Chapter Text
Blue and red siren lights sliced through the rainy early morning, reflecting off puddles scattered across the pavement. The bell above the flower shop door chimed when one of the officers stepped outside, his expression bitter.
Everything was still fresh.
Wonbin moved closer to the display window, his fingers brushing the cold glass, almost hesitant. The place felt far too familiar. Every shelf of flowers, every carefully arranged vase stirred memories he couldn’t quite name. When had he been here before?
He frowned, trying to shake the unsettling sense of déjà vu that had followed him since he rushed to the address.
“Have I been here before?” he murmured, his voice swallowed by the noise of the street, now buzzing with curious people and police activity.
Across the sidewalk, Lee Chanyoung watched the scene with focused intensity, phone in hand. A rookie detective, but a meticulous one, he absorbed every detail through the shop window while listening to updates from the forensic team inside. The florist’s body lay behind the counter, surrounded by yellow police tape.
Chanyoung knew every detail mattered. Every mark on the wall, every displaced vase, every scuff on the floor would be logged, cataloged, preserved.
When Wonbin turned to scan the area, his gaze collided with Chanyoung’s.
The tension was immediate.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Chanyoung said. His voice was firm, controlled, no hostility, but no warmth either. He stepped closer, maintaining a casual distance, though every word carried a warning.
He knew exactly who Wonbin was. Park Wonbin, investigative journalist for RZ News, sharp, relentless, and far too familiar to the Seoul Police Department. And Chanyoung didn’t trust journalists who hovered around grief, looking for a story.
Their encounters were always like this: quiet tension, unspoken judgment, professionalism stretched thin.
“Relax, detective. I’m just observing” Wonbin replied, forcing a casual tone despite the unease crawling under his skin. “Journalistic curiosity. You know how it is.”
“Curiosity stays outside the crime scene” Chanyoung replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re standing too close. And… it’s interesting how quickly you got here.”
Wonbin’s lips curved into a sharp smile.
“Or maybe the police arrived too late. Ever consider that?”
The provocation landed.
“I think journalists should respect police work instead of interfering with it” Chanyoung said.
“Of course” Wonbin answered, taking a deliberate step back.
Irritated and unwilling to waste more time, Chanyoung turned and walked away. The weight of tragedy never made first impressions easier.
In the background, Sohee, the florist’s son, was being comforted by officers. Wonbin remained outside, watching respectfully. He offered silent support through small gestures: a nod, careful distance. He had never wanted to be the kind of journalist who fed on pain. Being there to document facts was part of his job.
Chanyoung, meanwhile, took note of Wonbin’s reactions almost obsessively: the firm posture, the attentive gaze, the precise balance between curiosity and control. He didn’t trust him, but he couldn’t deny the journalist’s sharp, almost instinctive perception.
The silent flower shop guarded its secrets. Outside, Wonbin stared at it like someone searching for answers he didn’t yet know how to ask. And Chanyoung, watching him from the corner of his eye, knew that this encounter, limited to a sidewalk, would not be the last. Their paths were already crossing in ways neither of them fully understood.
Wonbin was still staring through the glass when hurried footsteps approached from behind.
“Bin.”
The voice was light, slightly breathless. Eunseok, his newsroom partner and official photographer, stopped beside him, adjusting the press badge around his neck and the camera slung over his shoulder.
“You got here before me” Eunseok said. “When Lee called, I was half asleep. Thought it was a hallucination, or a rumor.”
Eunseok was handsome enough that even sleep-deprived, it barely mattered.
“Not a rumor” Wonbin replied, crossing his arms without taking his eyes off the shop. “The victim was well known around here. Longtime florist.”
Eunseok nodded, pulling out his phone.
“Cause of death?”
“They haven’t released it yet” Wonbin said, a faint smile. “But it wasn’t an accident.”
As Eunseok discreetly photographed the storefront, Chanyoung returned, accompanied by another detective. His tone was polite but rigid, the voice of someone who didn’t want journalists anywhere near his case.
“Gentlemen, I’ll repeat myself. This area is restricted. No images of the victim” he said, his eyes settling on Wonbin.
Wonbin raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence.
“I know my ethics. And I respect the victim. We’re not photographing anyone, I swear.”
Eunseok leaned closer and whispered:
“You provoke him on purpose, don’t you?”
“I like testing patience” Wonbin murmured back.
Chanyoung sighed slowly, running a hand through his styled hair.
“Testing a police officer’s patience during an investigation is a poor decision, Mr. Park.”
“Then I’d better be good at it” Wonbin replied with a smirk.
For a brief moment, Chanyoung’s gaze faltered. There was no arrogance in Wonbin now, only quiet curiosity and a flicker of challenge.
Eunseok, sensing the tension between the two men, stepped in.
“Detective, we promise we won’t interfere” he said politely. “We just need a few official details so we don’t publish anything inaccurate.”
Chanyoung studied them both for a long moment. He knew how easily one careless sentence could compromise an investigation.
“All you need to know,” he said at last, “is that the victim was the owner of the flower shop, and the forensics team are still investigating the scene.” His eyes shifted briefly back to Wonbin. “Anything else will be released through the official police report.”
Wonbin held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then gave a short nod, half understanding, half bothered.
“Understood.”
As Chanyoung turned away, Eunseok finally released the breath he’d been holding.
“You have a talent for getting into trouble” he muttered.
“He started it” Wonbin replied, slipping his phone into his pocket. His eyes drifted back to the shop window. “But something about this case feels wrong.”
“Wrong how?”
Wonbin didn’t answer right away. His reflection merged with the flowers behind the glass.
He didn’t like flowers. Never had. The scent, the texture, the memories, everything about them made his chest tighten.
“It’s more like a feeling” he said quietly. “People are saying strange things. And…” He hesitated. “It feels like I’ve been here before.”
Eunseok glanced at him, concerned.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Wonbin forced a smile.
“Just tired. We were called at two in the morning.”
But when they finally stepped away from the scene, Wonbin glanced back over his shoulder. The gesture sent a chill through him. As the wind carried the bittersweet scent of flowers down the street, he couldn’t shake the sense that this crime hid something deeper, something personal.
Inside the shop, beneath the forensic lights, Chanyoung stood quietly, watching the scene unfold. His expression remained analytical, composed, but beneath it lingered a curiosity that didn’t belong in a routine case.
Yellow tape fluttered near a back window left inexplicably open. The muted clicks of forensic cameras and pens filled the air, a silence Chanyoung had long learned to respect.
He knelt beside the body, adjusting his gloves. The florist lay sprawled behind the counter, blood dark and fresh against the pale wooden floor. There were no signs of forced entry. No valuables appeared missing. The register was still locked. The clock still ticked.
Only broken plant vases disrupted the order of the shop.
“No signs of a struggle” the forensic examiner murmured. “No defensive wounds.”
Chanyoung nodded slowly.
“Then he trusted whoever came in” he said, mostly to himself. “Or he never saw it coming.”
The flowers surrounding the body seemed unnaturally vivid under the cold lights. White lilies lay scattered near the blood, deliberately placed. There were no vases meant to be there.
The detail made his brow crease.
He rose slowly and circled the scene, noting every overturned vase, every footprint in the damp floor between narrow aisles. He missed nothing. Though new to the division, he had already earned a reputation for precision, borderline obsessive.
Through the shop window, he spotted Wonbin again. The journalist stood farther down the sidewalk now, speaking with his photographer.
“Still here” Chanyoung thought. “Of course.”
But something was different. Wonbin looked pale, his posture tight, his gaze unfocused. For a moment, Chanyoung hesitated, unsure whether he was witnessing professional performance or genuine unease.
“Detective Lee” a voice called from behind. “We found footprints near the back window. Leading out.”
Chanyoung moved toward the window. The floor was marked with four medium-sized footprints. The sole pattern was irregular, gender unclear.
“He exited through here” Chanyoung murmured. “Wanted to be seen, but not caught.”
As he straightened, his eyes drifted back to the storefront.
Wonbin was still there. Next to him stood Song Eunseok, if Chanyoung remembered correctly.
Wonbin spoke quickly, hands moving too much for someone with so much experience. His posture betrayed tension.
Chanyoung made a mental note:
Arrived unusually early.
Recognized the location.
Hesitant behavior.
He didn’t like relying on instinct. But something about that journalist never let him relax.
When the body was finally removed, Chanyoung remained alone for a few moments. The air smelled of earth and iron. He took one last look around before slipping his phone into his jacket pocket.
Outside, Wonbin had begun to walk away. Just before turning the corner, he glanced back.
Their eyes met.
It was brief, but enough.
Chanyoung felt a discomfort he couldn’t quite name. Not suspicion. Not irritation.
Something else.
As the patrol lights dimmed and the street settled into silence, Chanyoung made his final note of the night:
Case - Sodam Flower Shop
Victim: known locally.
Cause of death: appears to be stabbing.
Witnesses: none relevant.
Unexpected presence: Park Wonbin, journalist.
Observation: curious behavior. Possibly excessive.
He closed the notebook with a sigh. Deep down, he knew that name would resurface.
And when it did, nothing about this case would remain simple.
The sky was gray, as if mirroring the weight of the previous night’s sorrow.
Morning traffic stretched endlessly across the avenues, and in the middle of it, Wonbin adjusted his glasses as he hurried toward the RZ News building. The lobby buzzed with fast, hushed voices, people speaking as though afraid of being overheard, yet unable to resist the urge to talk. Coffee machines had become gathering points for coworkers, and the sharp sound of heels striking the floor was almost irritatingly loud.
The moment he stepped inside, several heads turned. A few nods. One or two lingering smiles. It was the kind of reaction he had learned to accept naturally, though it always felt a little too intrusive first thing in the morning.
“Wonbin!” a junior intern called out, clutching a voice recorder as if it were a rare artifact. “Your festival piece is still blowing up online! Taeyong said you’re covering the flower shop case now, right?”
He offered a half-smile and nodded.
“That’s what they say” he replied lightly, then added with a rare flash of honesty, “Though I hope murders eventually generate fewer comments. People talk too much.”
The hallway leading to the main newsroom was decorated with framed front pages, historic headlines, awards, proof of legacy
At the end stood Lee Taeyong’s glass-walled office, cluttered with stacks of documents and a large clock he used to track how long each journalist took to file their story.
Wonbin passed by, earning a brief gesture of approval, then Taeyong stood abruptly and stepped out, stopping him mid-stride.
“Wonbin, thank you for going out that late last night to cover the story” Taeyong said, leaning lightly against the doorframe.
Lee Taeyong had a striking presence, always dressed in suits that matched his relentless perfectionism.
“It’s part of the job” Wonbin replied modestly.
“You have the right eye for this case” Taeyong said, not fully lifting his gaze. “And let’s be honest, the city loves it when you write about tragedy.”
Wonbin answered with a polite smile, but the compliment felt hollow. Almost cruel.
He continued on, and when he reached his desk, Eunseok was already waiting, two cups of coffee in hand, laptop open.
“Did you sleep?” his partner asked.
“A little” Wonbin said, sitting down. “I dreamed about flowers. It was awful.”
Eunseok raised an eyebrow.
“Poetic or concerning?”
Wonbin let out a brief laugh.
“A bit of both. You know me.”
He began typing, the rapid clatter of keys blending into the newsroom’s low hum. He opened his notes from the night before, along with the photos Eunseok had taken of the flower shop. The pale morning light reflected off the screen, washing the images into something almost faded.
White lilies.
Yellow tape.
The glass fogged by his breath when he’d leaned too close.
And then the memory struck, fragmented, but vivid.
He had been there.
Not that night, but weeks, maybe months earlier. He couldn’t say for sure.
It must have been early spring. The scent of flowers had been the same, too sweet, irritating his pollen allergy. He remembered rushing inside, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, arguing about deadlines while scribbling notes. He’d bought a bouquet of white lilies, grimacing as he did.
They were for Mr. Choi, the veteran photographer, retiring after thirty years.
“A beautiful cliché” Eunseok had said at the time, after Wonbin hesitated over the choice. “White lilies for a man who only ever saw the world in black and white.”
He remembered the florist briefly: a kind smile, hair already turning too gray, experienced hands tying the ribbon around the bouquet. The image was sharp enough to twist his stomach. Nausea rose, bile burning at his throat, his lungs locking as though something inside him refused to let him breathe.
Wonbin stopped typing, staring at the blank screen for several seconds.
“Bin?” Eunseok called, noticing the pause. “What happened?”
“I’ve been there before,” Wonbin said. His voice came out lower than he intended, unsteady. “That flower shop.”
Eunseok leaned closer in his chair, suddenly alert.
“When?”
“A few months ago. Or weeks. I don’t remember exactly” Wonbin said, running a hand through his hair. “I bought lilies for Mr. Choi. I was in a rush that day.” He frowned. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Yesterday it felt so familiar. Now I know why.”
Eunseok let out a humorless laugh.
“That’s a grim coincidence.”
“Too much of one” Wonbin murmured.
He tried to resume writing, but his focus was long gone. Sentences came out broken, thoughts tangled with loose memories. He didn’t understand why it bothered him so deeply, it had been a simple purchase, a trivial gesture. And yet the feeling lingered, insistent, telling him this case was more than just another headline.
“Are you going to include that in the article?” Eunseok asked.
Wonbin hesitated, then sighed slowly.
“No. It’s too personal.”
Eunseok nodded, respecting the silence.
Elsewhere in the city, inside another building, Chanyoung studied maps and surveillance records, drawing invisible lines between locations near the crime scene, trying to reconstruct an escape route, a timeline, anything that might reveal something. He still needed statements from the victim’s family, details about relationships, and the forensic report to confirm the cause of death, though he already had a theory.
Even so, something told him it wouldn’t be easy to trace a suspect.
And something inside him, less logical, told him that things are going to get more dangerous from now on.
Night fell with the glow of streetlights reflected on wet pavement. Wonbin crossed the street with his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, the cold wind lifting loose strands of his hair.
The neighborhood he lived in was quiet, an unassuming mix of old apartment buildings and small coffee shops, far enough from downtown to offer silence, yet close enough to catch the distant sound of passing trains.
Inside his apartment, he kicked off his shoes and tossed his keys onto the counter. The place felt too closed off, a consequence of how little time he actually spent there. It smelled faintly of stale coffee and fresh paint, reminders of a poorly slept night when he’d decided to take up painting as a hobby.
He dropped his backpack onto the couch and stretched, muscles tight after a long day in the newsroom.
Turning on the lights, he let himself sink into the couch. He tried to relax, but his thoughts always drifted back to the flower shop.
Wonbin hated that about himself. Once a case took hold of him, it was almost impossible to let go. It wasn’t healthy, but he couldn’t help the anxiety that came with replaying details, with thinking that maybe the victim would never see justice.
Living inside his own mind was exhausting. Still, he was good at hiding it.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out lazily.
Dad
Wonbin stared at the name blinking on the screen for a few seconds before answering.
“Hello.”
“Son?” The voice on the other end was deep but tired, the voice of someone who had lived through too much. “It’s been a week since you called. I thought maybe you’d forgotten you still have a father.”
Wonbin chuckled softly, resting his head against the back of the couch.
“I’m alive. Just busy. Journalism isn’t exactly a job for people who go to bed early, remember?”
“I remember you saying the same thing years ago, when you were just starting out and thought the world revolved around your assignments” his father replied, half serious, half teasing. “Time’s passed, and you still haven’t learned that life doesn’t revolve around work.”
“Dad, don’t start…”
“Well… are you eating properly?” he changed the subject after a low grumble.
Wonbin glanced at the cup of instant noodles on the counter, last night’s dinner.
“Yeah, of course” he said, hesitating. Why was he lying to someone who knew him so well? “I mean… more or less.”
The muffled laugh on the other end warmed the conversation slightly. Wonbin’s father, retired from the Ulsan police force, shared the same dry, straightforward humor as his son. Their relationship was good, but marked by long silences and phone calls spaced too far apart.
“I saw the flower shop case on the news” his father said after a moment. “You’re covering that one too, aren’t you?”
Wonbin ran a hand through his hair.
“I am. It’s the kind of thing the city loves to read and I hate writing.”
“You always hated the sight of blood” his father said. “Even as a kid. Remember when you fell off your bike and I tried to clean your knee with alcohol? You cried for half an hour.”
Wonbin laughed awkwardly.
“I was sensitive. You were insane.”
“You’re still sensitive. You just hide it better now,” his father replied, his voice softening. “Take care of yourself, okay? These cases mess with your head.”
For a moment, Wonbin stayed silent. The distant sound of cars passing outside filled the space between words. He never knew what to say in moments like that.
“I’m fine, Dad” he said at last, forcing a light tone. “And you? Sleeping okay?”
“Better than you, that’s for sure.” His father paused. “You know, when you were little, your mother wanted you to be a teacher. She said you had an empathetic gaze, that you were good with words. I think she’d be proud of the ethical journalist you’ve become.”
Wonbin swallowed, turning his eyes toward the window. His reflection in the glass looked more tired than he remembered.
“I hope so” he murmured.
The silence returned, but it was a comfortable one. On the other end, his father took a breath before speaking again.
“Just… call me once in a while, okay?”
“I promise.” Wonbin replied with a faint smile. “Good night, Dad.”
“Good night, son.”
The call ended, and the apartment sank back into silence.
Wonbin stared at his phone for a while before setting it down on the couch and standing, trying to shake himself out of the inertia that came from thinking too much.
He walked to the window, watching the distant city lights, searching for some sense of calm in the nightscape. His father’s words echoed in his mind. Maybe he was right, cases like this did get under your skin.
And no matter how much Wonbin tried to convince himself this was just another article, something inside him knew that this case, this flower shop, wouldn’t leave him alone anytime soon.
The following day dawned a little drier. Seoul’s sky was still covered in dense clouds, but this time they carried no threat of rain. Cold air swept through downtown streets, carrying the unmistakable scent of pollution.
Chanyoung left the police station in the late afternoon, his body aching for rest after hours spent analyzing reports and case photos, especially the most recent one. The leads were still scarce. No security camera had captured the murderer, only blurred shadows moving between illuminated storefronts. To make matters worse, the flower shop had no interior cameras, and the camera facing the building had malfunctioned the day before the crime. Everything aligned too neatly.
He adjusted the gold chain around his neck and decided to walk to the coffee shop on the next street over before retrieving his car from the parking lot. It had become a habit: coffee, ambient noise, watching people pass by, as if, somehow, it helped him understand the human mind better.
That was when he saw him.
Wonbin stood across the street, motionless in front of a flower stand, his gaze distant. He wore a black sweater and held his phone loosely between his fingers. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and the soft light of dusk gilded the lines of his face, rosy lips, bright eyes, a kind of beauty that drew attention even amid traffic and the city’s constant rush.
Chanyoung remained still for a few seconds, watching without intention. Wonbin slipped the phone into his pocket, crouched to touch the white lilies, then, after a moment, pulled away abruptly and hurried down the street, almost running away.
That was enough to intrigue Chanyoung.
There was something contradictory about that man, a blend of serenity, distance, and inner chaos in his features, visible only to those who knew how to look. It was as if he carried a forced, fragile calm inside, ready to shatter at the slightest pressure.
Chanyoung shook his head and headed to the coffee shop. Once inside, he placed his usual order at the counter and took a seat by the window, his thoughts scattering in a thousand directions at once.
“Sir?” the barista’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Your coffee.”
Chanyoung blinked, murmured his thanks, took the cup, and resumed staring out the window, contemplating the quiet complexity of his life.
He took a deep breath, a faint discomfort tightening in his chest. He didn’t know why that face had unsettled him so much, but the image lingered, the journalist among flowers, the wind in his hair, the distant look of someone who always seemed to be somewhere else.
As he headed toward the parking lot once again, Chanyoung told himself it was probably just coincidence that he’d seen Wonbin there.
But a part of him, the same part that was rarely wrong about people, whispered that nothing about this case would be a coincidence at all.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the corridors of Seoul’s Central Police Station. Phones rang nonstop, papers piled up on desks, and overlapping voices formed a chaotic symphony of routine.
Chanyoung stood leaning over a table, reviewing the flower shop case report yet again, searching for something, anything, he might have missed. Photographs lay scattered before him: crushed flowers, the body sprawled on the floor, footprints, the open window. Even frozen on paper, the scene seemed to pulse with something enigmatic.
“You’re still on this?” asked Kim Doyoung, head of the Homicide Division, leaning against the wall.
“There’s something off about the way the murderer moved” Chanyoung replied without looking up. “Why exit through the back? There has to be a pattern.”
“A pattern?” Doyoung raised an eyebrow. “You seeing symbols now?”
“Maybe. But it’s not a coincidence. Someone could’ve been in front of the shop at the time, using the front door would’ve been risky.”
Before the discussion could continue, firm footsteps echoed in the hallway. A junior officer knocked twice, then opened the door, visibly hesitant.
“Chief Kim, the journalist Park Wonbin from RZ News is requesting to speak with whoever’s in charge of the investigation about de flower shop.”
At the name, Chanyoung looked up. Doyoung sighed.
“Oh, great. More journalists chasing headlines, and this one’s the worst of them.”
Doyoung assigned an interview room and escorted them over. Wonbin entered moments later, accompanied by Eunseok. Both wore press badges around their necks and carried the practiced confidence of people used to navigating places where they weren’t exactly welcome.
“Good afternoon” Wonbin said, his voice calm, almost ironic, as if it were part of his nature. “I promise we won’t take much of your time.”
Chanyoung stood behind the table, observing him carefully. Under the room’s cold lights, Wonbin looked different from the figure he’d seen on the street the day before.
His hair was styled. His posture, impeccable. His gaze was sharp. Still, something lingered beneath the surface, a trace of fatigue, a faint distance in the corners of his eyes.
“Journalist Park” Chanyoung said neutrally, “I don’t recall authorizing your presence at the crime scene that day.”
Wonbin tilted his head, a half-smile slipping free.
“I was outside. I didn’t touch anything. And the street is public. I was… doing my job.”
The forced friendliness in his tone was raw, and irritating.
“Your job is to report. Not interfere.”
“And yours is to solve the case, not intimidate journalists” Wonbin replied smoothly. “Could you point out exactly when I interfered with the investigation?”
Beside him, Eunseok lightly touched his arm, a silent warning, as Chanyoung’s expression hardened in a way that was rare, his fists clearly tightening.
“We’re just here to confirm a few details for the article, gentlemen” Eunseok intervened, his tone polite and measured. “The public is scared, and we want to avoid speculation.”
Chanyoung studied them for a moment, weighing intentions.
“Official information will be released when there’s something concrete,” he said at last, patience running out. “Until then, I recommend discretion.”
Wonbin crossed his arms.
“Discretion is exactly what makes me good at what I do.”
Their gazes locked for a second longer than necessary. Chanyoung held his stare, steady, but something wavered. Curiosity, perhaps.
As Wonbin and Eunseok turned to leave, Doyoung murmured under his breath,
“I’ll admit it, he’s bold.”
“Or overly confident” Chanyoung replied, his eyes fixed on the door the journalist had just passed through.
What truly unsettled him wasn’t the audacity. It was the fact that, for a brief moment, he’d forgotten the case entirely, distracted by the sound of Wonbin’s voice and the way he smirked, slightly crooked, like someone long used to facing the world with irony. His presence lingered, and that realization was beginning to trouble Chanyoung.
A cold afternoon wind hit Wonbin’s face as he and Eunseok stepped outside the precinct. The street buzzed with traffic, but for a moment, Wonbin simply took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sinister weight hanging in the air.
“You could be a little more… cooperative sometimes” Eunseok said, adjusting the scarf draped over his shoulders as they walked side by side.
“Cooperative?” Wonbin raised an eyebrow. “I thought I was perfectly polite.”
“You provoked Detective Lee in your very first sentence.”
“I just pointed out the obvious. He seemed more interested in judging me than listening.”
Eunseok let out a short laugh.
“And yet, you couldn’t stop staring at him.”
Wonbin stopped walking for a moment, brow furrowing slightly.
“I… wasn’t staring.”
“Oh, please” Eunseok teased with a mischievous grin. “You were analyzing him like a scientific article. Is he your new subject of study?”
Wonbin sighed and resumed walking.
“He has that kind of gaze…” he admitted quietly. “The kind that cuts through you. Like he’s trying to find out every layer you have.”
“Wow. That’s way too poetic, even for you.”
“Don’t start.”
Eunseok laughed, amused.
“So that’s it. Our tough journalist Park Wonbin was impressed by the young, handsome, mysterious detective.”
“Handsome?” Wonbin looked away, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. “He just has a symmetrical face. And an… annoyingly attentive stare.”
“Symmetrical and attentive,” Eunseok said. “Clear diagnosis: disguised interest.”
Wonbin scoffed.
“You should worry more about getting the perfect photos for the article than my personal life.”
“Your personal life tends to make the best gossip back at the newsroom, even if there isn’t much to talk” Eunseok replied lazily. “By the way, want to bet how long it will take for him to come looking for you?”
“What are you talking about? He won’t. Guys like him only talk when they have to” Wonbin said dismissively, while Eunseok merely smiled.
“We’ll see.”
Deep down, though, Wonbin knew the detective’s reactions toward him were always too sharp, too precise. And during the entire walk to the parking lot, Chanyoung’s words replayed in his mind: the low, steady tone of his voice, the silent gaze, and above all, the unsettling sensation of being read, like Chanyoung had seen something Wonbin himself was trying to keep hidden.
Against all logic, the thought intrigued him.
Later that night, darkness crept slowly over the city, and the police station remained lit, a part of cold white light in the middle of a sleeping Seoul.
Chanyoung was still there, alone, seated before a large computer screen. The investigation room had fallen silent after most of his colleagues had gone home. The loudest sound was the wall clock, marking time with a ticking that seemed to mock his exhaustion.
He ran his hands over his face, cracked his neck, and hit play once more on footage from days earlier, security camera recordings from across the street. The image was grainy but revealed part of the shop’s interior through the glass: shelves of vases, customers entering and leaving.
What he was doing felt ridiculous. Obsessive.
After concluding that the murderer was likely someone known to the shop owner, given that the encounter had happened late at night, Chanyoung began reviewing footage of people who frequented the location. He pulled recordings from different dates, played them at increased speed, and jotted down notes: habits, appearances, timing.
It was the seventeenth consecutive video when a new idea struck him.
He opened an older file.
Much older.
The corner of the screen showed a date from nearly eight weeks earlier. Chanyoung watched the footage with little expectation, scanning for anyone suspicious… until a familiar figure entered the frame.
Dark hair. Delicate features. Dark clothing. A press badge hanging from his neck.
Park Wonbin.
The journalist walked calmly into the shop, holding his phone wedged between shoulder and cheek while jotting something down in a small notebook. He spoke briefly with the florist near the front window, then disappeared deeper into the shop, out of reach of the camera.
What stood out came almost seven minutes later.
Wonbin come out of the shop holding a bouquet of white lilies.
Chanyoung straightened in his chair, his heart giving a sharp jolt.
White lilies.
The same flowers found scattered across the floor on the night of the murder.
The glow of the screen reflected in his focused eyes.
There was no sign of urgency in Wonbin’s movements. No hesitation. Everything appeared perfectly normal. And yet, the coincidence seemed too precise.
Chanyoung rewound the video, observing every detail, the gestures, the expression, the exact moment the journalist stepped outside with the flowers, the way his gaze swept his surroundings.
He typed a few quick notes into the report.
Park Wonbin: Visited the flower shop weeks before the crime. Purchased white lilies identical to those used by the suspect. Coincidence to be verified.
He stared at the name on the document for several seconds. The memory of Wonbin in person surfaced, his piercing gaze, the provocative half-smile, the way he aways seemed to be on the defensive, as if everything about him was an act.
But what was behind all this?
Chanyoung sighed slowly, leaning back in his chair. It was too late for conclusions, but early enough for suspicion.
He realized that the name Wonbin would not leave his mind so easily, not this time.
Now, there was a reason.
Now, there was logic.
The clock read 6:37 p.m. when Wonbin stepped into the small waiting room, after exchanging a warm smile and greeting with a woman in her fifties who worked tirelessly as the receptionist.
The room was lit by soft, amber-toned lights, and a gentle saxophone filled the air with slow jazz notes coming from a small radio on the corner table. It was the kind of music he usually avoided, melancholic, introspective, almost too intimate for someone who lived by pretending to be in control.
He sat on the brown leather couch and crossed his legs, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his knee, an automatic gesture of barely disguised anxiety.
Around him were psychology magazines and carefully cultivated plants. Nothing out of place. Everything calm. Organized.
Unlike him.
Wonbin checked his wristwatch once more.
Five minutes.
The same amount of time it took him, every week, to convince himself he didn’t need to be there, and the same amount of time it took him to remember why he always came back.
“Wonbin-ssi?” a gentle voice pulled him from his thoughts.
He looked up to find the woman standing in the doorway, watching him with a welcoming smile.
Han Jiwon, his therapist for nearly ten months now. She carried a calm demeanor and a patient gaze, one of the few people in front of whom he didn’t need to pretend.
“You can come in” she said, stepping aside. He followed her into the office.
The room was warm and inviting: a bookshelf filled with volumes, a window with light curtains, and the same low jazz playing softly in the background.
Wonbin settled onto the familiar couch, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the heavy jacket he wore.
“How are you? How was your week?” Han asked as she took her seat in the armchair across from him.
Wonbin shrugged, his gaze drifting for a moment.
“Normal” he said, staring at his fingers for a few seconds. “Work. Too much coffee. Not enough sleep.”
She smiled faintly and nodded.
“That’s what you always say when you don’t want to talk about something.”
He sighed, turning his eyes toward the window.
“I’m just tired. Pressure. Deadlines. The usual.”
“And the recurring dream?” she asked gently. “Did it come back?”
Wonbin hesitated. The silence between one jazz note and the next seemed to stretch.
“Yes” he said quietly. “The same place. And the sound of footsteps behind me.”
Jiwon wrote something in her notebook.
“You still wake up in a cold sweat afterward?”
He nodded.
“And with the feeling that you’re trapped” she continued, “like you need to find a way out of that cycle.”
“Yes.”
“And what if that has something to do with your past?” she asked softly.
Wonbin didn’t answer. He ran his hands over his face, his eyes glazing for a brief moment before he masked it again.
“I don’t like talking about it.”
“I know” Jiwon replied calmly. “But avoidance doesn’t erase fear, it feeds it. You’ve been making progress, Wonbin. You just need to stop pretending you don’t feel.”
A weak laugh escaped him.
“I hate lying” he said, “but pretending about my feelings is the one thing I’m actually good at.”
For a few seconds, they sat in silence. The background music changed to Billie Holiday’s Solitude, and the saxophone seemed to fill the space between them.
Jiwon watched him with quiet tenderness.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked, “even if you don’t want to answer it right now?”
Wonbin looked up.
“Sure.”
“When you say you feel trapped,” she asked, “are you certain you were truly trying to escape?”
The question hung in the air, unanswered. Wonbin closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the piano and saxophone fill the room. On the outside, he remained the sharp, ironic journalist everyone knew. Inside, something was broken, a part of him still trying to understand what, exactly, kept him bound to a past that refused to stop echoing.
Later that night, when he finally returned home and allowed himself a long breath, Wonbin stood by the window for a few moments, memories blending with the silence of the apartment. The saxophone echoed in his mind, carrying a feeling he couldn’t quite name, and didn’t need to, at least not yet. Not while he lacked the courage he so convincingly pretended to have.
Across the city, Chanyoung reviewed the flower shop records for the third time, his finger resting on the keyboard, his gaze fixed on the footage of Wonbin buying those flowers.
Too much of a coincidence, he thought, suspicion growing quietly, like a shadow.
And while each remained in their own world, one trying to understand memories, the other trying to understand behavior, neither of them knew that those white petals, seemingly ordinary, were only the beginning of something much bigger.
Something no one was prepared to face.
And at the heart of Seoul, the echo of an undiscovered pattern began to take shape, silent, deadly, ready to expose secrets that had been hidden in plain sight all along.