Chapter Text
Interrogation Room 1 of the Gangnam Police Station smelled like cheap coffee and Martin’s own exhaustion. Three days. Three days of sitting across from James Zhao, watching him deflect every question with unshakeable calm and an almost-smile that made Martin want to both throw something at him and lean closer to figure out what he was thinking.
“Mr. Zhao,” Martin said, keeping his voice level despite the headache blooming behind his eyes. He’d been at this for six hours today alone. “You were seen leaving the Lotus Garden restaurant at 11:47 PM on the fifteenth. The victim was found dead in the alley behind that same restaurant at 12:15 AM. You’re telling me that’s just a coincidence?”
James leaned back in his chair, the metal legs scraping against linoleum. Even after three days in holding, even in a wrinkled button-down with his hands cuffed to the table, he looked more at ease than Martin felt. His dark hair was messy, and there was stubble shadowing his jaw, but his eyes were sharp and alert.
“I’m telling you I was on a plane to Seattle by midnight,” James said. His voice was rough from lack of sleep but steady. “Check the manifests.”
“We did. You weren’t on any commercial flights.”
“Never said it was commercial.”
Martin’s jaw tightened. He flipped open the case file in front of him—thicker than his forearm by now, full of witness statements that went nowhere, surveillance footage that proved nothing, and financial records that disappeared into shell companies and overseas accounts. James Zhao’s name appeared in the margins of Seoul’s underworld like a ghost, ever present but not quite solid enough to grasp.
“You own a private plane,” Martin said flatly.
“My family does. And before you ask—yes, I was using it that night. No, I’m not going to tell you why without my lawyer present. We’ve been over this, Detective.”
Martin wanted to throw something. Instead, he pulled out a photo of the victim—Baek Seojun, a middle-aged man who’d been left to bleed out from a slit throat—and slid it across the table. “This man had a family. A wife, two daughters in university, even a dog.”
For the first time in three days, something flickered across James’s face. His almost-smile faded completely, and he looked at the photo with what might have been genuine regret. He was quiet for a long moment.
“I’m sorry for them,” James said finally, and his voice was different—softer, stripped of its usual deflection. “Truly. But I didn’t do this.”
“Then help me find who did, James.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
James met his eyes. “Does it matter?”
Martin held his gaze, studying him. James didn’t look away, didn’t fidget, didn’t show any of the tells Martin had learned to watch for in hundreds of interrogations. He just kept looking at Martin with a steady, dark-eyed stare and something underneath it that Martin couldn’t grasp. Grief, maybe. Or carefully controlled anger.
“Yeah,” Martin said finally. “It matters.”
The moment stretched between them, taut as a wire. Then the door opened, breaking whatever that was.
Seonghyeon stuck his head in, his expression carefully neutral. “Martin-hyung. Captain needs you.”
Martin bit back a curse. He’d specifically told everyone not to interrupt unless it was urgent. “Give me five minutes.”
“He said now.”
Martin looked back at James, who was watching this exchange with interest. “We’re not done.”
“I’ll be here,” James said, and that almost-smile was back.
Captain Lee’s office was organized chaos, with case files stacked on every surface and a wall covered in photos and red string that looked like something out of a crime drama. The captain himself stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the Seoul streets below. It was late afternoon, the light golden and fading.
“We’re cutting him loose,” Lee said without preamble.
Martin’s stomach dropped. “Sir, with all due respect—”
“We can’t hold him any longer without solid evidence.” Lee turned to look at him, and Martin could see the frustration in his face—they both knew James was connected to this somehow. “His alibi for Seattle checks out on paper. Private airstrip, witnesses, security footage. But something doesn’t sit right with me about this whole thing.”
“Then let me keep working on him. I think he’s close to breaking—”
“He’s not going to break, Edwards. Men like James Zhao don’t break in interrogation rooms.” Lee sighed, rubbing his face. “He’s still a suspect. We just don’t have enough to keep him in holding. Let him go, but keep eyes on him. I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he talks to.”
Martin stood there, fists clenched at his sides, trying to process the wash of emotions that made no sense. Relief that they couldn’t hold a potentially innocent man indefinitely, frustration that they were losing their only lead, and something uncomfortable that he didn’t want to examine too closely (but he knew it had something to do with not getting to studying the way James Zhao’s mouth curved when he was being evasive anymore, or the way his eyes went distant when Martin pushed too hard).
“Understood,” he said finally.
“Martin.” Park’s voice was gentler. “I know you want to solve this, and so do I. Baek Seojun deserves justice. But we have to do this by the book.”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time Martin got back to the interrogation room, James was already being uncuffed by Seonghyeon. He rubbed his wrists absently, rolling his shoulders, and when he saw Martin in the doorway his whole face shifted—surprise, then something that looked suspiciously close to pleasure.
“Told you,” James said lightly, but there was an edge to it.
“Don’t celebrate yet,” Martin shot back, moving into the room. “You’re still a suspect. We just can’t hold you without more evidence.”
“Fair enough.” James stood, keeping eye contact with him. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“You could help with that.”
“I’ve told you everything I can.”
“No,” Martin said, and he was close enough now that he could see the flecks of gold in James’s dark eyes, the faint scar on his left eyebrow. “You’ve told me everything you’re willing to. That’s not the same thing.”
James studied him for a moment, his expression shifting minusculely the whole time. “You’re right on that front, Detective Edwards-Park. But some secrets aren’t mine to tell.”
Martin ignored the way his pulse quickened at the sound of his full name leaving James’s mouth, his slight accent shaping the syllables differently. “Just don’t leave Seoul, Zhao. We’ll be watching.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” James started to leave, but stopped once he was at the door, turning back to face him. The fluorescent lights cast shadows under his eyes, making him look older, more serious. “Detective… I really do hope you catch whoever did this. Baek Seojun didn’t deserve what happened to him.”
There was a hint of genuine grief in his tone that Martin found himself believing, which was probably a mistake.
“Did you know him?” he asked quietly.
James’s expression closed off immediately, walls slamming down behind his eyes. “I didn’t.”
“You’re a terrible liar when it’s personal.”
A beat of silence. Then: “I simply know what it’s like to lose someone to violence. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone’s family.”
And before Martin could push further, or ask the dozen questions suddenly crowding his throat, James was gone. Seonghyeon escorted him out to collect his belongings, and Martin stood in the empty interrogation room, staring at the chair James had occupied for three days, wondering what the hell he was missing.
The next morning, Martin was at his desk before dawn, running through everything they had on James Zhao.
The file was frustratingly thin on hard facts and thick with speculation. Born in Hong Kong to a Thai-Chinese family, moved to Seoul eight years ago, officially employed by Zhao Import-Export as a “logistics consultant.” The company was legitimate on paper—legal imports, proper documentation, taxes paid, etc. But the whispers in Seoul’s underworld painted a different picture.
James Zhao was connected. He wasn’t a kingpin, or someone who ran drugs and guns, but someone who knew people, who facilitated things, who existed in the grey spaces between legal and illegal. Protection, information brokering, the occasional shipment that didn’t go through customs the usual way. Clean enough that the police had never been able to build a case, dirty enough that his name came up in investigations more often than coincidence could explain.
“You’re here early,” Seonghyeon said, setting a coffee down on Martin’s desk. He could smell the french vanilla roast as it wafted up from the cup and he would bet good money that it contained two creams and two sugars—exactly how Martin liked it.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. He glanced at Seonghyeon, his partner of two years, one of the few people in the precinct he really trusted. “Tell me I’m not crazy. Tell me there’s something there.”
“There’s something there,” Seonghyeon said immediately. “But hyung, I don’t think it’s what you think it is.”
“What do you mean?”
Seonghyeon pulled up a chair, lowering his voice. “I’ve been digging into James Zhao’s organization and talked to people in both Vice and Organized Crime. Everyone says the same thing: his operation is clean. Cleaner than most legitimate businesses, honestly. He doesn’t touch drugs, doesn’t touch human trafficking, runs his people like a regular company with benefits and everything.”
“Then why is he so deep in the underworld?”
“Because he keeps the real monsters in check.” Seonghyeon pulled out his phone, showed Martin a series of names. “Every one of these people—traffickers, violent enforcers, the real predators—they’ve all had problems when they try to operate in Zhao’s territory. Shipments go missing, warehouses burn down, witnesses suddenly remember things, you name it. It’s like someone’s running interference.”
Martin stared at the list. “You think James Zhao is some kind of vigilante?”
“I think he’s someone who has enough power to make a difference and chooses to use it to keep his corner of Seoul from becoming a war zone.” Seonghyeon paused. “Which makes me wonder why someone killed Baek Seojun in his territory. That’s a message.”
“Or a declaration of war.”
“Exactly.”
Martin’s phone buzzed. It was the Surveillance team, reporting: Subject leaving apartment building, heading north on foot.
“Come on,” Martin said, grabbing his jacket. “Let’s see what our ‘peacemaker’ does on his first day of freedom.”
They followed James from a distance, Martin driving while Seonghyeon tracked him on their tablet. James walked through Gangnam like he owned it; he wasn’t arrogant, exactly, but comfortable. He stopped at a coffee shop, emerged with an iced americano, and then continued walking as if he had all the time in the world.
“Where’s he going?” Martin muttered.
“If he keeps this direction… I think he’s heading to Itaewon.”
But he never actually did. They followed him for forty minutes, watching as he wove through crowds with ease, occasionally stopping to talk to people—a street vendor here, a restaurant owner there. Everyone seemed to know him. Everyone smiled when they saw him.
Finally, James stopped at a small Buddhist temple tucked between buildings. He went inside.
“What the hell,” Martin said.
They waited. Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Finally, Martin couldn’t take it anymore and went in himself, leaving Seonghyeon with the car.
The temple was quiet, cool after the afternoon heat. Martin found James in the main hall, sitting in front of a small altar with incense burning, his head bowed. For a long moment, Martin just watched him; the line of his shoulders, the way his hands were clasped in his lap, the utter stillness of him.
Then James spoke without turning around. “You’re not very subtle, Detective.”
Martin startled. “How did you—”
“I’ve been followed by professionals before. You’re good, but not that good.” James turned, and his expression was unreadable. “Did you need something, or are you just keeping tabs?”
“Captain’s orders. You’re still a suspect.”
“Mm.” James turned back to the altar. “This is where Baek Seojun used to come. Every Sunday morning, without fail. I thought…” He trailed off, shook his head. “I don’t know what I thought.”
Martin found himself moving closer, drawn by something in James’s voice. “You did know him.”
“I told you I didn’t.”
“And I told you you’re a terrible liar when it’s personal.”
James laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re persistent. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Constantly.” Martin sat down beside him, uninvited. Close enough to see the exhaustion in James’s face and the grief he was trying to hide. “Who was he to you?”
For a long moment, James didn’t answer. The incense smoke curled between them, sweet and heavy.
“My brother,” James said finally, so quietly Martin almost didn’t hear. “Not by blood. But he was family.”
Martin stiffened, caught off guard by the answer. “James—”
“He was covering for Chaiyakom, my actual blood brother. Chai was supposed to meet with some American suppliers about a legitimate business deal, but he got sick. Food poisoning, nothing serious, but he couldn’t travel. Baek Seojun offered to go in his place.” James’s hands clenched in his lap. “I should have gone myself. Should have insisted. But Baek Seojun was older, more experienced with that kind of negotiation, and I thought…”
“You thought he’d be safe.”
“Yeah.” James’s voice cracked slightly. “I thought he’d be safe.”
They sat in silence for a while. Martin knew he should push for more information, should be asking about the business deal, the American suppliers, trying to build a case. But looking at James now… he couldn’t find it in himself to do it.
“I’m sorry,” Martin said instead. “For your loss.”
James looked at him, surprised. “You believe me?”
“I believe you’re mourning. I believe Baek Seojun mattered to you.” Martin paused. “I’m not sure I believe you’re telling me everything, but yeah, I believe this part.”
There was a shift in James’s expression that told Martin his walls had come down slightly, giving him a glimpse of the person underneath. “Thank you,” he said softly. “That… that means more than you know.”
Then their eyes met, and Martin felt something click into place in his head. This was James Zhao, a suspected criminal, possible murderer, and definite liar—but he was also just a lone man in a quiet temple, missing someone he had called brother.
“I will find who did this,” Martin said, and it felt like a promise. “I swear.”
James’s smile was sad, fragile. “I know you will, Detective. That’s what worries me.”
Before Martin could ask what he meant, his phone rang. Seonghyeon.
“Hyung, we’ve got a problem. Black SUV, been circling the block three times. I don’t like it.”
Martin was on his feet immediately. “Stay in the car. I’m coming out.”
“What’s wrong?” James asked, rising as well.
“Maybe nothing. Maybe—” Martin’s phone rang again. A different number this time, one he didn’t recognize.
“Don’t answer that,” James said sharply, his whole demeanor changing. “Martin, don’t—”
But Martin had already picked up. “Detective Edwards-Park.”
Heavy breathing on the other end. Then a voice, accented Russian: “Tell Zhao we want to talk. He has one hour.”
The line went dead.
Martin looked at James, whose face had gone carefully blank. “Who was that?”
“Trouble,” James said. “I need to leave. Now.”
“Like hell—”
“Detective.” James grabbed his arm, and there was real fear in his eyes now. “Please. I need to handle this, and I can’t do that with you in the way.”
“What’s going on? Who’s threatening you?”
“No one you can arrest.” James was already moving toward the door. “Just… stay here, give me a head start. Please.”
Every instinct Martin had was telling him to follow, to not let James out of his sight. But the fear in James’s eyes was real, and underneath it laid plain concern. For himself or for Martin, the detective didn’t know.
“One hour,” Martin said. “Then I’m coming after you.”
“One hour might be all I need,” he responded, throwing one last glance over his shoulder, “Also, Detective, I want you to know that if nothing good comes out of this case, I’m still glad I met you,” And then James was gone, disappearing into the crowded streets of Seoul.
Martin stood there, heart racing, already pulling out his phone to call Seonghyeon.
He had a very bad feeling about this.
Four hours later, Martin was pacing the precinct conference room, phone pressed to his ear, listening to it ring into voicemail for the sixteenth time.
“Dammit, Zhao, pick up,” he muttered.
Seonghyeon was at the computer, pulling traffic camera footage. “Got him heading east from Itaewon. Looks like he was being followed by a black SUV, the same one I spotted earlier.”
“Can you get a plate?”
“Working on it. But hyung…” Seonghyeon looked up, worried. “This SUV? I’ve seen it before, before today I mean. In the Baek Seojun case files.”
Martin’s blood went cold. “Show me.”
Seonghyeon pulled up surveillance from the night of the murder. There, in the corner of one frame and barely visible, a black SUV parked two blocks from the Lotus Garden.
“Pull the plate.”
“Already did. It’s registered to a shell company, but I ran it through Interpol.” Seonghyeon’s face was grim. “It’s connected to Victor Kozlov.”
Martin’s hands clenched. Kozlov, one of the most violent criminal organizations operating in not just Korea, but the world as a whole. Human trafficking, drugs, extortion, murder for hire. Everything James Zhao’s operation reportedly wasn’t.
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s part of the Russian mob, and his branch has been operating in Seoul for about three years. Extremely violent, extremely territorial. They’ve been trying to expand into Gangnam and Itaewon for months, but the keyword here is ‘trying’, because someone’s been actively blocking them.” Seonghyeon paused. “Want to guess who?”
“James Zhao.”
“James Zhao,” he affirmed. “Vice has been watching the turf war develop. Nothing overt, just… resistance. Shipments getting delayed, muscle getting arrested for outstanding warrants, that kind of thing. Kozlov’s people have been getting frustrated.”
Martin’s mind raced. “So they killed someone in James’s territory as a message. As a way to draw him out.”
“Or to frame him, get him out of the way.” Seonghyeon pulled up more files. “There’s been chatter that Kozlov wants to make a move into the import business, which would mean taking over some of the legitimate trade routes James controls.”
“And Baek Seojun was just collateral damage.”
“Looks like it.”
Martin grabbed his jacket. “Where did we lose James on the cameras?”
“Yeongdeungpo-gu, the industrial district. Cameras go dark after that.”
Of course they did. Martin was already heading for the door when his phone rang, the same Unknown number calling again.
His stomach dropped, but he answered. “Edwards-Park.”
“Detective.” The same Russian-accented voice from before. “Your friend Mr. Zhao has decided to join us for a conversation. If you would like him back alive, I suggest you come alone.”
“Where?”
Kozlov gave him an address in Yeongdeungpo-gu, as expected. Seonghyeon has been right on the nose.
“You have one hour to be here alone, or we send him back in pieces.”
The line went dead.
Martin stood there, phone in hand, ice in his veins.
“Hyung?” Seonghyeon was watching him carefully. “What did they say?”
“They have James.” Martin’s voice came out steadier than he felt. “They want me to come alone.”
“That’s insane. That’s—we need to call this in. Get the SOU involved.”
“They said alone.”
“And you’re actually considering it?”
Martin looked at his partner, the man who’d had his back for two years and always trusted him to make the right call. “He’s in danger because of this case. Because we released him and someone was watching. This is on us.”
“This is on Kozlov,” Seonghyeon said firmly. “We need to call it in, Martin-hyung. Remember what Captain Lee said about going by the book?”
Martin knew he was right. Knew that going in alone was stupid, suicidal, exactly the wrong move. But he kept seeing James’s face in that temple, emotions-raw and real. Kept hearing his voice: ‘I’m glad I met you.’
“Call it in,” Martin said finally. “But I’m not waiting. Get the SOU to that address as fast as you can, but I’m going now.”
“Martin-hyung—”
“He might not have time, Hyeon. You know what Kozlov’s people do to prisoners.”
Seonghyeon stared at him for a long time, where Martin could see him working through it. He also saw the exact moment the other made his decision.
“Then I’m coming with you,” Seonghyeon said. “And we call it in on the way. No arguments.”
Martin wanted to argue anyway, wanted to keep Seonghyeon out of danger. But the stubborn set of his partner’s jaw told him it would be useless.
“Fine. But we wait for backup before we go in.”
“Deal.”
They were in the car two minutes later, Seonghyeon calling the Captain while Martin drove too fast through Seoul traffic, mind racing with everything that could go wrong.
The warehouse was exactly what Martin expected—an abandoned mess of rusted metal, broken windows, and the smell of industrial waste and seawater. They parked two blocks away and approached it on foot, weapons drawn.
“SOU is ten minutes out,” Seonghyeon whispered. “We should wait.”
“We scope it first. Quietly.”
They moved around the perimeter, looking for entry points, counting guards. Martin spotted two outside, smoking cigarettes and looking bored. Probably more inside.
That’s when he heard it—a voice, sharp with pain. James.
Martin’s hand tightened on his gun. “We need to get closer.”
“Hyung, that’s—”
A scream cut through the air, and Martin was moving before he could think about it, Seonghyeon cursing and following. They slipped in through a side door, greeted by darkness that smelled of rust and blood.
Voices ahead. Martin edged forward, using shadows for cover, until he could see into the main space.
James was tied to a chair in the middle of the floor, blood on his face, breathing hard. Three men circled him—Kozlov’s people, Martin recognized one from surveillance photos. And standing off to the side, watching with cold satisfaction, stood a man who had to be Kozlov himself.
“I’ll ask again,” Kozlov said in Russian-accented Korean. “Where are my shipments?”
“I told you,” James gasped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
One of the men hit him, hard enough that the chair rocked. James’s head snapped to the side, more blood.
Martin’s vision went red. He started to move, but Seonghyeon grabbed his arm, shook his head frantically. ‘Wait for backup.’
“You’ve been interfering with my business for months,” Kozlov continued, circling James like a shark. “Stealing my shipments, turning my people against me. Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences?”
“I haven’t touched your shipments,” James said, and even beaten and tied up, there was steel in his voice. “But I won’t let you traffic people through my territory. Not now, not ever.”
So that was it. This wasn’t just about money, or territory, it was about innocent people. James had actually been stopping human trafficking operations.
“Noble,” Kozlov said, and hit James himself this time, a vicious backhand that split his lip. “And stupid. You should have stayed in your lane, little gangster. Now you’ll watch everything you built burn, starting with that pretty police detective who’s been following you around.”
Martin’s blood froze in his veins.
“Leave him out of this,” James said, and there was real alarm in his voice now. “He’s just doing his job.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I think Detective Edwards-Park means something to you. Which makes him very useful.” Kozlov pulled out a phone, showed James something on the screen. “See? My people are watching him right now. One phone call and—”
“I’m right here,” Martin said, stepping out of the shadows, gun raised. “Let him go.”
Every head swiveled toward him. Kozlov smiled, slow and cruel.
“Detective. How kind of you to join us, though I did say come alone.” His eyes flicked past Martin. “I see you brought a friend.”
Seonghyeon emerged behind Martin, also armed. “Seoul Police. You’re all under arrest.”
Kozlov laughed. “I don’t think so.”
After that, everything happened at once.
One of Kozlov’s men pulled a gun, Seonghyeon fired, someone else moved toward Martin. He got a shot off but then there was a fist in his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. His gun went flying, skittering across concrete.
He fought back on instinct, training taking over. Beside him, Seonghyeon was holding his own, but they were outnumbered and outgunned. Martin hit the ground hard, tasted blood, saw one of Kozlov’s men pulling a knife—
Then the warehouse doors exploded inward with a deafening crash.
“This is the Special Operations Unit, everybody get down!”
The SOU flooded in—armed in tactical gear and automatic weapons, moving with lethal precision. Kozlov’s men went down fast, some surrendering, some trying to fight and getting dropped. The whole thing took maybe thirty seconds.
Then Captain Kim Juhoon was standing over Martin, helmet off, looking distinctly unimpressed.
“You’re an idiot,” he said conversationally.
Martin looked up from where a paramedic was checking his pupils. Juhoon stood there in his full SOU suit, helmet tucked under one arm, looking completely unphased by the chaos around them.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Martin managed.
“Thank Captain Lee for calling us in the second Seonghyeon reported James was taken. You could’ve gotten yourself killed.” Juhoon’s eyes were hard. “You know I can’t afford to have my officers compromised. If you’d been seriously hurt—”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Juhoon sighed, some of the anger bleeding out of him. “Just… be more careful, yeah? I’ve got enough to worry about without adding you to the list.”
Martin wanted to ask what he meant by that, but then James was being brought out on a stretcher, and everything else faded away.
James had a concussion, two broken ribs, various lacerations, and a black eye that was already swelling shut, but he was alive. Martin stayed at the hospital longer than strictly necessary, telling himself it was for the investigation. Taking his statement. Gathering evidence.
Not because his hands still shook when he thought about that knife, about how close they’d come.
“You came for me,” James said when he finally woke up properly, voice rough. “That was stupid.”
“Yeah, well.” Martin shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside the bed. “You called. Sort of. Someone called. Anyway, I came. That’s how this works.”
“This?”
“Detective and… witness.”
“Is that what I am?” James’s eyes were dark and too knowing, even with one half-swollen shut.
Martin didn’t have an answer for that.
James’s hand found his on the bedsheet, fingers curling around Martin’s with surprising strength despite his injuries. “I knew Kozlov had killed Seojun from the start. That’s why I couldn’t tell you everything—I needed to handle it myself, keep my family out of it. Keep my blood brother safe. But Kozlov figured out I was looking for him, and decided to eliminate the problem early.” James’s thumb brushed over Martin’s knuckles, a gesture so soft it made Martin’s breath catch. “I’m sorry I lied about knowing Seojun before.”
“And I’m sorry, again, that I couldn’t protect him. That I can’t protect you from what’s coming.” Because James had admitted to running an illegal operation, to interfering with Kozlov’s business. There would be consequences, even if James had been trying to stop human trafficking.
“Not your fault. Not even really Kozlov’s—he’s just a rabid dog someone should’ve put down years ago.” James stopped, before adding. “But I’m also sorry you got dragged into this mess. That he threatened you because of me.”
Martin thought about the last few days—the frustration of the interrogation, the grief on James’s face in that temple, the slight panic in his voice when Kozlov had threatened Martin. He thought about sitting across from James in that interrogation room, watching the play of expressions across his face, wondering what it would be like to see him smile for real.
“I’m not,” Martin said quietly.
James’s eyes, or, the one that could still open fully, widened slightly. “No?”
“No. I’m happy I met you. Even if the circumstances were… less than ideal.”
“Detective Edwards-Park.” James’s smile was soft now, genuine in a way Martin had never seen before, even bruised and exhausted. “Are you flirting with me in a hospital room?”
“Would it matter if I was?”
“It would matter a lot, actually.” James’s fingers tightened around his. “Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you to dinner since day one of that interrogation, and I thought I’d completely screwed my chances by lying to you for three days straight.”
Martin laughed, surprising himself. “You confessing to me in a hospital bed?”
“Would it matter if I was?” James grinned, throwing his own words back at him.
And the hell of it was, it really did. Against all logic, against every professional boundary he’d ever maintained, against the fact that James Zhao was a criminal who’d lied to him repeatedly and was probably going to jail once he recovered… Martin liked him. His terrible sense of timing, his secrets, his ability to show real emotions, the way his smile never quite reached his eyes until now—all of it.
“Yeah,” Martin admitted. “I guess it matters a lot to me, too.”
James squeezed his hand. “Good. Because I really like you, Detective. Even if you’re stubborn and reckless and apparently willing to get yourself killed for a suspect.”
“Former suspect. Kozlov’s people confessed to Baek Seojun’s murder.”
“Still probably going to have charges filed against me for the whole illegal organization thing.”
“Probably,” Martin agreed. “But I’ll testify that you were trying to stop human trafficking. That has to count for something.”
“Will it count for enough that you’ll still have dinner with me when I get out?”
Martin should say no. Should walk away, let the lawyers and judges handle this, keep his professional distance.
“Yes,” he said instead. “Yes, I will.”
James’s smile was bright enough to hurt. “Now I’ve got something to look forward to while I’m doing my community service or whatever plea deal my fancy lawyer gets me.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, hands still linked, until a nurse came to check James’s vitals and gave Martin a pointed look that suggested visiting hours were long over.
“I should go,” Martin said reluctantly.
“Probably.” But James didn’t let go of his hand. “Martin? Thank you. For believing me. For coming for me. For… all of it.”
“Get some rest,” Martin said, because if he tried to respond to that his voice would crack. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m counting on it, Detective.”
The next two weeks were a bureaucratic nightmare.
Kozlov was charged with murder, attempted murder, human trafficking, and about ten other felonies. His organization was dismantled, several of his people agreeing to act as witnesses in exchange for lighter sentences. Baek Seojun’s family got justice, if not closure.
James’s case was more complicated.
Yes, he’d been running an illegal organization. Yes, he’d interfered with police investigations. Yes, he’d lied to law enforcement repeatedly. But he’d also been actively fighting human trafficking, had never touched drugs or weapons, and had arguably kept his territory safer than it would have been otherwise.
Martin testified on his behalf, which earned him some extremely pointed conversations with Captain Lee and Internal Affairs. But he stood by it. James had been trying to do the right thing, even if his methods were questionable.
In the end, James got a deal—two years probation, community service, and an agreement to work with the police on anti-trafficking operations. His import-export business was seized and audited, but enough of it was legitimate that he wouldn’t be left destitute.
Through it all, Martin visited him regularly. First in the hospital, then during court proceedings, then at the halfway house where James was staying while his apartment was being investigated.
They talked. About everything and nothing. About James’s childhood in Taiwan and Bangkok, Martin’s upbringing in Toronto before his family moved to Seoul. About the strange path that had brought them together, about what came next.
Martin learned that James was funny and self-deprecating when he let his guard down. That he was passionate about dance and his brothers, protective of the people who worked for him even when testifying against them could have helped his case. That he had a weakness for terrible puns and good Thai food and old kung fu movies.
James learned that Martin was quietly stubborn, that he’d become a detective because his father had been murdered when Martin was fifteen and the case had never been solved. That he was closer to his mother because of it, that he missed Toronto winters but loved Seoul summers. That he had once wanted to become a music producer and that he always, always kept his promises.
“So,” Seonghyeon said one day, watching Martin text James during their lunch break. “You’re really doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Don’t play dumb, hyung. You and James Zhao.”
Martin set down his phone. “Yeah. I am.”
“Even though he’s a criminal.”
“Former criminal. Allegedly.” Martin paused. “He made mistakes. But he was trying to help people, Hyeon. And he lost someone he loved because of it. I can’t just… walk away from him.”
Seonghyeon studied him for a long moment. “You’re falling for him.”
It wasn’t a question, but Martin answered anyway. “I think I truly am.”
“Be careful,” Seonghyeon said, not unkindly. “Not because I think he’ll hurt you, but because this job… it doesn’t leave much room for personal complications.”
“I know.” Martin picked up his phone again, seeing a message from James: Finished community service early. Free tonight if you are.
He smiled before he could stop himself. “But I think he’s worth the risk.”
A week later, Juhoon pulled Martin aside after a joint briefing on an anti-trafficking operation James was consulting on.
“I need to tell you something,” Juhoon said, his tone serious. “About why I didn’t want you going into that warehouse. About why I was so angry that you did.”
Martin waited, sensing this was important.
“I have a younger brother named Keonho.” Juhoon’s jaw tightened. “He works for James—has for five years. On paper, he’s completely clean. Regular civilian job at an import company, pays his taxes, no record. That’s why no one’s ever connected him to anything illegal. But he’s James’s right-hand man.”
Martin stared at him. “So you should’ve known the whole time that James was innocent.”
“I knew James wouldn’t kill someone like that. Wouldn’t be sloppy enough to leave a trail, or use violence when he didn’t have to. Keonho’s told me enough about how James operates that I was ninety percent sure he was being framed.” Juhoon looked away. “But I couldn’t say anything without exposing Keonho’s connection to me, and that would’ve put both our careers at risk—mine in the SOU, and his cover as a civilian.”
“If anyone found out the head of Seoul’s Special Operations Unit has a brother working for organized crime…”
“Exactly. Even a relatively clean operation like James’s.” Juhoon’s expression was carefully neutral. “I let you do your job. If I’d interfered, you would’ve known something was wrong. This way, the truth came out on its own.”
Martin processed this slowly. “You must have been scared when you got the Chief's call. If I’d been killed, if Keonho had been there—”
“He wasn’t, only because James kept him away deliberately. But yes, I was terrified.” Juhoon paused. “I’m telling you now because you’re getting involved with James, and you should know that my team has a vested interest in keeping him safe. Keonho vouches for him. Says James runs one of the cleanest operations in the overall underground, and tries his best to keep the real predators in check.”
“He does,” Martin said quietly. “I’ve seen the evidence. Everything he did was about protecting the innocent, even when it cost him.”
“Keonho says the same thing.” Juhoon smiled slightly, and it transformed his usually stern face. “He also says James hasn’t stopped talking about you since the interrogation. Apparently you made quite an impression.”
Martin felt heat rise in his face. “Well, I could say the same for him.”
“I can see that.” Juhoon clapped him on the shoulder. “I hope he makes you happy, Tin.”
“Thanks,” Martin said. “And Juhoon? Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I know. That’s why I told you.”
Their first real date was at a Thai restaurant James swore by, nowhere near the Lotus Garden. Martin showed up in jeans and a sweater instead of his usual button-down, feeling awkward and exposed and nervous in a way he hadn’t been since high school.
James was already there, waiting outside, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that showed off his build. The bruises from the warehouse had faded to yellow-green shadows, the split lip healed and black eye returning to normal. When he saw Martin, his whole face lit up with a real smile—so unlike the careful almost-smile he’d worn in the interrogation room.
“Hi,” James said, still grabbing his hands as he approached.
“Hi,” Martin echoed, and he couldn’t help smiling back as he interlaced their fingers.
They stood there on the mostly empty sidewalk, hands linked, looking at each other like idiots.
And Martin was beginning to really look forward to what came next with James. Not because it would be easy, as it definitely wouldn’t be. There would be complications, questions from the department, raised eyebrows and whispered conversations. James still had probation to complete, community service hours to log, a life to rebuild without his organization to fall back on.
But right now, with James’s hands warm in his, Martin thought they would figure it out just fine together.