Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time you meet Detective Yoo Jeongyeon, the rain hasn’t stopped for three days.

It sheets down over the precinct parking lot, turning the asphalt into black glass. The sky is a bruised gray, and every footstep you take splashes through shallow puddles. You pull your hood tighter and clutch the folder marked Officer Y/N L/N — Assignment Transfer. Inside, the ink has smudged slightly from the damp. Somehow it feels appropriate. Everything about this city seems waterlogged, from the air to the eyes of the people who live in it.

You’ve heard stories about Jeongyeon before you even step inside. Every rookie has. She’s a legend in the violent crimes division — sharp, relentless, with an instinct that borders on uncanny. But the stories always end the same way: She hasn’t been the same since the accident.

You push through the glass doors and are met with the low hum of phones, keyboards, and murmured conversations. The scent of coffee and wet paper fills the air. Officers move around you, busy, focused. No one really looks your way.

You spot her before she sees you — standing near her desk, one hand in the pocket of her leather jacket, the other holding a file. Her short blonde hair is damp at the ends, her expression unreadable as she flips through papers. The fluorescent light glances off the scar on her right cheek, thin and pale as a raindrop trail. There’s something cold in her posture, something that says stay back.

“Detective Yoo,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.

Her gaze flicks up, sharp as glass. For a second, you feel pinned in place.

“You’re the new kid,” she says, not a question. “The captain mentioned you.”

You nod, extending the folder. “Officer Y/N L/N. I’ve been assigned as your new partner.”

Jeongyeon doesn’t take the folder. Instead, she studies you — or maybe she studies what’s not you. The space between you, the hesitation, the unspoken distance. Then she sighs and turns back to her desk.

“Drop that on the table. We start at eight tomorrow.”

“Should I—”

“You’ll find out then,” she interrupts. “Don’t be late.”

Her tone isn’t cruel, but it’s final. You place the folder on the desk and stand there for an awkward beat before deciding to leave. As you turn, you catch the faintest reflection in the window behind her — her hand brushing over a framed photo half-hidden beneath case files. Two detectives, arms slung around each other, smiling. One of them is her.

You don’t ask.

You spend that night in your small apartment with the rain tapping against the windows, trying to quiet the churn in your stomach. Partnering with Jeongyeon should feel like an opportunity — everyone says she’s one of the best. But something in her eyes earlier unsettled you. They were sharp, yes, but hollow too, as if she’d built walls out of all the things she didn’t want to feel anymore.

The next morning, she’s already waiting in the precinct parking lot, leaning against an old unmarked sedan. She tosses you the keys.

“You drive,” she says.

“Where are we headed?”

She slides into the passenger seat. “A homicide in Gwangjin. Victim’s a male, late thirties. Neighbors heard shouting around midnight. You’ll get the details on the way.”

You climb in, start the engine. The rain hasn’t let up. It blurs the cityscape into streaks of light and shadow.

For a while, the only sounds are the windshield wipers and the soft rustle of the case file she’s reading. You steal glances at her — the way her jaw tenses slightly as she reads, the faint tremor in her fingers when she turns a page. You wonder if she notices you looking, but she never turns her head.

After fifteen minutes, she finally speaks. “You came from Gangdong, right? Patrol unit?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” she mutters. “Makes me sound ancient.”

You hide a small smile. “Sorry, force of habit.”

She doesn’t smile back, but her voice softens — barely. “Why violent crimes?”

You hesitate. “I guess I wanted to make a difference where it mattered most.”

“Everyone says that at first.”

Her tone isn’t mocking, just weary. Like someone who’s heard the same promise too many times and watched it dissolve under blood and paperwork. You want to say something — defend your sincerity — but before you can, she adds quietly, “Just don’t let the job take more than you can afford to lose.”

You glance at her, but she’s staring out the rain-streaked window. You don’t ask what she means.

The crime scene is a cramped apartment on the fourth floor of an old building. The smell hits you first — iron, stale air, and something faintly metallic. Officers mill around, taking photos, marking evidence. A body lies in the center of the room, blood soaked into the carpet beneath him. You swallow hard and try to focus.

Jeongyeon moves like she’s been doing this forever. Her eyes take in every detail: the overturned chair, the shattered glass on the floor, the smear of red on the wall near the door. You follow her lead, noting things down in your pad.

“Victim’s name’s Park Junseok,” she says, crouching beside the body. “Forty-two. Divorced. No kids. Lived alone.”

She lifts a corner of the rug with a gloved hand. “Struggle started near the table, ended here. No forced entry. Killer probably knew him.”

You nod, trying to match her analytical tone. “Neighbors said they heard shouting, right?”

“Yeah. Male and female voices. Maybe a domestic dispute, maybe not.” She stands, straightens her jacket. “Let’s check the security footage.”

As you follow her out, an officer calls her name. “Detective Yoo — Captain says the press is already sniffing around.”

Jeongyeon’s expression hardens. “Tell him I’ll handle it.”

You can see how everyone around her reacts — not with fear, but with the cautious respect reserved for someone who’s earned her scars the hard way. They lower their voices when she passes, make space for her without her asking. You wonder what it’s like to carry that kind of reputation — and that kind of solitude.

Back in the car, she stares at the folder resting on her lap. “You did good back there,” she says finally.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’ll see worse.”

Her words hang in the air. You grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “You’ve seen a lot of cases like that?”

She exhales slowly, eyes unfocused. “Too many. And they all start to look the same after a while.”

You want to ask her about the photo on her desk — about the partner she lost — but something in the slope of her shoulders warns you not to. So you drive in silence again, watching the city slide by in gray blurs.

When you reach the precinct, she gathers her notes and heads straight to her desk. You linger by yours, pretending to sort through files while sneaking glances in her direction. At one point, she pauses, staring at the photograph again. Her thumb traces over the smiling face beside hers — a man, from the looks of it — and then she sets the frame face down.

You pretend you didn’t see.

That night, as you’re leaving the precinct, Jeongyeon catches up with you by the door.

“Wait,” she says, voice low.

You turn, surprised. “Yes?”

She hesitates, like the words cost her effort. “Don’t take this personally, but I work alone. I don’t do small talk. I don’t do after-work drinks. Just focus on the job, and we’ll get along fine.”

It stings, even though you expected something like that. “Understood.”

She studies you a second longer, then nods once and leaves, raincoat slung over her shoulder. You watch her disappear into the drizzle outside, wondering what kind of pain makes someone draw their lines so sharply.

Later that week, the case deepens. The victim’s financial records show large transfers to an unregistered account. Jeongyeon believes it ties to an underground gambling ring. You’re running through statements when she stops beside your desk, sipping her coffee.

“You free tonight?” she asks abruptly.

You blink. “I—yes, I think so.”

“Good. We’re following a lead. Grab your coat.”

The ‘lead’ turns out to be a dingy bar near the Han River. Cigarette smoke curls through the air, and the bartender eyes you warily as you enter. Jeongyeon flashes her badge, and he quickly gestures toward a booth in the corner where a man in a hooded jacket sits hunched over a beer.

The interrogation that follows is quiet but intense. Jeongyeon leans forward, voice calm but edged with steel. You watch her shift between persuasion and threat with surgical precision until the man finally mutters a name: Min Daeho, a mid-level enforcer for the ring.

When they step outside afterward, rain is falling harder again. The neon reflections shimmer on the pavement. Jeongyeon’s expression is unreadable.

“Good work back there,” you say, meaning it.

She shakes her head. “Don’t thank me yet. Leads like this usually end badly.”

You frown. “You always expect the worst?”

She meets your eyes — and for the first time, you see the flicker of something raw behind them. “It’s easier that way.”

Before you can respond, her radio crackles with a dispatch call. Another homicide. Same M.O. as Park Junseok. Jeongyeon curses under her breath. “Let’s move.”

Chapter Text

By the time you arrive at the second scene, the storm has turned the street into a river. Police lights flash crimson across wet concrete, casting trembling reflections on the puddles. You and Jeongyeon duck under the tape, rain slicking your hair to your face. The air smells of rust and ozone.

The victim this time is a woman — early thirties, same pattern of wounds, same lack of forced entry. Jeongyeon crouches beside the body, scanning the scene with a sharp, distant focus. You kneel opposite her, taking notes.

“She’s holding something,” you whisper.

Jeongyeon leans closer, prying open the woman’s cold hand with careful fingers. A torn scrap of paper rests inside, the ink bled by rain: a single word — “Debt.”

“Same as the first victim,” you murmur. “Both connected to gambling?”

“Maybe,” she says quietly. “Or maybe someone wants us to think so.”

You look at her, seeing the way her brow furrows as she stares at the message. The muscles in her jaw tighten. “You’ve seen this before,” you say softly.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she stands and glances toward the flashing lights, where the medics wait. “Pack it up,” she says. “We’ll go through evidence at the precinct.”

There’s an edge in her voice — not frustration exactly, but something older and heavier. You wonder if she’s thinking about the partner she lost, the case that went wrong. You follow her back through the rain, the sound of it drumming on the hoods of the cars like a heartbeat that won’t let up.

Back at the precinct, it’s past midnight. Most of the building is quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights. You’re reviewing case notes when Jeongyeon finally speaks.

“My last partner,” she begins, voice barely above a whisper. “His name was Kang Haneul. We were tracking a suspect — a serial extortionist connected to an illegal gambling ring. Thought we had him cornered.”

You don’t move, afraid that any sound will break the fragile thread of words she’s weaving.

“He wanted to wait for backup,” she continues. “I didn’t. I was sure the guy would slip away. So we went in.” Her hand clenches around her coffee mug. “The suspect had an accomplice. Haneul didn’t make it out.”

The rain outside intensifies, as though echoing her confession. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

She shrugs, but it’s hollow. “Don’t be. It was my call. My mistake.”

You hesitate, then say quietly, “Maybe it’s not about blame. Maybe it’s about surviving what came after.”

She looks up at you, eyes searching yours for a long second. “You talk like you’ve lost someone.”

“I have,” you admit. “Different story, same ache.”

The silence that follows is strangely gentle — the kind that doesn’t demand, only shares. Then Jeongyeon stands abruptly, the walls sliding back into place. “Get some rest. We’re meeting the forensics team at eight.”

You nod, even though you know you won’t sleep much.

You dream of rain that night — endless, gray, and cold. When you wake, the echo of sirens still rings in your ears.

At eight sharp, Jeongyeon is already in the evidence room, sleeves rolled up, a pen between her teeth. You join her at the table, where photos of both victims are spread out like pieces of a grim puzzle. Each detail — a mark on the wrist, the angle of the wounds — tells part of a story you can almost read but not quite understand.

“They were both deep in debt,” she says. “Same loan shark network. But the killer’s pattern doesn’t match standard debt collection. It’s too…personal.”

“Maybe revenge?” you suggest.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, scanning another photo. “Or maybe the killer’s cleaning up something bigger.”

You notice her hand trembling slightly as she flips the next picture. You pretend not to see.

After an hour, the captain calls you both in. His expression is grave. “We’ve got a third body,” he says. “Found this morning near Jamsil Bridge.”

Jeongyeon stiffens. “Another one?”

“Yeah,” he says. “And there’s something else — the killer left a note this time.”

He slides the photo across the desk. Written in shaky handwriting across a rain-spattered scrap of cardboard are five words:

“You can’t save them all.”

You feel Jeongyeon freeze beside you. The color drains from her face, replaced by something raw and haunted. The captain looks between you two, puzzled. “Does that mean anything to you, Detective?”

But Jeongyeon’s already out the door.

You find her on the rooftop, standing in the rain again. Her hands are gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles are white.

“Jeongyeon,” you say carefully. “Talk to me. What does that message mean?”

Her voice cracks when she answers. “It’s what Haneul said to me. Right before he went in.” She swallows hard. “‘You can’t save them all.’ He was smiling when he said it.”

The weight of her grief settles between you, heavy and suffocating. You step closer, unsure whether she’ll push you away, but she doesn’t move.

“This isn’t coincidence,” she says. “Whoever’s doing this — they know about me. About him.”

“Then we’ll find them,” you promise.

She turns, rain dripping down her lashes, eyes fierce. “We? You’re still new, Y/N. You don’t understand what this could turn into.”

You hold her gaze. “Then teach me.”

For a moment, something flickers in her expression — fear, maybe, or the fragile edge of trust. Then she exhales slowly. “All right. But you follow my lead.”

You nod. “Always.”

Over the next few days, the two of you bury yourselves in the case. You interview old informants, chase dead leads, and wade through hours of CCTV footage. Every night, the rain keeps falling, as if the sky itself refuses to let the streets dry. Somewhere between long stakeouts and cold coffee, the distance between you begins to shrink.

One evening, while you’re reviewing footage together, Jeongyeon’s shoulder brushes yours. It’s accidental, but neither of you move away. You feel the quiet electricity of it, the fragile thread that has started to form between grief and something gentler.

“I used to hate the rain,” you admit softly.

Jeongyeon glances at you. “Why?”

“It made everything feel heavier. But now… I think it just makes things honest. You can’t hide in weather like this.”

She studies you for a long time, then says, “You talk too much, rookie.”

You grin faintly. “You listen too closely, detective.”

For the first time since you’ve met her, she almost smiles — a brief, fleeting curve of her lips, gone before the thunder rolls.

The next morning, a breakthrough: one of the victims’ neighbors calls in with information. He saw a car parked outside both crime scenes — an old gray sedan. License plate partially visible. You and Jeongyeon track it down to a scrapyard on the outskirts of the city.

The rain is relentless when you arrive, hammering on the rusted roofs. The yard smells of oil and wet metal. You split up to search, weapons drawn.

“Stay close,” Jeongyeon says through the comms. “If you see anything—”

Static cuts her off.

“Jeongyeon? Do you copy?” You tap the earpiece, heart racing. No response.

You turn a corner — and there she is, standing motionless beside a car wreck. On the hood rests an envelope sealed in plastic, rain sliding over it like tears. She looks at you, voice tight. “It’s addressed to me.”

Your stomach drops. “Don’t—”

But she’s already tearing it open. Inside is a single photograph — a blurred image of you and Jeongyeon leaving the precinct two nights ago — and beneath it, another note.

“Let’s see who you lose next.”

For a heartbeat, the world seems to stop. The rain, the thunder, your pulse — all of it fuses into one jagged rhythm.

Jeongyeon’s face hardens. “He’s watching us.”

You whisper, “Then he’s close.”

And somewhere in the scrapyard, under the heavy rain, something metallic clicks — the unmistakable sound of a safety being released.

Jeongyeon shoves you aside as a bullet slices through the air, shattering the car window behind you. You hit the ground, breath knocked from your lungs. She fires back twice, ducking behind cover.

“Are you hit?” she yells.

You shake your head, scrambling to your knees. “No—”

“Stay down!”

But you don’t. You catch a glimpse of a shadow moving between the stacks of scrap — tall, hooded, fast. You raise your weapon, heart pounding, and Jeongyeon swears under her breath.

“Damn it, Y/N—!”

Another shot rings out. You feel it whistle past your shoulder, close enough to sting. Jeongyeon’s return fire echoes through the rain, sharp and desperate.

Then — silence. Only the rain remains.

You move cautiously toward where the shooter was, but there’s nothing — just footprints fading into muddy water. Jeongyeon joins you, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

“He’s taunting us,” she says. “He wants to make me choose again.”

You meet her gaze. “Then we won’t give him that chance.”

For a long moment, she just stares at you, breathing hard. Then, softly, she says, “You shouldn’t have stepped in front of that bullet.”

You manage a shaky smile. “Guess I’m a terrible listener.”

Something shifts in her eyes then — a crack in the armor. “Don’t ever do that again,” she murmurs. “I can’t…” She stops herself, swallows the rest.

But you hear it anyway. I can’t lose someone else.

The rain keeps falling, relentless and cold, between you and her — between the ghosts of the past and the fragile hope trying to survive beneath the storm.

And as the sirens grow louder in the distance, you realize this is only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The morning after the scrapyard ambush, the world feels strangely muted.
The rain has finally stopped, but everything still drips, as if the city can’t quite remember how to be dry.

You stand outside the precinct, clutching a cup of bitter vending-machine coffee. The sky is pale and heavy, clouds hanging low over the skyline. You haven’t slept; every time you closed your eyes, you saw Jeongyeon throwing herself between you and the bullet.

She’s already inside when you arrive—of course she is. Jeongyeon is always first in and last out, as if exhaustion itself can’t touch her. When you step into the bullpen, she’s at the whiteboard, crime-scene photos pinned in uneven lines, her handwriting scrawled across the margins.

“You should be home,” you say quietly.

She doesn’t look at you. “I could say the same to you.”

“You almost got shot last night.”

“And you almost got yourself killed.”
She turns then, eyes sharp, the anger in her voice undercut by something that sounds too close to fear. “You’re supposed to follow orders, not play hero.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You think I don’t know what that looks like?” she snaps. “Rushing in, ignoring protocol, thinking you can save someone—” She stops abruptly, breath catching. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the hum of the overhead lights.

You take a step closer. “Jeongyeon…”

She drags a hand through her damp hair, voice softer now. “Just… don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” you promise, and you mean it, even if part of you knows it’s a lie.

The captain calls a briefing within the hour. The conference room smells of burnt coffee and damp coats. Officers shuffle in, murmuring about the ambush, about how the shooter vanished like mist.

Jeongyeon stands beside the projector, all business again, her tone clipped. “The shooter’s prints match none in the system. But the scrap of note he left behind—it’s the same handwriting as the messages at the first two scenes.”

You flip open your file. “Which means he’s connected to all three murders. But why involve us?”

“He’s not involving us,” she says. “He’s targeting us.”
Her gaze slides to you for a fraction of a second before moving on. “And until we find him, neither of us goes anywhere alone.”

The captain nods grimly. “We’ll assign patrol support, but Yoo, you and Officer L/N stay on point. Whoever this guy is, he’s making it personal.”

As everyone disperses, you linger by the door. Jeongyeon stays behind, staring at the photo of the third victim. You approach slowly.

“Do you think he knew Haneul personally?” you ask.

Her jaw tightens. “If he did, that means he’s been watching me for years. Waiting.”

You hesitate. “Why now?”

She exhales through her nose, eyes distant. “Maybe because I finally let someone else close.”

The words hang in the air between you, fragile as glass.
Before you can answer, she brushes past you, muttering, “Let’s go check the forensics report.”

The drive to the lab is silent except for the soft growl of the engine. The air smells faintly of rain and coffee. You glance sideways at her profile—tense, focused, the faintest bruise along her jaw where debris grazed her last night.

“You ever think about quitting?” you ask suddenly.

Her eyebrow lifts. “That’s random.”

“Not really. After everything—you still show up.”

She smirks faintly, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “What else would I do? Buy a bakery? Teach yoga?”

“I could see that,” you tease. “Detective Yoo’s Healing Studio.”

A small huff of laughter escapes her before she catches herself. “Don’t get used to it, rookie.”

You grin, and for a second, the tension eases.

At the forensics lab, Technician Kim greets you with a tired wave. “Got something interesting for you two,” he says, sliding a folder across the counter. “Residue from the bullets used at the scrapyard—military-grade alloy. Hard to get unless you know the right people.”

Jeongyeon flips through the papers. “Any prints?”

“Clean. Whoever loaded the weapon wore gloves. But the casing had a partial serial number. Traced it to a batch sold through a front company three years ago.”

“Name?” you ask.

Kim points at the file. “Golden Fang Enterprises. Registered to a Min Daeho.”

You freeze. “That’s the name from the first informant.”

Jeongyeon’s lips press into a thin line. “Then our killer just gave us his signature.”

By afternoon, you’re tailing a gray van linked to the same company through the industrial district. Rain threatens again; the sky bruises purple at the edges. Jeongyeon drives this time, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping against the gearshift in an unconscious rhythm.

“He’s not going to lead us straight in,” she murmurs. “Stay ready.”

The van turns down a narrow side street and stops behind a warehouse. Jeongyeon kills the engine. “We wait.”

Minutes stretch. The air grows thick with the smell of rust and river water. Through the cracked windshield, you see two men unloading crates. One of them matches the photo of Min Daeho—mid-forties, scar on his neck.

Jeongyeon lifts her camera, zooms in. “That’s him. Got it.”

A third figure emerges from the warehouse, hood pulled low. Too slender to be Daeho, movements measured. The hooded figure exchanges words with him, then hands over a small black case.

You whisper, “Think that’s our shooter?”

“Could be.” She lowers the camera. “Let’s move.”

You both slip out of the car, guns drawn, keeping to the shadows. The air vibrates with distant thunder. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“Police!” Jeongyeon calls, voice commanding.

The men spin. Daeho curses and bolts for the door. The hooded one drops the case, darting toward the alley. Jeongyeon goes after him without hesitation.

“Jeongyeon, wait—!” But she’s already gone.

You chase her through puddles and broken glass, the alley twisting like a maze. Somewhere ahead, a door slams. When you round the corner, you find her standing at the far end, gun raised, breath sharp.

The hooded man is gone.

“He knew the layout,” she mutters, lowering her weapon. “He planned the escape.”

You pick up the dropped case. It’s locked, heavy. Inside, maybe evidence—or bait. “Should we open it?”

“Not here. Let’s get it to evidence first.”

As you walk back to the car, you notice her shaking slightly—not from fear, but from rage held too tight. You want to reach out, to steady her, but the look on her face stops you.

Back at the precinct, the case reveals its contents: photographs, dozens of them. Surveillance shots of Jeongyeon—entering her apartment, standing at Haneul’s grave, sitting in her car. And in the most recent ones, you’re there too. Side by side. Laughing once, during the stakeout.

A chill creeps up your spine. “He’s been watching us.”

Jeongyeon’s hand clenches around the edge of the table. “He’s close. Too close.”

Then she notices something else—on the back of one photo, faint writing in pencil: ‘Round two, detective.’

You meet her eyes. “He’s not finished.”

Her voice is low. “He’s never finished.”

Night falls hard over the city. You and Jeongyeon sit in her office long after everyone’s gone home. The lamplight throws soft gold over her face, softening the exhaustion carved there. Outside, rain begins again, tapping at the windows like restless fingers.

She breaks the silence first. “You should go home.”

“So you can stay here all night again? Not happening.”

She exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re stubborn.”

“I’ve been told worse.”

Her gaze lingers on you, unreadable. Then she says softly, “Haneul used to say that too.”

You swallow, unsure what to say. “He must’ve been a good partner.”

“The best,” she says. “He… he believed the rain could wash away anything. Thought it was poetic.” She shakes her head. “But all it ever did was remind me what I lost.”

You study her, the way her shoulders tense, how she hides vulnerability behind sarcasm. “Maybe rain doesn’t wash things away,” you say quietly. “Maybe it just makes them visible.”

She looks at you then, really looks—eyes glassy, walls lowered. For a heartbeat, the space between you feels too small, too charged. She opens her mouth to speak, but the radio on her desk crackles to life.

“Unit 47, possible suspect sighting near Seongdong Pier. Request immediate backup.”

Jeongyeon’s expression hardens. “That’s him. It has to be.”

You stand. “Then let’s end this.”

Chapter Text

The sirens wail behind you as Jeongyeon speeds through the wet streets. The city lights smear into ribbons across the windshield, reflections breaking apart on the glass like shattered stars. You grip the handle above the window while she shifts gears, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead.

“Pier’s five minutes out,” you say, scanning the radio feed.

She nods. “If he’s cornered, he’ll fight.”

“You think it’s a trap?”

Her mouth curves into something humorless. “It’s always a trap.”

The road narrows as you reach the waterfront. The air grows colder, thick with salt and rain. Waves slap against the pylons, each one echoing through the fog that’s rolled in off the river. The pier looks deserted—half-lit streetlamps throwing long shadows across shipping containers and stacks of rope.

You both step out of the car. Your breath clouds in the air. Jeongyeon’s flashlight cuts through the mist as you move side by side, weapons drawn.

“Over there,” she whispers, nodding toward a faint movement at the end of the dock.

You creep closer. A figure stands silhouetted against the water, coat whipping in the wind. When Jeongyeon shouts “Police!”, the figure doesn’t run. He just turns slowly, and the beam of light catches his face—a gaunt man with sunken eyes and a smile that doesn’t belong to anyone sane.

“Detective Yoo,” he calls, voice thin and almost amused. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

Jeongyeon’s voice is steady. “Drop the weapon.”

He laughs softly. “Still giving orders. Still pretending you can save people.”

“Who are you?” you demand.

His gaze flicks to you. “The new one. The replacement. How convenient.”

“Answer the question!” Jeongyeon snaps.

He takes a step forward, rain spattering against his boots. “Name’s Choi Jinseok. I used to work for Min Daeho. Your partner and I met once—right before he died.”

The color drains from Jeongyeon’s face. “You were there.”

“I watched him bleed out,” Jinseok says, tone almost gentle. “He begged her to run. But she stayed. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

The accusation hits the air like lightning. You see her shoulders stiffen; her gun trembles just slightly.

“Jeongyeon, don’t listen to him,” you whisper.

But Jinseok keeps talking, savoring each word. “You couldn’t save him, so you replaced him. Thought you could fix the story if you changed the cast.”

“Shut up,” she growls.

He smirks. “I wanted you to feel what he felt—helpless. Alone. The moment before the bullet hits.”

You see his hand move. “Gun!” you shout.

Everything happens at once: thunder, muzzle flash, the hiss of rain. Jeongyeon fires first; Jinseok dives behind a crate. Bullets ricochet off metal, sparks scattering. You duck for cover beside her, heart hammering.

“He’s circling left!” you yell.

“I see him!” she answers, leaning out to return fire. A shot whistles past her head. You hear her curse under her breath.

“Backup’s five minutes out,” you say into the radio. “We just have to hold—”

Another gunshot cuts you off. The impact slams into your shoulder, white heat exploding down your arm. You hit the ground with a cry, the gun sliding from your grasp.

“Y/N!” Jeongyeon’s voice is raw. She’s at your side in seconds, pressing a hand against the wound. “Stay with me!”

“I’m fine,” you lie, vision flickering. “Just… a graze.”

Blood seeps through her fingers anyway. She glances toward the crate, jaw clenched. “You’re not dying on me too,” she mutters, fury and panic tangled in her tone.

She rises in a flash, stepping out from cover despite your protest. “Jeongyeon—!”

Her shots ring through the fog—controlled, precise. The last one finds its mark. Jinseok collapses backward, gun clattering across the wet dock. The silence that follows feels deafening.

When she lowers her weapon, rain is falling harder again, washing thin streams of blood toward the river.

Paramedics arrive minutes later. They strap you onto a stretcher, bandage tight around your shoulder. Jeongyeon hovers nearby, drenched, pale, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. When the captain tries to speak to her, she just mutters, “Later,” and climbs into the ambulance beside you.

You drift in and out of consciousness on the way to the hospital. Between flashes of light and siren wails, you feel her hand gripping yours, steady and desperate. You squeeze back, just to let her know you’re still there.

When you wake, the rain has eased to a whisper against the window. The sterile smell of antiseptic fills the room. Your shoulder throbs, but you’re alive. Jeongyeon sits in the chair beside your bed, eyes rimmed red, uniform jacket hanging loosely from her shoulders.

“You should rest,” she says.

“I could say the same to you,” you rasp.

She exhales a shaky laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Comes with the badge.”

For a long moment, neither of you speak. Then she says quietly, “You took that bullet because of me.”

“I took it because we’re partners.”

Her gaze lifts to yours. “That’s exactly what he said.”

“Haneul?”

She nods. “Right before… everything.”

Silence stretches again, thick with ghosts. Then she whispers, “You almost died.”

“But I didn’t.” You smile faintly. “Guess the rain’s luckier than we thought.”

She shakes her head, looking away. “Don’t make jokes, Y/N. I can’t—” Her voice breaks. “I can’t lose another person.”

You reach for her hand, ignoring the pain that flares through your shoulder. “You won’t.”

Her fingers tremble against yours. “You can’t promise that.”

“Maybe not,” you say softly. “But I can try.”

She looks at you for a long time, eyes searching, conflicted. Then, slowly, she leans forward until her forehead rests against your uninjured shoulder. You feel her exhale, long and trembling, the walls she’s built for years finally giving way.

Neither of you says anything. There’s nothing left to say.

You’re released two days later. The shooter, Jinseok, is confirmed dead at the scene. The papers call it closure; the department calls it justice. But you can see it in Jeongyeon’s eyes—none of this feels like victory. It feels like an ending that came too late.

Back at the precinct, your desk is piled with get-well notes and stale donuts. She stands by the window, staring out at the drizzle. You approach quietly.

“They’re calling it solved,” you say.

She hums without turning. “Cases end. Doesn’t mean they stop haunting you.”

“You could take some time off,” you offer. “You deserve it.”

“So do you.”

“I think I’ll spend mine sleeping.”

That earns you a small smile. “Good plan.”

You stand beside her, watching raindrops race down the glass. For a while, the silence feels almost peaceful.

Then she speaks, voice low. “You know what I realized out there?”

“What?”

She turns toward you. “Fear isn’t what kills you. It’s what keeps you from living. I spent years pretending I didn’t care about anyone—because caring meant losing. But when I saw you fall…”
Her throat tightens. “I finally understood what Haneul meant when he said you can’t save them all. He wasn’t warning me. He was forgiving me.”

You feel your chest ache—not from the wound, but from the quiet sincerity in her voice. “Maybe he’d be proud of you.”

Her eyes glisten. “Maybe.”

You hesitate, then say, “Jeongyeon, you don’t have to keep doing this alone.”

She looks at you, and for once, there’s no resistance—only exhaustion and relief. “I don’t know how not to.”

“Then I’ll remind you,” you say gently. “Every day, if I have to.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “You’re a terrible rookie.”

“And you’re a worse teacher.”

Her laugh this time is real—soft, unguarded. It fills the space between you like sunlight after too many storms.

Weeks pass. The rain still comes and goes, but it no longer feels suffocating. The case files close, the evidence gets boxed away, and the city returns to its usual rhythm. You heal; she learns to breathe again.

One evening, as you’re heading out, she calls after you. “Y/N.”

You turn. She’s standing by her desk, hair loose, expression unreadable. “Coffee?” she asks.

You blink. “Are you asking me out, Detective?”

“Don’t push your luck.” But her tone is lighter than you’ve ever heard it.

You grin. “I’ll drive.”

Outside, drizzle starts to fall again. You walk together through the shimmering puddles, shoulders brushing, the air filled with the scent of rain and asphalt. She tilts her face upward, eyes closing briefly.

“What?” you ask.

She smiles faintly. “I think I finally get what Haneul meant about the rain.”

You arch a brow. “That it’s poetic?”

“That it’s cleansing,” she says. “Not because it erases the past, but because it lets you start over.”

You nod. “A second chance.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Maybe that’s all we ever get.”

As you reach the car, thunder rumbles in the distance, low and steady. She glances at you, the faintest curve of a smile still on her lips. “Ready, partner?”

You return it. “Always.”

The city stretches out before you, gleaming under the rain, endless and alive. Somewhere within its noise and sorrow, something fragile has begun to grow—a quiet defiance, a promise whispered between two people who’ve both learned how to live again.

And though the rain falls harder, it no longer feels like a barrier between you.

It feels like home.

Chapter Text

A month passes before the city dares to breathe again.

The investigation is closed, the paperwork filed, the bullets logged into evidence. For the first time in years, Yoo Jeongyeon doesn’t have a murderer’s face burned into her dreams. Yet peace feels like a foreign language on her tongue.

You can see it every morning when she arrives—coffee in one hand, expression carefully blank. She’s trying to pretend that everything is normal, that the ghosts in her chest have learned how to whisper instead of scream.

You’re healing too. The bullet wound in your shoulder has become a dull ache that reminds you you’re alive. You’ve been cleared for light duty, which mostly means endless reports, more coffee, and the occasional side-eye from officers who now treat you like some kind of hero.

You hate that word. So does she.

It’s Friday evening when she shows up at your desk. “You free tonight?”

You blink up at her, surprised. “Define free.”

“Not dying, not on shift.”

“Then yeah.”

“Good. Come on.”

You follow her outside, the air thick with the scent of wet asphalt. The sky threatens rain again, though a single beam of orange light leaks through the clouds. She leads you to her car, says nothing the whole drive.

The silence between you is comfortable now—no longer edged with suspicion or fear, but something quieter. Familiar.

“Where are we going?” you finally ask.

“Someplace I haven’t been in a while,” she says. “I think I owe someone a visit.”

It’s only when the trees start to thin and you see the neat rows of headstones that you understand.

The cemetery is quiet except for the wind. She stops by a grave near the back, the stone polished and clean despite the moss. Detective Kang Haneul, 1992 – 2022. A single white lily lies at the base.

Jeongyeon kneels, brushing stray leaves away. “Hey,” she murmurs. “I brought backup this time.”

You stand beside her, unsure whether to speak. The air feels heavy with memory. She places her hand on the stone, eyes closing for a moment.

“I finally did it,” she whispers. “I found him. It’s over.”

Then she laughs softly, a sound without joy. “You’d tell me not to brood. You always did.”

You crouch next to her. “He’d be proud of you.”

She glances at you, expression unreadable. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

A drop of rain lands on the stone, spreading like ink. Another follows, then another, until the drizzle becomes steady. You offer your jacket, but she shakes her head.

“It’s fine,” she says. “He liked the rain.”

You stay there until dusk, the two of you silent, letting the water soak through your clothes. It feels almost like absolution.

Later, over steaming bowls of ramen at a late-night diner, she breaks the quiet. “You ever think about what comes next?”

You slurp a noodle. “Next as in… life?”

“As in after all this,” she says. “After cases, after guns. Do you see yourself still doing this in ten years?”

You lean back, thinking. “Maybe. But I don’t think the badge should be everything. I want… balance, I guess.”

She smirks. “Balance. You sound like my therapist.”

“You have one?”

“I tried. She quit.”

You laugh, and for once she joins you. The sound fills the small diner, echoing against the glass windows fogged with rain.

When the laughter fades, you ask gently, “What about you? What do you want next?”

Her chopsticks pause mid-air. “I don’t know,” she admits. “For the longest time, all I wanted was to make up for my mistakes. But now that I’ve faced them… I think I just want to learn how to live again.”

You nod. “That’s a start.”

She gives you a sidelong glance. “And maybe figure out what to do with a partner who doesn’t know when to quit.”

“Can’t help it,” you say, smiling. “You set the bar high.”

Her eyes soften, though she hides it by sipping her broth. “Don’t get sentimental on me, rookie.”

The following week, you return to full duty. The precinct feels lighter now—less haunted. Yet something about Jeongyeon has changed. She still works hard, still arrives early, but there’s a subtle warmth to her now, a humor that peeks through the cracks she used to keep sealed.

One morning, she tosses a case file on your desk. “Small one,” she says. “Theft, not homicide. Think you can handle it?”

You arch an eyebrow. “Are you trusting me with paperwork or with people?”

“Both,” she says, half-smiling. “Don’t make me regret it.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Hours pass. The case is routine—nothing like the storm you both survived—but you find yourself watching her across the room. There’s a calmness in her now, but also a loneliness that lingers like a bruise. You wonder if she sees the same in you.

At noon, you grab lunch together in the breakroom, trading sarcastic comments about the precinct’s new recruits. She’s mid-story when the intercom crackles overhead.

“Detective Yoo, call from Seoul General. Urgent.”

Her expression changes instantly—concern, then dread. She excuses herself, grabbing the nearest phone. You can hear fragments of the conversation from your seat.

“…yes, this is Yoo… what happened? …when? …I’m on my way.”

She hangs up slowly, her face pale.

“Jeongyeon?” you ask, rising.

“It’s my sister,” she says. “Accident. They’re taking her into surgery.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “I’m driving.”

The hospital smells of disinfectant and fear. The fluorescent lights hum like static. Jeongyeon moves fast through the corridors, ignoring the nurses who try to stop her. You keep pace beside her, ready for whatever news waits.

A doctor finally intercepts you. “Detective Yoo? Your sister sustained multiple fractures. We’re stabilizing her now, but the head injury is severe.”

Jeongyeon’s voice is barely audible. “Can I see her?”

“Once she’s out of surgery. It may take a few hours.”

You thank the doctor, then guide Jeongyeon to a seat in the waiting area. She sinks down, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. For the first time since you’ve known her, she looks truly small.

“She’s all I have left,” she whispers. “After our parents died, it was just the two of us. And I barely see her because of this job.”

You sit beside her. “You’ll get to tell her that. She’s strong.”

“She’s stronger than me,” Jeongyeon says. “Always was.”

You stay there, silent support, while hours stretch thin. At some point, she leans back, eyes closed, exhaustion dragging her down. You find yourself watching her again—the way even in sleep she can’t let go completely, hands still clenched, breath uneven.

When the doctor returns, dawn is breaking outside. “She’s stable,” he says gently. “She’ll need monitoring, but she’s going to be all right.”

Jeongyeon exhales like someone who’s been underwater too long. She murmurs a thank-you, then turns to you, eyes glistening. “You stayed.”

“Of course I did.”

Her lips part, but whatever she means to say gets lost in the tremor of relief. Instead, she just reaches for your hand, holding it tightly until the shaking stops.

Later, after her sister wakes, you wait outside the room to give them privacy. Through the window, you see Jeongyeon smiling—a real one, not the forced smirk she wears at work. It hits you harder than you expect.

When she finally steps out, her eyes are tired but lighter. “She’s going to be okay,” she says.

“That’s good news.”

She nods. “You didn’t have to stay.”

“I know,” you say. “But I wanted to.”

There’s a pause. The hospital corridor is quiet except for the soft beeping of machines. Then she says softly, “You’re making it hard to keep those walls up, you know.”

You smile. “Maybe that’s the point.”

She laughs under her breath. “Careful, rookie. You keep talking like that, and I might start believing you.”

“Maybe that’s the point, too.”

Her gaze lingers on yours for a long second before she looks away. “Come on. Let’s get some real coffee.”

And as you walk side by side through the hospital doors into the pale morning light, you realize how fragile peace can be—and how fiercely you want to protect it.

Chapter Text

The first few days after the accident pass in quiet routine. Jeongyeon takes some leave, spending most of her time at the hospital. You visit when you can, bringing coffee and the occasional sandwich she never remembers to eat. Her sister, Jisu, is recovering steadily, her spirit bright even with her leg in a cast.

“She talks about you a lot,” Jisu says one afternoon, grinning. “My sister, I mean. She pretends she doesn’t, but she does.”

You laugh, a little embarrassed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” Jisu assures you. “She’s been different since you showed up.”

Different. The word lingers with you long after you leave the room.

Outside, the afternoon is painted gray again, clouds hanging low and heavy. You find Jeongyeon sitting on a bench near the hospital garden, her jacket draped over her lap. She doesn’t notice you at first, too lost in thought.

“Your sister’s doing better,” you say as you sit beside her.

She nods slowly. “Yeah. I think she’s going to be fine.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Yeah.” Her voice is soft, distant. Then she glances at you. “She likes you.”

“I noticed.”

“You have that effect on people.”

You smile. “Even you?”

She hesitates before answering. “Maybe.”

The rain starts again—light at first, then steadier. You both stay seated, letting it fall. The drops soak your sleeves, blur the world into watercolor edges.

“You ever wonder,” she says after a while, “why it always rains when things fall apart or come together?”

You chuckle. “Dramatic weather? Poetic timing?”

“Maybe,” she murmurs. “Or maybe it’s the world’s way of reminding us we don’t control everything.”

You tilt your head toward her. “And does that bother you?”

“It used to,” she admits. “Now… I think I’m learning to live with it.”

She turns toward you then, and something passes between you—a moment without words, only the quiet acknowledgment of everything unsaid. You feel your chest tighten, not in fear but in something gentler, something that scares you for different reasons.

Days turn into weeks. Jeongyeon returns to duty, but she’s different—less haunted, more open. The department notices. Even the captain comments on it one morning, teasing, “Looks like someone finally found a reason to smile.”

She shoots you a look that says don’t you dare, but the faint curve of her lips betrays her.

Work finds its rhythm again. Small cases, long nights, and the comforting normalcy of routine. But the air between you and Jeongyeon hums with unspoken tension. Every brush of hands when passing files, every shared glance during late-night stakeouts—it all carries a charge neither of you address.

Until one night, that is.

You’re both in the car, parked outside a surveillance point. The city is hushed, rain pattering gently on the roof. The suspect you’ve been tailing hasn’t moved in hours, and boredom has turned the silence into something heavier.

“Can I ask you something?” you say finally.

Jeongyeon hums in response, eyes still on the building across the street.

“Why’d you become a cop?”

She exhales slowly. “My dad was one. Thought I could make a difference. Thought justice meant something clean and simple.” She laughs softly. “Turns out it’s anything but.”

You nod. “And now?”

“Now I think justice is just doing your best, even when you can’t fix everything.” Her voice lowers. “Even when it costs you.”

You study her profile—the sharp lines softened by the glow of streetlights. “You’ve paid a lot already.”

“So have you,” she says quietly. “That bullet wasn’t supposed to be yours.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say. “We both made it out.”

Her gaze flicks toward you. “You say that like it’s simple.”

“Maybe it can be,” you say, holding her eyes. “If we let it.”

Something shifts then—a breath caught between you, a heartbeat too loud. She looks away first, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “I might start believing you again.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” you say, echoing her words from the hospital.

Her lips twitch. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “You like that about me.”

She doesn’t answer, but the small smile that follows is enough.

Later that week, the department hosts a memorial service for fallen officers. You and Jeongyeon stand side by side in the drizzle, the sound of bagpipes weaving through the mist. She doesn’t cry, but her hand brushes yours halfway through the ceremony, a silent tether.

Afterward, as the crowd disperses, she lingers by the memorial wall, tracing the engraved letters of Haneul’s name. You wait behind her, giving her space.

“He’d tell me to stop staring at rocks,” she says finally.

“Then he’d probably thank you for remembering him,” you reply.

She nods once, then turns toward you. “You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Making things easier to breathe.”

You chuckle softly. “Someone has to keep you alive.”

Her eyes meet yours, and for the first time, she doesn’t look away. “You already did.”

The rain thickens around you, and she steps closer—just enough that you feel her warmth through the damp air. The world narrows to the rhythm of rain and her heartbeat. You’re not sure who moves first, only that the space between you finally disappears.

Her lips are cold, hesitant, tasting faintly of rain and regret. But when she pulls back, the tremor in her breath tells you it was real.

“Was that a mistake?” you whisper.

She shakes her head slowly. “No. Just… unexpected.”

“Do you regret it?”

Her eyes soften. “Not yet.”

You laugh quietly, relief mixing with something fragile and new. She takes your hand, fingers interlacing with yours, and for the first time since you’ve known her, she doesn’t flinch from the closeness.

Weeks pass again, and the rhythm of your days changes subtly. She still calls you rookie, still teases you about your coffee addiction, but there’s a warmth behind the words now. A trust.

One evening, you find yourselves walking home together after a long shift. The streets glisten from earlier rain, and the city hums quietly around you.

“You ever think about what Haneul would say if he saw us now?” you ask.

Jeongyeon smiles faintly. “He’d say I finally stopped hiding.”

“And me?”

“He’d tell you to run,” she says with a grin.

You laugh, nudging her shoulder. “Maybe he’d be right.”

“Maybe,” she says, glancing at you. “But you won’t.”

“No,” you admit. “I won’t.”

The rain starts again, soft and steady. You walk the rest of the way in silence, the kind that feels full rather than empty. When you reach your building, she stops, eyes tracing your face.

“Get some sleep,” she says quietly.

“You too.”

She hesitates, then adds, “You know… sometimes the rain doesn’t mean loss.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

She shakes her head. “Sometimes it’s just what comes before things grow again.”

And before you can reply, she leans in and kisses you—brief, sure, like punctuation at the end of a sentence she’s been writing for years.

When she pulls away, her smile is soft but certain. “See you tomorrow, partner.”

“Count on it,” you whisper.

You watch her walk away, rain threading through her hair like silver, until she disappears around the corner. The city hums, the streetlights shimmer, and for the first time in a long time, you believe her.

The rain between you has finally begun to clear.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Jeongyeon is already at your desk before you arrive. A steaming paper cup waits beside your keyboard—your exact order, even the extra sugar you pretend not to need.

“You’re late,” she says without looking up from the case file in her hands.

“You’re early,” you counter, dropping into your chair. “Trying to impress someone?”

Her mouth curves. “I don’t need to try.”

You grin, taking a sip of the coffee. “Then what’s this? Bribery?”

“Consider it thanks,” she replies. “For not running.”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you watch the sunlight spill through the blinds, striping her face with gold. The bruise beneath her jaw from the last case has almost faded. “You think I’d run after everything we’ve survived?”

She finally meets your gaze. “I think most people would.”

“Well,” you say, smiling faintly, “lucky for you, I’m not most people.”

Her expression softens at that, but she hides it quickly, flipping another page in the file. “We’ve got a new case. Missing person—young woman, twenty-four, last seen leaving a club downtown.”

“Simple missing-persons job?” you ask, already knowing it never is.

“Simple’s never in our vocabulary.”

The club smells of sweat, perfume, and desperation. Blue lights pulse like a heartbeat, flashing over faces blurred by movement. Jeongyeon moves through the crowd with the quiet precision of someone who’s done this too many times. You follow close behind, trying not to lose her in the noise.

The bartender eyes your badges warily. “Cops again?”

“Just need to ask a few questions,” Jeongyeon says, voice calm but firm. “You remember a girl named Lee Ara? Came in three nights ago.”

He nods toward the corner. “She was here with some guy. Didn’t catch his name. Tall, expensive suit. He paid cash.”

You jot the description down. “Cameras?”

“Back room. But the owner won’t like you poking around.”

Jeongyeon flashes a sharp smile. “He’ll live.”

Minutes later, you’re in the security office, scrolling through grainy footage. The missing woman appears on screen: dark dress, nervous smile. The man beside her keeps his hand on her back, guiding her toward the exit. There’s something wrong in the way she moves—hesitant, like she already knows she shouldn’t leave.

“Freeze that,” Jeongyeon says. You zoom in on the man’s face, but the image distorts in the low light.

“Can’t get a clean shot,” you mutter.

She leans closer, frowning. “Still. Something about him feels familiar.”

“Criminal database check?”

“Already on it.”

She calls the precinct while you watch the video loop again. The scene ends with Ara disappearing into the rain outside, the man holding the door for her. After that, nothing.

When Jeongyeon hangs up, her face has tightened. “Partial match,” she says. “Name’s Han Junwoo. Corporate security. Had assault charges five years ago—dismissed.”

“Of course they were.”

“Let’s see if he’s still local.”

By evening you’ve tracked Junwoo’s address to a glass-walled apartment overlooking the Han River. The doorman recognizes the badges and hesitates only a moment before buzzing you up. The elevator hums softly, carrying you into silence.

Jeongyeon knocks once. “Police. We’d like to ask a few questions.”

No answer.

She exchanges a look with you, then tries the handle. Unlocked. Inside, the apartment is immaculate—too clean. No clutter, no dishes, no signs of anyone living here. Only the faint scent of cologne and rain from the balcony doors left open.

You sweep the rooms while she checks the closet. “He’s gone,” you call out.

“Yeah,” she replies. “But not long ago.”

She holds up a wineglass from the counter, lipstick smudged along the rim.

“Ara’s?”

“Maybe. Or someone else’s. Forensics will tell us.”

You step closer, noticing the rain darkening her sleeve through the open door. “He left in a hurry.”

“Which means he’s watching us.”

She scans the rooftops across the river. “He’ll come back. They always do.”

Her tone is steady, but you can hear the undertone—the same instinct that used to keep her awake nights. You touch her arm lightly. “We’ll get him. And she’ll be okay.”

She glances at your hand, then back at the rain. “You keep saying that like you can promise it.”

“Maybe I can.”

“Don’t,” she says softly. “Hope hurts more when it breaks.”

You want to tell her hope’s the only thing keeping either of you upright, but the words stick in your throat.

Two days later, the call comes in. A body has washed up by the docks—female, mid-twenties. You know before you arrive that it’s Ara. Jeongyeon stands over the sheet-covered form, rain plastering her hair to her face. The medic says something about time of death, but you can tell she isn’t listening.

“She’s just a kid,” you murmur.

“She trusted someone,” Jeongyeon says. “And he made sure that trust killed her.”

Her voice is controlled, but her fingers tremble. You rest a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find him.”

She nods once. “We will.”

Back at the precinct, the rain drums against the windows in relentless rhythm. You sift through files, tracing Junwoo’s financials, phone records, everything. Jeongyeon barely speaks. Every so often, she runs a hand through her damp hair and mutters under her breath.

At midnight, you stretch and glance over. “You need sleep.”

“So do you.”

“I’ll sleep when you do.”

She finally looks up, the faintest ghost of a smile appearing. “You’re stubborn.”

“Part of the job description.”

Silence again, but this one feels companionable. Outside, thunder rolls over the river.

Then her phone buzzes. Unknown number. She answers.

“Detective Yoo.” A man’s voice, smooth and mocking. “Still chasing ghosts?”

Her eyes narrow. You can hear the faint hum of traffic in the background through the receiver. “Junwoo,” she says quietly. “Where are you?”

“Close enough to see you,” he replies. “You shouldn’t have come to my apartment.”

Jeongyeon signals for you to start tracing. You open the program, fingers flying.

“What do you want?” she asks, tone even.

“A conversation. You took something from me—my freedom. I just want to return the favor.”

The line goes dead.

You look up at her. “Got it. Ping’s from the old train yard, east side.”

“Let’s move.”

The yard is half-abandoned, a sprawl of rusted tracks and graffiti-scarred freight cars. Rain sheets down from a bruised sky, turning the ground to mud. You and Jeongyeon move carefully, flashlights cutting through the dark.

“This is where he killed Ara,” Jeongyeon says quietly.

You glance at her. “You don’t know that.”

“I can feel it.”

She’s right. There’s a heaviness here, the air thick with leftover violence. You check your weapon, nerves humming.

“Over there,” you whisper. A figure stands near one of the carriages, motionless. The rain makes it hard to tell if it’s Junwoo or a shadow.

Jeongyeon gestures for you to flank left. You creep along the side of the train, heart pounding.

“Junwoo!” she calls. “It’s over.”

His voice echoes through the storm. “Not yet.”

The sound of metal scraping—then movement behind you.

“Y/N—!”

You spin as someone lunges from the dark, a flash of steel glinting. You fire once; the shot misses. The man grabs your arm, twisting hard. Pain shoots up your shoulder—the same one that was wounded before.

Jeongyeon’s gun barks twice. The attacker crumples. She’s at your side in seconds, gripping your jacket. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you grunt, breathing hard. “He’s not.”

“Stay with me,” she says. “He’s not alone.”

And as more footsteps echo through the rain, you realize she’s right.

Chapter Text

Shadows dart between the freight cars. Jeongyeon pushes you behind a stack of crates, gun steady despite the rain slicking her hands. The echo of footsteps grows closer, then stops. The only sound left is the relentless drumming of water against metal.

Three shapes appear through the mist—men in dark clothes, faces hidden beneath hoods. One holds a knife, another a pipe, the third a gun.

“Looks like he brought friends,” you whisper.

Jeongyeon’s eyes narrow. “Stay low.”

She moves before you can stop her—quick, precise, fearless. Her first shot takes out the man with the pipe. He drops instantly. The one with the gun returns fire, bullets sparking off the steel siding beside you. You press against the wall, heart hammering.

“Jeongyeon!”

“I’ve got him!” she shouts back. Her next two shots find their mark. The final man hesitates, then bolts into the dark. She runs after him without thinking.

“Jeongyeon, wait—!”

You chase her, slipping on the wet gravel, the rain blinding. You see flashes of her flashlight ahead, the metallic glint of her badge as she sprints toward the far end of the yard. Then, suddenly, silence.

“Jeongyeon?”

No response.

You move faster, rounding a corner—and freeze.

Junwoo has her pinned against a wall, knife at her throat. His suit is soaked, eyes wild, teeth bared in a feral grin.

“I knew you’d come alone,” he snarls.

“I’m not alone,” she says through clenched teeth.

You raise your gun. “Drop it, Junwoo.”

He laughs. “The rookie. You never learn, do you?”

You keep your aim steady despite the tremor in your injured arm. “You killed Ara. It’s over.”

“Over?” He presses the blade harder. A thin line of blood beads against her skin. “You think this ends with me in handcuffs?”

Jeongyeon’s voice is cold. “That’s the idea.”

He jerks her closer, using her as a shield. “Then shoot. Let’s see if you’ve got better aim than last time.”

You can see it—the flicker in her eyes, the memory of her last partner falling, the weight of another life hanging on a trigger pull. The moment stretches too long.

So you move.

You sidestep into the rain, firing once. The bullet hits Junwoo’s shoulder. He stumbles, the knife clattering to the ground. Jeongyeon twists free, grabs his wrist, and slams him to the wall with a force that rattles the steel.

“Not this time,” she says through gritted teeth.

He spits blood, laughing weakly. “You think killing me fixes anything?”

“No,” she says. “But it stops you.”

She cuffs him, reading his rights with a calm that shakes more than rage ever could. When she’s done, she finally exhales, shoulders sagging. You step closer, resting a hand on her back.

“You okay?”

She nods slowly, though her hands are still trembling. “You shouldn’t have taken that shot.”

“Then we’d both be dead.”

She meets your gaze, eyes shining with rain and something deeper. “You keep risking yourself for me.”

You smile faintly. “Maybe that’s just what partners do.”

Her laugh is shaky, but real. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

By the time backup arrives, the yard is crawling with officers. Junwoo’s hauled off in cuffs, shouting curses that dissolve into the rain. The paramedics check your arm, scolding you for reopening the wound. You wave them off, eyes searching for Jeongyeon.

She’s standing a few feet away, watching the flashing red-and-blue lights reflect in puddles. You walk to her side, the exhaustion settling between you like fog.

“It’s over,” you say quietly.

She shakes her head. “Not yet. There’ll be reports, testimony, maybe another trial.”

“I meant for you.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she stares out at the rain, voice low. “Every time it ends, it feels like I’m supposed to feel lighter. But I don’t. I just feel… empty.”

You step closer, your sleeve brushing hers. “Maybe that emptiness isn’t a void. Maybe it’s space—so something new can start.”

She looks at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “You always have an answer, don’t you?”

“Only for you,” you say softly.

For a long moment, she just stares. Then, almost imperceptibly, she leans her head against your shoulder. The contact is brief but grounding, a fragile proof that she’s still here—and that you are too.

Later, in the quiet hum of the precinct, you’re both seated at your desks finishing reports. The clock on the wall ticks toward 2 a.m. She looks up suddenly.

“You ever think about what happens when this all stops?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“When the cases end. When we don’t have anyone left to chase.”

You shrug. “Then we find something else to run toward.”

She huffs a soft laugh. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” you admit. “But maybe it’s worth trying.”

She studies you for a moment, then sets her pen down. “You know, before you, I didn’t think I’d ever want to try again.”

You look at her, startled. “Jeongyeon…”

“I kept telling myself that caring only leads to pain. That if I stayed alone, I couldn’t lose anyone else. But then you showed up—loud, stubborn, reckless—and somehow you made me forget how to keep my distance.”

Your throat tightens. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

Her smile is small but genuine. “Still deciding.”

You reach across the desk, fingers brushing hers. “Take your time.”

She squeezes your hand once before letting go. “Don’t tell anyone I got sentimental.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The next morning, you find her on the rooftop of the precinct, watching the sunrise. The city glows gold and silver beneath the fading clouds. For once, there’s no rain.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask.

“Didn’t want to,” she says, eyes still on the horizon. “Feels like if I blink, it’ll all disappear.”

You step beside her. “It won’t. You’ve earned this.”

“Maybe we both did.”

The wind catches her hair, brushing it against your cheek. You turn toward her, and for a moment, the world narrows again—to her breath, her warmth, her quiet strength. The same storm that once tore her apart now feels like something that’s finally passing.

She looks at you, eyes soft. “Do you think we ever stop running from what hurts us?”

You think for a moment. “No. I think we just learn to run together.”

She smiles, and the sight feels like sunrise itself. “Then stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full—of rain and laughter, of grief and survival, of everything left to come.

That night, it rains again—soft, forgiving. You and Jeongyeon sit in her car outside a quiet diner, the same one from weeks ago. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm with the drops.

“I used to hate this sound,” she admits. “It reminded me of the night Haneul died.”

“And now?”

“Now it reminds me of the night I didn’t lose you.”

You smile. “That’s progress.”

She chuckles. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just life reminding me I get second chances.”

You glance out at the rain-slick streets, then back at her. “Then let’s not waste it.”

Her hand finds yours again, steady this time, unflinching. “Deal.”

Outside, the rain falls—not as sorrow, but as renewal. The storm that began with loss now ends with quiet resilience, and in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, Jeongyeon finally looks at peace.

For the first time, the rain between you doesn’t divide.
It binds.

Chapter Text

The rain has become background noise now—a rhythm the city can’t live without. You and Jeongyeon have learned to move through it like it’s an old friend: steady, predictable, cleansing.

Two months have passed since the train-yard arrest. The case is closed, Junwoo awaiting trial, and Detective Yoo is finally sleeping through the night. Or at least she tells you she is.

You don’t quite believe her.

At the precinct, life has fallen into its old routines—coffee, paperwork, sarcasm—but something beneath that rhythm has shifted. She smiles more now, even laughs sometimes, though it always carries that soft ache that comes from having survived something you weren’t sure you would.

You’re at your desk reviewing a theft report when she appears beside you, leaning against the partition with her usual casual authority.

“Got a minute?” she asks.

“For you? Always.”

She tosses a file onto your desk. “Double homicide in Hongdae. Captain wants us on it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t we just agree to avoid anything with ‘homicide’ in the title?”

“Apparently, the universe didn’t get the memo.”

You sigh, grabbing your jacket. “All right, boss. Lead the way.”

The crime scene sits inside a half-collapsed warehouse. The victims are a pair of security guards—both shot clean through, no signs of struggle. Forensics are already cataloging evidence when you and Jeongyeon duck under the yellow tape.

Rain seeps through holes in the roof, forming puddles that reflect the harsh light of floodlamps. She crouches beside one of the bodies, studying the angle of the bullet entry.

“Professional,” she murmurs. “No hesitation.”

You look around. “Nothing stolen. What’s the motive?”

She points toward the back, where several crates have been forced open. Inside, you glimpse stacks of microchips wrapped in foil.

“Military tech,” she says. “Or black-market knockoffs. Either way, someone wanted them enough to kill.”

You whistle softly. “Guess our quiet weeks are officially over.”

Hours pass in a blur of statements and photographs. The rain outside turns into a downpour, hammering against the tin roof until your voices are almost drowned out. You and Jeongyeon huddle beneath an overhang, reviewing notes.

“You okay?” you ask after a while.

She shrugs. “It’s strange. Cases like this used to consume me. Now it’s just… work.”

“You mean you’ve learned to let go.”

“Maybe.” She glances at you. “Or maybe I’ve just found a reason not to drown in it.”

You smile faintly. “That reason better not be coffee.”

Her lips twitch. “No. It’s louder and more stubborn.”

You bump your shoulder lightly against hers. “Guilty as charged.”

That night, you stop by her apartment to drop off a report she forgot to sign. She opens the door in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair damp from a shower, looking more like the version of herself she doesn’t let the world see.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” she says, stepping aside.

“Could’ve emailed it,” you admit. “But then I wouldn’t get free tea.”

She laughs under her breath and motions you in. The place is quiet—books scattered across the table, the faint hum of rain on glass. You hand her the file, and she signs without reading, trusting you completely now.

When she hands it back, your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.

“You know,” she says softly, “I used to think grief was like rain—something you just had to wait out. But it doesn’t stop. You just learn to walk in it.”

You look at her, really look. “You’ve gotten good at walking.”

“Not alone,” she says.

The words hang between you like the pause before thunder. You want to say something, anything, but her phone rings, slicing through the moment.

She answers, frowning. “Detective Yoo.” A beat. “What? When?” Her face hardens. “We’ll be there.”

She hangs up. “They moved Junwoo. Prison transport ambush. He’s gone.”

Your stomach drops. “Gone? As in escaped?”

She nods. “Two guards dead. They found the van burning outside Incheon.”

You grab your jacket. “Then we start over.”

The next forty-eight hours blur into adrenaline and rain. Roadblocks, witness statements, dead ends. Junwoo’s trail vanishes like smoke. The department forms a task force, but Jeongyeon refuses to step back. You stay by her side, because you know better than to let her face ghosts alone.

By the third night, exhaustion shows in every line of her face. She’s standing in front of the map board, eyes bloodshot, when you place a cup of coffee beside her.

“You need sleep,” you say.

“Can’t.”

“You won’t.”

She exhales sharply, finally meeting your gaze. “You don’t get it. If he’s out there—”

“Then we’ll find him,” you interrupt. “Together.”

Her jaw tightens. “You keep saying that word like it’s a shield.”

“It is,” you say simply. “For both of us.”

For a moment, she just looks at you. Then she nods, barely perceptible, and turns back to the map. But you see it—the flicker of fear, the silent plea not to lose someone else.

It’s past midnight when the lead comes in. A truck driver reports a man matching Junwoo’s description hitching a ride north toward the mountains. You and Jeongyeon are already moving before the captain can assign backup.

Rain follows you like fate. The road winds through forests, headlights slicing through mist. Neither of you speaks until the radio crackles with interference.

Then Jeongyeon says quietly, “If something happens—”

“Don’t,” you cut in. “We’re not doing that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Nothing’s happening to you. Not again.”

Her grip on the wheel tightens. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” you say softly. “Because I’m not letting you go alone.”

She glances at you, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Stubborn rookie.”

“Always.”

When you finally spot the truck, it’s parked on the side of a narrow dirt road. The driver’s gone, cab empty. You draw your weapon, scanning the tree line.

“Stay close,” Jeongyeon murmurs.

“Wasn’t planning on doing anything else.”

You follow her into the woods. Rain filters through the branches, dripping down the barrel of your gun. The forest is alive with whispers—wind, leaves, memory. Somewhere ahead, a twig snaps.

Jeongyeon raises a hand. You both move in silence, steps deliberate. Then you see him.

Junwoo stands at the edge of a ravine, soaked, wild-eyed, the gleam of a pistol in his hand. He turns at the sound of your approach, mouth twisting into a smile.

“I was wondering when you’d catch up.”

“Drop it,” Jeongyeon orders.

“Last time you said that, you shot me.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

He laughs, sharp and broken. “You think this is justice? You think locking me away fixes anything?”

“This isn’t about fixing,” she says. “It’s about ending.”

You keep your aim steady, pulse roaring in your ears. “Put it down, Junwoo. Don’t make her do this.”

He looks between you, eyes narrowing. “So this is the replacement. Tell me, rookie—how long before she gets you killed too?”

“Enough!” Jeongyeon snaps.

The sound of thunder drowns out the rest as Junwoo raises his gun.

You both fire.

Chapter Text

The shots echo through the forest, swallowed almost instantly by thunder. For one terrifying second, everything goes still. Then Junwoo staggers backward, gun falling from his hand, and tumbles into the ravine below.

You lower your weapon slowly, lungs burning, waiting for movement that never comes. Jeongyeon stands frozen, rain streaking her face, the barrel of her gun still trained on the darkness.

“Jeongyeon,” you say softly.

She doesn’t answer. Her shoulders tremble, her breathing ragged. You take a cautious step closer. “It’s over.”

Her voice is a whisper. “It never is.”

You reach out, wrapping your fingers around hers. Her skin is ice-cold, but she doesn’t pull away. The tension drains from her grip, and at last, she lowers the gun.

For a long moment neither of you move. The rain falls harder, washing away the smoke, the blood, the weight of everything that came before. When she finally looks at you, there’s no victory in her eyes—only exhaustion.

“Let’s go home,” you say.

Back at the precinct, dawn creeps through the blinds, pale and unfamiliar. You sit across from Jeongyeon in the debriefing room. Her hair clings to her temples, her clothes still damp, but she hasn’t said a word since they brought you in.

The captain finishes the report, signs a few forms, then sighs. “You two did good work. Go get some rest.”

Jeongyeon nods mechanically, mutters a quiet “Yes, sir,” and stands. You follow her out into the hallway, where the silence feels heavier than the rain outside.

She stops beside the lockers, staring at nothing. “He’s really gone.”

You nod. “He is.”

“He killed two guards, tried to kill us, and still—” She breaks off, shaking her head. “I thought I’d feel something. Relief, maybe. Closure. But I just feel… hollow.”

You hesitate before saying, “Maybe closure isn’t about feeling better. Maybe it’s just about accepting that what’s done is done.”

Her gaze drifts toward you. “You always have the right words.”

“I fake it well.”

She huffs out a laugh, the sound fragile but real. “You really do.”

Hours later, you find her on the rooftop again, sitting against the low wall, watching the city wake beneath a sky of bruised silver. You bring two cups of coffee, setting one beside her.

“Thought you might need a refill,” you say.

She smiles faintly. “Trying to bribe your senior officer?”

“Would it work?”

“Maybe.” She takes the cup, warming her hands on the lid. “I keep thinking about Haneul. About how it ended. I used to tell myself I could’ve done something different—moved faster, been smarter, taken the bullet instead.”

You sit beside her. “And now?”

“Now I think maybe it was just… life. Cruel, unpredictable. Like the rain.”

You nod, letting the silence settle. The city hums below, alive despite everything.

After a while she asks, “Do you ever get scared?”

“All the time.”

“Of dying?”

“No,” you say quietly. “Of losing the people I care about before they know how much they matter.”

Her eyes meet yours. “Then maybe you should tell them.”

“Maybe I just did.”

For the first time, she doesn’t look away.

Weeks pass. The case files close, new ones replace them, and the department moves on. But something in Jeongyeon softens—a new steadiness beneath the guarded exterior. She still keeps her walls, but now she leaves the door open.

One evening, after a long shift, she drives you out of the city. The rain has stopped, leaving the air thick and clean. She parks near the river, the same stretch of water that once reflected sirens and grief. Now it glitters under streetlights like it’s learning how to shine again.

“I used to come here after Haneul died,” she says. “It was the only place the noise couldn’t reach.”

You rest your arms on the railing. “And now?”

“Now I wanted to see it without the ghosts.” She turns toward you. “You helped me do that.”

You smile. “I didn’t do much.”

“You stayed,” she says simply.

The words hit harder than any confession could. You want to reach for her, to pull her close, but instead you just whisper, “Always.”

She leans against your shoulder, and the two of you watch the river flow—endless, forgiving, alive.

A few nights later, the rain returns. Not a storm—just a gentle drizzle that paints everything in silver. The precinct is quiet, most of the lights off, the world hushed. You and Jeongyeon linger by the exit, neither willing to leave first.

“You know,” she says, “I think I finally understand why you don’t mind the rain.”

“Oh?”

“You said once it’s the only thing that sounds the same no matter where you are. I used to think it was a reminder of loss. But now…” She hesitates, searching for the words. “Now it feels like it’s just… honest. It falls, it ends, and then things grow.”

You grin softly. “Didn’t know you were a poet.”

She nudges you. “Don’t tell the captain.”

“Your secret’s safe.”

She studies you for a long moment, then says quietly, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me when I made it impossible.”

You swallow. “You never made it impossible. Just… hard to reach.”

Her lips curve. “You reached anyway.”

“I’d do it again.”

The silence that follows is different now—warm, open, full of possibility.

When she finally steps closer, the movement is slow, uncertain. The rain drips from the edge of the awning, soft and steady. She looks up at you, searching your face as if for permission. You don’t speak; you don’t need to.

Her hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. Her voice is barely a breath. “You make me feel like I can breathe again.”

You smile, heart pounding. “Then don’t stop.”

The kiss is quiet—no fireworks, no music, just the sound of rain between you. It tastes like coffee and relief, like everything you both thought you’d lost. When she finally pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours.

“I don’t know what comes next,” she murmurs.

“Then we’ll figure it out. Step by step.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

Months later, on a spring morning washed clean by the rain, Jeongyeon stands beside you in front of the academy’s memorial wall. Fresh recruits pass by, their uniforms crisp, eyes bright with the same naïve confidence you once had. She watches them for a moment, then says quietly, “I used to think the badge was a shield. Now I think it’s a promise.”

“To what?”

“To keep showing up,” she says. “Even when it hurts.”

You glance at her. “You’re really bad at small talk, you know that?”

She laughs, and the sound fills the air like sunlight after weeks of storm.

“Come on,” you say. “We’re going to be late for briefing.”

“Lead the way, rookie.”

As you walk back toward the car, the clouds part. The rain has stopped, but the scent of it lingers—earthy, clean, alive. Jeongyeon tilts her head up to the sky, eyes half-closed, and for the first time, there’s no trace of sorrow in her expression.

You take her hand as the city hums awake around you. She doesn’t pull away.

The past still exists—the grief, the fear, the nights filled with thunder—but it no longer defines her. It lives beside her, quiet, like the echo of rain on distant glass.

And as the two of you drive away, windows down, wind tangling your hair, you realize that maybe this is what healing sounds like:

Not silence.
Not peace.
Just rain—soft, steady, endless.

Falling not between you anymore, but around you, like a benediction.

THE END.

🌧️ Thank You, My Lovely Readers! 💙

Hey everyone! ☕✨
Thank you so much for reading “Rain Between Us.” 💫
Your time, love, and emotions mean the world to me 🌎💖
I poured my heart into this story, and knowing you felt it too makes every word worth it 🥺🩵

Let’s keep walking through the rain together 🌧️🚶‍♀️💫
Until the next story — stay safe, stay soft, and keep believing in second chances 🤍🌈

With all my love,
— CLOUD RECESSES DROPOUT 💌