Oh Jihoon was thirty-one years old and already a mid-level manager at Samsung. He wore tailored suits, drove a 2019 Hyundai, and owned the apartment he lived in. He was unmarried. He left for work early in the morning and didn’t usually return until after midnight. He was dating a woman in his office, someone in his chain of command—a fresh-faced recent college graduate who doted on his every word.
It seemed Eunhye’s death had affected him little. “He looks the same,” Eunhye said in wonder, her gaze clinging to him. Before Dahye could stop her, she darted over to where Jihoon was standing on the sidewalk and stared into his face. She pressed her palm against his parted mouth. He shivered, swatting the empty air, and Eunhye’s features grew cloudy.
“You said you would help me,” Eunhye said, coming back to Dahye. “It’s the right time. He’s alone. Nobody else is around.”
“It’s not. Look.” Dahye pointed, just as Jihoon’s girlfriend turned the corner. Eunhye let out an impatient hiss. “Anyway, we had a plan. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Eunhye responded with a mournful look. Since Hyukjoon’s death, she had grown impatient. Dahye didn’t blame her.
“Don’t be mad,” Dahye said under her breath.
Her mind wandered back to the night of Hyukjoon’s death. His blood had been so warm. It had taken her nearly an entire day to cut his body apart. A long time ago, she had seen someone doing something similar in a television show. Afterward, the murderers had dissolved the victim’s body with acid, bones and all. Dahye had had no idea where to get said acid, so instead she had traveled across Seoul with Eunhye by her side, each time dumping bits of Hyukjoon’s body into the trash cans or theriver. Nobody seemed to suspect them. The eyes on the subway and in the streets had glossed over Dahye as she passed. It was as though she had become a ghost herself.
She had thrown away the stained mattress and purchased a new one. She’d also dumped Hyukjoon’s wallet, his clothes, his belt, and scrubbed away any sign he had ever been to her place. The one thing she hadn’t been able to toss was his severed dick. Whenever Dahye looked at it or held it in her hand, she was reminded of her power. She remembered the way she had torn it from Hyukjoon’s body, the triumph she had felt.
Eunhye didn’t reappear until they had nearly made it back to the apartment. Dahye was so preoccupied that when Eunhye let out a sharp hiss, she didn’t understand what was happening. Then she saw the man at her door. He was wearing a low cap and a mask, which partly covered his face; the little she could see of it was flushed. His clothing was wrinkled. He was wrestling with her doorknob, trying, it seemed, to force it open.
“Hey!” Dahye shouted. The man looked at her, his eyes wide with surprise. She began chasing him. He evaded her, running through the building’s musty hallways, dashing out the door and onto the sidewalk, breaking into a sprint. There was no way she could catch up. She stopped.
Nothing was out of place inside. “Maybe it was a mistake,” Dahye said, but Eunhye’s face contorted.
“You’re too trusting,” she said. “You always have been. It doesn’t seem like it was a coincidence.”
“What are you saying?”
“Maybe he’s a police officer. Or a private investigator.”
“That wasn’t the impression I got,” Dahye said, frowning. “And why would they be investigating me?”
“You’re naïve if you don’t think they are.”
“And you’re an annoying know-it-all.”
Eunhye, irritated again, vanished into the bathroom.
It was obvious the man had been caught off guard, but even so, his running had been ungraceful and uncoordinated. Dahye had seen the police recruits running in packs before, moving in unison, their legs pounding against the pavement. This stranger would have looked out of place.
No. She was certain he wasn’t an officer.
But something about him was … familiar. Dahye squinted, concentrating hard. His eyes. She had seen them somewhere before.
Junyoung waited until Dahye had turned the corner before hurrying toward her door. The previous near miss had shaken him, and his heart pounded loudly in his chest. Out of his peripheral vision, he caught a flash of movement from the window next to Dahye’s and stopped, looking up. The curtains moved, and an eye appeared. It was the neighbor. Junyoung gave him a halfhearted wave before turning his attention to his pocket, pretending to fumble for his keys. He waited a beat, and then the curtain flicked back into place. Junyoung let out a sigh of relief.
He had watched hundreds of videos on YouTube on how to pick a lock, but to his surprise, it was even easier than he anticipated. After a few attempts, the door opened with a small click. Junyoung looked over his shoulder. Seeing no sign of Dahye, he stepped inside.
Even though it was daytime, it was dark inside, the blinds drawn. Junyoung blinked as his eyes adjusted, scanning the living room. It was small. Empty. There was no couch or TV,or any furniture, really, except for a microwave and a fridge. The kitchen—if you could call it that—was just a single pockmarked counter with a sink and drawers. A cleaver was balanced on the sink’s edge, droplets of water still clinging to the blade.
The place was a dump. Apprehension gnawed at him as he remembered Dahye’s pink cubicle. He took a step forward, then stopped, looking down at his sneakers. What did one do in this kind of situation? Was he supposed to take them off or leave them on?
After some contemplation, he decided to keep his shoes on. He made his way farther into the living room and heard a sound—like loud droplets hitting the floor from a leaky pipe. When he opened the bathroom door, he saw that water was dripping from the grille of an air conditioning vent in the wall. As he reached up to touch it, a gust of wind swept past him, sending chills down his back. He glanced at the window. It was closed. Junyoung shivered.
There was nothing on the counter or in the cabinets. The shower contained only a single bar of soap, which sat in a pool of stagnant water. The imprint on it was no longer decipherable. Junyoung touched it gently. His finger went right through it like it was a stick of softened butter. He grimaced as the vent continued to drip.
Like the living room, Dahye’s bedroom was empty. A limp air mattress sat on the floor. Blankets were piled haphazardly over it. Her closet door was ajar, and as Junyoung approached it, his pulse began to race. What would he find? Jang Hyukjoon’s lifeless body, sprawled on the floor? A collection of human heads? Something worse?
His breath hitched as he opened the door. Something lay at his feet, and Junyoung, instantly thinking the worst, began totremble. With the point of his shoe, he poked at the pile. It was soft. He blinked and peered closely, his shoulders sagging with relief. It was just her clothes.
He crouched and looked through them. Five T-shirts, three of which were varying shades of pink. Two pairs of faded denim jeans. A red sweater, which stunk of mildew and was covered in a fine, white powder, and a pink gingham dress. Some damp socks, the soles dark and stained. One pale pink bra with loose elastic. He squeezed each of the cups experimentally, then held it up to his own chest. The tag had been snipped off, but if he had to guess, it was an A-cup. Maybe a double A.