( han so-hee, cis-female, she/her ) Someone said they saw HANI JEONG around Rift Valley the night of Miles Logan’s murder. People are wondering if they had something to do with it. The 28 year old claims to be DOING OVERTIME AT THE STATION at the time of the murder. They are said to be HONEST, which can play to their innocence until you consider they are also VENGEFUL. But who knows if they are telling the truth? Rumor has it, they ARE NOT a witness in the investigation. Regardless, the CIVILIAN who happens to be the ORGANIZED CRIME INVESTIGATOR is a suspect, but so is everyone else.
info .
name: kim haneul jeong hani nickname(s): honey date of birth: january 12th, 1998 ( assumed ) age: twenty-eight place of birth: rift valley, california ( assumed )
gender: cis-female pronouns: she/her sexuality: bisexual
occupation: organized crime investigator education: bsc in criminal justice, federal police academy graduate affiliation: openly no affiliation, secretly mob-leaning ( mole )
aesthetics: scraped open knuckles and blood-stained bandages, flickering lights and a shadow moving through the dark, a playground in the dark and a lonely swingset squeaking in a soft breeze, a cornered animal with raised hackles and bared teeth, a shabby backpack filled with all your belongings, rage that makes your fingers tremble, a switchblade and gun tucked underneath your pillow as you sleep, obsession that eats you alive soundtrack: the guardian (ellie's song) by shawn james positive traits: honest, compassionate, perceptive, loyal, unwavering, determined, courageous, alert negative traits: vengeful, combative, scheming, irritable, closed-off, cynical, secretive, spiteful
height: 5'7 eye color: dark brown hair color: dark brown, almost black notable features: a hole above her eyebrow from a removed piercing, three more piercings in her left ear
bio .
( tw: child neglect, death, drugs, blood )
there's a taste to loneliness. you know it well. you were raised on it, after all.
to say you were raised might be an overstatement, though. more like you were handed life on a broken plate, rusty cutlery, and told to make it work. loneliness gives you a dry mouth that no amount of water can wash away. rough, like trying to lick love from a rusty knife. bouncing from foster family to foster family after your own mother gives you away, you never stay too long to learn anything different anyway. you're more feral cat than child and as the years pass, you make this disadvantage your blessing. no one can get close enough to hurt you if you snarl and bare your teeth at them.
you start to stay at the playground until it's dark because you don't want to go home, and it doesn't take long for the people you live with to stop caring, as long as you come home at all. there's a whole world out there, in the dark. that's what you notice as you sit on the small playground's lonely swing set. shadows that come creeping in, meeting in the middle before parting again, exchanges made quickly and discreetly. sometimes, a man sits down on the other swing. he's just as silent as you. the first time, you stand up quickly and walk away. the times after, you eye him suspiciously. but all he does is sit next to you and play with his lighter. sometimes, he even lights a cigarette, but he doesn't smoke it. almost as though it's the only thing keeping his hands warm, even despite the warm climate. it's a long time before he starts to speak and at first, you find it annoying. but he rarely ever expects an answer from you. his sentences are short and tense, as though the notion of gentleness was foreign to him. as though when he spoke, he tended to be more on the defensive and the offensive than engaging in simple conversation. he doesn't really bite his tongue on curses, either, words heavily saturated with them. as though it's an inevitability for you, for anyone sitting at a playground on their own, far later than they should. you don't get to stay a kid for too long if you stare down the dark with as much defiance as you do.
you're twelve when another family decides to hand this you-shaped problem to someone else. and someone else turns out to be your tentative acquaintance from the playground. you sour, because it mixes your two little worlds. mixes a home you want to run from with the place you had run to, and it gnaws at you, even as you get your own little room in that tiny, dingy apartment and get left alone unless you show your face in the living area. you fight against the man perched on the sofa's arm like he's a bird trying to take flight or a cat ready to jump either way for an escape. he fights back, but most of all you think he does it because you do it, some twisted way of indulging you. he calls you honey as a play on your name ( haneul ) to get a rise out of you and you fight with him because you want to see which buttons you can and can't press, how long it takes for him to grow sick of this hissing and clawing presence in his house. what it would take for him to give you back to the world for you to fend for yourself. he fights back and you start to tell yourself it's because he cares, deep down, that someone sees your pain and doesn't ignore it.
you don't yet know that this is a home you won't be leaving from, that this is not a door that will close in front of you unless you close it yourself.
when you're eighteen, he's the one who leaves. you're eighteen and he's twenty-six and he was as much of an older brother to you as he was the father figure you'd never had. and then, he leaves. without a word or trace, just a signed over lease and the remaining spare keys like not being kicked out would make this act of abandonment hurt any less. you work any odd job you can find, sometimes two at once, sometimes three. you grit your teeth through it all because you've never quit before and you won't start now. but it eats at you for years; that this was precisely why you'd built up those walls for a reason, only to gradually lower them and receive that punch in the gut with no protection, belly up and vulnerable.
you're alone again, and it doesn't surprise you that loneliness still tastes the same. stale and dry and coppery and this time you swallow it each time out of spite. he doesn't get the satisfaction of seeing you crumble, even though you do have your weak moments. you work and pay the bills and work and you're lonely and it kills you to make connections with people because you're afraid you'll be left behind again.
three years later, he comes back.
he comes back and you're so angry you barely let him explain yourself as he stands in your living room like he still belongs there, dufflebag at his side and hands lifted in appeasement. in apology. you don't think anything will take that pain away, make each day you dragged yourself through life worth your while just because he's back now and he's sorry, that he did it for you and for your safety. you tell him that you couldn't have given less of a fuck about being safe, as long as you didn't have to be alone.
you're angrier and more cruel than you've ever been to him but he doesn't turn on his heel to run again. he stands there like he always did, snipping back occasionally with infuriating logic, but taking your rage all the same. you're so angry but you feel relief emerge, too. he's safe and he's here and maybe you can learn to forgive after all. maybe this bitter, sharp edged thing isn't all you're doomed to be. maybe, just maybe, your fate hasn't already been etched in stone, unable to be rewritten.
a week later, he's dead.
stabbed on a deal gone wrong, left in an alley not far from your home. alone, no trace of anyone else. you watch his name get dragged through the mud now because you're the only one who knows that he wasn't dealing anymore ( he'd told you so himself ) but no one wanted to listen to any version that could make a drug dealer's death an injustice instead of justice.
loneliness tastes different this time because you realize it isn't loneliness at all but rage. it sits in your throat and you swear that sometimes you keep your mouth shut just to keep it all inside. but it stays there. no matter how much time passes. and you've never been someone who gives up easily, so you manifest that pure, unadulterated anger into something useful. kim haneul becomes jeong hani and you keep working three jobs and still pile up a mountain of debt to get your criminal justice degree. four years later, with your diploma in hand, you make your way through the federal police academy. your teeth and wits and caution are finally something useful.
eventually, you join the police force in rift valley. you work and grit your teeth and keep paying bills as an afterthought while your true goal is another. you become an organized crime investigator less so to keep a tight leash on mob activity, but more so to be noticed. and you go at it with so much bite that the santoros would have been fools not to notice you.
you let yourself be paid off and be put into a velvet lined pocket, you let someone vouch for you, and then you become the sort of corrupt cop that the academy had preached about not becoming. at least, to the mob, that's what you are. but you won't rest until you find who's truly responsible for his death, even if it's the last thing you do. even if it kills you.
rage tastes like a mouthful of blood and the echo of heart-wrenching sobs. you know it well. it's all you have left.
wanted connections .
tba.
