Across The Line

YURI’S POV — CID HEADQUARTERS, CONFERENCE ROOM, 9:42 AM

I walk in the CID headquarters like I own the goddamn floor.

Not because I do—but because if I don’t fake it, I’ll start swinging the moment I see his stupid face. My boots echo on the tiles as I enter ACP Kim’s meeting room, the cold glass doors closing behind me like I just walked into a war zone. My hair’s loose—just past my shoulders, soft waves kissing the lapels of my tailored white button-down—and I’ve got on my wide-leg jeans cinched at the waist, boots sharp enough to stab egos with.

And then there he is.

Park fucking Jinwoo.

God really gave that man cheekbones that could slice concrete. His hair’s that messy black, always so perfectly rebellious (just like that bastard), like he can’t decide if he’s ready to conquer the world or drown others in his faulty cracks. His lips—full, slightly pulled at the edges like he’s always smirking, always thinking three steps ahead of everyone else, always planning to mock me.

I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink.

He clocks me the second I walk in—his gaze dragging down like it’s got something to say and zero intention of saying it. He’s leaning against the wall in those cargo pants and that worn-out jacket, looking like he thinks he’s some brooding anti-hero. But it’s just a disguise for how much he loves playing with my temper.

He nods at me like we’re colleagues.

Like he didn’t throw me under the damn bus three years ago and reverse back over my career.

I sit opposite him—not next to, never next to. His boot knocks the leg of the table as he shifts. I don't know if it’s on purpose, but it sure feels like a threat.

Mr. Kim walks in—sharp suit, tighter expression.

“We’ve got a case,” he says, cutting to the chase like he always does. “Serial incidents. One body every week for the last month, and they’re all dumped near water bodies—docks, canals, riverbeds. Pattern’s starting to show.” He tosses a pale blue folder down. Slides it to me. To us.

Unfortunately.

The edges of the paper burn like salt in old wounds. I glance down, pretending I don’t notice Jinwoo’s fingers brushing the file too.

Of course he’s reaching for it. Like he can’t help but grab what’s mine.

“Four victims,” Kim continues, flipping the slide on the wall behind him, his bushy eyebrows trying to reach his receding hairline. “All males. Late 20s to mid-30s. Causes of death vary, but there are too many overlaps to ignore. No fingerprints in the system. No next of kin.”

Perfect. Just what I needed to deal with.

Serial murders and Serial Pain In My Ass Park in one neat package.

I feel my jaw tick, hand tightening over my pen.

Here it comes. The first crack in my composure.

That bastard speaks. His deceptive ass voice sprinkling salt on my old wounds. “Same tattoo on each victim. Back of the neck. Looks like a serpent wrapped around an eye. Cult-like. You seeing what I’m seeing?” I blink at him. Then speak without looking. “I see you fishing for validation like always.”

He scoffs. The bastard actually scoffs. “You’re still bitter I called you out back then, huh?”

My laugh is sharp. “You blamed me for a mission you fumbled. I’d be bitter if I still cared.”

“Good thing you don’t, right?” he shoots back. “Because we’re working this one. Together.”

I freeze. Head slowly turning toward Kim. “Sir,” I say, voice calm in the way a storm is calm before it rips off rooftops, “surely there are other pairing options.”

“No one has the experience you two do. You want to catch this killer or babysit your grudges?”

I look at Jinwoo again. He’s smirking. Like he enjoys this.

This man is insufferable.

And I’m going to have to tolerate him.

Closely.

Great.

I clench my jaw. Again.

It's the only thing I can do without combusting.

Of course I want to catch the killer. Of course I do. That’s not even the question. What’s in question is why fate keeps throwing me back into the orbit of Park Jinwoo’s dumb, smug, perfectly symmetrical face.

We do make a good team.

Ugh!

There. I said it, internally.

Ughhh!!!

Disgusting. I hate it.

No one else reads people like I do. And no one’s instincts are sharper than his. It's like he's tuned into some goddamn frequency the rest of us don't have access to. Once, during our rookie year, a senior officer joked we had psychic powers. Said we made a “power couple” and I threw up in my mouth a little.

But damn it. We clicked.

Until he fumbled that mission 3 years ago. And instead of owning up, he threw me to the wolves and walked out with a medal while I got grilled and stripped from front-line operations for six months.

Six. Months.

Of desk duty hell, of filling reports and watching fresh meat get field time while I rotted behind a screen.

I loathe him for that. And he knows it.

Worse—he likes it. He gets off on how much he annoys me. He’ll poke and prod and prod until I snap and he gets to wear that smug little “oops-did-I-hit-a-nerve?” grin.

Fucker.

I exhale—shaky, shallow, uneven. Kim raises an eyebrow at me.

I flash my best fake smile. “Fine.”

“Good,” Mr. Kim says, slapping the table lightly. “Sort yourselves out. We need first insights by tomorrow morning.”

The door clicks shut with an echo as mind-shattering as the trumpet on the day of Judgement.

And now… it's just us.

Alone.

Me. Him. This heavy-ass deafening silence pulsing with barely suppressed rage.

I glance down at the file, fingers itching to take it, catalogue it, memorize every detail by nightfall.

“I’ll take this file,” I say, voice tight. “I’ll review it tonight. We can meet in the morning and work from there.”

“No,” he says, immediately. No hesitation. No blinking.

My eye twitches. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll take it. I don’t trust you not to misplace it.”

I blink. Slowly. Very slowly. My entire body stills.

“Are you high?” I ask, sweet as cyanide. “Or just naturally this delusional?”

“You already fumbled once,” he shrugs. “Just being safe.”

“That was three years ago, you sociopathic pigeon and it was you.”

“You’re still mad?”

I snort. “I wake up mad. It’s my cardio. Don’t make it worse.”

He shrugs again. Shrugs. Like I’m a weather forecast that doesn’t concern him. I reach for the file at the same time he does.

Our hands collide.

I don't flinch. But he doesn’t either.

Great.

The tension could cut glass. His fingers graze mine for a second too long, and suddenly it’s not just anger I feel—it’s heat. Not the good kind. The kind that scalds. The kind that makes you want to punch someone or kiss them or cry in public.

“Let. Go.” I grit, through my teeth. Instead, his hands claw to the file with an iron-clad grip , his soft dripping monolids pierce into my eyes like he is trying to hypnotize me into giving in. BUT I WON’T.

“You let go.”

I yank.

He yanks back.

And just like that—the file slips.

Photos scatter. Crime scene shots flutter across the floor like cursed snowflakes. One lands near my boot—an image of a body sprawled across a dock, neck twisted, serpent tattoo glaring from torn skin and a violent wave of nausea rushes through my spine.

We freeze. Deathly Silence. Breathing sharp.

Then he whisper-shouts.

“This is exactly what I meant. You’re always reckless.”

I snap.

“I’m reckless? You want to talk reckless? Let’s talk about who misfired that night—”

“I had seconds to react!”

“And you chose wrong!”

We’re nose to nose now. He smells like coffee and adrenaline and the exact version of male danger I shouldn’t be craving.

His jaw ticks. “You gonna cry again?”

I see red -

fuck that, I see crimson.

I shove the file against his chest. “Take it. I don’t care.”

He smirks. “Of course you don’t. Never did.”

And he saunters out.

Leaves me in the room with a mess of pictures and a storm inside my chest.

I stare at the door.

Breathe in.

And then lose it.

My hand lashes out and hurls everything off the table. Papers fly. Pens clatter. I kick the damn chair and curse under my breath. God, I want to kill him. God, I hate how he makes me feel.

I don’t care if he has the file.

I’ll still have the upper hand in this case and impress ACP Kim better.

Maybe it’s petty. Maybe it’s childish but I take the pen from the table, holding it tight, like it’s him. His smug, all-knowing, I-own-this-room-ass face.

And then I hurl it across the floor. The pen creaks and cries beneath my feet as if pleading for mercy but I just image it’s that dumb jawline cracking.

“You fucker,” I yell, my voice raw with frustration. “I’ll get to you. You hear me? I will get to you.”

I jump on the chair, kicking it hard, imagining it's him I’m destroying. I don't care how much it hurts. I don't care how stupid this all is. My blood’s boiling, my vision blurry with rage.

But somewhere deep down, the reality claws at me:

I’ll take my revenge.

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