Sunday morning crept in without warmth. The police station felt half-asleep. The usual storm of officers, ringing phones, and echoing footsteps was replaced by a sluggish quiet. Only a few constables roamed the corridors, bored, exhausted, sipping cold coffee.
Behind the iron bars, Hauen sat curled on the hard bench, knees pulled close, eyes fixed on nothing. She looked like someone whose soul had been wrung out.
Ever since she was pushed into this narrow cell, the world outside had turned into a ghost. She hadn't seen a single face from her family since the moment she was dragged in. Not a visit. Not a glimpse. No warm voice telling her they were trying, that everything would be okay. Only officers rotating in and out, their shoes clicking with rehearsed authority.
And the interrogation. The same questions loop like a broken tape. Confess. Tell the truth. Tell us why you did it. Who helped you? Was it planned?
Sometimes they softened their tone, trying to coax guilt out of her. Sometimes they sharpened their words, threatening punishments heavy enough to crush a person's spirit. Sometimes they tried to trick her, pretend sympathy, pretend they understood. Other times, they leaned close, using fear like a lever.
But nothing shook loose what they wanted. Because all Hauen had was the truth she kept clinging to with bruised fingers:
She loved Suho. She protected Suho. She healed Suho. She rebuilt the pieces of him one by one. She held him when no one else dared to, stood beside him when he could barely stand for himself.
Every memory of Suho's soft laughter, of the way he'd look at her as if she were the one place he could breathe, stabbed her deeper now. Because this metal box was all she had in return.
She didn't know who hated her enough to do this. Who framed her so perfectly that even the law moved like gravity against her. Who wanted to tear her world apart so methodically. But none of that frightened her more than one thought that kept spiraling in her mind:
Suho.
Was he alright? Was he stable? Did he believe the accusations? Did he think she betrayed him? Did he think she lied to him? Was he suffering alone somewhere, listening to people speak monstrous things about her?
The fear tasted metallic on her tongue.
But then, like a single warm flicker cutting through the dread, her mind returned to that day. The way he'd burst into the police station, half-broken, still bleeding emotionally, yet ready to fight the world for her. How he'd shouted her name like it was the only lifeline he had left. How he'd cried, voice cracking, begging them not to take his wife away. How his legs had trembled, but still he tried to reach her. How he tried to shield her even when he himself was falling apart.
Those memories replayed like a desperate prayer.
He didn't believe it. He didn't want to. He wasn't ready to let her go. He must be preparing something now. He must be fighting for her. He must be talking to lawyers, planning her defense, gathering every shred of strength he had left. Tomorrow's court hearing, surely, he would stand for her. Surely he would protect her.
Because he loved her. Because she had become his soft place to land. Because she had seen him break, heal, laugh, cry, everything.
That moment became her anchor. A quiet ember in her chest. Her eyes lifted toward the tiny barred window above, where sunlight pushed through like a stubborn promise. Something in her heart whispered: He trusts you. He won't turn away so easily. He will come for you.
And yet here she was, locked behind iron bars, with nothing but her own heartbeat to keep her company. Her eyes burned, hot as if tears were swelling… but nothing came. She had cried everything she had. Every drop seemed wrung out from the moment they tore her away from him. She stared ahead at the empty corridor.
Just two days ago, they were wrapped in happiness. Suho was smiling more freely, touching her without hesitation, calling her name with warmth instead of duty. His walls slowly falling away, brick by fragile brick. Soft kisses, lazy mornings, gentle jokes, and him leaning on her shoulder every night.
And then, like some curse crawling in, everything shattered. Somewhere, someone had envied that happiness. Someone's bitterness had twisted into something monstrous. And it all came crashing down so fast she couldn't even breathe between the collapse.
But the deepest wound of all was Hyunwoo. Her brother. Her own flesh and blood. Why did he do this? Why did he say such things? Why did he throw her name into the fire? Why did he betray her? Why did he destroy her life?
She hadn't seen him. Hadn't spoken to him. All she knew were the allegations, the confession the police claimed he made… but she didn't know why.
Why would the person she had trusted since childhood pull the ground from beneath her feet?
Her heart pulsed painfully, and then felt hollow. Empty. No tears. No strength. Not even words. Just this sharp, dragging ache as if someone had carved open her chest with the blunt edge of grief.
She curled her fingers together tightly, whisper-soft, as though holding onto the last invisible thread connecting her to Suho. She needed to see him. Just once. Just a glimpse of his face. Just the sound of him calling her hauenie.
She missed him. Her husband. Her Teddy. Her Suho. Every minute crawled past like a century, and with each one, she felt herself breaking a little more. Helpless. Alone. Waiting. And drowning in a love that hurt more than any wound she ever knew.
Just then, the lady constable appeared. "Kim Hauen. You have a visitor."
Hauen's eyes lit up instantly, her lips trembling with hope. "Suho… my teddy is here… finally… he came…" she breathed.
"Make it fast. You have ten minutes," the constable said.
Hauen shot to her feet, her legs carrying her as fast as they could toward the visitor area, heart pounding with desperate relief. But the moment she reached the booth, her smile collapsed. Her heart felt like it cracked open.
It wasn't Suho. It was someone else. Someone she had never seen. She froze, confused and aching. Why wasn't Suho here yet? Why wasn't he coming?
With heavy steps, she walked toward the counter. A tall man stood there, well-dressed, dark shades on, hair neatly brushed. He didn't look fully Korean, but something about him hinted at it. Her brows tightened, both curious and suspicious.
He took a slow, careful look at her, her pale face, the dull prison clothes, her messy hair, puffy eyes, trembling hands, dry and cracked lips. Exhaustion clung to her like a shadow.
"Hello, Mrs. Kim," he said.
She looked at him, confused and hurting.