we meet again. My name is Lieutenant Han Yeo-jin.”
She extends her hand, and stares at Si-mok defiantly. It is clear that she recognises him. It is also obvious that she is not going to acknowledge whatever happened between them.
It suits Si-mok perfectly.
“Where is the evidence room?” he replies, ignoring her hand.
So she has a name. It doesn’t matter.
He turns around from her and walks away, hearing her brisk pace behind him, trying to catch up.
She has a name. It doesn’t matter. Or maybe ... it does.