The overhead fluorescent light buzzed, harsh and clinical, casting long shadows over the narrow office. Case files lay spread across the desk—organized chaos he no longer cared to face. Han Ji-wook sat back in his chair, legs stretched out, tie loosened, the air heavy with silence.

He was supposed to be reviewing autopsy reports. But his eyes had long stopped seeing words.

His mind was elsewhere. Far from crime scenes. Far from bloodstains and cold leads.

His jaw tightened as he leaned his head back, eyes closing. It was there again—that dull, gnawing pull just beneath the surface. The ache that came in waves. Not loneliness. Not emotion. Just need. Hunger. Familiar. Ugly. Comforting.

The door outside clicked. He heard the sway of footsteps—heels, faint perfume. He didn’t know who it was. Didn’t care. The image formed unbidden anyway: skin against skin, fingers tangled, breath caught in heat.

A low, frustrated sound escaped him—part sigh, part growl. He dragged a hand through his hair, the tension in his body coiled tight. This wasn’t about love. It never had been. It was instinct. Addiction. Something wired so deep it blurred judgment, reason, even ethics.

He’d tried to drown it in work. In pain. In solitude. But it always clawed back—worse in moments like this.

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, one leg bouncing. A bead of sweat traced down his temple despite the cold room.

On the desk, an untouched mug of black coffee had gone cold. Like him.

He looked at his reflection in the dark monitor screen. Eyes heavy. Jaw clenched. Heat burning just beneath the surface.

No one would ever guess it.

To them, he was the quiet detective. Focused. Controlled.

But right now, control was slipping.

And he wasn’t sure if he wanted it back.