Triggering You | Moon Baek [Trigger] x Reader

I'm a Good Girl, Officer

"No." The word cracked out of your throat. You tore the paper from her hand and shoved it back into the envelope, pulse thudding so loudly you barely recognised your own voice. "No, Min-Ji. We could get killed just for having this."

She bit her lip, hesitating. Then, quieter: "Or we could get answers. If we watch one of them afar, maybe even catch the dealer himself—"

Your glare cut her off. "Absolutely fucking not! That's not reporting, that's suicide."

Min-Ji fell silent, her jaw set in quiet frustration. But you could see the spark still flickering behind her eyes—the same reckless curiosity that drove her to chase stories that weren't meant to be touched.

You softened, just slightly. "If we're going anywhere, we go to the dormitory. It's already been swept by the police. It's safer. Atleast we'll see what they found there."

It wasn't safe, not really. But it was safer than chasing names on a list that smelled of blood.

By the following night, the two of you slipped through the quiet streets, your nerves a taut string threatening to snap with every step. The dormitory stood in bleak silence, windows black, its facade scarred by the night before. Police tape club to the entrance like a warning no one cared to enforce. Inside, the air was heavy, still carrying the metallic tang of gunpowder beneath the faint echo of voices long silenced.

And then.
"Stop."

The word cracks through the silence, deep, commanding enough to still your breath. From the end of the hall, a man emerges. Broad shouldered, a black leather jacket hugging his frame, a gun steady in his grip. His gaze cuts through you both like glass.

"What are you doing here? No one is allowed beyond entrance."

Your throat tightens, your pulse racing as you step instinctively back. Min-Ji, braver in words if not in heart, raises her chin. "We're j-journalists, we came here for answers."

The man doesn't lower his gun, though his eyes narrow, appraising. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he tucks his weapon back beneath his jacket and reaches into his pocket. A badge flashes in the dim light.

"Detective Lee Do," he says curtly. "And this is an active investigation. You shouldn't be here."

Something in his tone demands honesty, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill from your lips. "I've been receiving bullets," you tell him, your voice low, steady even as your stomach churns. "One inside every bouquet, hidden in little boxes. Over and over again, until...I received a bigger one."

Lee Do studies you in silence, eyes narrowing slightly, not with suspicion but with something else, confusion. His gaze flickers over your face as if he's searching for fractures in your words, as if he wants to see the shadow of the stalker reflected in your eyes. For a moment you think he might dismiss you—but he doesn't.

"Come with me to the station," he says at last, his tone not unkind but absolute, as if the weight of his voice alone could drag you there.

You shake your head instantly, Min-Ji echoing your refusal at your side. "No. You don't understand—he isn't just some unhinged admirer. He isn't ordinary. If we speak openly, if too many people know, he'll hear of it before you do. We need to keep this conversation closed, within trusted detectives. We—we trust you, sir."

Something unreadable flickers in his expression. He doesn't argue again. Instead, he turns sharply, signaling for you to follow. "Then stay close. Don't fall behind."

He leads you to the side of the building, where heaps of empty delivery boxes lie abandoned, half collapsed from rain and neglect. That's when the sound comes, rustling, voices, curses. A group of men hunching over the boxes, tearing into them like scavengers. Their movements are too coordinated. Not looters, not bystanders. A gang.