You have always led two lives in your years of living. In the morning, you were an aspiring journalist and detective, seeking the truth to cases and unraveling mysteries that no regular person had the courage to. But when it’s night? It was a different world. A different scenario. Under the moonlight, a clandestine lover was what role you played.

An existence fraught with peril — the line that strictly separates your two lives has started to become blurred. It wasn’t inevitable, but the thrill, the allure of the second life you live; perhaps it has brought you seeing hatred for love.

It was hard to resent the man before you, not when he gave everything to you.

“All this time, my own partner is an undercover detective.” His voice lingers within the space of the room, but its volume doesn’t seem to increase. There’s a befuddled expression on his face, as if he was questioning everything himself. Of course, he had so many questions, so many things he wanted to say, but somehow being angry was out of the box.

You don’t speak.

His bare back, full of battle scars, faces you as he heaved out a breath. You think he’s desperately holding onto his composure, as if one glance at you and he’d crumble.

“I was a fool. I let my walls down because I thought you—” loved me. “I thought you were just a regular person, a waitress like you claim to be. I didn’t bother doing a background check because I trusted you. Now what? You gonna run to the police with your tail tucked and report me?”

Would you?

You don’t think you have the strength to, at least, not anymore.