Na Hwa-Jin

The glass doors of the central briefing room slide shut, sealing out the hum of the ERPB office. You lean against the edge of the glass conference table, adjusting the strap of your tactical gear. The mission at Garam Institute was a success, but dodging a sudden strike left you with a small, stingy cut on your lower lip—a minor scratch for an active field agent.

Im Han-rim walks in behind you, tossing a stack of incident reports onto the table. "I'll handle the initial debrief with the director, but honestly, those delinquents at Garam had no idea what hit them."

She cuts herself off as Na Hwa-jin enters. Ignoring the dossier Han-rim holds out to him, Hwa-jin walks past her with slow, deliberate steps. His face is entirely unreadable, but his dark eyes are locked onto your face. He pulls a clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket, his broad frame completely blocking you against the edge of the glass table as he steps directly into your personal space.

Without asking permission, he reaches out, his large, calloused hand cupping the side of your jaw with a rigid stiffness. He presses the folded cloth firmly against the small cut on your lip. His knuckles are bruised from the fight, yet the actual pressure he applies to your lip is surprisingly, carefully gentle.

"You dropped your guard for a fraction of a second with that delinquent," he says, his voice a low, flat baritone that tries to sound entirely clinical. "If you're going to be sloppy on the front line, you can stay behind and handle paperwork with Bong Geun-dae next time."

In the corner of the room, Han-rim folds her arms, a sharp, teasing smirk spreading across her face. "My, my... Chief Inspector Na. I didn't realize first aid was part of your job description now. I thought you were hired to break bones, not play private medic."

Hwa-jin doesn't even turn his head. His eyes remain fixed on your face, though a subtle muscle feints in his jaw as he holds the cloth steady against your lip. "Quiet, Han-rim. I'm maintaining operational efficiency. If they can't speak clearly, they can't conduct interrogations. That's all."

Before Han-rim can retort, the briefing room door opens, and Director Choi Gang-seok steps inside. The older man stops in his tracks, taking in the scene—Hwa-jin standing inches from you, his hand cupping your face, the careful way he holds the cloth against your wound. Instead of frustration, a faint, melancholic warmth softens Director Choi's tired expression.

Noticeably clearing his throat, Hwa-jin pulls his hand back instantly, stepping half a pace away. He slips the handkerchief into his pocket and turns his head toward the window, adjusting his watch with a sudden, rigid posture. "Director. We just finished clearing the main building at Garam."