"You're remarkably calm for someone who was nearly decorative brains on a pantry door ten minutes ago."
The detective's voice is dry, his pen scratching against a notepad that looks too small for the chaos in our kitchen. I'm leaning against the hallway wall, watching the forensic team pick through the 'crystalline rain' of our sliding door. Every time the blue and red lights from the street flash through the living room, the glass shards on the floor look like diamonds—expensive, jagged reminders that our life is shattered.
Min-ho doesn't answer the detective. He's sitting on the edge of the sofa, the silver shock blanket crinkling every time he breathes. He's staring at a singular spot on the rug where a drop of my blood landed. His eyes aren't filled with the terror of a victim; they are narrowed, calculating, and colder than the night air pouring through the broken window.
"The trajectory is… unusual," the detective continues, stepping over the shattered remains of the Dakdoritangbowl. "We initially looked at the rooftop across the street, but the entry point in the glass and the impact in the wood don't align with a high-angle shot. It was flat. Level. As if the shooter was standing on a platform right outside."
"Or in the apartment below us," Min-ho says. It's the first time he's spoken since the sirens started. His voice is a low, dangerous hum. "The balcony of 1302 has a similar clearance. If someone stood on the railing, they'd have a clear line of sight through this glass."
"We're checking it now," the detective nods. "But it's a professional setup. Clean. No brass left behind. They vanished before the first patrol car hit the block."
Min-ho finally shifts his gaze. He doesn't look at the detective. He looks at me. It's a look of profound, agonizing suspicion.
"How did you see the glint, Hana?" he asks.
The room goes quiet. Even the forensic techs seem to slow down.
"I told you," I say, my voice raspy. "I was watching the perimeter. I saw a reflection on the rooftop, then the laser."
"The detective says the shot didn't come from the roof," Min-ho says, standing up. The shock blanket slides to the floor like a shed skin. He walks toward me, his steps deliberate. "He says it came from below. A much harder angle to spot from a balcony. Unless, of course, you knew exactly when to look."
"Are you serious right now?" I feel a surge of hysterical laughter bubbling in my throat, but it tastes like copper. "I tackled you. I saved your life. Again."
"Did you?" He stops a foot away from me. "Or did you stage a very expensive light show? A bullet into a pantry door is a small price to pay to regain the trust of a husband who was about to kick you out. It's classic tradecraft, isn't it? Create a threat, then resolve it. Become the 'Shield' again because the 'Wife' wasn't working."
"Min-ho, that's enough," the detective says, looking uncomfortable.
"Is it?" Min-ho's eyes are burning into mine. "She knew the timing. She knew the angle. She even managed to get 'scratched' by the glass to add a touch of realism. It's a brilliant play, Hana. I almost felt sorry for you."
I don't defend myself. My side is burning, a hot, wet sensation spreading down my ribs that tells me the "scratch" was much deeper than I let on. I can feel the adrenaline fading, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that makes the room tilt.
"Believe what you want, Prosecutor," I whisper. "But do me a favor. Stay away from the windows."
I turn and walk away, my footsteps heavy. I can feel his eyes on my back—suspicious, sharp, and desperately searching for a lie. I retreat into the guest bathroom, clicking the lock shut. It's a flimsy defense against a man who is currently dismantling my soul, but it's all I have.
I strip off my ruined sweater. The glass didn't just scratch me; a long, wicked shard caught me right above the hip when we hit the floor. The wound is deep, a jagged mouth of red that's weeping onto the white tile.
I pull the emergency medical kit from under the sink. I've done this before. In safe houses in Vladivostok, in the back of moving vans in Incheon. I don't need a doctor. I just need to stop the leaking.
I sit on the edge of the tub, my breath coming in shallow hitches. I take a needle and a length of surgical silk. My hands are shaking—not from fear, but from the cold. I bite down on a hand towel and pierce the skin.
One.
The pain is a sharp, grounding white light.
Two.
I'm working by the dim light of the vanity, my body twisted to reach the gash. I'm so focused on the stitch that I don't hear the muffled conversation outside. I don't hear the detective leave or the forensic team packing up their kits.
I don't hear the bathroom door handle turn.
I forgot to check if the lock actually engaged. It's an old door; sometimes the bolt misses the strike plate.
The door creaks open.
I freeze, the needle halfway through my skin, the towel still clenched in my teeth. I don't pull the shirt back up. I can't. I'm mid-stitch, my torso twisted, my bare back exposed to the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom.
Min-ho is standing in the doorway. The anger he had in the kitchen is gone, replaced by a stunned, hollow silence.
He isn't looking at the fresh, bleeding wound at my hip.
His gaze is trapped by my back.
In the bright light, there is no hiding them. A map of silver lines and jagged craters. A long, thin scar from a knife across my left shoulder blade. Three small, circular puckers from 9mm rounds near my spine. A thick, ropy burn mark from an electrical wire on my right side.
Each one is a story. Each one is a day I stepped in front of a blade or a bullet that was meant for him. Each one is a sacrifice he's forgotten.
The silence in the bathroom becomes suffocating. I can hear his heart racing—a frantic, uneven thud-thud-thud that echoes off the tiles.
He takes a step forward, his hand trembling as he reaches out, his fingers hovering just inches from the scar near my spine—the one that almost paralyzed me the night I pulled him out of the fire in Busan.
"Hana..." he whispers. His voice isn't the Prosecutor's anymore. It's broken. It's the voice of a man seeing a ghost. "These... these aren't from tonight."
He looks at the sheer number of them, the violent history written in my flesh, and I see the first crack in his icy armor. His eyes fill with a confusing, terrifying realization.
If I am the liar he thinks I am, if this is all a "staged play," then why have I been dying for him for years?
But as his fingers finally brush the cold, silver skin of my oldest scar, a new, darker question flickers in the depths of his panicked eyes—a question that keeps my heart frozen in my chest:
If he never knew about these scars when his memory was intact, what kind of husband was he really, and what other secrets was I keeping to make him look that happy?