4DAS Chapter 1 (Part 2)

Perhaps, from the man’s eyes, it was bizarre. To mimic daily life from faint memories, to cling to fragments of normalcy, yet only ever commit acts no normal man would.

Perhaps he had not fully returned to being human. Even with the treatment gas, maybe he was twisted by aftereffects, no longer the same person as before infection. Brushing aside emotions, burying complicated problems, leaving them untouched—living like a zombie still.

But then it happened. Not a tale of the past, already meaningless, but something of the present struck their ears.

[This is an announcement from the Disaster Management Headquarters. Starting at 11 a.m. today, temporary water supply will begin. Please prepare containers in advance to store water…]

From the radio, which had been hissing with static, came words that seized their attention. Temporary water supply? What was that? Rowon hesitated at the unfamiliar phrase, but the man’s face tightened instantly.

“Hey. Quit scrubbing that damned stain! You heard it just now, right?”

“Y-yes, I heard. But what is…?”

“If you heard, then get moving! Turn on every tap in this house, in the neighbor’s house, upstairs—everywhere you can reach! I already got basins and buckets ready, so go!”

Rowon stood up at once and moved.

It didn’t matter that cleaning soothed his thoughts. He knew for certain that the man’s order was what survival required.

---

The youth was quiet yet swift. His footsteps weren’t loud, but in an instant the sound of water gushing from faucets echoed from all directions. Soon, the door clattered open and footsteps receded—he must have gone to turn on the taps in the neighboring apartment.

Relieved at his cooperation, Young-il let out a breath. If the youth had hesitated, even slightly wary of him, the amount of water they could collect would have dropped sharply. What the radio called “temporary” supply was more like “brief.” Officially, it was said to last an hour, but in reality the water often stopped after thirty minutes, sometimes in just ten if unlucky.

The water system, thanks to relatively intact pipes and infrastructure, was among the fastest to recover. But it still wasn’t fully functional. Workers were scarce, and running the purification and supply systems required electricity, which was in short supply. On top of that, there was always the risk of contamination. People said boiling was enough, but even then it wasn’t fully safe.

Still, the government was desperate to restore water, because of the heat and hygiene. The weather was sweltering, hot as body temperature, and without electricity, neither air conditioners nor even fans could be used properly. Without at least cool water, people would drop dead of heatstroke everywhere.

And without washing, diseases would spread. Having barely fought off the zombie plague, it would be disastrous if another epidemic arose. So, people said, the government was forcing the restoration of water infrastructure even at great strain. Whether it was true or not, Young-il didn’t know.

‘I heard Seoul already has stable supply…’

There were rumors that water poured freely in the capital’s core, but whether that was true or not was unclear. Here, supply was still unstable. Whenever it came, it had to be stored quickly to last a few days.

‘Food and water rations every Monday and Friday. City gas is out due to the pipes, but talk is portable tanks will be distributed soon. Power plants are running, but it’ll be a while before civilians get steady electricity. Not until other infrastructure stabilizes first…’

As he waited for the youth to return, Young-il blankly went over his forecasts. Things weren’t back to normal yet, but at least it was better than the days when he’d prayed for rain, unable to find a single drop of water. Imperfect as it was, the world seemed to inch back toward order. Enough, perhaps, to feel some hope.

And yet. That strange emptiness still shuddered inside him. As he sat with it, footsteps drew near, and the bedroom door burst open. The youth, sweatless and blank-faced, looked in.

“Mister, the water keeps coming and going. Is that okay?”

“That’s normal! Stop hovering there—go check the upstairs taps too!”

“I already opened up to the fourth floor. The fifth didn’t have any containers, so I searched around, and the sixth floor door wouldn’t open at all…”

He’d already gone that far? This was the first floor, and the elevator was long dead. Even at his fastest, Young-il had never managed higher than the third. With his leg ruined, every movement made it scream, and climbing stairs was torture. That was why he stayed on the first floor, despite the risks.

Still, the boy was faster than expected. Maybe just because he was young. Pouting without reason, Young-il grumbled at him.

“If a door won’t open, leave it. Just keep collecting until the flow starts shrinking, then shut the tap and move the basin. Sometimes the last gush is muddy water.”

“Muddy water?”

“Rust, dirt, whatever. Anyway. And bring everything down here. Bathtub, spare bowls, anything that can hold water. Gather it in one place.”

It was hard labor, but necessary. Washing, laundry, even just using the toilet consumed more water than expected. Fetching it later would be even more trouble. And now, with one more person in the house, consumption would only increase.

The youth gave him a dull look, then stepped out again. Soon, the sound of running water subsided, replaced by heavier footsteps—he was hauling water down.

‘Convenient. Usually I had to do all that myself.’

It was laughable to think this way while tied up, but the boy really was oddly cooperative. He didn’t untie him, but still took care of daily conveniences. Aside from what had happened the first night, he hadn’t beaten him again.

Considering how tangled their relationship had been from the start, it was strangely mild. Almost unrealistically so.

‘What the hell is he after?’

He’d thought living together would make it clear, but the boy only grew more baffling. Cleaning rooms unprompted. Erasing bloodstains that might have been his parents’. Showing no reaction when mocked for protesting. Keenly interested in needless tasks, indifferent to the things that truly mattered.

Maybe even he didn’t know his own priorities, Young-il guessed. He didn’t seem to fully accept his parents’ death, yet he wasn’t resigned to life either—just strangely sharp and active in survival. Was it his nature, or the aftereffects of infection twisting his mind? If it was the latter, if his clarity returned with time…

‘He keeps getting under my skin.’

Which would be better—for the boy to regain emotions, or for him to stay blank-faced? Young-il didn’t know. It wasn’t idle speculation; it was tied to his own safety. If the boy turned violent again, like that first night, he couldn’t resist while bound.

But wasn’t he already acting like someone tiptoeing to keep another calm? The thought left Young-il grimacing. Then the boy returned, this time with sweat beading his brow. Wiping it with his hand, he bent down to inspect him.

“I’ve stored it. Kitchen and bathroom—you can use it when needed. By the way…”

By the way, what? As Young-il frowned in puzzlement, the boy inspected his bindings. He’d already adjusted them earlier—so why again? But the answer came quickly.

“You didn’t try to run.”

“Huh?”

“I worried you’d slip free while I was gone. That’s why I rushed.”

Maybe that worry was pointless. Even as he was, the boy was dangerous enough. And what was wrong with trying to escape, anyway? Frowning in disbelief, Young-il stiffened as the boy suddenly began untying him.

“H-hey?”

“Now that we’ve got water… it’s better if you wash. Just dousing yourself in cold water will help with the heat.”

What?

The boy freed his legs, then his wrists, and immediately stripped off his shirt. Startled, Young-il tried to twist away, but the boy gripped his wrist with blank determination, making it clear he would not let go.

“I won’t do anything strange. Come on.”

Wouldn’t it be better if he showed his feelings openly, even violently? At least then there would be some consistency, some glimpse of purpose. Instead, he moved however he pleased, blank eyes empty of will. There was no way to guess what he intended.

Stumbling, Young-il was dragged along by him. The ropes were off, but with one ruined leg, his steps kept faltering.

---

It was clear the man did not enjoy showering with Rowon. All Rowon had done was pour lukewarm water over his sweat-soaked back, yet the man flinched as if startled, his body tensed. To anyone watching, it would have looked as though he’d been doused with ice water.

He must have been worried he’d be beaten and violated again, like the first day. Not that he seemed cowed—more like he was preparing to strike back. The first time, he’d been caught off guard, but now there was a glint of intent in his eyes, as if ready to land a punch on Rowon’s jaw.

For all that Rowon had subdued him easily before, the man was muscular. Each twitch of his back showed thick muscles rippling under the skin. He couldn’t have eaten well during the outbreak, yet he still looked strong. It made Rowon wonder how much more impressive he must have been before. Even now, his eyes wandered to the man’s back, his chest.

Maybe before the outbreak he had done work that used his body. Or perhaps he’d gone to the gym as a hobby. Either way, if he attacked suddenly, it would hurt. Rowon might manage to subdue him again, but it would be a bloody victory.

“I’ll wash your hair for you.”

“Then at least let me pour the water. It’s hard to pour, scrub, and rinse all by yourself.”

Still, the man was surprisingly compliant. While Rowon poured shampoo onto his head, worked it into a lather, then rinsed it away, he didn’t resist once. With his posture the way it was, he could have taken the chance to throw a blow to Rowon’s gut—but he didn’t.

It seemed he had decided that escape or a fight, under these conditions, would bring him no benefit. And he was right. In a world like this, living with someone was safer than being alone.

“Want me to scrub your back?”

“You think this is a public bathhouse?”

“Well, it is a bathroom, isn’t it…?”

The man scowled, but then fell silent. Rowon took it as consent and scrubbed his back with the soapy towel.

Even for something as simple as bathing, having someone else there meant you could trade a back scrub. People were meant to live together. The fact that “someone” was the man who had killed his parents… Rowon didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it.

He lathered the man’s back again, then rinsed it off. The suds ran down to the drain, pooling yellowish on the tiles. Thinking it was just his imagination, Rowon poured more soap over him.

“Don’t waste water.”

“If you don’t wash properly in summer, you’ll get heat rash.”

“If the water runs out, that’ll be worse than… never mind. It’s not even good enough to drink, so might as well use it like this.”

He grumbled, but finally gave a reluctant nod. Rowon kept moving his hands. With both of them quiet, the only sound was water splashing in the bathroom.

Washing someone else was monotonous, dull. But Rowon liked that monotony. Moving without thought calmed him, like muddy water slowly clearing.

Only, there was a problem. Sometimes, in that clear water, things appeared that he shouldn’t see.

The past. Or rather, not long ago.

The sound of water spilling over the man’s shoulders tugged at a memory. It wasn’t from long ago—only two days, perhaps. The moment Rowon had been restored by the treatment gas.

The first thing his reason had registered was smell and taste. Metallic. The stench was metallic, and the taste lingering in his mouth was vile. At first he thought it came from outside. Not unreasonable, since the streets lay in ruins and dried blood stained the walls like paint.

But it didn’t take long to realize the stench came from himself.

Racked by thirst, he had rushed into a nearby building searching for water. Fortune had it that buckets filled with water were lined along a hallway window. Likely someone had collected them during a temporary supply. Rowon hadn’t known that at the time. All he knew was there was no owner in sight, which was lucky.

He had to drink. Normally, he never would have thought of it, but desperation left him no choice. But when he bent over the bucket, he froze. The water’s surface glittered in the sun streaming through the window—and reflected his own state back at him.

Only then did he realize he was chewing on something like meat. Flesh, perhaps. Or worse, organs. Either way, disgusting. Dried blood coated his face, his torso, his arms. If anyone had seen him, they would have pointed and called him a monster.

‘What is this?’

He thought he had asked himself. Whatever it was, the only thought in his head was that he needed to wash it off. He had to wash it away. That wasn’t him. It was a mirage in the mirror, a layer of flesh clinging to a healthy man’s shell.

‘I have to wash this off. This isn’t me.’

He spat out what he had been chewing and hurriedly rinsed his mouth. Then he scrubbed his blood-caked face as if to scrape it clean. Oil, blood, and filth turned the clear water a dark, bloody red. With splashing and ripples, the water no longer reflected the face of a monster.

‘It’s not me.’

Perhaps at that moment, Rowon had washed away his fear. Or maybe his memory. After desperately scrubbing himself, Rowon cleanly forgot what he had seen. Or rather, he decided to believe he had forgotten. True forgetting was impossible, but everything came down to willpower.

He decided even the faint traces in his mind would be ignored. The pain of a zombie’s bite tearing his throat. The terror of becoming something no longer human. The past could not be changed, and the past could not return. If memory was the only proof, then burying it was the wisest choice.

Instead, he resolved to listen to the present. Outside, wheels clattered loudly. Not a truck—probably a military vehicle or something like it—but Rowon, busy washing, hadn’t seen it. Alongside it came the crackling sound of the radio, announcing today’s date and the existence of [treatment gas].

‘I don’t know.’

The broadcast seemed to be urging exposed zombies—no, infected people—to report somewhere to prevent relapse. Rowon forced himself to ignore it. He didn’t know. He had washed his body and shaken off the memory; no evidence remained.

He dumped out the dirty bucket of water and used a second one to wash again. This time he shoved his blood-soaked clothes into it and scrubbed his torso. Thoroughly, leaving no trace.

“Hey, hey! What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m washing you.”

“That’s not washing, you’re peeling me alive! You bastard, you think this is funny?!”

“I’m washing you. What’s stuck to you. Be quiet, you’re distracting me from thinking.”

The man shouted something, but Rowon hardly paid attention. Washing away filth was far more important than worrying about peeling skin. It had to be washed away. If not, he would fall ill. Not only the body, but the mind too would fill with germs and pus.

Rowon forced him down against the floor and scrubbed him. The man was surprisingly strong, resisting fiercely. He must have been afraid of suffering the same humiliation as before. But this time, it really wasn’t like that. He only meant to wash him. Why wouldn’t he believe that?

“Fuck, you’re killing me! I’m bleeding, I swear! If you want to torment me, just say so!”

“You have to wash away the memories. Or at least the feelings. Once you wash clean, you can forget. Even if you can’t, you can at least pretend indifference.”

“What? What the hell are you rambling about?!”

“I don’t know how much scrubbing it will take, but it’s fine. There’s plenty of water. Eventually, it’ll all be washed away.”

Rowon muttered flatly as his hands kept moving. No, not truly flat—but he convinced himself it was. If he believed it, he could stay calm. The mind followed belief; if you just believed, you could act the part.

“Hey! Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

The man seemed to realize Rowon’s strangeness. Anyone would, seeing him scrub with such force the skin looked ready to peel off.

But the man’s mistake came after that. If he had calmed Rowon somehow, maybe things would have turned out differently. If he had realized Rowon’s mind was worn thinner than his skin, and responded accordingly, perhaps conflict could have been avoided.

But he couldn’t.

“I’ll wash the blood away.”

“…What.”

“The blood. The smell. All of it. Because if not, it’s disgusting.”

At that, the man’s face changed instantly. It wasn’t only Rowon whose mind was frayed. Blood. The stench. With those words, the last trigger in his psyche inevitably followed.

“You bastard…”

Someone had dug a hole to bury their feelings. But the spot was already filled with someone else’s, and unready emotions burst raw to the surface. The man’s taut body twitched and moved. Not so much an ambush as a counterattack, or self-defense.

“I’m not a murderer.”

“You need to be washed.”

“I said I’m not! I never killed anyone! The zombies killed survivors, but not me!”

“I’ll wash you. Then you can forget.”

“I’m not like you, you fucking bastard!”

His voice split, shrill and ragged, like the scream of a beast. With all his strength, the man lunged at Rowon.

Crash—the basin full of water spilled across the floor with a deafening noise.

---

At first, Young-il had the advantage. It was a surprise attack, and besides, the difference in build was clear. No matter how strong the youth might be, his body was slim, and he was half a head shorter than Young-il. From a seated position, lunging at him was enough to overpower him.

The youth was thrown helplessly onto the slippery floor. Once he was down, Young-il didn’t miss the chance to climb on top of him. From here, he could do anything—strangle him, kick him in the stomach until vomit replaced words. It was a situation completely different from when his limbs had been bound and trembling.

Of course, he could have just landed a blow to the chest and fled—that would probably have been the best choice. But at this moment, Young-il didn’t have the self-control for that.

“You bastard, you worthless piece of shit!”

This brat had mocked him, pretending to wash him while sneering. Saying the stench of blood clung to him, that it was disgusting. The youth had never outright called him a murderer, but in Young-il’s head, he was already nothing but an arrogant, filthy brat looking down on him. As if he himself weren’t tainted, having once been a zombie.

“Kh, cough…!”

“You look down on me? Because I killed your parents, you wanted to toy with me? You fucking zombie brat? You think if you don’t remember, you’re clean? That if you just bury your head and tremble, the people you killed don’t count?”

Sitting on the youth’s stomach, Young-il wrapped his hands around his throat. No matter how detached the boy seemed, he still didn’t want to die choking. His hands scrabbled at Young-il’s, desperately trying to pry them away. But his eyes—his eyes looked strangely dull, almost vacant, as if he didn’t even understand what was happening.

Even so, the youth was fighting with all his strength, barely holding back Young-il’s tightening fingers. He managed to keep just enough breath to survive, though constant coughing wracked him. His mouth opened and closed as if to say, Mister, please stop, but Young-il was blind to everything.

“You little shit, you’re no better! It’s not just me, everyone lived like this!”

“Cough, ahj—kh, I…!”

“I never touched anyone who didn’t threaten me! Is that wrong? Was it so wrong that I killed your parents because they went rabid? Can’t you smell the blood reeking off me, huh?!”

This brat was clearly keeping him captive just to torment him. To hound the man who killed his parents, to harass and torment him, all while making a show of carrying buckets of water or feeding him now and then. Saying it wasn’t revenge—how could anyone believe that? You could say anything with a wagging tongue.

Maybe he just wanted some pathetic sense of superiority. To think himself virtuous because he fed and kept alive even the murderer of his parents. To claim that whatever crimes he’d committed as a zombie didn’t truly count, that it wasn’t really him. That he was clean, while Young-il was filthy.

Young-il spun the story in his own head, without a shred of reason left. Disgusted by the youth’s stubborn resistance, he tried to slam his head into the floor with all his strength. Maybe killing him outright would finally bring peace.

The reasons were more than enough. This brat’s parents had killed Young-il’s wife. So what if it wasn’t his doing? So what if collective guilt was unfair? Screw that. Revenge wouldn’t bring back the dead, but neither would grief die down. Like a fire that devours a whole mountain, it wouldn’t rest until everything was burned away. Someone had to carry that flame. Someone. Even if it was this brat.

“Kh, hrrgh!”

Young-il slammed the youth’s head against the floor once. He had used all his strength, but the blow wasn’t as effective as he had hoped. The resistance was too strong, and the back of his head only struck the floor lightly. It made hardly any sound. At worst, it might leave a bump.

“You bastard. You want to live? After everyone else died, you think you can live…!”

Panting, Young-il tightened his grip around the youth’s throat again. But the youth was still strong, still refusing to give up, still desperately prying at Young-il’s hands. That writhing disgusted him, made him want to vomit. The selfish pulse of someone who wanted to live when all his family was gone, the heartbeat pounding like a real human’s though he had once been a zombie—that disgusted him.

And the heat. That body heat.

Thinking back, Young-il realized he had felt it the day before too. Only then, their positions had been reversed.

“That’s right. If I’m a murderer, then you’re a rapist, you little shit! Do you even realize that?!”

Yes. Young-il had found another reason to kill him. The brat had beaten him, stripped him, and done vile things to him from the very first day they met. The warmth that seeped through his tattered clothes brought back the memory. Wasn’t that reason enough to kill him? No, wasn’t it better to kill him?

‘I’ll kill him. He raped me, so it’s fine to kill him.’

Half of that act had been tied up in violence anyway. Remembering it now brought nothing but pain. Just recalling it was self-harm. The only way to endure was to frame it as violence, as revenge.

But what set it apart from ordinary violence was that undeniable body heat. Proof that he was alive.

‘I’ll kill him. Until that body grows cold.’

Young-il had killed many zombies, but rarely had he ever felt their warmth. If you were close enough to feel a zombie’s body heat, survival was unlikely. Just being caught, bitten, or scratched meant instant infection. You had to fight them from a distance.

But when he was assaulted, and again now, Young-il felt the youth’s body heat. The names—infected, zombie—meant nothing against that. The boy’s heart thumped like his own, his pulse fluttered when strangled, his lungs gasped for breath, his body was warm, alive.

That heat, that pulse, stirred in him not pain, not disgust, but rejection, revulsion.

“Die, you bastard! Just die already!”

He had killed the boy’s parents. Killing their son too wasn’t such a leap. If he killed him, there would be no proof he had committed murder. Sure, the memory would remain. Sure, it would haunt him in nightmares. But so what? As long as no one dug up the wound, as long as no new spark was thrown onto the ashes of his heart. As long as he wasn’t reminded, by this brat’s existence, that even zombies he had killed had been warm-bodied humans.

That would be enough. More than enough—he tried to believe it.

—Don’t do this, darling! No matter what, you don’t have to kill!

Young-il’s grip faltered. A worthless, petty memory seared through his mind like a flash of light. A memory he had always tried to forget, but never could. A memory that now was nothing but a burden.

The youth seized the moment. With all his strength, he shoved Young-il away. After more than a day bound, his body had little stamina left. Just a brief loss of balance, and his strength gave out.

“Kh…!”

Young-il crashed down on his tailbone and tumbled backward. The youth staggered to his feet, somehow finding balance even on the slippery floor, and charged toward him. For an instant, Young-il thought maybe it would be him who died. The thought flashed through him, and without meaning to, his eyes shut tight.

But.

“I’m sorry.”

“…!”

“I—I don’t know what came over me earlier. I’m sorry. I really am so sorry….”

Gentle warmth enveloped Young-il’s face. The sudden, strangely polite embrace felt more suffocating, more unbearable, than being beaten.

---

For a while, the man thrashed and groaned, but before long he quieted down.

Luckily, his will gave out before Rowon’s strength did. He no longer put up a fight. There was still a faint trace of resistance, a weak struggle to slip free from Rowon’s arms, but it was half-hearted at best.

“I’m sorry.”

Each time the man twisted, Rowon tightened his arms around him and apologized. And each time, the restless warmth in his arms calmed a little. It was clear he was more subdued than before.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those strange things earlier.”

Rowon whispered again, rolling the same words over his tongue that he had already repeated several times. He had to admit it—it was his fault from the start. They had been showering normally, and then out of nowhere, he had started spouting nonsense. Anyone would see it as Rowon’s mistake. He couldn’t even explain why he had brought it up.

Still, the fact remained that the man had overreacted and nearly killed him. And it seemed the man realized that too.

“Hey, let go already.”

“…….”

“I said I’m sorry. I know I didn’t do the right thing either…. I’ll apologize for choking you, so let go. It’s hot as hell.”

His mosquito-like mutter tickled Rowon’s ear. To be honest, he didn’t really want to let go yet. He still couldn’t fully trust the man. For all he knew, those words of apology might be nothing but a trick, and the moment he was free he’d grab his throat again.

No—that wasn’t the truth. Rowon couldn’t claim he didn’t trust him. If the man had really intended to kill him, he wouldn’t have let go of his grip earlier. The truth was, Rowon liked the feeling of holding him. The sensation of sweat-damp skin against his own, the subtle tremors that ran through the man each time he flinched—he liked it.

If he could, he would have stayed like that longer. He didn’t understand the impulse—no, he didn’t want to understand it…

“Let go, damn it. Quit messing around.”

“I’m not messing around.”

His thoughts had almost wandered somewhere strange. Feeling a bit embarrassed, Rowon reluctantly let him go. The man’s apology wasn’t entirely empty words after all; he slumped to the floor with a thud and looked down at Rowon.

“Are you feeling any better now?”

“Yeah, a little…. But isn’t that my line? This whole mess started because you lost your head and started talking crazy. You feeling normal again yet?”

“Huh? Well, I….”

You don’t look fine. Muttering that, the man gave Rowon a once-over, his eyes like those of a doctor examining a patient. It was embarrassing, but not entirely wrong. A quick glance at his shoulder showed the spot Rowon had scrubbed too roughly with the rag was still red and raw. His back or waist were probably worse.

Rowon realized the man had badly misinterpreted his words earlier. In truth, it wasn’t really a misunderstanding at all. If someone says “you need to wash the filth away” while scrubbing your shoulders raw, of course you’d take it as being called dirty. And since this man already carried a guilty conscience toward Rowon, it was only natural he’d take it even more sensitively.

Washing wipes everything away. The idea itself might be sound, but Rowon still couldn’t understand why he’d said it to the man. It should have been enough to repeat it silently to steady himself—so why had he grabbed the man and forced it onto him?

It wasn’t the man who needed to be washed—it was Rowon. That wasn’t to say the man was any cleaner than him. He had killed Rowon’s parents, and though he hadn’t said so, he must have killed countless others too. No one could survive eight months in that hell without blood on their hands.

But the man seemed to carry it differently. To be precise…

‘Does he just not forget? He shoulders it and suffers instead.’

The kind of wounds carved into their hearts might be the same, but how they bore them was very different. Rowon chose to forget the things he might have done. Since the nature of the zombie virus left him with no memories of those deeds, forgetting and ignoring them was the best solution for him.

From the bathroom came the sound of splashing water. Judging from it, the young man wasn’t scouring his skin with a rag the way he had been scrubbing the man earlier. That was a relief.

‘So he values his own skin? Or maybe he just came back to his senses….’

Yeong-il pressed a towel hard against his stinging side and shoulder while glaring at the bathroom door. He told himself it was to keep watch. He didn’t want to be with the youth, but he didn’t want to leave him alone either. If left unchecked, he might spiral off into something strange and unpredictable again.

Of course, being with him meant being subjected to sudden assaults or incomprehensible ramblings. But now that Yeong-il had calmed down somewhat, he realized the youth had likely been overwhelmed by some bad memory while washing him—panicking, rather than deliberately trying to make his life hell. Not out of some intent to torment, but because his mind was already broken.

And who wouldn’t be? Whether it was side effects of the zombie disease or the trauma of facing events too shocking to accept, anyone who’d lived through the catastrophe would be insane not to go mad.

Whatever had happened, one thing was certain: the calm, indifferent mask was nothing but a cover. Beneath it lurked madness the youth himself wished to forget. That was the dangerous part—he didn’t even know he was broken. Earlier his frenzy had turned outward against Yeong-il, but left alone, it might just as easily turn inward on himself. Maybe now he was calmer from the shock of being choked, but still….

That was why Yeong-il couldn’t bring himself to run away. With his limbs freed, he could escape anytime if he truly wanted to.

‘It’s not like I don’t have enough of my own problems… and yet, I still don’t want to leave him.’

Anyone would call it needless meddling. After being beaten and violated the night before, shouldn’t he have learned his lesson? From the start, they were nothing but enemies, their personalities clashing at every turn—why stick around?

And yet, his feet wouldn’t move. Yesterday’s violation had already been answered when he nearly choked the youth to death. And above all…

‘He didn’t strangle me.’

The moment he faltered and couldn’t bring himself to kill, if the youth had countered, Yeong-il would have been helpless. He knew from the struggle the day before that in sheer strength, the boy wasn’t outmatched. Once toppled, regaining advantage was almost impossible. And unlike Yeong-il, the youth had no reason to hesitate at killing. Had he pinned him and strangled him then, Yeong-il’s wretched life would have ended right there.

‘Maybe… maybe that’s what I wanted?’

If the youth had strangled him to death. If he had succeeded where Yeong-il himself had failed countless times… perhaps Yeong-il would have closed his eyes with a strange relief, convincing himself he had finally paid the price for his murders. He would have given his death meaning, without a thought for the youth’s feelings.

But instead of killing him, the boy had embraced him. As if to say, there’s no point in release, just give me warmth. As if to say, I don’t care about the debts from a past neither of us can change—just don’t try to kill me, just stay here.

He didn’t know the boy’s true feelings. Even if he asked, the boy would surely only say he didn’t know. But one thing was certain: if he left him behind now, it would weigh forever on Yeong-il’s mind.

‘That brat was the one who started all this shit, but… maybe if he still had his family, things wouldn’t be like this. If his parents had been alive to greet him when he came home, if they could have held him instead of me….’

Yeong-il was already crushed under guilt from every side; he couldn’t bear to add even a trivial unease to it. Conditions were still harsh. Better to hide away together somewhere safe than wander alone.

At least until he could shake off this suffocating guilt. That was what he told himself as he finished drying off. For underwear and pants, as always, he borrowed something from the house. They were a bit small, but the fabric stretched enough to wear.

‘Damn, this stings… it’s bleeding, isn’t it?’

The pants were manageable, but trouble came with the shirt. As soon as cloth brushed against his back, it stung so sharply he couldn’t stand it.

When he took it off to check, thankfully no blood showed, but his skin burned hot enough that he knew he needed treatment.

‘That kid’s throat must be raw too, bruised or scraped…. I should look for some medicine.’

Yeong-il remembered there was a first aid kit somewhere in the house. Nothing fancy—just some bandages, disinfectant, painkillers, ointments. Like most of his supplies, it had a way of disappearing the moment it was needed, though it always seemed to sit around useless when it wasn’t.

Still, having medicine was better than not. He began searching the house. He was sure it wasn’t in the living room or bedroom, so it must be in one of the other rooms. He usually only used the master bedroom and living room; the room by the entryway and the one near the kitchen were for storage. Probably one of those. He checked the room by the entry, but it was only broken appliances and old clothes.

Had he put the important things in the kitchen-side room instead? Limping, he made his way toward it. Just as he reached for the door, a thought struck him.

‘Wait… could that be the boy’s room?’

The idea rooted itself in his mind, and suddenly he couldn’t bring himself to open it. Against one wall, there had been a rack lined with men’s clothing. The sizes were smaller, the style distinctly youthful. Yeong-il had never considered wearing them.

“Do you have business in my room?”

The bathroom door creaked open, and the boy stepped out, freshly washed, staring flatly at him. Bruises and scratches covered his neck—marks Yeong-il himself had left.

He didn’t run away, the boy thought with an odd look, as if surprised. With his limbs untied, it wouldn’t have been strange for him to flee.

His gaze swept over Yeong-il’s bare back and the ill-fitting pants he had pulled on, then tilted his head slightly, looking puzzled.

“You’re wearing my pants.”

“W-why would these be yours? I got them from the master bedroom.”

“In our house, we kept all the summer clothes we didn’t wear in the master bedroom closet…? They were a bit loose on me, but on you they look a little small.”

Suddenly feeling like a thief caught in the act of stealing someone else’s clothes, Yeong-il grew embarrassed. The sweatpants clinging tightly to his thighs and cut short enough to bare his ankles were, on second glance, hardly the sort of design a middle-aged man would wear. And as the youth said, they were definitely small. No wonder they felt uncomfortable—it was the size.

Should he strip them off right away and change into something else? But then again, whatever clothes he put on in this house would still belong to someone else. He couldn’t escape being a thief no matter what. Still, the youth didn’t seem inclined to scold him for wearing them. He only shrugged.

“I’d better grab some clothes from the bedroom too. But what business did you have in my room?”

“No, I just thought I’d left the first aid kit in there…. Go change and come back in a bit. I’ll put ointment on your injured neck. And while we’re at it, you can put some on my back too.”

Only once he saw the youth step into the master bedroom did Yeong-il hurry into the kitchen-side room. The barricades were still up, leaving the space dark, but traces of the ordinary life the youth must once have lived lingered there. He glanced around with a tangle of emotions before snapping himself back to attention and beginning his search for the first aid kit.

---

Rowon pulled open the wardrobe drawers and rummaged through old summer clothes. The shirts he had worn often last year were nowhere to be found, so in the end he had to settle for a stretched-out T-shirt and sweatpants with slackened elastic.

He figured it was probably the man’s doing that his usual clothes had disappeared. Rowon recalled the sight of the man awkwardly wearing his pants. They had clung so tightly that the outlines of his thigh muscles and even the shape between his legs were visible.

At a glance it had looked somewhat ridiculous, yet the longer he looked, the more a faint tingling stirred low in his stomach. He could dimly remember the sensation of touching and prying that place open. He could also recall how much the man had recoiled from the act. Even Rowon himself thought it had been disgusting—something that never should have happened, because if it hadn’t…

…No, he didn’t want to think about it anymore. Rowon shuddered and quickly pulled on the T-shirt and sweatpants.

The T-shirt, one he rarely wore, scraped hotly against his skin as he forced his head through. His neck burned and stung, making him wince. Now he understood what the man meant when he said he would apply ointment for him.

Quite unexpected. He had assumed the man would rather run away than touch him, let alone treat him.

And come to think of it, the man hadn’t run even after his hands and feet were freed. Just yesterday he had seemed on the verge of bolting from the house at any moment. He had fumed about not wanting to live together, yet once untied, he stayed nearby. He had charged in with deadly intent, but once his temper cooled he offered to put ointment on, acting with surprising leniency.

Was it fickleness, or was it that his nature was too soft, making him falter whenever he tried to be harsh? Rowon was still wondering when the man strode into the master bedroom, carrying a modest first-aid kit in his right hand.

“Hey, stick out your neck. It’s all red and blue, looks like a mess.”

“Shouldn’t you go first? You said it hurt so much you couldn’t even put on a shirt….”

“It’ll take forever to rub ointment on my back. You’ll be quick, so let’s get yours over with first. The skin on the neck swells and stings fast, so you need plenty of ointment.”

With that gruff explanation, the man squeezed ointment onto his fingertips and brought it to Rowon’s neck. For a moment Rowon flinched, remembering the hands that had strangled him earlier, but this time the man’s touch was cautious and gentle. With one hand he held Rowon’s shoulder steady, while with the other he carefully applied ointment to the bruised skin.

Gentle though it was, it still hurt. Each time the sticky ointment-coated fingers pressed against his neck, a sharp sting spread outward. And every time Rowon twitched, the man’s grip on his shoulder tightened, which only added another layer of discomfort and awkwardness.

Still, being treated at all was something. Rowon quietly let the man tend to him, tilting his neck when told. In that moment, his eyes wandered to the back of the man’s neck. He hadn’t meant to look—he was simply right in front of him, and it came into view naturally.

That man had scars on his neck.

Rowon unconsciously drew in a breath. Marks, like those left by a rope burn, ran across the skin of his throat. It couldn’t have been from a zombie. If a zombie had gone for his neck, they would have bitten or clawed, not used some kind of tool.

Maybe he’d been ambushed by someone else, but how common could that be? Rowon couldn’t stop thinking of other possibilities. What kind of thoughts had this man lived with, alone, in the home of zombies he had killed? What had he felt, remembering his wife whose body was probably buried somewhere nearby? Could he even endure that?

“Hold still, would you? What kind of man whines this much?”

As if sensing Rowon’s wandering thoughts, the man smacked him lightly on the back. The sharp sting startled him, scattering his thoughts in an instant. It didn’t really hurt—if anything, it was refreshing—but Rowon exaggerated a flinch anyway.

“But it hurts. You strangled me and now you’re saying I’m whining?”

“Th-that’s because you started spouting that crazy shit first…. And besides, come on. If this much makes you say it hurts, what does that make you? A kid?”

He wanted to deny it, but it didn’t seem right to argue he wasn’t a kid in front of a man who looked well into his mid-forties. By the time Rowon was born, this man would already have been in the army or graduated from college.

He must have lived through plenty. Both before the outbreak and after. Rowon shrank back, unsure what to say, when the man suddenly furrowed his brow and gave him a look. After studying his features for a moment, the man asked an abrupt question.