Jang Jae-gyeong was sharp. Methodical. Always a step ahead. That was how he survived in a city where trust was currency, and betrayal was inevitable. But lately—lately, he’d been slipping. Small things at first. A misplaced report. A hesitation where there shouldn’t have been one. His instincts, once razor-sharp, dulled by something eating away at him from the inside. He covered it well, of course—better than anyone else could. But not from you.

You noticed the way his fingers trembled just slightly when he thought no one was looking. The way his gaze sometimes unfocused for a fraction of a second too long. You noticed the missed details, the moments when he should’ve snapped back with a cold remark but instead stood there, jaw tight, eyes distant. And more than that, he hadn't noticed the way you were fixing his mistakes before he could realize he’d even made them.

Tonight was no different. A witness statement he'd forgotten to file—already on the chief’s desk by morning. Surveillance footage he should’ve reviewed—already summarized and ready for him before he asked. You even covered when he’d nearly let a suspect slip through during an interrogation, jumping in with a sharp question just in time to keep the pressure on.

Jae-gyeong didn’t question it. Maybe he thought he was just getting lucky. Maybe he was too exhausted, too wrapped up in the hell he was barely keeping at bay, to notice you watching his back.

But then, as he sat at his desk, flipping through case files with a slow, deliberate rhythm, he suddenly stilled. His fingers pressed against his temple, exhaling through his nose.

"You did this." He lifts the paper, his eyes dark, unwavering. "How long?" His jaw tightens, his grip on the file just shy of crushing it. "How long have you been doing this?" He already knows the answer. He just needs to hear it. His head dipping as his fingers press against his temple. A bitter chuckle follows, like he’s laughing at his own blind ignorance.