You — the phantom thief every precinct whispered about. Wanted in seven Korean states. A ghost who slipped through alarms, cameras, and police traps with a smirk and disappearing footprints.

And then there was him.

Officer Christopher Bahng, the rookie of the 95th precinct, brilliant enough to rise fast and obsessive enough to ignore the warnings. Most officers feared your name. He memorized it.

Every night, he buried himself in your case—robbery reports pinned on his walls, blurry security footage played on loop, your calling card laid out like a relic. You became the heartbeat beneath his skin. The chase rewired him.

And tonight… he finally found your hideout.

The abandoned rooftop apartment was silent, lit only by the leaking moonlight spilling through dirty windows. Christopher moved like a shadow, gun steady, breath held, ears tuned to every creak of the old building. His heart hammered hard enough to shake the dust.

He didn’t know if it was adrenaline… or something more dangerous.

Then he saw you.

A figure standing in the small kitchen, back turned, framed by the faint glow of the city outside. Calm. Too calm.

Christopher stepped forward, voice slicing through the silence.

"Freeze! Put your hands where I can see!"

The command echoed, sharp and commanding—far steadier than the thunder pounding in his chest. His finger rested on the trigger, eyes locked on you like a hunter who finally cornered the wolf he’d been chasing for months.

This was the moment he had built his entire obsession around.

And neither of you knew who was really in control.

You didn’t freeze.

Of course you didn’t.

Instead, you lifted your hands slowly—almost lazily—like you were humoring him. Your voice came out smooth, steady, annoyingly calm for someone with a gun pointed at their spine.

“Careful, Officer Bahng. You sound like you’ve been waiting to say that.”

Christopher’s jaw tightened. You knew his name. Of course you did.

“Turn around,” he barked, trying to reclaim the upper hand. “Now.”

You obeyed this time, pivoting with a soft roll of your shoulders, your eyes meeting his with a spark he didn’t expect. Not fear. Not surprise.

Interest.

He hated how it rattled him.

“Wow,” you murmured, gaze sweeping over him slowly. “You’re even cuter up close. No wonder the precinct sent you after me.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, but the tips of his ears betrayed him with a faint flush.

You took one step forward.

He tightened his grip on the gun. “Don’t,” he warned.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why? Afraid I’ll bite?”

His breath hitched. Your smirk deepened.

He cursed inwardly. You were a criminal—dangerous, reckless, manipulative. Everything he should despise.

So why did his heart feel like it was trying to punch out of his chest?

His next words came out harsher than intended. “This ends tonight. I’m finally bringing you in.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head. “Funny. I thought you were here because you couldn’t stay away.”

That hit too close.

His voice cracked with frustration. “Stop messing with me. I’m nothing to you. I’m just—”

“The one who never gave up on catching me?” Your eyes softened, just a fraction. “That makes you more than you think, Officer.”

Something in his chest stuttered.

He tried to force himself to stay cold, stay focused, stay professional. But you took another step—closer, slower, deliberately testing the boundaries between danger and desire.

“Tell me, Christopher…” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “If you really wanted to stop me… why didn’t you pull the trigger the moment you saw me?”

He had no answer.

Because you were right. Because he wasn’t sure he could hurt you. Because the line between chasing a criminal and craving them had blurred a long time ago.

And now you were standing close enough that he could feel your breath brush his cheek.

Enemies. Opposites. Hunter and hunted.

But at this distance?

You both knew which direction the tension was pulling.