Work Text:
After the heavy haze finally lifted, Jong Woo woke up in his apartment. Sunlight filtered through the slightly closed curtains, caressing his face. Everything seemed right, as if there had been no dark Goshivon nor the torturous fear. His gaze was still quite foggy; he looked at the hand on the pillow. Rays of sun reflected off a small gold ring. His fingers trembled, blinking away a couple of tears after the nightmare. In the clean mirror opposite the bed, it seemed that somewhere behind him was a stranger’s shadow, so he pressed himself even tighter against the wall. Footsteps echoed on the floor, and then a black cat jumped onto the bed, licking his sleepy face.
“Oooh, Gizzy, do you love me, or do you want to eat?” The sleep was instantly swept away; he stroked the cat from the tips of her ears to the base of her tail twice.
After moving to Seoul, he and Jiyoon immediately moved in together. Kind and caring Jiyoon was always nearby, helping him settle into this new city. The city was filled with bright colors, opportunities, and intoxicating smells. He agreed with Jiyoon and Daeho, who said that this city was a true paradise. Outside the window, sounds of cars and the scent of flowers planted by their neighbor below could be heard. The cat bit his nose in indignation for not getting up and ignoring her would be a crime.
He stretched, feeling pleasant fatigue in his muscles after last night with Jiyoon. Breakfast was waiting for him in the kitchen, prepared with love. He immediately smelled rice porridge with kimchi. Unfortunately, their schedules with Jiyoon are parallel and inconvenient. This prevents them from seeing each other in the mornings, but they’ve developed a tradition of cooking breakfast for each other. He scoops food for Gizzy and sits down to eat in silence and calm.
He glances into his laptop and immediately sees a bunch of old documents. He had long promised himself to throw away most of them, but there's a lot to go through. Among his old pathetic attempts at writing are work documents that he absolutely cannot part with. He once tried to write, but it didn’t work—he had no ideas. There was a piano killer, but he couldn’t understand his motives, his style. Although Daeho and Jiyoon claimed that he had a good detective hero. He promised himself to try writing something from the detective’s perspective someday.
At work, his cheerful colleagues greeted him warmly; he quickly built relationships with them, although sometimes they treated him like a naive boy.
“Hey, Hyun, looks like you had a wild night,” Daeho joked, patting him on the shoulder and examining the dark circles under his eyes.
“Yeah, didn’t sleep all night,” Daeho was always like that. Although over time, it increasingly felt like an invasion of boundaries. Jong Woo just couldn’t get angry. Daeho had been his college buddy; they had been through a lot together and still walk almost hand in hand. Daeho was the best at math and physics, Jong Woo in languages and literature. Daeho was first in his career, Jong Woo in relationships. Such a trend had persisted since they were awkward teenagers.
He’s grateful to Daeho for his job. His younger brother seemed to be recovering—his mother called more often, speaking with hope in her voice. Jong Woo could send them less money; fewer medicines were needed. He more often went to the cinema with Jiyoon and, for the first time in his life, didn’t feel like he was responsible for his brother and mother’s lives. They even started talking about Jong Se.
At work, Jong Woo tried to convince himself that everything was fine, that Goshivon was just a terrible dream born from fatigue and stress. But in the mirrors, it still seemed like a shadow was behind him, so he quickly diverted his attention. Flowers on his desk smelled especially fresh today.
“I’ll come a little later, having drinks with the team.” After work, they decided to go to a small bar. Daeho, as always, made loud toast; a guy just as new as Jong Woo looked pathetic. He always withdrew and avoided eye contact, which Daeho immediately pointed out in his speech.
The meat was especially tasty today, and the waitresses were friendly. They smiled and winked at Jong Woo, and he didn’t forget to hint to them to pay attention to his friend.
“Haha, you’re so cute. How old are you?” one of the two girls, no older than 24, said. Both dressed quite revealingly and chose him as their target. Their laughter was gentle and radiant, but from the corner of his ear, Jong Woo heard a shrill, mocking laugh somewhere in the crowd. He turned around and searched for the source. “What are you looking for?” the girl continued, turning toward his gaze.
“Let’s get acquainted, ladies…”
“Just checking if I’m going crazy seeing such beautiful women,” he replied, blushing—only then did the girls blush too.
“Yeah, well…” The second girl leaned on his table with her arm, her décolletage almost level with his eyes.
“Oh, come on…”
“But I’m afraid my fiancée wouldn’t understand such friendship, though my friend doesn’t have anyone who’d get upset about ‘friendship’,” she winked, pushing Daeho, who was trying to join the conversation unsuccessfully. The girls immediately frowned but continued talking with Daeho, not taking their eyes off Jong Woo, who was now only talking to colleagues. Seeing that he wasn’t paying attention to them anymore, they left.
“Damn, how do you do that?” Daeho said. For a moment, Jong Woo thought there was a note of annoyance in his voice, not just joking.
“Jiyoon says I look like a fawn,” Jong Woo replied.
“Well, I can’t become a deer, or they’ll shoot me,” laughter sounded louder in the background, and some colleagues appeared to be losing their composure. “It’s all alcohol,” Jong Woo told himself.
***
As he neared home, he noticed dark windows. No light was on, which meant Jiyoon had fallen asleep. Jong Woo tried to quietly enter the apartment, but immediately realized it was unnecessary. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Jiyoon jumped into his arms, and he barely caught her by the hips. She kissed him gently and modestly on the lips, even without tongue. Jong Woo smelled rose oil and felt the gloss of strawberries on his lips. Somewhere close, the thought prickled that he didn’t like strawberries, but they quickly passed when Jiyoon pulled his tie and whispered in his ear.
“Let’s go to bed.” For a second, he didn’t want to go anywhere, to stay here, to touch her tender neck...
They slowly lay on the bed. Jiyoon wore her new negligee, her thin fingers played with his hair, her legs between his. Their sex was always measured. He kissed her neck again; Jiyoon preferred to receive caresses. In the room, the nightlight was on, and the space seemed especially cozy. He caught their reflection in the mirror. Jiyoon’s figure was particularly fragile compared to his; if he touched her, she’d shatter.
Gizzy was sleeping on a chair. He found this cat on the street during his first week in Seoul. He was afraid Jiyoon wouldn’t want to tolerate an animal in her apartment, but they agreed only that he would take care of her. They cuddled (he stroked her) for another hour without starting sex.
“No, you smell like alcohol; you know we don’t have sex when you’re drunk,” Jiyoon said when he lowered himself lower.
“And what was before that?” he preferred to have a drinking buddy and talk quietly over a drink, not drink almost every month with colleagues, no matter how fun it was. Back in college, he unsuccessfully tried to find someone to talk to about detectives.
“Before that, I decided to please my fiancé, and now I want to sleep,” she lightly hit his shoulder and turned onto her side. Jong Woo also rolled to the wall. Usually, he hugged her and looked through his shoulder at the cat or in the mirror, seeing them there. But now, he couldn’t relax. “Come on, you know the rules, don’t be so sensitive.”
“Sensitive?”
***
The days went by smoothly: work, lunches with Jiyoon, calls from his mother about his brother. But somewhere in the apartment, a mixture of sweet-putrid and nauseating odors lingered. He didn’t quite understand why this smell seemed so familiar. It felt like the smell wasn’t spreading through the apartment but that everything was becoming less fragrant—the flowers from the first floor.
“No, Mom, everything’s fine, but I can’t come,” he was about to go to work, talking to his mother. He kept distracted from fixing his tie, looking into the mirror, feeling like the dark shirt and classic suit looked familiar. He was already refusing his mother for the second time; earlier, he visited her every weekend, but in the last two months, Jong Woo had been communicating less and less.
Leaving the apartment, he immediately ran into their neighbor—a short middle-aged man with extra weight—who was constantly staring at them with Jiyoon. Jong Woo used to greet him, unaware of any trouble, but it was starting to bother him.
“Good morning,” he tried to force a smile, still feeling the sweetish smell. The man said nothing, only looked at him, then tried to peek into the apartment. Straight ahead, the living room was visible—Jiyoon’s bra on the bed, which she had tried to meet him passionately the night before. “Hey,” he snapped, his knuckles itching—“hit him, hit him, UGH.”
The man immediately transformed; acne and freckles disappeared, his teeth whitened, and his sad puppy gaze dropped to the tiles. A very young guy, about twenty, blushing and hurriedly apologizing, then rushing into his apartment. Jong Woo listened for a moment to the crackling of the lamp and the electronic doorbell of the neighbor’s apartment. In this fog, he reached the elevator, squeezing and unclenching his fists as it arrived.
On the first floor, a tiny butterfly fluttered past. When he stepped outside, he squinted at the sun, feeling the pleasant warmth that suddenly suffocated him with stuffiness. Even the cozy house didn’t seem so warm anymore.
“Bad day, son, you should sleep,” a neighbor woman from downstairs said with a kind smile. She’d been living here for twenty years, waking earlier than them with Jiyoon to tend to her balcony flowers. He looked up, and for a moment, her smile seemed to grow even wider—“Want some food? Want some meat?” Her voice was mocking, and a shiver ran down his spine. His back was turned to the sun, feeling how the fabric clung to his damp skin.
“I… I…”
“Heheh,” she giggled.
“Hahaha,” he managed to say.
“Yup, yup,” she continued.
Somewhere behind him, he heard laughter—familiar, but he couldn’t place where. He was afraid to turn around. “Hit, beat, crush.” He should run away, but instead, he felt even more how his uncooled knuckles melted with desire—“Come on, Ch…”. In the reflection on the polished floor, he saw two small figures of boys.
“…my grandchildren, Jong Woon?”
“Ajossi?”
“Ah,” he suddenly realized he was staring at one spot on the tiles. He spun around and saw two very small boys—not adults, not crazy. Two dark-haired, black-eyed boys. Backpack-wearing, in elementary school uniforms, just children. Neither smiling, watching worriedly, but their reflection on the tiles blurred, and not only them—everything in Jong Woo’s eyes swam. For a moment, it seemed like he was sitting, and if he took a few steps forward, he’d crash into a wall. He moved ahead, amazed at how light his limbs had become. He groped blindly—forward, up, left, right? Metal. A big metal “door?” Suddenly something jerked him, and he fell back, hurting his coccyx on the tiles.
“Ah, now,” he heard the neighbor’s voice and the click of her heels. In front of his eyes, his knees.
“Take it, Ajossi.” One of the boys handed him a damp wipe, and the other a water bottle.
“Geez, what are you young folks doing, not taking care of yourselves? You’ve worked yourself too hard, almost to the point of dreaming while awake,” she said.
Did he feel unwell? From the heat? But then why was it so cold? And dark?
“Y-yes, yeah, I guess I’ve really worn myself out lately,” Jong Woo tried to sound more confident; his voice was hoarse and unnatural. “Thanks.” He took the damp wipe and wiped his face, neck, hand. He wanted to keep rubbing until he reached the core—blood, it seemed, was everywhere: on the walls, on people, even in the sky—a film, dirt. The other boy was still holding the water bottle. He took it with trembling hands. When he drank, a metallic taste lingered on his tongue. Jong Woo rubbed his jaw a few times, not noticing the wounds. “So, what about the grandchildren?”
“Ah, meet this—this is Park Joon Hwan, my grandson,” the woman said finally. “My only one, but… ‘weren’t there two?’” A mirror, a side mirror. He turned his head to look—was he outside? There were many mirrors in the hallway, and one reflected a little boy. A tiny, very young boy. And in place of Jong Woo, he was pale, with torn knuckles. “Maybe the fall was a bit worse than I thought?”
“Yes, dear boy,” he finally smiles. “Sorry, but I’m late for work. Thanks for your help,” and he bows quickly, rushing away. The last thing he hears are her instructions to eat well and have more meat.
At work, it’s noisy, colleagues gossip all the time. One of them, already about two months bothering him with useless offers.
“Hah, Jong Woo, you’re a bit late; Jiyoon, she’s not…”
“Please, don’t start,” he cuts her off. She’s always talking about Jiyoon.
“JONG WOO.” Daeho’s voice hits hard; he approaches quickly and grabs his shoulder. “Listen, you really don’t think I’ll forgive you for that?”
“I, Hyun, I don’t understand what you mean? I’m not late,” Jong Woo checks the clock—there are a couple of minutes before work starts, and he usually arrives earlier.
“Hah, you should come earlier than me, your boss. Don’t you think you should tell me that?”
“You’re never here early,” Jong Woo begins to get a migraine; today’s a terrible day. On his desk, a bouquet of flowers that he habitually puts weekly, which wilted too quickly, and that sweet smell...
“Never mind! Ah, you don’t understand, it doesn’t matter when I come—you should always be earlier. That’s good manners.”
Jong Woo takes a few deep breaths. “Let me start working, Hyun,” he says. He doesn’t listen to anyone; he pretends to start working, but he’s actually trying to figure out where to press—the laptop doesn’t feel like his, nor the work. It’s as if he’s not here. Daeho wanted to say something else, but the director enters, so he falls silent and begins flattering him.
He’s been sitting at his laptop for two hours, with an empty file open. His mind flickered with thoughts about today’s day; he couldn’t forget the dream from two months ago. Is he going crazy? The freshly bought coffee in his hands doesn’t seem like a paper cup anymore but someone’s wrist. Pulsing, warm. With his other hand, he strokes his own, touches his Adam’s apple, and swallows loudly, feeling warmth. He sets the cup down and starts typing. “The pianist felt the happiest person when that last drop of once-active life gave its warmth in his hands. The cold keys felt so distant, he was melting under the heat of another’s desire to live.” When Jong Woo came to himself, he was already on chapter five, and outside the office window, the sunset was bright red. The entire “Quarterly Budget” document was filled with the story of the pianist. He wanted to delete it immediately, but when the cursor hovered over “Yes,” he couldn’t click—this document was so clean, so free of film.
After work, Daeho invites him to drink, and for the first time, the invitation sounds like an order. Jong Woo somehow feels that he used to enjoy the cool evening air with a beer and conversations, with...
“Hah, Jong Woo, that’s why Jiyoon got cold to you,” Daeho, now quite drunk, said.
“Cold? Why do you think so?” Jong Woo asked, recalling her “cooling off.”
“Hah, it’s obvious. A girl as perfect as Jiyoon wants a confident guy, but you—you just take it as advice from an older guy, you’re too sensitive.”
“When did you become so experienced with women?” Jong Woo replied, noticing the girls at the next table glancing at him and whispering “He’s so sweet,” “Yeah, but he definitely has a girlfriend,” “Eh, his friend isn’t much either,” “Yeah, who’s your friend, so are you,” “Haha, I think it’s a bit off,” “Maybe it is, but the point is clear, hey, waiter, bring some sake, our hearts are broken.”
In the corner of the bar, a tall guy with slightly curly hair in a suit was observing the room. He looked unusually harmonious. His gaze paused on Jong Woo. Jong Woo seemed familiar. The guy quickly babbled something about the restroom. Passing by him, his hand briefly touched his shoulder.
In the small, not-so-clean bathroom stall, Jong Woo couldn’t quite remember where he had seen a place that looked worse, but he couldn’t figure out when. He was washing his hands when the door squeaked. A guy behind him—pale, with straight cheekbones. Jong Woo felt bile rising in his throat and spat it out.
“I’m a dentist,” the man said, casually brushing his hand over his torso—hidden under the suit. “Excessive saliva or bile can be from toothpaste,” he tried to sound professional, but it was just a way to start a conversation.
“I’m afraid I’m not really interested in dental talks,” Jong Woo replied.
“Oh, believe me, neither am I,” the words shattered the image. The man’s skin was no longer so pale, and his hair was cut in a standard bowl style. But his fingers were still long and calloused. He lowered them—below Jong Woo’s waist. The guy pressed a little more into his groin, staring intently into the mirror. Puffy lips with a bow on the upper lip, a small bump on his nose, broad nostrils. The guy was still handsome under the right lighting, but those hands didn’t look right. For a moment, it seemed like they were in this bathroom with a third person. He turned and kissed the man on the lips—passionately, demandingly, not caring about his comfort. Finally, he could do this, but he didn’t want to do it with him.
And at that moment, short, thick fingers started slipping under the relaxed belt. Jong Woo heard loud steps and Daeho’s whimpering, and before he could think, he punched somewhere.
“Shit,” the stranger grabbed his nose, but Jong Woo didn’t care anymore. He ran out of the bathroom, nearly knocking Daeho over, his vision swimming, grabbing his bag, hurriedly saying goodbye to colleagues, leaving money, then ran—only stopping at home. As he tried to surrender, he heard his phone buzzing.
“Oppa, hi. The neighbor downstairs said you were feeling bad today. Write me when you can.”
“Oppa, I’m worried.”
“Reply when you can.”
“Jong Woo, why were you so rude to our neighbor today?”
“I don’t blame you if anything; you know that guy, he’s very shy,” the messages kept coming.
“Jong Woo, if you don’t reply, I’ll be upset.”
“Alright, Oppa, I won’t be upset, but reply.”
Jong Woo decided it was too late to respond. He was so drunk, feeling very sleepy, legs aching from running. Under alcohol, everything around seems dirtier, greyer, the food today felt especially disgusting, and the smells—ugh—no matter how he tried not to feel them, it was all too far away, only the clay scent was near. He hated all this. Looking into the mirror in the hallway, he realized what he hated: them, the twins (twin? boy?), the neighbor (landlady?), hated Jiyoon (“No, it can’t be”), hated the neighbor (pervert?), the man at the bar, with whom he almost cheated on his girl (“Or with him?”), and he was annoyed by Joon Ho and colleagues. He wanted to hit everyone—everyone, everyone—everyone. It seemed as if someone else was in the mirror, he saw the silhouette of a tall man, an older man. That man—the Mun—smiling with an obsessive grin, waiting expectantly, looking at Jong Woo. As if expecting a reaction to a gift. Jong Woo didn’t understand why he hated them all; it seemed he hated most of the world, these people, because of whom he had to behave so... formally, properly. He took a deep breath again and saw the roof, the wind—touching his hair like a tangible thing—and heard someone’s velvety voice. He hated him, but unlike others, he seemed like an anchor, a port. He wanted to come home and sleep with Gizzy curled beside him. The cat already missed him.
***
When he entered the dark apartment, he didn’t have time to even come to his senses. Jiyoon suddenly jumped out of the room and threw herself at him with a passionate kiss. Yesterday, she had gone before him naked, and he asked her to dress, claiming she’d get cold.
“I missed you, oppa,” Jiyoon elongated her vowels, blowing her lips between kisses that Jong Woo didn’t have the strength or didn’t want to respond to. Her greasy film-like gloss remained on his face. The smell of strawberries clogged his nose, eyes started to water, and that choking lump that had just disappeared was swelling again.
“Jiyoon, I’m drunk,” a knot in his throat and head. Everything was swirling, and a cruel thought haunted the subconscious—“hit, hit, hit, Chagya”—Mu... Jiyoon didn’t stop, she clawed her nails into his back, then lifted his jacket and shirt.
“It’s okay, let’s do it here today,” she whispered into his lips, looking proud and satisfied, like she was throwing a bone to a starving dog. His stomach started to ache—not excitement, but nausea. He was drowning, wanting to erase that face. He tried to hold onto something—anything. Gizzy was nowhere to be seen; she was probably already sleeping. He didn’t want to give Jiyoon the chance to remind him how she allowed sex in the hallway. He carried her to their room and threw her onto the bed.
He ran his palms over her body. She was soft, rounded, undeniably beautiful, but he wanted a firmer, more defined body. He didn’t kiss her; he bit her. He saw in the mirror how she bit her lip, tears appeared on her cheeks. The solemn expression was gone; she paled, her eyes widened, filled with fear and realization. He bit her neck again, feeling the metallic taste, and ran his nails over her hips. She suddenly smiled and lightly punched him in the shoulder.
“Well, Jong Woo, don’t be so... mmm, passionate,” she whispered very quietly—“cruel.”
He rose on his elbows, feeling her uneven breath. He smiled; she was even more frightened. His teeth were slightly bloody. One hand ran over her pale cheek, wiping tears. He saw blood under his nails, some drops falling onto Jiyoon’s face. He rubbed them in further. He reached her eyes, pressed a little, and Jiyoon squealed and froze. “You wanted to say—sensitive,” he smiled. He didn’t like her sad face but liked the thought that she wasn’t smiling anymore, couldn’t call him sensitive. Her face in blood made him excited, but he didn’t want her as a girl. He wanted that face to smile in blood, to bite him as he bit her, to enjoy it as he did—be as she was. That she’d let him, that she’d bend under her desire. They could be in blood and fire, but this dance had no many endings. He lowered his hand on her thin neck and squeezed, she grabbed his hand—no longer gently—biting his fingers. He felt the marks she left earlier on his back, why did she have the right to do that and he not? No, he could—“Jiyoon, you started this, you can’t complain now. I’m sensitive. Why? I’m confident now, like Daeho said.”
“You wanted to talk about the neighbor? Or about him? Or about how I felt bad?” Now he was squeezing her neck with both hands. She was choking, her fingers weakening. Blood dripped from his new wounds and her nails. If he let go, he’d see a bloody imprint. He looked into the mirror, saw Jong Woo, the silhouette of a tall guy, an older man. That man—Mun—gripping his neck, squeezing, Jong Woo moaned. He was lying on the dental chair, with exposed, fresh scratches on his back. Mun, that maniac, sat opposite him, his hand covered in white stains, licking it twice with a smug grin. Then he looked at Jong Woo with piercing eyes. The last thing Jong Woo remembered, he felt a strange taste of water, something sprinkled into it, and he fell asleep as soon as he hit the bed. Behind the door, he heard the laughter of one of the twins. The post-orgasmic haze had already dispersed, and that laugh beat against his inflamed eardrums. He swallowed and looked at the metal door with hatred and a manic desire.
“Woke up, chagya,” Mun Jo stretched. Smiling, he handed him an axe. Jong Woo looked at it, confidently gripping the handle, turning it a few times in his hand. Only now did he notice the sleeping Jiyoon in the dark corner. She was tied up and curled into a ball, shivering from the cold. He turned again to Mun Jo, and in the reflection of his eyes, he saw himself—disheveled, flushed, and in his eyes, a surge of pleasure and joy—such a look he’d only seen from the dentist on the roof when Jong Woo talked about his pianist. He still remembered what he had written in the dream and wanted to finish it as quickly as possible—to rewrite it here. “Kill everyone and save Jiyoon.” It was unnecessary; Jong Woo had already decided everything, only not for Jiyoon’s salvation. With her, he wouldn’t get out of here.