***

I had spent my whole life doing wrong—but it was my first time inside a police station.

The detective introduced himself, then began asking for my name, my age, my identification number. After that, he told me to recount everything I had seen at the inn.

They pushed me into a dim, suffocating room and began to intimidate me.

“Miss. If you don’t talk now, you’ll be in serious trouble. Just tell us exactly what you saw—nothing more, nothing less.”

“The thugs were fighting among themselves, so why would that get me in trouble? I told you—I just happened to pass by, saw a woman covered in blood, and reported it.”

“Then why were you passing by there in the first place? And what’s with the blood on your face?”

“I already told you!”

As they kept repeating the same questions, irritation began to rise. There were barely forty minutes left until the morning shift.

“I want to leave. I’m busy. If I miss work and get fired, are you going to take responsibility, mister?”

“Hey now, don’t get worked up. I still need to get permission from my superior to let you go, so just wait a bit.”

The detective stepped out, and I pulled the poetry book from inside my coat. The corners were already crumpled.

The front page was singed, with a small hole burned through it. From the marks, it was clearly cigarette ash. Some lunatic must’ve used it as an ashtray.

“Unbelievable… seriously.”

‘Poet… I almost died today because of you. You know that?’

I was silently blaming her when the iron door suddenly swung open.

A young man walked in.

His hair was cut short, almost like a soldier’s. He was tall enough that it felt like his head might brush the doorframe, making me instinctively shrink back.

Despite the cold, he was wearing short sleeves.

‘Is he the superior the detective mentioned?’

He looked younger than the one who said it.

I kept my guard up, staring at him, when he suddenly asked—

“What’s that?”

“…A poetry book.”

“Let me see.”

“….”

When I didn’t respond, he let out a faint laugh, his eyes narrowing into a sharp line.

“I’m asking nicely. I’ve never seen a poetry book before.”

Reluctantly, I placed it on the desk. He reached out and picked it up.

His hands were large. His fingers long and lean, but marked with old scars, layered like the rings of a tree. Without them, they might have looked almost refined.

Leaning back in his chair, he flipped through the pages lazily.

I followed his hands with my eyes, then slowly lifted my gaze to his face.

I couldn’t look away.

Maybe it was the heavy shadow beneath his lowered lashes. Maybe it was the strange contrast—the upward curve of his lips, too red for the rest of his face. I didn’t know why.

“Were you selling your body there?”

“No!”

“If you were scared, why didn’t you run?”

He asked lazily, not even looking at me.

“I was going to.”

“You were.”

His voice lingered—and suddenly, another voice surfaced in my mind.

‘Count to ten and go.’

The cold brush of a blade against my cheek. The metallic scent of blood that clung to it.

My hands began to tremble.

A chill crept up the back of my neck, and I pulled my coat tighter around me.

“You could’ve run away on your own. But instead, Miss Lee Chun-hee, you bravely reported it.”

Closing the poetry book, he smiled—innocent on the surface, but something sharp flickered in his eyes.

“How do you know the one who was stabbed?”

“….”

He pulled out a cigarette, placing one between his lips, then held one out to me.

I didn’t take it.
I didn’t answer.

How many stabbed thugs could there be?
He was trying to trap me into saying something.

“Just someone you know? Seen in passing?”

That b*stard—the pimp.
Was he someone I “knew in passing”?
No… more importantly, was I even supposed to talk about him?

“What you were to each other doesn’t matter now. The dead are dead. What matters is the one who stabbed him. So let’s help each other out, shall we?”

His tone carried a quiet, unsettling pressure.

‘Why are you doing this to me? What did I do?’

“What could someone like me possibly do to help?”

“To us, you’re quite valuable. After all, you’re the one who reported it.”

He leaned forward, resting both arms on the desk.

“And the one who did the stabbing hasn’t been caught yet. He’s the real problem, isn’t he?”

I lowered my gaze, avoiding his eyes as they drew closer.

A detective or not—he wasn’t much different from the thugs I’d seen at the inn.

And yet, despite myself…in front of this man, even swallowing felt difficult.

Because he leaned toward me, his shadow fell over my head. I kept my eyes fixed on the thick veins standing out along his arms.

“Did he see you?”

“……”

He took my silence as a yes. Leaning back, he dragged a chair over and sat down. Beneath the desk, he fiddled with something—then lowered his voice.

“Go on. Talk. I’ve turned the recorder off. If you tell me now, I can help you.”

This was as far as silence would get me. I knew it instinctively.

It felt like if I said something, anything, I might be able to walk out of here. And at the same time—if I said the wrong thing, I might die.

But my mouth wouldn’t open.

I couldn’t tell the truth.
I couldn’t lie, either.

I wasn’t clever enough to weave a lie that would hold. But I wasn’t foolish enough to blurt out what I had seen, either.

I couldn’t trust him. But I couldn’t refuse him, either.

While I hesitated, caught in between, the cigarette between his fingers burned shorter.

“If he finds you… what do you think will happen?”

‘I’ll die.’
‘He’ll kill me.’

“Do you think you can run from him?”

No.
I wouldn’t be able to run.
And by then, it would all be too late—whether I chose truth or lies.

“…I didn’t see anything. I only heard his voice. But the strange thing was… that man…”

“Why are you here again? Why again?”

The one who stabbed the pimp—he knew me.

That was what didn’t make sense.

“What was strange about it?”

I hesitated, words caught halfway. He urged me on calmly.

“If you can’t remember clearly, just say whatever comes to mind. Don’t force it. Hmm?”

“You should take better care of your eyes. Hmm?”

That voice—low, cavernous, unsettling. And yet, the tone… almost light.

I caught sight of the back of his hand.

A large hand, loosely gripping my poetry book.

“I already know you.”

This morning—on the hand that had toyed with the bloodstained blade against my cheek—there had been a long scar.

“Even if you run, I’ll find you. So if you try anything stupid, I’ll get rid of you.”

Just like the man sitting in front of me now.

“Well? Did he threaten you like that?”

That scar—like a snake crawling across his skin.

“That’s the kind of thing men like him always say. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“…No. It wasn’t like that. Just from the way he spoke, they sounded like they were on the same side. They called each other traitors.”

I forced the words out.

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

It’s over.
This is enough.
There’s no problem.

Before I realized it, a quiet breath of relief slipped from me.

The man handed back the poetry book he had been holding the entire time.

“Why do you carry this around, Poet?”

“Let’s not meet again, Poet.”

At that voice—at that echo—my breath stopped.

The man in front of me stared down at me, his face completely expressionless.

“A friend… a friend lent it to me. I’m just trying to finish it quickly so I can return it.”

“I see. If you remember anything else, we’ll meet again.”

He held the book out to me once more. I took it.

“Lee Chun-hee.”

He knew my name.
I didn’t know his.

I slipped the poetry book into my coat pocket and stood before the heavy iron door.

A shadow fell over me.

I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Why are you here again?”

I can’t leave this place.