Work Text:
“It’s unusual, isn’t it? To be a woman in your line of work?”
The interrogation room is bleak because it has to be. Of course, it’s unnerving, but in Jihyo’s humble opinion a cute poster or two would probably get these people talking. Otherwise, the cell looks too much like a particularly sad enclosure at the zoo. Criminals are already crazy; Jihyo doesn’t need them pacing back and forth like a gorilla with little-to-no sunlight because of a depressing room with a two way mirror.
Jihyo doesn’t dare to sit, because she doesn’t plan on being here very long, and smiles at Handong as amicably as she can. “Eh.” Handong’s face doesn’t so much as twitch. She shrugs stiffly. “Not so much anymore.”
Oh – okay, yes, finally, a lead! Jihyo’s interest is piqued, maybe this has nothing to do with the recent string of high-profile murders, but it has everything to do with Jihyo’s best-frenemy. She feigns idiomatic shock. “Oh, so you know of others, then?”
“Yes.” Handong examines her cuticles, keeping her face dutifully straight as she adds: “We have a book club.” Obviously Handong wouldn't give it to her straight. What kind of an assassin would she be if she just up and handed intel out like candy? Her gaze flicks upward, and for the first time so far her face betrays her tone. She’s interested. Jovial. Is Jihyo really so fun to prod? “We’re reading Moby Dick this week. Why do you ask?”
“I’m just interested. That’s all.” Jihyo says, lying, because she is not just interested.
Like a good assassin, Handong does not act immediately on the information she is given. She swishes these things around a little, aerating them before she sips from the well. Her eyes are beautiful, Jihyo thinks regretfully. Maybe her therapist was right, she does have a thing for female assassins. “Do you want to do it yourself?” Handong asks, only half-joking. “It’s good to try new things. Diversify the playing field, you know?”
“I don’t think I …” Her throat bobs. Jihyo isn’t really the killing type, but it’s not like she has qualms when it comes to these sorts of professions. Working for the government isn’t much different, anyway. She laughs lightly. “Ah, no, I don’t think I have the stomach for it.”
“Then what do you want?”
It’s silent after that. Jihyo makes painful eye contact for a good fifteen seconds, Handong is so unnerving. They stare at each other, bored. There’s nothing to say except for what’s on the dossier, and what’s on the dossier has been thrown at the wall so many times that Jihyo has no faith in it sticking. “Have you,” Jihyo takes a moment to get accustomed to how loud her voice echoes in this miserable little box of a room, “have you ever met a woman named Nayeon?”
Handong’s face drops. She breaks eye contact, which surprises and excites Jihyo greatly. “They – they say she is a huà pí guǐ.” Her voice is low. Deep, husky, and terrified.
Jihyo can barely contain her elation. “What is that? What does that mean?”
“A painted skin ghost. A demon wearing the face of a woman.” Handong’s voice wobbles slightly. “She has no humanity. She will tear you apart, Park Jihyo. You will see.”
“Freelance?”
It’s eight P.M. and the office should be completely dead, but Jihyo is nothing if not the sole working lung of the respiratory failure known as MI6. She leans on Seulgi’s desk, because of course she’s roped Seulgi into unpaid overtime, Seulgi who should be on maternity leave but isn’t because her boss is Park Jihyo. Jihyo taps Seulgi’s monitor with the end of her pen, signaling to a zipped file of evidence. Seulgi’s background is a picture of her and Sooyoung, with Sooyoung’s arm contentedly wrapped around Seulgi’s shoulder as lazy morning light filters in behind them.
They’re such a cute couple. Such a happy one, at that. Seulgi’s got a baby on the way but she’s here, in a desolate office, three hours into unpaid overtime with no end in sight because Jihyo is obsessed with a literal nutjob. But, still. Her and Sooyoung are cute.
Too cute. It’s disgusting. Jihyo kind of hates it, except, she has the same sort of picture framed up on her desk of her and Jeongyeon. She’s been tilting it down and away more often than not, she can’t study Nayeon’s gory works of art while Jeongyeon stares her down with a happy smile on a happy vacation in a happy part of Wales. Which, at least now Jeongyeon can’t say that Jihyo doesn’t put in effort in their relationship. Finding a happy part of Wales was arguably one of the hardest things Jihyo has ever done. Wales is miserable.
Oh. Wales. That’s where Nayeon’s hiding out. Nayeon. Yes, Nayeon. Nayeon, Nayeon, Nayeon. Jihyo’s suddenly interested again. “Freelance,” Jihyo echoes, “she’s doing freelance?”
Seulgi offers a lopsided shrug. “Makes sense. Nayeon’s skills, Jinyoung’s contacts…” Seulgi looks away, coughing a loud snort. “They could make a killing, so to speak.”
Jihyo doesn’t laugh. “So, Amsterdam was a private contract?” she mutters, turning away from Seulgi to lean on Seulgi’s desk. That wouldn’t make any sense, though, Nayeon doesn’t work on private contracts. Jihyo has learned enough from their choice encounters to know this much: Nayeon doesn’t work for anyone but herself. She has her handlers, she’s under the umbrella of The Twelve, sure … but she never kills anyone she doesn’t want to see dead. “She must be bored. I bet she liked the cachet of international politics.”
Despite facing the wall, Jihyo can feel the roll of Seulgi’s eyes. “You’re talking like you know her.”
“I’m just saying! Nayeon can do better.” Jihyo explains frantically, turning around and placing both palms flat on Seulgi’s desk. She slides Seulgi’s faux-leather mousepad with the medial part of her palm, earning a low groan of annoyance. “Gun for hire, that’s a little basic bitch for her, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think. Because I don’t know her. I’m sure that lovely blood money makes it easier, though.”
Jihyo tilts her head up, deep in thought. Nayeon is still out there, sure, but they have someone else in captivity. Someone who’s run in with Nayeon before, someone Jihyo needs the statement of. Someone who won’t speak. Someone terrified of Nayeon. Of course. “Handong is scared of Nayeon,” Jihyo gasps, “she’s terrified of her!”
Seulgi arches an eyebrow. “She should be. What’s your point?”
“We need a statement from her, right? We get Nayeon to do it for us. Nayeon would know how to get to her.”
“What’s Nayeon got to do with this?”
The truth is: Nayeon has absolutely nothing to do with this. Handong doesn’t have a hit on Nayeon, Nayeon doesn’t have a hit on Handong. From the few words Handong has offered, it’s clear that she knows of Nayeon, simply because Nayeon is a better assassin. She's terrifying, she’s mastered her craft, she has absolutely nothing to do with any of this. But, then again, isn’t it Jihyo’s job to connect things with red string? It’s in the MI6 job description. Jihyo grins, nothing if not aware of her extrapolation, and says: “Well, what if we introduced them?”
Seulgi gives her a disturbed sort of look, skeptical bordering on terrified. Morbidly curious and regretting it. “What, introduce them like dogs? We put Nayeon behind one door, and Handong in the other? And then what?”
“Well, if anyone can crack Han ‘The Ghost’ Dong, it’s Im ‘The Painted Skin Demon’ Nayeon. Right? Right?” Jihyo steps back, arms raised and wild like she’s cracked a riddle. “Nayeon’s for hire, she’s freelance, then we hire her!”
“God, who gives them these titles?” Burying her face in her palms, Seulgi exhales loudly through her fingers. “Jihyo,” she says slowly, “how do you suppose we go about hiring her?”
“We need to play by her rules,” Jihyo claps her hands together, “so … oh! Let’s put a hit out on me!”
“Now you’re talking.” Seulgi snorts, lifting her mug of cold coffee. Jihyo stares blankly. Seulgi makes eye contact over her yellow mug and suddenly her eyes bulge. She chokes, spittle flying everywhere as she wheezes: “You are joking – ? I can’t tell if you’re joking. Jihyo. Oh, my god. Jihyo.”
The next morning, Jihyo finds herself torn away from the coffee machine by Tzuyu. She wordlessly leads Jihyo to her desk, where Seulgi and Ten wait with crossed arms. Tzuyu holds both of her hands up in a panicked sort of gesture, like she’s trying to catch something that’s about to fall. She wobbles, leans on the desk, and sputters. “Jihyo, you can’t. You can’t possibly do this. Seulgi, tell her!”
Seulgi leans back in her chair. “Don’t look at me. I’ve told her.”
“Well, I think it’s a great idea.” Ten says, face wry and unaffected. Seulgi nudges him off balance, and he stumbles. “I mean, it’ll probably work. You shouldn’t – okay, maybe you shouldn’t do it, but it would be effective.” he quickly adds.
Jihyo pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing loudly. “Guys, I’ll be fine. Seriously, it’s gonna work. We need Handong to talk.”
“What does Joohyun think about all of this?” Tzuyu asks, nearly silent.
Jihyo shrugs. Sets her jaw and says: “Joohyun thinks it’s a good idea.” with a proud little smirk.
“It’s a crazy idea!” Tzuyu puts her hands on Jihyo’s shoulders, forcing her head back to stare her in the eyes. Jihyo’s head lolls back, then forward, then she cranes her neck to make eye contact. Tzuyu’s gaze is glassy, there might be some occluded tears pooling at the pearly corners of her eyes but then again, Jihyo can’t tell because Tzuyu is shaking. “How much time do you spend doing paperwork, Jihyo?”
Jihyo sputters. “What do you mean?”
“Writing up reports, filling out timesheets. That kind of thing.” Tzuyu takes a step back, exhaling and shoving her hands into the junction of her elbows. She tilts her head down, leaving Jihyo to stare blankly at Seulgi and Ten, who give her mutual shrugs. Tzuyu continues. “It’s just. I’ve never heard you complain about the red tape. Most people do.”
Giving a short, confused laugh, Jihyo raises her eyebrows. “I guess that’s not really my job, Tzuyu.”
“Yeah, that’s weird, ‘cause it is. It is your job, Jihyo. It’s all of our jobs. Everything we do here has to be officially documented. Those are the rules for everyone. No exceptions, not even you.” Tzuyu isn’t merely suggesting an idea; she’s speaking in facts. Statements, not questions. “So, just because you’re not doing the boring stuff – it’s not because you’re special. It’s because someone doesn’t want a paper trail on you.”
The easiest thing to do would just be to leave. Right here, right now. Jihyo should cut her losses and bury the fact that Tzuyu is right in the very back of her mind and march back to her desk in silence. Because, honestly, Jihyo can’t remember the last time she filled out a timesheet. She hasn’t filed a report in months. She hasn’t been to a single meeting that wasn’t directly overseen by Joohyun or herself. She has no idea what this means because she’s never considered it – but with the way Tzuyu’s staring at her, Jihyo knows it can’t mean anything good.
“What are you saying?” she says, voice firm and low.
“Just because Joohyun is going along with this,” Tzuyu gives a small nod to Seulgi, who knits her eyebrows and sighs. “doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Just, I don’t know. Keep it in mind, would you, Jihyo?
That night, Jihyo regrets taking public transport home.
There’s hardly an embarrassment of riches when it comes to kindness in London, Jihyo’s not not used to it, but her jaw sets all the same when she’s jostled around on the platform of the train station. The London Bridge station is always disgustingly packed and Jihyo is a small woman, she doesn’t usually hold it against anyone when she’s shoved around. Usually there’s a mumbled sorry or excuse me and Jihyo gets it because she’s done the same.
Hell reserves a special spot for men who manhandle her, though, pressing her against unwitting bystanders without so much as a hint of remorse. He doesn’t even apologize, this piece of shit white dude in a trench coat, if he’s Twelve Jihyo wouldn’t be surprised. The Twelve has a knack for employing the literal fucking dregs of humanity. Jihyo’s teeth clack together as he lets go with a push. What an entitled — ugh. Ugh! For a moment, she considers letting this all go and heading home in peace.
Jihyo exhales harshly as he moves past, leaving her seething with anger and contemplating a much more forgiving response. But Jihyo is Jihyo through and through – she refuses to let people dick around.
She trails the man to the platform's edge while offering apologies along the way. Naturally, the man remains oblivious; men like him never bother with such niceties. He’s tall, balding, looks French or maybe Belgian, and has an angry pinch in his brow like he’s got to shit or vomit. Maybe both. He’s trash, human garbage, the personification of shouting at your wife while drunk. One of Europe's finest specimens of assholery. He comes to a standstill at the edge of the platform with a loud grunt.
A surge of instinct, stronger than conscious thought, compels Jihyo to shove him onto the tracks.
Would anyone even notice? Would they blame her? People die on these tracks all the time. She would get off easy, if she’s caught at all, because Joohyun has more than enough money to pay off whoever’s behind the security cameras. Maybe the man would cry out, plead for mercy, and beg Jihyo to pull him back up. I’ve fallen, he would cry, warble in a staccato British accent, please help me, please, please, I don’t want to die.
Does Nayeon hesitate before she kills? Nayeon. Oh, Nayeon.
What a sobering thought, that woman. Jihyo catches her hand splaying above the man’s back, she tears it back with a cough. She could have killed someone. She was going to kill someone and she didn’t even notice until she thought about Nayeon’s empty stare and how badly Jihyo wants to not look like that. She wants to be a human, not whatever wet nightmare Nayeon ostensibly manifested from. Jihyo wants to have her humanity readily accessible, she doesn’t want to have to dig deep into the furthest recesses of her body to act sane. She just wants to be sane.
Jihyo catches her own reflection in the waxed surface of the tile across the platform and prays her eyes convey some sort of life. The ground shudders beneath her as the train approaches. "LBG to CBG, calling at London Bridge. Welcome aboard, please mind the gap," the P.A. intones, "do not obstruct the doors, do not touch the tracks!"
Tzuyu’s words reverberate in her head in major-key terror. What has happened to her? This is out of control. Jihyo could have killed a man. The train ride is a silent ordeal, the man nowhere to be seen. Jihyo wonders if he ever even existed at all. It’s a bit of a relief that she makes it home without killing anyone. There’s a similar, much colder sense of relief that comes with opening her front door to see everything neat and tidy instead of covered in blood. Nayeon hasn’t come to visit.
It's only a matter of time, Jihyo thinks, suddenly very much afraid. A matter of time. “Jeongyeon?” she calls, voice bordering on urgent.“I’m home.”
“Hi,” Jeongyeon says, lifting a hand. Her wedding ring glints in the low light. The entire kitchen has been freshly cleaned, because of course it has, because Jeongyeon is an amazing wife. Fuck everything. “I missed you, jagi.”
“Hi.” Ah, Jeongyeon missed her. How sweet. Jihyo offers a smile, less affectionate and more of a reflexive response, as she steps in front of the fridge. She opens it, grabs a beer, and leans over the kitchen island. This is how every evening goes, comfortable and stale. Jihyo grabs a beer, catches up with Jeongyeon, takes a bath and sleeps. She figures these monotonous little rituals keep her sane. Maybe that’s just how marriage goes. “How was your day today?”
Jeongyeon dog-ears her spot and tosses the book aside. “Not bad. I’ve got to go to Oxford tomorrow – another teacher got sick and I’ve got to chaperone a spelling bee.”
Oh, Joohyun didn’t. How did she even – how could she have – ? There’s no way she organized an entire fucking spelling bee just to get Jeongyeon out of Jihyo’s hair just so Jihyo could have an empty house for her date with a psychopath. There’s no way Jihyo has actually sunk this low.
Except, she has. They had been best friends for years, her and Jeongyeon, and they really do love each other. In a bored sort of way. Boring isn’t a bad thing though, is it? It’s just a boring thing. Jeongyeon is solid, Jeongyeon has a stable sort of personality. She’s happy with the mundane, she’s happy being comfortable. Unlike Jihyo, nothing like Jihyo. Jeongyeon wasn’t stupid and youthful – she was shelved, unarchived for Jihyo’s personal love affliction.
“Wow,” she says. “that’ll be fun.”
“I know. High octane stuff, huh?” Jeongyeon seems genuinely interested, bless her heart. She’s always loved her job. Unlike Jihyo - Jeongyeon had a tangible calling: teaching. Not some nebulous thirst for justice. Not like Jihyo. “I’m really excited. The kids are going to love it. I’m surprised they asked me to tag along – you know a student has been phoning in complaints about me? These kids are relentless.”
Jihyo swallows thickly, feeling like the worst wife in the world. She’s likely in the top ten, actually. Not many wives are MI6 agents obsessed with serial assassins. She picks up the bottle opener, cracks her drink open, takes a seat in front of Jeongyeon, and smiles. She fiddles with her wedding ring as she asks the most innocuous question ever: “How long will you be out for?”
Jeongyeon shrugs. “I don’t know. A couple of days? I don’t have to stay overnight. I can come back if you want.”
Jihyo waves her hands a little too enthusiastically. “No, no!” she says, looking to the side. God, smite her now. She deserves it. “Go, you should go! Seriously, it sounds like fun.”
“Really?” Jeongyeon smiles, reaching over to grab Jihyo’s beer. She takes a sip, makes a face, and leaves a peck on Jihyo’s cheek. “I’ll take pictures for you. I love you, I’m going to go get ready for bed. Train to catch tomorrow and all.”
“Right. Goodnight.”
“Jeongyeon’s out for a week. Chaperoning a last minute spelling bee,” Jihyo says, apropos of nothing as she plops down in front of Joohyun, “in Oxford. Oxford, how did you manage that?”
Joohyun gives her a look, a half-frown of disbelief like Jihyo is the idiot for questioning her abilities. Most conversations with Joohyun go similarly: she drops an atomic fucking bomb on you and expects you to handle it with conversational grace. Many such cases: “I was the British Spelling Champion in 1973,” she says, straightens up, sips her coffee, “it’s a very supportive network, you know.”
Because that’s common knowledge, sure, whatever. Jihyo tilts her head down in a low nod. “Right. Okay.”
Joohyun studies her coffee and toast, lifts her head to spare Jihyo a glance, and sighs. Loudly. “Are you sure about this, Jihyo?” She pauses for a beat. Joohyun never stays concerned for long, her worried expression quickly morphs into something impartial. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Joohyun wouldn’t have so much power in MI6 if she wasn’t good at making her ideas seem like they had nothing to do with her. Of course this is Jihyo’s responsibility now, it’s almost as if Joohyun didn’t encourage her to go through with this stupid fucking plan. She has no idea what to say, so does what she always does in these situations: argue. “Speak now, or forever hold my peace? So – So, in other words, on my head be it? This is all on me?”
Joohyun lifts her shoulder in a noncommittal half-shrug. “Not precisely.”
“I thought – I thought I had your support on this.” sputters Jihyo, disbelieving. See, she expects this kind of milquetoast reassurance from MI5, but MI6? Joohyun plucked her fresh out of unemployment, Joohyun saw something in her. Joohyun has her on this case for a reason. Joohyun is letting her hire a hit on herself for a reason.
“You always have my support.” In the vein of milquetoast, Joohyun picks up her burnt whole grain slice and takes a bite. She doesn’t care.
Jihyo rolls her eyes and moves to stand. “On the record?”
Joohyun doesn’t reply, instead focusing on alternating between sips of coffee and bites of toast. Jihyo groans wordlessly, thanks for nothing, and gathers her things. The moment her back turns, Joohyun coughs. “Sisyphean.”
“What?” says Jihyo quickly, eagerly.
Joohyun spares a glance and shrugs. It might be the first time Joohyun has really looked at her all morning. She screws her eyes, doesn’t seem to think, and Jihyo waits on some secret explanation that’ll make everything fall into place. That’s usually how it goes with Joohyun: she sets things up in elaborate little riddles, conversations that go nowhere, until she snaps her fingers and everything makes sense. It’s terrible most of the time, a lot of the time, all of the time, but MI6 isn’t MI5 and Jihyo has learned to be patient. Joohyun just has to expand on what she said, sisyphean, and Jihyo will smack her forehead in disbelief that she didn’t understand sooner.
“That was the word I won with.” explains Joohyun, taking another bite of toast. “Sisyphean.”
Jihyo has no idea what she was expecting. Joohyun is unhelpful, like always. At this point, Joohyun’s god-awful advice might be the only consistent thing in her life. She lets out a loud groan, prompting Ten to poke his head out from the supply room. “Hey,” he says, “you ready to take your top off?”
Jihyo raises both eyebrows. Joohyun stands, leaving her toast and taking her coffee. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Both of Jihyo’s arms are raised like she’s a child getting her jacket zipped up for her. In all honesty, she can’t really say that she minds. Jeongyeon usually helps her with her buttons or the zippers along her back, she’s helpless when getting dressed. She always has been, she always will be. It’s what she has, or, had Jeongyeon for. They’re going through a rough patch, what with the whole: ‘I’m kind of in love with an assassin despite the fact that we’re married and I’m super distant towards you and I kind of don’t really love you anymore?’ situation. In retrospect, their rift sort of started because they couldn’t seem to work out their chore schedule. It’s crazy how things snowball.
Jihyo stares at herself in the mirror, blank, and her gaze flicks to Ten. She makes eye contact through their reflections. He tilts his head and asks: “Tighter?”
“Yes, please.” She fucking hates bullet-proof vests. The wad of kevlar bulks up her turtleneck to the point of looking like a drink cooler. Ten tightens the velcro around her waist, giving her shoulders a pair of supporting pats as Jihyo exhales. She really, really fucking hates armored vests. Somehow, hiring a hit on herself is less taxing. “This is – flattering.”
“I’ve gotta put it on you.” Ten says, stepping back and crossing his arms. He gives her a serious look, a hard stare. It’s strange, Jihyo thinks, how he can speak without moving his lips. He’s trying to say: I care about you, please don’t be a fucking idiot. “Whether you keep it on or not is your choice, but I have to do my job.” Ten’s face falters. He raises his eyebrows, inhaling sharply to stifle a laugh. “I actually think it looks sexy. Like a bullet-proof stripper.”
Instead of making eye contact through the mirror, Jihyo twists around. He looks down at her with a lazy smile and doesn’t falter when Jihyo balls her fist up and baps him on the shoulder. “Shocker.”
“Kevlar looks good on you, lady,” he says with his hands up. “But, you should wear it. Even though Seulgi is coordinating your back-up team –”
“– no! No back-up team!” Jihyo surprises herself with how shrill her voice is, but she’s right. She can’t have this operation falling apart because someone else decided to interfere. “She can’t know I’m expecting her. We need her calm and thinking she’s in control.”
“We need you to be safe.” says Ten, coughing into his fist.
“Well, I’ll be safe as long as she trusts me. We need to be alone. This needs to be intimate.”
Ten’s jaw tenses and his nostrils flare. “What are you — what are you planning to do with her? If this has to be intimate?”
Jihyo takes a step back and adjusts her turtleneck, attempting to smooth it over the vest as cleanly as she can. “This isn’t a joke, Ten.” she says, serious. “Just get the car there and I’ll get her into it.”
“I didn’t say it was. I’m just trying to do my job here.” She can tell he’s looking at her — Ten makes this face when he’s nervous, where he chews on the inside of his cheek and raps his knuckles against the nearest surface. Right now, it’s a marble counter. It’s kind of weird that she knows this about Ten. He is technically one of her closest friends right now, maybe her only friend. She can’t tell if she knows this about him because of their line of work, or because he miraculously decided this woman nearly twice his age is his new best friend.
“You know,” he starts, voice strung low, “it’s very brave. What you’re doing.”
Jihyo gives herself a one-over in the mirror, and nods to herself. She lightly brushes past him, out into the corridor, mumbling: “No guts, no glory, right?”
She’s getting ready to head home and confront death herself when Tzuyu stands in front of the office door, grabs Jihyo by the shoulders, and forces her back into her chair. She does this all deadpan, somehow, and the only explanation she offers is: “Jihyo. You stabbed her.”
“I know you don’t agree with this, and I get it,” Jihyo finds herself with her arms raised defensively, like Tzuyu would ever think to strike her. She figures she’s preparing for the inevitable. “but I need you to come on board with everyone else.”
“Jihyo. Jihyo, you stabbed her. You stabbed her with a knife.” Tzuyu says lowly. “Do you think Nayeon will have just forgotten that? Don’t you think this is important information to share with the rest of the team?”
Jihyo bites the inside of her cheek, draws blood and sighs. “Tzuyu, I –”
“You’re actively putting yourself and this whole operation in danger.” Tzuyu sits diagonally from Jihyo, no longer looming. “Why, or do I need not ask?”
“Tzuyu,” says Jihyo, “stop it.” Not unkindly, but firm and tired. She wonders, but doesn’t dare to think clearly, about how Tzuyu is right and Nayeon will not have forgiven her. For stabbing her. With a knife. In her stomach. Meeting Nayeon hasn’t been a fall from grace, so much as a headfirst dive. Tzuyu gawks at her, visible neutrality out the window.
“She killed people. She kills people. Jihyo, it’s her job. She – she killed your best friend. You saw it happen. How can you even think about this? What’s happened to you, Jihyo? This is out of control.”
“If you can’t stomach this, I’m sorry,” She can’t take this, she won’t take this. Jihyo stands, bag in hand. “but that’s not my problem. This is the job. This is your job. I need to be able to count on your support.”
Even if Jihyo’s back is turned, she can still feel Tzuyu’s stare. “You mean, you don’t want me asking questions?”
“Not when we’re this short on time, no.” She turns, and it hits her all at once that Tzuyu is terrified. A stone drops in her stomach. Maybe for the first time, Jihyo sees Tzuyu for what she truly is: a young and vulnerable woman desperate to keep Jihyo alive. This makes Jihyo’s walls crumble, not enough to call off her night with Nayeon but enough to soften her gaze and raise a placating hand. Tzuyu has always had Jihyo’s back, they shared a sort of kindred intelligence that kept them on the same page. The least Jihyo can do is not be so callous about it. “I’m sorry. Are we okay?”
“What, with this?” mutters Tzuyu, “No. Never.”
The elevator dings. The stone in her stomach sinks further, now cushioned by aggression. Tzuyu is supposed to have her back, or at the very least pretend. As vulnerable as she may be, it would be stupid of Jihyo to pretend like Tzuyu would abandon her post. Fine, whatever. Jihyo stands ramrod-straight, proving nothing to no one. She doesn’t even spare Tzuyu a glance. Her walls shoot back up as if they never crumbled in the first place. “Alright. I’ll ask Joohyun to move you to another team, then.”
There’s a loud gasp. “What? Are you – are you sacking me?”
Jihyo shrugs. “I’m sure she’ll find something else for you to do.” Born out of a sudden, indescribable urge to focus on literally anything else, Jihyo lifts her head and peers over Ten’s cubicle. He’s got earbuds in and a lollipop in his mouth. He smacks on it obnoxiously. “Ten, walk me out?”
“Huh?” He lifts an earbud. Ten stands, stretching his back and smiling. “Okay, sure.”
Jihyo pretends not to hear Tzuyu sniffle weakly as the automatic doors close.
Jihyo has a date tonight. Kind of.
She rests her forearms on her knees, staring at herself in her bedroom mirror. The bulletproof vest under her button-up is so incredibly unflattering, Jihyo nearly breaks out into a peal of manic laughter. She tugs her hair out of her bun for – no particular reason. It has nothing to do with the fact that Nayeon likes her hair down. It’s a bit of a numbing feeling, honestly, to decide what sort of hairstyle you’d wear to your own funeral. She’s dressed sloppily, her bulky button up and sweatpants, but still. She already knows Nayeon thinks she’s attractive, what with the whole I masturbate to you conversation in Paris, but she’s still feeling jitters. It's fifty-fifty on whether or not the jitters are from fear of death or fear of attraction.
Jihyo doesn’t know if she’s going to die tonight, so she decides: fuck it. Sure, she’ll take off the vest. Nayeon has a passion for flair, right? It’s not like she’ll just up and shoot Jihyo the second she opens the door.
That’s what she’s hoping, at least.
As she undoes the numerous straps on the vest, leaving her only in the sports bra she was wearing underneath, the doorbell rings. She inhales sharply. This’ll have to do. Once she makes sure she’s hidden all the kitchen knives, Jihyo pads to the front door. She can see Nayeon’s head of dyed blonde hair through the privacy glass. It takes her a moment to steel herself, to digest the fact that Nayeon is only a slab of wood away, and swings the door open.
Nayeon is tall in her stilettos, dressed in criminally obnoxious funeral attire. She’s even wearing a veil — fuck, if Jihyo has to give this murderer credit for anything, it’s her sense of humor. And, of course, she’s drop-dead gorgeous, per usual. Her eyes are dark, empty, but her eyebrows pinch upward in an imitation of excitement.
She’s also holding a bottle of champagne. Jihyo knew she wasn’t completely heartless.
Nayeon pushes past Jihyo, using momentum to cage her against the wall – Jihyo’s head thuds backwards with the effort. With her heels, she’s a good head and a half taller than Jihyo. Nayeon leans in, smiles with dull eyes and just stares. It’s so unnerving, Jihyo thinks, how the lights are so bright when nobody is home. “Don’t do anything stupid.” Nayeon tuts.
“Take your shoes off, please.” Jihyo says, not daring to react. Not daring to acknowledge how much danger she’s in.
“What?” Nayeon asks, genuinely taken aback. She scoffs a little, taking a step back into the foyer. “Really?”
Jihyo’s heart is thumping so fast, she’s surprised she hasn’t blacked out. She takes in a lungful of Nayeon-free air now that she’s more than a foot away. “Yeah, I don’t like shoes on my carpet.” Nayeon snorts, bracing her arm on the wall as she relents. She tugs her stilettos off, sighing as she stands a full three inches shorter.
“Do you want to search me, too?” Nayeon huffs. She knows Jihyo wouldn’t dare touch her. Or, that’s what she thinks. Hopefully.
“What’s the point?” Shrugging, Jihyo gestures at the veil obscuring Nayeon’s eyes. “Can I … take your veil?”
Nayeon hums disinterestedly as she turns on her heel, tearing her veil off and walking confidently into the kitchen as if she knows the layout of Jihyo’s home. She probably does. The thought, oddly enough, excites Jihyo. “I’ve come a long way,” Nayeon calls, “I’m dying for a drink.”
Jihyo lifts an arm, ushering Nayeon towards the kitchen. She can’t help the way her mouth twists into a proud little smile as Nayeon hums appreciatively at how neatly decorated her home is. Jihyo slides into her stool at the kitchen island with as neutral of a face as she can possibly muster. Jeongyeon and Jihyo always eat here, never in the dining room; Jeongyeon says that she feels the size of the dining room dwarfs the intimacy between them.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.” Nayeon sits in Jeongyeon’s seat, crossing her legs.
Jihyo pretends not to notice. “I’m not surprised.”
“Hm?” Nayeon’s eyes gleam and Jihyo realizes she’s never actually seen Nayeon this invested in … anything, really. Come to think of it, she’s only ever seen Nayeon like this twice: once, when they had first met in London, and again, when Jihyo had stabbed her. Jihyo does not dare to confront the fact that this simply means Nayeon is fascinated by her, is obsessed with her. Belongs to her. This is her case. No one else’s.
Nayeon is her trophy to keep.
There’s a small puff of air as Nayeon gives a short and practiced laugh. It quickly melts into something callous, an entertained scoff. “That’s a little arrogant, don’t you think?” she says slowly, taking the bottle of champagne and twisting the top.
Jihyo watches, catching her flinch as Nayeon pops the cork off. “And yet, here you are.”
Nayeon gives a flippant shrug. She peers down the bottle of champagne, saying: “Glass, please.”
It’s a little humiliating, the way Nayeon’s orders leave no room for argument. Or, rather, it’s humiliating how Jihyo doesn’t even think to make room in the first place. She stands, watches the way Nayeon stares at her bare midsection, and rifles through the cupboard. “We – we don’t have any champagne glasses. Sorry.” says Jihyo sheepishly, setting a pair of yellow and green coffee mugs on the island.
“No, it’s perfect. Thank you.” Nayeon smiles, pouring the green mug to the brim. Like a hawk, Jihyo doesn’t dare blink as Nayeon rifles in her pocket, producing a small black rectangle. The kitchen light glints against it harshly, revealing a phone, much to Jihyo’s confusion. Nayeon plops it into the mug, getting champagne all over her hands.
Jihyo stares in bewilderment as the drink fizzes loudly. The phone flicks on, the lock screen bright as it bubbles. Jihyo gasps loudly. “That’s my phone, what are you doing, how did you get that?”
“You know, you’ve been so distracted lately,” hums Nayeon, firmly seizing Jihyo’s wrist just as she reaches for her phone. Nayeon’s hands are warm, to Jihyo’s delight and terror. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.” It’s exactly as Tzuyu said; Jihyo doesn’t have a paper trail. She can’t call for help. she can’t be tracked. Nayeon gives a mocking pout, patting Jihyo’s cheek and reveling in the way she flinches. “Are you scared?”
Jihyo tears herself back, swallowing her bile. “No.” she says shortly, turning to hand Nayeon the yellow mug. Nayeon hums happily, seemingly delighted to play bartender. She fills Jihyo’s mug and forces it back into her hands.
“Drink.” Nayeon says, firm. She’s eerily calm as she gestures for Jihyo to finish the cup, tilting it back up just as Jihyo’s about to set it down. Jihyo chokes a little, attempts to force Nayeon’s hand away despite their apparent difference in strength. When Nayeon relents, Jihyo heaves with champagne running down her chin. Her hands are on her knees, coughing violently.
“What,” gasps Jihyo, “the fuck?”
Nayeon reaches out as if to touch her, then hesitates. Power play. “You know, I should be more afraid of you after what you did to me last time.”
Jihyo wipes her chin on her forearm. Her voice is hoarse as she croaks: “Are you scared?”
The soft glow of the kitchen casts a flattering light on Nayeon's features, Jihyo can’t tell if the lack of oxygen is getting to her head because Nayeon looks like God. Her eyebrows quirk and she tries not to laugh. “No, of course not.” She looks Jihyo up and down, tilting her head as if trying desperately to imagine a world in which Jihyo intimidates her. It’s humiliating. Jihyo holds no power at all. “You could have killed me.” shrugs Nayeon, uninhibited and a little bitter.
All of the statistical predictions, data gathered on human behavior, not a single bit of psychological research could even scratch the surface of how fucking stupid Jihyo is for what she’s about to do next. In a moment of genuine remorse, she grazes her fingers against Nayeon’s abdomen, right up against the muscle Jihyo stabbed. Nayeon doesn’t flinch, she just watches Jihyo with that same empty stare. She presses lightly against her own handiwork, she can feel the elevated scar tissue. Nayeon doesn’t say anything. God, Jihyo is tired.
“I know,” she mumbles, drawing her fingers away from Nayeon’s stomach. Her voice is a little choked up, raw with emotion. “I think about that all the time.”
There’s a catastrophic, stomach-turning moment of realization when Nayeon’s mask slips. She grabs Jihyo’s hand, who just doesn’t have it in her to flinch anymore, and presses it right up against her cheek. “Really?” she asks, not uncertain. She asks just to ask, even though Nayeon knows the answer. There’s a light primality to the way Nayeon speaks to her, like she’s just waiting for Jihyo to let her guard down and drink at the watering hole before she rips her throat out.
She’s playing with her food. Jihyo likes it.
Jihyo swallows thick and lets Nayeon do whatever she wants. As MI6 usually does. She asks: “Do you think about it?” with a quiet kind of reverence – this isn’t business anymore. It’s not one of Nayeon’s elaborate games. Jihyo tries to find anything telling in the way Nayeon looks at her, but, no. No, she just sees her reflection in Nayeon’s glassy stare. The undercurrent of hunger subsides, just for a moment, but it splashes back full force when she takes a step closer. She curls her body upward, as if caging Jihyo in against nothing.
Pupils blown, she opts to echo Jihyo herself. “All of the time.” Nayeon lets go of Jihyo’s wrist, forcing her head to the side to shake Jihyo’s hand away. Her back is straight and she looks less domesticated than ever. “Are you going to apologize to me?” she rumbles.
What an idiot Jihyo is for assuming they were on the cusp of a breakthrough. Of course not – Nayeon is viciously petty, and viciousness delights her, and she revels in finding new and justified excuses for dramatic acts of vengeance. There’s a not-insignificant part of Jihyo who would like to see where this goes. Nayeon’s artistry is not easy to be fascinated by, but Jihyo is never able to turn her head away. “No.” she says, matter-of-fact. “Are you?”
Nayeon smiles, and shakes her head. “Of course not.” she whispers.
“Okay, good. There we are, then.” It takes all the strength in Jihyo’s body to tear herself away and take a step into the wider dining area. Jeongyeon had a point; this room dwarfs all emotion because Jihyo suddenly feels a lot calmer. It’s easier to breathe outside of Nayeon’s peripheral. “I, ” Jihyo coughs, spares a glance to Nayeon, who hasn’t moved an inch, “I need your help with something important.”
“Oh, yes?” Nayeon leans forward on her elbows, eyebrows raised. Then, out of absolutely nowhere: “I like your hair.”
Jihyo rolls her eyes, there’s no point in steering Nayeon back to the topic at hand because, well. Nayeon does whatever she wants. And right now, she wants to get under Jihyo’s skin. That’s fine, Jihyo can play along. Pretend like they’re having a normal conversation. Like Jihyo hadn’t nearly choked to death five minutes ago. “I like your outfit.”
“I thought I would dress for the occasion.”
Jihyo stares at Nayeon in an exasperated sort of acceptance. Nayeon stares back, her eyes don’t just dart past, but linger, and as empty as they are, it doesn’t unnerve Jihyo in the slightest. What little shock rectifies itself, and all she’s left with is the feeling that she’s been seen. “And what’s the occasion?”
Nayeon looks like she wants to laugh, but her eyes are glassy and manic like she’s about to wail. She splits the difference with an exaggerated pout. “I’m about to be in mourning.”
Jihyo rolls her neck, feeling her trapezius strain and burn in protest. Nayeon is trying to irritate her, to scare her into submission, and just knowing that makes Jihyo feel three steps ahead. She doesn’t even turn to look at Nayeon, doesn’t grant her that, she simply says: “I’m sorry to hear that.” in that gratingly condescending manner that Jeongyeon hates. Even hearing her voice makes her want to grind her molars to dust, she sounds so smug when she’s aware of the things she says.
Apparently, it works, because Jihyo hears a stool scoot back harshly and the pattering of socks creep up behind her. Instinct forces her to turn, and she’s faced with an ostensibly irritated Nayeon. “You know I’m here to kill you?” she growls. Dissatisfied with how she’s garnered no reaction at all.
“Yes, it was my idea.”
“No,” scoffs Nayeon, “no, it wasn’t.”
“I told you, I need your help, I …” And that’s the thing, that’s what makes Jihyo’s ambition crack and drip like yolk. There’s nothing Nayeon is better at than humiliation. Almost two years since Jihyo up and stabbed her and there’s still so much she hasn’t figured out. At the end of the day, Jihyo will always go belly-up for Nayeon. Like a dog. It’s so much easier that way. “I needed to see you.”
The irritation on Nayeon’s face shifts to something bizarre, something Jihyo has lived too normal of a life to name. She looks like she wants to laugh, but can’t. Like, she physically cannot. Like she’s got some weird new neurological disorder that they’ll name after her. It’s as if the sound is just stuck in her throat – her eyebrows are lifted, her cheeks are straining, but there’s no joy. “So you hired me to kill you?” The question is forceful, coming straight from the center of her stomach.
“I – well,” Jihyo tries to erase the metaphorical target she’s painted on her forehead, to wipe it off with spit and friction. Seulgi was right, this all sounds like a joke. “I did, yes.”
“That is so stupid,” says Nayeon, smiling broadly. “what if I hit you with a car? What if I shot you?”
It’s disgusting how vulnerable Jihyo feels. She’s so tender hearted, as much as she hates Nayeon she just – she can’t. She can’t believe there’s a part of Nayeon that doesn’t care about her nearly as much as it obsesses over her. Jihyo fiddles with her wedding ring, looking up through her lashes. “You wouldn’t.” She whispers.
“I wouldn’t?” Nayeon tilts her head forward, voice low and mocking.
Jihyo’s jaw ticks as she grits: “No. You wouldn’t.” She thinks, for a moment, about tacking on an: I know you, but does she really? She doesn’t know Nayeon. She understands her, yes, but she has no idea what her favorite color is or where she lived back in Russia. Her favorite movie could be Kill Bill or Monster’s Inc., and Jihyo wouldn’t have a fucking clue.
Nayeon shakes her head, “Jihyo,” she whispers, condescending and wholeheartedly enraptured by Jihyo’s stupidity. Her peach lips purse as she reaches for her pocket. Immediately, Jihyo accepts her fate. She’s going to die, Nayeon is going to kill her, and Jeongyeon is going to have to take care of her succulent for the rest of eternity. “Oh, Jihyo. My Jihyo.”
Somehow, Nayeon doesn’t break eye contact as she places a black pill bottle on the dinner table with a firm hand. “What is that?” Jihyo’s voice shakes.
Nayeon turns, holding the bottle of champagne by the neck. She lifts it, placing it next to the bottle, not before giving it a melodramatic swirl. She gives Jihyo a little grimace, being unnecessarily cloak-and-dagger about it all. “This is to wash down the taste.”
Jihyo’s eyes are watery, tears threatening to spill, as she inhales deep and tugs a seat out in front of Nayeon. She deserves this, really, she does. The fucked up little seed in her chest was so easily hidden with layers and layers of nonsense; her job, her house, her wife … none of it really matters. Not anymore. If Nayeon wants her dead, then Jihyo will die. She’ll let the seed rot before she lets Nayeon tear it, roots and all, from her chest. Jihyo takes the bottle, unscrews the cap, and shakes three pills onto the table. The pills are small, oblong and white and incredibly unassuming. It could be saxitoxin, it could be cyanide, or it could just be a fucking advil.
This is all a game to Nayeon, as most things are, and Jihyo squints angrily at the table. Fine, if this is what Nayeon wants … then why on earth wouldn’t Jihyo oblige? She’s already come this far. And knowing Nayeon, knowing her games, it’s probably just a sugar pill. Jihyo’s always been lucky. Sure, she’ll take this gamble.
Her gaze flickers from the bottle, to Nayeon, and back again. There’s no point in stalling, Jihyo knows this is inevitable. The first one goes down easy. The worst of it is the champagne fizzing angrily against the back of her throat. The second makes her jaw ache from clenching. She might never see Jeongyeon again. The third sears a warmth into her chest. Even worse, she might never get to look Nayeon in the eyes and say I know you, I know what you are, I’m nothing like you. She stares up at Nayeon, peering into her own darkness and wondering, as she has for her whole life, whether there is something truly wrong with her. If Nayeon is just a mirror.
They sit in heavy silence and Jihyo counts her heart beats as they thump by. One, two. Ba-bump. Nayeon stares wide-eyed, frenzied and disbelieving. She places her shaking hands on the table before she lifts them up in horror. “What did you do? Why did you do that, Jihyo?” Isn’t this what Nayeon wanted? “I didn’t … I didn’t think you would actually do that, Jihyo. That was arsenic.”
One, two. Ba-bump. The panic doesn’t set in until Nayeon shrieks: “Don’t just sit there! Get it out! Get it out now!”
Jihyo howls right along with her, tears blurring her vision as she kicks herself off and sprints to the kitchen. She wasn’t counting on Nayeon actually doing her job – she wasn’t expecting any of this. Nayeon is still screaming Jihyo, come on, you have to get it out, hurry as she shakes and hovers over the sink. Jihyo can’t focus on a single thing as she shoves two fingers down her throat and tries to trigger her gag reflex. Nayeon’s voice thins out into static noise as Jihyo heaves her throat raw. Only after she blindly gropes for the tap to wash her mouth out does she realize Nayeon is actually laughing.
“Of course it isn’t poison,” cackles Nayeon, “do you think I’m insane? You’re too easy, Jihyo.”
Jihyo coughs violently, the lower half of her face slick with tap water. She heaves and watches acid circle the drain. Her heart thumps and thumps and before she can reply, she feels a long hand grip at her waist. The other grabs her hip and spins her around. Jihyo nearly slips, choking on spit and bile and fear. “Nayeon,” she croaks, leaning forward then backward at the sight of Nayeon pressed flush against her abdomen. “my god, Nayeon…”
There’s a flicker of fear on Jihyo’s face. Surely she would have killed me by now? But it passes, as: “I’m expensive,” Nayeon hums, box cutter pressed against Jihyo’s chest. Her gaze flickers down, hungry and aggressive as she stares at the wide expanse of Jihyo’s bare, tan skin. She doesn’t have a clue where Nayeon’s been hiding a blade this whole time. She wonders distantly if she’s gotten so rusty that she didn’t even think to check, but she doesn’t have time for questions. The cutter slides from her sternum, down to the swell of her chest, not quite cutting through the fabric but leaving a presumably angry red mark against her skin.
“I know,” Jihyo breathes, dizzy. The blade goes low, indenting into her navel. Nayeon’s mapped exactly where Jihyo stabbed her: smiling a little brutishly as she presses. She doesn’t impale Jihyo, but she does cut the waistband of Jihyo’s pants. “I know.”
Nayeon leans forward. Bares her fangs as she croons: “Will you give me everything I want?”
“Yes.” Jihyo doesn’t hesitate. Nayeon tugs her forward, doesn’t quite kiss her but holds her waist as if she can’t help herself. Tucks her face against Jihyo’s neck, keeps indenting the blade against the skin of her stomach, and exhales. Love is possession to someone like Nayeon and physical contact is merely currency, Jihyo knows this, but … she doesn’t have it in her to let Nayeon go. Because this is how it always goes, this is how it will always go.
Nayeon takes and takes, and all Jihyo can do is give.
The kids are so incredibly loud at this early hour. Jeongyeon’s spent the last twelve hours wrangling them into a single-file line and now that they’re finally at Oxford, the kids have seemingly forgotten the rules all together. Whatever, whatever, they’re only first years. They have time to learn. Besides, for the next few hours they’ll all be seated in the auditorium – Jeongyeon sighs happily, perhaps they’ll be quiet for at least ten minutes. They’re harassing the poor doorman and, honestly? Jeongyeon’s co-chaperone, a wonderful English instructor named Sana, can deal with them.
Right now, Jeongyeon just needs a smoke. She lags behind the rest of the group, hugging a wall as she digs through her pocket for her Newports. Distantly, though not unaffectionately, Jeongyeon wonders what Jihyo is up to right now. Maybe she’s sitting at a desk, typing away at a report. Maybe she’s still in bed.
A voice snaps her out of her thoughts.
“I’m sorry for phoning in the complaints,” is what the woman says after Jeongyeon comes to a standstill at the turn of the path. Jeongyeon’s eyebrows furrow and she stops pawing at her pocket for a cigarette for just a moment to digest what’s been said – she turns her head, and lo and behold. The woman smiles, hands in her pockets, and shrugs. “I was just trying to get Jihyo’s attention – but she does not care about your life at all. You’d think after the tenth call, she’d give a damn ...”
Jeongyeon was expecting Nayeon to look a lot more … desolate. From the single blurry picture she’s seen on Jihyo’s laptop, Nayeon’s Russian mugshot painted the picture of a plain young girl with nowhere else to go. This Nayeon is much, much different. She’s impeccably dressed, she looks nothing like the inane sociopathic nightmare Jihyo described. Jeongyeon’s face drops in shades, first her eyebrows set, her nostrils flare, and her head tilts down.
She’s terrified, of course she’s terrified, Jeongyeon might die right here and her students goofing off right in front of them wouldn’t care.
The terror turns to something sour, and Jeongyeon grinds her molars. This is the reason Jihyo’s been gone so often, this is the tangible evidence of Jihyo’s descent into lunacy. Her best attempt at a death stare, judging by Nayeon’s reaction, is pretty pathetic. Nayeon smiles brightly, bumping against Jeongyeon’s hip as she laughs: “Look at you, huh! So angry, Jeongyeonie. Why?”
Jeongyeon’s throat clicks when she swallows, the tension makes her jaw ache. Two of her students knock each other into the fence of the auditorium. She tries to remember what Jihyo had said about dealing with sociopaths: don’t give them the indignity of reaction. “Lily, Haewon, stop it.” says Jeongyeon, as normal as she can manage. “I’m serious, quit it. I’ll write you up.”
Haewon boos loudly, Nayeon boos along with her. Fine, Jeongyeon will play. She would just prefer a smaller audience to her own execution. An audience that does not include a bunch of fourteen-year-olds.
With that, she turns, walks right down the opposite end of the road. “Where are you going?” Nayeon pouts.
“Away from the kids.” Jeongyeon grumbles, turning a corner.
“Good idea, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Nayeon chirps, trotting along. She pauses at a bike rack right in front of the mouth of the alley and rings the bell of a locked up tourist bike. She spams the little lever. “I love that sound.”
It’s surprisingly easy to knock Nayeon against a wall. She offers no resistance, but then again, Jeongyeon is playing dirty. There’s no shift in Nayeon’s demeanor as she’s slammed, if anything, she smiles a little brighter. “I didn’t,” she wheezes, on account of Jeongyeon’s forearm against her throat, “I didn’t know you had it in you! Good for you.” With a shit-eating grin, she leans in and whispers: “You should try this with your wife –”
“Don’t you – !” Jeongyeon catches herself before she can finish shouting, god forbid Oh Haewon turns the corner and takes a Snapchat of her teacher physically assaulting another woman, “Don’t you dare talk about my wife or – or I’ll – I’ll kill you. I’ll do it, I’m serious.”
Nayeon goes limp in Jeongyeon’s grasp. “Ah!” she cries, “Ah! Oh, that hurts! Jeongyeon, you’re hurting me!”
She’s lying, Jeongyeon can tell by the blankness in her eyes, but she relents anyway. She stumbles back, letting Nayeon catch her breath. “What do you want?” Jeongyeon’s voice quivers slightly. Weak.
“Look,” Adjusting her jacket, Nayeon gives Jeongyeon a casual shrug. “I just came here to tell you that you have nothing to worry about. I’ve forgiven Jihyo. We’re friends. Well,” Perhaps for the first time in the last ten minutes, a genuine emotion flashes like a shadow across Nayeon’s face. It’s placated. Warm. Possessive. “We’re more than friends, actually.”
If Jeongyeon wasn’t shaking before, she’s definitely shaking like a leaf now. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“We’re colleagues now. Very close, you know. But I’ve forgiven her. Besides, I’ve been stabbed before. I know what it’s like when you’re in the moment –”
“ – she stabbed you?” gasps Jeongyeon.
Nayeon pouts. “Didn’t she tell you? She came to my apartment in Paris. And she laid down next to me on my bed … and she stuck a knife in me.” Her voice trails off into a whisper. “Look!” Nayeon lifts her shirt, exposing an expanse of pale flesh. Right at the edge of her waist, there’s an angry, shiny mark. She taps the marred skin once, twice, three times with a fond smile. “It’s crazy, right? You would think I was the bad guy.”
Nayeon grins brightly.
Jihyo stabbed her? Jeongyeon’s Jihyo, her sweet, intelligent, pacifistic Jihyo? It feels like Jeongyeon’s entire world caves in on her at once and she can barely breathe. Does she even know Jihyo at this point? It’s been years, they’ve been married for years, Jeongyeon used to have Jihyo’s favorite movies memorized word by word and now she doesn’t even know whether or not Jihyo has stabbed someone or not? Jeongyeon doesn’t say a word. She stands, stunned, doesn’t even react when Nayeon trots over and gives her face a gentle pat.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, you know?” says Nayeon, irritatingly amicable. “Anyway, I’ve got to jet. You know, scary assassin business to attend to. Maybe you’re next, hm? Smell you later! Tell Jihyo I said hi.”
Jeongyeon watches Nayeon leave. She rips into her pocket, squeezing the life out of her pack of Newports before tearing a cigarette out and fumbling with the lighter. She burns the tip of her thumb, because she’s a little bit clumsy because Jihyo always lit her cigarettes for her. Jeongyeon never learned because she knew Jihyo would always do it for her - maybe she never knew Jihyo in the first place. She’ll never know Jihyo like Nayeon, she supposes because Jeongyeon doesn’t have a fucking screw loose.
Does she really come second to a convincted criminal?