The night air was cold, sharp, slicing through the dim parking lot lights. The team moved in rhythm, stepping out of the HQ with purpose, but there was an unspoken tension hovering between them.
"Ma'am... it's late," Officer Jung said, his tone calm, measured.
Eun-ji turned slowly, meeting his eyes.
"Since we're assigned..." Jung continued, "...we could talk over dinner."
Eun-chae scoffed immediately. "We're not adding you."
But Jung didn't flinch. Calm as always.
Eun-ji tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "It makes sense."
Eun-chae opened her mouth to protest.
"Unni—"
"It's an order," Eun-ji cut her off, voice sharp but fair. "We follow it." She glanced at Jung. "Let's go."
"Thank you, Ma'am," Jung said, nodding respectfully.
Mi-ran simply gave a small, approving nod.
By the time they reached Jung's car, the world felt quieter, the night folding around them like a velvet cloak. Doors unlocked, and they slipped inside.
"I'll sit here—" Eun-chae started, but Mi-ran stopped her with a flat, simple: "Front."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
CLICK. The back door locked.
Eun-chae's eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face. Eun-ji avoided her gaze, pretending it wasn't happening.
With a huff, Eun-chae circled to the front seat, slammed the door, muttering, "I hate this."
"Seatbelt," Officer Jung said calmly.
Eun-chae glared but obeyed, the metal click loud in the confined space. Mi-ran smirked faintly, almost imperceptibly.
Warm lights spilled onto the street as they stepped out of the car at the Korean BBQ restaurant. Smoke drifted lazily from the grills inside, blending with the night air.
Inside, the sizzle of meat hit the grills, mingling with laughter and the clink of glasses. Jung raised his, eyes catching the flickering light.
"To Kang Eun-ji Ma'am," he said.
"Cheers," Eun-ji replied, voice steady.
"To Lee Mi-ran Ma'am," he continued.
"Cheers," Mi-ran said, returning the gesture.
He turned, looking at Eun-chae. "...And you. Eun-chae."
"Just Eun-chae?" she asked, eyebrow raised.
"You're not Ma'am yet," he replied.
"We'll see," she shot back with a smirk.
Glasses clinked. Meat sizzled. The warm aroma filled the room.
Suddenly, a small voice pierced the air.
"Appa!!"
A little girl darted in, arms wrapped tightly around Jung.
"Mi-rae..." he said softly, lifting her gently.
A woman followed, confident, eyes sharp.
"You forgot her again?" she chided.
"I thought you had her."
"You thought," she replied, voice firm but teasing.
Jung turned to the group. "This is Kang Eun-ji Ma'am, Lee Mi-ran Ma'am... and Eun-chae."
Eun-ji smiled at the woman. "You're very beautiful."
The woman returned the smile. Eun-chae froze slightly.
Mi-rae padded over, offering Eun-chae a toffee.
"You're pretty too," the little girl said, bright and sincere.
"Thank you," Eun-chae whispered.
They all settled, the tension of the night easing slightly as plates filled and laughter began to mingle with the sizzle of the grill.
Lee Mi-ran asked casually, "You married young?"
Jung's jaw tightened slightly. "We divorced."
"Don't remarry," his sister said, eyes softening. "For her."
A heavy silence fell.
"We're sorry," Eun-ji said softly.
"Truly," Mi-ran added.
"It's okay," Jung replied. "Let's eat."
And for a moment, the night felt normal, filled only with the warmth of food, family, and small, stolen smiles.
The night air was crisp as they stepped out of the restaurant, lighter than they'd felt in days. Across the street, the convenience store's neon lights buzzed softly, casting long reflections on the wet pavement.
"Come on!" Eun-chae grabbed Eun-ji's hand, tugging her forward with a grin.
"Hey—" Eun-ji protested, but Eun-chae didn't wait. She pulled her across the street.
Mi-ran followed, eyebrows raised. "What now..." she muttered, voice half amused, half exasperated.
Inside, the convenience store was bright, almost painfully so. The cold air from the freezers hit them as they opened doors in quick succession. Ice creams were grabbed, coins dropped, receipts tore in small, satisfying rips. Eun-chae and Eun-ji laughed, the sound ringing out like a rare, fragile moment of joy.
But somewhere else, quiet and tense, the night told a different story.
The apartment door slammed open. A woman in her late thirties stumbled in, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. Her purse hit the table with a thud.
"I'm home..." she whispered, almost to herself.
No answer. No familiar presence. Just silence.
The light flickered once when she flipped it on. Then steadied. Routine. Normal. For now.
She leaned against the counter, opened a jar of coffee, moved with slow, deliberate motions. The kettle went on the stove. Water began to heat. A low hum filled the kitchen.
And then—
A shadow moved behind her.
Unseen. Unnoticed.
The kettle whistled, sharp and piercing, cutting through the mundane rhythm of her night.
She turned.
Her face froze. Recognition. Shock. Fear.
The mug in her hand slipped. Shattered against the floor.
A chair toppled. A metallic flash. The whistle screamed again, louder, threatening.
And then—silence.
Only the ticking of the clock remained, relentless and accusing.