Chapter Text
Hwa-Pyung stumbles across the possessed by pure chance.
For a moment he’s caught off-guard, startled into a series of grotesque and unwanted flashes—the gaunt and twisted face of a chanting priest, his father’s corpse swinging below his outstretched hand, the horrible way that his grandfather had spread his arms in mad conviction—and he freezes where he stands, his feet like cinder blocks. Staring into the dead eyes of the possessed, black as a shark’s.
Park Il Do. The thought shivers up his spine. Park Il Do has returned from the sea.
But his right eye doesn’t burn. And he hasn’t—hasn’t had any visions. The possessed twists her— its —body around to face him, joints popping as the spirit inside yanks on muscles and tendons. As it opens its fetid mouth to speak to him.
Instead of the stench of sea salt, something sweet pricks at his nose. Pink shreds of paper stick to its tongue.
“Darling .”
Hwa-Pyung’s eyebrows climb.
It’s not spewing vitriol about his tragic childhood, so that’s a start. If he had to hedge his bets, he’d say that the parasite before him is not the work of Park Il Do, and certainly not anything that could rival his power. He pulls his hands out of his pockets. Foolishly confident.
“Hey.” He juts out his chin. “Don’t you think that’s a little familiar?”
It giggles at that, swinging one foot in front of the other.
“Let’s get to know each other then.”
Ugh.
“No thanks.”
It stops its ugly facsimile of a human walk long enough to size him up. Long, dark hair swings in ribbons across its face.
“Why’s that? You got a sweetheart somewhere?”
He almost rolls his eyes. Or eye, rather. More questions like that and it’ll be worse than Park Il Do. Hwa-Pyung grimaces, fighting the urge to wave a dismissive hand. He gripes instead.
“Goodness, you’re worse than my grandpa.”
It snarls, as if it hasn’t heard him.
“You must have a sweetheart if I’m not pretty enough for you. I bet she’s a cheater. A dirty, rotten, filthy cheater—” Its face morphs, twisting as spittle flies from its furious mouth. “ Who could ever love you anyway, you piece of scum? You think you’re too good for me?”
Hwa-Pyung’s brows climb higher at that, fingers twitching into fists.
“My love life’s fine.” He’s getting real sick of this. Hwa-Pyung levels it with a threatening look. “Now why don’t you get lost and leave this poor woman alone?”
Famous last words. Its teeth gleam in the low light, a hint of amusement before it takes a lumbering step and lunges at him, hands like claws, reaching for his throat. Hwa-Pyung jerks back, biting his tongue in haste. No time to think about it—not that he’s known for actually thinking —when it lunges again he meets it. His fingers twist in its shirt and he drives it back, grappling like a madman.
It’s no use, of course. A hard shove loosens his grip and sends him face-first into the wall. He hears his skull crack. White pain blossoms in his working eye, wetness sliding down his scalp.
“Two-bit, piece of shit psychic.”
Who’re you calling a piece of shit , he thinks feverishly. A cold hand grips his shoulder, wrenching him around to face a glistening smile. The stench of it is so cloying it makes him want to retch, not that it would be for long—the thing snakes a hand around his throat. Squeezes like a vise. He clutches at his neck, wheezing.
“Did you lose your balls when you lost your eye? Or did someone break your pretty little heart?
The hand tightens, lifting his feet from the ground. He flails pathetically. Any more and he’s going to pass out, but the thing keeps talking. Its revolting snarl-grin presses right up in his face.
Petals, he realizes distantly. That stuff in its mouth—not paper, but petals .
“You reek of despair ,” it hisses with glee. “ Stink of it. Filthy little outcast. No one wants you. Your friends won’t even notice when you’re—”
It shrieks, a nails-on-chalkboard scream as Hwa-Pyung grabs his rosary, the one around his neck, and mashes the cross against its face. Frankly, he’s had enough, and the stink of burning flesh is incredibly vindicating. Hwa-Pyung stumbles as it loosens his grip, his feet hitting the floor, and he gasps and hacks as air rushes back into his lungs. The spirit lurches back like a wounded cat.
Asshole.
Hwa-Pyung wobbles on his feet—then springs forward. It writhes. Bellows as he presses the rosary against its skin. He shouts back, raw, guttural. Their voices mingle in the shadows.
It's all very dramatic and exhausting, and he's a little out of practice. When the sizzling eventually stops, he knows not to let his guard down. With the way it looks at him he thinks it might try to tear his throat out.
Then it gags, blood and spit dripping from its mouth. Hwa-Pyung stares at it, fingers clawing into its shoulders. It's choking on something. Sharp, thin and black. With every shuddering cough the object inches from its throat, and Hwa-Pyung jerks back to avoid getting saliva on his shoes.
“What the hell ?”
It’s revolting, but the woman it’s possessing won’t choke to death on his watch. Hwa-Pyung grasps the thing in its mouth and pulls. It groans as he does. The moment seems to take an eternity, the obstruction getting longer and longer and longer —
Then the blockage finally comes free with a nauseating squelch.
The look on his face when he realizes what it is must be awfully funny, because the spirit starts half-giggling, half-chanting in a harsh tongue he can’t understand.
Okay, he thinks with a grimace. This needs to end. He knows no prayers or incantations that could help—but there is one thing he can do.
Apologizing to whichever deities might be listening, Hwa-Pyung wrenches back his fist and swings.
—
Against his better judgement, Hwa-Pyung calls Choi Yoon. The voice on the other end sounds tight when he finally replies, filled with a kind of trepidation Hwa-Pyung knows all too well.
“You’re sure it’s not …?”
Hwa-Pyung nods to himself, one hand braced against his hip.
“I’m sure. My eye’s fine. I haven’t had visions since …”
Since that. One year ago. Yoon doesn’t reply, so Hwa-Pyung presses forward.
“Besides, I didn’t smell any sea water. There were petals in her mouth. She threw up a ... I think it used to be a rose.”
"A rose?” Yoon’s voice colours with surprise. “Has that happened before?”
“No. Blood and water I’ve seen, but never anything like this.”
Hwa-Pyung drags a hand through his damp hair.
“Can you do an exorcism?”
Without fainting, that is. Yoon seems to catch his meaning.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Because if you’re not—”
“I am,” Yoon says crisply. “The curse was broken.”
More like expired, since Park Il Do’s been banished to the East Sea. For now. Hwa-Pyung nods though, exhaling through his nose.
“...Okay.”
The silence seems to stretch for a second, impossibly still. Then—
“Why didn’t you call Yukgwang?”
Hwa-Pyung blinks.
“What?”
A pause.
“I thought…”
Hwa-Pyung rubs at his temples, frowning.
“You thought I’d leave you alone.”
It’s not really a question. Even Hwa-Pyung can’t deny that he’s been avoiding them. After all, he’d managed to evade Yoon and Gil-Young for over a year thinking that Park Il Do might return. The thought of calling Choi Yoon with a very real case of possession should make him nauseous.
Yet here he is.
“Listen, isn’t exorcism your specialty?” That’s why he called him, right? Hwa-Pyung injects annoyance into his voice, if only to make himself believe it too. “You know Yukgwang. After—after the way things went last year, he’ll moan about it for weeks. Let’s just get this over with. I’m in the city, not too far from where you are.”
Silence still. He shifts on his feet, worries his lip, restless.
“Choi Yoon . Aren’t you gonna say something?” Hwa-Pyung doesn’t wait for an answer, bouncing on the balls on his feet with an irritated huff. “You know what, forget it. I’ll call Yukgwang—see if I can’t find a way to make him suck it up and—”
Yoon’s voice bursts in a noisy crackle.
“No, I’ll come.”
Oh. Hwa-Pyung holds his breath.
“I’ll come,” Yoon repeats, calmer this time. There’s a shuffling sound over the line, like he’s unfolding himself from his chair. “You surprised me, that’s all.”
Clearing his throat, Hwa-Pyung straightens. “Good. That’s—good.”
He gives him the address. After many reassurances that the possessed is, in fact, incapacitated, Hwa-Pyung hangs up, breath whistling between his teeth. He feels better. Feels good that he did that. Yoon will be here soon, then they can all go home and forget about this spirit until the next …
“Calling for help?”
Hwa-Pyung turns.
The spirit, hands bound by discarded plastic twine, is smiling at him. Its eyes are half lidded to match—narrow slivers of dull white that gleam like moons.
“You’re awake,” he says flatly.
It doesn’t appear to have heard him. Undeterred, it looks at it from under its lashes. Shoulders trembling in almost imperceptible laughter. Hwa-Pyung doesn’t know why it would hold back now. He watches it wet its lips, like a cat licking blood from its muzzle.
“Sad, lonely little roach,” it breathes. “They won’t come because of you, they’ll come because of me—that pathetic priest and the wretched detective.”
Hwa-Pyung scoffs. He needs to call Gil-Young too—to get the girl to the hospital, at least. He dials her number, listening to the line ring.
“What fucking drivel. All you say is the same old shit, so just give it up already.”
The possessed simply giggles at him, squirming in its restraints.
“You knew,” it says, slobbering, “You knew when you faked your death. You don’t deserve them, what could you ever do to deserve them, you stupid little boy? You nearly drowned them that day—the spirits here told me so.”
It pants, gleeful.
“You faked your death because you wanted to, but you’re lonely because you deserve it. When they didn’t find you, you were glad.”
“Shut up,” Hwa-Pyung snaps. Gil-Young’s not picking up. Busy at work, perhaps. Its hollow shark-eyes settle on him like it can hear the pounding of his heart, the way blood rushes in his ears.
“Those scars,” the spirit coos. “Are those for him?”
Hwa-Pyung stares.
“What?”
It offers no explanations. Just smiles in an awful parody of how a parent would smile at a child, all false nurturance and vicious amusement.
“If you like that priest so much,” it whispers. “Then suffer like he did.”
Then, in a discordant, grating sound of spirits clamouring to be heard, the possessed speaks.
“You will become sick and die from loneliness. Unless…”
—
Between the exorcism and horrific verbal abuse the spirit flings at them between prayers, it’s hard to find time to catch up. Yoon, thankfully, looks much less exhausted than he would have been a year ago, if not a little breathless. When it’s finally done, the priest—he’s so skinny, hasn’t he been eating?—sways like a willow tree, and Hwa-Pyung reflexively lifts his hands to grab him. The man doesn’t seem to notice.
“Are you okay?”
Yoon doesn’t answer. Hwa-Pyung doesn’t need to ask to know that he hasn’t slept today. His jaw twitches.
“Hey . Choi Yoon.”
Yoon seems to come back a little, nodding stiffly as he composes himself.
“Yes.” Then, a little stronger. “Yes, I’m fine.”
Hwa-Pyung makes an irritated noise.
“After everything that’s happened, I don’t know if I should believe you.” He jabs a threatening finger at Yoon’s chest, pointedly creasing his shirt. “Should I check?”
Yoon huffs. It sort of counts as a laugh, one very unfitting of an exorcist priest. Hwa-Pyung tries not to smile.
“And sully a priest?”
Gil-Young appears out of nowhere, shoving a water bottle into Yoon’s hand. She’s technically here to take the poor woman to the emergency room (she’s the only one with a car, after all), but Hwa-Pyung tsks at her anyway.
“He just laughed. I’ve never seen him laugh. What did you do to him?”
Yoon frowns.
“I laugh plenty.”
“Since when?”
“Since we started eating lunch together,” Gil-Young snorts, holds out the second bottle for Hwa-Pyung—but pulls it back when he reaches out, raising her eyebrows. “Last year , when you were out catching fish.”
Ah. Hwa-Pyung frowns. “When did this become about me?”
Gil-Young eyes his hand—still pressed against Yoon’s chest—and jams the bottle into Hwa-Pyung’s shoulder.
“Choi Yoon, let me know if you want to press charges for assault.”
Hwa-Pyung makes a big show of cursing, releasing Yoon to wrestle the bottle from her grip. Gil-Young isn’t done though—she folds her arms and glares at him.
“Speaking of," she says, "Your head is bleeding.”
“What?”
He’d forgotten about that. This seems to rouse Yoon some, because he straightens in alarm, staring intently at Hwa-Pyung’s forehead. Gil-Young shakes her head, throwing Yoon an exasperated look.
“Make sure he gets in the car. We’re going to the hospital.”
Her tone brooks no arguments. There's the sound of crunching gravel—likely as Gil-Young takes off to retrieve the girl—but all Hwa-Pyung can see is Yoon’s smooth face, brow creased in concern.
“I didn’t notice. Are you alright?”
Nope, Hwa-Pyung thinks. Something tickles in his throat. He clears it, anxious.
“Fine. I’m not the one who was possessed.”
Undeterred, Yoon peers into his face.
“Are you dizzy?”
“No.”
“How’s your vision?”
Hwa-Pyung scoffs.
“What do you think?”
Yoon grips his elbow in reply. The grip is more stern than tender, probably to keep him from running off like last time. He smells a little like flowers—the poor girl had been throwing up petals. Hwa-Pyung acquiesces.
“My head hurts, that’s all. Don't worry about me. The lady's in worse shape than I a—"
He breaks off into a cough, turning his head. Yoon stares at him, unconvinced.
"The last time you said you were fine, you'd been stabbed."
"So had you ," Hwa-Pyung complains. "Don't be so dramatic."
To his credit, Yoon looks sheepish at that. Hwa-Pyung flaps a dismissive hand.
"I really am fine. See?"
He plucks at the hem of his shirt, exposing his midriff. Yoon stares like he's grown a second head. Probably because he's just flashed a priest. Hwa-Pyung scratches the back of his neck.
"Still," says Yoon slowly, bemused, "We should get your head checked out."
"Goodness, you're persistent," Hwa-Pyung mutters, then lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But Gil-Young has to treat me to beef."
Gil-Young—guiding the woman with a hand on her elbow—shoots him a look. Half-annoyed, half-fond.
"You'll get your beef. Ungrateful brat."
Hwa-Pyung laughs, and promptly launches into a coughing fit, hiding his face in his elbow. Yoon must not think much of it, because he trots off to open the car door for Gil-Young, leaving Hwa-Pyung in blessed solitude.
Just in time. Something soft and cold comes up from his throat. Hwa-Pyung leans down to spit it out before anyone sees.