Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Minho steps into the briefing room five minutes late and still beats half the department. Figures. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, the hinges letting out a tired squeak that fits the mood of the place perfectly.

He steps inside, scanning the room out of habit before he even realises he’s doing it, a reflex drilled into him long before the SWAT team leader title ended up next to his name. His team calls it paranoid. He calls it the reason he still has all his fingers.

Nothing new, nothing dangerous. Just the usual morning zoo.

Chan is already at the front, tablet in hand, posture straight and calm in that competent way of his. He scrolls through something on the screen, lips moving slightly as he rehearses whatever speech he’s about to deliver. Chan always prepares, even for briefings that could be summarised in three bullet points.

Minho leans against the far wall, crossing his arms. The spot’s practically got his outline stamped into it by now, his unofficial post. He nods once to Chan who flicks his gaze up in greeting before going back to his tablet.

Minho’s gaze automatically drifts to the front row.

Jeongin sits there, back straight, hands folded on the table like he’s at school instead of a police precinct. New rookie. Minho almost feels bad for him. Sitting directly behind him is Felix, Jeongin’s training officer. His legs are stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. He looks relaxed, but Minho knows better. Felix sees everything. He just pretends he doesn’t.

Middle row. Hyunjin is slumped back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, stretched out like he’s daring someone to comment, or possibly stumble over them. His jaw is set, lips pressed into a thin line. The expression is familiar. Hyunjin is annoyed. Not mildly irritated or bored. Full-body, deep-boned, personal-level annoyed.

The chair beside Hyunjin is occupied. Minho frowns. The guy sitting there isn’t someone he recognises. That alone is unusual. Minho makes it his business to know faces, especially within the sprawling ecosystem of this precinct. But this guy? Stranger. 

He’s leaned back in his chair too, mirroring Hyunjin’s posture, but the similarity ends there. Where Hyunjin radiates tension like a live wire, this guy looks… comfortable? One arm is draped lazily over the back of the chair, leg bouncing a little, expression open and easy.

Then Minho spots Changbin, District Attorney, built like a tank and perpetually scowling. He’s standing off to the side near Chan, arms folded, tie already loosened even though it’s not even eight in the morning. That is unexpected. Changbin doesn’t attend these morning briefings unless something is very good or very bad.

Chan clears his throat. “Alright,” he says, voice carrying across the room. “Let’s get started.”

The low murmur of conversation dies instantly.

“I know it’s earlier than usual,” Chan continues, tapping his tablet, “but we have a new addition to our precinct today. Transferred in from the 77th.” He gestures.

Minho’s eyes slide back to the unfamiliar man next to Hyunjin. Ah.

Chan looks up. “Detective Han. Why don’t you come on up?”

The stranger straightens slightly, giving a small shrug before unfolding from his chair. He pushes himself out of his chair smoothly and steps into the aisle. As he walks toward the front, Minho tracks him without meaning to. The guy walks with a slight bounce in his step, like he’s walking to a party he’s been looking forward to, not to be appraised by a room full of tired, cynical cops.

Minho tilts his head slightly. The guy stops beside Chan and turns, finally giving everyone a clear look at his face.

He’s shorter than he looked sitting down, with a compact build. He has that look, like he’s always about to say something inappropriate just to see what kind of reaction he’ll get.

Chan gestures toward him. “Detective Han Jisung here will be joining Major Crimes. He’s one of the best from his precinct. Led a few major theft cases last year, and his record speaks for itself. We’re lucky to have him and I expect everyone to make him feel welcome.”

Minho hears it, a quiet, unmistakable huff from the middle row. Hyunjin.

“Detective Han,” Chan says, turning back, “anything you’d like to say to the team?”

Han Jisung smiles, restrained, unflashy, but with enough curve to make it clear he’s very aware of the reaction he’s getting, and very entertained by it. He bows his head slightly, polite, practised. “Looking forward to working with you all,” he says.

His eyes flick across the room, and for half a second, they meet Minho’s. Acknowledgement, cool, brief, nothing more.

Minho straightens from the wall without realising he’s moved.

Right, so that’s the new guy.

Jisung walks back to his seat, the same unhurried amble. Hyunjin doesn’t even look at him as he sits down, his body a rigid line of fuck-off-and-die. Jisung, for his part, just settles back into his chair, looking perfectly content. 

That’s interesting. Because Hyunjin doesn’t just dislike people for no reason. He can be a pain in the ass, but he’s not the type to ice out a colleague for no reason. He’s territorial about his cases, sure, but this feels pointed. So what the fuck did Han Jisung do?

Minho files it away for later. He’ll ask. Maybe over a smoke break or a case run. He’s curious now.

His eyes drift back to the back of Jisung’s head. The guy has an annoying amount of hair.

Minho’s attention is pulled back to Chan’s voice, detailing a B&E spree in the north end that’s getting on everyone’s nerves. 

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

The inside of the SWAT van is a tight, tense box of breathing. Gear rustles, plastic and Kevlar and metal shifting with every bump in the road. The hum of the engine vibrates up Minho’s boots, through his calves, into the base of his skull. He’s standing near the double doors, one gloved hand gripping the ceiling bar, the other wrapped tight around his rifle.

He does not think about Han Jisung.

He’s been not thinking about Han Jisung for approximately nineteen minutes now, ever since Seungmin’s voice came through comms with that flavour of I have bad news.

It wasn’t supposed to escalate. They were watching a known front for a low-level gunrunning gang. Not the smart kind. The kind that gets cocky after three deals go well and stops checking the rearview. Intel was solid: low risk, sit and watch, wait for movement. SWAT was backup, just in case.

Then Seungmin’s voice came through comms. “Update. Hostage confirmed inside the building. Additional detail…”

Pause.

“…Han went in alone.”

That’s when the not thinking about Han Jisung has begun, and it has been going tremendously well since.

No one said anything. What is there to say? They’re all thinking it. The new guy fucked up. The new guy got made. The new guy is probably dead, or wishing he was.

Comms went dead six minutes ago. The location beacon is gone, the backup call never came. Just radio silence and a void where a functional brain should be.

Minho clenches his jaw and runs through the breach order in his head again.

“Same formation, standard breach. Primary objective: recover the detective alive. Secondary: don’t let him get us killed with whatever stupid shit he’s pulled. Clear?”

“Clear,” comes through the chorus through helmets.

“We’re close,” says the driver. “One minute.”

Minho taps his rifle against his leg and breathes. It doesn’t help.

The van jerks to a stop. Minho bangs twice on the van’s back door. “Move.”

The doors slam open. They drop into formation without a word, boots hitting cracked concrete in sync. The target is a two-story hunk of metal and broken windows, rust climbing the walls like ivy.

The inside is huge, it stretches wide and long, full of machinery relics and empty crates stacked high like a makeshift cover. The lighting is shit, just a few hanging bulbs that flicker like they’re trying to quit.

They move in formation, sweeping corners, scanning the shadows.

Clear. Clear. Movement front. Two bodies, non-hostile.

Back room. Minho gestures. They converge.

The rooms are half-walled, glass windows cracked and smeared with grime. One of the doors is hanging off its hinge, creaking every time the wind kisses it. He can already see motion through the glass, shapes, vague and slouched.

Minho nods once, and they move.

Inside are a few unconscious guys on the floor, zip-tied, breathing. One’s groaning. Another has blood on his shirt but it’s not enough to worry about. That’ll be paperwork later.

And right in the centre, tied to a chair—Detective Dumbass.

Jisung’s lip is split, cheek swollen, a cut at his temple, not deep but bleeding enough to have traced a thin red line down the side of his face. His clothes are rumpled, a little blood on the collar. And somehow—somehow—he’s smirking.

He’s fucking talking. To a guy standing in front of him.

“Told you the cavalry’d show. You were saying something about how no one was coming?” His voice is raspy but way too amused for someone who’s clearly been worked over. “Sucks to suck.”

Before his conversation partner can reply, Jeno clocks him from behind. The guy drops like a sack of shit.

Minho stares.

What the fuck?

He expected—hell, he deserved—a half-dead, terrified idiot rambling apologies. Maybe some crying. Definitely fear.

What he gets is Han Jisung, very much alive, very much a fucking idiot, and holding court while bleeding out of his face.

His team’s already sweeping the rest of the space, confirming it’s clear. Minho steps forward, pulling his helmet off with one hand, balaclava with the other. His hair is damp underneath, stuck to his forehead from the heat and the gear. He lowers his rifle slightly.

“You good?” he asks.

Jisung blinks up at him. His pupils are blown a little, probably a mild concussion, nothing fatal. His mouth curls, one side tugging harder than the other because of the split lip.

“Never better.” His voice is lighter than it should be, given the circumstances. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think SWAT stood for Sorry We Arrive Tardy.”

Minho stares at him for a long, long second. “You a comedian now?”

“Eh,” Jisung tilts his head. “Gotta keep morale up.”

One of Minho’s guys snorts. A short, surprised snort from Chenle. Minho doesn’t even look. He knows that snort, has heard it in stairwells and during debriefs. Chenle has the discipline of a seasoned SWAT officer and the internal noise control of a golden retriever watching someone trip.

Minho turns his head exactly far enough to make eye contact. Chenle straightens up immediately, visor still up, expression snapping to neutral. “Sorry, Sarge.” 

Minho turns back to Jisung. The guy’s still got that stupid grin on his face. Not a relieved one, either. Not the smile of a man who just avoided death. This one’s genuinely entertained.

“You want to untie me, or should I just sit here and bleed onto the floor? I’m flexible. Metaphorically. Physically, not so much at the moment. The ties are really tight. Kind of impressive, actually.”

Minho exhales through his nose, steps in, and pulls out the combat knife strapped to his vest. Jisung wiggles his fingers in the zip-ties like he’s waiting for a manicure.

“Hold still,” Minho mutters, crouching next to Jisung, and starts sawing through the zip-ties. They’re plastic, industrial grade, tight enough to dig into skin. Jisung doesn’t flinch.

Once the restraints snap, Minho grabs him by the arm and hauls him up with one hand. Jisung sways a little, his weight tipping into Minho for half a second before he steadies himself.

Minho narrows his eyes. There’s a limp, subtle. Pulled muscle maybe, or sprained ankle. Judging by how he’s still got that fucking grin plastered on his bloodied face, it’s not broken. Minho’s beginning to suspect the grin is just his face’s default position, the way some dogs look like they’re always smiling even when they’re being scolded.

Jisung sways, then straightens, not bothering to lean on Minho. He’s in pain. That much is obvious. Minho can see it in the tightness around his eyes, the careful way he holds himself, the slight shallowness of his breathing. But he’s pushing through it like he’s on a dare.

“Perimeter clear,” Jaemin says over comms. “All suspects detained. Secure for exfil.”

Minho leaves that unanswered. He jerks his head toward the exit and starts walking.

Jisung follows. Kind of. It’s more of a stagger-march, favouring his right leg, clearly sore. Minho walks a half step ahead, but keeps an eye, watches for signs he might go down. Watches for him to ask for help.

He doesn’t.

Of course he fucking doesn’t.

Minho doesn’t offer either. Instead, as they reach the threshold, he sighs and hooks an arm around Jisung’s waist anyway. Jisung stumbles for half a second like he’s going to protest, but doesn’t.

He blinks up at Minho. That smug expression slips into brief surprise, but not for long. He leans just barely into it, like he’ll accept the help but won’t admit to needing it.

Outside, flashing red and blue from cruisers paints the scene. Medics are already on standby, gurney prepped, gloves on. Minho walks Jisung straight to them.

“Next time, “ he says, voice firm, “don’t play bait without a vest.” He slaps Jisung’s chest lightly for emphasis.

Jisung smirks, cocky even with blood drying on his face. “Aww. You care.”

Minho stares at him. “I don’t. I just don’t like scraping detectives off warehouse floors.”

He means it. Or the second part, anyway. He has strong feelings about warehouse floors that have nothing to do with Han Jisung specifically. They represent a failure of protocol, a deviation from the plan, an unnecessary variable that turned a surveillance op into a breach and could have made the situation considerably worse. That’s what he doesn’t like. The floor. The principle of the floor.

Jisung laughs. It’s a real laugh, but it stops, because laughing requires the use of ribs and his ribs very obviously do not agree with laughing right now. His hand comes up to his left side automatically and he goes still for a second with his eyes closed.

Possibly bruised, maybe cracked. He really went all in on the reckless solo op bingo.

The medics take over. One of them starts checking his pupils while the other rattles off questions.

“Conscious, alert, bleeding from the head. Any nausea? Blurry vision?”

Jisung grins up at her. “Just your face. But that might be love.”

“He’s fine,” the medic mutters, hauling out antiseptic.

Minho steps back, arms crossed, silent. He hates this type. He really does. The loudmouth cowboys, the ones who think rules are suggestions and backup is optional. The ones with death wishes and egos too big to fit through standard doorways. He’s dealt with them before, buried a few of them, too. They always end up the same way. A closed casket and a room full of people saying he was too young, too brave, too stupid to know when to stop.

Jisung is heading down that road in a sprint. Minho can see it in the lack of fear, the casual way he talks about getting his ass kicked like it’s any other day. The guy doesn’t have a survival instinct, he has a performance instinct. A need to prove himself that overrides every basic impulse toward self-preservation.

It’s going to get him killed.

As the medics start strapping Jisung onto the stretcher, one of them says something about head trauma protocol and insisting on a full check-up. Jisung rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest.

Then, right before they wheel him off, Jisung turns his head, eyes finding Minho’s in the chaos. “So,” he calls out, “you gonna tell me your name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Sergeant Grumpy’?”

Minho’s jaw ticks. He hesitates. God, this guy.

“Sergeant Lee,” he replies. “Minho.”

Jisung salutes from the stretcher. “Hope we get to do this again sometime, Sergeant Lee.”

Minho turns, doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t have an answer. He just knows it’ll be something like over my dead fucking body, and something tells him Jisung would take that as a personal challenge.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

The briefing room is quieter than it should be for a building that never fully sleeps. The overhead lights are on but someone’s turned off the bank at the far end, so the room runs warm-lit at one end and dim at the other, which gives the whole thing the atmosphere of somewhere winding down. The last thirty minutes of a shift that started too early and kept going. One of the overhead lights flickers intermittently, like even it can’t be fucked to stay fully awake.

Minhos leans against the far wall, arms crossed, gear half-stripped. His vest is off, black shirt clinging slightly with sweat across his back and chest, gloves tucked into his belt. His rifle’s back in the locker, but the tension in his stance hasn’t gone anywhere.

Chan sits at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, shirt creased, tablet in front of him. He’s got that look he gets when he’s on his fifth wind of the night and running entirely on caffeine. He hasn’t said much since Minho walked in, just a tired nod of acknowledgement and a gesture toward a chair that Minho ignored.

The rest of Minho’s squad cleared out twenty minutes ago, dismissed, debriefed, free to sleep off the adrenaline crash. Minho should be with them. Should be in his own bed, staring at his own ceiling, trying to shut his brain off.

Instead, he’s here. Waiting. Because Chan asked, and Chan doesn’t ask for much.

The door swings open, and there he is. Jisung strolls in like he’s arriving at a brunch reservation, not the tail-end of a botched op where he technically got kidnapped. He’s bandaged but upright, temple wrapped, bruises fading ugly across his cheek. He’s got a coffee in hand, hot, fresh, unearned.

He sips it. Audibly. Like an asshole.

Chan gives Minho a look. It says sorry and please don’t kill him and yeah, I know all at once.

Jisung raises his cup in greeting. “Evenin’ boys. Busy night?”

Chan lets out an audible sigh, rubbing his temple. “Glad to see you’re up and moving, Detective.”

“Hard to keep a good man down,” Jisung replies smoothly, dropping into one of the chairs around the table. He sprawls out instantly, legs spread, one arm draped across the backrest, the picture of comfortable arrogance.

Chan clears his throat, trying to redirect the energy. “First off, good job tonight. You kept the team clean. Zero injuries. Good breach, clean execution.”

Minho raises one brow. He’s been around long enough to hear the tone that means a but is coming a mile away.

 “But?”

Chan gestures vaguely toward the chaos with a coffee. Minho follows the motion.

“You’ve met Detective Han properly now, I assume,” Chan says.

Minho gives no response and keeps staring. First at Jisung, then at Chan again.

“Bit of an eventful introduction,” Chan says, which is so profound an understatement that Minho briefly considers saying something about it and decides against it.

“If I’d known this place came with a free SWAT escort,” Jisung says cheerfully, “I would’ve transferred months ago.”

Minho clenches his jaw so hard he hears something pop, staring at the detective over the table. He’s trying to understand him, make sense of how someone can get kidnapped, beaten, rescued, and still be smiling. And not just smiling—enjoying it. That takes a certain kind of mind, or lack thereof.

Chan straightens in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen. You know how this department works, Minho. SWAT’s not just stand-alone response. You back up the detective divisions, especially on cases flagged as high risk.” He looks at Minho with that steady, measured quality that Minho has never found easy to argue with, which is probably why Chan is where he is. “I want you to keep an eye on him. Keep him from getting killed. Or from getting someone else killed.”

Minho doesn’t even try to hide the look on his face. “Babysitting?”

“Consider it unofficial liaison duty.”

Minho scoffs. “You owe me so many drinks.”

He looks back at Jisung, who’s now leaned forward with interest, like they’re debating him on a game show. He doesn’t even look offended. If anything, he looks delighted.

Perfect. He gets to play handler to a walking incident report. A cocky bruised-up smartass who probably thinks bullets bounce off him. Great. Just what he needed.

Jisung lifts his coffee cup like a toast. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’m super low maintenance. Just feed me twice a day and tell me I’m pretty.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Harsh,” Jisung replies, putting a hand to his heart. “You break into one warehouse without permission and suddenly you’re not boyfriend material.”

The room is quiet for a second.

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose like this is already giving him a headache. “Alright,” he says louder. “Han, your new desk’s across from Hyunjin. Try not to piss him off.”

Minho snorts quietly. Too late.

Chan turns back to him, voice softer now. “Minho, seriously—just… don’t let him get killed.”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. He watches Jisung, still sprawled, still sipping coffee, still way too casual for a man who spent the evening tied to a chair with a gun to his head.

Finally, Minho says, “I’ll keep him alive.”

Jisung beams. “That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Chan stands, starts gathering files without so much as looking at him. As he passes Minho, he murmurs, “He is a good detective. Really. Genius. Just… needs to be reeled in a little.”

Minho just nods once. He watches as Jisung wanders over to the coffee machine in the corner, watches him trip on nothing, not a chair leg, not a bag, not a cable on the floor. Just air, or some private obstacle that only exists in Jisung’s specific experience of the physical world. He recovers with a spin like he meant to do it, and keeps going without even acknowledging it.

Minho sighs through his nose. He’s so fucking doomed.

He steps out of the briefing room, the door shutting behind him with a muffled click. His boots make soft thuds against the linoleum floor. He rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders, mentally peeling himself away from the gravity of Chan’s request.

He checks his phone as he walks, thumbing through recent notifications. There's a voicemail. He presses play, tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he walks.

A clipped, officious voice fills his ear, some bland-sounding lawyer or clerk, the exact kind of person who weaponises politeness. “Mr Lee, this is regarding the outstanding property documentation you submitted. We’re seeing inconsistencies related to ownership records and timeline concerns. Please return our call so we can clarify the dispute…”

He exhales slowly through his nose, lets the voicemail keep rambling, but he’s already filing it away in the back of his head. Later. He’ll deal with that later. Right now he’s still got the echo of Jisung’s feed me twice a day comment stuck in his ears.

The message ends with the usual “have a nice day” lie. Minho taps his screen, pockets his phone, and keeps moving.

As he passes the Control room, the door stands open, light spilling out onto the floor. Inside, Seungmin sits in front of a wall of monitors, headset hanging loose around his neck, which means he’s between calls or winding down, a mug in both hands. He doesn’t look up, but his voice cuts through the hum of machinery and distant phones.

“He’s already pissing people off, hm?”

No name. He doesn’t need one. There’s only one he in the building who has generated enough energy today to be the default subject of a sentence.

Minho barely slows his pace. He doesn’t answer, but Seungmin doesn’t seem to require either. He’ll take the continued forward momentum as whatever he needs it to be. Seungmin is good like that. He puts things out there and lets them land or not land and doesn’t chase them. Good quality in a person. Excellent quality in Control.

The bullpen opens up in front of Minho, quiet but cluttered. The detective division is half-empty this time of night, most of the day shift gone, night shift only just settling in. Desks form a haphazard grid, covered in folders, crime scene photos, notes on legal pads. A whiteboard in the corner is crowded with names and timelines, red string crisscrossing like spiderwebs.

Hyunjin is easy to spot. Third desk on the left. Sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, typing with more force than the task probably calls for. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a thin line. There’s a certain tension in the way he’s sitting, like he’s holding back from standing and pacing the room. He glances up as soon as he senses movement, eyes locking with Minho’s.

He stands almost instinctively, smoothing out his shirt like it’s a tic. They meet halfway between the desks, hands clasping in a firm shake, the kind you only get after years of joint raids and split-second decision-making.

“The SWAT team leader gracing us with his presence,” Hyunjin says with mock solemnity that only works between people who are genuinely comfortable. “We must be blessed.”

Minho gives him a slight shrug. “Blame your new teammate.”

Hyunjin snorts, but there’s no real humour in it. It comes out tight, bitter. He leans in slightly, dropping his voice low enough to keep it between them.

“He’s been here two days,” he mutters, holding back far more than he says. “And he’s already stomping through every open case file like it’s a goddamn buffet.”

Minho follows Hyunjin’s eyes to a desk a few feet away. Clearly Jisung’s. Not that he’s there now, but the space is lived-in. Already a coffee cup, a half-eaten protein bar, a stack of folders with tabs and colour-coded highlights. His chair is pushed back like he left in a hurry, which he probably did, earlier, to get to the briefing room.

Hyunjin crosses his arms, eyes still fixed on that desk. “I’ve had suspects on a wire for three months, hyung. Three. Then Han walks past my board, spends ten minutes looking at it, and suddenly he’s got a full presentation and Chan’s nodding like the guy just solved world peace.”

Minho lets him talk and listens. Hyunjin’s not the type to spill his frustration easily. When he does, it’s because he’s been chewing on it long enough for it to start cutting.

Hyunjin’s voice is lower now, not angry but simmering. “And now he’s the golden boy. Chan’s pet genius. Like the rest of us haven’t been putting in work for months.”

There’s no jealousy in Hyunjin’s voice. It’s harsher than that. Frustration. The kind that builds up in long hours and dead ends and watching someone skip the line.

He’s known Hyunjin for years, worked with him on more cases than he can count, trusted him with his life, and had that trust returned a hundred times over. Hyunjin is good at his job, patient, meticulous. The kind of detective who builds cases brick by brick, who doesn’t move until he’s sure, who plays the long game because he knows shortcuts get people killed.

And now some new guy—some genius with a smirk and a death wish—has walked in and made him look like yesterday’s news.

Minho gets it. He does.

Han Jisung is the kind of guy who leaves a trail. People either love him instantly or want to lock him in a trunk and push it into a river. There’s something about him. Not just the chaos, but the ease with which he spins it. Like it’s effortless. Like he can charm his way through brick walls and emerge with a confession in one hand and a latte in the other.

It’s a type. Minho’s seen it before. Bright, sharp, cocky as fuck. Usually burns out too fast, crashes harder. He doesn’t like people like that, doesn’t trust them. Too much instability, too much risk. Especially when that instability is paired with an actual badge.

But there’s a piece of Minho’s brain, a tactical part, that recognises talent when it sees it. And Jisung is talented. There’s no denying that. The fact that he pieced together a pattern in Hyunjin’s case in less than a day isn’t just luck. It’s skill. Possibly even brilliance.

But brilliance is dangerous when it doesn’t know how to play with others.

“Chan says he’s good,” Minho says finally. His voice is neutral. “Genius-level instincts.”

Hyunjin’s eyes flash. “Chan can say whatever he wants. I don’t care if the guy’s Sherlock fucking Holmes reincarnated. You don’t step into someone else’s case and start acting like you own it.” He runs a hand through his hair, a rare tell of agitation. “He didn’t even ask. Just saw the board, started connecting dots, and walked into Chan’s office. No ‘hey, Hyunjin, what do you think about this?’ No collaboration. Just—” He makes a vague, frustrated gesture.

“So you don’t like him.”

Hyunjin’s laugh is short, humourless. “I don’t know him. What I know is he’s reckless, arrogant, and apparently untouchable. What I know is he’s been here forty-eight hours and already thinks he runs the place.” He meets Minho’s eyes. “What I know is he’s going to get someone killed, and everyone’s going to act surprised when it happens.”

Minho thinks of the warehouse, of Jisung’s smirk, of the way he’d looked at Minho like nothing scared him, like death was just another punchline.

He stays quiet and holds Hyunjin’s gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting him work through whatever he needs to work through.

Finally, Hyunjin exhales, rolls his shoulders. The tension doesn’t leave completely—it’s still there, coiled in his muscles, written in the lines around his eyes, but it eases.

“Anyway,” Hyunjin’s voice is lighter now. Forced, but lighter. “Didn’t mean to dump all that on you. Just…” He trails off, shrugs. “You know.”

Minho nods. He does know. He’s about to respond, or maybe offer the kind of silent solidarity that Hyunjin actually respects, when the bullpen door bangs open behind them.

Minho doesn’t flinch, already knowing exactly who’s capable of bringing that much noise and confidence into a room this late at night. Hyunjin barely glances over.

Jisung strolls into the bullpen like it’s his living room, coffee in one hand, manila folder in the other. He walks like he owns the building. Like getting tied to a chair in a warehouse was part of his onboarding.

He spots Minho and Hyunjin mid-conversation and grins like he’s just caught them talking shit. “Aw,” he says, crossing the space in a few lazy strides. “Are we talking about me already? I’m flattered. Genuinely. You guys like me that much?”

Hyunjin turns slowly, like it physically hurts him to give Jisung his attention. He leans back against his desk with his arms crossed tight, chin up, his expression smoothing into politeness, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The mask of a man who’s been doing this long enough to know that showing anger gives the other person power. “Just admiring the hurricane that blew in this morning.”

Jisung grins like he’s been handed a compliment. “Cute. I like that. Hurricane Han. Very marketable.”

He drops into his chair—his chair now, clearly—across the aisle. He spins once, all ease and deliberate provocation, then plants both feet on the floor and leans back like he’s here for the show.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, brightly. “Your murder-for-hire case? You were missing the duplicate phone number routing through Busan. Rookie mistake, but it happens.”

Minho raises a brow. Hyunjin’s jaw tightens. The hit landed, Jisung knows it landed. That’s why he’s smiling.

“I was getting there,” Hyunjin says flatly.

Jisung flashes a mock-sympathetic smile. “Sure you were. In another month or two.”

Minho watches the exchange, arms crossing slowly as he shifts his weight. He glances around the bullpen, and as expected, a handful of the night-shift detectives have suddenly become very interested in their paperwork, their heads bowed but ears obviously perked. Minho has worked with this team long enough to recognise collective eavesdropping.

Hyunjin holds Jisung’s gaze for a moment. The quality of the silence between them has a texture to it. The kind that happens when two people are measuring each other and neither is impressed by what the other seems to think of them.

Then Hyunjin pushes off the desk. He moves with controlled energy, all of it pointed toward leaving, which is the right call and they probably both know it. He brushes past Minho. “Good luck, Sergeant.” he mutters as he heads toward the evidence room. “You’re gonna need it.”

Jisung hums softly under his breath. He pulls out a piece of gum from his desk drawer, unwraps it with one hand, and pops it in his mouth. He chews twice, slow, like he’s waiting for Minho to speak first.

“Is he always like that,” Jisung then asks, nodding toward the door Hyunjin disappeared through, “or is it just the threat to his fragile genius complex?”

Minho takes a moment before answering, walking forward, boots slow and heavy on the tile. He stops across the desk. “You’re not making any friends,” he says.

Jisung shrugs, unbothered. “They’ll come around. I’m very charming.”

Minho doubts that very fucking much.

He doesn’t see charm. He sees chaos, wrapped in too many deflections and one-liners. He sees a detective who moves fast, talks faster, and leaves scorched earth in the shape of progress. He sees someone who’d be dangerous as hell if they ever learned to pace themselves. Or maybe someone who’s dangerous because they don’t. A man who seems to believe consequences are things that happen to other people.

He’s going to be a nightmare, Minho thinks.

Not even the ordinary kind. Not the type you yell at until they straighten out or shove into a training protocol until fear and discipline beat common sense into them. No, Detective Han Jisung is the rare breed who’s aware of every rule, understands each one intimately, and still decides to step around them just to see who yells first.

Minho doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he steps closer to Jisung’s desk. “You get off on being right?”

Jisung glances up, eyes a little too bright for someone still held together by medical tape and caffeine. “I get off on the job getting done. Right is just a bonus.”

Minho hums. “Hyunjin’s been building that case for months. You stomped all over it in less than a day.”

“I solved it,” Jisung corrects.

“You could’ve coordinated, brought it to him first. You close cases by working with people, not by stepping on them.”

Jisung leans back in his chair. “I didn’t step on him. I stepped past him. There’s a difference. I just saw the pattern and figured—why wait?”

Minho stares at him for a beat. “Timing matters.”

Jisung chews his gum, then blows a small, unimpressed bubble. “So does not letting a hitman leave the country while we debate etiquette.”

Minho exhales slowly through his nose. He gets it. He really does. There’s clarity to Jisung’s logic. But there’s a cost too. And Minho’s already seen enough broken teams to know what unchecked disruption looks like. Smart doesn’t mean right. Quick doesn’t mean good.

“You’re sharp,” Minho says finally. “No one’s arguing that.”

“But?” Jisung prompts, grinning.

Minho doesn’t take the bait. “You keep burning through goodwill like this,” he says, “you’ll be right. Alone.”

Jisung’s grin flickers for a second. Long enough for Minho to catch the briefest hint of a different expression. Thoughtfulness, maybe. Or close enough. Then it’s gone, smoothed over with another lazy smile. “Duly noted, Sergeant.”

Minho still doesn’t get it, though. Why this man nearly got himself killed four hours ago, and now acts like he won a raffle. He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Why did you do it?”

Jisung looks up, chewing slowing slightly. “Do what?”

“Go in alone.” Minho doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t need to. The accusation is there. “Why did you break off from your team and walk into that warehouse, no comms, no plan?”

“Thought you didn’t care,” Jisung says.

“I don’t,” Minho answers. “But I’m the one who has to collect your pieces if it goes sideways, so I’d like to know what kind of stupid I’m dealing with.”

Jisung’s gaze goes a fraction colder. The humour drops out of his voice. “None of your business.”

Minho tilts his head. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Jisung leans back in his chair again, crossing one leg over the other despite the faint pull of pain it clearly causes. He keeps his expression smooth, casual, like discomfort’s a separate country he refuses to acknowledge. “I already talked to the Chief about it. That’s all that matters. Chain of command, right? You’re SWAT. I’m detective. Different chains. No need to share.”

Bullshit. Minho’s temper sparks. He watches Jisung.

“Chan’s the Chief,” Minho says finally. “He handles paperwork, politics, and the part where he pretends this place is under control.” He takes a step closer, voice dropping so only Jisung can hear him. “I handle the bodies,” he adds. “Try not to turn yours into one.”

Jisung looks away, back down at his folder. “Noted. Again,” he mutters.

Minho studies him for a second longer, then straightens, stepping back.

He could push, demand details, ask what the hell Jisung thought he’d accomplish solo that an actual tactical team couldn’t. But he’s not Chan, and this isn’t an interrogation room.

And Minho’s job isn’t to fix him. Just to keep him breathing.

Low bar. Somehow still feels impossible.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

The cold hits Minho the second the automatic precinct doors shut behind him.

It’s late enough that the parking lot’s mostly empty, just a few scattered cars glinting under streetlights, their windshields fogged at the edges.

Minho pauses by his car, hand on the door handle, just breathing for a moment. His body is tired, heavy with exhaustion that has settled into his joints and muscles, but his mind is still wired, buzzing with leftover adrenaline and annoyance.

He unlocks the car, slides into the drivers’ seat, and lets the door thud closed behind him. The sudden quiet is almost startling.

When he turns the key, the engine rumbles to life, dashboard lights flaring softly in the dark. The radio comes on low, some late-night DJ murmuring over a lazy guitar track. He switches it off with a quick twist of his fingers.

Silence again. Better.

He sits there for a second, hands resetting on the steering wheel, looking at nothing. He could take the faster way home. Left at the intersection, straight onto the main road, a few traffic lights and he’d be at his apartment in fifteen, twenty minutes tops. That’s what any reasonable person would do after a long day of chasing trouble through warehouses and listening to Chan assign him unofficial suicide-watch duty over a detective with a death wish.

Minho doesn’t turn left.

His hands move on the wheel like they’re operating on some old script stored in muscle memory. He turns right instead, slipping into the slower, longer route without thinking too hard about it.

The city at this hour is a patchwork of stillness and leftover noise. He passes closed convenience stores with metal shutters rolled down, bright plastic signs gone dull behind dark windows. Empty bus stops sit under flickering streetlights. At one corner, two kids huddle under an awning, sharing a cigarette. Their faces blur past in his peripheral vision before his mind could even register them.

His grip tightens on the wheel. 

His thoughts, traitorous and persistent, drag themselves back to the warehouse. To the flickering lights and cracked windows and the way the air smelled faintly of old oil and damp concrete. To Jisung tied to that chair in the middle of the room, lip split, temple bleeding, eyes bright and impossibly calm. 

Minho can still hear the echo of his voice.

Told you the cavalry’d show.

The way he seemed more focused on mocking the guy threatening him than his own rapidly decreasing life expectancy.

His fingers press harder into the leather of the steering wheel until his knuckles ache. For a moment, anger flares hot, not just at the recklessness, but at the casualness. At how someone can walk that close to the edge and come back with jokes instead of caution.

Then he realises how hard his hands are locked in place, fingertips aching with the pressure. He forces his grip to loosen. One finger at a time, he lets the tension bleed out of his hands. His shoulders, which have been hunched up around his ears for what feels like hours, slowly sink back against the seat.

The street around him begins to change. The newer storefronts give way to older ones, narrower and more cramped. The glass becomes cloudier, the paint more chipped. The road itself tells a story, patchwork repairs, uneven sections, faded lane markings that have been half-heartedly repainted in places and ignored in others. He knows this route too well. Not because it’s convenient, but because some part of him keeps coming back to it like a tongue to a sore tooth.

Without meaning to, Minho eases his foot off the gas a little. The car rolls forward at a slower pace.

His eyes flick briefly to the right. To anyone else, it would look like he’s just checking his mirrors, just being a cautious driver.

It comes into view bit by bit: first the temporary fencing, then the ugly, branded banners strung along it, rippling in the faint breeze. New signs and posters plaster the walls and metal panels, glossy colours glowing even under the weak streetlights.

He doesn’t have to read them. He knows the words already. They’ve been creeping in like mold for weeks.

Luxury Living. Modern Condos. Coming soon. Redevelopment Project.

His eyes catch on a larger rendering on one of the banners as he passes, a full-colour visualisation of what the future is supposed to look like. There are sleek glass balconies with potted plants, a rooftop garden with carefully arranged greenery that will never look that perfect in real life, a gym with floor-to-ceiling windows and equipment lined in neat rows. It looks shiny and expensive and utterly disconnected from the street it’s hanging over.

Behind the fantasy, the old building is still standing. For now.

It rises like a shadow behind the construction fencing, brickwork darkened by years of rain and neglect, windows glowing sporadically where a few stubborn residents still haven’t left, still going on about their lives, still ignoring the signs that say their homes are about to become someone else’s profit margin. Minho wonders how many of them have gotten the notices. How many are fighting it. How many have already given up.

Minho’s foot hovers over the brake pedal.

The instinct to stop is strong, so ingrained it feels less like a choice and more like gravity. His brain supplies the image of pulling over to the curb, of turning off the engine, of sitting in silence while he looks at the building and finally lets the memory barge all the way in. 

He doesn’t do it. He keeps the car moving, breathes through the moment like he’s pushing through a cramp.

A flash of memory tries to break the surface anyway, half-formed images of a different version of this street, of smaller signs and older paint and a door he used to walk through without thinking. Voices echo faintly in the back of his mind, overlapping, familiar, gentle at first, then cutting and accusatory. Something about dates. Something about ownership. Something about how nothing ever stays yours just because you want it to.

His fingers tap once against the steering wheel, a small, controlled motion. He focuses on that, on the feeling of the leather under his fingertips instead of the acceleration of his pulse.

He shoves the memory back down before it can crystallise into anything jagged enough to cut.

The car rolls past the corner, past the old building and its ghost future, past the banners and their glass balconies and rooftop gardens. 

Minho doesn’t look back in the rearview mirror. He fixes his eyes on the road ahead, on the next intersection, the next turn.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

Minho looks like he slept fine. This is intentional. It takes the same amount of effort it always takes, which is not much. Minho’s face is cooperative in this regard, doesn’t betray him without permission. The bags under his eyes are minor. His gear is clean. His coffee is already finished, consumed in the car park because he needed it before he needed to perform not needing it.

The briefing room’s filling in gradually. Chairs scrape, low voices murmur, papers shuffle. The pre-briefing noise is familiar, layered with tired jokes, updates about kids or bills or shitty landlords, and the clink of coffee cups on the table.

Minho crosses his arms and lets his back sink into the wall, watching the room populate.

Hyunjin’s already there, third row, same seat as always. He’s half-slouched but alert, eyes scanning a printout in front of him. One leg bounces, the only sign of how keyed-up he is.

Jeongin slips in, taking his place at the front. Felix drops into the seat behind him with a yawn, hair sticking up at the back like he lost a fight with his pillow.

Jisung’s in his seat, somehow. He looks slightly less held-together than yesterday—bandage still taped at his temple, bruise a darker smear along his cheekbone—but more alert than anyone with his recent schedule has any right to be. He’s got a folder open on the table, posture loose, one hand idly tapping a pen.

The door opens again. Seungmin walks in.

That alone makes a few heads tilt up. Control doesn’t come to briefings. Everyone knows that. They’re ghosts that live in another room with glowing monitors and omniscient voices, not people who step into the physical chaos of briefings.

He’s carrying two coffees, one in each hand.

No hesitation, no pause at the threshold. Seungmin crosses the room like he belongs there, steps between chairs, and stops by Hyunjin’s desk. He sets one of the coffees down in front of him. 

Hyunjin looks up, the tension in his eyes easing for a brief second. “You didn’t have to,” he says.

Seungmin doesn’t sit down, doesn’t make a production of any of it. He gives this tiny shrug, mouth twitching like he’s heard this a hundred times. “You say that every time,” he replies.

They look at each other for a moment. Hyunjin’s fingers stay curled around the cup, Seungmin’s hand still resting where he set it down. Neither of them speaks, but Hyunjin’s eyes dip once before coming back up, and Minho sees the thank-you he isn’t saying.

Then it’s done, and Seungmin turns and moves back toward the door, unhurried, carrying his own coffee, and then he’s gone. The door settles behind him like he was never there.

Hyunjin wraps both hands around the coffee cup, like it’s cold and he needs the warmth. He looks back down at whatever he was reading, the crease between his brows easing.

Minho is not invested. He’s not curious about it the way he’s curious about a case. He doesn’t connect it to anything, doesn’t start drawing mental lines on some invisible board. It’s not his business, and he has enough of his own shit to juggle without trying to decode other people’s.

So he doesn’t speculate.

But he does notice that Jisung noticed.

The detective hasn’t moved from his seat, hasn’t said a word. From a distance, he looks like he’s reading, eyes aimed down at this folder, pen hovering above the page like he might underline something any second.

Except his head is angled just slightly wrong for someone actually tracking lines of text. And his stillness is a little too deliberate, not natural rest, but someone holding a pose so nobody notices they’re paying attention.

Minho watches Jisung’s gaze flicker up once in Hyunjin’s direction. Too brief to be called staring, but long enough to catch the coffee drop-off, the exchange, the way Hyunjin’s shoulders eased.

Then Jisung’s eyes drop back to his folder again.

What sticks with Minho isn’t that Jisung watched.

It’s what he didn’t do.

No smartass awww, how sweet to needle Hyunjin, no comment lobbed at him about his “fragile genius complex finding emotional support.”

Given everything Minho’s seen from him so far, that absence stands out. He doesn’t know why it registers. It just does.

It’s not like he’s been building a detailed personality profile of the guy in his head.

Okay, maybe a rough one, based on recklessness and smart mouth and that irritatingly quick brain buried under all that chaos. But even with only a couple of days’ worth of data, he can tell that Jisung is the type who usually can’t resist poking at anything that looks remotely like it might get a reaction.

And yet, this time, he doesn’t.

Minho doesn’t give it meaning yet, doesn’t attach labels like respect or awareness of whatever other overthought bullshit Chan or some precinct shrink might come up with. He simply notes it like he would note a shift in a suspect’s behaviour pattern.

Han Jisung knows when to shut up.

Before he can chase that thought anywhere, the door at the front of the room opens again and Chan walks in, tablet in hand, tie a little crooked. The low murmur of the room starts to fade without him having to say anything.

Minho pushes his heel into the wall, uncrosses and recrosses his arms, settles.

Chan takes his place at the front, sets the tablet down on the podium, and glances up, doing a quick scan of the room. His gaze pauses for half a heartbeat on Jisung’s bandages, then flicks toward Minho’s usual corner.

Minho meets his eyes briefly. There’s too much unsaid there for this early in the morning.

Chan clears his throat. “Alright,” he says, “let’s get started.”

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

Minho comes off the training floor exhausted, but not unpleasantly so. His shirt clings to his back, sweat cooling against his skin as his breathing gradually evens out. His muscles ache in a clean, satisfying way. 

Today was a good run. His squad moved the way they’re supposed to. There were corrections, obviously. There are always corrections. But they were minor, easily fixable in the next round. For once, nothing about the last two hours pissed him off.

He’s still replaying the last breach in his head, mentally making a note about a stack order he wants to adjust, when he turns down the hallway toward the locker room.

The locker room is the decompression chamber in his head before it becomes it in reality. It’s the space between being on and being human again. Between Sergeant Lee, SWAT team leader, and Minho, guy who has to remember to do laundry and occasionally eat food that isn’t from a vending machine.

He’s already easing himself toward that transition as he reaches the door, letting his shoulders relax, rolling his neck from side to side.

He pushes the door open expecting exactly what he always expects at this time: tiled floor, empty benches, the metallic scent of lockers and cleaning solution, maybe a stray towel someone forgot to toss in the bin.

What he does not expect is a body standing in the middle of the room that doesn’t belong there.

It takes his brain half a second to catch up.

Wrong posture, wrong clothes, wrong everything.

Detective Han Jisung is standing in the SWAT locker room.

There are rows of shelves behind him, Minho’s squad’s gear neatly stacked, vests hung, helmets lined up. Jisung is holding one of those helmets in both hands, turning it slightly, studying it with a weirdly thoughtful expression. 

Minho stops just inside the doorway. He doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t clear his throat. He stands there for a beat and watches.

It’s not anger that hits him first. It’s closer to confusion, threaded through with a thin line of irritation.

What the hell is he doing in here?

Jisung doesn’t notice him right away. He lifts the helmet, tilts his head a fraction, and then he puts it on. He adjusts the strap under his chin, pushes the visor slightly with one finger, and looks straight ahead like he’s trying to imagine the world from behind ballistic glass. The sight is so absurdly out of place that Minho’s brain takes a second to catch up to his irritation.

A detective. In his locker room. Wearing his squad’s gear.

Minho must make some sort of sound, because Jisung finally turns. He doesn’t startle. He shifts his weight and faces the door, eyes landing on Minho with an ease that says he’s already used to walking into places he shouldn’t be and being caught there.

His eyes snag for a half-second on the line of Minho’s throat, the rolled sleeves, the holster still clipped at his side. It’s not subtle. He’s checking Minho out with the volume only turned down to “plausibly deniable.”

Then that dumb grin appears. “I was curious,” he says.

Minho lets the door swing shut behind him with a soft thud. His tone stays even when he answers. “This is a restricted area.”

Jisung shrugs slightly, the helmet still sitting on his head, chin strap undone. “The door was open.”

Minho’s eyelid twitches. “The door is always open,” he says. “It’s still restricted.”

The distinction matters to him. The open door is not an invitation. It’s a choice, a trust system. It’s the assumption that the people in the building know where the lines are drawn without needing a lock or a sign or a guard posted twenty-four-seven.

His squad leaves their gear here. Their helmets, their vests, their shields. Their spare clothes and personal shit that has nothing to do with raids or training. This space belongs to the people who go through that door knowing they may have to put their bodies between bullets and whoever is on the other end of their radio.

Jisung just walked through it like it was a hallway shortcut. The fact that it was curiosity-driven doesn’t make Minho feel better about it.

The helmet looks wrong on Jisung. The weight of the thing means something here. It’s not just gear. It’s responsibility, risk, the thousand drills and fuckups and near misses that come with it. On Jisung, it feels like a costume.

“Take it off,” Minho says.

Jisung lifts his hands, unbothered by the reprimand, and takes off the helmet. To his credit, he’s not careless with it. He doesn’t toss it or spin it or do anything dramatic. He walks it back to the shelf it came from and sets it down in exactly the same spot, adjusting its position until it’s perfectly in line with the others.

“You guys have really nice stuff,” he says over his shoulder.

Minho doesn’t respond. He could say a lot of things. Could ask why exactly Jisung thinks this is some kind of tactical dress-up. Could remind him that this isn’t a toy store. Could point out that most of what’s in here gets hit, dented, shot at, and occasionally bled on.

Instead, he lifts his arm and points at the exit.

Jisung looks at him for a second, lips pursed like he’s holding back a comment that would only make this worse for him. Then he pops his lips once, a tiny sound that somehow manages to be both amused and resigned, and lets his gaze wander around the room one last time.

He doesn’t rush as he walks toward the door. His movements stay unhurried, measured, like he’s making the decision to leave on his own terms and not being kicked out by a very unimpressed SWAT team leader.

As he passes Minho in the doorway, the distance between them shrinks to something that could be mistaken for intentional. Jisung smells faintly like hospital antiseptic layered over citrus body wash and precinct coffee. 

Jisung tilts his head the barest fraction as he passes, voice dropping low enough only Minho can hear. “Didn’t touch anything important,” he says.

Minho refuses the bait and offers neither reassurance nor another scolding. He steps aside enough to let him through and keeps his expression flat.

Jisung slips out into the hallway, hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket, posture loose as if he’s strolling out of a coffee shop instead of a room he had no business being in. The door swings slowly shut behind him with a muted click.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

The food truck is parked in its usual spot, engine off, metal sides reflecting in the weak light. The hand-painted menu board leans lightly crooked against one of the wheels, listing simple things in neat black letters: kimbap, tteokbokki, ramen, dumplings, rice. A few plastic tables and mismatched chairs are scattered around, some occupied by uniforms and detectives grabbing “lunch”, even though it’s already past five.

Minho’s stomach reminds him that he hasn’t had anything that qualifies as a meal since… sometime. Morning? Yesterday? He doesn’t remember, which is answer enough.

He joins the short line at the truck, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, damp hair from the locker room shower still curling slightly at his temples. His body is pleasantly tired from training. The part of his brain that’s not still replaying squad formations and entry angles is vaguely, stubbornly preoccupied with the image of Jisung standing in the SWAT locker room like he belonged there.

He pushes that thought aside long enough to order kimbap.

The ajumma at the truck passes him the neatly packed roll and a small container of sauce with a smile. He thanks her automatically, exchanges the usual minimal words. She’s seen him more tired than this, more banged up than this, and never asks questions that don’t need answers.

With his food in hand, Minho scans the tables. There’s a group of uniforms at one, trading stories and complaints with their mouths full. Another table has two detectives arguing over some detail from a case, voices low but intense. A patrol sergeant sits alone at the far end, scrolling through something on his phone between bites.

Minho doesn’t see Hyunjin. Or Felix. Or Seungmin.

Good.

He’s fond of them—by his standards, anyway—but he’s not in the mood to pretend he’s got anything left in the tank for conversation that isn’t strictly necessary. The day has been long. His brain feels like it’s been stretched in opposite directions: tactical focus on one end, personal shit he refuses to fully think about on the other.

So he picks an empty table, sets his food down, and sits.

He eats in silence. The kimbap is simple, nothing fancy—rice, vegetables, egg, a hint of sesame oil—but it’s warm and solid and he can feel it pushing back against the hollow that’s been drawing in his stomach all day.

He’s halfway through the roll when movement at the truck catches his eye.

Jisung. He’s up at the window, one hand hooked into the pocket of his jacket, the other gesturing as he jokes with the ajumma. The bandage at his temple is barely visible under his hair now, but the fading bruise on his cheek stands out in the gray light, a smear of yellow and purple against his skin.

Minho watches as Jisung collects a tray. Tteokbokki, kimbap, water, and something that might be a second side dish. He turns away from the truck and scans the tables.

Minho tries the ancient art of if I look down at my food, I become invisible.

It does not work.

The moment Jisung’s eyes sweep the area, they land on him like there was never any doubt where they’d end up. A slow grin curls across his face. Then he starts walking. Straight toward Minho’s table.

Minho watches him come. There’s a kind of fascinating quality to the confidence of it. It’s not arrogance exactly, not the performance of someone who knows they’re bold and wants you to see it. It’s the functional absence of the hesitation that most people would have in this situation. The is it okay if I that most people produce before occupying someone else’s table.

Jisung doesn’t produce it. He arrives, pulls out the chair across from Minho, drops his tray onto the table, and sits down.

Minho gives no active acknowledgement of his presence. He doesn’t look up or greet him. He keeps eating his kimbap at the same, steady pace, eyes on his own food.

For a while, it works.

The only sounds between them are the faint clink of chopsticks against plastic and the distant murmur of other conversations. Somewhere behind them, someone laughs too loudly at a joke Minho can’t hear. Cars pass by on the street, engines humming, tires rolling over uneven asphalt.

Jisung digs into his food with obvious enthusiasm, completely unfazed by the silence.

Minho almost convinces himself that maybe this will be one of those rare miracles where the loud, chaotic detective eats his meal quietly and then leaves.

Then Jisung takes a sip from his water, sets the bottle down, and starts talking.

“The locker room thing,” he says casually, like this is the middle of a conversation they’ve been having for ten minutes instead of the first words exchanged since the locker room. “I wasn’t messing with anything. Just looking.”

He doesn’t apologise. Not even a token sorry I invaded your team’s personal space. No sheepishness, no acknowledgement that he fucked up a boundary.

It bugs Minho. A mild, specific irritation from noticing the absence of a thing he hadn’t realised he was waiting for until it didn’t arrive. He swallows his current bite, puts his chopsticks down, and finally looks up.

“You have no business in there,” he says. His tone is calm. “If you want to be SWAT, you sign up for professional training. You don’t wander into our locker room and play with gear.”

Jisung doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head slightly, studying Minho like he’s cataloguing the reaction. “I don’t want to be SWAT,” he says simply. There’s no derision in it. Pure fact, like he’s saying he doesn’t like tomatoes.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me, considering where you spend your free time.”

Jisung shrugs, stuffing another piece of tteokbokki into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, then adds, “I was just curious how it feels. The helmet. The weight.” He leans back a little in his chair. “Figured it’s better to test that out when no one’s shooting at my head.”

It’s not the worst logic Minho’s ever heard. Still, it doesn’t change the principle.

He hums once, noncommittal, and goes back to his kimbap. If Jisung is waiting for some kind of approval or acknowledgement, he doesn’t get it.

There’s another quiet stretch. Long enough for Minho to finish the last two pieces of his roll. He’s just picking up the final one when Jisung speaks again.

“Have you always been SWAT?”

The gear change is so smooth Minho almost misses it, the pivot from being questioned to asking, the subject changed with casual ease, like redirecting traffic and pretending the road had always led this way.

Minho doesn’t look up this time. “No.” He doesn’t add anything. He’s aware that the single syllable is an incomplete answer to the question and he’s comfortable with it being incomplete.

Jisung, predictably, doesn’t treat the incomplete answer as closed. “Oh?” There’s the faintest spark of interest in his voice, the sound of a puzzle piece appearing where he didn’t expect one. “What did you do before?”

“Undercover,” Minho says. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain how long, or for who, or how that ended. The word itself lands with its own gravity, dragging shadowy memories with it. Different clothes, different names, different versions of himself he had to build and then burn down.

Across from him, Jisung lets out a low whistle. “Look at you,” he says, mock impressed. “Sergeant Lee with the secret past. That explains the eyes.”

Minho finally looks up at that. “The eyes?”

“Yeah.” Jisung taps the corner of his own. “You scan rooms like a guy who once had to make sure no one recognised him.” He grins, but there’s a sliver of accuracy getting through the humour that Minho doesn’t love. “I’m a UC too.”

That catches Minho a little off guard, though he doesn’t let it show on his face.

He’d assumed—based on the way Chan talked about him, based on the precision of his deductions, based on that particular swagger—that Jisung had field experience. He hadn't put the label on it.

He hums again, a simple acknowledgement this time. “Mm.”

Jisung waits. Maybe for a follow-up question. Maybe for a story. Maybe for a camaraderie he’s not going to get.

Minho lifts the last piece of kimbap, pops it into his mouth, and stands, picking up his empty container and napkin.

“Enjoy your food, Detective,” he says, voice neutral. Then he turns and walks away without another word. Behind him, he can feel Jisung watching him go. He doesn’t look back to confirm it.

He tosses his trash in the bin by the truck, exchanges a brief nod with the ajumma, and heads back toward the building.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

The week is quiet. Suspiciously so.

Genuinely, measurably quiet. The kind of week that Minho recognises as the operational equivalent of a full night’s sleep, where the cases that come across his desk are manageable. Where his squad runs drills without anything pulling them out mid-sequence. Where he gets through Tuesday and then Wednesday and finds himself at Thursday without anything having exploded. Literally or otherwise.

He catches up on paperwork that accumulated. He runs two training sessions that go cleanly. He eats lunch at a reasonable hour on four separate occasions, which is close to a personal record. He sleeps better than the week before, or at least he sleeps more, which is the available version of better.

It doesn’t escape him that the common variable in last week’s chaos and this week’s comparative calm is the visible presence or absence of one specific person.

He doesn’t see much of Han Jisung. 

Or rather, he does see because they both occupy the same building, pass in corridors, the back of a head in the bullpen, once at a distance in the car park. But not in proximity. Not in any configuration that results in Minho having to respond to anything Jisung is doing, which means the week is, by direct corollary, manageable.

This is fine. This is ideal, actually. This is what liaison duty looks like when the person being liaised is conducting themselves professionally and staying in their own lane.

There’s nothing he needs from the detective anyway. Because that calm, quiet week is worth not tempting fate.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

It’s early afternoon when fate decides to remind him who’s actually in charge.

Minho is in the small gym adjacent to the training floor, talking through a schedule adjustment with one of his Lieutenants while they both stretch out sore hamstrings. It’s the kind of mundane logistical conversation that feels almost luxurious in its normalcy.

Then the door swings open and Chan appears. He doesn’t walk so much as arrive with a gust of stress. His tie is skewed, his sleeves are rolled to the elbows, and there’s a crease carved into his forehead that usually only shows up after sixteen-hour days.

“We’ve got a hostage situation,” Chan says.

Minho is already moving before the words fully land. He stands, shakes out his legs once, and grabs his radio off the bench. “Who?” he asks, even though he has a bad feeling he already knows.

Chan exhales through his nose. “Han,” he says.

Of fucking course.

Minho doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Where?”

Chan gives him the address, something about an old warehouse unit tied to a known distribution hub.

Jisung seems to like warehouses a lot. 

Chan’s words are clipped, efficient, but Minho can hear the thread of reluctant apology underneath. “He was supposed to be at a simple witness follow-up. Then things… escalated.”

“When do they not,” Minho mutters.

He doesn’t waste more time complaining. There’ll be time for that later. Maybe. If everyone makes it out alive. He heads straight for the SWAT ready room, voice already going command-flat as he hits his radio. “Gear up. Full kit. We’re wheels up in five.”

His squad moves. Lockers open, vests come off hooks, helmets checked, radios slotted, magazines counted and recounted by instinct. Jaemin jokes faintly about overtime to shake off the tensions. Jeno grunts in response. 

They pile into the van in formation, no pushing or scrambling. Everyone knows where they sit.

Minho takes his usual spot near the doors, hand wrapped loosely around the overhead strap as the engine turns over and the vehicle lurches into motion.

The city starts to slide by outside the small, reinforced windows.

Minho is annoyed.

He is a professional who is also, concurrently, annoyed, because these two things are not mutually exclusive and pretending the annoyance isn’t there would be a waste of energy. 

He keys his comms. “Control, this is 20-David. Talk to me.”

Seungmin’s voice crackles over the line, calm as ever. If he’s stressed, it doesn’t leak through. It rarely does.

“Sergeant, situation is as follows: Detective Han was at a scheduled witness follow-up related to the Kim trafficking case. Witness indicated they had new information about distribution routes, requested to meet in person at a secondary location.”

Minho nods to himself. Fucking secondary locations.

There’s the smallest pause.

“He was advised to wait for backup,” Seungmin says. “He did not wait. According to on-scene accounts, he picked up a suspect tail and began pursuit on foot.”

Minho shuts his eyes briefly. “Of course he did.”

“He chased the suspect into a disused commercial block,” Seungmin continues. “Turns out it’s controlled by a high-profile group of drug traffickers we’ve had on our radar for months. Han walked straight into a trap.”

Minho’s jaw clenches. He looks at the opposite wall of the van as if he can see through it to the building they’re speeding toward.

“Current status?”

“Visual confirmation from first responders places Han inside the main structure. Multiple armed suspects. No confirmed injuries yet, but comms went dead seven minutes ago.”

“Who’s on scene?” Minho asks.

“Hyunjin is en route. Felix and Jeongin are already there. They were closest to the location when the call came in. They’ve set up a perimeter but are currently holding position until your arrival.”

Minho huffs out a humourless breath. “Copy,” he says.

The van takes a sharp turn, sending a small sway through the bodies inside. No one loses their balance.

He taps the side of his helmet lightly with his knuckles, thinking. 

First time they dragged Jisung out of a hostage situation, it was low-level gunrunners with more ego than strategy. This time, it’s high-profile drug dealers with resources and actual organisational structure. The stakes aren’t just higher, they’re steeper, slippery.

He reminds himself, with a mix of irritation and reluctant respect, that Jisung is not an idiot. Reckless, yes. Overconfident, absolutely. But stupid? No. If he walked into this, it’s because he thought the reward justified the risk.

Minho is still not convinced it did.

The van finally slows, then jerks to a stop.

“On location,” the driver calls.

The back doors swing open. Minho jumps down first, boots hitting gravel and asphalt. The building looms ahead, an ugly block of old concrete and metal that’s seen better decades. Windows are either boarded up or broken. Graffiti stains the lower walls. Newer, darker stains mark places where something less benign has happened.

Police tape flutters in the breeze, marking a perimeter that’s already been pushed back once, maybe twice. Two patrol cars sit at odd angles like they pulled in fast. One ambulance is parked down the block, lights off but ready.

Felix is near the squad car, vest thrown over his uniform, rifle slung across his chest. His expression brightens for half a second when he spots Minho, then settles back into practiced professionalism. Jeongin’s beside him, looking tense and coiled, hand resting near his holster but not on it.

“Sergeant,” Felix says, jogging over. “You’re gonna love this one.” 

Minho gives him a look that says try me.

Felix points at the building. “Jisung went in after the suspect about fifteen minutes before we got here. We tracked the suspect’s route to that side entrance.” He indicates a rusted metal door half in shadow. “Witnesses heard shouting, then nothing.”

Jeongin adds, “Gunshots, too. Two, maybe three. Not sure who fired.”

Minho’s stomach drops a fraction, but his face doesn't show it. “No visual on Han?” he asks.

“Negative,” Felix says. “We tried to get closer for a line-of-sight check, but they fired a warning shot out one of the upper windows.” He jerks his chin toward a shattered pane three floors up. “We pulled back, set the perimeter, waited for you.”

Good. At least someone around here still respects the concept of not charging into a death trap without a plan.

Minho nods in acknowledgement. “All right. We’re taking over from here.”

He turns to his squad. “Standard hostage protocol. Two-prong approach. One entry, one cover team. No one fires unless fired upon or I say so. Our priority is extraction. We get the detective out alive, we take as many of these assholes down as we can on the way.”

He swivels back to Felix. “You and Jeongin hold the outer perimeter. Nobody goes in or out unless it’s got a badge or a death wish.”

Felix gives a half-salute, half-sigh. “Yes, sir.”

“Positions,” he orders his team. They move.

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ⁠♡

In the end, getting Jisung out is almost insultingly familiar.

Not easy, exactly. The thugs this time have better weapons, better footing, and absolutely no problem firing at heavily armed law enforcement. But Minho’s squad is better. They’re trained, coordinated, and more than a little pissed off that they have to do this dance twice in as many weeks for the same detective.

He sees Jisung near the back of the room the moment they breach, back pressed against a wall, six guns trained on him for varying distances. Six. All pointed at one man who doesn’t even have his weapon raised. Hands half-lifted, posture tensed but not panicked, eyes flicking between the men like he’s measuring angles instead of odds.

Minho doesn’t know how the hell Jisung isn’t already shot. He doesn’t know how the hell he got to that exact configuration and is still in one piece.

He also does not have the luxury of stopping to ask.

His squad fans out. Two take the right, one left, one up the centre. Minho pushes forward, the barrel of his rifle trained on the closest threat. The suspects shout back in garbled curses and half-formed demands. One squeezes off a shot that goes wide and punches into a pillar behind Minho’s head.

That earns him a much more precise answer.

Within seconds, the room is a mess of dropped weapons, groaning bodies, and zip-ties. No one on Minho’s side goes down. A couple of bruises, a graze on someone’s arm, nothing serious. The thugs are not so lucky.

When the last weapon clatters to the floor and the last man is facedown with his hands bound behind his back, Minho turns fully to Jisung.

The detective’s still upright, still against the wall. For once, he’s quiet.

There’s blood at this temple again, a fresh blow, blooming red under already abused skin. Minho has a brief, irrational thought about how this man does not have permanent brain damage yet. Then, with a darker twist of humour, he thinks: or maybe he does, and this is the result.

But Jisung isn’t limping. He’s not clutching his side, not wheezing, not bleeding anywhere else that Minho can see. He looks tired and wired at the same time. There’s a small cut at his lip, but nothing like the first warehouse.

He meets Minho’s gaze head-on as Minho approaches.

The good thing—the only tiny point in Jisung’s favour—is that there are no stupid lines this time. No took you long enough, no new bullshit SWAT acronym.

He lets Minho grab him by the arm and pull him away from the wall, away from the bodies, away from the echo of gunfire. He walks under his own power, doesn’t resist, doesn’t make it hard.

When Minho passes him off to the medics outside, Jisung doesn’t fight that either. He sits on the back of the ambulance when they tell him to, takes the water they hand him, lets them clean the blood from his temple and wrap a fresh bandage around his head.

Minho watches until he’s satisfied no one’s about to say we’re losing him in some dramatic ER tone, then turns back to the job at hand. He oversees the securing of suspects, coordinates with Felix and Jeongin, gives Chan quick updates over comms.

By the time the scene is wrapped up enough that other units can handle the tail end, the sky is dark and the air has that chill that seeps straight into your bones. Minho rides back with his squad, debriefs, then finally heads to the locker room.

He showers until the water goes from too hot to barely warm, feels the adrenaline slowly bleed out of his muscles, leaving behind raw fatigue and a familiar simmering anger.

When he emerges, he’s in civilian clothes, dark jeans, black t-shirt, jacket thrown on but unzipped. His hair is damp, curling at the ends. His body is cleaner, but the exhaustion still clings to him.

He’s ready to clock out, go home. Maybe eat something that isn’t from a truck or a vending machine. Maybe stare at his ceiling for an hour and pretend that counts as rest.

He pushes out into the hallway and nearly walks straight into the very person his brain was trying not to think about.

The detective is moving down the corridor in the opposite direction, hands in his pockets, jacket slightly askew. There’s the bandage wrapped neatly around his head, stark white against his dark hair. It sits there like some kind of fucked-up fashion statement.

Minho moves before the decision fully forms. He reaches out and grabs Jisung by the arm, fingers closing around his forearm. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but there’s no mistaking it for casual contact.

Jisung stumbles a half-step at the unexpected stop, then steadies. He blinks, looks up, and the corner of his mouth lifts almost automatically. “Hey,” he says. “If you wanted to hold hands, you could’ve—”

“Don’t,” Minho cuts in. “We need to talk,” 

That wipes a bit of humour off Jisung’s face. Not all of it, but enough.

Minho lets go of his arm but stays close, blocking the path forward enough to make it clear this isn’t something Jisung can shrug off and walk away from.

“You going to yell at me?” Jisung asks lightly. “Because I should warn you, my head’s already taking applications for new trauma.”

Minho ignores the joke. “You’re reckless,” he says. “You know that?”

Jisung’s shoulders hitch in a half-shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

“No,” Minho snaps. The word echoing too loudly in the empty hallway. He reins it back, but only slightly. “No,” he repeats. “It’s not an occupational hazard. It’s a choice. You keep making it. And one day it’s going to get you killed. Or worse, it’s going to get someone else killed.”

Jisung stares at him. Then, predictably, the grin makes a comeback. “What, you don’t like being my knight in tactical gear?” he says.

The line is delivered with a lightness that would probably get a laugh out of half the bullpen. Flirty, borderline theatrical. Tailor-made for deflection.

But to Minho, it hits wrong. Not because of the flirt. He doesn’t give a shit about that.

It hits wrong because of what’s underneath it. Because it implies expectation, assumes a pattern. Paints Minho as a constant variable in Jisung’s habit of charging headfirst into dangerous situations.

It sounds like Jisung expects to be saved. Like he’s already penciled Minho into that role in his head. Like it’s a given that if he gets in too deep, SWAT will bust down the door and drag him out.

Minho steps closer, closing the remaining space between them until they’re almost chest to chest. Not touching, but close enough that Jisung would have to lean back to get comfortable.

He makes no move to. He tilts his chin up a fraction instead, eyes flicking between Minho’s.

“This isn’t a game,” Minho says quietly.

Jisung’s smile doesn’t disappear completely, but it tightens. “Relax,” he says. “We won.”

There it is again. Like victory is a shield that makes every bad decision retroactively okay. Like results are all that matter and the process can go to hell.

Anger flares in Minho’s chest. “Get your thrills somewhere else, Han,” he says, each word deliberate. “I’m not here to play hero for your ego.”

Jisung’s eyebrows twitch.

Minho doesn’t stop. “You don’t get to treat this like some adrenaline hobby and assume I’ll clean it up when it blows up in your face. I’m not your safety net. I’m not your fucking insurance policy.”

For the first time since Minho grabbed him, Jisung’s gaze drops, a subtle shift downward, to Minho’s collarbone, his shoulder, the wall behind him.

When he looks back up, the grin is still there. But it’s flatter now. “You don’t know what I was doing in there,” he says.

“You’re right. I don’t,” Minho replies. “Because every time I see you in there, you’re already at the end of some half-explained stunt with a gun in your face and no backup.” He takes a breath. “I don’t care how good you are,” he adds. “I don’t care how smart you think you are. This job doesn’t care either. All it takes is one wrong move and I’m zipping you into a bag instead of hauling you out by the arm.”

Jisung looks at him, eyes searching his face like he’s trying to read something behind the words. The usual jokes are lined up somewhere behind his teeth, ready, but for once he doesn’t fire them off immediately.

There’s a beat where Minho can tell—actually tell—that Jisung is considering taking this seriously.

It doesn’t last long. His posture loosens again, he huffs out a small laugh, and the mask slides back into place.

“You done, Sergeant?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Or is this the part where you ground me and take away my phone privileges?”

Minho’s lips press into a flat line. “Do whatever you want,” he says finally, voice dropping even quieter. “Just stop assuming I’ll always be there to pull you out after.”

That lands. He sees it. Briefly, Jisung’s throat works, like he’s swallowing something down. The grin fades entirely, leaving him looking older.

“I don’t—” he starts, then drops. He breaks eye contact, glancing off to the side for a second, then back. “Okay,” he says. It’s soft, barely there. “Noted.”

They stand there for another beat, a quiet standoff in an empty hallway. Then Minho steps back. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn't try to drive the point in further. He’s said enough. He turns to go.

As he walks, he can feel Jisung’s gaze between his shoulder blades. This time, he does glance back over his shoulder.

Jisung is still standing where he left him, hands back in his pockets. His expression is unreadable from this angle.

Their eyes meet for half a second. Then Minho looks away and keeps walking.