BITM Ch10

Han Naeyung glanced at Jin’s bowl brimming with dumplings and added,

“That’s why I’ve been a bit sleep-deprived.”

“If it’s disturbing your sleep, why not file a complaint?”

“I’m just sensitive.”

“Do you usually have trouble sleeping?”

“…Yes.”

“By any chance, was the medicine you took that day not vitamins?”

Jin raised his eyes, directing his gaze at Han Naeyung.

“Medicine…?”

“I returned to the hospital to settle an unpaid bill, and I saw you taking something then.”

Han Naeyung remembered the day vividly—it was the day he had deliberately ignored Jin.

“That was… a sleep aid.”

Jin gave him a conflicted look, as if debating whether to delve further.

Even when he had cleaned and changed Jin’s clothes after their messy encounter, he hadn’t touched Han Naeyung with bare hands. He feared that any direct touch might awaken him.

During that time, he’d noticed faint scars on Han Naeyung’s back. Old wounds were scattered here and there. Although they lacked the coarse texture of untreated scars, likely due to corrective surgery, the marks were unmistakable. Jin knew well enough what kind of incidents left such traces.

They weren’t the result of accidents like car crashes. They bore the marks of abuse. It was easy to draw a connection to Han Naeyung’s obsessive cleanliness.

“Are both your parents alive?”

“Yes.”

Han Naeyung’s reply was nonchalant.

“And do you have a good relationship with them?”

“…Yes.”

The broth had grown lukewarm, and the dumplings had broken apart into the soup. Han Naeyung forced himself to eat, though his appetite had waned.

“They must be good people.”

Jin paused his meal, scrutinizing Han Naeyung intently.

“They’re the ones who helped with the hospital I currently run…”

“Was that compensation money?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was asking if either of your parents had ever hurt you in some way.”

Han Naeyung looked up, meeting Jin’s gaze.

“They’re not like that.”

Their eyes locked, neither one breaking contact. Jin eventually softened his expression, smiling faintly.

“One of my bad habits, you see.”

His tendency to discern lies and truths was an asset in his profession, but it proved unnecessary in moments like these.

“Do you know what’s common among people who lie?”

“…Not really.”

“Most think they’ll avoid eye contact, but that’s not always true. Some look you straight in the eye while lying—though after about three seconds, they start showing subtle signs of unease. Their pupils might shift, as people often say.”

“Did I do that?”

“No, not at all. And you didn’t seem relieved, either.”

“…Pardon?”

“When I changed the subject earlier, there wasn’t even a hint of relief on your face.”

In situations where someone manages to successfully steer a conversation away, they often inadvertently show a flash of relief. If that wasn’t the case, then perhaps his scars weren’t the result of parental abuse. Jin mentally crossed off one theory.

Maybe it had been an isolated incident, one severe enough to warrant scar revision surgery.

Han Naeyung’s movements with his utensils were almost robotic as he reached for a glass of water. After drinking, he seemed to take a moment to compose himself, as if he had something to say. But before he could speak, Nari suddenly jumped onto his chair.

The dog confidently rested its front paws on Han Naeyung’s thigh. He stroked the playful Nari, who was seeking affection. Perhaps because of the abrupt motion, he felt slightly unsteady in his seat, as if swaying like a buoy.

The hangover he’d been suppressing surged to the surface, and he took another gulp of water to dilute the lingering effects of alcohol. His gaze caught Jin’s white gloves as they entered his field of vision.

“If you’re feeling unwell, just say so.”

Jin knelt in front of him, maintaining a respectful distance while showing concern.

“…I’m fine.”

Han Naeyung’s voice was sincere as he replied.

“Finish your meal.”

When Han Naeyung picked up his spoon again, Jin stood up, his concern not entirely erased.

Adapting to others wasn’t easy, and even Jin, who had been eating while wearing gloves, struggled. The slippery material made handling chopsticks tricky, causing him to drop them a few times. Each time, he chuckled sheepishly.

The house was filled with the subtle scent of fabric softener, a floral aroma that blended seamlessly, just like the kiss from the previous night.

A warm presence on his lap, Nari, and the man eating across from him—this was a moment of ordinary happiness Han Naeyung had believed he’d never experience.

“He seems comfortable.”

Han Naeyung flinched slightly and looked at Jin.

“I meant the dog.”

Jin, who had finished his meal, sipped water and gestured toward Nari. The dog had fallen asleep on Han Naeyung’s lap. When Han Naeyung tried to place him on the adjacent chair, Nari climbed back onto his lap almost immediately. It seemed that this was his preferred spot.

“Prosecutor Jin.”

Han Naeyung gently covered Nari’s ears with his hand before speaking the words he had been unable to say earlier due to the dog’s interruptions.

“From now on, I’ll recommend another… veterinary clinic for you. It would be best if you used that one instead.”

“Let’s do that,” Jin cut him off mid-sentence.

Han Naeyung bowed his head in silence. Jin’s response evoked a sudden surge of emotion…

“Does that mean I can come by without using Nari as an excuse anymore?”

His lips pressed together tightly before the bloodless skin slowly regained its color as he relaxed them.

“Why do you look like that?”

“Like what…?”

“You looked disappointed by what I just said. So why did you say it?”

“…”

It wasn’t disappointment; it was a sense of loss. If you never have something, you don’t risk losing it. But to hold onto something is to fear losing it.

With Jin, Han Naeyung could almost imagine living as an ordinary person. But even if such a life were possible, he feared the day he might lose it.

Moreover, his very existence could end up poisoning Jin. That was why he had to push him away.

“You asked me if I was abused.”

Jin paused as he poured water. The liquid trembled in the glass.

Han Naeyung had a sense of why Jin had brought up his parents. He had likely seen the scars on his back while helping him change clothes. Choosing his words carefully, Han Naeyung continued.

“It wasn’t my parents. But the reason I have this compulsive cleanliness stems from that.”

Anger flickered in Jin’s eyes. Once again, Han Naeyung could tell—it wasn’t his anger, but Jin’s. He was furious on his behalf. Before Jin could say anything, Han Naeyung spoke again.

“Prosecutor Jin, I’m… not someone who can be with anyone.”

The usual smile that lingered on Jin’s lips was gone.

Jin unconsciously reached for a cigarette before running his hand over his face instead. Meanwhile, Han Naeyung carefully moved the sleeping Nari to the adjacent chair. He’d said all he needed to and had to leave. Fortunately, Jin didn’t stop him.

When Han Naeyung carried the dishes to the sink, he heard the sound of a chair scraping backward.

“…Dr. Han.”

“I’ll be going now. I’ll leave the clothes with the security guard.”

Han Naeyung left first. Jin, standing by the door, couldn’t bring himself to stop him. His thoughts lingered on the scars on Han Naeyung’s back. When the front door opened, Nari woke and darted out, but it was already too late.

* * *

“Hyung, they say there’s a seahorse in the brain. So, does that mean there’s also a seal and a polar bear in there? Knock, knock, is there a polar bear in Hyung’s head?”

“Jaemin, the seahorse in the brain isn’t that kind of seahorse.”

“Then what kind is it?”

“A fake… seahorse?”

“There’s a fake seahorse? The other day, I ate sweet and sour pork, and one of the pieces looked exactly like a seahorse. So, does the seahorse in the brain just look like one too?”

“Yeah, it’s just shaped like one, like your sweet and sour pork.”

“But, Hyung.”

“Yeah?”

“Why is there a seahorse in the brain?”

“It’s where memories are stored, apparently.”

“Really? But memories are all old stories. Then the seahorse in the brain must be really big. When we grow up, it’ll be even bigger, right?”

“Maybe so.”

“Then why can’t my seahorse remember Mom and Dad?”

“That’s because… Hyung took Jaemin’s seahorse away.”

“Hyung took it? No way!”

“Originally, Hyung and Jaemin were one. But then we split apart, and Hyung ended up with Jaemin’s seahorse.”

“So, Hyung remembers Mom and Dad? That’s not fair.”

“…Sorry.”

Honk! The blaring car horn shook Han Naeyung out of the old memory.

Honk! The horn sounded again as he realized he was standing in the middle of a crosswalk, staring at the red signal.

The traffic light had been installed on the two-lane crosswalk only recently. Han Naeyung lowered his head apologetically at a driver yelling out of their open window before hurrying onto the sidewalk. He walked slower than usual after that.

Each time a dull ache reverberated through his body, the events of the previous night felt all the more vivid. What had he done? The touch of the man he’d been with had left a lingering warmth, sweet like a child holding a candy bulging against their cheek, afraid it might melt too quickly. He had never felt that kind of closeness with an adult before.

He couldn’t blame it on being drunk. He knew he had consciously taken advantage of Jin’s feelings.

The flashing sign outside his house, which often disturbed his sleep, flickered obnoxiously even in the morning. Abandoning the thought of stopping by the clinic, he went straight up to the second floor. The emptiness of his home, vacant for a day, was suffocating.

Kicking off his shoes, Han Naeyung stood before a tightly shut door. He searched for the key hidden in a ceramic piece on the shelf and opened the door. The unheated room was so cold his breath was visible.

The only thing in the otherwise empty room was a double-layered cabinet. Turning the dial, he opened it with a soft click, the sound echoing like in a cavern. Inside, he opened a smaller steel door to reveal a long glass jar.

It was filled with formalin, preserving a shrunken piece of flesh floating inside.

This was why he hadn’t allowed Jin into his house last night, even in his drunken state.

“…Do you have siblings, Hyung?”

“Yes, one above me. What about you, Dr. Han?”

“I’m alone.”

Han Naeyung closed the cabinet and slid to the floor, leaning against it.

‘Prosecutor Jin, actually, I have a younger brother too. A brother who breathes sweetly, just like you, and who looks just like me. Now, no one remembers him. He exists only in the hippocampus of my mind…’

The reality that he was the only one who remembered his brother was so sorrowful and so overwhelming that he held onto Jin. He knew he shouldn’t have.

The truths he couldn’t tell Jin echoed within him.

Han Naeyung lifted his dazed gaze and stared at the dark wallpaper. The grim room had already transformed into a mold-infested prison. It was a giant cage—a metal enclosure that had forcibly plucked away wings and confined two small birds.

Han Naeyung pressed his gloved hand firmly against his eyes as if trying to suppress the hallucination-like memory. When he removed his hand, he saw two children scribbling something with crayons on the floor.

“Hyung, I had a dream,” Jaemin’s handwriting was shaky and uneven.

“What dream?”

“A dream where Mom and Dad took me out of here. I told them to take you too, but they said no. It’s not time yet.”

The floor was covered in layers of scribbled writing, making it hard to decipher. But Han Naeyung didn’t need to see or speak to understand Jaemin. They could communicate heart-to-heart. He too had the same dream. In the dream, parents with indistinct faces took only Jaemin away from this place.

No matter how bitterly he cried, they wouldn’t take him along. Yet, in some ways, he felt relieved. As long as Jaemin could leave, he didn’t mind being left behind. Waking up to realize it was only a dream, however, brought despair.

“And in the dream, a man in black asked me a question.”

“A man in black?”

“He asked what I’d want to be if I were born again. I told him I’d want to be you, Hyung. I’d be your older brother.”

Jaemin, clutching a crayon, smiled bashfully.

Han Naeyung reached out to the two children before him.

Thud! In an instant, the two small figures disappeared, and his knees hit the ground hard. Now, only the dark wallpaper filled his vision. Tears streamed down the curves of his cheeks.

As he curled up, a faint scent lingered at the tip of his nose. It was Jin’s scent, coming from the clothes he wore. It was time to discard it all and change into something new.

Yet Han Naeyung didn’t move. He remained buried in the clothes for a long time.

* * *

Ten years ago, a new building was erected on a piece of land that had been vacant for some time. People watching its construction all said the same thing:

“Why would they build such a big commercial-residential complex here?”

“They probably came in because the land was cheap. It’ll be abandoned in a few years.”

Just as predicted, the building stood for only a short time before becoming a ruin. The surrounding area didn’t help—bus stops were a 20-minute walk away, and the area was full of empty houses.

With the downfall of the developer who had once bragged about making it big in Seoul, the building was left abandoned. Its ownership, reportedly under the developer’s son who fled overseas, was of little interest to anyone.

Han Naeyung sniffled, wiping his nose with the hand holding his phone. Using the phone’s flashlight, he illuminated the entrance of the building. The beam of light cut through the darkness inside.

Carefully avoiding shattered glass doors, he made his way inside. Cold air seeped through the broken windows scattered here and there. Han Naeyung located mailbox 207, reached inside, and retrieved a piece of paper, brushing away the dust as he pulled it out.

Stuffing the paper into his pocket, Han Naeyung turned to leave without hesitation. Something hit his foot with a dull clunk. Shining his light on it, he saw an empty soju bottle rolling away. An old blanket tossed carelessly in the corridor hinted that someone might have spent summer nights here.

In this bitter cold, not even homeless people came to this building. The air inside was colder than outside, as if oppressive energy had gathered here. Turning off his flashlight, Han Naeyung slid his hands into his pockets.

Outside, he looked up at the dark walls. This was the very cage that had confined Jaemin and himself. After the incident, the building had been demolished, and the land remained empty until the current building was constructed.

When opening his animal clinic, his parents had scouted prime locations in bustling areas of Seoul. But Han Naeyung had made a single, final request: to find a quiet, tranquil place. His father, after a moment of silence, granted his wish.

Later, when his father saw the chosen location, his expression became complicated. Still, he kindly said, “Let’s start anew from here.”

It was the same thing his father had said the day he first brought Han Naeyung home.

Though his father worked in the provinces, he had sent his wife and child to Seoul, knowing the child needed special care.

Han Naeyung’s life at home had been uneventful, barring his compulsive need for cleanliness. Months turned into years, and he lived well under his parents’ care. Despite nightly nightmares and sleepwalking, he endured.

A renowned psychologist and family friend once told him his gloves were his protective shield, a device everyone has to safeguard themselves. But the psychologist never realized the truth—that beneath the gloves, Han Naeyung was harboring unresolved rage, hidden with practiced ease.

Perhaps his father saw through him. After Han Naeyung left home, his father never visited the clinic again.

Han Naeyung pulled a lollipop from his coat pocket. He wished he could offer something better, but this was all he could think of—Jaemin’s favorite. Carefully, he placed it on the withered grass.

“…Happy birthday, Jaemin.”

Born on the same day, at the same time, yet he was called by a different name.

Underneath the identity of Han Naeyung lay his real name, hidden and unspoken. No one remained to call him by it.

* * *

Mission accomplished. Location: xx-dong Nuri Church. Currently active as an evangelist. Map attached. Job complete.

The private investigator had completed the task. They operated solely for money, indifferent to justice or injustice, contacting him through burner phones.

Han Naeyung chose the meeting location, while the investigator set the date. He burned the letter and envelope with a convenience store lighter. Stamping out the ashes with his shoe, he watched as the remains scattered into the wind.

The destination was now clear. Han Naeyung walked to the bus stop. With no buses running at this hour, he had nearly a two-hour walk ahead. Fortunately, by then, the first bus of the day had started its route.

The marked location on the map was Nuri Church, matching the neighborhood of the man’s residence.

The bus Naeyung boarded had only a few passengers scattered across the seats, most of whom were dozing off. Sitting down, Naeyung placed his hand on the metal support of the seat in front of him and rested his forehead against it.

The bus drove along the quiet roads, often skipping stops. With his eyes closed, Naeyung gauged the bus’s location by the announcements of upcoming stops. About thirty minutes into the ride, he got off at his destination.

From the stop, Naeyung looked up at a hill stretching to his left. He slipped his hands into his pockets and climbed the narrow, steep incline. This area was known among locals as Ogeori.

The animal clinic he worked at was a bit far to walk from here, but it was about a ten-minute drive. Deciding to take his time, he resolved to walk back later.

Relying on the dim glow of streetlights, Naeyung surveyed the tightly clustered buildings ahead. The area was dotted with small, old-fashioned businesses like mom-and-pop shops, hardware stores, and stationery shops. It felt as though time had stopped in this corner of the city.

Continuing forward, Naeyung eventually stood in front of an empty commercial building. Unlike its vacant ground floor, lights flickered from above.

Nuri Church.

A small church had set up its worship space on the building’s second floor.

People were gradually climbing the stairs in time for the early morning service. Approaching the building’s entrance, Naeyung fixed his gaze on the stairs leading to the second floor. For a moment, hesitation flashed across his face.

What if they recognize me?

He dismissed the thought; there was no way anyone would. Twenty years had passed. Blending in with the crowd, Naeyung entered the worship hall.

Instead of taking a seat, he scanned the room. A cross hung behind the central podium. People filled the long benches row by row, more than he expected for such a small church. He even noticed a few school-uniformed students and foreigners among the attendees.

It looked ordinary. Just a normal church. Sitting in the sparsely populated back row, Naeyung stared blankly ahead.

At 5 a.m. sharp, the service began with the pastor’s monotonous sermon. The pastor’s voice boomed, but nothing stood out as unusual. Naeyung’s eyes roved the room, taking in faces. It had been two decades since he’d last seen the man he was searching for; even his own memory of the man’s face was faint.

After nearly an hour, the service concluded, and people began to leave. Naeyung ran a gloved hand down his face. Was this a waste of time? Left alone, staying seated felt awkward. Reluctantly, he rose.

As people exchanged friendly greetings and shuffled out, Naeyung brushed past them, covering his mouth with his hand. Even with his gloves, he couldn’t entirely block the smell of others.

Just then, a man carrying a large plastic bag was coming up the stairs. He greeted everyone with a warm smile.

“Ah, seems like the service is already over. Oh dear.”

Naeyung locked his eyes on the man.

“I brought hot canned coffee—please take one as you leave.”

The man stopped midway up the stairs, distributing coffee to the departing congregation. Someone bumped Naeyung’s shoulder while hurrying past. Swallowing hard, he descended the stairs deliberately. The man offering coffee extended a can to Naeyung. His pinky finger was bluntly severed.

“Oh! A new face, I see. Did you recently move here? How delightful to meet you, brother.”

Naeyung blinked, quickly suppressing his inner turmoil. Without showing his unease, he simply accepted the coffee.

“Thank you.”

“I hope we’ll see more of you. You have such a kind demeanor. If you’re interested, consider joining our youth fellowship.”

An unpleasant scent wafted through the air. Clenching his mouth shut, Naeyung only nodded faintly, gripping the coffee can tightly. Every cell in his body felt on edge, thrumming with agitation.

In his memory, the man was a young adult, not middle-aged. But the voice—the voice and even the faint breaths—it was too similar. Of course, he couldn’t be certain yet. The service was held daily; he could always return.

Just as Naeyung reached the ground floor and opened the glass door, someone called out.

“The pastor wants to see you, deacon.”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming now.”

Naeyung turned around.

Deacon…

“God isn’t just your God, you know. He’s merciful to me too, a just and fair Lord. Look at me—I’m perfectly fine, aren’t I?”

The middle-aged man’s voice overlapped with the voice in his memory. Outside, Naeyung flung the coffee can into a trash bin. His chest constricted painfully. The urge to run back and slit the man’s throat surged within him.

Would the anger vanish if he saw the man’s blood spray like a fountain? Would it bring satisfaction to see his skull shatter from a fall? Staring at the cross atop the building, Naeyung exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. His breathing grew harsher.

Turning his back on the building, he walked away briskly. The sharp edge of a box cutter displayed at a nearby hardware store caught his attention. He forced himself to look away and started running.

As his breath hit its limit, a sharp exhalation escaped, and he covered his mouth. Ducking into the space between two buildings, he began to retch, but only thin bile dripped to the ground.

If the information from the detective agency was true, the man had cloaked himself in the guise of a deacon. But what if he had truly repented? What if he had made amends with God?

It didn’t matter. Forgiveness wasn’t God’s to give. He owed that to Jaemin and himself. And his penance would be his life. He had to die.

“Dr. Han.”

Jin’s voice echoed faintly in his mind. Trying to erase it, Naeyung wiped his lips with his sleeve. Jin’s embarrassed smile as he fumbled with chopsticks floated to the surface of his thoughts.

Why had Jin appeared in his life now, of all times, just as he was closing in on this man? If only he’d met Jin after killing him, Jin might’ve only seen him as the director of an animal clinic, not as a murderer. But then again, what did it matter? He’d already taken one life in his quest for revenge.

The day he severed Lee Kyungchul’s tongue and brought it back as a token, he hadn’t felt a shred of remorse. Yet he regretted meeting Jin, someone who breathed with such warmth. Their short-lived connection had already ended that day.

Two days after leaving Jin’s house, he’d dropped off Jin’s clothes at the security office. Today, a regular day off, he hadn’t visited him again. Perhaps Jin had been overwhelmed by his past.

Staggering away from the wall, Naeyung pulled off his soiled gloves and clenched them in his hand. The dampness on his lips felt like it was freezing over. The faint sunlight began to seep over the low rooftops. His sleepless eyes stung.

As Naeyung exited the alley, a CCTV camera blinked red above his head.