WebNovels

Bloody Ball

Shigoku
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chs / week
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Synopsis
At first glance, this seems to be a story about a basketball player striving for the pinnacle of his career and invincibility. However, in reality, Ming You seeks victory not through traditional training and skill development, but through strategies, intrigues, injuries, violence, and murder. Ming You is willing to employ any means necessary to achieve his goal — becoming invincible and a talent in his field, namely basketball. In addition to the brutality required to secure victories, Ming You must contend not only with basketball teams but also with managers seeking maximum profit, as well as investigators and detectives, since murders cannot simply be ignored as Ming You would prefer.
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 0: Prologue: Obsession with victory

[Attention! I'm warning you in advance that there are many graphically described scenes of violence and numerous other atrocities here. For those who want less gore and hate flashbacks, the main story begins with Chapter 1.]

Stab. Blood. Splashes.

A wet sound of meat being cleaved, squelching under the blade, like an overripe fruit bursting from the slightest pressure. Blood. It didn't just flow—it gushed out in pulsating rivulets, thick and warm, flooding everything around: his hands, the boy's black T-shirt, the concrete floor, soaking into the cracks like poisonous dew. Splatters. They flew to the sides, settling on the walls, on the ceiling, on his face—tiny scarlet stars, freezing for an instant before merging into a single mess.

The sixteen-year-old boy was sitting astride her. No, not her—on what had once been her. Now it was just a lifeless body, mutilated. His black hair, usually falling softly just below his nose, was now matted with blood, heavy and sticky as if smeared in jam. His forehead, cheeks, the corners of his lips—everything was drenched in a dark, almost black in the dim twilight, liquid. It dripped from his chin, onto the girl's chest—or rather, onto the mutilated flesh and fluids oozing from it.

His hand was clutching a kitchen knife with a black handle. The blade glistened, not from cleanliness—from moisture, from blood, from grease, from bits of skin stuck to the metal. He plunged it in again and again, methodically, almost mechanically, as if butchering a carcass. Chest. Neck. Face.

The face…

Almost nothing remained of it. The blade had sliced off the skin like a thin film, exposing the meat, tendons, shreds of muscle. The nose was split in half, the lips had turned into bloody shreds, teeth jutted from the torn flesh like shards of white marble. An eye… one eye still remained in its socket, bulging, glazed over, but the second—the second was crushed, smeared across the cheek, turned into a gelatinous mass.

And then—a fly.

It landed on a shred of meat next to what was once an eye. Black, shiny, brazen. Its legs sank into the bloody mush as if into sweet syrup.

The boy froze for a moment, watching. Then he abruptly stabbed the knife into the eyeball.

Squelch.

The fly soared into the air, frightened, but didn't fly far—the smell was too tempting.

"W-why are you doing this?"

A voice was heard. Male, but hollow, emotionless, as if coming from the depths of his own consciousness.

The boy smirked with the exact same voice.

"Me? Heh-heh, it's you. It's You, Ming You."

His fingers, sticky with congealed blood, tightened their grip on the knife's handle, and the blade sank into the flesh once more—this time into the thigh, right into the soft tissue of the inner thigh. The skin split with a barely audible pshk, revealing layers of subcutaneous fat—pale yellow, laced with thin red threads of capillaries. Dark blood, thick, almost black, immediately gushed from the cut, mixing with the already congealed puddles on the floor.

"But this is… what about love?" the voice continued, as if trying to convince itself. "I didn't think it would end like this…"

"No, you knew it would end exactly like this."

The blade jerked sharply upward, tearing the flesh further. Now the wound gaped like a mouth, oozing scarlet foam.

"Who do you think killed his own family before her, huh?"

He pulled out the knife and immediately plunged it in again—lower, closer to the knee. The tendons crunched like a severed rubber band.

"Who said he was ready to do anything for victory, huh?"

"Victory…" the voice in his head trembled, grew quieter, as if receding deep into his consciousness. "A dream since I was ten… a childhood dream…"

Ming You froze for a moment.

The knife remained stuck in the thigh, its handle swaying slightly from the last convulsive muscle contractions. He raised his eyes to the horizon, where the sun, like molten metal, was slowly sinking into a sea of concrete ruins.

Late night.

The apartment, flooded with the cold light of a single lamp, seemed lifeless. White wallpaper, smooth surfaces, a lack of extraneous details—everything here breathed minimalism, an almost sterile emptiness. Nothing gave away the presence of a human, except for the lone figure at the table.

Ten-year-old Ming You, with black hair falling just below his forehead, sat motionless, his fingers slowly tracing the rim of a glass in which water was sloshing. The ice had already melted, leaving only murky droplets on the glass. He wasn't drinking—he was just watching how the light refracted in the liquid.

The silence was broken by the creak of a door. A man entered the kitchen—tall, sturdy, with a body that defied the years. He was over seventy, but his shoulders were broad, and his arms were covered with sinewy muscles, as if carved from stone. On his neck, like a mark from a blow of fate, stretched a long scar, pale and uneven. An old sniper rifle was slung over his shoulder, its wooden stock worn, the metal dull from time. On his head was a battered khaki-colored cap.

He didn't say a word. He just threw the rifle onto the sofa, tossed off an empty beige bag, then took off his shirt—a red plaid one, worn out at the elbows. Under it was a gray tank top, tightly fitting his torso, which was covered with small scars. The man heavily lowered himself onto a chair away from Ming You, sighed, and ran his hand over his face, as if wiping away the fatigue.

"Aren't you going to ask how the hunt went?" His voice was low, slightly hoarse, but it carried a habit of command.

Ming You didn't even raise his eyes. His fingers continued to trace the rim of his glass.

"Judging by everything, unsuccessfully, since you didn't bring anything back."

The old man snorted but didn't laugh. Instead, he reached for the table, picked up a folded newspaper, and unfolded it with practiced ease.

"Always so straightforward, son." He shook his head, and a strained liveliness suddenly appeared in his voice, as if he were feigning emotions he didn't feel. "I've always told you, learn to play along. It's not that difficult."

Ming You slowly raised his gaze. His face remained smooth, like a mask. But after a second's pause, he stretched a smile across his face—unnatural, mechanical, as if someone had pulled on invisible strings at the corners of his lips.

The old man did not comment on this eerie gesture. Instead, he unfolded the newspaper, and his eyes skimmed over the headlines.

Missing children in the forest. One found with a gunshot wound to the shoulder.

Something twitched in his face. A moment—and the newspaper crumpled in his hand, the paper crinkled, the headlines turning into meaningless folds.

Just at that moment, a woman froze in the kitchen doorway—tall, with long black hair falling onto her shoulders like a heavy silk curtain. Her face, once soft and warm, was now etched with wrinkles of fatigue. Her eyes, deep and dark, like two bottomless chasms, betrayed a despair she could no longer conceal. She stood, swaying slightly, as if every movement required incredible effort.

"Dear…" Her voice trembled, like a thin thread ready to snap at any moment. "We can't afford to pay off these debts."

The man looked up at her. A cold, appraising look, without a hint of regret.

"It's not 'us' anymore, it's you. Consider that I've already filed for divorce. Tomorrow, I won't be here. Deal with your debts yourself."

The woman froze, her lips quivering slightly. She slowly turned her head towards Ming You, as if seeking support, but his face remained stony. He didn't even look up, continuing to stare into the glass, where the water now seemed murky and lifeless.

"But what about Ming You?" Her voice broke into a scream, hoarse and fractured. "You can't just abandon him like that!"

The father smirked, but there wasn't a drop of mirth in his laughter.

"He's not at an age where he needs such care anymore." He rose from the chair, and the wood creaked under his weight. "So I'll leave the two of you to it."

He slowly picked up the heavy rifle, feeling the cold metal under his fingers, then bent down for the worn-out bag, its strap digging into his palm. Straightening up, he turned sharply and left the kitchen.

A moment later, the creak of an opening cabinet came from a distant room—the old hinges groaned pitifully under his hand. Then came the dull thud of a bag being thrown to the floor, which made even the dusty curtains in the hallway shudder.

"But how…" Ming You's mother's voice turned into a whisper, and then broke off completely.

Tears, long held back, finally streamed down her cheeks, leaving shiny trails on her pale skin. She didn't wipe them away—she just stood there, hunched over, as if an invisible weight were pressing down on her shoulders.

Ming You slowly stood up. His movements were fluid, almost mechanical. He walked over to his mother, paused for a second with his gaze on her trembling shoulders, then patted her on the back—once, twice. The gesture was formal, devoid of warmth, as if performed according to some forgotten instruction.

The blade plunged into the thigh with a wet, squelching sound, slicing through the muscle fibers like overripe fruit flesh. The skin had long lost its integrity, giving way under the knife like boiled pigskin. The meat—dark red, with veins of fat and thin white threads of connective tissue—peeled away from the bone with resistance, as if unwilling to leave its rightful place. But Ming You persistently pried it off, slicing it away in layers, exposing the femoral bone—smooth, yellowish, already slightly scratched by the blade.

"Is this your justification? And who is this old man?"

The inner voice sounded detached, as if coming from another dimension, while Ming You's fingers, sticky with blood and fat, continued methodically separating meat from bone.

"I don't remember him either, but I know that the woman who gave birth to me worked all day long for numbers made up by people on pieces of paper."

He struck the bone with the knife.

Tink-tink-tink.

The blade bounced off, leaving small notches on the surface of the femoral bone. Tiny fragments of bone tissue mixed with blood, turning into a pinkish paste.

"She is my mother, and those pieces of paper are very valuable."

The voice inside him sounded almost mechanical, like a memorized phrase hammered into his head.

"You don't care about her either, admit it."

After his cold reply, Ming You pressed down harder on the knife, and finally, the thigh separated from the pelvis with a dull, juicy sound.

Click.

Fluids gushed from the tear—not just blood, but something thicker, darker, with yellowish streaks. Synovial fluid, lymph, remnants of urine from the ruptured bladder—all of it mixed into a vile slurry, streaming down the girl's legs and dripping onto the concrete floor.

"H-how... She paid for my elementary school... it was then that I found a reason not to kill myself..."

Ming You sighed, yet his hands remained steady.

He lifted the severed thigh, examining it as a butcher inspects his goods. The muscles hung in tatters, exposing whitish tendons that still held on, as if unwilling to let go.

One sharp swing—and he threw the thigh aside.

It slapped against the wall, leaving a greasy, bloody smear on the graffiti before falling into the dust.

The flies were already swarming. They buzzed, landing on the edges of the wounds, on the exposed bones, on the sticky puddles.

Ming You watched them, then shifted his gaze to what remained of the girl.

Ten-year-old Ming You stood in front of the school, clutching a list of after-school clubs he could attend. The sun was beating down mercilessly, but the boy didn't even flinch—he was simply analyzing the options.

First, he headed to the soccer field, where a practice session was already in full swing. Children were running after the ball, shouting, laughing—a typical scene for a school sports club.

"Hey, newbie!" the team captain shouted, noticing Ming You. "You wanna play?"

Ming You silently stepped onto the field.

The ball rolled towards him, and he tried to kick it. But instead of a powerful pass, it was an awkward poke, and the projectile barely rolled a couple of meters.

"Ha! You can't even play!" someone from the guys laughed.

Ming You frowned. He didn't feel offended, but he understood: his skills were insufficient. He tried again, but the result didn't change.

"Thank you for the opportunity," he said evenly and walked off the field.

No anger, no sadness—just a statement of fact.

His next stop was the gym, where a volleyball practice was taking place.

"Are you new?" the coach asked upon seeing him.

"Yes. I want to try," Ming You replied.

Ming You received the ball and listened carefully to the explanation of the rules, trying to memorize every detail. His face remained impassive, but inside he was concentratedly analyzing how to perform the serve correctly.

His first attempt was unsuccessful—the ball hit the net sharply and fell on his side of the court. He blinked, quickly picked up the ball, and prepared for a second serve, mechanically repeating the movements he had just been shown.

The second attempt was slightly better—the ball barely made it over the net, but its trajectory was too high and inaccurate. The guys on the other side barely managed to react.

Ming You felt he should say something or react in some way, but instead, he only frowned slightly, trying to understand what he had done wrong. He saw the other players smiling, encouraging each other, and hesitantly tried to mimic something similar, but his facial expression remained almost emotionless, and the gesture seemed unnatural.

"Don't worry, no one gets it right the first time!" the coach said encouragingly.

But Ming You wasn't "worried." He simply saw that his movements were uncoordinated, his reaction not fast enough.

"Thank you," he said after the fifth failed attempt. "I don't think this is for me."

Ming You turned around and slowly walked out of the echoing gym, where the din of voices and the ringing of the ball against the floor continued to pursue him long after the door closed behind him. The school corridor was almost deserted—only the distant footsteps of the teacher on duty and the squeak of sneakers on linoleum broke the silence.

He walked, mechanically counting the squares of the tiles under his feet, when a sharp turn around a corner led him to an unexpected obstacle: a matte door with a sign that read "Chess Club" was right in front of him.

Stopping at the threshold, Ming You looked inside. The contrast with the bustling gym was striking: here, a concentrated silence reigned, interrupted only by the occasional clack of moved pieces or the rustle of pages—someone was leafing through a textbook on openings.

Sunlight streaming through the tall windows fell on the chessboards in even squares, illuminating the pieces. Students sat at the tables, bent over in silent struggle; some were biting their lips, others were almost imperceptibly shaking a leg under the table.

The instructor—a lean man in his thirties with dark hair combed to one side—looked up from the demonstration board. His glasses in thin metal frames glinted coldly as he held his gaze on Ming You for a second:

"A newcomer?"

"Yes. I'd like to try."

"Sit down," the instructor pointed to an empty seat. "Do you know how to play?"

"I've read the rules."

A boy his age with short, neatly trimmed black bangs, sharply defined above his eyebrows, sat down opposite him. He arranged the pieces with practiced dexterity, and his fingers lightly tapped the edge of the board.

"You start," he said, leaning back in his chair.

Ming You silently moved a pawn. His face remained completely impassive, but inside, he was already building a chain of possible variations. He felt neither excitement nor fear—only cold, methodical logic. Every move of his opponent was instantly analyzed, every weakness in the piece formation was immediately exploited.

Within just a few minutes, the boy's confidence began to crack. He fidgeted in his chair, then frowned, peering intently at the board. His fingers, which had been drumming on the table just moments before, now froze in indecision. A couple more moves—and his king was trapped.

"Checkmate," Ming You said quietly, without even changing his intonation.

"You... are you really playing for the first time?" the boy asked in surprise.

Ming You shrugged.

"I got lucky."

The instructor, tilting his head to the side, watched the game with interest.

"Shall we play?" he suggested, moving a chessboard towards himself.

Ming You tilted his head almost imperceptibly. From the very first moves, it became clear—the game was more difficult than he had anticipated. The instructor easily figured out his simple tactics, responding to each move with tried-and-tested combinations.

But Ming You did not give up. He analyzed the board intently, trying to anticipate the opponent's next moves.

In the end, he lost—his king was in a hopeless position. However, for the first time that day, something new flickered in his usually empty eyes.

"You have potential," the instructor said. "Will you sign up for the club?"

Ming You thought for a moment. The first defeat left a strange aftertaste—he wasn't upset, but his confidence was shaken. Yet, something clicked inside.

"Yes. I'll sign up."

When he left the school, the sun was already setting, coloring the sky in warm shades of orange and pink. Long shadows from the trees stretched across the asphalt, and a light breeze rustled the leaves, creating a soft whisper. Ming You walked slowly along the familiar road, mechanically noting the usual details: a crack in the curb and the old bench by the gate.

His path led past an outdoor basketball court, which was always lively after school. Today, a group of boys his age had gathered there—they were talking loudly, laughing, their sneakers squeaking on the asphalt as they sharply changed direction.

Ming You stopped for a moment, watching them dribble the ball, make quick passes, and shout things to each other. Their movements were sharp yet precise, and their faces showed excitement—that very emotion he himself understood so poorly.

He didn't plan to linger, but at that moment, one of the players made an unsuccessful shot—the ball hit the rim with a loud thud and bounced straight towards Ming You. His reaction was automatic: his hands reached forward on their own, and he caught the ball before he even had time to think about it.

A brief pause fell over the court. The guys exchanged glances, and one of them, a tall boy in a red jersey, shouted:

"Hey, don't you want to join our basketball club? You have pretty good reflexes!"

"Alright!" he said with an uncertain smile, throwing his backpack onto the bench.

The blade of the knife juicily plunged into the white flesh of the inner thigh, slicing through the tender tissue with a wet, squelching sound. Blood, thick and warm, pulsed out from the severed arteries, mixing with the sticky synovial fluid seeping from the destroyed acetabulum.

Every strike of the knife left behind ragged edges – crimson flaps of skin with hairs sticking out in all directions, beneath which the granular structure of subcutaneous fat was visible, resembling a wet, curd-like mass.

"I wonder if you won back then, or not."

Ming You mentally uttered, breathing heavily, hooking the tip of the knife under the femoral fascia – a thin, semi-transparent membrane covering the muscles. It resisted, stretching like wet paper, before tearing with a barely audible crunch.

"I didn't…" the voice attempted to answer, but Ming You sharply interrupted it:

"Though it doesn't matter, the main thing is that there is talent."

The blade grated against the femur, leaving scratches and small notches on its smooth surface. Bone dust mixed with blood, forming a pinkish paste that dripped onto the floor along with droplets of sweat streaming down his face.

"While I was playing, I became more and more convinced that talent is the main thing, but hard work can also beat talented players, right?"

He jerked the knife sharply, severing the last tendons holding the leg. With a characteristic click, the limb separated from the body, revealing the wet, shiny-in-the-light articular surface of the pelvic bone. Dark, almost black blood gushed from the wound, mixed with yellowish lymph and droplets of fat.

"One must be the only talent, there are no other talented ones, only I am talented, all others are merely obstacles to the goal." he uttered, sinking his teeth into the severed leg.

Ming You squeezed the muscles so hard that a cloudy fluid seeped from the torn fibers. He brought it to his face, inhaling the heavy metallic smell of fresh blood mixed with the sweetish aroma of decomposing flesh.

"But hard work…" the voice continued uncertainly. "In elementary and middle school, I trained day after day and improved in the game together with my teammates…"

Suddenly, his body shuddered in a fit of light laughter. Lips, smeared with blood, stretched into an unnatural smile, revealing teeth with bits of flesh stuck to them.

"Teammates? Friends are just a hindrance, they are only tools for achieving a goal, nothing more. Although you knew that too, otherwise I can't find an explanation for why you won't say their names."

He threw the severed limb into the corner, where it hit the wall with a dull thud, leaving a bloody imprint. His fingers mechanically reached for the victim's face – or rather, for what remained of it. The eyeballs, one of which was already popped out, hung on thin nerve threads, swaying like pendulums.

"I can, but I'm afraid I won't remember… they always surpassed me in the game…" the voice said with strain. "But that didn't stop me from proving that hard work can beat talented players, who usually have less experience."

His knife plunged into the remaining eye, cutting it in half. The vitreous body flowed out, mixing with blood and forming a sticky, gelatinous mass.

"And so the next four years of life passed, right?"

"No… the ch-chess club. She… Sun-Hee… her long, light-blonde hair, her brown eyes, her innocent gaze… the only one who truly loved me."

Suddenly, his body shuddered in a new fit of laughter. He grabbed his stomach, feeling hoarse, wrenching sounds tearing from his throat. Bloody fingers dug into his own face, leaving red streaks on the skin.

"Hahaha!"

"What's so funny?"

Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with snot and blood, forming a disgusting, sticky mess. He tried to cover his mouth with his bloodied hands, but the laughter broke through his fingers, turning into hysterical sobs.

"And did you love her?" he asked with difficulty in his mind.

"I don't know… but she was kind and smiling with me, plus she was the only reason I spent more time in the chess club…"

Ming You laughed even harder.

His body was wracked by uncontrollable convulsions – whether from laughter or sobs, or perhaps from both simultaneously. Every muscle was tensed to the limit, as if his nervous system, overloaded with adrenaline and horror, could no longer distinguish hysterical laughter from panicked whimpers. The bloodied knife slipped from his weakened fingers with a dull clatter and fell to the floor, leaving a scarlet trail on the dirty concrete.

Ming You curled into a ball, as if trying to become smaller, less noticeable, to hide from himself. His fingers dug into his shoulders so hard that his nails, through the t-shirt, left crimson crescent marks on his skin, but he felt no pain – only a deafening emptiness, torn apart by sudden bursts of laughter and stifled moans. Blood from his hands slowly trickled down his forearms, dripped onto the floor, merging into sticky puddles. In their dark surface, reflections of the sunset trembled, as if the light itself was afraid to touch this place.

He convulsively pressed his palms to his mouth, trying to muffle the sounds escaping his throat, but it only made it worse – his lips and teeth were stained crimson, and the taste of iron on his tongue reminded him of what he had done. Fragments of memories swam before his eyes: her smile, her voice, her last look, full of incomprehension. And then the convulsions became even stronger, because now he truly could not tell – whether he was laughing, or crying and screaming.

The office of the chess club was immersed in silence, broken only by the gentle rustle of foliage outside the window and the rare, soft shuffling sounds of pieces being moved across the board. Sunlight, seeping through the half-closed blinds, painted long stripes on the wooden surface, within which dust motes slowly swirled. Two teenagers were sitting at the table.

Ming You, with his black hair falling just below his eyes, seemed completely absorbed in the game, although his gaze periodically slid towards his opponent. His fingers, slender and confident, hovered for a moment over the knight before making a move.

Sun Hee, whose light brown hair cascaded down to her waist, leaned forward slightly, studying the board. Her eyes, dark and lively, narrowed in mild bewilderment.

"Are you really trying to put me in a Fool's Mate?" she said, looking up at Ming You.

He merely raised the corner of his lips slightly, not taking his eyes off the pieces.

"Who knows…"

"It seems to me that this time you're not playing very seriously; the first time, you were more persistent."

Ming You finally looked at her. His face remained impassive, but something elusive flickered in the depths of his eyes.

"The first time, we didn't finish the game."

"Then let's finish it this time!" Sun Hee smiled, and a challenge rang in her voice.

The game continued. The pieces moved faster, the moves became sharper. The room was getting stuffy — the summer heat was penetrating even here, despite the slightly open window. Sun Hee, feeling drops of sweat sliding down her back, couldn't stand it and took off her shirt, remaining in a light top.

Ming You froze for a moment. His gaze slid downward, to her chest, then sharply returned to the board. But it was too late — his body had reacted before his mind could suppress the impulse. Under the table, he felt the blood rush downward and barely suppressed an irritated sigh.

"Are you hypocritically mocking me this way, or are you really that innocent?" burst out from him.

Sun Hee's eyes widened.

"Huh!?"

Ming You slowly covered his face with his palm.

"…I thought I wasn't speaking out loud…"

"Hey, what did I do to make you think that about me?" her voice sounded more curious than offended.

Ming You glanced at her. His face remained expressionless, but a slight confusion could be read in his eyes.

"You have big boobs, and I can't concentrate on the game."

Sun Hee blushed and froze for a second, then laughed, but her laughter held a slight note of embarrassment.

"…you know… I do like that you're honest, but sometimes it's better to lie…"

"What's wrong with that?"

She shook her head, smiling.

"Ah… you seem more innocent than me when you don't understand something."

Ming You remained silent, lowering his gaze to the board. He made another move, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

Sun Hee, taking advantage of his distraction, moved her queen.

"Oh, by the way, check and mate!"

"…"

Ming You stared at the board. His eyebrows twitched slightly — he had truly lost.

Sun Hee stood up, stretched, and, taking her shirt, draped it over her shoulder.

"Alright, I've got to go, see you tomorrow!" she waved her hand at him and headed for the door.

Ming You didn't answer. He sat, looking at the board, but his thoughts were clearly circling around something else.

The door closed, and the room became quiet again.

The following evening.

The schoolyard was slowly emptying under the rays of the setting sun. The last groups of students were heading home, their laughter and conversations gradually fading in the evening air. The shadows from the tall trees stretched out, merging into long, dark stripes on the asphalt. Ming You and Seung Hee were exiting through the main gates, their steps involuntarily synchronizing—left, right, left—on the uneven slabs of the sidewalk.

Seung Hee let out a sigh, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. Her long chestnut hair swayed with every movement, occasionally catching on the buttons of her white blouse. She stole a glance at Ming You.

"Aren't our classmates so annoying, always shipping you and me…"

Ming You turned his head, his black hair swaying slightly from the movement. His eyes held a sincere bewilderment as he slowly uttered:

"Ship.. what? Ships? Do they think we are drug addicts?"

"You fool!" Her voice was louder than she had planned. "It's when people gossip that we, or any other two people, are supposedly a couple, but in reality, it's not true."

They stopped under a lamppost that had just lit up with a quiet click. The yellow light fell on Ming You, making his skin appear warmer than it actually was. He became thoughtful, his fingers involuntarily tapping on his backpack strap. Then he suddenly raised his eyes—dark, almost black, but with a strange inner light.

"Then, will you become my girlfriend? I think that will solve the problem with the 'shipping' or whatever it is."

"You are so straightforward…" Seung Hee said, turning her flushed face away.

Ming You took a step forward. Now there was no more than thirty centimeters between them. He wasn't smiling, but there was something insistent in his eyes.

"Is that a yes or no?"

Seung Hee took a step back, her back hitting the lamppost. She suddenly realized how fast her heart was beating.

"I don't know!" burst out of her, and she immediately regretted her indecisiveness.

Ming You tilted his head. His breathing was even, unlike her ragged breaths. He studied her face—her pinkening cheeks, her slightly parted lips, her dilated pupils.

"Are you attracted to girls instead of boys?"

"…What?…" Seung Hee practically jumped from surprise. Her eyes became as round as saucers. "No! What is that even about!?"

She pushed herself away from the lamppost sharply, but Ming You deftly caught her wrist.

"If not, then what's stopping you? Or do you not like me, and is someone else interesting to you?"

Seung Hee felt heat spreading across her cheeks. She tried to pull her hand away, but he didn't let go—not roughly, but firmly.

"…It seems I have no other choice but to agree…"

"So, you agree?"

"I guess so, you fool!" she snapped sharply and immediately bit her lip.

Ming You finally smiled—not widely, but enough for faint dimples to appear on his cheeks. His fingers released her wrist but immediately moved to her hand, intertwining with her fingers.

"Then, let's get busy…"

"Seung Hee!" A sharp female voice cut through the air like a knife.

They both flinched and let go of each other's hands. By the fence of the neighboring house stood a woman—her chestnut hair, slightly darker than Seung Hee's, was neatly cut to shoulder length. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and even from a distance, the tension in her posture was visible.

"So, this is why you're taking so long! And who is this boy?"

Ming You straightened up. His face became impassive again, but a strange determination remained in his eyes. He took a step forward.

"I'm her b—"

"We go to the same school," Seung Hee quickly interrupted, her voice sounding unnaturally high. She threw a pleading look at Ming You.

The woman—obviously Seung Hee's mother—narrowed her eyes. She slowly took a few steps toward them, and Ming You could make out her face—the same almond-shaped eyes as Seung Hee's, but with harder wrinkles around the lips.

"Let's go home!" she commanded, stretching out her hand in an imperative gesture.

"Okay…" Seung Hee sighed. She turned to Ming You, and her eyes glistened in the lamplight. "Alright, Min, I have to go! Thanks for walking me home, see you! And tomorrow you'll tell me what we'll do, my parents will just kill me if I'm late, sorry!"

She dashed toward the house, her hair streaming behind her like a train. At the gate, she turned around—for a moment—and Ming You noticed her lips forming something between a smile and a grimace of embarrassment.

Seung Hee's mother studied Ming You for another second, then turned sharply and followed her daughter. The gate slammed shut with a metallic clang.

,,,

Ming You lay on his back, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm, his laughter gradually fading, turning into intermittent sobs. His fingers, sticky with congealed blood, twitched unconsciously, touching the cold skin of the corpse beside him. He felt it with his fingertips—no longer elastic, no longer alive, but loose, pliable, like thawed meat.

"Haha… ha…"

The last echoes of laughter dissolved in the musty air of the abandoned building.

"So, this was love? Does that mean I did love her after all?" The voice in his head sounded almost pensive, but with a slight sarcasm.

"Back then, you just wanted to have sex with her, and you were thinking not with your heart, but with your friend in your pants, heh."

Ming You rose up on his elbows, his gaze sliding towards the corner where the knife lay. The blade, gleaming dully in the weak twilight, was covered in a dried crust of blood and thin fibers of flesh. He crawled over to it, his fingers clasping the handle—sticky, warm from his own sweat.

"But that's also love, isn't it?"

"In that case, if you had simply raped her without any warning, that could also be called love."

Ming You sat down next to the body, his eyes slowly sliding over the mutilated remains. The chest, once firm, was now a bloody mess of torn muscles and exposed ribs. The neck—deeply slit, with protruding shreds of the trachea, dark and shriveled like a deflated balloon. The face… if it could still be called a face—was reduced to exposed muscles, with crushed eyeballs and torn lips baring the teeth.

He ran his hand over what used to be a cheek. The flesh under his fingers was cold, gelatinous, with a slight trembling—perhaps from the last nerve impulses or simply from the flies that had already begun their feast.

"But I didn't do that… besides, she agreed…"

"When you suggested she spend the night at your place? Supposedly under the pretext of a simple game of chess and homework, was it?"

Ming You took the knife and pressed it against the corpse's stomach. The skin here was still unbroken—pale, almost bluish, with a slight bloating caused by the begun process of decomposition.

The blade went in easily.

Tch-r-r-r-k.

He guided the knife slowly, feeling the skin part, how beneath it a layer of yellow subcutaneous fat was revealed, resembling softened butter. Further—the peritoneum, a thin, almost transparent film, which tore with a barely audible pop.

And then the entrails gushed out.

First—loops of intestine, pinkish-gray, slippery, with a slight greenish tint from the begun fermentation. They spilled out onto the thighs, still warm, pulsating from residual spasms. Then—the stomach, slightly distended, with veins of blood vessels resembling blue threads.

Ming You thrust his hand inside, his fingers sinking into the warm, viscous mass. He found the liver—smooth, dense, already losing its elasticity.

"Everything is like that…"

"But different plans were spinning in your head."

He left the knife near the waist, his fingers again reaching for the remnants of the face.

The skin, muscles, shreds of lips—all of it was cold, but in his memory it was still warm, alive, laughing.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

The room was empty and devoid of character, like a forgotten corner of the world where neither sounds nor colors reached. The white wallpaper, faded with time, blended with the ceiling, creating a sensation of infinite emptiness. In the midst of this silence stood only one bed with two nightstands on either side; their wood had darkened with age, and the handles were slightly loose, as if someone had tugged on them too often in a hurry.

On the floor, right in the very center of the room, a soft mat was spread out—the only hint of coziness in this cold space. Ming You and Sun Hee sat on it, surrounded by scattered textbooks and notebooks. The pages were filled with neat lines of writing, but right now, knowledge seemed unnecessary to them.

Sun Hee, pushing aside a math textbook, reached for the chessboard. Her fingers slid over the smooth wooden surface, and she was just about to open the lid to set up the pieces when Ming You unexpectedly touched her cheek:

— Before we play, maybe we could have some fun a different way?

Sun Hee sharply averted her gaze, feeling heat spreading across her face. Her fingers involuntarily clenched the edge of the chessboard.

— …How exactly? — she whispered, and her voice trembled.

Ming You smirked and, without hurrying, pulled a condom from his jeans pocket. He held it in front of her eyes, as if displaying a trophy, then winked:

— Get undressed.

Sun Hee felt her heart begin to pound wildly. Her palms grew damp, and a strange fear tightened in her chest.

— …I-I'm kind of scared… isn't it too early? — she barely forced the words out, feeling a blush flood her face.

Ming You slowly leaned back, supporting himself on his hands, and his expression changed. His gaze turned cold, his lips twisted slightly into a contemptuous smirk.

— Well, if I'm so repulsive and you dislike me that much, then do as you wish, I understand you perfectly. Get out the board, let's play and then go our separate ways.

His words hit Sun Hee like a slap. She jerked her head up, her eyes wide with fright.

— N-no! You are very handsome, it's just that I'm not ready yet… — she began to babble hurriedly, but Ming You cut her off sharply, and now his voice sounded like a blade.

— Stop making excuses. If you think there's no need for us to love each other, then I can support that, so let's just play and part ways peacefully.

Silence hung in the room. Sun Hee clenched her fists, feeling a lump rise in her throat. She didn't want to lose him. Not now. Not like this.

— I-I love you. O-okay, let's have fun your way… — her voice shook, but she was already reaching for the buttons on her blouse.

Ming You watched her, and his cold expression gradually shifted to curiosity. A barely perceptible smile appeared at the corners of his lips.

Ming You slowly lowered his gaze from the ceiling, where cracks in the concrete sprawled like a spiderweb, and stopped on the ripped-open body. His fingers, slippery from congealed blood and fat, closed around the knife lying near the corpse's waist. The blade was stuck to the floor by a thin film of dried biological fluids, and as he lifted it, a quiet, peeling squelch sounded, like pulling a wet rag off tiles.

"This was the only thing you wanted from her."

His lips stretched into a crooked smirk, baring teeth slightly smudged with blood spatter. In the corners of his mouth, dried pink threads of saliva, mixed with someone else's life, had hardened.

The voice in his head replied wearily, as if tired of this performance:

"Convincing her back then was quite difficult… but fortunately, she loved me, and we did what we wanted…"

"What you both wanted? Maybe stop making me laugh?"

Ming You pressed his fingers into the incision on the abdomen, where the skin had already lost its elasticity and resembled soaked cardboard. The edges of the cut parted with a soft crunch of subcutaneous fat, exposing a jumble of entrails.

The intestines spilled out first.

Heavy, slippery, shimmering with bluish-pink hues. They slid out like overripe sausage from a burst casing, with a gurgling sound, leaving behind a sticky trail of semi-digested food and dark bile. The smell hit his nose — sweet and sour, with a putrid note, as if rotten eggs had been mixed with slowly decomposing meat.

Ming You pushed his hand deeper, breaking through the warm, enveloping layers of the omentum, and pulled out the liver.

It was still warm.

Dark burgundy, with a lumpy surface, slightly trembling in his palm, as if still trying to filter non-existent blood. He squeezed it — a thick, almost black liquid oozed from the severed vessels, streaming down his wrist and mixing with the already dried brown smears.

"But she agreed… but it doesn't matter now… is it because of you… because of your mother?"

The knife rose up, catching the last rays of the sunset. The blade gleamed crimson, as if forged from congealed blood itself. And at that moment, another knife surfaced before his eyes.

Exactly the same.

With a black handle.

With droplets dripping onto the floor.

"A week after you fucked Sun Hee, right?"

Ming You slowly closed the front door behind him, kicked off his sneakers, and, with a careless push of his foot, placed them by the coat rack. His school backpack, heavy with textbooks, fell with a thud near the door to his room, but he didn't even pay it any mind. His nose wrinkled at the strange, unpleasant smell hanging in the air — something metallic, sharp, hinting of dampness and something… unnatural.

He froze in place, trying to figure out what it was, but couldn't pinpoint it.

His gaze fell on the half-open bathroom door — the light inside was on.

When he looked inside, his body seemed to turn to stone. His pupils constricted sharply, absorbing the ghastly scene before him.

The bathtub was full of a dark red, almost black liquid, and only a second later did his brain realize it was blood. In it, half-submerged, lay his mother — her face was pale, almost waxen, and her arm hung helplessly over the edge of the tub. A deep, ragged wound gaped on her wrist, from which no blood oozed anymore — apparently, it had all drained out. On the tiled floor, in a puddle of scarlet fluid, lay a kitchen knife with a black handle, all smeared with the same terrible shade.

Ming You involuntarily recoiled, his back hitting the doorframe. His legs turned to jelly, a ringing started in his ears, and in his chest, it felt as if all his insides were being squeezed in a vise. He couldn't scream, he couldn't even breathe. Slowly, as if in a nightmare, he sank to the floor, sliding down the wall, and pressed himself against it. His fingers dug into his knees, but he felt no pain — only an icy numbness spreading throughout his body.

"I don't know how to describe my emotions, it's not sadness, it's not despair, I would call it a sense of hopelessness and panic."

Time seemed to freeze. He didn't cry, didn't move — just stared at a single spot in front of him, as if his consciousness had shut off, leaving only an empty shell. Somewhere outside the window, the city was noisy, cars were passing by, people were laughing, but not a single sound reached him. Only the quiet, intermittent thud of his own heart, reminding him that he was still alive.

Hours passed like this. The sun was already setting, casting long shadows through the apartment, when suddenly a sharp knock came at the door.

Knock-knock-knock.

Ming You didn't even stir. His head was heavy, his thoughts murky. He heard someone jiggle the door handle, but he didn't care.

"Min?" came a familiar girl's voice.

The door creaked open — apparently, it hadn't been fully closed. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, cautious but quick.

"Ming You?" Sun Hee called again.

She peered into the corridor, and her gaze immediately fell upon Ming You sitting on the floor near the bathroom. His posture, pale face, and vacant expression made her heart clench.

"M-Ming You? I-Is everything okay…" she took a step forward, but at that same moment, her gaze slid past him, through the half-open bathroom door.

"AAAH!"

A sharp, piercing scream tore from her throat. She recoiled backward, her hand instinctively covering her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Her breathing quickened, her legs trembled, but despite the shock, she quickly pulled herself together.

"Oh god… oh my god…" she whispered, but then shook her head and grabbed her phone.

Her fingers trembled as she dialed the emergency number.

"Hello? Yes, we need help urgently! There's… there's a dead woman here, a bathtub full of blood… Yes, yes, please come quickly!"

Her voice faltered, but she clearly gave the address. However, as soon as she finished speaking, the operator warned her that the police would also arrive along with the medics.

Sun Hee, without ending the call, lowered her phone and looked at Ming You again. He still sat as before, as if he hadn't noticed her scream or the phone call. She slowly approached him, knelt down, and carefully hugged him.

"Ming You… what… what happened?" her voice trembled.

But he didn't answer. His eyes remained empty, as if his soul had gone somewhere far away.

The blade of the knife froze in the air, trembling from the tension in his hand. Droplets of blood, thick and slow, fell onto the remains, merging with the general mass of flesh.

"The police concluded it was a suicide. That's probably obvious, considering that in four years her debts had only grown," the voice sounded flat, emotionless, as if reading a news bulletin.

Ming You slowly ran his fingers along the blade, wiping off the dried bits of tissue. They fell away like tiny scabs, dropping to the floor with a barely audible plop.

His lips stretched into a smile, but his eyes remained empty, as if made of glass:

"Heh, my memories of that woman are a little different."

The inner voice fell silent for a second, as if weighing its words.

"So, you think it wasn't a suicide?"

"She killed herself, but not just because of the debts, heh."

He ran the knife along the ribs, as if testing their strength. The blade slid over the bone, leaving a thin white scratch.

"Why do you think that? What happened then?" the voice wondered, perplexed.

"Before the incident with Sun Hee, or more precisely, when her mother forced her to return home. That very night, you, or rather I, lost our virginity to a different woman…"

After standing for a couple more minutes under the streetlamp opposite Sun Hee's house, Ming You finally let out a sigh and slowly crossed the road. The street was deserted, with only the occasional passing car breaking the silence of the night. His shadow, stretched long under the streetlight, seemed especially lonely.

Reaching his house, Ming You paused for a moment in the entryway, as if hesitating to enter. But, clenching his teeth, he took out his keys and opened the door. Inside, it smelled of old wood and a slight dampness—the usual scent of their small apartment. He dropped his backpack on the floor, and it fell with a dull thud near the coat rack. At that moment, his hearing picked up a strange sound—a light trickle of water.

At first, Ming You paid no attention to it, but then he noticed a puddle slowly spreading from under the bathroom door. He quickened his pace, almost running down the hallway, and flung the door open sharply.

In the bathtub lay, or more accurately, slept, his mother. Her body, half-submerged in the cooled water, seemed lifeless—only the slight movement of her chest betrayed a slow, heavy breathing. The woman's face was haggard, with deep wrinkles of fatigue spreading from the corners of her lips and eyes. Under her eyelids, swollen and reddened, were the dark circles of sleeplessness, like shadows emphasizing the years lived and the accumulated tension.

Ming You froze for a moment, looking at her, then let out a sharp exhale and turned to the faucet. The water was no longer hot, but it was still trickling out in a thin stream, filling the tub to the brim. He twisted the tap shut, and silence, broken only by occasional drips, once again reigned in the bathroom. Then his gaze fell on his mother's feet—there, right by the drain, the stopper was stuck.

He bent over, feeling the muscles in his back tense, and yanked the plug out sharply. The water swirled, forming a small whirlpool, and began to slowly recede, revealing the woman's pale skin. With every centimeter the water level dropped, his mother's body became more visible—the curves of her hips, the lines of her waist, her breasts, slightly covered by wet strands of hair.

And then Ming You felt a familiar warmth arise in his groin, followed by a sharp, uncontrollable rush of blood.

Ming You was momentarily stupefied, his fingers trembling, but desire turned out to be stronger than shame. He slowly reached out his hand, touching his mother's breast—her skin was cool and damp from the water. His palm slid over the roundness, feeling the softness under his fingers, and he squeezed it, as if checking if it was real. Then he moved to the second one, more boldly now, as if justifying himself with the thought that she wouldn't wake up anyway.

But his insatiable desire demanded more. His hand crept downward, sliding over her stomach, to the place where the water had almost completely receded, exposing her pale thighs. His breathing quickened, his heart pounded so loudly it seemed it could be heard even in the silence of the bathroom.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, he unbuttoned his trousers, dropped them to the floor along with his shirt, and, trembling with excitement, carefully lowered himself into the bathtub. The water that remained at the bottom splashed as he parted her legs, pulling her towards him. His fingers slid between her thighs, finding the entrance, and without a second thought, he entered her.

And at that very moment… her eyes opened slightly.

At first, it was just a vague, half-asleep flicker in her gaze, but a second later, consciousness returned to her with terrifying clarity.

"A-a-a… what are you…" her voice was hoarse from sleep, but it already carried a chilling horror.

Ming You did not stop — he couldn't anymore. His movements became sharper, faster, as if he was trying to finish before she fully came to her senses.

But it was too late.

"AAH!!!"

Her scream, sharp and full of terror, seemed to strike his consciousness. But instead of stopping, Ming You felt something grind inside him, transforming shame and fear into blind rage. His fist, clenched until the knuckles turned white, shot forward and struck her in the throat with all his strength.

"Gr-k!.."

The sound of the impact was dull, wet. Her head jerked back, hitting the edge of the bathtub, and a hoarse, choked sound escaped her mouth — she was already running out of air. She instinctively grabbed her neck, her eyes widening in pain and confusion.

But Ming You didn't let her recover. His fingers dug into her throat, squeezing the trachea, cutting off the last gulps of air. Her legs thrashed convulsively against the bottom of the tub, splashing water in all directions, but he only pressed her down harder, continuing to move inside her — no longer with passion, but in some kind of animalistic, insane rhythm.

She tried to hit him with her hands, but the blows were weak, helpless. Her nails scratched his forearms, leaving red marks, but he only tightened his grip on her neck. Her mother's face began to turn blue, her eyes rolled back, and saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth.

Then he released one hand and struck another blow — to her stomach.

"U-gh!.."

Her body convulsed, but escape was impossible. Ming You grabbed her throat again and continued to choke her, his movements becoming harder, sharper. There were no more thoughts in his head — only white noise, only the need to finish.

Her consciousness wavered, as if she were being held underwater, released for a second only to be plunged back into darkness. Her throat constricted from coughing, her chest heaved in an attempt to draw a full breath, but each time her breathing faltered — whether from shock or the unbearable weight of what was happening.

Ming You was no longer holding back. His movements became sharp, almost mechanical, as if he was striving not for pleasure, but for something darker — for the assertion of power, for the destruction of boundaries, to leave a mark forever. His knees slid on the bottom of the tub, scraping against the rough ceramic, but he felt no pain — only a mounting, animalistic tension.

Suddenly, his hand gripped her breast, his fingers squeezing her nipple so hard the skin turned white from the strain. And then — his teeth.

A sharp, piercing pain shot through her body, and she instinctively jerked, trying to scream, but at that same moment his free hand struck her throat. Her air was cut off, the sound stuck somewhere inside, turning into a hoarse moan.

He unclenched his jaw, leaving a bloody mark on the tender skin. Drops of scarlet mixed with the water, spreading over her breast, and he froze for a moment, watching it as if mesmerized.

And then — the final thrust.

He lunged forward sharply, his fingers digging into her thighs, and with a hoarse exhalation, he finished, spilling onto her everything that had built up in this madness. The warm liquid splashed onto her stomach, her breasts, droplets even reached her neck, mixing with the bruises already forming from his grip.

Ming You rose sharply from the bathtub; water streamed from his body onto the tiles, mixing with the droplets already splattered on the floor. His face was empty — no rage, no remorse, only an icy detachment. His mother, still feebly moving, tried to push herself up on her elbows, her lips trembled, but before she could say anything or even draw a breath to scream — his leg jerked forward sharply.

A kick to the groin.

A dull, wet sound of impact, her body folded in half, her hands instinctively flew downward, but Ming You's next movement was already unstoppable.

A blow to the head.

His fist slammed into her temple with all his might, throwing her head back. The back of her head hit the edge of the bathtub with a dull "thud!", and her body went limp, like a severed rope. Her eyes rolled back, her eyelids twitched and then grew still.

Silence fell.

Only Ming You's heavy breathing disturbed it. He stood over her, dripping water, staring at her lifeless body, at the bruise already beginning to bloom on her temple. Then, without a trace of regret, he reached for the shower head.

With one hand, he grabbed his mother by the hair, lifting her so her back wasn't lying in the water, and with the other—he aimed the stream. Cold water gushed over her chest, stomach, thighs, washing away the traces of his semen, the blood from the bite, everything that could betray what had happened. He methodically cleaned every fold, every curve, as if washing not a person, but a contaminated tool.

Then—the bathtub.

He wiped the bottom, the walls, the faucet, even the plug—nothing could remain. Not a drop, not a hint.

When it was all done, he unclenched his fingers, and the mother's body flopped back into the empty bathtum with a dull splash. Her head fell limply to the side, and her wet hair stuck to her cheek.

Ming You pulled on his underwear, fastened his trousers, didn't even bother buttoning his shirt—just threw it over his shoulders. A final glance at the bathroom—clean, quiet, no traces.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

The knife blade hovered over the shattered pelvic bone, trembling in bloodied fingers. Bony dust mixed with thick blood, turning into a pinkish paste, resembling low-grade mince.

"Y-you… why?" the voice inside sounded hoarse, as if through a constricted throat. Ming You ran his tongue over his parched lips, feeling the salty taste of dried blood:

"No, it's you. This is fun, besides, she didn't tell anyone."

His fingers slid downward, toward the remnants of the abdominal cavity, where among the shreds of flesh the last traces of life still smoldered. The intestine, cut in several places, oozed its foul contents—fecal matter mixed with dark bile. The stench was so strong that even the flies froze for a second, as if stunned.

"Is that all you care about?"

He gripped the knife tighter, feeling the handle stick to his palm.

"She's dead anyway, so it's pointless to worry about that now."

His gaze fell on the ripped-out uterus—shrivelled, bluish-purple, with torn vessels dangling like threads.

"Maybe… it wasn't suicide? Maybe… it was you, or… I killed her?"

"Unfortunately, no. Me, that is, us, weren't home all day."

"Fine… by the way, Sun Hee stayed with me at home for a couple of days then… maybe I was lucky."

The memory surfaced clearly, as if just a moment ago.

Her scent.

Her laughter.

Her…

"The main thing you were lucky in is that you weren't taken to an orphanage, since the police didn't know yet that our father had abandoned you."

"That's for sure… but Sun Hee… she stayed with me for a couple of days then…"

Silence again.

Only the dripping blood.

And the buzzing of flies gathering for a new feast.

Evening fell over the city, painting the room in soft twilight hues. On the sofa, sinking into the cushions, Ming You hugged Sun Hee, pressing against her as if trying to find solace in her warmth. His face was clouded by a shadow of sadness, and she, noticing it, gently ran her fingers over his cheek.

"Min, are you okay? You look very sad, can I help you?"

He sighed, averting his gaze, as if performing a play for her, where every word was a carefully considered line.

"I'm just thinking about mother... She wouldn't have wanted me to feel like this."

Sun Hee squeezed his hand, her fingers trembling slightly.

"You're not alone," she whispered. "Let's distract ourselves."

She reached for the cupboard and took out a chessboard, an old one with worn edges, but so familiar. The board softly landed on the sofa between them, and Sun Hee began arranging the pieces. Ming You moved back, crossing his legs, watching her. His gaze slid over the pieces, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

The game began.

Sun Hee, as always, acted quickly—her fingers barely touched the pieces before they moved to new positions. She was ahead of him, forcing Ming You to watch her moves intently. He played differently: slowly, deliberately, weighing every step. In planning, he was inferior to her, but in strategy he was strong.

And then—her queen entered the game, looming menacingly over his position. Ming You felt a tightness in his chest. He was losing.

For a moment, his fingers froze over the board, but then his lips stretched into a sharp grin.

"Let's spice up the game."

"How?" she asked, surprised.

"Will you sacrifice your queen?"

"Huh?" Sun Hee snorted, not believing her ears.

Ming You leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with a playful challenge.

"Or don't you want to continue?" he asked with a sly smile. "Maybe we should just play something else instead?"

"Are you crazy?" Sun Hee leaned back, her eyes wide. "You really want me to sacrifice my queen? That's not fair!"

He laughed, a light, almost carefree laugh, but there was a strange note in it.

"But it's for love," he winked. "You want me to win, right?"

She looked at him for a long time, as if trying to decipher the hidden meaning of his words. Then, with a resigned sigh, she took the queen and tossed it off the board.

"Okay, if it makes you happy..." her voice sounded with a slight reproach. "But you understand it's not fair, right?"

Ming You immediately seized the advantage. His pieces rushed into the attack, and after a few moves the game was over—his queen delivered checkmate.

Sun Hee didn't applaud, didn't smile. She just looked at him, and in her gaze was bewilderment mixed with a faint fear.

"Are you ready to even kill to win?" she asked quietly, not looking away.

Ming You froze.

"What? No, of course not," he laughed, but the sound was fake. "You are more important to me than any victories. I was just joking."

She gave a weak smile, but a shadow of doubt remained in her eyes.

"I hope you haven't forgotten that. Sometimes victory can cost too much."

He abruptly pulled her to him, holding her so tightly that it knocked the breath out of her.

"We will be together, no matter what," Ming You uttered, and in his voice there was not just confidence, but something more, almost an obsession. "I won't let anything separate us."

And before she could answer, his lips found hers, and his body pressed her into the sofa. The chess pieces left on the board clattered as they scattered across the floor, but neither he nor she paid them any attention anymore.

The blade of the knife emerged from the piece of flesh with a wet shhk, leaving behind a ragged, oozing cut. The blood was no longer gushing, but only seeping lazily in thick, viscous drops, mingling with yellowish ichor and fat. Ming You flipped over the severed flap of skin—its underside was covered with a thin web of subcutaneous fat, whitish, like moldy cottage cheese, with pink capillaries running through it.

"The only happy days, right?" Ming You said with irony.

"I'd say... the last ones..."

Ming You hurled the piece of meat aside. It slapped against the floor, bounced like an overripe fruit, and lay still in a puddle of its own juices.

"Heh-heh, the relatives you slaughtered."

His fingers gripped the knife again. Dried blood was caked between his phalanges, sticking them together like paste.

"At least I had reasons for it."

The blade plunged into the ribcage, slipping between the ribs with the crunch of breaking cartilage.

"They deprived me of happiness."

He yanked the knife downward—the cut gaped like a grinning mouth, exposing ribs like rotten teeth.

"Their guardianship over me... that damn other city, which was hundreds of miles away from Seoul..."

Ming You sighed heavily, squeezing the knife's handle as the blade crunched its way out of the sticky piece of meat.

The kitchen was quiet. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall broke the oppressive silence. Ming You sat at the table, clutching a cup of already cold tea. His fingers were trembling slightly, though he tried not to show it. Across from him sat his uncle and aunt—their faces were serious, even stern.

His uncle, a tall, sturdy man with sharp features, was the first to break the silence.

"Ming You, we need to talk."

Ming You slowly raised his eyes. Something tightened in his chest—as if a cold hand were squeezing his heart.

"About what?" he asked, though he already had an idea.

His aunt, usually kind and gentle, wasn't smiling this time. Her slender fingers were interlaced on the table, her nails tapping lightly on the wood.

"We've decided it would be better if you moved in with us," his uncle continued. "You will live with us. It's the right decision."

Ming You felt his throat tighten.

"But I don't want to leave!" His voice trembled, and he immediately clenched his teeth to not betray any weakness.

His uncle frowned.

"This is not up for discussion."

"I can't just abandon everything!" Ming You stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "My friends, school… Sun Hee! I can't leave her!"

The name Sun Hee sounded like a final argument, like an incantation that was supposed to stop the inevitable.

"You have to think about your future," his uncle spoke slowly, as if stretching the words so they would sink in deeper. "You have nothing here. There—opportunities."

"She is important to me!" Ming You was almost shouting now, tears welling up, but he blinked furiously, forcing them back.

His aunt finally intervened, placing a hand on her nephew's shoulder.

"Ming You, we understand how hard this is for you. But this decision was made for your own good."

Her voice was soft, but it left no room for argument.

Ming You turned away, realizing it was useless to argue.

An hour later, they were standing by a taxi. Ming You's suitcase—a single, half-empty one—was thrown into the trunk.

He did not look back when the door of the house closed behind him for the last time.

The taxi pulled away.

Ming You sat in the back seat, pressing his forehead against the cold window. Outside, the lights of the city he could no longer call his own flashed by.

The knife blade slid between the ribs with a wet crunch, as if butchering a bird carcass. The cartilage crackled, tearing under the steel, exposing the spongy tissue of the lungs—pinkish-gray, laced with thin vessels that had already stopped filling with air. Ming You pulled them out, feeling the organ sag heavily in his hand, still warm, still holding the last traces of life. He squeezed his fingers—a murky fluid, mixed with blood, spurted from the alveoli, leaving sticky droplets on his chin.

"In those days, I completely immersed myself in basketball... trained with all my might, channeled all my aggression and despair into the game, hoping to escape reality…"

The voice in his head sounded muffled, as if coming from under a layer of water.

Ming You smirked, cutting off a piece of the lung and throwing it aside.

"You're right, it's not like you can play chess with anyone anymore, heh. But you did strengthen your talent for the game, that's one of the main things."

He ran the knife along the ribs, scraping off the remnants of meat, exposing the white, almost porcelain-like bones.

"And that's how a whole year passed since then…"

"Well, getting a driver's license and a certificate of capacity, which allowed you to be partially independent, is a very useful thing, so that after your relatives died you wouldn't be sent to an orphanage… So, the plan to kill them was brewing even back then, right?"

"I don't kn…"

" 'Don't know' again, heh-heh. You don't even have to answer, I know everything anyway, because I am me."

He abruptly plunged the knife into the ribcage, leaving it sticking out between the ribs like a flag on conquered territory.

"I. You. How did we come to this? Why am I still here? Why are you in my place? Or am I in yours?"

The voice trembled, breaking into a whisper, but Ming You just tilted his head, listening to it like a bothersome fly.

"You are the weak part of me, so just shut up already and don't interfere with me achieving my goal."

"Me? But how…"

Before the voice could continue, Ming You pulled out a lighter. The flame ignited with a quiet click, illuminating his face—pale, smeared with blood, with empty eyes that held neither remorse nor fear. He brought the flame to a piece of meat cut from the thigh. The fat crackled, sizzled, bubbling and blackening at the edges.

A thick, sweetish smell hung in the room, reminiscent of fried bacon, but with a faint, putrid note that made one's stomach clench involuntarily. When a golden crust had formed on the piece of meat, Ming You brought it to his mouth. His teeth easily sank into the warm, fibrous flesh, which had a slight metallic aftertaste. He chewed and swallowed unhurriedly—as if it were the most ordinary dinner.

"A-a-A-AH...!!!" the voice screamed in panic.

In response, Ming You, with an almost ritual slowness, ran his fingers over the victim's exposed ribs, feeling under the thin film of skin for that particular piece of flesh—the shriveled, bluish nipple, cut off earlier. With a disgusting squelch, he slapped it onto his sticky tongue, feeling the nasty, rubbery texture adhere to his palate.

Then, grinding it with enjoyment with his molars, he crushed this slimy mass, feeling it spread into a putrid slurry across his teeth, before pushing it down his esophagus with a nasty gulp, leaving behind a taste of old blood and something musty, like spoiled meat.

"Y-you... I-I... a cannibal!?"

The voice shrieked, shuddering with horror. Ming You, however, grinned, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"Cannibals are those who eat their own kind. I am eating a woman."

"Y-you... I…" the voice faltered, before dissolving and disappearing into a strange echo.

"Have you left now?"

After that, only the faint rustle of flies circling over the remains was left.

Ming You slowly bowed his head, as if under the weight of an unbearable burden that had long since crushed his soul. A cold tear, like the last drop of his humanity, slid down his pale cheek and fell onto the shapeless heap of meat—sticky, warm, still pulsating with the remnants of someone else's life. For a moment, a reflection glimmered in that bloody puddle—and he recognized himself. But it was no longer him. The face, smeared with thick, dark blood, stared back at him with empty, dead eyes, behind which gaped only an infinite void.

Ming You stood before the mirror, peering intently at his reflection. Before him was a sixteen-year-old youth with a lean yet sturdy build; his height of 5.8 feet (178 centimeters) betrayed a teenager who had almost crossed the threshold of adolescence but had not yet acquired adult confidence. His black hair, slightly disheveled and carelessly falling forward, reached almost to the bridge of his nose but did not cover his eyes and forehead, leaving his face open.

But what captured his attention the most were his eyes. Jet-black, deep, as if bottomless, they seemed completely empty—as if darkness itself had taken residence within them, having swallowed all emotions. His gaze was detached, almost lifeless, as if no thoughts or feelings lay behind it. And yet, if one looked closely, within this void, one could discern a faint glimmer of something human—a shadow of pain, a suppressed hope, or perhaps the last remnants of a will not yet entirely extinguished.

A few minutes later, the front door of the house swung open and then slammed shut with a dull thud. His uncle and aunt had returned, stepping over the threshold with their usual carefree manner. Their voices, laughter, the rustling of bags—all merged into a single background noise.

"Uncle, Aunt... or rather, Mom and Dad, if you prefer it that way..." he began, in an deliberately soft tone, "The showerhead in the bathroom seems to be broken. And I would like to talk with you."

His fingers slid towards the kitchen knife lying near the mirror. The cold metal burned his palm pleasantly. With a quick motion, he hid the blade under his black T-shirt, then leisurely pulled on blue gloves.

"Darling, he called us parents!" exclaimed the uncle, exchanging a happy look with his wife. "Finally, he acknowledged us today, at least."

His voice trembled with emotion. He didn't even think to glance at his nephew, didn't notice the strange gleam in his eyes.

"I'll take a look now and we'll discuss what's wrong," he said to Ming You, already heading towards the bathroom.

The aunt smiled, moving closer.

"Ming You, I'm glad you called us. While your uncle fixes the shower, we can talk. After all, we are the only ones who will try to help you."

Her voice sounded cloyingly sweet, as always.

"Heh heh, the same false notes of concern that have driven me mad for years," flashed through Ming You's mind.

He slowly turned to face her. His face was empty.

"Yes, I have something to tell you," he said in an even tone. "But I don't think the dead will be interested."

The bathroom door clicked shut with a dull snap.

"What are you talking about?"

The aunt froze. Her face was etched with confusion, and then—the first shadow of fear.

But it was already too late.

Ming You felt the cold handle of the knife under his T-shirt; his fingers closed around it with familiar certainty. The blade, sharpened to a razor's edge, lightly scratched the skin of his stomach, but he didn't even blink. In the shower, everything was quiet—only water droplets fell from the tap, shattering against the tiles.

"The shower is fine, what's wrong?" muttered the uncle, still unaware that his voice was the last thing he would hear in this life.

He didn't even have time to turn around.

Ming You moved swiftly, like a snake striking its prey. His hand swept upward, and the blade plunged into the soft tissue of the aunt's neck. It passed through the skin, the subcutaneous tissue, severed the jugular vein—dark crimson blood gushed out in a fountain, drenching her blouse, dripping onto the floor. Her larynx rasped, but the sound was immediately choked by bloody foam.

"AAAAH! What are you doing?!" The uncle rushed forward, but Ming You was already upon him.

He didn't answer. Instead—another strike. The blade entered the side of the neck, at an angle, piercing the carotid artery. The blood flow, under pressure, hit the wall, leaving an arc of scarlet splatter. The uncle gasped, his fingers convulsively clawed at his nephew's arm, but he only pressed harder, twisting the knife in the wound, tearing through muscles and the trachea.

"This is for victory!" hissed Ming You, and his voice sounded like the grating of metal on bone.

The uncle collapsed onto the floor, his body twitching in agony, but his consciousness was already fading. Ming You wiped the blade on the uncle's T-shirt and moved closer to his aunt, who seemed to still be choking on her blood.

Ming You flipped his aunt onto her back, and her limp body sprawled helplessly on the cold tiles. Her eyes, cloudy and glassy, were frozen in a motionless gaze, fixed on the ceiling, as if recording the last thing she had seen. Her mouth, slightly agape in a soundless scream, exposed clenched teeth and a tongue, moist with saliva, already beginning to dry at the edges.

He drew the blade along the inside of her thigh, feeling the skin first resist and then part under the pressure of the steel. The cut was clean—first a thin white line, then the parting of the tissue, revealing yellowish subcutaneous fat, and beneath it—dark red muscle fibers. The femoral artery, already almost empty, only pulsed weakly, releasing thick, slow trickles of blood that spread over the pale skin, mixing with sweat and mucus.

Later, he moved on to the limbs. The blade plunged into the soft tissue behind the knee, probing for the tendons. At the first pressure, there was a quiet but distinct crunch—like someone breaking a green branch. The joint did not give way immediately; he had to pry with the knife and twist with effort until a dull click sounded, and the leg fell away, hanging by the last fibers of connective tissue.

The same with the elbows and shoulders. Each time the bone slipped out of the joint socket, a wet, squelching sound was heard, as if someone were pulling a foot out of thick mud. The blood no longer gushed, but only oozed, thick and dark, saturating everything around—the floor, his hands, his clothes.

Ming You tossed the severed body parts into the shower stall and plunged the knife slightly below the ribs and drew it downward, toward the pubis. The skin parted easily, but further on the blade met a dense layer of muscle—he had to saw, feeling the steel slide between the fibers.

When the peritoneum burst, the entrails, warm and gleaming with mucus, spilled out with a quiet, squelching sound. The first to slip out was a loop of intestine—grayish-pink, iridescent under the light, laced with thin blood vessels.

It was followed by the stomach, filled with half-digested food—it tumbled out with a wet, slapping sound, flattening on the tile, and immediately began to decompose before his eyes, releasing a thick, suffocating smell of rotting meat mixed with the acid of gastric juice. The liver, dark burgundy, with a greasy, almost black sheen, separated with a soft, whistling sound—the knife entered it as if into softened lard, and warm, almost black blood immediately gushed from the incision, mixing with bile. He carefully, almost tenderly, laid the organs out in the shower stall, where they, still pulsating with residual spasms, slowly slid into the corner near the drain, leaving behind sticky, trailing streaks of blood and mucus.

When everything was laid out, Ming You grabbed the intestine—slippery, bluish-gray, still warm—and, squeezing it in his fists like a wet rag, crawled to the toilet. Choking on the stench, he began to squeeze out of the intestines the semi-digested mass, thick, with chunks of fecal matter, clots of blood, and something else, black and liquid, that flowed out in thin, viscous threads. The intestine resisted, pulsated in his hands as if alive, and when it was finally empty, Ming You threw it into the shower, where it slapped against the wall and hung there like a disgusting, bloodied hose.

But then his body shuddered—his stomach was gripped by a spasm, his throat filled with a acrid, hot wave. He barely managed to run to the toilet before he vomited—first just food, then bile, thick and greenish. Tears blurred his vision, saliva and vomit dripped onto his chin, and the burning smell of stomach acid filled his nose.

When the spasm finally subsided, Ming You wiped his mouth with his wrist, leaving a smudged trail of saliva and food residue on the fabric, and, breathing heavily, crawled toward his aunt's head. It lay where he had left it—the glassy, cloudy eyes wide open, the mouth half-open in a silent scream, and from the slashed throat, a dark, almost black liquid still seeped, slowly spreading across the tiles.

Ming You grabbed her by the hair and drew the knife under her chin, making a small incision. He sharply pulled the skin away from the forehead and the scalp separated with a nasty, squelching sound, exposing the pale bone covered with a thin film.

The face was now a shapeless mass—the nose cut away to the cartilage of the septum, the lips slashed so that the teeth were exposed in a grotesque grin. The eyeballs burst under the pressure of the blade, releasing vitreous fluid mixed with blood.

The skull shuddered under the blows of the knife handle—first the parietal bone cracked, then the frontal, and, finally, the brain was exposed, pinkish-gray, covered in convolutions, laced with a fine web of blood vessels.

After her, Ming You moved over to his uncle. It was easier with him—he was no longer breathing.

Ming You repeated the procedure: dismembered the body into ten parts, slit open the abdominal cavity, pulled out the intestines, winding them around his arm like a scarf. Kidneys, spleen, lungs—all carefully placed in the shower.

But then a new impulse seized him.

Ming You took his uncle's severed arm and began to cut the meat from the bones. The muscles separated in layers, the tendons stretched like rubber. He sliced them into neat pieces, as if preparing mince.

When it was all finished, he slowly set the knife down, placing it on the tile with a dull thud. The blade, still warm from the work, glinted dully under the light, leaving a thin, pinkish smear on the tile.

The blood on his hands had already dried, turning his skin into a hard, cracked crust, and his face was speckled with dark splatters, as if someone had flamboyantly thrown a handful of rusty dirt at him. His t-shirt, soaked with sweat and crimson, clung to his body, outlining the contours of tense muscles—every breath was an effort, as if his lungs were also clogged with this sticky heaviness.

He took a deep breath, walked over to the cabinet under the mirror, and swung it open—inside, neatly arranged, one next to the other, were rolls of trash bags. Ten of them. Ming You took the first one, unfolded it with a quiet rustle, and began packing the remains of the bodies—the intestines in one bag, the limbs in another, the heads separately. Each knot was tied tightly, without unnecessary thought.

When he finished tying the trash bags, pulling the knots tight so the contents wouldn't spill out, he set them by the bathroom threshold, leaving a wet trail from his soiled hands on the tiled floor. Then Ming You, without even removing the bloodied t-shirt, in which the fabric had already hardened into heavy crusts, and his pants, soaked with dark slime, stepped into the shower, yanking the faucet handle sharply.

The water rushed out with a hiss, first ice-cold but quickly growing warmer. The hot streams scalded his skin, washing away the caked blood—it came off in layers, swelled, turned into pinkish foam, streamed down his arms, legs, and back, leaving dark streaks for a moment before disappearing down the drain.

Then, bending over, Ming You grabbed the shower head and blasted the remains under the sink with a powerful jet—shreds of meat stuck to the porcelain trembled, tore off, and, swirling in a whirlpool, vanished into the black opening. The water gurgled, dragging the last traces with it.

Ming You dried himself with a towel, dragging the rough fabric over his face, neck, and arms, leaving smeared, rusty stains on the white cotton. Then he abruptly rolled it into a ball, clenched it in his fist, and threw it into the half-empty trash bag, where the towel flopped into the sticky mush of organs, settling formlessly between the slippery shreds of flesh.

His fingers, still damp, grabbed the kitchen knife—the blade dull, with dried smears. He held it under the stream of water, scraping his thumb along the edge, washing away the dark flakes until the metal once again gleamed with a cold luster.

Then, leaving the knife on the edge of the sink, he squatted down, opened the cupboard under it, and pulled out rubber gloves, a roll of black trash bags, a bottle of alcohol, and a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He gathered all this into an armful, stood up, and, stepping over the bathroom threshold, carefully laid it out on thhe floor of the corridor, next to the door.

Ming You stepped out of the bathroom, leaving behind the moist steam that carried a scent mixed with something metallic. In the hallway, he paused for a second, letting his gaze sweep over the space, then stepped sharply towards the water cooler standing by the wall. There, on the handle of the kitchen door, hung a translucent plastic supermarket bag.

He tore it off with a single motion; the bag rustled in his fingers as he walked to his room. He closed the bedroom door behind him, even though there was no one else in the apartment. The room was almost empty—just a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk.

Without further thought, he pulled off his wet t-shirt and pants, throwing them into the bag. The fabric landed with a soft thud, settling heavily at the bottom. Then he took out fresh clothes from the dresser—black sweatpants with an elastic waistband and an equally black t-shirt with a narrow collar.

Ming You walked over to the wardrobe and swung the door open. Neat stacks of clothes lay on the shelves—everything as always. His fingers slid over the fabrics, selecting what was necessary: several black and white t-shirts, a white shirt with a spread collar, a black sweatshirt, and khaki pants.

He carried all of this to the bed, laid it out, checked the pockets, then began to fold everything—neatly, compactly, so that more would fit. The black backpack was under the bed. He pulled it out by the strap, dusted it off, and unzipped the main compartment. The clothes went in tightly, with almost no creases.

He slung the backpack over one shoulder, clutching the bag with the wet clothes in his other hand. Then, after taking one last look around the room, Ming You picked up his phone from the nightstand and stuffed it into his pocket. Crossing the threshold, he headed to his uncle and aunt's room. The door there was slightly ajar, and Ming You froze on the threshold of the bedroom.

His gaze slid over the bed with its rumpled linens, the nightstands with framed family photos, the wardrobe with mirrored doors. The air here was stale, saturated with a mixture of his aunt's perfume and the tobacco smoke from his uncle's cigarettes.

He moved towards the nightstands, yanking the top drawer open. Loose change jingled, rolling into the corner. His fingers quickly sorted through the contents: lighters, a cased pair of glasses, an unopened pack of condoms. In the next drawer—documents, notepads with notes, a set of keys. He pushed all of it aside.

The wardrobe creaked as he swung the doors open. On the top shelf lay an old leather suitcase, covered in a layer of dust. Ming You took it down, dusted it off, and clicked the locks open—empty inside, except for a yellowed piece of paper with a flight itinerary from ten years ago.

Nearby hung backpacks—a hiking one with multiple pockets and a black urban one, as well as his aunt's boutique logo tote bag. Ming You dumped all of this onto the bed.

He worked methodically: first, he tackled the clothes—his uncle's suits, his aunt's dresses, even the underwear and socks were carefully taken off the hangers and placed into the suitcase. Particularly valuable items—a silk robe with embroidery, a pair of leather gloves—Ming You folded more meticulously, as if afraid of damaging the expensive fabric.

His aunt's cosmetics became the next target. Perfume bottles, creams in elegant jars, lipsticks—he swept all of it into her favorite tote bag.

Finally, documents and money. The wallets lay on the dresser, as if they had just been placed there. Ming You quickly opened each one, pulled out the cash—a thick wad of bills—and stuffed it into the pocket of his pants. The empty wallets, along with credit cards and IDs, flew into the suitcase.

Having finished packing the things, Ming You froze for a moment in the middle of the bedroom, his gaze sliding over the emptied wardrobes and the neatly made bed. He adjusted the bedding, smoothed out the wrinkles on the bedspread with his palm, then tightly closed all the cabinet doors, as if preparing the room for someone's return. With the suitcase in one hand and the backpacks and bags slung over his shoulder in the other, he walked out into the hallway.

He arranged the items by the entrance door with pedantic care—he stood the suitcase upright, placed the backpacks and bags in a row. Then he returned to the bathroom threshold, where the items prepared earlier lay. A kitchen knife, gloves, a roll of trash bags, bottles of alcohol and peroxide—he methodically packed all of this into the front pocket of his black backpack, checking that nothing would rattle or fall out.

Six trash bags, tightly stuffed and tied, stood in the corner of the bathroom. Ming You took them one by one, carrying them to the entrance door. He placed each bag carefully, making sure the plastic wouldn't tear. For the last time, he cast an intent gaze over the bathroom—checked the shower drain, the sink, the floor, the mirror. Everything was clean, without a trace.

The keys, as he remembered, were in the bottom drawer of the nightstand by the shoe rack. The metal glinted coldly in his palm as he picked up the keychain. One last indifferent breath—and Ming You swung the front door open.

The stairwell was cool and quiet. He quickly carried out the items first, then the bags, arranging everything in a specific order. The door slammed shut behind him with a dull click as he turned the key in the lock.

Ming You stepped outside, burdened by the load. His black backpack hung on his front, like a shield, while the bulkier hiking backpack pressed down on his back. His aunt's tote bag dangled from his shoulder, bumping against his ribs with every step. In the taut gloves, his fingers dug into the knots of the trash bags—three in his right hand, two and the suitcase in his left.

He moved in the direction of the dumpsters, but not directly, instead weaving through the neighboring blocks. In the first alley, after looking around, he threw two bags into an overflowing bin. The polyethylene hit the rotting food waste with a dull thud. In the second block, near the park, he got rid of two more, carefully placing them on top of other bags. The last bag flew into a garbage truck that had stopped by the roadside—the workers didn't even turn their heads.

Now it was the turn of the personal items. Unzipping the suitcase, he left it slightly open so he could quickly pull out the contents. Trash cans along the way became his destinations: his uncle's gold watch drowned in cigarette butts by a bus stop, his aunt's expensive perfume shattered at the bottom of a bin near a supermarket, a velvet jewelry box disappeared into a container for separate waste collection.

Ming You worked quickly but without haste—he pulled out items during moments when the sidewalk was empty, or when passersby turned away. Sweaters and trousers flew into different containers scattered around the district. He finally left the empty suitcase near a dumpster by a new apartment building.

When the backpacks and the tote bag were empty, Ming You pulled off the gloves, rolled them into a tight ball, and stuffed them into his pocket. Not a single muscle twitched on his face as he adjusted his backpack and strode towards the nearest bus station, dissolving into the evening flow of people.

The bus station greeted him with the rumble of engines and the smell of gasoline. Ming You walked past the buses without even glancing at the schedule and headed for the taxi stand. His gaze slid over a row of cars until it stopped on a white one.

He knocked on the window.

The glass rolled down, and warm air from the interior, smelling of cheap air freshener and old seats, hit him in the face.

— Hello... hello, is this an intercity taxi? — Ming You's voice sounded even, but it trembled right at the beginning, as if he hadn't spoken aloud in a long time.

The taxi driver, a man in his fifties with graying temples and deep wrinkles around his eyes, looked at him appraisingly. His gaze slid over the backpack in the passenger's hand, then lingered on the worn-out sneakers.

— That's right. Where to?

— Seoul.

The taxi driver's eyebrows crept up, and a smirk played at the corners of his lips.

— You sure? It'll take all night to get there.

— Let's go, come on.

— Suit yourself, get in. — the driver shrugged, as if to say: Your money, your problem.

The door slammed shut, and the car pulled away, swaying gently on the uneven asphalt. Ming You leaned back in the rear seat, took off his backpack, and placed it beside him, feeling the muscles in his back tense up. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come, as if his body had forgotten how to rest.

Images flashed behind his eyelids.

Sun Hee.

Her face, her smile, her voice — it all felt so close, as if she were sitting right next to him, touching his shoulder, laughing. But in his chest — an emptiness, as if someone had scraped everything out with a knife. He tried to feel something. Anything. But inside there was only a cold, scorched space where a heart had once beaten.

The taxi rolled down the highway, the kilometers merging into a monotonous strip of road, flickering under the dim streetlights. Ming You wasn't sleeping, though his eyes were sticky with fatigue.

— So, which district do you need?

The taxi driver's voice tore him out of his half-slumber, sharp, like a snap of fingers in front of his face.

Ming You jerked his head up. First thing — his hand went to the backpack, checking if everything was in place. Then his gaze went forward, to the mirror, which reflected the taxi driver's eyes — dark, curious.

— Turn right, drive past four blocks, and drop me off at the lawn.

The taxi driver chuckled, as if he had caught him in a lie.

— I see you're a local. Is Seoul your hometown?

— Correct.

The car windows filled with familiar silhouettes: narrow streets, old lanterns, houses pressed close together. A residential complex with private homes — everything was almost the same as back then. Only the billboards were different. Bright, screaming, alien, as if reminding him that time doesn't stand still.

Ming You glanced at his phone — the time on the main screen was 7:44. After paying the driver with money from his former parents' wallet, he slammed the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Ming You passed a couple of neat flowerbeds where pink petals were already collecting dewdrops, walked past tall maples whose leaves rustled in the gentle breeze. His black eyes, empty and bottomless, slid over familiar details, as if he were mentally noting every little thing: a crack in the asphalt, a chip on the edge of a fence, a rust stain on a lamppost.

It was at this very lamppost that he stopped.

Not moving, not even breathing, his body was tense like a string. Every muscle was ready for an instant lunge, but outwardly he remained completely calm. His black eyes, cold and emotionless, were fixed on the gate, as if he could force it open with the power of his gaze. Silence rang in his ears, interrupted only by the occasional sounds of passing cars.