Chapter Text
For as long as he can remember, Kim Mingyu has always wanted to be a detective. At first, it's to imitate his mother and later it manifests into an individual pursuit, a personal desire. He falls in love with the field helplessly and for as much time as he spends romanticizing it, he's not disappointed in the least when he finally gets to assist in a real case. He climbs the ranks through hard-work and sheer determination until he has an office of his own and other people assist him.
Mingyu doesn't particularly think he's a genius or born with some sort of unique talent, but he has ambition in spades and if he wants something, he'll do anything within the law to get it.
He's born in the countryside, but grows up in Seoul once his mother is transferred. In primary school, he becomes friends with an odd Chinese transfer, Xu Minghao - who for all his shy smiles and too-nice personality grows up to be a black market art dealer. Even after all these years, it feels nice to resort to being a kid when the real world becomes overwhelming and it feels even nicer to have someone who loves you unconditionally, is there to tell you to shut the damn case already, it's three a.m, asshole, come get a beer with me.
It’s one of those days where Mingyu is doubting his career just a little bit because of a brutal, bloody case scattered over his desk. He doesn’t realize he has been crouching at an awkward angle until his phone buzzes and his thigh complains. His back clicks when he straightens, one hand braced on the arm of his chair, the other patting blindly along the desk until he finds his phone. The screen lights up with a message from Minghao telling him to pick up his calls, the text politely aggressive in a way only he could manage. Cracking his neck, he hits the phone icon above the chat.
“What’re you up to?” Minghao asks right away, still a slight accent on his Korean despite how long he’s lived in Seoul.
“Nothing,” he answers and then immediately elaborates, “A little fucked up over the latest murder case. How many sick people can there possibly be in one city? At this point, I gotta start thinking twice about my barista, my mail guy, the security people, my boss - ”
“Your best friend, if you don’t shut up. Listen, Seokmin's over and he wanted me to invite you because you’ve been a reclusive loser for weeks and won’t pick up anyone’s call,” Minghao says, voice warm. Immediately, Mingyu can feel the stress of the case melting off his shoulder and he’s shutting a folder even as he pretends to protest. "I asked Seungcheol hyung, too, so I know you don't have anything urgent going on right now."
As always, Mingyu can really only ever rely on Seungcheol when they're working cases. Having been partners for about five years now, they've sort of mixed their friend groups together and it had only taken them one late-night drink after a particularly brutal case to realize that they actually enjoy each other's company outside of work. And, of course, Minghao called Seungcheol first to lay the perfect trap.
He curses under his breath as he stands fully, a low sound that is half ache and half relief as blood returns to his legs. The desk is a mess of open folders and scribbled notes, the aftermath of an afternoon spent buried in reports. He makes a valiant effort to stack things into their appropriate piles, fails almost immediately, and abandons the attempt entirely. He probably only has about thirty minutes to get across the district if he wants to avoid being murdered by an art dealer.
“Something in there,” Mingyu says, waving a vague hand at the pile of paperwork, “is classified.”
The clerk at the neighboring desk barely looks up. He's seen this routine too many times. He sighs, pushes his glasses up his nose, and stands to start sorting the mess.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says.
“You’re the best,” Mingyu replies, already shrugging into his jacket, “I’ll bring you coffee tomorrow. Real coffee. And pastries.”
He blows a quick, exaggerated kiss toward the clerk and jogs for the door, tucking his chin into his collar against the sharp evening air that seeps into the hallway.
Half an hour later, he’s pretending he’s an upstanding citizen - a real servant of the public - as Seungcheol puts a shot of soju to his lips. Another half an hour has Mingyu flat on his back, staring at Minghao's ceiling lights - odd, little bulbs that look like stars. The carpet is fluffy and soft under him, and he’s about ready to pass out despite the pleasant buzz. His friends’ laughter is almost white noise and there’s a stupid grin on his face. He’s almost asleep when Seokmin softly kicks his side, looking down at him from the sofa.
“What about you? Still boring and single?”
Unaware of the conversation preceding this question but knowing his answer, Mingyu says, “Of course. Who the fuck wants to date a detective?”
Seokmin snorts from where he’s resting his head on Minghao's shoulder and says, “Anyone who has ever seen pictures of you on my Instagram.”
“They don’t know my job,” Mingyu retorts, “I’ve tried dating. It never works out. Nobody wants to be second to a file of forensic photographs,” at his friends’ downcast expressions, he rolls his eyes and adds, “It’s fine though. I got promoted and I’ll only be assigned to one case at a time now, not just tacked onto five investigative teams at once. I’ll have more time.”
Eventually, the conversation drifts away from the topic, but Mingyu looks at the ceiling and thinks about how lonely his apartment suddenly seems compared to Minghao's.
His phone wakes him first, then the muted sunlight pushing through the curtains. He lies there for a moment, listening to the rhythmic click of the fan, the distant sound of traffic rolling in from the main road. There’s work waiting for him at the precinct, a half-written report on his dining table, and a headache curling at the edge of his skull.
He tells himself he’ll feel better after coffee. He lies to himself often.
By the time he's showered, done errands around the house, and had a sad excuse of a meal, he's craving a cigarette and an ice cold beer. He heads to the convenience store done the street for his little fix, calling his mother on the walk. She answers on the second ring, already talking before he can say hello. She tells him his father has taken up playing chess with the neighborhood dads. She tells him his sister is doing well in college, that she misses him, that he should come home soon, that they haven’t seen his face in months.
He’s barely managed to placate her by the time he pushes open the door to the convenience store. It's small enough that he can take it all in with a glance as he slips his phone into his back pocket.
At the counter facing the window, an office worker in a wrinkled shirt eats a sandwich with one hand while arguing into his phone with the other. His tie is loosened, his shoulders hunched, his eyes fixed on something outside that the glass reflects back at him.
Near the snack aisle, three schoolgirls in matching uniforms huddle over a single styrofoam cup of ramen, chopsticks tapping the rim as they pass it back and forth. They look up when Mingyu walks in, curiosity turning to embarrassed giggles when he nods politely in greeting. Along the far wall, an unassuming man in a hat and mask leans against a fridge, an energy drink in one hand.
“Detective Kim,” the cashier calls, smiling as he approaches. She is in her fifties, hair twisted up in a neat bun, expression permanently stuck somewhere between amusement and exasperation whenever it comes to him. “Back again.”
“I just can't seem to stay away,” Mingyu replies, going through the motions of their usual back and forth, “The usual, please.”
She shakes her head as she reaches for the herbal cigarettes behind her.
“Still bad for your lungs.”
“Yes, but I'm trying to quit actual cigarettes,” he says, smiling impishly, “I just need something in my mouth when I think.”
The words leave his mouth before his brain can stop them. The schoolgirls burst into fresh giggles. The office worker glances over, eyebrows raised. Mingyu’s ears go hot.
The cashier laughs, a warm, throaty sound that makes it hard to be truly embarrassed.
“Maybe try gum instead,” she says, placing the familiar gold-black pack on the counter.
He is about to answer when his phone starts ringing. He glances at the caller ID and straightens automatically.
“Give me one second,” he says, and steps slightly aside as he answers, “Hello?”
“Where are you?” Seungcheol’s voice comes through, clipped and alert.
“Convenience store near my place,” Mingyu says, "Why?”
“Come outside. I'm maybe five minutes away. We need to head to a crime scene.”
“What happened?”
“One of the richest men in the city just died.”
"Who?" Mingyu asks, tucking his phone between his shoulder and ear as he fishes around his jacket for some bills. He places a few on the counter and plucks the cigarettes to put inside his pocket, giving the cashier a nod and a wave as he heads out.
"Yoo Hyukjae."
The name floats up from a distant corner of his memory attached to images of charity galas and investment headlines.
“I'm outside,” Mingyu says.
“About to pull up,” Seungcheol replies, then hangs up.
Mingyu pockets his phone and waits.
“Yoo Hyukjae,” Seungcheol repeats once he's in the car and they're on their way to the crime scene. “Real estate, investment, charity foundations. Old money. The call came in from one of his housekeepers. She found him slumped over his desk in his study. He was still breathing when emergency arrived, but he coded on the way to the hospital. They tried resuscitation, no luck.”
“Any sign of forced entry?” Mingyu asks.
“None reported so far,” Seungcheol says. “The gates stay locked. Security system shows no breach. Apparently, no one came in or out of the house all day.”
“What about his family?”
“Two sons,” Seungcheol answers, “Adopted. Eldest was at his law firm. Youngest was at one of the family’s coffee shops. Staff say they left in the morning. They've been notified. His wife passed decades ago.”
Mingyu looks out the window as streets give way to wider roads, city blocks replaced by stretches of thick forest or open farms.
“The family has come up before,” Seungcheol adds, almost reluctantly, “When I was new. Some kind of accident on the estate. Files bounced between precincts for a while. Nothing stuck. The whole thing went quiet. Don't remember all the details, just that it was messy and nobody wanted to touch it.”
“Why?”
“Because the family is very powerful,” Seungcheol says, “and they have friends in all the right places. Judges, ministers, executives. Anytime their name shows up on a report, calls start coming in. Cases get delayed, reassigned, suspended. There was talk about one of the sons being connected to something. An incident at school. Nothing came of it.”
“So, we need to get there soon before - ,” he says.
“Before the scene is cleaned,” Seungcheol finishes, “And before anyone decides this was a tragic accident.”
“Think it was?”
“There are rarely accidents in our profession, Mingyu,” Seungcheol says. “Especially when it comes to rich, powerful men.”
The silence that follows is not uncomfortable. This is their fifth year as partners. They have spent more hours together in cars and interrogation rooms than most couples spend in a marriage.
The sedan slows as they approach a set of tall iron gates. A stone wall rises on either side, disappearing into spring-rich trees. Two uniformed officers stand by the gate. When they see the car, they wave it through, the gates swinging open with a mechanical groan.
The driveway curves gently, lined with hedges trimmed so neatly they might as well be sculptures. The house reveals itself gradually: first the suggestion of a roofline, then the blunt angles of a pillar, then the full scale of the estate. It's big without being ostentatious, built from pale stone and glass, timeless and expensive without drawing too much attention.
The main entrance is framed by tall columns and heavy doors. The stone underfoot is a deep gray that borders on black, polished to a sheen. Here and there, in the shadowed corners near the stairs and walls, glimpses of color break through: a red lacquered cabinet, a blue porcelain vase, an oil painting with too much gold in its frame. The pieces look curated individually and slightly wrong together.
A maid waits in the foyer, hands clasped tightly, eyes swollen from crying. An older man in a dark suit stands slightly behind her, posture straight and face composed. Mingyu notes both without comment. Their statements will be important later. Right now, the study is more urgent.
They are guided through a marble corridor that smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something medicinal. The walls display a carefully arranged gallery of framed photographs and paintings. Most are landscapes or abstract art, most likely worth more than Mingyu's house. Then one large portrait breaks the pattern.
It dominates nearly an entire wall: a man in his forties, sharp in a black suit, stands with a hand resting on the back of an ornate chair. In the chair sits a boy, perhaps nine years old, wearing small round glasses and a formal shirt buttoned to the throat. His mouth is neutral, eyes sharp and angled. On the other side stands another boy, taller and slimmer, perhaps eleven or twelve, one hand resting lightly on the seated boy’s shoulder. His expression carries a hint of mischief, a glint in the eye that suggests movement even while posed.
The father’s gaze is direct, measuring. The older boy looks at the painter with a small, knowing smile. The younger boy looks just past the viewer, somewhere over their shoulder.
Mingyu feels himself slow as they pass it. It's not uncommon for rich families to commission portraits like this. Yet something about the composition unsettles him.
“Come on,” Seungcheol says softly, and Mingyu tears his gaze away.
The study is at the end of the corridor, double doors held open by strips of yellow tape. Inside, another strip of tape marks off the area around the desk. Forensics have already finished the initial photographs.
The wooden desk dominates the space near the window. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line one wall, filled with leather-bound books and what look like files organized in meticulous, neat rows.
The leather chair behind the desk is empty now. The imprint of weight remains in the leather, a shallow hollow that has not yet relaxed back into its original shape. On the desk, a glass of whiskey sits on a coaster.
Mingyu steps carefully around the tape, eyes scanning.
“How long since he was found?” Mingyu asks the nearest officer.
“Around two hours,” the officer replies, “Maid says she brought in tea in the morning. He waved her off. She came back at eleven thirty and found him slumped over the desk, breathing shallow. She called emergency, then us.”
“Anyone else home?” Seungcheol asks.
“Just staff,” comes the answer, “The sons left early. Their cars haven’t come back through the gates since. We checked the security logs. No unknown entries either. No one in or out aside from the paramedics and us.”
Mingyu nods slowly. He moves closer to the desk, careful not to disturb anything. There's no obvious sign of struggle.
“Heart attack? Stroke?” the officer offers.
“Maybe,” Mingyu says.
“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from the doorway. “Slightly different hangout than yesterday, huh.”
Mingyu turns to see Seokmin standing there in scrubs, hair slightly mussed from pulling on protective gear. His eyes crinkle with a soft smile, but his hands are already busy pulling on gloves, his body shifting into work mode even as he jokes.
“I don't know, I think the only difference is we had cheaper whiskey,” Mingyu jokes back.
“Don't tell Minghao that,” Seokmin replies.
He steps into the room, gaze sweeping the space once, cataloging. The easy warmth in his expression softens but does not vanish. He moves around the desk, checking the floor, the chair, the angle of the light through the window. Mingyu watches as he leans closer to the glass of whiskey, sniffing without touching. Seokmin straightens, expression thoughtful.
“Any medication?” he asks the officer.
“House doctor left a list,” the officer says, flipping open his notebook, “Mild hypertension, nothing dramatic. We picked up all the bottles from the bathroom. They're with forensics.”
“Good,” Seokmin says. “We will run tox on the blood as soon as we can. Might take a while to get an autopsy approved in this case, though.”
Seungcheol glances at Mingyu.
“We will need this prioritized.”
The officer nods.
Mingyu steps back again and lets his eyes wander over the shelves. The books are mostly business, law, economics. There are a few outliers: a gardening manual, a poetry collection, a strange amount of old fairy tales. He files it away for later. He walks to the window and looks out. The grounds stretch wide and manicured, a maze of clipped hedges and water fountains.
“We have what we need for tonight,” Seungcheol says eventually, “Scene's logged. Forensics has their samples. The body's on ice. We should let them work. We can come back if we have to.”
As they leave the study, they pass the portrait again. This time, Mingyu does not let himself slow down, but he feels the weight of it all the same. In the foyer, the maid is still there, now seated on a small bench, hands clenched around a damp handkerchief. The man in the suit stands beside her, voice low as he murmurs reassurances. Grief clings to the air like smoke and Mingyu makes sure to remember that for later. It's rare to see a man as powerful as Yoo Hyukjae seem to illicit such a reaction from his staff.
“We'll need formal statements,” Seungcheol says.
The pair nod.
“Have the sons made it to the hospital?” Mingyu asks.
“They are heading straight there, I'm told,” the suited man answers, stepping forward, “They will likely come home later. If you need to speak to them, it should be arranged through the family lawyer’s office.”
Of course it should. Mingyu thanks him and steps out into the cold.
On the drive back, Seungcheol drums his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. Back at the precinct, the clerk looks up as they come in, eyebrows raising at the sight of their faces.
“Long night?” he asks.
“About to be,” Seungcheol says, “We need everything on the Yoo family. Any incidents, any reports, any death on their property, anything with their name on it.”
The clerk whistles softly.
“That might take a while.”
“Start with what's already in our system,” Mingyu says, “Send me whatever you pull. Sort by year.”
The clerk nods and turns back to his computer, fingers already moving. While they wait, Seungcheol rubs his eyes.
“I'm gonna go to headquarters,” he says, “See if they have any boxes from older cases.”
“You want me to come with?” Mingyu asks.
“No,” Seungcheol says, “Stay. Read whatever they drag out of the archive. See if anything jumps out.”
He leaves without further ceremony and Mingyu returns to his desk. A small stack of folders waits for him already, rubber bands holding old reports together. He reaches for the top one, then pauses when the clerk appears again, this time with three thin folders in his arms.
“The family's profiles,” the clerk says, “What we have on the father and the sons. Thought you might want those before the deep cuts.”
“Thanks,” Mingyu says, taking them.
He starts with Yoo Hyukjae. Dates of birth and death, schools, companies, properties. The dry math of a man’s life rendered in lines and boxes. There is nothing surprising. Wealth, influence, a past so carefully polished, it comes off completely made-up.
The second file is thinner. Yoon Jeonghan. Eldest son. Law degrees, academic prizes, published articles in legal journals. His name appears alongside high-profile cases in the news, representing corporate clients and political figures. There are photographs of his handsome face clipped to the inside cover, taken from newspapers and public records. In some, he stands beside senior politicians at charity events. In others, he is leaving court in an immaculate suit, hair slicked neatly back, expression politely bland. There is a list of his known relationships: actors, models, wealthy heirs.
The third file is thicker. Heavier in the hand.
Mingyu opens it and sees the name printed neatly at the top of the first page.
Jeon Wonwoo.
The photograph clipped to the top corner shows a man in his late twenties. Dark hair, longer at the front, nearly falling into his eyes. Glasses with round, thin frames. His expression is neutral, gaze distant. Mingyu instantly connects it to that little boy in the chair in that absurd portrait.
The basic details sit beneath the photograph. Date of birth. Blood type. Schools attended. Undergraduate degree in computer science. Master’s research dedicated to website design. A tech company quietly established shortly after graduation, privately held, extremely profitable, with contracts supplying custom simulation software to corporations and possibly government departments. The specifics are blacked out.
Mingyu reads that he is rarely photographed despite his success. He doesn't appear at product launches. He sends other people to award ceremonies. Journalists who attempt to profile him end up with quotes from distant colleagues and blurred images from far-off zoom lenses. He is, according to an attached note, 'notoriously private' and 'disinclined to engage with the media.'
There are other notes too. Cross references to earlier files that are still being fetched from storage. Lines that mention a 'past incident' at university, an 'unfortunate accident' during a family hunt in the countryside, a 'domestic tragedy' involving a guest at his apartment. Each reference is marked by a case number. Each case number is stamped with some form of closure that feels, on paper, unconvincing.
The clerk appears again, a little out of breath this time, with a fresh stack of folders balanced precariously in his arms.
“First batch from the archive,” he says, setting them down on Mingyu’s desk, “More on the way. Chief says to be careful with this one. Apparently, higher ups have opinions.”
“Don't they always,” Mingyu says.
He glances at the dates of the files and plucks out the most recent one. He keeps a pen in his mouth for easy access as he flips through page after page, making erratic, ineligible notes in the margins as he goes. Eventually, a question begins to prick at the back of his mind. It becomes louder as he moves from file to file.
Why does everything seem to circle back to Jeon Wonwoo?
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