Chapter Text
Rumi always chooses skylights.
Not because she likes the drama— though she doesn’t seem to dislike it— but because the skylights are quiet. Forgotten. Overlooked by guards trained to watch doors and windows and crowds. Nobody ever thinks to look up, and Rumi always takes full advantage of that fact.
Mira knows this now that she’s been chasing her for the better part of six months.
She’s already running when Zoey’s voice cuts sharply into her earpiece, “Mira— movement in the east wing. Thermal picked up a heat signature above Gallery Three. She’s inside.”
Mira swears under her breath and vaults the velvet rope separating the exhibit from the main thoroughfare. Visitors gasp and scatter as she barrels through, flashes of silk dresses and half-lifted phones blurring at the edges of her vision. The museum lights are still low for the evening exhibit, curated pools of gold illuminating marble and glass instead of emergency red.
No alarms yet. No shattered glass. Just a creeping, bone-deep certainty that Ryu Rumi is already exactly where she shouldn’t be.
“She didn’t trip anything?” Mira asks, dodging a guard who nearly collides with her. The man shouts something she doesn’t catch. She really could not give a shit right now.
“Nope,” Zoey replies. “Skylight was unlocked for ventilation. Maintenance override still active. She slipped in clean.” A pause. Then, with faint admiration she doesn’t bother hiding, “She’s good.”
Of course she is.
Mira barrels into Gallery Three just in time to see a flicker of violet at the edge of her vision— fabric vanishing behind a row of Grecian statues, marble limbs frozen mid-motion as if bearing silent witness.
“There!” Mira snaps, pointing even though Zoey can’t see it.
She cuts right, boots echoing too loudly against stone. She knows she’s already lost the element of surprise. Rumi thrives on that imbalance— feeds on it, even. It’s as though she enjoys turning the pursuit into a performance.
Sure enough, a voice drifts back to her, amused and maddeningly calm. “Hey, Inspector Kang.”
The way Rumi says her name, drawled out and familiar, sets her teeth on edge. Mira clenches her jaw. “Freeze.”
Rumi doesn’t.
She moves like she was poured into the space— slipping between displays, ducking under ropes, never touching what she doesn’t have to. Mira follows, faster, louder, shoulders clipping cases that Rumi never even brushes. The difference is infuriating.
“You know,” Rumi calls over her shoulder, “this would go much smoother if you stopped announcing yourself.”
“It’d go a lot smoother if you’d just surrender,” Mira snaps back.
Rumi tilts her head, as though she’s genuinely considering her words. She taps her chin theatrically, then shakes her head. “Nah, not interested.”
Zoey’s voice crackles in, urgent now. “Mira, west corridor cameras are dead— she looped them thirty seconds ago. You’re flying blind.”
“Copy,” Mira says, even as she barrels after the flash of violet rounding the corner. “Any external exits compromised?”
“Working on it. She’s already thinking ahead, Mira. Don’t overcommit. She might have a backup plan you don’t know about.”
Mira doesn’t respond. Overcommitment is kind of her thing.
Rumi hits the stairwell first, already halfway up by the time Mira bursts through the door. She takes the steps in long, efficient strides, one hand skimming the railing, balance perfect.
Mira pushes harder, lungs burning.
“You’re getting sloppy,” Mira calls, breath tight.
Rumi laughs. “Has the definition for sloppy changed without me knowing?”
They spill out onto the second-floor balcony, overlooking the main atrium. The ceiling stretches high above them, steel beams crisscrossing beneath a massive skylight— intact, sealed, moonlight filtering softly through frosted glass.
Rumi slows a fraction.
Mira sees it— the calculation, the choice— and lunges.
This time, she catches her.
A flash of metal arcs up— Rumi’s knife— but Mira knocks her wrist aside and slams her back against the railing. The impact rattles through them both.
Heat. Breath. Too close.
For a split second, the world narrows to the press of bodies and the sharp scent of ozone and old stone. Rumi’s eyes are dark and bright all at once, her grin wide and unrepentant.
She laughs, low and delighted, inches from Mira’s mouth. “Well, hello again. We really have to stop meeting like this. You’re gonna start putting all these fantasies in my head.”
Mira snarls and slams her into the nearest wall, marble cracking under the impact. “I’ve caught you.”
The statement is made less out of any triumph and more out of a desperation for it to be true. This pursuit needs to end at some point. Please let it be now.
“Have you now?” Rumi murmurs.
She twists— not fighting the grip, but melting out of it, sliding under Mira’s arm like smoke. Mira’s fingers close on empty air.
“Shit,” Zoey mutters in her earpiece, awe bleeding into her voice. “You totally just got ghosted.”
“Quit narrating,” Mira grumbles, whirling around and sprinting for the maintenance ladder Rumi is already halfway up.
They burst into the upper catwalks, the space opening beneath a vaulted ceiling crisscrossed with steel beams. The museum below suddenly feels fragile and distant.
Rumi doesn’t hesitate. She grabs a railing, swings, and vaults into the rafters with acrobatic ease.
Mira swears and follows, boots clanging against metal as she hauls herself up.
“You know,” Zoey says, a smile in her voice despite everything, “normal people use stairs.”
“Normal people aren’t criminals,” Mira says. “Nor do they have to chase criminals. Fuck my life.”
Rumi is already dancing across the beams, balancing effortlessly as she moves higher, violet coat flashing between the girders. Mira chases, cursing every slippery step, every second of hesitation. Sweat slicks her palms. Her heart hammers with adrenaline and annoyance and something else she refuses to name.
“Give it up!” Mira shouts.
“Can’t!” Rumi calls back. “Busy!”
“Stealing?”
“Saving!”
Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.
Rumi reaches the skylight and stops, crouching beneath it. For a heartbeat, she looks back. Moonlight spills through the glass, silvering her hair, catching on the sharp line of her grin.
“Try the stairs next time,” Rumi says.
She slips through the narrow maintenance hatch beside the skylight— gone without a sound.
Mira reaches the glass seconds too late. She slams her fist against it once. “Damn it!”
“Hey,” Zoey says gently. “Hey. Breathe.”
Mira doesn’t breathe.
She pivots and runs.
Down the ladder, through the stairwell three steps at a time, out the emergency exit. Cold night air slams into her as she bursts out onto the museum’s rear plaza—
Just in time to see violet swing onto the back of a motorcycle, where the driver is already seated, helmet on, visor dark.
“Stop!” Mira shouts, sprinting forward, gun half-raised before she thinks better of it.
The motorcycle peels away, engine roaring and tires screaming against stone as it disappears into traffic.
Mira skids to a halt, chest heaving.
“Zoey,” she gasps. “She has a partner.”
“I see it,” Zoey says quietly. “Helmeted. No facial recognition. She had a clean exit.”
Mira runs her hands through her hair and pulls at her roots, wishing she could rip her hair right off, wishing she could punish herself into clarity. Every time. Every single fucking time.
This isn’t their first dance. Not even close.
The first time they met, Mira hadn’t known Ryu Rumi’s name— only that she was chasing a ghost through the ruins of a Venetian palazzo, heart pounding, boots slipping on wet stone. She remembers the way Rumi had moved then, too— fluid, precise, almost playful. Like she was enjoying herself.
Like she was enjoying Mira.
The memory rises unbidden: the clash of bodies, the way Rumi had aimed a blow at her torso. Mira dodging— barely— only allowing Rumi to graze her side.
“And what’s your name?” Rumi had asked mid-fight, breath steady, smirk radiant.
“Like I’d tell—”
Rumi had leapt back then, sudden and theatrical, leaving space between them. Mira had paused, wary, unsure what game she was playing.
Then Rumi had flourished Mira’s ID, plucked from her pocket without her noticing.
“Kang Mira, Interpol,” she’d read aloud, slow and condescending, like she was talking to a kindergartener. “Woah. The big guns are after me now.”
“How’d you—?”
“Picked your pocket just now,” Rumi had continued, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “Pretty name for a pretty face.”
“Damn,” Zoey’s voice had crackled in Mira’s earpiece. “She’s good. And hot.”
“Stop that,” Mira had snapped— both at the nagging voice in her head and at the nagging voice ahead of her.
She opens her eyes now, back in the present, and exhales sharply.
Zoey is waiting for her at the cordoned-off exit five minutes later, tablet tucked under one arm. The museum hums with a chaos being brought under control. Security teams sweep the galleries. Curators hover near their exhibits, pale and furious. The skylight above Gallery Three stands open now, moonlight pouring in like an accusation.
Zoey looks… unfairly good. She always does. Hair pulled into two buns, eyes sharp, posture alert but still loose in that way that suggests control rather than tension.
“You okay?” Zoey asks softly. Mira realizes— distractedly— that she always likes hearing Zoey’s voice more in person than through the earpiece. Warmer. Real.
Mira nods before she thinks about it. “I will be.” Then, because standing still feels dangerous, “What’ve we got?”
Zoey kneels beneath the opened skylight, fingers flying over her tablet. Mira watches her for a second too long— the way her brow furrows when she’s concentrating, the way she bites the inside of her cheek like she’s physically holding back from bursting out into a word vomit in favor of focusing on the case.
Mira has always liked seeing Zoey in all of her brilliance like this, but she wishes she’d say everything she has in her mind.
“Inventory logs coming in now,” Zoey says.
Mira drags her eyes away. She scans the room, tracing Rumi’s path. “What did she take?”
Zoey frowns. “That’s the thing. Not much.”
“What do you mean, ‘not much’?”
“No artifacts missing. No display cases breached.” Zoey scrolls again. “Only thing flagged is a set of backup security drives.”
Mira stills. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Mira mutters. “Rumi doesn’t come out empty-handed. She doesn’t steal for nothing.”
Zoey hesitates. “Maybe we’re looking at it the wrong way.”
Mira’s noticed this about Zoey, too. The way she’s always quick to suggest that perhaps there’s more brimming under the surface. Like Ryu Rumi is a potentially noble fucking Robin Hood, rather than a serial superthief who has stolen millions of dollars worth of valuables for over half a year.
Mira turns to her. “Explain.”
Before Zoey can answer, a familiar voice cuts in.
“Looks like a victimless crime to me.” Bobby steps into the light, already in uniform. He glances around, assessing the damage with a critical eye.
“You got here fast,” Mira comments offhandedly.
“I was on patrol nearby when the call for backup came in.”
“Convenient,” Mira says, though there’s no real heat in it.
He shrugs. “Timing’s a funny thing.”
Zoey nods. “I was just telling Mira— nothing valuable’s missing.”
Bobby hums. “Then maybe Ryu Rumi isn’t our villain tonight.”
Mira shoots him a look, something prickling at the back of her neck. “She broke into a national museum.”
“And didn’t steal anything worth money,” Bobby counters mildly. “Could be worse.”
Mira looks at him for several beats longer before shrugging it off. She’s far too exhausted to be thinking rationally, it seems.
Twenty minutes pass before Abby barrels in, breathless. He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry I’m so late— traffic was a nightmare.”
Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. “Every time I think you’ve hit rock bottom in idiocy, you somehow manage to grab a shovel and prove me wrong.”
Abby laughs, unoffended. “Missed you too.”
Zoey offers him a quick smile—too quick, maybe. Abby lingers a second longer than necessary, and Mira has the sudden, irrational thought that she’s missing something.
She shakes it off.
“I saw the footage on the way in. I mean… the bike?” Abby asks. His eyes are fixed on the empty street outside of the museum. His tone is casual, with a slight edge to it, like he’s forcing himself not to lean forward. “There was someone—”
“Yeah,” Mira cuts in. “I saw it. She has help. I’ve been chasing her for six months, and this is the first time I’ve found something like this out.”
Zoey’s hand appears on her shoulder. “It’s okay. This just means we’re getting closer.”
Mira’s gaze drifts back to the open skylight, to the empty space where Rumi vanished. An image she’ll be replaying in her head for the rest of the night.
***
The Interpol office is quieter than it should be for the time of night— or maybe Mira’s just too keyed up from the night. Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, washing everything in pale white. Mira shrugs off her coat and drops it over the back of her chair like it personally offended her.
Zoey’s already there, pulling up files on the main screen. Abby lingers near the doorway, hovering like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to sit or stand or apologize for existing. Mira’s still not sure why he’s here. He showed up late to the scene, contributed nothing, and is probably going to continue contributing nothing besides a distraction that Mira could honestly do without tonight.
“All right,” Zoey says, clapping her hands once. “Unofficial debrief before the paperwork debrief before the debrief about why the paperwork is late.”
Mira snorts and drops into her chair. “I love our jobs.”
Abby raises a hand. “For the record, I think the paperwork should debrief itself.”
Mira doesn’t look at him. “Thank you, Abby. Your stupidity never fails to astound me.”
He grins anyway. “Happy to help.”
Zoey shoots Abby a fond look— Mira has to keep her jaw from ticking in irritation— and turns the screen so they can all see. A timeline of thefts populates the display: locations spanning half a dozen countries, dates staggered just enough to stay unpredictable.
“Six months,” Zoey says. “Nine confirmed hits. Three near-misses. Zero civilian casualties. Minimal structural damage.”
“Because she’s a menace with a conscience,” Mira mutters. “How generous.”
Abby squints at the screen. “Still wild to me that she keeps getting in through the roof.”
“She favors skylights,” Mira says flatly.
Zoey smiles at her. “She favors skylights.”
Mira feels the echo of it— how Zoey mirrors her sometimes, unconsciously. It does something annoying to her chest.
“She also favors museums, private collections, and secure archives,” Zoey continues. “Anywhere with redundant security systems.”
“Which she disables like she’s swiping left,” Abby adds helpfully.
Mira rolls her eyes. “I’m sure a lot of women do that to you.”
Abby raises a brow and flexes an arm as if to prove a point. “Who needs dating apps when I got guns like these?”
Mira stares at him, deadpan. “Wow. A true work of art.”
“Truly. Anyway.” Zoey giggles to herself, then scrolls, moving them along. “What’s interesting is what she doesn’t take. No pattern in monetary value. Some of these pieces are priceless. Others—” she shrugs “— like tonight. Random backup security drives.”
“Translation,” Mira says, “she’s not in it for the money.”
Abby shrugs. “Lame. If I had skills like hers, I’d be rolling in it.”
Mira looks at him slowly. “Rolling in your own shit, maybe, since you’re so full of it.”
Zoey laughs— quick and bright— and Mira startles at how much she likes being the reason for it.
Mira clears her throat sharply, though she feels herself soften when Zoey meets her eyes. “So what we do know is that she plans ahead. Always has an exit. Tonight was the first time I saw her deviate.”
Zoey tilts her head. “Deviate how?”
“She slipped,” Mira says. “In the six months I’ve spent chasing her, I’ve never known she had a getaway driver. That has to mean something. Maybe I’m— we’re— closer to catching her now.”
Abby’s gaze flickers. “Isn’t that just speculation? We don’t know for sure—”
Mira’s jaw tightens. Of course he’d say that. Of course now is when someone wants to slow it down, sand the edges off, tell her to be patient like patience hasn’t already cost her sleep and pride. Her head throbs— a dull, persistent ache she’s learned to ignore because there’s never time to listen to it.
She’s tired of not knowing. Tired of being reactive. Tired of feeling like she’s chasing smoke while everyone else stands safely back and calls it analysis.
“How are we not sure?” Mira snaps. “She brought in a driver for the first time in six months. That’s not nothing. That’s pressure.”
Abby shifts, uncomfortable. “I’m just saying— if we jump too fast—”
Jump too fast, Mira thinks. As if she hasn’t been running at this exact pace for half a year. She can feel herself unraveling a bit at the edges, but she doesn’t care anymore. She’s tired.
Zoey rubs her neck, smiling apologetically. “Abby’s not wrong, actually. We don’t know enough about what’s going on in her head to really be able to pinpoint anything.
Mira bristles instinctively— then exhales. Zoey’s voice has always had that kind of influence on her. Like she’s lowering the volume in her head before Mira even realized all of the screaming going on in there.
“Yeah,” Mira mutters. “Maybe.”
Zoey reaches out and nudges Mira’s chair with her knee, and the subtle action is enough to rewire every single one of Mira’s nerves. She can feel all of the frantic, overwhelmed buzzing under her skin vanish momentarily.
Abby glances at Mira nervously, as though he knows not to get on her bad side when she’s like this. So he’s not a complete idiot after all.
He checks his watch. “Well— hate to leave you guys early, but I should head out. Early shift tomorrow.”
Zoey nods. “Thanks for staying.”
“Anytime,” he says, then hesitates, looking between them. “You guys… good?”
Mira opens her mouth. Zoey beats her to it. “We’re good.”
Abby smiles, reassured, and heads out. The door clicks shut behind him.
The silence that follows is different— less procedural, more intimate. Mira doesn’t love how aware she suddenly is of Zoey’s presence. Or how much she can feel herself relax when it’s just the two of them. She feels an itch at the back of her skull— noting how at ease Zoey makes her feel.
Zoey leans back against the desk. “Alright, your sworn nemesis is gone. You okay?”
Mira scoffs. “If anyone’s my sworn nemesis, it’s Rumi.”
Zoey, characteristically, does not let her get away with it. “Dodging the question.”
“Only because you keep asking it.”
“Only because you keep dodging it,” she counters, staring Mira down.
After several long beats, Mira’s face drops in acquiescence, feeling a bit like a part of her insides are cracking open. “I had her, Zo. Sure, she slipped out of my grasp, but I had her.” Mira looks at her hands, flexing them open and shut. For a moment, she imagines she can still feel the way Rumi’s body had fit there or the way Rumi’s breath had hit her lips.
A deep sigh escapes from Mira’s lungs, and she sags forward in her seat, placing her face in her hands. “First time I’ve ever even gotten close, and she… I just— hate that she keeps getting away.”
“I know,” Zoey says softly. She drops to her knees in front of Mira’s seat and places her hand on her knee. “But you’re doing everything right. And we’ll get her.”
Mira looks at her then— really looks. The unwavering warmth. The confidence that doesn’t tip into naivete. The way Zoey believes in her so easily it almost feels reckless.
“I don’t say this enough,” Mira admits, voice lower. A rush of fondness creeps up Mira’s neck in the form of a blush. “But I’m glad you’re on this case with me.”
Zoey’s expression softens, just a fraction. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Mira says. “You keep me sane.”
Zoey smiles, a little crooked. “That’s a big job.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Zoey laughs quietly. “Too late.”
Mira watches her for a second longer than necessary— the scatter of freckles across her nose, the scrunch of her eyes. And Mira knows that if Ryu Rumi ever does get caught, it’ll be because Zoey was here. By her side.
***
Mira doesn’t go home, despite the late hour. Sleep wouldn’t come easy to her, not after a night like this.
Sleep hasn’t come easy for her in a long time.
She ends up at the bar three blocks from her apartment— low-lit, half-empty, the kind of place that smells like citrus cleaner and old wood. The sign outside flickers like it’s thinking about giving up. It’s familiar and comforting and all the distraction she needs from yet another failure to add to her belt.
She takes a seat at the bar with a huff of annoyance and drops her coat on the stool beside her. The bartender looks up when she sits and already has a glass in his hand.
“Rough night?” he asks, setting the glass down in a routine they’ve rehearsed over a hundred times now.
That’s putting it one way. Mira just grunts in response and reaches for the drink. Her hands shake just enough that she has to steady the glass against the bar. She hates that— hates that her body is keeping score even when her mind refuses to. Six months of late nights, bad sleep, and adrenaline crashes have a way of leaking through the cracks.
“Bad or Interpol bad?” he asks.
She snorts. “Is there a difference, Jinu?”
Jinu smiles faintly and moves on to wiping down the counter, giving her space. He’s good at that— being there without hovering. Mira’s noticed it before. It’s one of the reasons she keeps coming back.
She takes a slow drink and lets the burn settle her breathing.
“She got away again,” Mira mutters, more to herself than to him. Saying it out loud makes it feel heavier. Like admitting it gives the night permission to settle into her bones. She wonders, briefly, how many more times she can say it before it starts sounding like an excuse to give up instead of just another fact of the case.
Jinu doesn’t react right away. He never jumps at half-finished thoughts. Just waits, polishing a glass that’s already clean.
“That’s been happening a lot lately,” he says eventually.
Mira hums. “You could say that.”
Silence stretches comfortably. Someone laughs softly at a table behind her. The clink of ice punctuates the moment.
“You chasing the same problem,” Jinu asks, “or a new one?”
Mira exhales through her nose. Her shoulders ache, and her head hurts, and the image of violet fabric disappearing into moonlight won’t leave her alone. “Same.”
“Seems like a nuisance. You’ve been coming to this bar what— three months now? And you’re still on the same case?”
“Four months,” Mira corrects, then grumbles, “Been on the case for six.”
Jinu lets out a low whistle. “Yikes.”
“She’s so…” Mira rakes her fingers through her hair and groans. “She’s so annoying.”
His mouth twitches up in amusement. “Sounds like things are starting to get personal.”
“It’s not,” Mira says immediately. She drains half her glass and sets it down; Jinu refills it without comment. Then, after a beat: “Okay. It’s a little personal.”
“Hey,” Jinu says, throwing his towel over his shoulder. “You’re smart. I don’t doubt you’ll catch her eventually.”
“You’re only telling me what I wanna hear,” Mira says, finger tracing the rim of her glass absentmindedly. She grinds her teeth in irritation. “She plans like it’s an art form. Every single move calculated. Always exits before anyone even realizes she’s entered.
“And— I was so close this time. I swear— I fucking had her this time.” She drains her glass and slams it back down. Jinu pours wordlessly, listening as she vents on. “And this is the first time in six months I…”
Mira trails off, catching herself before she says any more than necessary. She doesn’t need to disclose more than what’s already been said.
Jinu sets the bottle down and leans an elbow on the bar— not looming, just close enough to be conversational. “You ever try to catch a mouse?”
Mira blinks at the sudden change in topic. “Is this a metaphor, or are you confessing to pest control?”
He smiles. “Metaphor. You don’t chase it around the room. You make it feel safe. Give it some crumbs in the corner. Maybe it won’t go for it right away, but when it sees you aren’t coming after it…” He shrugs. “Eventually it stops running. Starts assuming.”
Mira stills, glass hovering halfway to her lips.
That’s… not an unreasonable thing to say.
She doesn’t say it out loud, but something shifts— just a hair. Rumi does rely on repetition. On confidence. On the assumption that Mira will always react the same way.
Mira exhales slowly. “So you’re saying I stop sprinting and start waiting.”
Jinu lifts a shoulder. “I’m saying traps work better when the mouse doesn’t know it’s being hunted.”
“...Huh,” she breathes out thoughtfully. It’s not as though she’s ever thought of Jinu to be stupid, exactly— but this level of insightfulness is rare from him. She really shouldn’t continue talking like this to a civilian. “I should probably stop thinking about work.”
“That’s what the soju’s for,” Jinu says, bouncing his brows playfully.
She huffs a laugh and drinks. The knot in her chest loosens a fraction.
Jinu watches her from the corner of his eye, attention subtle, contained. He doesn’t ask names. Doesn’t ask locations. Doesn’t ask.
When Mira finally stands to leave, she hesitates. “Hey, Jinu?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For… not prying.”
He smiles, warm and familiar. “My job’s just to pour the drinks and listen.”
Mira nods, comforted by the proclamation.
By the time she leaves, her head is lighter. Her spirits are marginally so.