Chapter Text
When I woke up, everything was a blur. My memories were like shattered glass—jagged, incomplete, impossible to piece together. I tried to think, to remember, but it was like chasing smoke. My throat burned as if I had swallowed fire, raw and relentless. The pain crept up my neck, then down my spine in tremors. I gagged, then vomited again—and again. The doctors said my nervous system had crashed, shut down in response to the trauma. I guess my body remembered what my mind refused to.
They told me I needed rest. Just rest. As if that could fix whatever had been broken inside me.
Even Jieun said so—softly, with eyes that didn’t meet mine. “You need time to heal,” she whispered. Back then, she was still mine.
But she’s not anymore.
And I can’t stop wondering... was it because of him?
Was I too broken to keep? Or did she find someone less hollow—someone who didn't flinch at shadows or scream in his sleep?
I hate that I don’t know. I hate that I still care.
01 / i.
“ i thought he died that night, but then he walked in and asked for coffee "
Jongwoo had always remembered it—but only in fragments, like a half-remembered dream that clung to the edges of his mind. The weight of a weapon in his hand—was it a knife? A scalpel? He couldn’t tell anymore. All he remembered was how tightly he gripped it, his knuckles pale, his pulse hammering in his ears, as he lunged toward Moonjo. The force sent them both crashing to the floor.
Moonjo’s hands clamped onto his sides with a tremble hidden behind their strength—those hands, the same ones that twisted Eden into madness, now pinned him like anchors in the chaos. Jongwoo straddled him, legs tense, breath ragged. He raised the blade with both hands, hovering above Moonjo’s face, the sharp tip mere inches from his eyes. And yet—he hesitated.
Then came the laugh. That low, amused, maddening chuckle.
“Is this all you got, jagiya?”
The nickname. That sickly sweet word that twisted inside Jongwoo like a hot wire. His body shuddered in place—no, he would've collapsed sideways if not for the hands still gripping his waist, grounding him, possessing him. Disgust burned at the back of his throat. His eyes darted to the blood already staining the floor—thick, crimson, pooling like spilled wine. Some of it streaked across Moonjo’s pale face, painting him like a grotesque moonlit portrait.
Jongwoo’s stomach turned.
How could someone so monstrous look so... beautiful?
Was this God’s joke? God’s art? To give a face like that to a soul so twisted?
Moonjo chuckled again, a vibration that traveled from his chest into Jongwoo’s skin, up his spine, and into the frayed circuits of his brain. Jongwoo's breath hitched. His thoughts jammed like broken gears. Still, he couldn’t stop. He was too deep into it now. This wasn’t just fury—it was heat, it was vengeance, it was some desperate attempt to reclaim himself.
“I should kill you,” Jongwoo muttered under his breath. "I want to kill you."
Moonjo met his gaze with an eerie calm. “Then do it,” he rasped, voice like the echo of something not quite alive. “Go on. Kill me.”
The room felt darker. Smaller. Jongwoo’s vision tunneled. Without thinking, without flinching, he slashed.
The blade tore across Moonjo’s neck. A spray of blood followed, warm and blinding, like baptism in violence. The metallic scent filled his nostrils, the scarlet stained everything—and then…
He collapsed.
The world faded. Darkness swallowed him whole. When light returned, it came as the sterile glow of fluorescent lamps and the distant whir of machines.
A hospital room.
He blinked. Felt the weight of the IV. The stiffness of the sheets. The muffled footsteps in the hall.
"Did I kill him?" he whispered to no one. Over and over again. "Did I kill him?"
Panic overtook him. Nurses rushed in. Doctors were called. He barely registered the chaos. He could’ve gone berserk, he wanted to. But something tethered him.
Maybe God. Though Jongwoo never truly believed in him.
Two weeks blurred by like static on a screen. Then Jieun appeared. She stood beside his bed, her hands enveloping his—soft, warm, trembling. Her eyes were dull, ringed with fatigue. Her posture was slouched, fragile in a way he’d never seen before. She looked like a flower that had bloomed too long in a storm.
He couldn’t say anything. He just blinked, syncing his breath with the hum of the air conditioner, pretending the cold made him feel something.
And then she whispered:
“Let’s break up.”
Just like that. No explanation. No crying. Just those three words, gently placed like a stone on his chest.
A month later, when he was discharged, Jongwoo wandered the city hoping for direction—or at least a job. But fate, cruel and unflinching, threw a familiar scene in front of him.
Jieun.
Laughing beside Jaeho.
They were eating ice cream, surrounded by colleagues. She smiled, eyes crinkling the same way they used to when she looked at him. Jongwoo froze, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
So he walked. Head down, humming aimlessly, vanishing into the crowd.
But just as he passed, just for a second… he thought he heard it.
His name.
Called out, sharp and familiar, swallowed quickly by the sound of the city.
He didn’t dare look back.
"Name?"
"Yoon Jongwoo."
"Hmm" the manager of a cafe hummed as he looked at a bundle of papers for Jongwoo's referral, "do you have any experience in this sort of business?"
Jongwoo shook his head, "but I can learn. I'm a fast learner, or if you prefer I could take on any other jobs available in this workplace." That's right, Jongwoo didn't really care what his position in their job place would be, as long as he could earn money at the moment.
The manager spun around his chair before looking firmly at Jongwoo, caressing his chin in thought. Jongwoo swallowed an inexistent lump in his throat, convulsing a near-choke experience out of nervousness. "You're hired, you could work as our registrar and bar man. Girls these days love attractive and handsome men lie you."
And since that day, for a consecutive week that turn into months, and then officially three years. Jongwoo had been working at a cafe as one of their loyal and signature employees, catching the eyes of many young girls and teenage boys as they pass by. His porcelain skin flawless, unseen of scars and pores and plump pink pinks caught the eyes of young girls.
During the weekdays, the cafe would be filled with customers—mostly young girls after their schedule, wanting to take a look at Jongwoo. Jongwoo was certainly flatterer, flashing smiles and sharing laughs as they gossiped to him while he made their orders or simply complimented him for his looks. Teenage boys would also wander in and out, staring at him throughout the glass windows or order their share.
They'd talk to him about how he'd achieve such a good look, asking for relationship advice, or even personal talk. And well, the manager did confess how he didn't really have any expectations for Jongwoo, but at the same time he was grateful that Jongwoo joined the cafe before the cafe went into bankruptcy.
“Welcome to Dalkomm.”
The soft chime of the door echoed as the bell rang, its sound gentle and familiar—marking the start of another long day. A few murmurs filled the café, sleepy voices blending with the scent of morning pastries and brewing tea. Outside, the skies stretched blue and open, a few clouds drifting lazily above. Sunlight poured through the wide windows, casting golden shapes across the floor like scattered puzzle pieces. For once, it felt like the world was being kind.
Jongwoo exhaled softly as he clocked in, the quiet click of the machine oddly grounding. He headed to the staff room and changed into his uniform: a crisp white button-up with pale blue vertical stripes, the collar pressed neat and sharp. His black slacks hung comfortably, and his loafers tapped quietly against the tiled floor. At his neck, fastened neatly, was the light blue ribbon clip—the café’s signature accessory. Technically, it was meant for female staff, but after much teasing and cooing from coworkers, Jongwoo had given in. He didn’t mind. It was soft, a little silly maybe, but cute. And on days like this, he didn’t have the energy to resist harmless things.
He made his way to the registrar, unlocking the cash drawer. His eyes scanned the slots: clean, empty. A small nod of approval left him. The night shift had done well, depositing everything like they should. He closed the drawer with a click, turned on the monitor, and reached for a cloth. As he wiped the counter, his motions were steady, almost meditative—smoothing out the marble until it gleamed. He liked that. Something about seeing the surface shine made him feel less cluttered inside.
The bell rang again.
Jongwoo’s hands paused. He folded the cloth, hung it neatly on the rack, and sanitized his hands before stepping back to the front. His eyes flicked up—and there they were. Two girls, maybe around his age or a little younger, trying very hard not to look obvious. Their eyes shifted between him and each other, lips twitching, barely concealing their giggles. He’d grown used to this. The shy glances. The whispers. It was always like this.
He masked the sigh building in his chest with a practiced smile. “What would you like to order?”
He pressed a key. A beep followed.
One of the girls leaned slightly forward, squinting at the menu above his head. “Is the blueberry whip frost available?” she asked, her tone light, almost playful.
Jongwoo nodded politely. “Yes, we also have the other creamy options listed on the second menu board. Lattes will be available after 9 a.m.—we’re still waiting for today’s beans to arrive.”
They turned to whisper to each other, quiet but not quite private. Jongwoo let his eyes rest on the monitor as he drifted off for a moment. He wondered how long the day would stretch. Would it be slow, crawling, or fast and mindless? Would he have time to think too much, again?
A voice pulled him back. “We’ll have one,” the girl said.
Jongwoo blinked and turned to her again with the same soft smile. “And one banana ice cloud, both 16oz.”
He nodded, fingers dancing lightly across the keyboard, the beeping of each key a small rhythm in the quiet morning. The receipt printed—thin, curling paper that he tore with a flick. “That’ll be ₩11,500,” he said gently.
The other girl reached into her purse and handed him a crisp 10,000 won bill and two 1,000s. Jongwoo accepted them carefully, fingers brushing hers for only the briefest second. The drawer clicked open once more, metal meeting skin, and he handed her the change with a small bow. Formal, polite.
Then, without a word, he stepped away from the counter to begin preparing their order. His back straight, his hands steady—but inside, he felt like smoke. Drifting, barely solid.
The café was warm. The ribbon at his neck fluttered slightly as he moved. Another day. Another smile. Another part of himself, quietly disappearing behind polite nods and perfect service.
Behind him, the soft but purposeful rhythm of heels echoed against the tiled floor—steps he’d grown used to. Without needing to turn fully, Jongwoo glanced over his shoulder, already guessing the owner of those steps. Sure enough, it was Lee Hui-Gyeom. The mid-ponytail swaying with her walk was a dead giveaway—classic Hui-Gyeom. Even in her off-duty clothes, she moved like someone who commanded authority. A lieutenant of the DCI—Drug Crime Investigation team—walking into a café like she owned it.
“Slow morning, I see,” she said with a teasing lilt, leaning over the counter with one elbow resting casually against it.
Jongwoo let out a quiet scoff, his lips barely twitching upward as he reached for a metal cup. The chill from the freezer fogged his fingers as he scooped out frozen blueberries, added almond milk, then pumped in just the right amount of vanilla syrup—his movements mechanical, practiced. “Yeah,” he muttered, “start of the week. What can you say?”
Hui-Gyeom’s breath left her in a soft sigh, but her lips stayed curled into a knowing smirk. She puckered them slightly as she scanned the overhead menu, eyes flicking from item to item like she was trying to make a life-or-death decision. Jongwoo didn’t have to look up to know that she was silently judging every sweet thing listed there.
“Any coffee?” she asked, hopeful.
“Nope.” He didn’t even pause his work.
The groan that followed was full of morning despair, a theatrical kind only Hui-Gyeom could pull off. She slumped further over the counter like she was physically withering in the absence of caffeine. “Can’t start the day without a coffee specially made by the star of Dalkomm,” she declared dramatically.
Jongwoo snorted, a short, breathy laugh that puffed from his nose. “Help yourself to something sweet. Black coffee and no sugar isn’t exactly the healthiest long-term solution.”
“Says the guy who eats more sugar than he sleeps,” she shot back instantly.
He didn’t even turn around. The smirk was evident in her voice. He rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. Typical Hui-Gyeom. Always quick, always sharp.
He piped whip cream onto the drinks, each motion precise and steady, sealing the cups with lids before placing them neatly on a tray. He tapped the silver bell with a flick—ding!—the sound clear and pleasant. The two girls perched by the window perked up, their eyes brightening as they approached.
"Thank you!" they chirped in unison, practically buzzing with energy. Jongwoo returned their thanks with a polite smile, bowing his head just slightly.
Hui-Gyeom watched the interaction with a raised brow, her gaze lingering on the girls’ excited expressions, then flicking back to Jongwoo. “Damn,” she muttered with a scoff, “Girls’ Day until noon, huh?”
“Oh, come on,” Jongwoo sighed, already at the sink scrubbing the used metal cups. “It’s not like only girls come here.”
Hui-Gyeom hummed lazily, resting her chin on her palm as she leaned forward again. “Mmhm. Sure.” Her voice was all mischief.
He didn’t take the bait. “So... are you ordering or not?”
She straightened with a stretch and put her hands on her hips, grinning like she’d just made an important decision. “Give me whatever you like on the menu.”
Moments later, the soft clack of a 16oz plastic cup hitting the marble countertop drew her attention. She tilted her head as she picked it up by the cardboard sleeve, turning it slowly in her hand like she was inspecting a rare artifact.
“Oh?” she said curiously, eyes squinting slightly. “What’s this baby?” (She’s referring to the drink, not Jongwoo)
“Plum Jasmine Cream Fizz,” Jongwoo replied, wiping his damp hands on a clean cloth. “It’s good for you—natural antioxidants from plum, and the cream’s made with goat milk.”
“Uhuh.” Hui-Gyeom hummed again, suspicious but intrigued. She sipped cautiously. Her brows lifted just a bit in surprise—it was better than she expected. Meanwhile, her free hand pulled out a sleek card from her jeans pocket, and with one smooth motion, she swiped it through the machine. Beep.
“Thanks,” she said cheerfully, already backing toward the door. “Gotta go now!” She raised her hand in a mock salute, all charm and chaos.
“Stay safe,” Jongwoo called after her, his tone gentle and habitual.
And just like that, the glass door swung shut behind her. Jongwoo turned back to the sink, continuing the quiet rhythm of rinsing and drying—one more moment of calm before the next round of customers came through.
Evening came faster than expected, shadows stretching longer as the light outside mellowed into a warm haze. Jongwoo sighed, untying his apron and heading into the staff room. He pulled on a crisp white long-sleeve shirt—soft cotton that clung comfortably to his skin—and layered it with a beige and almond-brown plaid sweater vest. He always found comfort in neat, neutral tones. After checking his tote bag for his essentials—keys, wallet, phone—he shut his locker with a soft click.
As he exited through the back, the gentle chime of the front door opening caught his attention. A group of customers trickled in. A few girls noticed him and pouted exaggeratedly, some waving half-heartedly as if to plead he’d stay just a little longer. Even a couple of teenage boys looked disappointed. Jongwoo managed a small smile, lifting a hand in farewell. He didn’t say much, but his presence often spoke enough.
Once outside, the city greeted him with cool air brushing across his cheeks like soft fabric. The sky above bled hues of pink and gold—cotton-candy skies, as he liked to think of them. A sigh slipped from his lips as he took in the view, grateful for a moment of stillness.
'Groceries. Right. Don’t forget again.' He reminded himself, adjusting the strap of his tote as he headed down the pavement. The mall wasn’t far—just a five-minute walk—but tonight, that walk felt unusually heavy.
The moment he reached the entrance, the atmosphere shifted. Sharp blue and red lights flickered in his periphery, police sirens slicing through the usual hum of the evening. Jongwoo’s steps slowed as he saw the scene unravel before him.
Crowds had formed by the parking lot, murmurs and gasps rippling through the people. Police officers were blocking them off, arms outstretched, expressions firm. He squinted, leaning in just slightly to catch a glimpse.
And then he froze.
A corpse.
Jongwoo’s stomach twisted violently. His breath caught in his throat as the scene unfolded with merciless detail—skin peeled back in places like torn fabric, clumps of hair yanked from the scalp, an eyeball barely hanging from its socket. Blood soaked what was left of the victim’s clothes, turning the fabric a deep, grotesque maroon. The body was left in a contorted position, like a discarded doll, limbs unnaturally bent.
The stench was unbearable. A sour, rotting odor clawed at his nostrils, thick and heavy in the air. People nearby gagged or turned away, some barely holding it in.
He took an instinctive step back—cold fear curling around his spine—when someone called his name.
"Jongwoo."
He turned, startled. It was Hui-Gyeom, her nose covered with a folded white handkerchief. Her expression was tight, professional—but Jongwoo could see it in her eyes: this one had gotten to her.
“Gyeom…” he breathed, his voice coming out hoarse. “What happened here?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she grabbed his wrist gently, guiding him away from the crowd and toward one of the crime scene vans. Her grip was firm, like she needed to pull him out of the nightmare before it consumed him.
“We’ve had… multiple cases like this,” she said at last, popping open the trunk. “It started just last week. We’ve already found sixteen bodies.”
Jongwoo’s heart sank. Sixteen?
“Skin flayed,” she continued, her tone low, almost mechanical. “Hair torn from the scalp. Eyes gouged. A clean stab near the left hip, right through the heart. And always—always—a deep slash from the shoulder to the opposite waist. Like… like they were trying to carve something open.”
She rummaged inside until her hand settled on a black briefcase. Snapping it open, she pulled out a folder, flipping through until a series of photographs spilled out across the trunk’s surface. She let Jongwoo see.
His hands trembled slightly as he hovered over the pictures. Victim after victim, each more gruesome than the last. Notes were scribbled along the sides—names, times, conditions. But one thing stood out in every photo.
No teeth.
“They were all missing teeth…” he murmured, swallowing thickly.
“And an initial,” Hui-Gyeom added, her voice sharp now. “Carved into their collarbone. Every one of them.”
Jongwoo’s stomach churned again. A chill settled in his bones that no sweater vest could warm. This wasn’t just another crime. This was a message. A pattern. A ritual.
Jongwoo froze, his eyes narrowing, head tilting slightly at Hui-Gyeom’s words. Missing teeth?
Something about it scratched at the back of his mind—faint, unsettling, familiar in the worst kind of way. Not from memory, but like a whisper he wasn’t supposed to hear again. His brows furrowed.
“What are the initials?” he asked, voice quieter now.
“Last page,” Hui-Gyeom answered flatly.
He hesitated before flipping through the thick stack of case reports, each page heavier than the last. The paper felt rough under his fingertips, every line of black ink pressing like bruises on his brain. When he reached the final page, the breath he didn’t realize he was holding caught in his throat.
Everything around him blurred.
The cold, the sound of sirens, the murmuring crowd—all faded into white noise as his eyes locked onto the photograph. It was a woman’s corpse, lifeless and mangled, her body laid bare in horror. Her skin was littered with bruises, dark purple splotches blooming around her chest—evidence of a violent struggle. Flesh looked swollen and tender where she'd been struck, the signs of abuse unmistakable.
And there, carved deep into her collarbone—raw and angry, blood seared into the ridges of her skin—were three letters:
SMJ.
Jongwoo’s heart dropped to his stomach.
“This… This is fucking horrible,” he muttered, his voice trembling. He slammed the folder shut and staggered to the side, one hand gripping the edge of the van as the bile surged up his throat. The taste of acid burned his tongue before he doubled over and vomited onto the asphalt, his entire body shuddering from the force.
Hui-Gyeom didn’t flinch. She watched silently, lips pressed in a frown. She knew this side of him. Jongwoo could handle long shifts, noisy crowds, and even the emotional weight of other people’s grief—but this? Carnage, brutality, twisted deaths? It triggered something visceral in him. Not weakness. Just… humanity.
“Most of the victims are men,” she offered quietly, stepping closer with a paper cup of water in hand. She knew it didn’t make this any better. She didn’t expect it to.
Jongwoo took the cup gratefully, his fingers still trembling as he gargled and spat onto the pavement, trying to wash away the taste of horror. Then, he drank the rest in one gulp, throat bobbing with effort.
Hui-Gyeom let out a groan as she sat heavily on the edge of the van’s trunk. “See, this is why I needed coffee. Real coffee.” She crossed her arms. “I stopped by some random café earlier and it was just… pitiful. No balance, no body, and now here I am stuck with this mess and no decent caffeine to pull me through.”
Jongwoo glanced at her, still pale, but a corner of his lips twitched weakly.
“…Let’s go to the café,” he said after a beat, voice low. “I’ll make you one. Something proper.”
That small moment of normalcy—a warm drink, a familiar place, the comfort of routine—was the only thing keeping the both of them from slipping too far into the darkness of what they’d just seen.
The evening was quiet, a brief moment of peace after the chaos they had just witnessed. Jongwoo and Hui-Gyeom sat on a bench by the pavement, sipping their drinks. She had a 20oz cup of coffee, which she cradled in her hands like a lifeline, while Jongwoo savored his strawberry shortcake blend.
“I swear,” Hui-Gyeom muttered, taking a long sip, “If I had to live a day without this, it’d feel like serving ten years in prison.”
Jongwoo snorted at her dramatics, amused but relieved to share this normal, almost mundane moment. The world felt just a little bit lighter when it was just the two of them, no blood, no corpses, no dark secrets to carry. He stirred his drink with the straw, letting the soft whirring sound fill the silence before he broke it. “So, Lieutenant,” he teased, glancing at her with a smirk. “How sure are you that you won’t end up sleeping at the office? You need a good meal to stay healthy.”
Hui-Gyeom scoffed, rolling her eyes. “It’s funny hearing you care for me,” she said, a mock tone in her voice. “I suddenly feel like the cherry on top—like a princess trapped in her tower.”
Jongwoo rolled his eyes, but the teasing smile didn’t leave his lips. “And I’m the prince, cursed to accidentally save this princess who then latches on to me.”
She giggled, the sound light and carefree, as she leaned forward, a radiant grin spreading across her face. The lightness of the moment felt so far removed from the horrors they’d just been exposed to, and for a second, Jongwoo almost forgot the weight of the world around them. They shared a few more jokes and random bits of conversation, allowing the mundane rhythm of their lives to settle in, until the inevitable call of duty tugged at Hui-Gyeom’s attention.
“Yeah, and so—” Hui-Gyeom’s words trailed off abruptly, her eyes snapping to something behind Jongwoo. He felt the change in her posture, the shift in energy, and turned to follow her gaze.
What he saw froze him in place.
The world seemed to lurch, reality itself warping, as his eyes landed on the man standing just a few feet away. Time slowed, the air suddenly thick with a sense of wrongness. He knew that face. That jawline—sharp, clean, chiseled like marble. The porcelain skin, pale as death itself. But it wasn’t the skin or the face that made his heart stop—it was those eyes. Those dark, hollow eyes, calm as the ocean, but cold and distant like a predator watching its prey.
Seo Moonjo.
His breath hitched in his throat as his body tensed. No. No, no, no…
Everything inside Jongwoo screamed to run, to turn away, to escape the suffocating grip of recognition that tied him to that man. The same man who had twisted his mind, broken his sense of self, and led him down a dark path he never thought he would walk. The same eyes that had once lured him in, made him do things he’d never thought he was capable of—things he still didn’t want to remember. Moonjo…
Jongwoo’s vision blurred at the edges as his pulse thundered in his ears. His body shook involuntarily, and his hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. It was as if the past had come alive, walking right in front of him, threatening to drag him back into that nightmare.
Hui-Gyeom stood up, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him, her voice lifting with excitement as she greeted the figure. “Over here!” she called out, waving enthusiastically. The brightness of her smile, the joy in her voice, felt so foreign to Jongwoo in that moment. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away. He was rooted to the spot, trapped in the whirlpool of his own racing thoughts and memories.
And then, as if the universe had decided to mock him, time returned to its regular pace. The sounds of the city flooded back in, the distant hum of traffic, the faint chatter of pedestrians, the steady rhythm of normalcy. But to Jongwoo, it felt like he was still standing in slow motion, unable to escape the grip of his own past.
He could only watch as Hui-Gyeom moved forward to greet the man, completely unaware of the turmoil she’d just unleashed in him. As her words echoed in the air, the name felt like a slap to his soul.
“Soo-Yeol!”