As I stand on the rooftop, the cool night air of Gwangju gradually giving way to memories of Gwangju, I find myself lost in thought.
The Kim case changed things. There's a newfound respect in the eyes of my Gwangju colleagues now. They can't deny the results, even if it stings their pride that an outsider from Seoul cracked the case they'd been struggling with for so long. I can see it in their reluctant nods, hear it in the grudging compliments. They might not like it, but they have to acknowledge my achievement.
This shift has opened doors. I'm being included in more cases, privy to information that was once kept from me. On the surface, it seems like progress, like I'm finally being accepted into the fold.
But the more I see, the more uneasy I become.
The practices here in Gwangju... they're different. Not just different, but in many ways, backward compared to what I'm used to in Seoul. It's as if I've stepped back in time, to an era of policing I thought we'd left behind.
What troubles me most is the casual cooperation with Yakuza and other elements that we in Seoul would never dream of engaging with. It's all done with a wink and a nod, as if it's just business as usual. But to me, it feels like a betrayal of everything the police should stand for.
I can't help but feel that the integrity of the force is being compromised. Every time I see an officer exchange pleasantries with a known criminal, every time I hear about information being "traded" rather than obtained through proper channels, I feel a knot in my stomach tighten.
And the frustration is growing day by day. I came here to solve crimes, to bring justice, not to navigate this murky world of compromises and back-room deals. It's wearing on me, this constant tension between doing things the right way and "the way things are done here."
I find myself wondering how long I can continue like this. How long before I have to make a choice between fitting in and standing up for what I believe is right? And if I do take a stand, what will it cost me?
I let out a long breath, watching it form a small cloud in the cool night air. The Kim case, as grueling as it was, now seems like just the beginning. I've opened a door, but what lies beyond is far more complex than I anticipated.
Corruption, or at least a willingness to bend the rules, seems deeply ingrained here. It's not as simple as right and wrong; it's a system that's evolved over years, with its own twisted logic. Changing it won't be easy, and I'm not even sure if I should be the one to try.
As I turn to head back inside, I'm hit with a sense of isolation. I'm an outsider here, and likely always will be. My methods might be respected now, but my values? They're still foreign, maybe even seen as naive.
I pause at the door, hand on the handle. There's no clear path forward. I could keep my head down, do my job, and ignore the parts that don't sit right with me. Or I could push back, try to change things, and potentially make myself a target.
Neither option sits well. But then again, comfort was never part of the job description. I pull open the door, stepping back into the building.
That's when I ran into Ko. As I pull open the door to head back inside, I nearly collide with her. She's standing there, hand raised as if about to push the door open herself. For a moment, we both freeze, surprised by the unexpected encounter.
Ko looks flustered, her usual composed demeanor slightly cracked. Her eyes dart away from mine, and I can sense an internal struggle written across her features.
"Ko," I say softly, "do you need some company? You seem... preoccupied."
She hesitates, then gives a small nod. Without a word, we both move to the railing, looking out over the city. The silence between us is heavy but not uncomfortable. We stand there for a while, each lost in our own thoughts.
Finally, Ko breaks the silence. Her voice is quiet, almost vulnerable – a side of her I've never seen before.
"You know, I graduated from the Korean National Police University," she begins, still staring out at the cityscape. "Top of my class. I had my pick of assignments, or so I thought."
I listen silently, sensing she needs to get this off her chest.
"And yet, here I am in Gwangju," she continues, a hint of bitterness in her voice. "A place where they usually send officers as punishment."
She turns to face me, and I'm struck by the intensity in her eyes. "Do you know what it's like? To come here with all these ideals, all this training, only to find that none of it seems to matter?"
As she speaks, I realize her struggles mirror my own thoughts from moments ago. She talks about the casual corruption, the blurred lines between right and wrong, the feeling of being an outsider in a system that seems to operate by its own rules.
"I came here thinking I could make a difference," Ko says, her voice barely above a whisper. "But sometimes, it feels like I'm just treading water, trying not to drown in all the compromise and moral ambiguity."
I nod, understanding all too well. "It's not what we signed up for, is it?" I offer.
Ko lets out a humorless laugh. "No, it's not. But what can we do? Push too hard, and we're labeled troublemakers. Go along with it, and we betray everything we believe in."
As she speaks, I feel a shift in our relationship. We're no longer just colleagues, but two people facing the same struggle, trying to navigate a system that often seems at odds with our principles.
"I don't have the answers," I admit. "But maybe, together, we can find a way to make things better. Even if it's just small changes."
Ko looks at me, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "Maybe," she says. "It's good to know I'm not alone in this, at least."
Ko turns to me, her expression shifting to one of hesitation. "Since we're talking... there's something I should tell you."
I nod, encouraging her to continue.
She takes a deep breath. "I've heard rumors. Apparently, you and Han are going to be sent back to Seoul soon."
The news hits me like a sudden gust of wind. A mix of emotions swirls inside me - surprise, excitement, a touch of relief. But I keep my face neutral, not wanting to show too much in front of Ko. Part of me had been hoping for this, a chance to return to familiar ground, to the city where my own unsolved case waits. Yet, there's an unexpected twinge of regret too.
Ko notices my restraint and gives a small, sad smile. "It's okay to be happy about it, you know. I understand. Seoul is where you're from, after all."
I open my mouth to respond, but she continues, "I'll be honest, though. I feel bad about letting you go. You've been... a breath of fresh air here. Challenging, sometimes frustrating, but ultimately good for us. You've brought new perspectives, new methods.
It's made us all think differently about how we approach our work."
Her words touch me more than I expected. "Ko, I..."
She shakes her head. "No need for explanations. We both know Gwangju isn't an easy place to work. The challenges here, the entrenched practices... they can wear anyone down. But you've faced them head-on.
It's admirable, even if it's caused some friction."
I nod, then say, "You know, just because I might be going back to Seoul doesn't mean this is the end. We can still work together, make changes, if we both try our best in our respective places. There's a lot we could do to bridge the gap between Seoul and Gwangju practices."
Ko's smile grows a bit warmer. "You're right. Maybe we can be the bridge between Seoul and Gwangju, help bring some positive changes. Your experience here, combined with your connections in Seoul... it could be powerful."
"Exactly," I agree, feeling a sense of purpose settling over me. "And you, Ko, you're in a unique position here. You understand both worlds. Your influence here could be the key to implementing real change."
Ko straightens up, her professional demeanor returning, but there's a new light in her eyes. "Well, then. We should probably get back to work. There's still a lot to do, whether you're leaving soon or not. And if you are going, we should make the most of the time we have left to work together."
As we head back inside, I'm hit with a strange mix of feelings. Seoul beckons, but Gwangju's gotten under my skin more than I expected.
Ko's already switched back to her professional self by the time we reach our floor. I envy her ability to compartmentalize.
"Back to the grind," she says, nodding towards the stack of files on her desk.
"Yeah," I reply.
As we part ways, I sit at my desk, pulling the nearest file towards me. Yet, as I open the file, a fleeting sense of melancholy washes over me. Ko's words linger, a reminder of the unexpected connections I've made in this place I once couldn't wait to leave.