6 LETTERS OF YEVGENY VISSARIONOVICH BOGDANOV

1.1

"A curious man." That's how my good friend Jeong Taeui would invariably describe me every time we spent long hours in our usual haunt, a bar called 'Talk of the Town.' We often found ourselves there, trying to drink away the weariness that had settled into our bones from years on the force. Tonight was shaping up to be another one of those nights. After just three pints, I could already predict the direction our conversation would take—a topic that Jeong Taeui would latch onto and pull us into a discussion that would stretch well into the early hours of the morning.

Yet, tonight, I felt a deep-seated fatigue. I was eager for a break from our philosophical and often meandering discussions. The thought of stretching out my limbs, yawning a long and satisfying yawn, and sinking into my bed after a steaming hot shower sounded like the perfect end to this long day. But Taeui, perceptive as he usually was, seemed to miss my subtle hints of discomfort tonight—or perhaps he chose to ignore them. To be perfectly honest, I never quite knew for sure with him.

He took a long sip from his fourth glass of beer and then broke into a giggle, the sound somewhat surprising coming from a man of his stature. "Of all our friends, you're the only one actually following your dream, Mr. Detective," he said with a note of both admiration and mockery. He then slammed his empty glass down on the worn wooden table, the sound resonating through the bar. Burping loudly, he quickly followed it up with an apologetic grin. "Sorry," he muttered sheepishly.

Jeong Taeui was a man in his early thirties, someone who had once been one of the most feared seniors in the narcotics department. On nights like these, though, I often glimpsed the boy I had met years ago at the police academy. He was a tightly wound bundle of nerves, his brows perpetually furrowed in a way that was meant to appear intimidating and serious. It was a façade—one he wasn't entirely successful at pulling off, at least not in front of me. Over the years, however, the pressure of the job had slowly chiselled away at the mischievous prankster I once knew. In his place was a stone-cold man, one who had been hardened by the unforgiving atmosphere of the Kinonyo Police Department.

To be fair, dealing with adolescents as young as twelve and thirteen, already drowning in the world of narcotics, was bound to chip away at a person's soul. It was a brutal reality that no one could ever be fully prepared for, especially not someone like Jeong Taeui, for whom being a police officer was never part of the grand life plan. Yet here he was, night after night, living a life that seemed to be devouring him bit by bit.

I signalled the barman for another round, knowing full well that the night was far from over. Taeui would keep talking, perhaps not because he had something pressing to say, but because talking was easier than facing the silence that waited for him at home. Or maybe it was his way of clinging to the person he used to be—the boy who found joy in mischievous pranks and late-night banter. As the bartender poured the golden liquid into our glasses, I leaned back into my chair, preparing myself for another dive into Taeui's restless thoughts.

Jeong Taeui rubbed his bloodshot eyes, focusing intensely on a specific knot in the wood of the table, as if trying to bore a hole through it with his gaze alone. "Do you know," he slurred, rubbing his eyes again with the fervour of a man trying to rub a genie's lamp, hoping it might change the reality before him, "I often wonder what these kids could possibly go through. . . What pushes them to start using drugs? I mean, sure, life can be a real pain in the ass most of the time, but aren't we adults supposed to be here for these children? Why do they feel the need to resort to this, man?" He sounded dejected and lost.

He looked up at me, raising an eyebrow, seeking some sort of understanding. "You know?" He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts or perhaps deciding whether to share them at all. "This afternoon, we found an unconscious fifteen-year-old girl in that abandoned mansion." He wiped away the drool forming at the corner of his mouth before chugging down half of his beer in one go. His brown eyes became glassy, and the red veins started creeping across his face, hinting at the alcohol's grip on him. "Apparently, she was there with a couple of her friends. While they were filling up their syringes, a peculiar man, with glowing eyes, suddenly appeared, hovering over them."