AS | Chapter 1

November 14. 5:30 PM. Seoul Western District Prosecutors’ Office.

The sleet that had begun an hour ago swirled outside the interrogation room window. News about the president’s son still streamed from the smartphone on the desk, and the prepared coffee sat abandoned, growing cold.

Just as the waiting figure was beginning to tire, the door abruptly swung open, and someone entered. The assigned prosecutor, who had been biding his time, quickly turned off his phone and scrambled to his feet to greet the newcomer.

“Good evening. I’m Shin Jeongmin, from the Second Criminal Division, in charge of this case.”

“Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

The man who stepped inside acknowledged the greeting half-heartedly before taking a seat across the desk, still wearing his coat. He tapped his wristwatch lightly and said,

“I’ll give you ten minutes. If I don’t answer, assume I’m invoking my right to silence. Don’t ask twice.”

“Ah, sir. Just to clarify, even though I didn’t issue a formal summons, you’re here today as an official witness. You should really give me at least an hour to properly—”

But the man ignored him and tapped his watch again. The message was clear: Time’s ticking. He crossed his long legs, pushing his chair back, putting deliberate distance between himself and the desk. His entire demeanor screamed I’m not here to cooperate.

“Still…”

The prosecutor swallowed whatever protest was rising in his throat and forced himself to adjust. He’d already heard from others that getting this man to show up at all was nothing short of a miracle.

“Fine. Then let’s cut to the chase. On the night of October 27, around 11 PM, where were you and what were you doing?”

“Working in my office.”

The man’s answer was curt. That’s it? The prosecutor waited for more, but the man’s lips stayed sealed.

“…By ‘office,’ do you mean the prosecutors’ office you’re assigned to?”

The man gave a slight nod.

“But there’s no record of you entering the Central District Prosecutors’ Office that day.”

“I lost my access card, so I borrowed Deputy Chief Prosecutor Lee Seonjin’s from Trial Division 1. He was off-duty that day.”

“Can I verify that?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The prosecutor cautiously typed a note into his laptop. The man’s gaze drifted to the device, then to the case file on the desk. The folder, which should have been stuffed with statements, call logs, and receipts, held only a single autopsy report. The man smirked faintly, as if he knew exactly what that meant.

“What was your relationship with the suspect?”

The man’s eyes flicked back to the prosecutor.

“We had sex a few times.”

His deep brown eyes blinked, utterly unfazed.

“So… it wasn’t a serious relationship? Just… physical?”

The man quirked an eyebrow, as if to say Think whatever you want. The prosecutor coughed awkwardly and tapped his keyboard.

“When did you first meet?”

“A year ago, when I was stationed at the Osung District Office.”

“What brought you two together?”

“What brought us together?”

The man’s eyebrow twitched upward.

“Do you need a reason to sleep with an omega, Prosecutor?”

The prosecutor faltered at the unexpected jab.

“Well, I mean… I just thought maybe you were introduced by someone, or met through work. I’m a beta, so I don’t really know… Anyway, never mind. It’s not that important. When was the last time you saw the suspect?”

The man paused, lost in thought. His sharp eyes narrowed briefly. Tick, tick. Only the anxious prosecutor was counting the seconds. At this rate, the ten minutes would be up before they got anywhere.

“If you’re invoking your right to silence, I can move on to—”

“Probably three or four months ago. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him since returning to Seoul.”

His expression was frustratingly ambiguous—hard to tell if he was genuinely trying to remember or just playing games.

“So you weren’t in regular contact?”

“I don’t have his number.”

“Did you know what he did for a living?”

The man, who had been idly scanning the room, slowly turned his gaze back to the prosecutor. Then he smirked, as if to say, Do you even know what he really was?

“He was a manager at a regional tourist hotel. Not host work, just operations.”

“That’s not what I have here. According to my investigation—”

The prosecutor started to turn his laptop to show something, but the man suddenly leaned forward.

“What class are you from the Judicial Research and Training Institute?”

“Huh? Oh, 58th class.”

The prosecutor answered reflexively, caught off guard.

“Is your family rich?”

He blinked. Not poor, but by this man’s standards? Far from it.

“No. Not… particularly.”

“Then you better work hard. Get promoted. Stay in line.”

The man leaned back again, arms crossed. His expression said, Take that as free advice.

“Right, well… Sir, that’s exactly why this case—”

“Which is exactly why you should drop it. Find something else. Since it’s already assigned to you, just wrap it up as ‘insufficient evidence’ and close it. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

The prosecutor’s jaw tightened stubbornly.

“That’s not an option. The crime is too blatant. The suspect stabbed the victim precisely at a vital point, left no fingerprints, and vanished. Every CCTV and dashcam in the area was disabled. This wasn’t some amateur—it was premeditated.”

He recited the case details. The man listened silently, as if he already knew all of it.

“Before heading to the meeting spot, the victim told a friend in a call at 10:40 PM that he was going to meet the suspect. The estimated time of death was around 11. So within five to ten minutes of meeting, the suspect finished the job and disappeared. Impressive, don’t you think? Who in Korea kills that cleanly?”

Right?

The prosecutor stared at him, seeking agreement. But the man just stared back, expression blank, as if to say, And that’s my problem because…?

“You lived with the suspect for a while, correct?”

The prosecutor straightened, delivering what he thought was his trump card. This was why he’d called the man in. But the connection ended there. Just cohabitation didn’t clarify their relationship.

If it had ended badly, maybe he could squeeze something useful out of it. If not, this would be a dead end. And of all people, the only lead had to tie back to a current Seoul Chief Deputy Prosecutor. Was that luck or a curse?

The man rocked back and forth slightly, arms still crossed. The question seemed to give him a lot to think about. Eventually, his swaying stopped, and he nodded.

“Yeah. We lived together for a while. At my place.”

He repeated it, as if the fact held weight for him, too. Then he fell silent. The prosecutor held his breath, waiting. But the man stood, buttoning his coat. They hadn’t even hit the five-minute mark, let alone ten.

“W-Wait! It hasn’t been ten minutes yet!”

Flustered, the prosecutor shot to his feet. Had asking about cohabitation been a mistake?

“From here on out, I’m invoking my right to silence. Pointless to continue. I’m busy, so I’ll take my leave.”

The man was merciless. As he strode toward the door, the prosecutor shouted at his retreating back,

“Sir, harboring a suspect is a clear crime!”

It was a desperate jab, a provocation. The man turned, brow deeply furrowed, looking at him like he was spouting nonsense.

“I didn’t hide him. Actually, if you find him, do let me know. I’ve got a lot to say to him.”

“Like… what?”

“They ran off after imprinting with me.”

The man’s eyes burned for a split second before cooling back into calm. With a faint smirk, he walked out. The prosecutor stood frozen, unable to tell if it had been a joke or a threat.

What the hell…

He’d gotten nothing. Every statement was inconsistent. First, he’d brushed it off as just sex, then readily admitted to living together. Yet he claimed not to have the suspect’s number and hadn’t seen him in months? Suspicious.

And what was that about bonding?

Wasn’t imprinting even rarer than pregnancy? Who did this guy think he was fooling?

He returned to his seat, shut his laptop, and packed up. Somehow, he was sure the man had played a part in the suspect’s disappearance. Vanishing without a trace in a country as surveilled as Korea? Nearly impossible.

Either the suspect was that good at hiding, or he had a damn good reason to. Maybe both.

The prosecutor muttered to himself as he gathered his things. Either way, it was a failure. A total bust. With a sigh, he took a sip of cold coffee and headed out. Click. The door shut behind him, and the interrogation room lights went dark.