Chapter 43: The Weight of Deliverance

“Haa…” 

The sound was barely a whisper, a ragged expulsion of breath that felt like tearing silk deep within Yongbaek’s chest. 

It was a sound of profound relief, mingled inextricably with a lingering, visceral agony. 

The grotesque weapon, which had for an eternity arbitrarily stirred and twisted his insides, finally, mercifully, exited Yongbaek’s body. 

Its departure left behind a vacuum, a hollow ache that was somehow both less and more tormenting than its presence. 

Though it was nothing more than flesh, to Yongbaek, that crude, soft mass had been more malevolent, more horrifying, than any well-honed blade. 

A blade, at least, offered a swift, clean cut, a definitive end. 

This…this had been a slow, insidious violation, an invasion that corroded his very being.

Perhaps, he thought in a fleeting, desperate wish, it would have been better to have his flesh pierced, his organs spilling out onto the cold ground, his blood gushing in a torrent that would swiftly drain his life away. 

That would have been a quick, albeit brutal, release. 

But this prolonged torment, this insidious agony, was something far worse. 

The more his body swayed, a precarious vessel barely holding together, the more the dizzying, churning sensation of nausea rose within him, threatening to overwhelm what little control he had left. 

It was a physical manifestation of his utter degradation.

Adding to that, an even deeper sense of revulsion tightened his throat, stemming from the foul, dirty breath clinging to his back, a constant, sickening reminder of his captor’s proximity. 

Every exhale felt like a violation, a fresh layer of filth settling upon his skin. 

Yet, somehow, Yongbaek found an almost superhuman strength, a raw, primal resilience born of despair.

He suppressed the urge to vomit that surged with his tears, a bitter bile that threatened to escape his trembling lips, and grimly endured the pain.

He had to.

He had no other choice.

“Did it hurt?” The voice was a soft murmur, laced with an unnerving, saccharine concern that twisted Yongbaek’s gut more than any physical blow.

It was a mock-tenderness, a cruel mockery of care.

However, even for Yongbaek, who had decided to endure everything, who had hardened his spirit against the relentless onslaught, there was a genuine suffering he couldn’t bear, a deeper, more insidious agony than mere physical pain.

“You’re hurt.”

The words were an unbearable caress, a feigned empathy that sent shivers of disgust down his spine.

This disgusting tenderness.

It was a profound, unbearable irony.

He was sickened by the very sound of the voice that checked on him, that feigned concern, despite having just committed the most egregious violation.

It was the ultimate hypocrisy, a calculated cruelty.

He gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw so tightly that his molars ached, and tried desperately to ignore it, to simply vanish into himself.

But a hot hand, possessive and invasive, reached out and pried his thighs apart, a further act of dominion.

Shame felt like the very air itself, thick and suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides.

He felt it settle on his skin, enter his lungs with every desperate breath, a palpable, inescapable presence.

“I told you to tell me if it hurt. Why did you just endure it?”

The accusation in the voice, the thinly veiled reprimand, was a fresh wound.

It was a performance, a sick display of concern meant only to deepen his humiliation.

Yongbaek, desperate to escape the relentless assault on his senses, decided to close his eyes and plug his ears instead.

He willed himself to be deaf, to be blind, to simply disappear.

As Yongbaek quietly held still, a rigid statue of silent suffering, the other person pulled up his trousers that had fallen to his ankles, a stark reminder of his exposed vulnerability.

At the horrifying, chilling sensation on his skin, Yongbaek instinctively slapped the hand away, a sudden, sharp movement born of pure revulsion, and hurriedly, frantically, pulled up his trousers, desperate to cover himself.

As he hastily covered his body, which he hadn’t even had the chance to wipe clean, his own clothes, the familiar fabric he had been wearing, became properly recognized again.

The dark beige school uniform trousers, now crumpled and stained, seemed to mock him with their ordinariness.

Yongbaek felt utterly miserable, a crushing weight of despair settling upon him, and desperately turned his gaze away, seeking any escape from the reality of his situation, even if only a visual one.

This was what the guy who sought to violate him truly desired.

It wasn’t just the act itself, but the utter control, the psychological torment.

He wanted Yongbaek to return to that time, to that deceptive past, so he could reclaim the time that had been lost when Yongbaek was taken by him, when their interactions had been twisted into something so profoundly rotten.

Sorrow filled Yongbaek’s eyes, a deep, pervasive ache that resonated in his very soul. 

It was agonizing to think that the moments he had once considered simply good, the innocent times that had felt so right, were in fact the seeds of sin, the genesis of this living hell. 

The realization was a sharp, twisting knife in his heart.

If only he had known that even his younger brother, his beloved dongsaeng, would eventually become the fruit of that man’s insidious influence, the next victim of his twisted desires, he wouldn’t have kept him close, wouldn’t have allowed him to get anywhere near that monster…

The thought was a relentless, crushing weight of regret.

It was while he was dwelling on such regrets, a bitter, endless cycle of ‘what ifs,’ that a man in the same school uniform, a uniform that now felt tainted and corrupted, approached the frozen Yongbaek.

He moved with a deceptive casualness, and then, with a jarring familiarity, put his arm around Yongbaek’s shoulder.

“Yongbaek.”

“Cheer up. It’s all showing.”

The man’s voice was low, a command disguised as friendly advice.

Having finished the day’s vile act, he wished to appear like close friends when leaving the greenhouse, their secret, sordid sanctuary.

The illusion of normalcy was crucial for him.

Yongbaek could not defy the man’s command.

The consequences were too dire, too terrifying to contemplate.

If he did, his younger brother, his precious dongsaeng, would undoubtedly face the worst torment again, a torment far worse than anything Yongbaek could imagine for himself.

So, with a chilling practiced ease, Yongbaek smiled brightly as he was told, a vacant, empty smile that didn’t reach his tormented eyes.

He politely greeted the adults they met while passing through the alley together, performing the role of the cheerful, obedient student.

He spent every day like that, maintaining the façade, until he finally got a job and managed to run away to Seoul, hoping to escape the nightmare.

“Let’s keep seeing each other.”

The casual suggestion, delivered with an unsettling familiarity, shattered any illusion of escape.

Of course, his relationship with him didn’t end just because he left the village.

That had been a naive hope, a foolish dream. Instead, the number of brutal nights increased, becoming more frequent, more relentless, and the days he cried out in agony, pinned down and helpless, also multiplied, a cruel rhythm of torment.

But Yongbaek was satisfied that his younger brother was out of the man’s grasp.

That, at least, was a small victory, a sliver of peace in his desolate existence.

It was okay if his own body rotted away, if it became a mere vessel for pain, and if his hands became irrevocably dirty, tainted by the darkness he endured.

As long as his brother was safe, he could bear anything.

“Should I kill him too?”

The casual question, delivered with an unnerving lack of emotion, struck Yongbaek like a physical blow.

The target was no longer him, no longer his brother directly, but his younger brother’s lover.

This was a line that couldn’t be crossed.

The patience he had endured when he learned his mother died at the man’s hands, the agonizing revelation that her death was a result of his tormentor’s machinations, and even when he learned that the horrific act was carried out by using his brother’s hands, an even deeper twist of the knife, that immense capacity for endurance, finally knelt before his brother’s happiness.

His brother’s well-being was the one thing he could not sacrifice.

Yongbaek ultimately had no choice but to give up.

He surrendered, not to the man, but to the crushing weight of circumstance, to the desperate need to protect the one innocent left in his life.

However, paradoxically, when he faced the moment his life was cut short by giving up, when death became the only path to his brother’s freedom, Yongbaek regained the peace he had known before meeting the man, a tranquil emptiness that promised an end to his suffering.

Yongbaek truly closed his eyes in freedom, a profound sense of liberation washing over him.

Although he was with the man even at the very moment of closing his eyes, his final moments, it was not agonizing.

The pain had faded, replaced by a quiet acceptance.

In his last moments, Yongbaek briefly focused on the badge on the man’s lapel, a small, unremarkable detail that suddenly held immense significance.

Was that where his name tag used to be, long ago?

A fleeting memory, a ghost of a happier past, flickered in his mind.

Just before closing his eyes for the very last time, Yongbaek recalled his childhood, a time when he had welcomed him, this monster, never dreaming of such a horrific outcome, never imagining that their innocent interactions would lead to this hellish end.

‘Park Chang-gyu’

With the name tag etched on his left chest, the chilling finality of the name a stark contrast to his childhood innocence, he stepped into his own heaven, which was hell.

***

“Is it out?”

Junhyuk, who had been sitting nervously, a bundle of restless energy, trembling his leg with an anxious rhythm, sprang to his feet with an almost painful urgency at the distinct, grating sound of the fax machine whirring to life.

It was a sound they had been waiting for with bated breath, a sound that promised either salvation or further despair.

Jung Yoon, who had been standing patiently, almost rigidly, in front of the machine, quickly, with a practiced precision, pulled out the paper.

“Yes, it’s out.”

Jung Yoon’s voice, though calm, held a tremor of contained excitement.

“Ah, shit. God!”

An emotional Junhyuk, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of relief, clasped both hands together and thrust them high into the air, a desperate, almost primal gesture of gratitude.

He cried out to a God he didn’t even truly believe in, his voice thick with emotion, his words echoing in the tense silence of the office.

As the results came in, the investigation team, a collection of weary but determined individuals, instantly became a hive of activity, buzzing with renewed purpose.

The stagnant air of waiting was replaced by a flurry of motion.

Their first priority, a task that had consumed their thoughts for days, was to re-request the warrant that they had requested several times already, a vital piece of legal paperwork that had shown no sign of appearing until now.

***

“We even got fingerprints, so they can’t just ignore it now, can they?”

The voice of one of the team members, filled with a mixture of hope and weary determination, cut through the low hum of the office.

It was a statement, almost a plea, for a tangible step forward.

Another member, his face etched with the frustration of repeated setbacks, replied with a cynical edge, “They rejected it, talking about solid evidence, so they probably don’t have any other options now. They’ve run out of excuses.”

“Disgusting bastards. What on earth have the higher-ups been getting up to with Seonyang? How much have they been lining their pockets, complicit in this mess?”

The Cold Case Team gritted their teeth, the sound a low, collective growl of frustration.

They recalled the painful memory of the past week, the three agonizing times their warrant requests were blocked, each time a fresh blow to their morale.

They had been trying to collect fingerprints, a crucial piece of forensic evidence, following the precise advice of the forensic science team leader.

Each rejection felt like a deliberate obstruction, a clear sign of powerful forces at play.

They were blocked repeatedly.

It was a maddening, relentless cycle.

Even with ample circumstantial evidence and compelling testimonies, a full week had passed without them being able to get anywhere near Park Chang-gyu, the prime suspect.

The excuse was always the same: “more definitive evidence is needed.”

A week, in the grand scheme of a cold case investigation, might seem like nothing, perhaps even a mere blip.

But for the cold case team members, who had a rough, increasingly clear idea of the gravity of the situation, a week felt like an eternity, an unbearable delay in bringing justice.

They were profoundly convinced that Park Chang-gyu was at the absolute center of this horrifying case.

And as long as his methods remained at the pinnacle of depravity, as long as he continued to operate with such brazen, sickening impunity, every minute and every second was precious to them.

Catching Park Chang-gyu, bringing him to justice, was an urgent, desperate task, a race against time.

The Cold Case Team nervously waited for the warrant to finally drop, the tension in the room thick and palpable.

It was a natural, undeniable truth that the longer they stalled, the more disadvantaged they would become.

This was especially true with Seonyang, a powerful, influential entity, protecting him so fiercely, cloaking him in a shield of legal and political influence.

However, even after submitting the fingerprint analysis results, concrete proof that should have tipped the scales, there was no news of the warrant for a long, agonizing time.

The silence from the warrant department was deafening.

Hyuncheol, ever the pragmatist, called the warrant department, his voice tight with barely suppressed frustration.

But there was nothing they could do but wait, a helpless posture that gnawed at their collective resolve.

There were no other options, no other avenues to pursue.

“Team leader’s father is the commissioner, isn’t he?”

A sudden, almost out-of-place voice broke the heavy silence in the office, which had been filled with nothing but the muted sounds of sighs and nervous tapping.

It was Jeong Rok, who had been sprawled in his chair, seemingly relaxed with his arms crossed and eyes closed.

He slowly opened his eyes, a thoughtful, almost mischievous glint in their depths.

Then he subtly gazed at Jung Yoon, who had innocently, perhaps even hopefully, mentioned him.

“There’s a strange one who uses ‘nim’ for the team leader but drops ‘nim’ for the commissioner,” Jeong Rok mused, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, a subtle jab at Jung Yoon’s unusual form of address.

“Can’t you do anything?”

Jung Yoon pressed, his voice earnest, almost pleading.

Of course, Jung Yoon knew such a request was out of line, a blatant breach of protocol and ethics.

But today, at this very moment, with the lives of victims hanging in the balance, Jung Yoon decided to be shameless and was utterly unrestrained.

He would try anything. Jeong Rok snorted, a brief, amused sound, as if he found the whole situation utterly ridiculous, yet strangely endearing.

Each time Jung Yoon blurted out something so absurd, so wildly off-the-wall, it was genuinely hard for Jeong Rok to suppress a laugh.

‘So this is the kind of guy he was,’ Jeong Rok thought, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

‘No, was he really this kind of guy? Really?’

Even while doubting, a genuine smile softened Jeong Rok’s face, making his typically sharp features appear almost gentle.

“Don’t you know that commissioners are usually closer to the people higher up, the ones at the very top?”

Jeong Rok asked, his tone a mix of exasperation and dry wit.

“You don’t trust your father?”

Jung Yoon challenged, pushing the boundary further.

“Never have,” Jeong Rok replied instantly, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion, a stark revelation.

‘Shit.’

Jung Yoon gnawed on a silent curse to himself, the word forming on his tongue but remaining unspoken.

Watching him, a genuine smile finally broke through Jeong Rok’s reserved demeanor, and he burst into laughter, a surprising, almost unrestrained sound.

Junhyuk, who had been staring seriously, almost obsessively, at the fax machine, his face a mask of anxious anticipation, glared at Jeong Rok with an exasperated, almost incredulous look.

‘Seriously, what’s wrong with that bastard? Like a screw’s loose.’ 

Junhyuk thought his internal monologue was a chaotic mix of irritation and bewilderment. 

It wasn’t just one or two things that were suspicious already about Jeong Rok. 

He had always thought he knew Moon Jeong Rok quite well, had him pegged. 

But lately, whenever he saw Moon Jeong Rok with Woo Jung Yoon, the dynamics, the subtle shifts in Jeong Rok’s demeanor, made him question everything. 

The Moon Jeong Rok he thought he knew seemed like a mere illusion, a figment of his imagination.

‘Is that bastard really gay?’ 

Junhyuk’s mind supplied a completely absurd conjecture from his perspective, yet one that was increasingly difficult to dismiss. 

The reasons to suspect, though circumstantial and unspoken, grew steadily, accumulating with every interaction. 

Junhyuk’s thoughts didn’t matter, however; Jeong Rok’s lips, focused on Jung Yoon with an almost palpable interest, showed no signs of relaxing, no intention of wiping away that amused, knowing smile.

As the suspicion, once a tiny seed of doubt, grew closer to a full-blown certainty, the long-awaited fax machine, their silent sentinel of hope, suddenly began to beep, a sharp, insistent series of sounds that sliced through the office’s tension. 

Zzzzzzzing, the machine continued to hum and whir, its internal mechanisms grinding into motion. 

All eyes in the team were riveted, every gaze converging on the small slot. 

Slowly, agonizingly, a white sheet of paper emerged, its blankness gradually filled with text, the much-anticipated words finally appearing.

It was the long-awaited arrest warrant. 

Jung Yoon immediately, without a moment’s hesitation, took the paper and secured it, holding it as if it were the most precious artifact.

Hankyeol and Junhyuk, their faces alight with a grim determination, quickly gathered their personal belongings, ready to move. Jeong Rok, with a calm, almost predatory efficiency, reached into his drawer and even picked up the issued handgun, it’s cold weight a familiar reassurance in his hand.

“Did the warrant come out?”

Just as the team members were about to burst out of the office, their collective energy a tangible force, Hyuncheol appeared from somewhere, seemingly out of thin air, his sudden presence stopping them in their tracks.

In the few hours since they last saw him, Hyuncheol seemed to have aged considerably, lines of stress etched deeper into his face, yet his eyes burned with a renewed zeal.

He raised a hand, calming the team members who were looking at him eagerly, their faces a mixture of anticipation and impatience.

“The opponent is Seonyang’s lawyer, remember that. You know that if you rush in without clear evidence, if you just blindly charge in, everything will go back to square one, right? All your efforts will be for nothing.”

Hyuncheol’s voice was sharp, a necessary dose of caution.

“We have evidence, though. What are you talking about?”

Jeong Rok, effortlessly passing Hyuncheol who was blocking their way, shrugged his shoulders, a casual gesture that belied the gravity of the situation.

He spoke as if he’d heard the most ridiculous thing in the world, his tone laced with a confident dismissal.

“No, the suspect isn’t just anyone… If it comes down to it, the investigation itself might be incredibly difficult, or even impossible. You really need to be careful and do this well, you have to be meticulous.”

Hyuncheol, his voice urgent, his face a mask of worry, followed the team members who were already hastily descending the stairs, his pleas echoing in the stairwell.

He repeatedly, insistently, urged them to be careful, to be mindful of the powerful forces they were up against.

“Don’t worry. We’re not kids or anything.”

Everyone, in their eagerness, ignored Hyuncheol’s shouts, their focus firmly on the task ahead.

But Hankyeol, who was coming down last, didn’t turn away.

He paused, his gaze meeting Hyuncheol’s.

With a determined flourish, Hankyeol showed both clenched fists to Hyuncheol, a gesture of unwavering resolve, and smiled brightly, a surprisingly fresh, almost buoyant smile, as he replied.

“Kids would be better, you brats….”

Hyuncheol muttered under his breath, a weary sigh escaping his lips.

But even that didn’t seem to comfort him, or ease the knot of anxiety in his stomach. 

He clutched his forehead, a gesture of profound weariness, and swayed precariously alone on the stairs, a solitary figure burdened by immense responsibility. 

‘It didn’t work,’ Hankyeol muttered softly to himself, a fleeting thought, before he quickened his steps at Jung Yoon’s insistent voice calling his name.

The Cold Case Team’s weary and slow steps, which had been dragging for what felt like an eternity, for the first time in a very long time, found their vigor.

They became active, animated, and busily, with a newfound sense of purpose, pressed forward, their pursuit of justice revitalized.