Mirrored plea

The night grew longer as the clouds of rain slowly disappeared, leaving behind the faint scent of wet earth clinging to the air. The city outside slept under silver streetlights, but inside the sterile hospital room, time itself felt suspended.

Jemisha had fallen asleep at last. Exhaustion and weakness had claimed her—body trembling even in dreams, breath shallow like a bird frightened mid-flight. Her face, soft under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, carried an exhaustion too ancient for her age. It wasn’t just fatigue from the recent terror. It was the exhaustion of a soul that had been fighting unseen wars long before this night.

The officer sat quietly beside her bed. His gloved hand brushed a strand of her black hair away from her forehead. He touched her the way one would comfort a child who had been broken too early by the world—and to him, she was still just that. A child. A fragile being barely holding together by the thread of survival.

He exhaled slowly, covering her with the thin hospital blanket. His eyes lingered on her face for one last moment before he turned away. His duty wasn’t done yet.

There were monsters still breathing.

---

The metallic clang of a cell door echoed in the cold underground detention wing. The officer’s fist connected with the kidnapper’s jaw, a dull thud followed by a choked cry. The man collapsed against the wall, blood painting the concrete.

“Who is your boss?”

His voice carried no emotion—only ice, measured and lethal.

When the name left the kidnapper’s lips, something flickered in the officer’s eyes. Recognition. Rage. And something darker.

He knew that name.

He knew the shadows it carried.

And he knew he could not deal with that man as an officer of the state… only as who he really was beneath the badge and mask.

He stared down at the trembling man. His mind replayed Jemisha’s flinches—the way her body recoiled from touch, the panic in her voice, the wild fear in her eyes. He could almost feel her shivering through his memory, as if her trauma had branded itself onto his skin.

He didn’t want to believe it.

Not her. Not such a small, frightened girl.

Please, let it not be what I think it is.

His jaw clenched, his knuckles cracked. The rage inside him pulsed like wildfire trapped in a cage. Then—another blow. Flesh against bone. His own hand reddened. His voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade.

“Did you—”

The rest of the question burned in his throat, unspoken but heavy enough to fill the room.

When the interrogation ended, he stood in front of the sink, washing his hands under cold running water. The crimson swirl faded down the drain, but the image of Jemisha’s eyes would not. The mirror caught his reflection—calm, neat, expressionless. Yet beneath that façade, his pulse hammered with fury and grief that refused to quiet.

---

Hours later, the city’s midnight glow spread beneath him as he drove back to his villa. The road lights blurred in streaks of amber and white against the rain-slick asphalt. His assistant, dressed sharply in black, followed behind with files stacked neatly in his arms.

“Set a meeting with the President. I have things to discuss,” the officer said, his tone steady but cold enough to cut.

“But, young master, the President has a meeting in the White House tomorrow—”

“I wouldn’t like to repeat myself, Mr. Song.”

The words came soft, but final—steel wrapped in silk.

He stepped inside his suite. The silence of his home pressed against him, luxurious yet hollow. He unbuttoned his black uniform, set his gun into the drawer, and stood under the shower. Scalding water poured down his back, washing the blood, the grime, the scent of fear—but not the memory.

When he lifted his gaze, his reflection stared back at him through fogged glass. His eyes—one cold and sharp like a dragon’s flame, the other warm, holding a universe of grief—met his own. He had learned long ago how to live with that duality: the killer and the savior sharing the same body.

Stepping out, he walked to the wide glass window. Seorim City glittered below, its lights beautiful and indifferent. Somewhere out there, evil still moved freely. And in a hospital room, a girl slept under the fragile illusion of safety.

He clenched his jaw, the name the kidnapper had spilled echoing in his mind like a curse.

The city looked dazzling, but in his eyes, it was already burning.

He was calculating his next move.

It was morning after a long night. The window of the hospital room was open, as if someone knew the sunlight was her desperate need — something she needed more than friends or family.

She saw herself, then looked around. She wanted to clean up — her pink dress was torn in places, her chest tightened. She had made that dress with so much excitement with her friend back in her hometown.

She was alone, yes, but she was also lucky — lucky to have met the girls she called fairies in those darkest hours of her life. Her head rested on the wall next to the bed as her thoughts drifted. The whole room was given to her alone. Usually, even normal patients didn’t get such treatment, and this was Haneul National University Medical College — an expensive place.

Do they treat all victims this nicely? she wondered.

Then she heard footsteps. A figure appeared — the officer. As usual, he was dressed in his black uniform, a gun strapped at his side, with other electronics she was unfamiliar with. Maybe headphones? Maybe a walkie-talkie? He still wore his mask, only his eyes visible.

She gently bowed, looking at herself, suddenly self-conscious. It had been two days since everything happened.

Do I smell bad? Do I look terrible? Is my hair messy?

The dress was torn. She had thousands of things to worry about, but these thoughts flooded her mind the moment she saw him.

She wanted to hide herself in the duvet — and she did.

Feeling self-conscious, she covered her face with the thin blanket even though it was hot. The officer raised his brows, puzzled.

“Do you want a female officer here in my place?” he asked gently.

Of course, his instinct was to make her comfortable — he thought she might be scared or uneasy around men, which had been evident from his observation so far. But the thought of him leaving made Jemisha’s heart twist painfully.

She immediately pulled the duvet down a little, only her eyes showing as she held it close to her face like a shy girl.

“N-no—” she said quickly, then whispered softly, “It’s alright.”

The officer sat next to her bed on a chair.

“We tried to locate your passport, phone, and documents,” he said, his tone professional but kind. “But they were burnt by the kidnappers.”

He continued, “I need you to tell me which state you came from, Inaya, and if there’s any guardian I can contact.”

“I come from the state of Rivera, the northeast region of Inaya,” Jemisha answered politely, though nervous. She glanced at his eyes, then quickly looked down — she couldn’t hold his gaze for too long; her cheeks grew warm.

“Then we’ll contact the Inayati Embassy,” he said. “They’ll come and take you back to Rivera. We’ll notify your college about what happened. Once your government provides you with new documents, you can come back to Seorim City.”

Jemisha’s stomach twisted — a slow suffocation creeping around her throat. Her face turned pale.

“Are—are you going to send me back to Rivera?” she asked, her voice trembling with fear.

His eyes sharpened for a millisecond, trying to read into her expression, before softening again. He didn’t want to scare her more than she already was.

“Yeah,” he said gently, “you’ll need your documents and IDs — they can only be provided by your government.”

Her head fell back against the wall, as if the sky had fallen and the ground beneath her was slipping away. She stared blankly ahead, fighting the urge to cry.

“Is there any way—any kind, any other way—” her voice cracked, words stumbling as she murmured something in Riveran, foreign to his ears. She covered her mouth, trembling.

His chest burned seeing her like that. He gulped, concern shadowing his expression.

What has she faced? What could make a child react this way?

“Legally there’s none, Jemisha,” he said softly. “Why—why does it matter so much?”

He reached out to gently pat her shoulder to calm her down, but she flinched — almost jumped — at his touch. Their eyes met; the duvet slipped from her hand, revealing her tear-streaked face. Her lips quivered.

“Can—you—” she gulped, “Can you not send me back?”

The tears she was fighting finally fell.

“I—I—” she covered her face with her hands, voice shaking, “I’ve fought demons to reach here. Don’t put me right back in that dark cell.”

His stomach dropped. A sixteen-year-old girl saying that… what had she endured?

He wanted to comfort her, but he needed to stay professional.

“I understand, Jemisha,” he said carefully. “You’ll be here again once your documents are made. Otherwise, you’ll be considered an illegal immigrant.”

“I know you’re a stranger,” she said through sobs, “and I’m thankful for everything you’ve done. But honestly—if you’re going to put me back in Rivera, you might as well just give me back to the kidnappers. Whoever their boss is—I’d rather deal with him than go back.”

Her voice carried anger now — sharp and trembling — but that sentence froze him. He knew who that boss was, and what kind of atrocities he was capable of. His eyes turned cold.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Jemisha,” he said.

“And you don’t know what you’re about to do to me,” she snapped back, her tears falling as her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

He watched her closely — her body language, her tone, her trembling hands. She looked more horrified at the thought of going back to Rivera than she ever did running from kidnappers.

His chest tightened.

“Why do you hate Rivera so much?” he asked, voice edged but concerned. “Isn’t it your home? You’ve lived there all your life — why wouldn’t you go back for a month or two, instead of being a slave to some human trafficker in an unknown city?”

“Because the atrocities he may commit are unknown to me,” she said, her voice trembling, “but the monsters that await in Rivera are known.”

“I’ve lived my whole life as a war, fighting to protect myself from them, and you’re throwing me right back where I started.”

Her eyes were full of rage and grief.

“You’re a stranger to me — you don’t have to listen to my darkness if you don’t want to. You probably think it’s just nonsense from a teenager anyway. But I’ll ask you one thing, Mr…”

“Captain Renoir,” he said quietly.

“Captain Renoir,” she repeated, her voice fragile, “you’ve been taking care of me. I feel like you’re a kind person. Yet it’s completely possible that I mean nothing to you — just a call of duty. But since you saved my life… would you rather see me live and survive, or be consumed and eaten alive?”

Her eyes, desperate and glistening with tears, searched his face — begging for even a sliver of mercy. His chest tightened painfully.

“Why would you say something like that, Jemisha?” he asked softly.

Jemisha broke down completely, hiding her face in her knees. Her body shook as she cried. After a while, she lifted her head, voice hoarse.

“I lied,” she whispered. “I do have guardians — an adoptive family, to be specific. But if I’m sent back to them, they’ll…” she broke, sobbing, “I won’t survive, Captain Renoir. I won’t. Trust me — I’m not over-exaggerating or being dramatic.”

He could see it. The trembling, the horror in her eyes, her choking voice — this was no exaggeration. His stomach felt like it was being punched.

He sat next to her on the bed and gently patted her head. This time, she didn’t flinch. Slowly, he took her head from her knees and let it rest against his chest, his hand softly stroking her hair.

For thirty minutes, he stayed like that — until her sobs began to fade, though she still trembled.

“Sorry I’m putting you through so much,” she whispered. “I know you’re just following your duty as an officer.” She sobbed again. “I spoke whatever came to my head. You don’t have authority over such situations, I know. Sorry for making you deal with my emotional outburst.”

She finally lifted her head, wiping her tears with the duvet.

“You know,” she said quietly, “all my life I lived in a cage that looked like it was made of roses — but they were nothing but thorns. Yet I did everything I could to learn how to fly out of it.”

She exhaled, her voice soft but filled with despair.

“But unlucky me — from the very first flight, I was caught by vultures. It’s my destiny to be engulfed by suffocation and pain.”

“Sorry… and thank you,” she said faintly. “I’ll do as you say. I won’t make it hard for you any further.”

Her eyes had lost all light. His throat went dry. Even in the cruelty of this world, she sat there with lifeless eyes — yet a heart full of sensibility and grace. His heart shattered at the sight.

He saw something rare. Something almost sacred — in the filthy world he ruled.

He patted her head softly.

“I’ll see what I can do about that,” he said gently. “For now, don’t cry. Eat something, and let the doctor treat you.”

His words didn’t change her expression — she had already accepted her fate. She was wise for her age, and that made her confession even graver.

He peeled an apple and cut it into pieces.

“You may have other work, Captain. It’s alright,” she said politely. “You don’t have to take care of me personally.”

His eyes softened. “It’s alright, Jemisha. Big brother is a really powerful person — no one can question me.”

She smiled faintly, trying to lighten the mood. “Are you like a royal highness then?” she joked, her eyes still teary.

“Kind of,” he replied with a small smirk. “I’m the Captain, you know — no one’s above me. I’m the strongest.”

He handed her a piece of apple.

“Hmm… you are indeed,” she whispered, eating the apple as tears quietly kept falling.

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