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The phantom picks him up from the hospital.
It packs his laptop, his notebook—he doesn't know, doesn’t care what else was there with him—into a leather carry on, the kind rich men take with them to the airport.
It hands him a little stack of soft clothes, neatly folded, and he goes to change. He goes along with it because it’s an excuse, a reason good as any, to leave the sterile white room they put him in.
The hospital clothes get stuffed into the bag—to be burned later, he suspects. Discarded, destroyed. Everything prior to the point of no return will be wiped from existence.
Just as well.
There shouldn't be anything left for the police to find when they inevitably come looking.
When the evidence leads them in pointless circles.
When the facts stop adding up.
Nobody bothers them as they walk down the hall. The phantom has that in its favor—an air of something untouchable, something evil.
The car door is opened for him and he slides inside. The movement pulls at his stitches and he makes a face, resists the urge to pick at the wound, to scratch at it, to pinch the skin around it to relieve the discomfort.
The bag gets tossed in the back.
The driver’s door is opened and the phantom slips inside. It looks at him, tilts its head. Its eyes are amused, sparkling. Then it looks away, and the car moves.
It’s not until the window is rolled down, just the smallest bit, and he feels the air on his face, hears the rush of it, sees the cars around them on the freeway, that everything becomes startlingly clear. It’s then that he begins to suspect the phantom might be real.
Perhaps he’s not at the hospital, not in a drugged haze.
Perhaps he’s not sitting on the steel bed, eyes transfixed on the blank wall opposite him. Perhaps his mind isn't just making up stories to compensate for the unnerving silence.
“Are you real?” he asks.
His voice comes out hoarse.
The phantom looks at him again. A quick turn of its head, an arched brow, that mesmerizing glint of a face frozen in a permanent, soundless laugh.
“Do I not look real?”
I can’t tell, he wants to say, but doesn’t. He doesn't want to give the phantom a weakness to exploit.
He says nothing, so the phantom speaks again. Its voice is a quiet rasp.
“Do you want me to be real?”
He looks away. Out at the road, at the cars, at the blur of trees and metal and asphalt. He thinks back to that rainy night, to the blood on his hands, his own and everyone else’s, and tries to remember how it was, how it all really happened.
He grits his teeth until his jaw aches like he can force the memories out, but enlightenment doesn't come.
He gives up.
Gives in.
“Yes,” he says quietly.
That’s the horrid truth, he thinks. He knows now, knows it in an instant. He wants this to be real. Whatever happened that night, however it happened, he wants it to have happened in a way that would mean this is real.
In a way that would mean he has someone in his corner, someone who understands.
His hands shake. He feels his chin start to tremble too. It bubbles up, threatens to spill over. He chokes down silent, hysterical sobs; his shoulders heave and no sound comes out.
It’s that wretched feeling that’s been building up since he first set foot in Seoul.
As if he hadn't let it out already.
He thinks, maybe tears are something else. Maybe he hasn't let this out yet, whatever it is.
A car ahead of them blares its horn and Jong-woo glances up. He looks to the side and half excepts the phantom to be gone.
But he finds Seo Moon-jo watching him still.
And with that comes relief.
The thought frightens him.
It exhilarates him, too.
Then come the questions. He has so many he can barely order them in his mind, can barely keep up with how quickly they flicker past. But he’s tired. Right now, just for a moment, he’s so tired he doesn't care.
Instead, he asks, “Where are we going?”
There’s a second, two, of silence.
“My place,” Moon-jo says.
━━━
His place turns out to be the top floor flat in a sleek high rise, all chrome elevators and marble floors.
Jong-woo follows him in.
He’s directed to a room with wide windows and a bed more comfortable than anything he’s ever felt before. There’s a door on the opposite wall he thinks is a closet, but isn’t. He has his own bathroom.
He means to freshen up and return, corner Moon-jo in his palatial living room, shove him down onto his million won sofa and demand answers.
Instead, he sleeps.
He collapses into a sleep so deep it feels like death.
Within days, there’s a routine. It’s simple, easy, like they were preprogrammed for it; like whatever happened, they were destined to end up here, together.
Moon-jo wakes early, Jong-woo sleeps in late.
There’s always food in the fridge, always things Jong-woo likes but never mentions aloud.
He wonders how it’s possible to know someone so completely.
Everything in his bathroom smells so nice. The towels are soft. The water is hot. He sits on the shower floor sometimes, lets the glass fog up, sits there until the steam clogs his lungs and his skin is red from the heat.
He dresses in clothes that aren't his—they are, though, they’re his now, they’re his size, his style, as though made for him—and sits on the sofa. He stares out of the windows. He reads. He writes. He drinks coffee from the sort of contraption he’s only ever seen in cafés.
When Moon-jo’s home, he always hovers.
He hovers but he gives him space, pushes him but gives him time. His presence becomes a steady comfort.
It no longer surprises Jong-woo that he thinks that, that he trusts a man who’s left an ocean of blood in his wake.
They go for walks when Jong-woo is well enough. There’s a park not far from the apartment, and they walk, and they sit, dappled in sunlight. It’s no longer as hot as it used to be.
Moon-jo takes his hands when they’re shaking and lifts them up, kisses his knuckles, his fingertips, looks at him with an overwhelming fondness.
He’s always looked at him like that, Jong-woo realizes, like he’s the most precious, most remarkable thing in the world.
It used to scare him, whatever Moon-jo meant by it. He thinks—he likes it now. The depth of it pleases him.
Moon-jo treats him like he would give him the world if he only asked.
He buys him whatever his gaze lingers on for a second too long, asks him constantly if he needs anything, wants for anything.
Do you need water? Coffee? Tea? What kind? Sugar? What do you want for dinner? Have you run out of books to read yet? How’s your story going? Has he realized yet, your character, what he wants? Has he realized yet what he’s wanted all along?
A few weeks go by and very little changes—but Jong-woo sleeps in Moon-jo’s bed now.
There’s no oh, no epiphany.
It happens as naturally as the rest of it does.
He stares at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. He’s hunched over, elbows resting on the edge of the coffee table. They’re starting to ache.
Moon-jo appears, then, walks around the coffee table. He roughly tugs it away and Jong-woo almost falls forward but Moon-jo is there, holding him up. He crouches between Jong-woo’s legs, pushes his hair out of his face, looks up at him with bright eyes.
“It’s two in the morning,” he says.
Jong-woo blinks at him.
“Come to bed,” Moon-jo says.
Moon-jo kisses him the next morning.
He’s hesitant—but not entirely so. There's conviction beneath it, unwavering certainty that Jong-woo wants this too. But he gives him the chance to back out if he doesn't want it just yet.
Still, it’s more reserved than he’s ever seen Moon-jo before. Moon-jo is a storm. Storms shouldn’t be restrained.
And Jong-woo really fucking doesn't feel like being patient anymore.
He pulls Moon-jo down on top of him.
He takes. He wants and he takes, and he takes, and he takes, and he takes, and Moon-jo lets him, gives him anything he wants, gives himself freely.
It’s an overwhelming thing, to be loved by a storm.
Jong-woo learns, in time, how to weather it.
He learns Moon-jo the way Moon-jo knows him.
He learns to play him—which buttons to push, which levers to tug, which strings to yank at to get what he wants.
And more than that, he learns that Moon-jo wants him to, that he wants to be swung around like a marionette.
As menacing as he is, as domineering, it all shuts off when Jong-woo shows the slightest hint of authority.
When Jong-woo orders their food, Moon-jo stands silently behind him. When Jong-woo wants to drive, Moon-jo tosses him the keys to his car like it’s nothing, like it isn't worth more than his mother’s house.
He watches him like it’s entertaining, everything Jong-woo does, like he lives to wind him up and watch him go.
It’s like it’s a game.
But there are things, curious little moments, that suggest otherwise.
Gentle touches, the smallest shred of contact—and something in Moon-jo shifts. His molecules rearrange. His smile softens. There’s no insidious glint to it, when it does that.
Jong-woo takes ahold of that string, then, to see how far it can unravel.
He tugs like he’s trying to make Moon-jo snap, testing the limits of how much he can get away with before something breaks.
Nothing breaks.
Moon-jo gives him everything, anything. He would do anything for him.
Because he likes it.
He likes to watch the monster he created take what it wants when it wants it.
━━━
They pass a pretty girl, waiting for a cab under the sickly glow of a streetlamp.
She glances their way through the pouring rain and her eyes brighten at the sight of Jong-woo’s company. Moon-jo looks, follows the trail of Jong-woo’s gaze. He offers the girl a smile. He’s fucking charming like that.
It happens a lot.
And Jong-woo doesn't want to play nice, but he restrains himself just enough to avoid butchering anyone in the street.
But a reminder would do nicely.
Moon-jo could use a reminder that it works both ways. He’ll play Frankenstein’s monster. He’ll offer up his body and soul. But Moon-jo will return the favor.
He makes that very clear as soon as they reach the parking lot and the car doors slam shut.
He swings his leg over and lowers himself onto Moon-jo’s lap, takes his head in both hands and knocks it violently against the headrest. He thinks it must hurt. Moon-jo just grins.
The kiss is vicious. He slips his palms under Moon-jo’s shirt, leaves red marks on the skin of his back.
The grin stays put even as Jong-woo claws harder.
He withdraws his hands. He returns them to Moon-jo’s face, looks him in the eyes, reaches further, curls his fingers into Moon-jo’s hair. He tugs. He isn't gentle.
Moon-jo’s throat is exposed. He could tear it out with his bare teeth if he wanted to.
He wonders if Moon-jo would let him.
If he would let Jong-woo kill him.
He’s already done it once, hasn't he?
He wonders briefly, hysterically, if any of this is real. If he’s locked up in a padded room, if Moon-jo is dead and in the ground.
Not that it matters.
All he knows is Moon-jo is pale, inhumanly so, looks like the phantom he is in the moonlight. He isn’t smiling anymore. He’s waiting.
I can be anything you want, he remembers Moon-jo promising.
“You’re mine,” Jong-woo tells him.
There’s a faint line on Moon-jo’s throat visible only when the light falls just right. Or so he thinks. He thinks he might be imagining it, that scar.
That doesn’t matter either.
He drags his mouth over it. He likes the way it makes Moon-jo tense up, the way his cold fingers tighten their grip.
━━━
He texts Officer So back.
If he didn’t, she would start wondering. If he disappeared, she would start looking.
I’m staying with a friend, he tells her, just outside the city.
He’s not a suspect, he finds out. Not anymore. Not yet.
She keeps him informed on the progress of the investigation.
There’s a pile of bodies in processing, seemingly all accounted for. (He’s unsure, still, how Moon-jo managed that, to craft his own indubitable demise.)
It’s black and white. Moon-jo killed the residents, Jong-woo killed Moon-jo. His defense is self defense. The law buys it. There’s credible witnesses attesting to his innocence, to Moon-jo’s many, many crimes.
But he can tell by the way Officer So tells him these things, that she doesn't trust they’re the truth.
She’s struggling with the puzzle pieces, trying to make sense of it all.
He tells her he doesn't remember, that he was out for most of it. He took a blow to the skull and the rest is gone.
How’s your head?
She asks about it every time.
Better. It’s quiet here, he tells her. Nothing ever happens.
They maintain regular contact this way, Officer So checking in every now and again. Keeping tabs on him.
Do you remember any of the residents mentioning friends? Family?
No. We didn't know each other well.
The police haven't closed the case yet. It’s a mild concern. Their suspect is dead—he doesn't know what the hell they could still be looking for.
Any updates?
He reaches out first, sometimes. Proactive lying, he calls it.
My partner is following up on a lead.
He doesn't press further. He doesn't need her growing any more suspicious.
Let me know if anything comes up, he types.
His phone buzzes again.
Have you spoken to any of the others?
Those who made it out alive, she means, the survivors. That’s what they call them.
Three dots. She’s typing.
The dots disappear. She backspaces.
She means to ask about Ji-eun, he knows this. She talks to Ji-eun, too. She must know they broke up. She must be wondering why.
Why, instead of comforting each other, having survived hell, they went their separate ways.
No, he responds, and smiles about it.
It’s a sweet white lie, a lie by omission. Moon-jo made it out alive. Jong-woo has spoken to him, speaks to him every single day. He looks up from his phone and meets Moon-jo’s eyes across the table. Moon-jo hands him a tangerine slice.
I hope you’re doing better, Officer So says.
He is.
I am, he sends back.
━━━
Moon-jo leaves in the evenings sometimes. Jong-woo watches him go.
“You still do it,” he says one night. It isn't a question. He doesn't have to ask. He knows.
Moon-jo looks at him from the doorway.
“Do you want to come with me?”
He does.
It should feel like unravelling, he thinks, but it’s more like being pieced back together.
There’s something in the way the moonlight falls, the way the blood on his gloves looks black, the way Moon-jo stares at him when Jong-woo takes his face in his hands and smears it across his skin.
He feels seen. For the first time, he feels sane.
They get in the shower together when they come home. It’s the middle of the night.
It’s a tight fit, and Moon-jo laughs when Jong-woo knocks his elbow against the glass. Jong-woo looks up at him and that smile pierces his heart.
There’s a smudge of blood on his jaw. Jong-woo pulls him under the spray, reaches to wipe it away. There’s water in his eyes. He tries to blink through it. He curls his fingers and beckons Moon-jo down to him.
The hands on his waist pull him closer until there’s no longer any space between them.
Moon-jo kisses him like he’s drowning.
It’s the first time Jong-woo allows himself to consider the idea that perhaps Moon-jo needs this too. A hand to hold, a kindred spirit who will take him for what he is.
Someone to give his heart to.
━━━
Moon-jo doesn’t sleep much.
There are no routine nightmares, no tossing and turning, yet he stays up, stubbornly refuses to shut down.
He drinks cup after cup of coffee, doesn't let his head hit the pillow until well after midnight, leaves Jong-woo to wake in an empty bed every morning.
It makes no sense. Because's he's tired, visibly so. The dark rings beneath his eyes don't ever go away. He drifts off sometimes, despite his best intentions, at the kitchen table, in the passenger’s seat. Most times, he flinches awake as soon as his head droops.
He goes back to work.
Not his old clinic, of course. He finds a job elsewhere, operating under a false name, a false personality, false, positively stellar credentials. He works long hours, sometimes weekends, almost like he’s seeking a distraction, whatever from.
He comes home, fixes another coffee, showers and cracks open a book, leans heavily against the sofa cushions.
By the time Jong-woo finds him he’s asleep, head lolled to the side, glasses askew.
Jong-woo hovers over him, takes the glasses off as gently as he can. When his knee nudges Moon-jo’s, he startles awake. For a moment, his gaze is wild and unseeing. The panic doesn't settle until Jong-woo comes into focus.
“You need to get more rest.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Moon-jo says, and it’s not as funny as he thinks it is.
Jong-woo glares and gets a weak smile in return.
He offers his hand and Moon-jo takes it, allows himself to be led to the bedroom. Jong-woo likes the feel of their intertwined fingers.
They lay face to face in the gray moonlight.
Moon-jo reaches out, traces a line down Jong-woo’s throat.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” he tells him.
But I want to, Jong-woo doesn't say.
“You don't need to,” Moon-jo assures him anyway.
He’s very affectionate in that odd way of his.
He says cruel things in the kindest of tones, tells the blunt truth when a lie would be sweeter.
It’s enthralling.
Jong-woo grows to crave the brutal honesty. He begins to replicate it.
It takes a few tries before he says what he thinks, whether the words are a barb or a balm, but once he starts he finds he can’t stop.
Moon-jo listens like he’s starving for it.
They never hold it against each other, the things they say. It's the only way forward, utter sincerity.
And when they don’t speak, it’s just as well.
It’s a beautiful thing, shared silence, when it settles comfortably throughout the room.
“Don’t,” Moon-jo tells him, again and again.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t think so much.”
He’s not obliged to perform, to conform.
With Moon-jo, there are no norms. With Moon-jo, he can take what he wants from the world and ignore the rest.
He turns a blind eye to what’s expected of him.
He disregards what people say, what they think—about him, about them.
Moon-jo senses it, of course, this newfound ease. He matches it eagerly.
It shows in the lingering touches at Jong-woo’s wrist, a hand on the small of his back, at the nape of his neck. He’s even more tactile when they’re out in public. He leans in close when the street is too loud to be heard otherwise, rests his palm on Jong-woo’s hip as he does so.
But his smiles begin to change too.
They’re no less genuine, no—they’re different. Softer. That permanent amusement doesn't fade, it dims. It transforms. There’s a new fire in his eyes, now.
There’s a word for it that Jong-woo can’t place, until suddenly, he can.
The notion startles him, that Moon-jo has let his guard down completely. He’s made himself vulnerable, resigned himself utterly to whatever fate Jong-woo should handpick for him.
They add up, the little things, and it’s on one of those rare nights that Moon-jo sleeps fitfully, restlessly, that he finally crosses an unspoken, unseen line.
He doesn't get up, get coffee, switch on a mind-numbing program. He doesn't stare blankly at the pages of a book, doesn't scroll through his phone until his fingers ache.
Instead, he rolls close and tucks his face into the crook of Jong-woo’s neck.
Seeking comfort.
And it keeps Jong-woo awake until morning.
He thinks about it all, catalogues it, makes neat little piles in his mind and connects them with red string.
There’s been a shift.
He wonders if it’s got something to do with him, if it has everything to do with him.
He wonders if it’s as simple as Moon-jo realizing he now has something to lose.
━━━
He likes it, he decides.
He thinks of it as payback, vengeance of sorts. He enjoys that he’s the one making Moon-jo wary now.
The shower switches off and he steps out, rubs at his hair and tosses the towel aside, climbs into his pajamas and stares at his face in the mirror. His reflection is a foreign thing.
In the bedroom, Moon-jo is waiting for him.
It’s dark in the room. He’s silent, staring at the ceiling.
He’s flat on his back on their bed, on top of the covers, shirt off, socks off, bare feet hanging off the edge.
He looks like a statue, an impossible man cut from white marble—neat and composed and perfect.
Jong-woo wants to ruin it. Poke at it, prod at it, mar it with his fingertips and his teeth. Something so perfect has no right to exist.
He wants to destroy him.
His knees bracket Moon-jo’s hips and Moon-jo lifts his head up to accept the kiss he’s offered.
There’s hands in Jong-woo’s damp hair, pushing it frantically out of his face. It’s not enough, the kiss. Moon-jo scrabbles for more, clutches at Jong-woo with a burning fervor.
He makes a desperate sound when Jong-woo grinds his hips down. His fingers clench, leave bruises.
Jong-woo breaks away. He leans back and Moon-jo’s hands slide down his arms, settle on his thighs. He waits. He’s patient.
And when Jong-woo touches him again, Moon-jo’s breath stutters. He looks up at him like he’s seeing god. It’s obsessive, a terrifying infatuation. He looks at Jong-woo’s face like nothing else exists in that moment.
Jong-woo needs to destroy him.
He tilts his head, wraps his palms around Moon-jo’s throat, and presses down.
Moon-jo lets him.
There’s beauty in the horror of it—the straining veins, the violent trembling of those graceful fingers, the way that hungry gaze begins to lose focus.
When he lets go, Moon-jo’s breaths come in quick, quiet bursts through his teeth. Jong-woo doesn't give him time to recover. He covers Moon-jo’s mouth with his own and reaches for his belt.
Moon-jo blushes down to his chest and screws his eyes shut when he comes.
━━━
Jong-woo wakes up first.
Moon-jo is still beside him.
There’s something surreal about it. Jong-woo lingers for a minute, watches him sleep. It makes him look human.
The coffee machine jams when he tries to fit the capsule inside. He swears at it, whacks it as quietly as he can.
He doesn't add creamer.
The city comes alive as he stands in front of the window. He doesn't know how long he’s there, just that he feels better by the time his mug is empty.
He almost drops it when there’s a knock at the door.
On his way over, he sets the mug down in the sink, wraps his robe tight around himself.
He hasn't seen Officer So in months.
It’s her on the monitor, undeniably. Her hair is longer. She’s not wearing her uniform.
He could pretend no one is home, he thinks. But she would come knocking again, he knows this, whether tomorrow or a week from now. Perhaps she wouldn't be as lucky, and someone else would open the door. Moon-jo would—for the fun of it.
It’s safer to rip off the bandaid.
Still, he panics.
He swivels around and hurries to the bedroom, shoves Moon-jo awake.
His expression is bleary when he peers up at Jong-woo. His hair sticks out in every direction.
“Pretend to be asleep,” Jong-woo hisses.
“I was asleep.”
“Pretend to be asleep,” Jong-woo repeats, “and don’t come out.”
He pushes Moon-jo back down, draws the covers up over him until only the top of his head is visible. He gets a sleepy grumble in response.
“Officer So is here.”
“Who?”
“The police officer.”
“Hm.”
“You know what she’s like.”
“Mm.”
Moon-jo isn’t phased. He shifts onto his stomach, trying to get comfortable.
Jong-woo begs, “Please, be quiet.”
Moon-jo hums again.
“Please, listen to me.”
“I always listen to you, jagi.”
He leaves the door open just a crack. There are no secrets between them. And it steadies him, too, the knowledge that Moon-jo will hear everything. That he’s there, just a wall away.
“Good morning,” Officer So says, bows politely when he opens the door.
He looks at her eyes—they’re wide and dark and shining with something he doesn't like the look of.
“How did you find me?”
“I’m sorry to come unannounced,” she says, and she doesn't mean it. She meant to catch him red handed. She wanted him to open the door drenched in blood. “A friend of mine, another officer, was on patrol not far from here. He recognized you from the case file.”
“How did you know which door to knock on?” he asks.
She pauses.
The urge to slam the door in her face grows, bubbling and frothing like white hot rage.
It’s different with police. Different with her, especially. He has to play a part. He has to play the victim.
“This wasn't the first door I tried,” she admits.
It’s a lie.
He’s sure it is.
He’s almost sure it is.
It has to be.
She’s on her own. There’s no partner, not in this. He knows that’s her style—this investigation, just another lonesome pet project. She's all alone in thinking what she thinks.
His fingers curl into fists at his sides. Slowly, he forces them unclenched.
“Do you want to come in,” he says flatly.
He scrambles for a convenient excuse as they head to the kitchen, to explain that he's not alone, to explain why she can’t meet his friend.
“He’s asleep,” he says. “Hungover, I suppose. He came home around four.” He lowers his voice to sell it. “Please, keep quiet.”
He makes her coffee.
She watches his hands.
He slides the mug across the kitchen island, sits across from her.
She begins with small talk.
It feels like an interrogation.
How are you? That’s good, I’m glad to hear. Me as well, thank you. This is a beautiful apartment. You must be happy here. You look better. Have you been seeing anyone? A good doctor can help. Do you remember anything new?
The red digits on the microwave change and change and change. Minutes tick by.
He offers single word answers, dismissive half-truths. He does it politely enough. He exaggerates the role. He’s traumatized. He’s frightened. He’s sad. He wishes he could seal the gaps in his memory, he tells her, and it scares him that he can’t. He tells her he wishes he could be of more help.
There’s an envelope in her bag, thick and padded.
She slides the photos out, lays them on the counter like it’s visuals Jong-woo needs to jog his memory.
They’re shots of the crime scene he’s cleared to see—it’s ridiculous, he thinks, that he needs clearance for this. He was there.
Headshots of the victims, the perpetrators. Moon-jo’s doesn't do him justice, Jong-woo muses. The photo doesn't capture just how bright his eyes shine.
The kitchen island becomes a shrine to the worst night of his life.
The best night, a voice in the back of his mind says.
It sounds like Moon-jo.
He concedes. The voice is right.
“I already told you all I know.”
“This,” Officer So says anyway, pointing at a photo. Her nails are short and neat. “There were fibers on the knife. Unidentified. And blood. There was no match in the database.”
She doesn't trust him. He sees that, he feels it—she suspects him still.
But she has nothing on him. She wouldn't be here if she did.
All this time, she’s been reaching out, hoping to slip him up. She needs proof, proof she will never find.
He wonders what he would be capable of if she got too close.
If she threatened to take this away from him.
He pushes the thought down.
“I imagine they killed more people than you found that night,” he says. “More than were even reported missing.”
She shakes her head, picks her mug up.
Jong-woo wonders if he should have drugged her. Knocked her out and erased the problem.
She was watching his hands, he remembers.
She was expecting it.
“It wasn't that old, the blood,” she says. “That’s the thing. It's as though there was somebody else there that night.”
Her head is turned to the window. She’s admiring the view. There’s something in the way she’s doing it that unnerves him. She’s looking like she sees something there that he doesn’t.
“I can’t help you,” he says.
I won’t help you, he means.
There’s a creak from the bedroom.
Officer So rises, and for a single alarming second, he thinks she’s heading to investigate.
Instead, she walks away from the kitchen, past the sofa, looks out at the city. She takes her coffee and her bag with her, as if she’s afraid he’ll slip something inside.
She’s afraid of him.
And yet she came here alone.
He joins her.
“What does your friend do?”
Jong-woo blinks.
The apartment’s expensive; it’s an entirely natural question.
He doesn't lie.
“He’s a doctor,” he says.
She turns to him, curious. Too curious. He reads the lines of her face. A doctor? Another one? A pattern. There’s no such thing as coincidence. Is he—what if he is? Why didn’t you stay with this friend all along? Why did you move into Eden? Why are you hiding him? Who are you hiding?
She smiles.
Aloud, she says, “I’m glad he let you stay.”
She thanks him for the coffee, asks that he get in touch if anything comes back to him.
In that moment, Jong-woo’s fatal mistake is acquiescing to how comfortable he’s become. They exchange goodbyes. He takes the mug from her, returns to the kitchen. Officer So thanks him again, says she’ll see herself out.
He goes straight back to the bedroom as soon as her footsteps recede and disappear.
Jittery, he perches at the edge of the bed. He shoves at Moon-jo, harder this time.
Moon-jo makes a vague sound, asks a wordless question. There’s creases on his skin from the pillow when he lifts his head and squints at Jong-woo with puffy eyes.
Tiredly, like it’s a laborious task, he pushes himself up on his elbows.
Jong-woo grabs at his wrist.
“We have to—”
But the footsteps hadn't receded because Officer So left the apartment. Jong-woo thinks back on it now. It’s crystal clear. He didn't hear the door open, didn't hear it click shut. The footsteps stopped because Officer So had paused in the entranceway, checked her bag, realized she’d forgotten her photos.
He doesn't hear her now until it’s too late.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t take the—”
There’s a soft knock. Cautiously, she nudges the door open.
It’s merely a courtesy, to let him know that she needs to return to the kitchen. She doesn't want to be caught snooping, doesn't want to wander without consent.
Jong-woo turns.
Officer So’s gaze slides right past him. Her eyes go wide.
Behind him, he hears Moon-jo take a steady breath. He doesn't have to see his face to imagine it. His expression unchanged. Not a flinch, not an scrap of surprise. Amusement, maybe, a flash of something dangerous.
Officer So stands frozen in the doorway, hands limp at her sides like she’s forgotten they’re there, face white like she’s seeing a ghost.
In a way, she is.
The mattress groans as Moon-jo pushes himself upright, as he reaches to pick his shirt up from the floor.
“Unfortunate,” is all he says.
Jong-woo remembers him asking how it felt, the moment it all clicked. He wonders if Officer So feels the same way.
Finally, her eyes slide to Jong-woo, but there’s nothing there. No hope, not even a flicker of it. Instead, there’s understanding.
She doesn't plead. She knows that it’s useless. She knows now that he isn't going to help her, to protect her.
He’s just another monster.
━━━
At the end of it all, she looks almost victorious. There’s a faint glimmer of it, beyond the tears and the blood. She's found her proof.
━━━
He’s in the phantom’s car again.
All they own fits in the trunk, bags on the backseat.
They’ve decided on a new city this time. New apartment. New names. A new story.
Moon-jo’s wrist is draped over the steering wheel.
It doesn’t feel like being uprooted. Jong-woo doesn't mind it, leaving. In a way, it feels like coming home.
Anything they want, Moon-jo said once. No rhyme or reason.
“What are you thinking about?” Moon-jo asks him.
Just a need, an impulse, a want, and the drive to see it through.
“That you were right.”