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Chapter Text

Her hand is sweaty around the grip of the knife. It isn’t anything like a scalpel, and she only wishes she had been able to collect better tools, but the job is a time-sensitive one, and everything is ready now. Myeong-hoon, who seems quite weak-willed (perfect for Da-jeong, in a sense) is standing before her, sweat clear on his forehead. She never did have the best bedside manner. 

“Bok-su,” He starts, and her hand twitches in her pocket, an excited sort of spasm. “You didn’t do it, did you?” 

She stills. 

“What?” 

“Well, I– well, I thought, well– Da-jeong didn’t exactly look pleased to see you and I thought that it was a bit weird, so I was wondering if you two had just fallen out during Uni, but then I thought a little longer and that didn’t make sense at all, since you came and–” Bok-su’s gaze cuts his rambling short. “I looked up your name.” 

“And you asked me…” 

“I don’t think you did it,” He straightens up, wipes his forehead. He sighs. “Look, I love Da-jeong, or– I think I do, at least, otherwise I wouldn’t–” 

“The point, please?” 

“I’ve seen the numbers,” He can speak in short sentences, if prompted. “I’ve seen how Da-jeong switches jobs a lot. She’s… she hasn’t been sued for malpractice, or anything, but she’s been let go before. And with the context of knowing her… and only a cursory google of you too… it doesn’t make sense.” 

Bok-su gives Myeong-hoon another appraising gaze. She’s never been interested in men the way her peers had, and Da-jeong had once pushed her to look into labels and the like which she had soundly rejected, but in this moment, she might be the closest she ever comes to liking a man. In a sense, she understands why Da-jeong is trying to marry him. 

Shame she’ll never get the chance. 

“You’re right,” Bok-su says. “I didn’t do it. Odd that you realize that and no one else seemed to.” 

She knows why. She was poor, autistic, and didn’t have friends. Da-jeong was allistic, pretty, and rich– there’s a way these things go. She was a girl crying big bad wolf, and no one had ever thought to investigate her claims any further than seeing Bok-su trying to clean up her mess. 

“So you came for revenge, didn’t you?” Myeong-hoon is backing up a little now, though there isn’t anywhere to go that she wouldn’t be able to catch him. The jail had a good gym. “I– Please don’t kill me?” 

“...why was that a question.” 

“Because you have a knife and I don’t exactly have a way out of here.” His voice is high and squeaky, and there’s a note to it that Bok-su enjoys. “I mean– can we do something together? In a way that doesn’t end up with me dead?” 

“How’d you know about the knife?” 

“I heard someone asking where it went a bit ago, before you came up to me.” Myeong-hoon is still fidgeting. “I think that, together, we can come up with something? Honestly, I– I do want to marry her, y’know? I do love Da-jeong, but with what I know about how she keeps getting shifted around and now you turning up–” 

“You doubt her ability.” It’s giddying to be in the room with someone that believes in her innocence. Bok-su sits down, and lets the knife sit in her pocket. Myeong-hoon sits on the bed. If he ran for the door, she’d catch him. Same if he went for the bathroom window. “You’re wondering if the wrong person went to jail.” 

“I’m not wondering. I know the wrong person went to jail.” 

She has a smile on her face and she wonders if it’s disturbing to him. She’s heard much too often that her smile is scary or unsettling. 

“Is there a way to trick her into confessing it, though?” Myeong-hoon wonders aloud. A plan is slowly forming itself in Bok-su’s mind, picking up steam the further and further she gets. There was already a solution when she was going to kill him– investigation had led her to understand well the weaknesses of this place. 

And now she understands how they’ll fit together with another piece. 

“I have a plan,” Bok-su says. “It requires some blood, though.” 

“I have around five liters, so we should be good.” It’s clearly a joke he’s practiced, which does pique her curiosity– where on earth would that become a common response? – but she moves on. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Bok-su begins, and Myeong-hoon listens intently. 

– 

It’s too easy, to be honest. With a change of clothes Bok-su has Da-jeong watching her every move, hovering in the background as Bok-su struts around and orchestrates her downfall, all under her watchful gaze. When Bok-su is in the kitchen, surreptitiously washing her hands, Da-jeong makes her move. 

“Bok-su!” She says in a fake cheery voice. “Could you follow me for a sec?” 

“Of course.” Bok-su’s never felt like her monotone sounded so beautiful and natural. It’s always present, but now it feels like the perfect neutral reaction to Da-jeong, who looks to be sweating through her wedding make-up. She quietly follows her from the kitchen to the bedroom, and can’t resist a small joke about it. 

Da-jeong’s glare is familiar, like a cousin to the joking one she used to shoot Bok-su when they were students. There is a pang of nostalgia in her chest, which is quickly smothered by the weight of the crimes Da-jeong has committed. 

“Where’s Myeong-hoon?!” She hisses, grabbing Bok-su’s arms. “I know he was seen with you nearly an hour ago, and I can’t find him–” 

“Isn’t there some western tradition where you’re not supposed to see the bride before you’re married?” Bok-su tries to put a bit of a joking inflection on. She’s not sure it works. Her smile isn’t working either, as Da-jeong is just bunching up more. 

“First you show up at all, and now this– what did you do to him, Bok-su?” 

“I would never hurt a patient,” Bok-su says, which is the truth. 

“Patient?” 

“He felt a little sick. I was consulting him and recommended some fresh air, away from the crowd. A lot of people get a bit queasy before weddings, though I did recommend he also find an antacid, which can help with stomach ache.” 

“He was fine when I–” 

“He wouldn’t complain! That wouldn’t be in keeping with the mood. That’s part of why I told him to get fresh air away from everyone.” 

Da-jeong’s getting pissed . It’s fun, in a way. 

“Cut the bullshit, Bok-su!” She shakes her, and a sick little part of Bok-su enjoys that she’s getting mad, letting go of the mask. “What are you doing here? Why are you out of jail?” 

“I was found innocent in a reinvestigation.” 

Da-jeong’s hands on her arms go from shackles to daggers, her sharp wedding nails digging into Bok-su’s borrowed coat. 

“How many hospitals have you worked at in the past six months, by the way? The past year? I heard from your university friends that it’s taking you a while to find someplace to settle down, that you and Myeong-hoon have been considering moving. Perhaps to the USA? I heard that they have less stringent regulations on–” 

“Shut up! Shut up, I–” 

“How many people have died , Da-jeong? How many people disabled because your knife slipped again? Do you ever wonder how many of them would have been fine had I had the knife? I did. I wondered each day how many people were going to be hurt because of your actions.” 

“Shut up,” Da-jeong said again, going limp and slumping away from Bok-su. “Shut up, I didn’t– I didn’t mean to–” 

“Intentions mean nothing when actions speak aloud,” Bok-su said. Slowly, she reached into her pocket and withdrew the cake knife. Its blade was tacky with blood. “Don’t you think so?” 

“You–” Her eyes widened at the sight of the knife, and she made the leap in logic that Bok-su knew she would. “You killed him!” 

“I’d never,” Bok-su said as Da-jeong lunged for the knife. It fell from her hand, and into Da-jeong’s. Her grip tightened visibly. “You know I’d never, Da-jeong. But you let it happen to me anyway–” 

“Shut up!” 

As the knife fell, the door to the wardrobe fell open. Bok-su stepped back, and the knife sheared through her silk shirt, and lodged itself in her gut. 

“Fuck,” She grunted as Da-jeong cried out. Myeong-hoon stood there, phone in hand. 

“Da-jeong,” He asked. “Was she telling the truth? Did you really– Bok-su!”

Da-jeong was sobbing now, her hand empty. Bok-su was struggling to retain consciousness, gripping the knife and keeping it firmly lodged where it had landed. To remove it would be folly– and Da-jeong looked like she was ready to be a fool. 

“Door,” She grunted, scooting away from the sobbing Da-jeong and the frozen Myeong-hoon. “Get. Ambulance.” 

“Help!” Myeong-hoon shouted, still holding the phone. Bok-su wondered if he was still rolling. In a stumbling gait, he rushed to the door and swung it open. “Please, help, Bok-su–” 

“I didn’t, I didn’t,” Da-jeong was wailing. “I didn’t mean to–” 

Intentions don’t matter at all if actions speak instead , Bok-su wanted to repeat her earlier sentiment. But the pain was rather great, admittedly, and she found her time better spent on trying to take deep, soothing breaths. 

“I didn’t want to kill you,” Da-jeong said, crawling over to her. There was a spatter of blood on her front, and blood bubbling up and pooling around Bok-su– they matched. Da-jeong should have worn red anyway. Her hands fluttered above the wound, and in the background Bok-su heard the yelling of everyone as they were told (or realized) what had happened. 

No one else mattered anyway. Da-jeong was working her way toward an apology. 

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, and her hands landed on the knife. 

“Don’t–” 

“Da-jeong, don’t!” Myeong-hoon was suddenly there, phone still in one hand. It was like he had forgotten they were supposed to be recording Da-jeong’s confession. “If you do that, she’ll bleed out before the ambulance gets here.” 

“Huh? But–” Da-jeong pressed down, and Bok-su cried out instinctively at the pain of more knife in her. She had never been prone to forgiving, and Da-jeong was worsening her chances. 

“Fuck,” Bok-su said, and shoved Da-jeong’s hands away. Their hands matched now– slick with blood. She was losing it at a truly worrying rate despite the knife acting as a stopper. “Recording.”
“Oh, shit,” Myeong-hoon looked at his phone. “Yeah, I have it.” 

“Recording?” Da-jeong’s pitch rose. 

There were other people around, but Bok-su was fading. She’d done her part. Perhaps justice would even prevail… Myeong-hoon, loath as she was to trust anyone, seemed almost like a decent person . Perhaps he was part of a dying breed of person: someone genuine and kind. 

She’d leave it in his hands. Bok-su’s head hit the ground with a clunk. 

– 

She woke up in the hospital, and it was an actual hospital– a bit surprising, to be honest. She almost expected to wake up back in prison, or not wake up at all. The room was quiet except for the sound of a heart monitor beeping, as well as the gentle swish of curtains blowing in the slight breeze from the air conditioning. 

It took a moment to look away from the ceiling. She needed a moment to recollect herself, and stuff down the initial rage of being alive. Being alive was good, she reminded herself. It meant that she would see the results of revenge. 

Her heart jolted as she looked down and found Myeong-hoon asleep in a chair by her bedside. The heart monitor said something rude to her about it, she was sure. 

“Myeong-hoon?” 

He snorted and sat up. 

“Bok-su!” He visibly perked up. “You’re awake! Well, that’s not too shocking and I know that it was likely that you survived surgery but–” 

“Shush,” Bok-su said, waving a hand. Her entire body was sore, especially her midsection, which was not at all shocking. Her mind was hazy with some sort of pain-killer. Potentially an opioid, which she didn’t enjoy the thought of. “Summarize, would you? The drugs are doing their job.” 

Myeong-hoon took a deep breath. 

“Well, the cops and ambulance arrived, and you had passed out. I sent my mother in the ambulance with you, since, well, no one else was there– and well, I explained to the cops what happened and gave them the recording and everything, and well–” 

“Has Da-jeong been detained?” 

Myeong-hoon gave a pathetic little laugh. 

“Ha, well, yes. In her wedding dress.” 

“You’re still wearing your suit,” Bok-su noted. 

“I didn’t want to leave until you woke up, y’see. Uh, it didn’t seem gentlemanly?” 

“I don’t exactly need a gentleman, Myeong-hoon.” 

“I know,” He leaned back in his chair. “Look. I was really worried. I didn’t want to see– I didn’t want you to be another time that she messed up. So I wanted to talk to you once you woke up, because I know it can be hard to get out of prison and–” 

“Stop,” Bok-su put up a hand. Her head was growing fuzzier and fuzzier, and Myeong-hoon’s voice wasn’t helping. “Just give me a moment. I’m feeling faint.” 

“That might be the blood loss.” 

“Yes, I know,” She gave him a glare, but there wasn’t any heat or ice behind it. It was a joke. “I was studying to be a doctor, you know.” 

“Oh!” he perked up again. “Speaking of that! Because you were in surgery for so long, and passed out after that, there’s been some progress! You know how you mentioned a reinvestigation? Well, it’s actually going to happen!” 

“You know, I wasn’t exactly lying. They were looking into my records on my request.” 

“Exactly! There’s hope for getting it off your legal records! You wouldn’t be listed as a prior prisoner!” His smiling face was close to being contagious. “There was a lot of legalese, and I’ve never been the best at it, but I did manage to parse that much out.” 

“What about Da-jeong?” Bok-su closed her eyes, the effort of keeping them open not worth it any longer. “What about her?” 

“Ah. Well. She’s going to be… She’s still in jail, at the moment.” 

“Not surprising…” 

“She’s going to be alright, I think.” Myeong-hoon was too optimistic. “I shared the recording, like I said, and I talked to her over the phone. Her mother is going to get together a legal team for her, and well, I think that it might be high time for her to face some consequences?” 

“Yes. Consequences.” Bok-su was close to giving up the fight of consciousness. “Make sure… that those happen.” 

“Get some more sleep, Bok-su. We can talk again when you wake up.” 

“Goodbye,” Bok-su said, and fell asleep. For a moment more, Myeong-hoon lingered at her bedside. If he left the room, the weight of reality would fall directly on his shoulders. He’d have come to terms with his fiance– if she was still that– being in jail, her old best friend was in a hospital bed, and he was standing outside her door instead of Da-jeong’s. 

With a sigh, Myeong-hoon stood. There would be time to deal with all of this– for now, though, he really should get out of this blood-stained suit. Perhaps it was the price for not planning to marry in red.

Chapter Text

Of course he owned a car. Bok-su scowled from her place leaning against the concrete wall of her apartment building. It was cheap, and with that cheapness came a stink of cigarettes and alcohol that never lifted. It was hellish, but she wasn’t going to take more of what Myeong-hoon was offering her. If you put all your eggs in one basket, you were fucked when you dropped it. 

“Bok-su!” Myeong-hoon poked his head out of the car. Oh man– he didn’t just have a car, he had a driver . How had she ended up in this situation? “C’mon, get in!” 

“Alright, alright.” She dusted off her hands and got into the car. In her black jacket, black pants, and black boots, she felt rather out of place beside Myeong-hoon, who was dressed like a goddamn peacock in a pink shirt, red flannel, and blazing blue jeans. At the very least his shoes were white, which was a relief. 

“I was thinking we could go shopping today!” Myeong-hoon wiggled in his seat, pulling out his phone and pulling up some pictures. “It seems like your wardrobe isn’t too varied, so I thought that it’d be nice to do it together.” 

“Hm.” Bok-su watched as they exited her part of the city, and moved into the part that belonged to people like Myeong-hoon and Da-jeong. Or, well, what belonged to Da-jeong. She can’t help but smile at the thought of her in prison. 

In a landslide case with evidence gathered from multiple hospitals that Da-jeong had worked at, Da-jeong had been found guilty on multiple counts of medical malpractice and third-degree murder– the killing of innocents without forethought or evil intention. 

She knew that Myeong-hoon still visited her weekly, usually the day before or after he dropped in to invade her life. Sometimes she wondered if this was part of his penance for his fiance’s crimes– self-imposed penance, obviously, as Da-jeong had only just been sentenced. 

“You know, you don’t have to keep picking me up,” Bok-su said, watching the window intently. “You’ve served your time.” 

“You’re my friend!” Myeong-hoon looked aghast when she glanced at his reflection in the window. “Friends hang out, Bok-su.” 

“Usually friendships don’t start with people who were going to kill you.” 

Myeong-hoon waved off the reference to the threat she had been like he didn’t believe she would really do it. Now, Bok-su wondered if she could’ve. If her knife would have slipped, and if perhaps it shouldn’t have been Myeong-hoon who was the target at all. 

It was something that she only allowed herself to think in flashes– too long, and she began to feel sick or incredibly numb. She zoned back into Myeong-hoon talking about the stores they’d be stopping at in a high end mall.

She smiled. He was cute, in a way, like a puppy pawing at your pants leg. 

Arriving at the shops, Bok-su felt that she stuck out like a sore thumb, especially standing beside Myeong-hoon. He was dressed too finely, and her too much like someone who worked in darkness. 

A bat and a pretty boy. What an odd pair. 

They strolled about with Bok-su lagging ever so slightly behind, stopping in every shop that caught Myeong-hoon’s eye. 

“You have horrible taste,” Bok-su said, running her fingers along a shirt that Myeong-hoon had chosen. It wasn’t an awful texture, but the style and graphic art on the front… she wouldn’t have chosen it in any lifetime. 

“I like it,” Myeong-hoon pouted. “You could stand to wear a pop of color, y’know.” 

Bok-su gave him a look. 

“I wear white and red sometimes.” 

“But I mean more than that! Would it kill you to wear some blue, purple, or yellow?” Myeong-hoon shook his head, taking the shirt away from her. “It could bring a little more life to your face.” 

“I’ll always look a bit dead,” Bok-su said, staring with some reproach at the display of bright pink couples outfits for Valentine's Day. “Come to terms with it.” 

“With a little sun and some cheer I’m sure we could fix it.” 

“I appreciate you,” Bok-su said suddenly, not able to look at him while exposing something so true. “You’re a good person, Myeong-hoon.” 

He made an inquisitive noise. Bok-su moved her hands about, unable to grasp the way that she wanted to put this into words.
“You are a little too good of a person for me,” She started, because that felt right. “I meant it, when I said that people don’t become friends with people who try to kill them. Typically, that doesn’t turn out well. And yet here you are, trying to convince me to wear something other than the three colors I do wear. I don’t understand what you get out of it, simply put.” 

“You’re my friend,” Myeong-hoon said, sounding a little hurt and more determined. “I’ve decided to be your friend, so I’m going to do the work to be it. Relationships are work, Bok-su. They don’t just fall into your lap already perfect. You have to make them better together.” 

“I just don’t understand why it has to be me.” 

“Why would it be anyone? It doesn’t matter what you tried to do. I like talking to you. I think you like talking to me. We like each other like that– why shouldn’t we be friends? Like I said– it doesn’t matter how we met. It matters how we keep being friends from now on.” 

Bok-su, unaccustomed to strong emotions in this direction, initially wondered if she was having an anaphylactic reaction to some fragrance in the shop. After a second, she realized she was choked with emotion, and that her eyes had begun to leak tears. Myeong-hoon looked at her sympathetically. 

“C’mere,” He said, and ensared her in a hug. He was very good at hugs– his arms just tight enough, just loose enough. He was just tall enough to tuck her head under his, and they stood like that for a moment on the floor of the store. 

“Thank you for being my friend,” Bok-su muttered, muffled by Myeong-hoon’s stupid flannel shirt. 

“You’re welcome.” Myeong-hoon squeezed her. “Thank you for being my friend, too.”