Physical description: Early 170cm range, slender build.
Dark skin.
Short, sporty hairstyle.
Thick eyebrows.
Notable feature: a burn scar on the left cheek.
That man didn’t match.
The third suspect in the investigation files—unless Yang Sang-heum had undergone a drastic transformation—was unlikely to be the culprit.
The skin tone was off.
So was the scar.
Jung-yoon remembered the pale, clean skin under the suspect’s hat.
Had he not noticed the man’s wrinkled neck and hands, he might’ve even mistaken him for someone younger.
The man interrogated third is the culprit.
That voice—illusory now, perhaps just a fragment of memory—whispered mockingly in Jung-yoon’s ears.
He clenched his jaw.
The tremble in his chin betrayed him.
Pushing the keyboard aside, he opened the original case file again.
With a scowl, he rubbed his forehead, trying to anchor himself in the present as old memories and brutal facts blurred together.
One page at a time, he flipped through the documents—his third full read without skipping a single line.
Nothing had changed.
Except for one detail: the body from the eighth case still hadn’t been recovered.
Eighth.
Jung-yoon’s breath caught.
His eyes closed.
Grotesque images surged behind his eyelids.
The eighth case.
If his memory was right, the eighth victim in the taxi-related killings had been his father.
Back then, they’d found the body in a trunk.
The killer had left it exposed, the trunk wide open—like he wanted it seen.
Half of his father’s face had been crushed.
Investigators tried to distance the case from the others, calling it personal, the work of someone with a grudge.
But forensics ruled otherwise.
Same weapon.
Same method.
Jung-yoon’s fingers stopped on the next page.
Evidence tied to the eighth case.
Since the body hadn’t been conclusively identified, the file included a list of possible matches from missing persons.
What if it wasn’t him?
What if the victim wasn’t his father?
A slim, ridiculous hope bloomed in Jung-yoon’s chest—and it nearly broke him.
With new resolve, he scanned the files again.
Events aligned with previous notes.
The only difference?
The suspect order.
If the “third” clue was invalid, they had to start from scratch.
“I’m losing my mind,” he muttered, pressing his forehead hard with both palms, leaving angry red marks.
The case file offered nothing new.
Just the same cold cruelty he hadn’t fully grasped back then.
And in the absence of certainty, Jung-yoon couldn’t breathe right.
Grief caught in his throat, thick and suffocating.
His eyes stung.
He didn’t cry.
But he almost did.
His lips trembled.
His fists clenched tight enough to tremble.
He inhaled, shaky and shallow.
Again—he was back here again.
Slumping into his chair, he exhaled, ready to close his eyes when—
Click.
The lights came on.
Sharp and sudden.
Footsteps approached.
He didn’t need to look.
Of course it was Han-gyeol—swaggering in with a shopping bag in one hand and a tray of four coffees in the other.
Jung-yoon wiped his face quickly as Han-gyeol approached.
The smell of coffee hit him like relief.
“Oh, Senior. You’re already up?”
Han-gyeol greeted him cheerfully, placing an Americano on his desk, then dropping the rest off at Jeong-rok’s and Jun-hyeok’s spots.
Jung-yoon had wanted coffee badly—but now, the gesture embarrassed him.
He watched Han-gyeol’s easy movements.
Then, with a sigh, he finally reached for his own cup.
“You’re broke. Stop buying these.”
“It’s cheap.”
“Still. You know what we earn. Don’t bring it next time.”
“Just drink it.”
“…Fine.”
He sipped.
The cold Americano dulled the headache and smoothed the edge of his fatigue.
Around him, the others trickled in.
The office slowly came alive.
Setting the coffee down, Jung-yoon flexed his fingers, then dragged a box over from the floor.
As he bent to pull out the top stack of documents, a shadow fell over him.
“How’d you even wake up on time?” came a familiar voice.
“You got your stuff alright, I assume.”
Jeong-rok stood there with a bulging shopping bag, scowling.
“You left me in that cesspit.”
“Don’t be dramatic. We’re all colleagues.”
“Have you smelled Team Leader Kang’s hair? He’s the killer. I don’t care what the file says.”
Jeong-rok flung his bag down in disgust.
His contempt was unmistakable, but to Jung-yoon, the banter brought strange comfort.
He snorted and cracked a faint smile.
“I almost mistook you for a real detective.”
That froze him.
The words felt like a trap—too casual for how much they stirred in him.
“You’re cute when you sleep, you know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You scrunch your right eye like this. It’s adorable. I could just eat you up.”
“…You’re insane.”
Jung-yoon shook the memory away and focused on the paperwork in front of him.
Jeong-rok leaned in close, smug, but Jung-yoon was too close to tears to react.
“Wait, why’s your face red…?”
“Just—”
“Yes.”
He shut it down cold.
His eyes glinted with warning.
One more word, and he’d slap him.
Jeong-rok got the message.
He backed off and squeezed into a chair too small for him, its wheels creaking under his weight as he sipped coffee like nothing happened.
“Jeong-rok!”
A voice called from behind.
Nothing unusual—except now, everyone turned.
“Who’s your partner?”
It was Choi Hyun-cheol—the newly appointed head of the Cold Case Team.
He’d been fast-tracked after Jeong-rok recommended him, but rumor had it he hadn’t wanted the job.
His sour expression seemed to confirm it.
While the department looked respectable on paper, inside the force it was considered low-tier—cases with no evidence, often abandoned.
From the man’s bare scalp to his crooked nose, everything about him broadcasted frustration.
“You?” he asked, smirking.
Jung-yoon frowned at the arrogance in his posture.
“…Senior,” he muttered, eyes hardening.