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Jongwoo couldn’t quite understand when everything started to go wrong, when things crossed an invisible line and became as irreversible as they were now. He had been in Seoul for less than a month, but it felt like years—his bones seemed to be screaming at him.
Sometimes, he had the impression that he had died during the trip to Seoul and, the moment he stepped off the bus, he was already in hell. Trapped and chained forever in that place, condemned to eternal suffering.
He hadn't slept in almost three days, all because every time he closed his eyes and tried to let himself be lulled by the claustrophobic atmosphere, soaked in mold and rot, of that cubicle he now called a room, his brain refused to shut down — it refused to surrender to the nightmares. It forced him to focus on the creaking of the hallway floor, on the distressing sounds of the walls, on the muffled and distant breathing. It forced him to do everything except sleep.
Seokyoon's arrival only made everything seem worse. Jongwoo constantly felt like he would hear him die, that he would knock on his door in the middle of the night begging for help, and Jongwoo wouldn't even have time to open it before someone got to him. All that would remain would be the echo of that cheerful and kind voice pleading for help — an echo that would haunt him even more. That's why he had dragged himself to the only place in the entire building where he felt he could breathe a little, where no unknown noise could suddenly become disturbing, where he didn't need to worry about anything but inhaling and exhaling.
He had already learned that wandering around Seoul like a homeless madman was completely useless — one way or another, he would end up being forced to return. So he decided that, for now, while the weight of exhaustion pressed into each of his bones, it was better to stay there, waiting patiently for the genuine end that, sooner or later, would come.
The night sky had a pleasant view from there, which Jongwoo couldn't find more ironic. It was a cruel joke that the place most resembling a living hell offered such a wide and beautiful view of the sky — as if mocking the idea that it was all anyone there would ever get of paradise.
The cool breeze that caressed his face at some point brought with it the smell of cigarette smoke. Jongwoo almost cried at how aggressively the odor hit him, making his eyes sting with subtle pinpricks and his nose twitch at the unpleasant scent. He turned his head toward the darkest corner, where the clotheslines were and some plants Mrs. Eom tended to. His heart seemed to skip a beat.
The pale, shadowy figure of Moonjo stood next to one of the pots. The cigarette, once between his fingers, now lay crushed beneath his polished black shoe.
It was obvious someone would be there, because despite the loneliness that seemed to tear Jongwoo apart from the inside ever since he moved to Seoul, he was never truly alone in the studio. There was always someone lurking in the corners, watching his steps like a lifeless statue.
He thought about backing away when the older man began to approach, his face wrapped in that abstract look he always wore when staring at him, and that frozen smile that sent a burning sensation crawling from the base of Jongwoo's spine up to die in his throat. Jongwoo knew Moonjo was the most haunting figure in that place, but every time they crossed paths, the fact that he could seem, for moments, so normal, left him in turmoil.
— Looking at the sky? — Moonjo asked, stopping beside him, much closer than Jongwoo would've liked to admit.
He thought about stepping away, about turning and just walking off. But he was so tired of running — running and always ending up back in that claustrophobic room, unable to breathe, unable to sleep, never free from that constant fear. He didn't move. He only tightened his grip on the safety railing, and Moonjo noticed it.
— Yeah. — he forced himself to reply, and suddenly, the memory of when he first met that man came flooding back. They had been standing right there, and in that moment, for the first time since arriving in Seoul, Jongwoo had felt like he could breathe in peace. Because Moonjo had been warm, attentive, so present while listening to him. Now, he felt pathetic, because deep down, he wanted to believe that first day hadn't been just a lie.
Jongwoo didn't need to look at Moonjo to know he was being watched. He could feel the entire side of his body burning, as if he were about to spontaneously combust.
Moonjo was staring at him in a way that gave Jongwoo the sickening feeling he was going to be devoured alive. It was as if the older man wanted to consume him not just physically, but completely — to chew through everything that made Jongwoo who he was, his feelings, his thoughts, his fears and desires — like a starving man, desperate in the most peaceful and inhuman way possible, savoring whatever taste Jongwoo's existence might have between those white, perfectly aligned teeth.
It was scary. Almost sickening, so sickening that it made Jongwoo feel sick… because deep down he wanted Moonjo to chew him up, consume him until there was nothing left of Jongwoo that wasn’t part of Moonjo.
— You haven't been sleeping, jagiya. — The word made Jongwoo's nerves tremble, because all he wanted was to make Moonjo choke on it. — If you want, I can help you sleep.
— No. — He finally looked the man in the eye. — I don't want anything from you except for you to leave me alone and stop calling me that.
— Calling you what?
Jongwoo knew he was trying to provoke him, to push him into snapping, into screaming — because that was how Moonjo seemed to find satisfaction, as if his suffering filled his heart with manic joy.
— You know what.
— Jagiya? — he repeated, cynical, smiling almost sweetly at the face that was already beginning to flush. — Why? Don't you like it?
— No. — The answer came out before Moonjo could even close his mouth, and that seemed to please him even more. The smile widened on his pale face, and suddenly, it was as if he had trapped Jongwoo in a snare.
— Really? — the older man said, far too amused, his voice intimate and comfortable in a way that made it feel wrong. — Then why do you seem to like it so much... jagiya?
Jongwoo wished he could grab an eraser and simply erase Moonjo's face. No — the face wouldn't be enough. He wanted to erase his existence, wipe him from the world as if he had never existed. No trace. No shadow. Only then would he be sure that no one could ever daze him in such a pathetic way again.
He felt like everything would be so much easier if that man just killed him once and for all... or let the others do it.
— You can deny as much as you want, jagiya, but I'll always know when you're lying — his voice, once soft and casual, suddenly became deep. And when Moonjo took a step closer to him, coming even closer than he already was, Jongwoo remained still.
— I'm here forever. And you know what that means.
The older man's fingers lightly touched his forehead, as if sealing what he had just said. It was as clear as daylight, and Jongwoo didn't even bother to pretend or deny it. He was too tired to fight.
— And I know this is mutual. — he said defensively, because it was the best he could manage in that moment. He quickly pushed away the fingers pressing against his forehead, but didn't push Moonjo away. And he didn't move away from him either.
— You're digging a grave for me... and another for yourself.
— I'm not digging graves, jagiya.
Moonjo took another step. Jongwoo didn't move.
The smell of mint and nicotine numbed him for a moment. He knew he could never win in a battle of gazes with Moonjo. In fact, he doubted he could win in anything. That man was like a spider — he wove his web meticulously, carefully, stickily. He surrounded his prey with caution, offered shelter, false comfort, illusory security. And only then did he show his fangs. Because he was methodical. And cruel. He only revealed them when the prey had no way to escape anymore.
That's how Jongwoo felt now. Like a tiny mosquito trapped in Moonjo's web. Doomed from the start. And the more he struggled, the more trapped he became. But now... now he was so tired.
— I'll never be like you, Moonjo — Jongwoo's voice had never sounded so vulnerable, so broken. — I'm tired of fighting for you to see that, so... — he choked at the moment he felt his cheeks being grabbed. It was a cold and firm touch, and his eyes widened as he stared into the dark orbs that seemed to devour him.
— No. — Moonjo said as if he had read the plea in his eyes. That smile — the same one that made Jongwoo tremble — still lingered on his red lips. — You can't see how exceptional you are. The amount of potential you carry, jagiya. I'm not forcing you into anything. You can take your time with this.
— It's you who doesn't see, Moonjo. — Like a dam bursting, Jongwoo crumbled. Thick tears spilled from his eyes in a rush that he hadn't even realized was contained there. — I'm not this. I'll never be. — His hands, which had been gripping the safety railing, released and found the older man's chest, clutching the shirt with all the strength he had left. — All you and this place are doing is digging my grave, shoving me into a coffin, and nailing it shut.
— Jagiya — the word came out like a purr, so sweet and gentle that it hurt even more to hear. Jongwoo felt like crying just from that. — It's a slow metamorphosis. You don't see it, but you're fighting against it — and that's what hurts you.
— You're the one who hurts me! — Jongwoo pointed, his tearful voice now taking on an aggressive tone. — Everyone here hurts me... and enjoys it.
The cold, large hands on his cheeks tightened their grip. The fingers moved delicately to wipe away the tears that had gathered on his lashes, blurring his vision.
— I don't like it when others hurt you. — Moonjo's words hit Jongwoo like a punch to the stomach. They weighed on his already exhausted mind, as if throwing tons of weight onto the mess in his head.
— That's just because you're selfish and want to be the only one to hurt me. — Jongwoo grabbed Moonjo's wrists, his fingers brushing over the rough scars on the pale skin exposed. — I don't have anything left, Moonjo. Nothing but a mediocre job and a miserable life, so just let me—
— No. — For the first time, Jongwoo thought he saw a spark of irritation cross Moonjo's eccentric face. It was quick — as fast as the flutter of a hummingbird's wings — but he saw it. — You need to sleep. That way, your thoughts will align, jagiya.
— You're lying to yourself, Moonjo. — Jongwoo tried to pull the man's hands off his face, but they stayed there, unmoving, indifferent. — Let me go.
Moonjo didn't let him go. The gears in his head, which always seemed hidden from Jongwoo, were now exposed — spinning full speed. His face, suddenly, showed no expression at all. It was a blank canvas staring at Jongwoo as if trying to imprint his decay there. As if he wanted to be a mirror — reflect, absorb, take.
Jongwoo's lips trembled. The grip on his wrists tightened, and he wanted to scream at him.
— If I let you go — he paused. His dark eyes seemed to have opened the gates of hell, reflecting all the rage, bitterness, and despair of the souls trapped there. — What will you do?
Jongwoo didn't answer. He turned his eyes away because he didn't want Moonjo to know. Because he knew Moonjo would stop him.
— I'll go to my room. — He didn't even believe his own words.
— You're a terrible liar, jagiya. — He couldn't help but flinch at the sound of the word. — Why?
It was a genuine question. Like the ones Moonjo asked on the first night they met. Something stirred painfully inside Jong Woo.
— Because I'm tired of feeling afraid. I want to feel anything else, or feel nothing at all. And if asking someone to kill me is the only way... then fine.
He thought he had never been so honest in his life. He was really willing to ask anyone for that. Too cowardly to do it himself. He was afraid of failing at it too — because, honestly, considering the pathetic string of failures his life had been, failing to die seemed like just another chapter.
— Ah, jagiya, you really have no idea how unique you are. It's so annoying that you can't see yourself — Moonjo sighed, fascinated. — Everything about you is perfect. You're a hallucination to me.
— You're strange. — Jongwoo muttered, his eyes fixed on the wide smile that once again stretched across Moonjo's face. He wished he could rip it off with his own teeth.
— And that excites you, doesn't it? — The question brushed against Jongwoo's face like a fingernail on sensitive skin. He didn't answer, but he held the gaze.
There was something sick about Moonjo. But the worst... it was Jongwoo.
Because he knew. He knew that some part of him felt something beyond fear for that man.
— In such a lonely world... you and I were made for each other, jagiya.
Jongwoo didn't know why. He only knew that, suddenly, he grabbed the collar of Moonjo's sweatshirt and kissed him.
At first, it was senseless — just lips pressed against the older man's mocking smile. But then, as if some inner bell announced a shift, everything transformed. Aggressive. A war of teeth and tongues.
The taste of toothpaste mixed with cigarette smoke stuck to his mouth. He bit Moonjo's lower lip hard, blood painting his teeth. The metallic taste replaced the previous one. But he knew — the moment Moonjo's lips stretched into that lascivious smile of pleasure — that he had taken a step too far.
His fingers slid down to the broad shoulders, and he dug his nails into them with force. Even through the fabric of the sweatshirt, he wanted to hurt the older man, no matter how insignificant it seemed.
Moonjo seemed stunned for a few seconds. But he wasn't a man to waste opportunities. When Jongwoo got distracted, he pressed him against the bars. Only then did the younger man realize how far his impulsiveness had taken him.
Moonjo's hands subdued him easily. The little control that Jongwoo had managed to hold onto at the beginning evaporated in the blink of an eye. And even though all Moonjo was doing was kissing him and holding him... Jongwoo knew. He knew it was just another way of reaffirming possession, of feeding that obsession that only existed in Moonjo's mind — about what Jongwoo represented, about what it meant to possess someone down to the bones.
What lasted minutes — or perhaps not even that — suddenly seemed to stretch into days, into months. Jongwoo didn't even realize he was crying again when Moonjo pulled away. Not enough for him to stop feeling his hot breath against his face — just enough to show him that he was, at the same time, the jailer and the only escape from that sick prison.
His mind felt like a huge white canvas, with Moonjo's name scrawled in the center, in strokes too elegant to be erased.
— You look so perfect when you cry, jagiya. — Moonjo's voice was now hoarse, filled with fascination, and it was enough to pull Jongwoo from his stupor and throw him into a visceral lapse of reality — the very one he had been fighting so hard to deny.
He pushed him.
And Moonjo allowed himself to be pushed back, with a look of enchantment in his eyes, as if the mere touch of Jongwoo's fingers pushing him away was a gift — a reward for enduring the nails digging through the sweatshirt, marking the skin underneath. But Jongwoo didn't care what Moonjo would take from that situation.
Because the panic spreading inside him, like grease catching fire, wasn't about Moonjo — although he was the origin of it all. Dazed, incredulous, feeling ridiculous and exposed, Jongwoo swallowed hard. The taste of Moonjo's blood still in his mouth seemed like the worst thing he would have to deal with for the rest of his life and beyond.
A torture he had imposed upon himself. Perhaps the worst of all.
— Sleep, jagiya. I'll make sure no one bothers you.
Jongwoo didn't respond. He didn't look back.
He concentrated every gram of strength to take one step, and then another, toward the door. The tears still fell, hot and silent, down his cheeks, and the heat on his lips was a cruel reminder that he needed to keep breathing.
Genuinely, he came to the conclusion that he would rather lock himself in that damned room and go completely mad than have to acknowledge the ugly, sticky thing that crawled inside of him. The idea of rotting and being eternally stuck to those walls seemed tempting, even if he was incapable of accepting it.
When he reached the room, he thought that as soon as he locked the door, he would suffocate. He smiled through his tears at the thought and gently closed the door, fearing that it would suddenly fall apart and stop him. He lay on the bed with his shoes on, rubbing his hands over his face, trying futilely to wipe away the tears and that sensation under his cheeks.
But even there, in his personal torture chamber, fighting against the invisible tattoo clinging to him like a parasite on his cheeks, Jongwoo knew that Moonjo was there — not at the door, but inside of him.