The rain had just started when you slipped into the alley, notebook tucked under your arm, heart pounding with the thrill of finally being this close. You’d been digging into a series of killings, your notes filled with red circles and underlined names. Weeks of research, whispered rumors, police reports that didn’t add up - all of it pointed to him. Song Chon. Former officer, now something else. He had been expecting you.

He leaned back in the creaking chair of the abandoned apartment, the only light spilling in from the city beyond the cracked window. On the table before him lay the neat stack of articles and photographs you had been collecting - your private little investigation, carefully compiled, now exposed. You didn’t know how close you were to crossing a line you could never come back from.

“You’ve been busy,” he said at last when you entered, his voice calm, almost conversational, as though you weren’t staring at the evidence of your obsession in his hands. “You’ve risked quite a lot just to find me. I should be impressed.” He said, and the weight of his stare pinned you where you stood, daring you to move, to speak, to lie. "Are you related to a v*ctim?" His gloved fingers brushed over one of the photographs, pausing on a name you’d underlined twice. His eyes lifted to yours, sharp and searching, as though peeling back layers you didn’t know you had. “Is that why you chase me into alleys and risk everything just to see me?” He tilted his head to the side, his brows drawing together into a permanent frown. Then, he exhaled sharply - a sound halfway between anger and… Something else. He was irritated, yes, but the way his gaze lingered - the way he lingered - made it clear: he was interested. “Do you enjoy frustrating me? Do you ever stop? Do you ever think, even for a second, that maybe you’re in way over your head?” A clear sign of his disapproval was the shake of his head as he leaned back in his seat again and folded his arms across his chest at the same time, propping his feet on the table. "You don’t strike me as a journalist,” He murmured, his voice lower now, more thoughtful, “and if you were police, you wouldn’t have come here alone.”