Snowflakes had just begun to fall that evening, dusting Seoul in a quiet shimmer, when Annie's phone rang. She almost didn't answer—it was past eight, and she had been buried in a pile of handwritten notes. But when she saw the name flashing on the screen, she sighed, pushed up her glasses, and grabbed her coat.
Ji-ah again.
Her petite friend—Park Ji-ah, twenty-four, all long hair and hazel eyes that glimmered with mischief—was known as much for her magazine covers as for the chaos she left in her wake. Annie had once joked that if Ji-ah weren't a model, she would've made an excellent actress; her ability to switch between fragile innocence and sparkling boldness was unmatched.
By the time Annie reached the station, she already knew what she would find.
And there Ji-ah was, seated in the waiting area like a fragile doll. A blanket draped over her shoulders, her cheeks flushed pink, she coughed dramatically into a tissue. The officers nearby exchanged looks, neither impressed nor fooled.
"Unnie!" Ji-ah brightened the moment she spotted Annie, standing with exaggerated effort, as though even her legs were too weak to hold her up. "You came for me…"
Annie pinched the bridge of her nose. "What did you do this time?"
One of the officers sighed from behind the desk, flipping through paperwork. "This is her fifth visit this month, Miss Annie. Fifth."
Another added dryly, "If she signs in one more time, we'll have to give her a locker."
Ji-ah, completely unbothered, widened her eyes at Annie. "They're exaggerating. I was just helping… you know… cheering someone on."
"Cheering someone on at a nightclub brawl?" Annie deadpanned.
Ji-ah gasped, offended. "They were fighting because of me, not with me. I'm innocent!" She sneezed delicately, as if to seal the performance.
Across the room, two men wrapped in bandages groaned in unison. "Innocent?!" one muttered. The other pointed weakly at Ji-ah, "She… she told us both she'd meet us there… at the same time!"
The officers looked skyward. Annie bit her lip, torn between scolding her and laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all.
Once the officers finished the basic documentation, Annie asked to look over the report. On her way to the counter, she passed the investigation room—the frosted glass door left slightly ajar. Inside, the whiteboard was filled with photos, red markers, and scribbled notes from ongoing cases. Annie paused, her eyes scanning quickly. She frowned, stepped in, and corrected a date written in the wrong column. Then she scribbled a brief note in the corner margin, adjusting a detail one of the officers had overlooked.
The detective at the desk raised a brow but didn't stop her. They were used to Annie's sharp eye by now.
"Alright," Annie said briskly, turning back to Ji-ah, "we're done here. Let's go before someone brings you a tiara for 'drama queen of the year.'"
Ji-ah laughed, grabbed her things, and skipped along happily at Annie's side as they finally left the station.
They found a small diner not far away, the warmth of spicy stew and steaming rice bowls chasing away the cold. Over dinner, Ji-ah animatedly recounted her "tragic night," embellishing every detail while Annie tried—and failed—not to laugh.
Later, Annie insisted on escorting her home. She walked Ji-ah all the way to her apartment, standing at the door until she was safely inside. Only then did Annie turn back into the snowy night, shaking her head but smiling despite herself.