Page 41 of Tell Me Where It Ends

I move quickly, splashing cold water on my face in the bathroom, then grabbing my purse and the sunglasses—a pair of thin, fashionable frames that are more of a statement than a shield. I’m almost at the door when his voice stops me.

“Wait.”

I turn. He’s right behind me. Before I can react, he gently takes the flimsy sunglasses from my face. “These are useless,” he says, his voice a deep, grating rumble. “They’ll see right through them.”

He takes off the heavy, black designer sunglasses the console near the door and slides them onto my face. They’re oversized, heavy on my nose, and they smell faintly, unmistakably, of him.

“These are darker,” he says, his voice softer now, his thumbs gently adjusting the frames on my cheeks. “They won’t see your eyes.”

I just stand there, my breath caught in my throat. I look up at his tired, worried eyes. I can’t speak. I just give a single, small nod.

By the time I’m in the car he called, I’m wearing sunglasses that are too big for my face and a knot of pure, uncut dread in my stomach.

***

The sidewalk in front of the police station is a war zone. Camera flashes burst like mortar shells, and questions are shouted like accusations.

“Min-hee! Are you admitting to the charges?”

“Who supplied you with the marijuana?”

“Are you still seeing Kim Suho?”

That last one lands like a physical blow. My head whips in the direction of the voice, an instinct I regret instantly as the world whites out in a supernova of flashes.

Being interrogated in a police station is bad enough. Being interrogated while wearing your hookup’s boxers while the reporters yell his name,making sure the world won’t forget, is a new circle of hell.

And then, a voice cuts through the noise. “Ms. Yoon.”

Shin. His tone is cool, flat. Polite enough for the lawyers, cold enough to make my skin prickle. He’s standing a few feet away with two men in black suits who look like they could either draft a bulletproof contract or make a body disappear.

He doesn’t look at me. He just tips his head toward the station entrance.

“You’re late.”

I swallow, forcing a smile that feels like cracking glass. “Good morning to you too,manager-nim.” The formal title is a pathetic attempt to volley his cold “Ms. Yoon” back at him. He never calls me that. It’s the voice he uses when a brand deal falls through. Only now,I’mthe failed brand deal.

“Morning,” he says, his gaze still fixed somewhere over my shoulder. His tone could refrigerate a small country.

Inside, the detective’s office is all gray walls and cold, humming fluorescent light. I feel less like a person and more like a specimen pinned under glass.

“They’ll need samples,” one of the detectives says. “Urine, hair… possibly fingernails.”

I blink. “Fingernails?”

He nods, his face impassive. “Standard procedure for all suspects in cases like this.”

The words settle in my stomach like a stone. I’m not even sure what was in that cigarette—but in their eyes, I’m already halfway to guilty. For a second, I picture myself under a microscope, my life dissected in a sterile lab while reporters outside fight for a glimpse.

Then the questions start: dates, places, people I’ve been with—so precise I wonder if they keep a running log of my life.

Shin sits beside me, a silent guardian, his expression carefully neutral. My legal team is a wall of expensive suits, their faces giving away nothing.

Halfway through, a detective leans in, his breath sharp with bitter coffee. “Where were you on the night of—”

My brain does something I’ve trained it to do over years of grueling, pointless interviews: it checks out. The words dissolve into static. The fluorescent lights hum. It’s a defense mechanism, a way to float above the moment until it’s over.

“Ms. Yoon?”