"Are you okay, honey?"
I closed the car door softly and tried to summon a convincing smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"
My mother rounded the front of the car and slipped her hand into mine. Her touch was warm, grounding. "You were quiet the whole ride home. That's not like you."
I frowned. "Unusual?"
We walked hand-in-hand up the path to the house, the gravel crunching beneath our shoes.
"Well," she said with a playful glance, "usually you give me a passionate lecture about how punk music is relaxing."
I chuckled. It was true. My mom's idea of music was the classical station—soft strings, harpsichords, the occasional solo flute. I'd tried to give it a chance once, just to keep the peace, but five minutes in and I was bored out of my skull. I hit eject, popped in Marilyn Manson, and filled the car with Tainted Love. She hadn't spoken to me for half the ride.
"I don't think you ever listen to my lectures, Eomma." (Mother) I teased. "Naneun pogihaessseubnida." (I've given up)
"You've given up, have you?" she said, nudging me with her elbow. "And here I thought you weren't a quitter."
As we neared the front door, the thought of what I'd seen earlier weighed heavily on me. I had to tell someone.
"Mother?"
She looked over, her expression instantly softening. "Yes, honey?"
I slowed our pace. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Maggie. Anything."
I drew a deep breath. "If you saw something… awful—like, really awful—what would you do?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I guess that depends on what I saw."
"What if it was... a dead body?" I asked, watching her closely.
She didn't flinch. "Then I'd go to the police. No questions asked."
I nodded slowly. "Okay."
But as I turned to keep walking, she caught my wrist. Hard.
"Is everything alright?"
No.
"Everything's fine," I lied, too quickly.
She studied me, eyes sharp with maternal intuition. "Because if you did see something like that, you can tell me. Or if you don't want to tell me, then go to the police. There are bad people in this world. Especially here, Maggie. Some are closer than you think."
I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant by that, but she was already climbing the porch steps.
I knew then what I had to do. First thing tomorrow morning—I'd go to the cops and tell them everything about what the Jinyoung brothers had done tonight.
Jeffrey, our butler, opened the door before we could knock. His face was as unreadable as ever.
"Evening, Miss. May I take your coats?"
"Thanks," I murmured, slipping mine off. He hung it neatly by the door.
"Did you have a nice evening, miss?"
Not even close.
"It was great," I said with a forced smile, turning to my mom. "Thanks for tonight. I had a nice time."
She smiled warmly. "So did I. We should do it again sometime."
"Totally."
She blew me a kiss before heading upstairs.
I kicked off my black pumps, relieved to be out of them, when I heard Jeffrey behind me.
"Would you like something before bed? A hot chocolate with marshmallows, perhaps?"
I smiled, genuinely this time. Ever since my father had left, Jeffrey's hot chocolate had been my comfort—my only reliable nightcap.
"No, thank you. Just a glass of water tonight."
"Very well. Call if you need anything."
"I will."
"Goodnight, Miss."
"Goodnight, Jeff."
Once he disappeared upstairs, the smile vanished from my face. I dragged my feet into the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. I placed it on the counter, resting both hands on the edge of the sink.
The image burned into my mind: the sheet, the waves, the body. But worse—I knew who did it.
My neighbours.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do?" I whispered.
I filled the glass, my hands trembling. I couldn't stop thinking: Who was in that sheet? Someone important? Surely Jeffrey would've said something if it was.
I needed air.
I turned toward the back door, hand on the knob—
—and froze.
A shadow moved across the window.
I gasped.
Someone was out there.
I stepped outside cautiously, bracing myself. But as soon as I saw who, my stomach dropped.
"Shit."
I turned to run, but a heavy body slammed into me from behind, one hand clamping over my mouth. I screamed, but the sound never made it out—just a pathetic, muffled groan.
I kicked, I thrashed, I fought like hell—but none of it mattered.
A voice rasped into my ear, and a cold shiver tore through my spine.
"No."
That voice.
"Yuta?"
He chuckled, dragging me backward. "Guānmén," (Close the door) he ordered.
The door slammed shut behind us.
"Why are you here?" I asked, trembling.
He leaned in. "Why do you think we're here?"
Footsteps behind me.
They were all here.
Yuta turned me around and brought a knife to my cheek.
"You saw something you shouldn't have. That makes you a problem. And problems," he smiled, "get solved."
My heart stopped.
They were going to kill me.
I opened my mouth to scream, but his hand silenced me again.
"Scream," he hissed, "and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do. Understand?"
I nodded, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.
"Good girl."
I whimpered, "I didn't tell anyone. I swear."
"Doesn't matter."
"Please. Let me go."
But the moment he pulled me toward the front of the house, I thrashed harder, using every ounce of adrenaline. Yuta slipped—just for a second—and his hand left my mouth.
I screamed. Loud.
"Chen—fucking shut her up!" Yuta barked.
I screamed again, hoping my mother or Jeffrey would hear.
Yuta dragged me to a black van idling in front of the house and shoved me inside. He and Chen jumped in after me, slamming the doors shut.
The sound echoed—final.
The van peeled away, tires shrieking. I tumbled inside, helpless.
They argued in rapid-fire Chinese as the van jolted down the road, taking me farther and farther from home.
From safety.
From her.
"Shut her the fuck up!" Kang shouted from the front.
Yuta lunged toward me. I backed away, hands shaking, until he grabbed my ankles and yanked me forward.
Face-to-face.
"Stop fighting," he growled. "You're only making this worse."
I spat the words at him. "Fuck you."
He grinned, eyes glinting with something dark. "Is that what you want? Me between your thighs?"
I thrashed violently. Chen approached to help. I kicked out, hard—direct hit.
Chen howled, doubling over.
Yuta's grip loosened, and I bit down on his hand. Blood spread across my lips.
"Fuck!" he screamed.
He slapped me hard across the head.
Still, I refused to scream.
Chen straddled me, huge hands closing around my throat.
"I don't want to hurt you," he hissed. "But I will."
He lifted my head and slammed it back against the metal floor. Pain exploded behind my eyes.
I scratched, clawed, dug my nails into his arms.
He slammed my head again.
"Fuck this," he muttered.
He grabbed something. A needle.
No—
I felt the sharp pinch, then heat spreading through my veins.
My limbs loosened. My jaw slackened.
Yuta ripped his hand away and stared at the bloody mess I'd left.
I gasped for air, but it was no use.
Everything slowed.
Darkness crept in.
And then—
nothing.