Detective Kim dropped the question immediately. Something in him warned—instinct, honed from years of investigation—that pushing Sof further could cause harm. And if he caused harm to Sof, the Sylvan family would never forgive him.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, lowering his gaze. "That was unnecessary."
Sof's smile returned, as gentle as sunlight through glass. "Oh, you don't have to apologize. It's Mother's Day. Of course you'd be curious. You just look… inexperienced in giving flowers to your mom."
The words stung. More than Kim expected. It was true—and Sof's innocent tone made it worse. He covered it with humor.
"Agh. Right in the pride. But yeah, you're not wrong. Last time I gave her flowers, I was still in elementary school."
The two laughed lightly, Sof with his oblivious charm, Kim with a breath of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The tension broke. For now.
"So," Sof asked, jotting on the order slip, "what name should I put? Yours, and your mom's?"
"Kim Dohyun. My mother's name is Kim Woori."
"Alrighty. From your son, Dohyun, to Mrs. Kim Woori." Sof held up the bouquet with a bright smile. "Exactly within budget. Happy Mother's Day, Mr. Dohyun. And good luck."
Their goodbyes were brief, casual. To Sof, it was just another customer. To Kim, it was a failure. No clues about the criminal who had raised him. Only one thing stood out: Sof's sharp hatred at the mention of his mother.
That was enough.
Kim delivered the bouquet by courier, attaching a handwritten card and cash. Then he retreated to his apartment—a small space chosen specifically for its clear view of Bloom Flower Shop, and the modest two-story house beside it where Sof lived.
Inside, his walls began to change. Pins, strings, notes, photographs. Red yarn connecting scraps of possibility. The board filled slowly, but it wasn't the criminal's face taking shape there. It was Sof's.
That fleeting flash of anger had carved itself into Kim's mind. Sof's smile hid something dark. And Kim felt himself being pulled in, obsessed, chasing the shape of a secret he didn't yet understand.
The case was unraveling, but he no longer cared. The criminal became a shadow. Sof had become the center.
---
Night fell. At six, Kim peered through his curtains, binoculars raised.
There was Sof, closing the shop. His figure was faint but distinct, moving with practiced ease. Half past six, he entered his home. Through thin curtains, Kim watched in stolen glimpses: Sof eating dinner, cleaning, bathing, moving through his night with ordinary rhythm.
And then, at exactly eight, the lights dimmed.
Sof went to his bedroom on the second floor. The windows were curtained, but left slightly open. Kim caught only the faint outline of a figure slipping into bed.
All seemed quiet.
Until thirty minutes later.
Sof sat upright.
He didn't move at first, sitting still as if listening for something. Then, slowly, he rose, walked past the second floor's shadows, and descended. Down the stairs. Down further still, into the basement.
Kim froze. His breath caught in his throat. His pulse raced—not with fear, but exhilaration. A thrill surged in his heart, a chill ran down his spine. His body reacted with a shameful, undeniable arousal. This was what he lived for: the unraveling of mysteries, the discovery of hidden truths.
He had no view of the basement. But the fact Sof had gone there—without hesitation, without light—was proof. Proof that something was hidden. Proof that Sof wasn't just Sof.
He waited. Minutes crawled by.
At one o'clock, the basement door creaked open.
Sof emerged.
But he wasn't the same. His wavy curls now hung straight. His posture sharper, more deliberate, his movements smooth, predatory, like a cat. The warmth in his presence was gone—replaced by something quieter, but heavier, a pressure that made Kim's skin prickle.
Sof drifted into the kitchen, humming faintly, cooking as though midnight meals were routine. He wandered the house, but never once glanced toward the stairs that led to the second floor. It was as if it didn't exist.
Kim's breath shuddered. He whispered to himself, words carried on trembling excitement.
"It's Sof… yet it doesn't feel like Sof."
His obsession deepened. The thrill in his chest, the shiver along his spine, the arousal only mysteries could spark—he knew his instincts were right.
Sof wasn't just part of the case.
Sof was the case.