Annyeongz One-shots

58. Motive ( 2 )

The metal door clicked shut behind Wonyoung, and for the first time in the holding room, the faint hum of the police station outside seemed distant. One officer remained stationed in the hallway, watching from afar, but inside, the small room felt like a world of its own — just her and Yujin.

She closed the door fully and took a deep breath. Professionalism still anchored her, but something subtle shifted: the stiffness in her shoulders eased slightly.

“Yujin…” she began, the faintest edge of their old familiarity threading through her voice.

He lifted his head slowly, tired eyes meeting hers. The faintest flicker of recognition — relief, maybe, or surprise — crossed his expression.

“Wonyoung,” he said quietly, almost a whisper.

For a heartbeat, the room was still, the weight of years and distance suspended between them. Then she leaned back in her chair, keeping her notebook open, but her voice softened, just enough that it wasn’t the sharp, clinical tone of the interrogation she’d mastered.

“Why did you… come back home?” she asked, her eyes fixed on him. Not the accusations, not the schedule, not the notes. Just her friend from Milan, asking.

Yujin blinked, surprise flickering through his exhaustion. He had expected questions about evidence, timelines, forensic reports… anything related to proving his innocence. But not this. Not this quiet, searching question.

“I… my father called me,” he said, voice low, almost breaking. “He… he wanted me to come back. Something about a company matter… but I didn’t expect… this.” He gestured vaguely toward his wrists and the shadow of blood-stained memories. “I didn’t know he… that it would end like this.”

Wonyoung nodded, silent, letting him gather the words. Then she asked, gently: “Did you contact anyone else? Friends, colleagues… anyone outside your family?”

He shook his head. “No. Not a single person. I didn’t… I didn’t even tell my friends I was back. I wanted to handle it myself. I didn’t want anyone involved…” His voice cracked. “…Especially after everything that happened.”

She leaned forward slightly, tilting her head. “And your father… what really happened between you two? Don’t leave anything out. I need the whole story.”

Yujin took a deep breath, the first full one he’d allowed himself in hours. His hands rested on the table, still cuffed, fingers slightly trembling. And then he began, slowly, honestly, fully.

He told her about the tension in the house — the years of subtle contempt from Seo-yeon, the way his father had tried to maintain control over everything in his life, the constant pressure to be perfect, to be the son who fit an image, not the one he wanted to be.

He told her about the last conversation he had with his father over the phone before leaving Milan, the way his father had sounded distant, almost cold, asking for reports and updates on the company. The resentment Yujin had tried to bury for years. The frustrations that built up quietly, never erupting in anger, but simmering underneath polite conversations and controlled meetings.

He didn’t hide the fear, the guilt, the helplessness — not from her. Every hidden corner of his memory spilled into the room. The loneliness he’d carried, the secrets he’d never dared share with anyone, he told her now.

“And then,” he said quietly, voice thick with exhaustion, “I came home. I called his office. I walked in… and found him like that. Blood… everywhere. I didn’t touch him. I… I swear I didn’t…”

Wonyoung listened intently, her pen barely moving across the page. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t judge. She just watched him, absorbing every detail, every hesitation, every raw, unguarded moment.