When the torture specialist grabbed his knee and pushed it outward, Shin Yigyeom’s muscles pulled back reflexively.
At that angle, the wedge support was driven in.
A drop of cold sweat ran down Shin Yigyeom’s spine.
From here on, he would have to hold this position by his own strength.
The torture specialist twisted his ankle in the opposite direction, and when Shin Yigyeom braced against it, drove the wedge in deeper once more.
The arrangement was designed to prevent him from finding balance.
His wrists were fixed in a similar fashion.
“Where is the Mumyeongdan’s base of operations? Is the chain of command centralized? What was the reason for infiltrating the walls?”
The Punishment Guard continued the interrogation.
“Was the final objective the imperial palace?”
“…….”
Shin Yigyeom’s jaw trembled.
The first few minutes were bearable.
It felt less like pain and more like heat pooling from somewhere deep inside his joints.
The space between his bones was narrowing.
It did not take long for the heat to turn into spasms.
His knees shook uncontrollably.
When he braced his arms to stop the shaking, his wrists twisted.
When he clenched his teeth and tried to release all the tension from his body, his ankles could not hold.
Shin Yigyeom’s breathing gradually deepened.
With each attempt to regulate it, one joint pulled taut as if it might snap.
He broke his exhales into fragments.
Beads of sweat dripped from his chin, spreading across the floor in dark circles.
He fixed his gaze on them with fierce concentration.
As time passed, the pain slowly disappeared.
No — it went numb.
What became clear was how far he could still move.
His body had memorized its own limits.
Then the wedge was pushed one notch further.
Shin Yigyeom knew immediately.
Holding on any longer would be physically impossible.
He felt something snap dully inside his knee.
“If you were targeting the emperor, then your—”
The iron door of the interrogation room swung open and the Punishment Guard’s words were cut short.
The sound of uniform collars brushing together as salutes were snapped into place.
The torture specialists stepped back quickly, leaving the wedges in place.
The air inside the interrogation room changed in an instant.
Shin Yigyeom did not raise his head.
The moment he confirmed the faces of those surrounding him, the only thing that would become clear was that he was undergoing torture with no guarantee of survival.
Thud. Thud.
Heavy footsteps drew closer.
When two military boots of deep black came to a stop in front of him, Shin Yigyeom blinked through sweat-drenched lashes.
…Wi Saheon.
Was it mere coincidence? For some reason, every time he came face to face with this man, a headache set in.
A deeply ominous, persistent headache.
“…….”
Wi Saheon looked down at Shin Yigyeom, tilting his chin at his habitual angle.
The tips of Shin Yigyeom’s fingers, his joints twisted in that strange configuration, trembled finely.
His overworked body left little bare skin visible, and a month in, he was far thinner than the day he had first been interrogated.
After a brief silence, Wi Saheon gave a short instruction.
“The weight.”
The Punishment Guard quickly placed a weight stand into the hand Wi Saheon extended.
From its center hung a single small metal weight.
It appeared he intended to carry out the Dark Bureau’s distinctive weight-pressure technique.
The weight stand was fixed against Shin Yigyeom’s chest, which was already exposed.
The chest cavity rose — and the weight was pulled downward.
It was neither pain nor pressure.
Only his breathing snapped off.
“…?!”
Shin Yigyeom’s eyes shifted, searching for the cause, but this was a stimulus his mind could not account for.
It was different in nature from the suffocation he had experienced until now.
Wi Saheon confirmed the response through this pain test, then gestured for the weight stand to be removed.
The Punishment Guard and the torture specialists released Shin Yigyeom’s joints from the chair and took the stand away.
The lieutenant commander swallowed dryly.
From here on, this was no longer within the domain of procedure.
Wi Saheon removed his leather gloves and laid his palm flat against Shin Yigyeom’s bare chest.
His hand was warm.
The body heat transmitted through the contact made Shin Yigyeom feel a bewilderment he could not explain.
His eyes blinked rapidly, on their own.
Wi Saheon had not yet pressed his weight into his hand.
When nothing happened even after a long wait, Shin Yigyeom raised his head.
“Breathe.”
Just as Shin Yigyeom happened to draw in a breath, Wi Saheon’s palm pressed down at the same pace.
His breath was cut off — seamlessly and precisely.
Shin Yigyeom’s bloodless lips parted.
“Breathe.”
Every time he tried to draw in air, Wi Saheon’s palm pressed against his chest.
He was being told to breathe, yet he could not.
It would not come.
This time, Wi Saheon’s hand moved first — just before the inhale.
Shin Yigyeom’s breathing continued to be thrown off.
“Ha—…”
For the first time, Shin Yigyeom’s eyes wavered at this unpredictable torment.
This was not a calculable pain signal.
It was a different dimension from one-dimensional suffering altogether.
His limbs, freed from the joint chair, writhed helplessly without knowing what to do with themselves.
The Senior Inspector watching swallowed dryly; the Punishment Guard stepped back a pace; the lieutenant commander did not make a sound.
They were all in a state of extreme tension at the fact that they were witnessing the Grand Bureau Chief conduct torture with his own hands.
Wi Saheon stared at Shin Yigyeom’s distressed face and felt the pulse beating frantically beneath his palm.
“Again. Breathe.”
It was a voice chillingly low.
Shin Yigyeom’s lungs flailed, unable to find air.
Quietly, without a trace, his breath was drying up.
Without being aware of what he was doing, Shin Yigyeom looked up at Wi Saheon with a start.
He could not decide or carry out even the single act of breathing on his own.
The man before him made him thrash about on nothing but the instinct to live.
The part of himself that had unhesitatingly offered himself as a living sacrifice in the face of bottomless, endless torture — that part was now, as though it had never existed, being made to retract.
By nothing more than the pressure of a palm.
The lieutenant commander was inwardly startled by the desperation in Shin Yigyeom’s eyes.
What from the outside appeared to be nothing more than a light pressing of the chest was in truth a torture of tremendous intensity.
Not just anyone could perform it, and it was not performed on just anyone.
“Maintain the angle. Again.”
As his lungs constricted, Shin Yigyeom panted and slowly raised both hands.
With hands that would not obey him, hands locked in spasms, he barely managed to grasp Wi Saheon’s forearm.
It looked almost like a gesture of pleading.
The lieutenant commander had no time to intervene.
Wi Saheon tracked this with his eyes alone.
The rigid, frozen hand was pressing force against him in an attempt to push him away.
Each slender finger trembled like the thin wing of a dragonfly.
“Breathe.”
“…Hk.”
Shin Yigyeom, still gripping Wi Saheon’s wrist, this time held his breath — the opposite of his command.
He had sensed that Wi Saheon was trying to draw something out through the body heat beneath his palm.
“Ugh—!”
When Shin Yigyeom’s vision went hazy, his palm slackened.
Then, when a breath like a bout of retching was gasped in, it would press down again.
“Stop. Again.”
The voice was uncannily gentle — all the more at odds with the act itself.
“What is the furthest point the reports reach?”
“…Hk—”
Shin Yigyeom’s toes scrambled frantically against the floor.
“If the mission fails, who bears responsibility?”
“…Ha, ha—…”
“Who knows that you are here?”
“K-hk—”
Breath released, then crashed back in.
Shin Yigyeom swallowed down to the last syllable what had nearly broken apart on the inside of his lips.
“What is the function of Hwain?”
Wi Saheon deliberately refrained from revealing any personal connection, and rather than naming directly the past that had existed between himself and Shin Yigyeom, he arranged his questions to circle around it.
This was a choice made to avoid leaving unnecessary traces in the presence of outside observers — and simultaneously a method to precisely isolate the subject’s responses.
“What is your own standard when there are no orders?”
“Hh—…”
“Is your silence now a matter of discipline, or your habit?”
“…….”
“How many days were you on Mokwa Island this year?”
Wi Saheon posed the questions not to demand answers, but to confirm the presence or absence of Shin Yigyeom’s reactions, their delays, and the shape of their distortions.
“Any substances you take regularly?”
There was no response beneath his palm.
Wi Saheon raised one eyebrow and looked deeply into Shin Yigyeom’s face.
Whether he intended to end things himself, Shin Yigyeom had cut off his own breathing by his own will and was clenching his teeth.
Wi Saheon gripped Shin Yigyeom’s cheek with one hand and forced his jaw open roughly.
As the breath that had been coiled inside burst out, Shin Yigyeom’s flushed face gradually drained back to pale.
“Two of the Mumyeongdan.”
“…….”
“Do you remember what people used to call you?”
Shin Yigyeom hastily averted his gaze.
Wi Saheon did not miss a single one of his minute changes.
