~ 𝕡𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕠𝕡𝕙𝕠𝕓𝕚𝕒 ~ (Minsung)

🔒Chapter 2 - Rescue🔒

⚠️TW⚠️
PHYSICAL ABUSE / TORTURE
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Jisung's POV:

I thanked the butler—actually just a part-time house cleaner who looked after the property—and ascended the stairs with practiced caution, my hand resting on my service weapon. The house's silence felt oppressive, broken only by the creak of weathered floorboards under my careful steps. Dim light filtered through dusty windows, casting shadows across the hallway's peeling wallpaper. Years of police training kicked in as I approached the last door, my footsteps silent on the worn carpet. My heart pounded against my ribs, but my hands remained steady as I drew my weapon.

The muffled sounds grew clearer now—someone crying, the sharp crack of something against flesh. I took a steadying breath, centering myself the way they'd taught us at the academy. "Focus on the task, not the fear," my instructor's voice echoed in my memory. With my free hand, I pushed the door open in one fluid motion, leading with my weapon.

The scene before me sent ice through my veins. Two figures stood with their backs to me—a man in a stained work shirt that reeked of alcohol, and a woman in a threadbare dress, her arms marked with track marks she hadn't bothered to hide. The man's hand was wrapped around her waist, the other gripping what appeared to be a whip. The room itself spoke of neglect—cracked walls, water stains on the ceiling, mismatched furniture that had seen better days—all of it a backdrop to the horror unfolding within.

They spun around at my entrance, their expressions shifting from anger to confusion to fear in rapid succession. The man's face was flushed with intoxication, his bloodshot eyes wild and unfocused. The woman's makeup was smeared across her gaunt face, her hands trembling with what I recognized as withdrawal symptoms.

"Drop it," I commanded, my weapon trained steadily on them. The whip clattered to the floor as they raised their hands. Behind them, I could hear muffled sobbing that made my stomach turn. "Don't move. Keep your hands where I can see them."

"Who let you in?" the man's voice rose to a slurred shout, swaying slightly where he stood. "Yeong-Sik, you worthless—" His eyes darted to the door, rage building in his unsteady gaze.

"Silence," I cut him off, my voice hard with an authority I'd developed over years of dealing with criminals who thought their wealth put them above the law. "Don't make this worse for yourself. You're already in enough trouble."

Moving with practiced efficiency, I secured them both to a nearby decorative pole with my handcuffs. The man started to protest, but one look from me silenced him. The woman remained eerily quiet, her eyes fixed on the floor. Only then did I turn to survey the rest of the room, and my breath caught in my throat.

A young man sat bound to another pole, blindfolded, wearing only shorts that left him exposed to the room's chill air. What made my stomach turn was the blood—too much blood—pooled around him on the expensive marble floor. Broken glass glinted menacingly around his feet, and his skin was a canvas of bruises and wounds, some fresh and others in various stages of healing. The sight suggested this wasn't the first time he'd been subjected to such treatment.

My hands were already moving, phone pressed to my ear as I called for backup. "This is Officer Han," I spoke clearly despite the anger burning in my chest. "I need immediate assistance and an ambulance at 1247 Gangnam-daero. Multiple suspects in custody, one victim with severe injuries. Situation contained but medical attention urgently required."